Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  “But why are these people … out here?” I ask, confused. “Aren’t there proper homes for them to stay in?”

  “Who’s going to let someone from Thurn stay in their home?”

  “But these are children.”

  “Nahir children,” Tirza corrects bitterly. “Hardly children at all, to some.”

  I have no answer to that. I can see the tiny figures—skinny arms and legs, like Teo who’s safely sheltered in the palace. And they’re left out here? It’s too astounding. It makes no sense that anyone could allow such a thing when Madelan’s glittering with wealth. How could a child be Nahir? How could anyone believe that? Everyone wants to know the secrets in Resya—the truth of Rahian’s allegiance—but perhaps this, this is the secret that should be shared.

  This feels desperately cold and heartless.

  “When the Northern soldiers punish the resistance in Thurn,” Tirza continues, “they make sure everyone pays for the actions of a few. There’s a town, not far from the border here, and the things that happened there are unspeakable.”

  My heart trembles, because I’m afraid I already know. This town that feels like my own curse. “Beraya?”

  Tirza turns to me, stunned. “I didn’t think anyone in the North knew.”

  They don’t. Because of me. Because I hid the only evidence and used it to save my own family. Guilt grabs my throat, a remorse I’ll never escape. “I saw photographs, Tirza. The ones executed before the wall. Some of them were too young.”

  She looks at me, a ghost of emotion on her face. “They were.”

  Staring at her here, at the top of this deserted road, overlooking the camp, I finally recognize her expression for what it is. Not anger, or disgust. Not judgment. It’s simply grief, turned to stone so that nothing can get down deep. So that it can’t hurt again. I saw that in my own reflection after Lark’s death. I saw it in Athan’s eyes, on our mountain, when he talked of losing his mother.

  I see it now in her.

  “What happened?” I ask hesitantly. I have no idea if she’ll want to share, but she’s brought me here for a reason, and I want to give her the opportunity.

  Her delicate hands play with a silver button on her blouse. After a moment she says, “It was like any other day. The usual Landorian tanks on the streets, the usual panic before a roundup. They always do it the same. Arrests, interrogations, firing squad. But on that day, they didn’t make their usual accusations. They simply went from house to house in our neighbourhood, grabbing every man or boy old enough to hold a gun. They took three of my brothers, Aurelia. I tried to stop them. Said I’d write them up, get them court-martialed. But they just laughed. They were Safire. The outsiders, untouchable and ready to show the Landorians how it’s done, and when they grabbed my youngest brother, crying, straight from my mother’s arms—” She draws a single breath. Slowly. Deeply. “He was only twelve,” she whispers. “I couldn’t watch them do it. I couldn’t bear it, and for that I’ll never forgive myself. My brothers should have seen me, with them right to the end. But instead my mother made me hide. I’d already begun writing against the occupation, and we were so scared they’d arrest me next. I’ve heard what they do to their prisoners. I had to run.” She gazes down at her shoes now, her grief aglow in the sun. “Damir was already here in Resya, working on the Havis estate and trying to make a place for the rest of us, so I went to him. I survived. We both did. But you see how hard it is for Damir to speak. He’s the only brother left, the oldest, and he feels he should have been there. What the hell could he have done, though? Gotten himself shot, too? No, there’s nothing you can do. You just get up the next day and keep fighting back, in every way you know how. You don’t disappear.”

  She turns to me, eyes lifting again. “My mother was a teacher and she taught us everything, Ali. Three languages. A love of books and writing. She wanted us safe, but the trouble is, the more you read, the less you want to be quiet. What’s the point in learning about the world if you can’t do a thing about it?”

  Faint laughter rises from the distant camp, two little girls squealing as they race along the river far below. I realize I’m crying. I try to wipe the wet from my eyes, since Tirza is the one exposing her most personal grief, and what do my tears matter? But she doesn’t notice. Perhaps she has no tears left.

  “Was it the Commander?” I ask, needing something useful. The way forward from this horror, towards justice. “The General’s son?”

