Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  I take the letter at last. As the boy I adored and slept beside, I can’t ignore the reality of us. He betrayed my family, betrayed my mother. He’s been weak and helpless when he had great power in his hands. But as a boy in front of me with a weary heart made naked, offering me the only thing he can, I still care.

  How could I not?

  I offer my gloved hand to him. “I’ll remember.”

  Warmth flickers across his face finally, from an old place, a place on the mountain, a place I won’t forget. A place I’ll always long for. He takes my hand and I squeeze his, my own apology, the best I can offer. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter how I feel about you right now, Lieutenant,” I say softly. “Perhaps we’ll always be strung together like stars.”

  * * *

  He follows us to my prison, silently a step behind, and I think he knows as well as I do what’s going to happen when we get there. And we’re right. At the doors of the suite, the guards announce that I’m to wait here until the afternoon. A polite way to inform me that I won’t be present for my mother’s testimony. I’d like to cry—or break something. But since I suspected it was coming, I simply slam the door on their neutral, apologetic faces. I hear Athan arguing with them all the way back down the hall.

  I pace across the parlour, opening Mother’s letter with furious fingers, wondering if I could crawl out the window. How far is it up here? Did Mother suspect this would happen? Does she have a plan already underway? It’s still too impossible to think that she’d give this letter to Athan Dakar of all people, entrusting it to him, but it’s in my hands now. He did what she asked.

  Rallying my final shred of courage, I read the letter. The tears should come, but they don’t, because I’m entirely dry. I simply read her words. This last story from her, holding far more than I ever imagined, and I press it into my heart like fragile hope. The only thing I’ll take with me when I leave here, when I escape as she’s begged.

  “It is all for love, elski’han.”

  The words were never a threat.

  Only love.

  57

  ATHAN

  When the League reconvenes after the brief break, it happens exactly as I expect. Father wastes no time. He orders me forward, and I don’t think I’d walk away alive if I disobeyed this time. But he doesn’t need to worry. Sinora told me to be honest, so I walk for the stand. She nods at me and I don’t know why, but that makes me feel braver.

  We’re both rather stuck in this together.

  “Lieutenant, did Aurelia Isendare tell you that her father was murdered?”

  Father’s clearly eager to keep us moving forwards, not backwards, but I stop him.

  “First,” I say, “I’d like to address the earlier claims.”

  He pierces me with a deathly glare, but I forge onward anyway. “What the Princess said is true,” I tell the entire League. “There were prisoners executed in Resya, by our forces. Perhaps there’s truth in the other claims as well, though I can assure you that my brother did give an immediate order to stop it, once discovered. I also wouldn’t doubt that the Nahir threw their own bloody work into the mix. Either way, Aurelia Isendare is right—these things are a stain on our honour and should be acknowledged.”

  Arrin stares at me—the blank kind, which might actually be the most dangerous—but I’m not done.

  “You should, however, investigate your own as well,” I inform Gawain, which earns me a sharp warning from the Landorian corner, too. “Whatever’s happening in Thurn doesn’t look good, and no pilot should be accidentally killing innocents. It’s confusing enough up there. Directions from the ground should be accurate, always, because no one deserves to live with the shame of a misplaced shell.”

  I’m looking at Arrin again and he won’t meet my eye.

  “You have your own reasons for dealing with the Nahir in Thurn,” I finish, “but you also have a responsibility to do that well.” I wave at the League generally, all the rich Northern suits who profit off their territory there. “Otherwise, you don’t look any better than them. None of us will. And I should hope we’re all in the business of seeking justice, since that’s why we’ve even called this ‘council’ here today to begin with.”

  Silence.

  Gawain appears slightly astounded, and Father asks, “Are you finished, Lieutenant?”

  I shrug. “I am, sir.”

  I’ve just defended our family’s reputation, reminded my brother that I won’t blindly follow him, and held Landorian honour to account—all in under a minute.

  That feels like an accomplishment.

  A choice.

  Father crosses his arms. “Good. Will you now answer the pertinent question?”

