Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  It feels right.

  I head out onto the streets, bag in hand, aware of how reckless this really is. But it will never be as reckless as flying into a sky that wants to kill me. Leaving here, finding my way in an unknown world—it’s infinitely safer than the other path.

  Cyar said goodbye to me last night. He said it was better like that and he didn’t want me to wake him in the morning. I made him swear to follow me when it’s the right time. He agreed. He smiled, a bit off-kilter, a bit anxious, but he agreed, and that’s the only way I could sleep, knowing that eventually everything will fall into place, the best path, the good path.

  It’s the direction we’ve always been headed, rising to meet us.

  I cycle that thought through my head as I walk for the square by the train station, passing the clock tower and the promenade, the same as in so many other kingdoms. The same and yet also different, because this one is the last I’ll walk through as the old me. “I’m doing what you wanted,” I tell Mother in my head. “I’m being who you wanted me to be.”

  I beg God I’m right. The truth is, I can’t even remember what my mother told me almost a year ago, when I was drunk and terrified, after Father shot the traitor outside our home. I remember her face—the way she was looking at me, like I was already dead. She whispered things. She admonished me. I see it all, but I was too drunk, and the rest is lost in the haze of time, her words forever swept out of reach. I’d give anything to hear them again, to know what they were.

  I’d give anything to have her here again.

  Alone in the dawn chill, the stone steps are icy when I sit down to wait for Ali. I blow on my fingers, then fish gloves from my pocket. Arrin’s watch flashes on my wrist. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it, a small memory to steal for the new life. I’m certain that eventually they’ll all forgive me—Leannya, Kalt. Maybe even Father. They’ll accept my choice. It’ll just take time, a bit of distance.

  I sit and wait, staring at the clock looming above.

  I know she’s coming.

  Early morning crowds surge past in suits and long coats. Women in fur and wool. They don’t even notice me, a shivering boy huddled in a brown jacket. In my Safire uniform, people always stared—analytical, vaguely contemptuous. Like this, I blend into the horizon, and I love it. No more labels and ranks. No more boxes. Just me.

  Seven o’clock comes and goes.

  I distract myself by reading Katalin’s letter. It still looks as though it were written by a kid learning grammar, but the message is loud and clear this time. A plea. Her last remaining brother has been arrested in Karkev and is set to be executed for fighting in the war against us—what feels like a lifetime ago now. Her own father signed the warrant for the sake of keeping the title of Governor my father bestowed on him. Katalin begs me to intervene, which certainly took some swallowed pride on her part. Begging me to get my father to do … something.

  I hide the letter away again.

  No wonder Leannya felt bad. She’d do the same if Arrin’s life was on the line, but there’s nothing I can do, not now. A girl passing by gives me a shy smile. I don’t return it, because the girl I want isn’t here yet, but she will be soon, and I try to imagine the smile on her face—the one that feels like mountains and dawn skies and home.

  Seven thirty.

  A train whistles from the other side of the station, bound north, and it’s the one we should be on by now. I look at my watch, in case the one towering above isn’t right. But Arrin’s watch says the same thing.

  For some reason, it’s truly baffling to me. I sit there, wondering why she’s late, why she’d tempt disaster on such an important morning. She needs to be here. She knows that, and I made it so clear in my letter.

  I made it clear.

  It’s like my numb, concussed brain can’t sift through thoughts any quicker. I’m jammed on this one idea—that she’s supposed to be here and she’s risking our escape. She’s willfully being late. But then that muddle finally passes and the clock clangs seven forty-five, and I feel like my lungs aren’t working. I’m only sitting there, a boy in a brown jacket, abandoned on the steps.

  She’s not here.

  She’s not here, because she doesn’t want to be here.

  I look down at myself—at the pants and shoes dusted with snow. I see a coward, running away yet again, surrendering to his smallness, forgetting everyone else. Did I actually think Ali would be like me? She’s always been better than that, and of course she wouldn’t leave her mother here alone. What the hell was I thinking? Don’t I even know her?

