Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  Irregular fighters.

  Arrin cracks his knuckles, frustrated. “I’ve had Nahir tailing me since we got here. They’re supposed to be helping us, stirring trouble behind Resyan lines. Kalt got those plans from Havis. Exactly where and when they were going to be, and that damn bridge to Erzel was supposed to be blown by them, not the other two. That fresh Resyan corps should never have been an issue for us.”

  “Arrin…”

  “Listen,” he ploughs on, bordering defensive. “I can handle loss. I’ll sacrifice a hundred soldiers to save a thousand. That’s just the way it is sometimes. But this was on me because that bridge wasn’t supposed to be there. I walked them into this. And now I sure as hell am not going to leave them behind until Evertal comes through. Do you understand?”

  I stare at him and just say the truth. “Seath betrayed us?”

  It’s the only way to explain this. The gaping reality.

  Arrin shrugs. “He’s supposed to make this look real.”

  “Arrin.”

  “Maybe one of his factions went rogue.”

  “Arrin.”

  When my brother looks at me, I can see in his eyes he believes it about as much as I do. It finally releases inside me. Anger. Revulsion. Disbelief. This is the absolute worst way to be shot in the back! Seath’s taking out thousands of lives to renege on his alliance with us. Soldiers, civilians. Everyone trapped in this cauldron of hell. And all for what? To make a point? To suddenly throw away everything we’ve been working for together? And everyone in my family was too stupidly arrogant to even see it coming?

  So damn much for my short war.

  * * *

  I discover there’s an interesting side effect to six weeks of bad food, battle exhaustion, and constant headaches—the anger can’t survive. It flashes and goes to smoke. A single burst of flak. There’s nothing left but the hollow space inside of me taunting.

  I hit my head a few times.

  The little knives stay.

  When night comes, I don’t breathe a word of the betrayal to Cyar or Trigg, just listen as they bicker, oblivious, finding comfortable spots to sleep beneath a giant fig tree outside. We’re all attempting to ignore the fact that anyone could be creeping through the underbrush. Sentries rotate their posts every hour, but we’re still surrounded. It’s only a matter of time.

  “Let’s take turns for our own unofficial watch,” Trigg suggests, munching on fig fruit.

  “I second that,” Cyar says.

  “Third,” I say.

  They grant me the first shift—a gift, since there’s nothing worse than being woken up after midnight and handed a gun. Of course, that presumes one is actually sleeping. Which might be questionable for me. Dog-tired, I lean against the gnarled trunk, legs outstretched, ready to stare up at the stars and think about Ali’s lips—and hopefully nothing lower. It’s getting harder and harder to be a gentleman about it. Now that I’m a qualified killer.

  I prolong the inevitable by watching Trigg and Cyar, who are on their backs, fascinated by the breathing shadow-shape of them. A few thousand soldiers were like this only a day ago. Now they’re husks left behind with no life in them. One moment pulsing, the next moment nothing. It doesn’t make any sense that God would make us so fragile and thin. Like paper ready to catch flame with a spark.

  Just worthless paper.

  “Hey Fox, want to play a game?” Trigg asks after a while.

  “Not really,” Cyar replies moodily, though it’s not like he’s sleeping either.

  “It’s an easy one. It’s called ‘move your smelly boots away from my head.’”

  Cyar shifts with a grunt.

  A moment passes. “Either of you ever been with a girl? Not kissing. That doesn’t count.”

  Silence.

  “Figured. You got a cigarette, Fox?”

  “You know I don’t smoke.”

  “All right, so how about another game?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me about your girlfriend.”

  “No.”

  “Can’t I see a picture?”

  “No.”

  “She must be ugly,” Trigg says, and I kick him in the shin. It’s close to my boot. “Come on, Hajari,” Trigg tries again, more pleading now. “Just a hint.”

  I know this is one query that won’t get anything. I’ve been waiting six years for the answer. Nothing’s worked.

  Cyar breaks the rules though. “Her name’s Minah.”