  “Yes. Her Highness did tell me her father was murdered.”

  “She said it was hidden? Kept a secret?”

  “Yes.”

  The fact that the Queen of Etania is now condemned by the word of her own daughter sends a ripple through the League, apparently far more compelling than my appeal for accountability.

  “It was only kept quiet to avoid greater fear in the kingdom,” I clarify, to make sure everyone sees that there’s still no reason to assume it was Sinora.

  But whatever I’m saying doesn’t matter anymore.

  Drama.

  “Your Majesty,” Father addresses Sinora. “Do you believe your daughter might have made such a confession to my son?”

  There’s no escape, and Sinora speaks honestly. “Yes.”

  With that, I’m moved out of the way and Sinora’s ushered to the stand, ready for the main show. Declarations made. Stakes set. Her face remains serene, and Father meets her gaze with equal dispassion. They’re both playing. Desperately. I sit between Arrin and Kalt, searching through everything I know—about her, about him—to find a reason for all of this that makes sense, and come up empty.

  They’ve brought us here. Only they know why.

  “Your Majesty,” Gawain begins, attempting a formal smile at Sinora that falls short. “Have you any opening remarks to the charge?”

  “I do,” Sinora replies, “and it’s to tell you that I am innocent. This rumour is baseless, spread by the instigators of the coup last summer.”

  The faces around no longer look so certain, and Gawain asks, “Did those instigators claim that you murdered Boreas Isendare?”

  Sinora frowns, as if this is all beneath her. “Yes. But I loved my husband, and I would never have done such a thing.” She turns to address the League at large, eloquent and lovely with her accent. “I tell you, I still grieve his death. There isn’t a day that goes by that I do not wish he were here. There is no man, living or dead, whom I hold in higher esteem. A king with no match.”

  “But your husband was murdered?” Father intervenes, clearly trying to halt her beautiful poetics and get to the point.

  “There were rumours, but even if they were true, it was never by my hand.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  She pins Father with a look that’s dangerously unyielding. “However I answer, you’ll find a way to condemn me. My guilt is already on your lips.”

  Gawain glances between them uncomfortably. “Your Majesty, that isn’t true. We’re not against you here.”

  I’m sure it sounds like a hollow assurance after all that’s transpired this past hour, even to those who have no idea of the ageless enmity between them.

  Father stands over Sinora, that towering presence that intimidates absolutely. “I see your guilt and your innocence at once,” he announces. “I can imagine all possibilities. I also wonder if perhaps there’s a reason you felt obligated to do this dark thing? Perhaps you knew something we do not?”

  She tilts her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “If Boreas Isendare was not the rightful ruler, then you might be justified in this necessary action.”

  He lets that sit, everyone around trying to catch up—and then I do. Very suddenly. Arrin’s face changes to disbelief beside me.

>   Father’s giving her a way out?

  It’s unfathomable, and Sinora, for her part, pauses carefully, perhaps also trying to comprehend this absurdity. “General, I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. My husband was King of Etania, his birthright.”

  Whatever Father’s just offered, she rejects, and he darkens considerably.

  Gawain clears his throat. “I’m not sure how—”

  “If there was no reason to justify your action, then we need only one answer from you,” Father ploughs on, ignoring Gawain. It’s only he and Sinora now, facing off at the stand. “A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will do. Did you murder your husband?”

  She holds his brutal gaze. Tinier, but no less fierce. “I’ll never answer to a man with no crown.”

  The room of royalty inhales sharply. Her implication is mesmerizing, and the tension hangs, palpable, while Father looks as if she’s just stuck a gun in his face. I don’t know much, but I know the laughable irony in this, that she, a woman retrieved from the side of the road in Thurn, has more power here than him. They both came from nowhere, but she’s risen farther and higher than he ever dreamed.

  It actually leaves my father speechless.

  And in that space, I realize too late my brother is up and marching for Sinora. Kalt moves to stand, like he’s going to chase Arrin down, but Arrin’s already there.

  “Quit your damn act!” Arrin growls at Sinora. “I won’t let you play this game forever.”