  It’s the question I asked the Prince.

  And like an idiot, I forgot to ask it of myself.

  XI

  TESTIMONY

  54

  AURELIA

  Royal League

  The morning of the trial, my mother’s a powerful note of royal beauty—graceful, calm, dressed like a queen. She’ll need it to defeat Dakar.

  We enter the assembly room, escorted by Elsandrin guards, and there’s an immediate hush in the babbling gossip. Last summer, the Commander gave his infamous speech here, condemning King Rahian and Resya before the world, and it doesn’t look as large as it did on film. It’s stately and grand, a rounded ceiling high above, stuffed with mahogany desks in a rising circle round the platform, smelling of leather and polish.

  King Gawain begins the day’s proceedings with a loud proclamation. “This isn’t a trial,” he informs the League stoically, his voice echoing in the auditorium. “This is a royal council to determine the truth.”

  It may not be a trial, but there’s still a little witness stand at the center of it, and a special seat nearby where Mother’s going to be forced to sit on her own, like a suspect. She’s stared down by a half-filled room of representatives from each kingdom—royals and important nobles I’ve never met before. They’re as strange to me as I am to them, the princess long sheltered behind Etanian mountains.

  And of course, the General is there, the Commander at his side. Both look deceptively benign, their masks polite. Mother passes without a glance. I’m not that strong. I know Athan is with them, and I know what I’ll find. Grey uniform, grey cap, grey eyes. Entirely a Dakar. His gaze is on the floor, but as I walk by, he looks up at me and his expression is a shadowed, exhausted thing—wounded.

  I turn away quickly. The temptation is too great, to imagine another version of this moment. One where I’ve agreed to go to Savient with him and create something better.

  How easy it could be.

  Together.

  I steel myself to those weakening thoughts, sitting down as Gawain continues. “Today we’ll hear the case brought by General Dakar, a case which compels our thoughtful consideration. We’ll also hear the words of our sister, Her Majesty Sinora Isendare, and we’ll consider both with equal diligence. Our honour demands justice before God.”

  They’re pretty words for this royal room, and he even covers Mother with the last name of our father, a shield of sorts, but I catch the Commander rolling his eyes.

  Athan’s brother.

  I hold that fact tight, to avoid any regret when I look Athan’s way. If he thought I’d go with him, willingly, and live in peace with the Commander, then he believes in my goodness too blindly.

  The first witnesses brought forward are maidservants and footmen from our palace, here at the behest of the General. They stumble through the questioning, describing places and times they heard snippets of conversation that made it seem the Queen would keep her crown, rather than pass it to her son. Their stories are small and rather unconvincing, but then Dakar summons his better witnesses. Lord Jerig is one of them, the snake, and he’s unwilling to even glance in our direction when he takes the stand. How I wish Reni could see this! This man has always been self-serving, and he claims the title thoroughly today. He declares Mother said from her own lips, to her Council, that she would bend tradition “to make the true choice.” Clearly, he says, she was intending to keep the crow
n, a plot set in motion long ago, concocted after her husband died—or perhaps even before.

  “And do you remember the day of Boreas Isendare’s death?” Gawain asks. “Was there any reason to suspect foul play?”

  “It was very sudden,” Jerig replies, “and the body wasn’t publicly viewed. He was a healthy man, keen to ride and hunt. I never believed his heart simply gave up, as they told us.”

  “That’s not true,” I interject, and I’m surprised at the echo of my voice in the large room. Mother’s seated away from me, in her assigned place—exposed, set apart—and she gives me a gentle glance of warning. I ignore her, glaring at Jerig. “My father never hunted and you know it.”

  For a moment, Jerig appears caught by the lie, then he recovers. “Not often, Your Highness. But you didn’t know him as I did before you were born. The point is simply that His Majesty loved the outdoors, and was a healthy man, and that you’d agree with, wouldn’t you?”