  The unexpected name makes both Trigg and me startle, squinting at his shadow.

  “Anything else to add?” Trigg asks, hopeful.

  “No.”

  “Then she’s definitely not real,” he says to me.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “I told you her name,” Cyar counters defensively. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Nah.”

  “Why would I make her up?”

  “I don’t know. Lots of reasons. I saw the way you were looking at me earlier. Don’t deny it, Haj—”

  “All right! Here.”

  Cyar pulls something out of his pocket and shoves it at Trigg. Trigg flicks his lighter, and for a half second, I’m sure he’s going to put the photograph to flame. He doesn’t. He just holds it carefully, studying. “Wow.” He sounds intrigued.

  “Hang on,” I say, realizing what’s just happened. “Why did you never show me her picture?”

  Cyar’s expression is caught. I can see it even in the dark. “Because I didn’t think it would last, Athan. I only see her a month each summer. Every time I go home I think she’ll be gone. Why would she wait? She’s older. Funny and smart. I’m just … me.”

  I don’t buy it.

  “If I were a girl, Fox, I’d wait for you,” Trigg offers, which might be the nicest thing he’s ever said. Then he adds, “But not you, Captain. No way. That would be a mistake.”

  I kick him with the edge of my heel this time.

  Cyar snorts, and I snatch the picture from Trigg. Trigg offers his lighter flame, illuminating the mysterious Minah, and there she is—laughing eyes and a smile that’s made of fireworks. Part mischievous, part pure seduction. A good match for the little tyrant Cyar used to be as a kid.

  “I can’t believe you showed Trigg before me,” I say, feeling moody now too.

  Cyar tucks it away. “I just wanted to keep one thing for myself. You had … everything else.”

  I stare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means he’s jealous,” Trigg offers. “Happens in long-term relationships.” His grin is loud in the dark.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Cyar snaps. “The Captain’s got himself a princess. He doesn’t need me.”

  I glare at Cyar. “You’re calling me that now too?”

  “A princess?” Trigg asks, intrigued again.

  “She thinks he’s a farmer,” Cyar continues, the damn traitor.

  “A farmer!” There’s a pause, then Trigg’s laughing so loud he’s going to wake the entire Resyan sector. “That’s rich! You! A farmer!” He guffaws. “Tell me, Captain. When is corn harvested? Wheat? How do you—” He stops abruptly, laughter gone. “Wait.”

  He stares into the forest, and all three of us stop breathing.

  “I see something,” he whispers, gun up.

  We drop to our stomachs in rapid succession, trying to hug the sweet earth, terrified.

  “How can you see anything in the dark?” I whisper hoarsely.

  “Aren’t you partly blind?” Cyar adds.

  “Colour blind,” Trigg hisses. “I can see shapes in camouflage real well.”

  We wait. And then—a distinctive crunch. All three of us spring up, raising our pistols at once, and fresh laughter breaks the excruciating silence.

  “Hoo, look at these pilots go!” Ollie announces, walking out of the brush. He zips his pants. “Ready to charge into battle!”

  Two audible sighs exhale on either side of me.

  “Battle?” Garrick replies, materia
lizing as well. “I don’t think they’d know what to do with a bayonet.”

  “Stab it in your eye?” Trigg suggests.

  “Judging by the exceptional number of planes you’ve shot down, I don’t think you have that kind of aim.” Trigg pretends to thrust the blade at Garrick’s back as he passes, but Garrick doesn’t flinch. “Just get some sleep, bootlickers. Let the soldiers do their job.”

  “There are two transport pilots out there somewhere,” I remind him.

  “Yes,” Garrick replies, “and they’re damn terrible. They’ve been requisitioned to ferrying injured on the trucks.”

  He and Ollie laugh again, and for some reason, it’s oddly contagious. The thought of two hapless pilots trying to do their part on the frontlines, and failing … I give in to the strange laughter. Let it come in waves, sucking the last of my energy in a wonderful moment of easy, welcome delusion.

  Soon it’s quiet again, only Trigg munching on his fig fruit.