  Tirza gives a short laugh. “Yes, he was there that day. And the Safire have been starving the city ever since I fled. No one goes in. No one goes out. No food, no weapons, no escape. But this is what Northerners do. This is how they are. They kill us by a thousand cuts, then have the nerve to condemn us for defending our own.”

  I grip my arms to myself, feeling sick. I don’t want to imagine that any person could be this heartless, this indifferent to suffering. It doesn’t seem possible. Athan promised me that no matter what the Commander has done, the rest are trying to do the right thing. Athan would never use his gentle hands to kill like this. But soldiers wearing his uniform have dragged a boy straight from a mother’s arms, and in my bag is a photograph of prisoners executed by Safire guns.

  It’s all too possible.

  “They’ll pay for it,” Tirza continues firmly. “The Commander will pay for it, beginning with this encirclement. I hope he bleeds out slow with a shot to the neck.”

  The fierce certainty in her voice frightens me. What frightens me more is that I think, in theory, I want the same. He deserves it. The soldiers fighting for him might not all deserve it, but he does—because he has power in his hands. And he has done something unforgivable. He’s allowed arrogance to turn to cruelty.

  Words burn inside me, all of these things I want to write down and send North, to the ones who let truth disappear across a vast expanse of dark sea. Who don’t care to look closer, to listen to the stories worth sharing. They’re silencing an entire world here. They’re making judgments and proclamations in their League, debating who to side with, who to condemn, safe in their distant realm, so far from these warm days and fragrant mountains now witness to shameful disgrace.

  “I’m embarrassed that I ran,” Tirza says suddenly, softly. “I left my mother behind. But I was scared. I didn’t want to be arrested, that’s all.” Her voice is too young. “Not like that, Ali. Not by them.”

  I don’t think. I grasp her hand, our fingers slipping together, familiar, and I squeeze. “You haven’t disappeared. You’re still here, fighting, and we’re not going to let them get away with this.”

  She squeezes in return, and we stare at the camp a moment longer, both waiting, searching for something that cannot come. The past will never be undone. The dead can’t give voice to their pain. Yet everything feels connected now, the shadow of the Commander hovering across every injustice—always the Commander—manipulating Safire honour into something wrong and terrifying, spreading across the South with laughing indifference.

  But I will hold him to account.

  And I pray he finds my next pamphlet—because it will be written in perfect Landori, a message just for him.

  22

  ATHAN

  Adena

  Three days lurch by and our trapped division is a ghost on the horizon. Their radio lines rarely work, cables torn apart by incessant shrapnel. Communication is crude at best. We can see the explosions and shells, the flashes at night, both trapped armies—Resyan and Safire—determined to cut each other’s throats. A few transports try to fly in ammunition and supplies, but half don’t come back and the rest have no idea if they’ve just accidentally blessed Resyan soldiers with a gift of Safire bullets.

  Commander Vent ambles in with his 7th Armoured Division on the fourth day, an impressive show of tanks and loud engines, but it’s too late. They should have been here five days earlier. The tank commanders and engineers look like hell. About as exhausted as anyone else, pushed through these steep, bumpy roads in stifling m
etal furnaces, blasting away at every obstacle.

  “I couldn’t get here in time,” Vent says to everyone he sees. “It was impossible.”

  I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince. No one looks confident on his behalf, since there’s only one person who matters, and that person shows up without announcement in an unmarked plane, ready to interrogate the ones who saw Arrin the day he jogged across our airfield and disappeared into disaster.

  Father descends on the small base.

  Pistol in hand.

  “Why the goddamned hell is he out there with them!”

  His voice is dangerous, the question one we’re all asking. Arrin, trapped with his division. But the truth is, this was bound to happen eventually, since clearly Arrin isn’t afraid to take matters into his own fists when things get hot. He proved that the day he went in with the first wave and shouted those soldiers up the beachhead himself.

  “He was trying to beat Evertal to Irspen,” Vent explains. “We couldn’t reach him in time.”