  Frustrated, I nod.

  “Your Highness,” Dakar says calmly. “I don’t think you understand how a trial works. You can’t speak as you please.”

  “I can when the claims are untrue,” I reply. “And this isn’t a trial. It’s a council.”

  Dakar’s eyes narrow, but he has no answer to that.

  The next person called to the stand is none other than Jali Furswana. She glides up to the stage on her clicking heels and everyone appears stunned. She’s certainly the first Southern princess to ever set foot in the League, and there’s a tremor of awe. She’s beautiful—beautiful and traitorous.

  “As we all now understand,” she declares in polished Landori, “my brother Rahian was corrupted by Seath of the Nahir and supported his violent revolution. This is a truth which cannot be denied. I have told General Dakar all that I know, the many times my brother did business with Seath, and I believe his execution was only just in light of the bloodshed and rebellion he supported.”

  Dakar smiles. Jali’s working to remove any lingering foul scent round Rahian’s death, and I wonder what he’s promised her in return. I want to scream at her not to believe his lies.

  But she continues. “My friends, the Nahir despise royalty. I watched them slaughter my own family, watched them put a gun to my father’s head. And I know where Seath is. I know he’s hiding in Masrah now, his safe haven after this fiery week of revolt. He must be stopped by whatever means.”

  “And,” Dakar presses, “do you believe Rahian also had dealings with Sinora Lehzar? Might she have had Nahir motive to murder her husband—a Northern king?”

  No, no, no.

  Terror seizes me, realizing that Dakar might have just struck the killing blow already. Before I’ve even pulled out my evidence. Jali knows about our family, about Seath, and she will happily wield it for her own gain. Her gaze curves in our direction—beautiful, glittering, grand—and falls on Mother, who falters nearly imperceptibly. This is the girl she once let run free. The girl who now clutches her fate between vindictive hands.

  But Jali faces the League again. She shrugs. “Of that,” she says tonelessly, “I know nothing, General. I only know where Seath is now and that he needs to be stopped once and for all.”

  Relief floods me. Overwhelming gratitude, as well. I have no idea why Jali just chose to protect my mother, if she knows what my mother did for her long ago or if she simply can’t bear to betray a Southern woman to a Northern court.

  Dakar now appears dangerously vexed.

  Jali didn’t give him what he wanted, and I decide it’s my time to speak.

  I stand imperiously. “What an impossible thing to suggest, General. You have no proof of any of this, only meaningless rumours. But I do have proof. I have proof that can’t be refuted. May I not testify as well?”

  I’m appealing to Gawain, and his bushy brows rise. “You have evidence?”

  “More than you can imagine.”

  My confidence seems to sway him—and my title. “Then by all means, Your Highness.”

  “The Princess?” Dakar interrupts. “Better to save the royal testimonies for—”

  “No, General. I’ll honour her request. Surely her words are worth more than the others’?”

  I can tell Dakar doesn’t agree—not at all—since I’m the daughter of the accused, a corrupted source. Perhaps if this were a proper trial, others would agree, but this isn’t a trial. This is a “royal council” and I’m a royal. And so, I will speak.

  He grudgingly takes his seat beside the Commander as I walk forward. Once at the stand, I face the entire League, feeling rather small suddenly, yet filled with startling courage. This is where I’m meant to be. The moment I chased with Lark long ago, and with Tirza these past months.

  I’m ready to fight.

  “First,” I begin, “I must say this entire trial is a deep insult to my family, and sharply uncalled for. It is beyond belief that we’re here to face the same baseless rumour from last summer, the one hurled at us by common agitators. That we should have endured that violent coup only to be brought here like this? It is wrong, and I am certain that everyone in this room sees it.”

  My tone has the desired effect. Gazes avert and heads tilt to listen.

  Dakar’s iron eyes fix on me.