  Still alive.

  Still breathing.

  Clutching my head, I close my eyes and start tracing Ali’s lips in my mind.

  * * *

  VOICE OF THE JEWEL

  A Citizens’ Testimony for Resistance and Defense

  ________________________________________

  BELOVED FRIENDS OF

  RESYA:

  We know our kingdom was birthed from negotiation—a royal Southern throne which wedded itself to the Northern line of Prince Efan. That is our legacy. We are two worlds at once. We survived while those around us refused to surrender to the Northern fist at their necks, resisting and fighting even as their farmers were worked to the bone, the riches of their earth plundered, their nobility forced to pay Northern hands for the right to exist. Have we looked away too long? Have we forgotten the truth? We are Resyan, but we are also Southern—a shared history bright with our own heroes, our own honour, and we appeal to that history today, certain that no Northern steel will cut it away.

  Now the fist is at Resya’s neck. Safire boots thunder through our mountains at this very moment, and perhaps you think they come with honour, with a new way of looking at the world. Perhaps you think they will save us from Nahir insurrection and a weak king. But even with all of their alluring words, their glorious promises, the Safire spirit cannot make amends for the darkness they’ve perpetrated in these weeks of war. It cannot undo the crimes they’ve committed in the besieged land to our east, the cities there strangled to death, the innocents left without home or voice. Their General’s own son has wielded this cruelty—vain, wicked, merciless—and if you pretend he comes to save us, then you will only offer up Resya as willing sacrifice to a hungry creature who craves our cobalt and copper and gold, who will weave a deceptive tale against ours and write a history that is not true, to craft their illegal victory.

  But we will show the world our honour, united and standing against this foreign aggression with a courageous spirit. We will see the Safire tried for their monstrous crimes before the Royal League, starting with the General’s own son. We will make this his final war. We will see him humiliated and his arrogance put in chains.

  RESYA UNDIVIDED!

  RESYA ETERNAL!

  Here we stand—a mountain they will not pass.

  * * *

  23

  AURELIA

  Madelan

  With the tide of war seeming to turn in Resya’s favour, a jubilant Rahian ventures off to visit his army, struggling to maintain their unexpected foothold. And with Tirza’s personal history now out in the open, our hearts feel quietly closer, the uncertainty of new friendship replaced by understanding that I have heard her most raw secret and refuse to judge her for fleeing to safety. That I still consider her one of the bravest girls I’ve ever met.

  In return, I’ve decided to share my own secret.

  “This was from my cousin,” I say one morning, showing her the letter from Lark. It’s always with me, like the turquoise earrings from his sister which dangle against my neck. “He died this summer, but he gave me an address here in Madelan, and I believe there’s something he wanted me to find.”

  I can’t yet tell her the full story—the dreamed-of negotiation, Seath wearying of this fight, Lark’s Nahir allegiance and hope for peace—but this has to be enough for now. Enough to intrigue her.

  And it works.

  Eagerly, she joins me on the hunt as we head out into Madelan to find Lark’s home, which is buried somewhere among these buildings of ginger and scarlet, among the citadels and wide avenues of trolley cars and automobiles. We pass all of the people carrying on beneath the weight of war—elderly men playing card games, boys chasing one another with toy aeroplanes, women dressed in the black of mourning. We buy cups of lemonade from a little barefoot girl in a dirty dress. She’s clearly been swept along by the relentless tide, deposited here in a city far from her home in the northern mountains, and the sweet upturned face beams when Tirza offers one of cousin Kaziah’s many colourful bracelets. She tugs her cart along, staring happily at the woven bracelet like it’s gold on her wrist.

  We even pass a little private aerodrome with a few ancient planes, and the strong smell of petrol immediately rouses memories of Athan. It’s so potent, it’s as if he’s suddenly beside me, close enough to touch.

  As if he never left.

  I breathe it in, savouring the sensation, and an elderly mechanic waves at us. “Hello, wandering girls! Lost on this sunny day?”