  “Couldn’t?” Father repeats. “Or wouldn’t?”

  “I tried, General. The bridge was—”

  “I know what you did to my son.”

  The pistol fires.

  I think Vent was doomed to this fate the moment he provoked Arrin in the meeting room. He proved himself to be too questioning for my father’s tastes. But that fact doesn’t stop every officer in the vicinity from sweating a little harder, presented with this searing new punishment for tardiness. I avoid looking at Vent’s blood pooling on the earth, but there’s still a breath lodged in my chest when Father marches by me, everyone else clearing the hell out of the way.

  “Evertal should have had the east,” he growls. “She’s too goddamned slow!”

  No one answers that. She’s not even here to defend herself, busy capturing Irspen on her own now. Those still alive and in Father’s favour follow him into the tent, to plan whatever’s next, and I’m ignored by him. I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing and therefore unworthy of any special attention. The best place to be, in Father’s world.

  But I’m impatient. Itching to make a move. If I brought Arrin back, maybe Father would finally forgive me for Etania. Loyalty proved in blood. It’s incredibly deluded, and I’m not even sure what I could do for a trapped army, but it’s better than nothing. They must think we’ve abandoned them, offering no air support.

  They have to know we at least tried.

  “Time to make our move?” I ask Garrick, who’s been as impatient as I have to get into the sky again. “It’s now or never.”

  He looks more hesitant, Father still yelling at everyone in leadership, but he nods. “Let’s talk to Torhan.”

  Another secret ally. Thank God he’s as guilty as us. I think everyone feels the wrongness of this. Doing nothing. “I knew your brother was going too far,” Torhan confesses to me, “but how could I stop him? I can get you the coordinates. They’re stretched thin, but they have a small HQ far from the perimeter. Don’t expect much.” He pauses. “And let’s load up those planes.”

  Maybe I should be alarmed at all the willingness to subvert orders right under my father’s nose—the one who just shot a man in the head for being too slow, and now Torhan’s the one sticking his neck out for me—but I’m already flying with a colour-blind pilot who bought his way into the air force.

  Father doesn’t know everything—and maybe that’s fine.

  It’s barely dawn when we make our break. Filton and Kif are the least impressed by the whole plot. They don’t like the idea of me flying off with only one plane and no way to fix it. But they pack me up with a few tools, a canister of fuel, and give advice on what to do if the guns get out of alignment.

  I wave them off. “I know how to care for her.”

  Filton’s frown silently disagrees with me.

  Every other inch of empty space is filled with bullets and weapons for the trapped soldiers. Twelve fighters silently loaded to their limit. We all start our engines at once, a roar that overpowers the airfield. In minutes, we’re airborne, hurtling for Torhan’s smuggled coordinates, ops shouting at us over the radio to get the planes back on the ground.

  We don’t listen. Garrick might be ruining himself, but I guess he’s ruining himself with me—and for Arrin. It’s either brilliant bravery or brilliant stupidity, and it’s not our place to worry about that right now.

  We just fly.

  The brightening sky doesn’t stay quiet for long as we cross into the cauldron. The flak’s immediate, erupting on every side. As always, the sharp sounds make me wince. Little knives all along my aching head. We stay low to avoid tipping off the Resyan fighters, weaving constantly, making it hard for whoever’s shooting below. I catch glimpses of hell between the trees. Burnt-out tanks, dead horses, smoking bunker ruins. Mangled bodies left behind. Luckily, none of ours take a hit and we arrive to a rough field that’s been strafed. No runway at all. Cyar nearly overturns his fighter on a massive crater hole as he lands.

  I think we’re all breathing heavy when we cut our engines and survey the new surroundings. It’s a strange mess of ranks and service branches. A busted-up transport plane is beached under the trees, a nose-crumpled bomber across the clearing from it. Wounded soldiers sleep in the shade, most with superficial injuries. Arms in slings and legs wrapped. A few medical trucks idle with pilfered boxes from our disastrous supply plane effort. I have no idea who’s left to protect this bit of ground, I only know that Arrin will be here.