  “Furthermore,” I continue, undaunted, “we’re brought to account by men—crownless, not even royal—who pretend to share in our honour, when the truth is, they have none at all. They fight by the lowest means, with no thought for decency. I know this, Your Majesty, because I witnessed these shameful things myself in Resya.”

  Gawain glances round confused, evidently trying to determine who it is I’m glaring at. It’s the Commander, and I hold his frosty gaze from across the room, his expression daring me to keep on, to say another word. And I will. As far as I can, with this platform. I’d always intended it to be a much more intricate case, with the General’s naval son, with Reni. A show of alliance to compel a better world. But I can no longer wait. Today is about saving my mother—and I go alone.

  “I was in Resya during the Safire campaign,” I continue, “and great crimes happened there, crimes that have no place in an honourable fight. I even saw them with my own eyes, having survived the bombing of Madelan. Safire aeroplanes ravaged that royal city with fire. Innocent neighbourhoods destroyed. Civilian dead. How could anyone justify such a thing?”

  There’s a profound stir at this, and Gawain turns to the Commander again.

  The Commander’s glare is gone now, cleverly replaced by polite precision. “I believe,” he says, “she refers to our careful targeting of airfields and army establishments in the northeast of the city. I understand that she—and those gathered here—are not well-versed in military strategy, but surely, Your Majesty, you know that this is no different than your own targeting of Nahir strongholds in Thurn? From a distance, it may have looked broad and callous. But it was in fact a very specific measure taken to avoid greater loss in our securing of the city. Such a measure is meant to end conflict, not prolong it.”

  Everyone looks back at me.

  “And did you strike only military establishments?” I press. “You can stand here today and swear before us that your aeroplanes hit no one innocent?”

  “I can’t swear it,” the Commander admits with false humility, “but I can tell you that it was never part of our objective. Our goals were honourable, and now Madelan is in much better hands. Would you have preferred a Nahir-loyal king continuing to cause trouble for his people? They should never have suffered for his traitorous ambition.”

  There are a few nods at that, and I want to scrub the perfectly decent expression from his face. He makes it sound very nice, very simple, but no one here has the memory of smoke in their nostrils, the feeling of the world shuddering beneath them. They haven’t seen the tangled wreckage of his “specific measure.”

  “And what about the murder of prisoners?” I demand.

  His decency switches to irritation. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, You
r Highness.”

  “There were Resyan soldiers who wished to surrender—and you shot them right in the back.”

  Gawain appears stunned now. “And what proof do you have of this?”

  I open my briefcase and hold up the photograph of the fallen prisoners. Then the mutilated Resyan pilot. Then all of the others in my possession, thanks to the kind and noble Officer Walez—one after another after another, my furious gaze fixed on the Commander as his expression changes to something almost fearful.

  “God in heaven,” Gawain breathes, taking the mutilated pilot from me.

  He stares at the grainy image like it’s blood in his hands, and I feel a bitter smile on my lips, because Gawain has no idea that he’s next. The pamphlets from Tirza, from Thurn. I’m going to hold them all to account today, these leaders who have allowed darkness to run rampant beneath their banners, and everyone in the room is enraptured by me. They’re listening. Truly listening.

  And I hope, somewhere, Seath is listening too.

  I want him to see his niece—brave as him, confronting this same evil.

  And winning.

  Are you seeing this, Lark? Are you watching?

  “I have no reason to lie,” I announce, holding up my notebook. “I was neutral in this war, but I recorded these things, for the sake of justice. I was even attacked by Safire fighters while in an unmarked plane. They have no care for the rules of war.”

  Weary triumph swells inside me as I wait for someone to haul the Commander off in chains or handcuffs or at least right out of this room.

  He’s a wicked fraud.

  A criminal.

  But Gawain frowns at me, still holding the photograph. “And you’re certain these aren’t lies?”

  I lower my notebook. “Why would anyone lie?”

  “When people lose a war, Your Highness, they might make many things up.”