  We’ve got our map open, and we’ve passed the aerodrome twice in the space of an hour, after making a wrong turn and doubling back.

  “She’s from the North,” Tirza volunteers with a grin. “I made the mistake of following her.”

  “Ah, but she’s come to the right place. The Jewel of the South!”

  His pride in this kingdom is evident—even with a war tearing it to pieces all round us—and it’s nice to feel I belong in this place, blending into the crowd with my faded floral-print dress and dusty riding boots.

  And then, at last, we find it.

  Rayir d’ezen Cala. Flower of the Sun Street.

  It’s up a hill in the old eastern parts, announced only by a faded sign half-covered in vines. Small homes sit buried under palms and junipers and crawling honeysuckle, the road strangely quiet, forgotten.

  Cautiously, Tirza and I walk forward, as though disturbing old phantoms, and when we reach the house I’ve come across the sea for, I find only a peach-coloured shell sitting in evident decay. The wood veranda is peeled and sagged, lattices torn back from the tall windows, the door barred shut with nailed wood. When we climb the rotting stairs—each with a warning croak—we find smudged windows and drawn curtains.

  “Can I help you ladies?” a voice calls from the street, and we both spin.

  A well-dressed woman stands at the gate, a suspicious question in her eyes, and I offer a quick hello, hoping she won’t assume the worst of us. A pair of intruders.

  “I’m looking for the owner of this home,” I share, creaking back down the steps. “Someone from abroad had a delivery?”

  I hope this sounds vague enough—and not really connected to me personally.

  “The owner?” she asks, her face shadowed by a wide sun hat. She turns her brown eyes on the decrepit home. “I doubt they’ll be returning.”

  “But I had an address. I thought someone lived here now?”

  “Name?”

  Unsure what to say, I show her the letter. “Lark Gazirem and his family?”

  The woman frowns. “No, they don’t live here. Not anymore.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because that, my dear, isn’t a Resyan name, and their kind left years ago.”

  Now I frown at her. “Not Resyan?”

  She gestures impatiently. “You see the Irem? That’s Rummayan, and they’re all gone from this city now. Perhaps you got the wrong address?”

  I force a smile and try not to look devastated. “Perhaps. It wasn’t my delivery anyway. I’
m only the messenger.”

  She nods, giving a last apprehensive glance behind me, then continues on down the empty street.

  I stand there, staring at Lark’s home—or whatever it is, whomever it belongs to—and I’m mad at him, suddenly, for never sharing more about himself. He always had a hundred thoughts on my history books and the moves he thought I should make. A hundred thoughts on Thurn and the South and the Landorians and the Safire. But he rarely talked about his own personal history, and then he had the nerve to just leave me with a damn letter and a damn address and expect me to figure it out. I’m not going to find his sister. She isn’t here. Perhaps she never was.

  Stars, I’m the fool! Lark’s dead.

  He won’t be waiting for me anywhere except in a lonely grave, and the sense of being too late nearly overwhelms me. This Safire invasion. The camp at the edge of Madelan. The crimes continuing unhindered in Thurn. Perhaps this abandoned home represents the truth—a world already gone. We missed our chance. Lark brought his last reckless hope for peace with Seath and I ruined it when I put a bullet in his neck.

  But I still stand there, like something might happen.

  I need there to be more.

  Determined, I march back to where Tirza waits on the veranda, and I hold up a rock from the front drive. “We’re going inside.”

  Tirza stares at me. “What?”

  “There’s something here my cousin wanted me to find and I’m going to find it.”

  Before she can stop me, I face the dirty window, the curtains drawn tight on the other side, willing myself to just do it. No thinking. The rock flies through the glass, shattering it, Tirza wincing with alarm, but no one comes to stop us.

  We’re utterly alone.

  I shrug at her and ease myself through the cracked glass, taking care with the jagged edges. My shoes drop onto a beautiful red carpet sprinkled with window shards, stitched with intricate designs. Couches sit covered in sheets. A piano rests in the corner, elegant and sad looking, left to silence.