  I don’t let myself think otherwise as I jump out. The soldiers on guard are stunned, gaping at the sudden presence of twelve aircraft, and one runs for what looks to be a dilapidated dispersal hut.

  With a shrug at me, Garrick strides after them and I follow. The rest of Moonstrike waits outside. We enter a broken-down building that was certainly once a home, its walls hit by shellfire, a yawning hole in the roof, but memories of a former life are still littered behind—a dining room, photographs, children’s games. Damp, dusty lace curtains fluttering.

  A young ops soldier sits at the table with his headset, listening carefully, then spots us entering and his eyes widen. He stands, pale skin dripping sweat.

  “The Commander?” Garrick asks bluntly.

  “On the line,” the boy replies.

  Of course. Arrin’s surrounded, his perimeter poised to shatter at any moment, and instead of holing up in here—like a strategist should—he’s out inviting a bullet to his chest. Then what? The division collapses entirely?

  The boy fills us in further, saying the more seriously wounded are a mile down the road, the few medics there going mad with lack of supplies. Everyone else capable of wielding a weapon is on the line. Even the two transport pilots who crash-landed here decided to make themselves useful.

  Garrick shakes his head and creaks back out the way he came.

  I stand there, aware of the ops boy’s gaze flickering on me as he redials his headset, listening to troop movement and passing directives. His wiry fingers tap awkwardly.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  He glances up at me. “Karruth.”

  “You know the Commander well?”

  “Since Karkev, sir,” he replies.

  He’s older than me, then. I leave him to his job and sit in the destroyed parlour, wondering who might have lounged on this tattered couch before me. It’s sweltering inside, but other pilots filter in after a while, eager to avoid the direct sun.

  Shells rumble in the near distance, the steady stammer of bullets. When Arrin finally returns, he stomps through the door a disheveled mess, and he’s already furious. He saw the planes. He saw Garrick.

  And then he sees me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Don’t worry, I brought a gun,” I reply from the couch.

  “You’re not supposed to come help me dig a grave!”

  “You’re digging it fine on your own,” I observe, looking pointedly at the vehicle he just hopped out of. The one that b
rought him like a welcoming target to Resyan snipers.

  He growls something unintelligible and motions me after him. We pass Karruth with his perplexed, wide-eyed expression, entering the little room that was once a study.

  “You have to get out of here,” I tell him once the door is closed. “This isn’t worth you staying. It’s a lost cause.”

  Arrin looks at me like I’m the idiot. “And give up our position? They’ll push right through, rout Evertal!”

  “Then regroup. Try again.”

  “That’s your strategy?” He snorts, sitting down in a squeaking chair. “This is exactly why you’re not as smart as me—and never will be.”

  I ignore the insult. “Vent’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes. Do you want to be next?”

  He sits silently, looking at me like he thinks I’ve made this up, but why would I? He can mock me all he wants, but the fact still remains the same—he’s surrounded. He’s put himself into a trap. Even Arrin Dakar can be outflanked.

  He seems to sense my thoughts, expression twisting. “If that bridge to Erzel had actually been blown like it was supposed to be, I wouldn’t be in this nightmare.”

  “Vent couldn’t get there in time. It was impossible.”

  “Not Vent. Damn it, listen to me. This has nothing to do with him. Or the Resyans.”

  I raise a brow, because it sure seems like it does.

  “There were two bridges to Irspen, Athan. The Resyans needed them to make their retreat, and I needed them to get across, and both are gone. Both. Trapping them here with me. And that bridge to Erzel? Untouched. Ready for the fresh corps to cross it and surround me like a noose.”

  I look at him, his bitter expression.

  “Think about it, Lieutenant. Why would they blow their own escape route?”

  “They wouldn’t,” I reply.

  “No, they wouldn’t.”

  My neck goes clammy. He’s right. The Resyans didn’t blow their own bridges. It was a suicide move. But if they didn’t do it, then someone else did, and that someone couldn’t be in Safire or Resyan uniform.