  “I play no one,” she replies, somehow still exquisitely calm. “Your father plays. He pretends to be one of them, but what is he truly? A little man with a little gun?”

  “You don’t know how this world works,” Father declares hotly.

  “No, I see exactly how it works. Kingdoms always fall from within. You know it too, and yet you ignore it even now. You think Savient is the exception.”

  If she isn’t provoking him, then she’s a fool. And Sinora Lehzar isn’t a fool.

  It’s the dangerous point, the point where bad things happen, and no one else here seems to realize it, but I stiffen, as does Kalt. Arrin’s hand inches towards his pistol.

  “Goddamn it,” Father says, nearly exasperated. “Is this what you’re going to bring us to?”

  “I’ve brought nothing.”

  “Lies! Will you look at me and say you didn’t do that hateful thing?”

  “I’ve done many hateful things. But not against my husband.”

  “I mean against my wife!”

  There’s a collective gasp in the room, and I’m sinking lower in my seat. Where the hell’s Ali? I paid those guards the last of my scrapped-together savings so they’d let her out. She needs to be here. I don’t know what’s happening. The worst, a disaster, but someone has to stop it. I have nothing left to try. Even Kalt is frozen.

  Ali’s our only chance.

  No one would lay a hand on her, not even Father.

  “Ah,” Sinora taunts Father with a knowing smile. “You want me to answer for that crime? Then yes. Yes, that was me. I killed her. I killed Sapphie, if it’s what you want to believe. Now, will you live in peace? Will you let this end? I’ll give you my neck. I’ll give you my guilt and my blood, your victory. Is that enough? Is it?”

  Arrin’s pistol swings out.

  It’s there so suddenly, it’s almost unnoticed. Then everyone sees. The entire room held hostage, silence quivering with terror as Sinora stares down the barrel, holding Arrin with an expression of pity—some maternal patience, like she faces a child holding a toy.

  “You want to shoot me?” she asks in awkward Savien.

  No one moves.

  Father says to Arrin, also in Savien, “Put that away.”

  He says it slowly, like he’s talking to someone about to leap off a pier.

  Arrin doesn’t listen. He’s bent on Sinora, a strangled sound to his voice. “You took my sister from me first. Then my mother. You’ve made our lives into hell, and I’ll never let you get away with that. Not while I breathe.”

  The League appears confused, the vast majority unable to understand Savien, but the image says enough. Sinora sits before the cold metal—defiant. “You can’t shoot me, boy. I have what your father needs.”

  “You have nothing,” Arrin snaps.

  But Father doesn’t deny her words, and she turns to him again. “I’m the only one who knows. You need me, Arsen.”

  “I don’t need you,” Father replies, dangerously quiet.

  “You always have. I’m your back. Your comrade.”

  “You’re a liar. A murderer and a traitor.”

  “Perhaps so,” she says, rising from her seat at last, “but I am a mountain you cannot pass. Dead traitors will never speak your truth. You remember that the next time you line a victim before your gun. You remember that forever, Arsen Dakar, when your kingdom falls.”

  And then, suddenly, she has Arrin’s pistol to her temple.

  Arrin’s hand empty.

  Father appears horrified. “Sinora, you—”

  The shot echoes.

  She falls.

  Then silence—empty, swelling, horrible silence.

  58

  AURELIA

  I only see the final moments. I knew the guards would let me out. I knew Athan would make them do it. But by the time I’m standing in the League doorway again, it’s only hateful shouts. Threats. A gun.

  The excruciating crack.

  It obliterates all sound in the domed room, overwhelming every frightened face, and I don’t wait. I race for her, my heart already there as I fall down at her side, my knees cracking hard against the wood, the scratching wool against my skin. She’s stretched out, limp. A flower of scarlet on her head.

  “No,” I whisper in Resyan. “No, not like this!”

  My voice sounds like someone else’s, someone far away, begging her to undo whatever has happened, begging her to love me enough to stay. I’m sweating in my coat, hot beneath the lights. Wet on my cheeks. No one comes for me. No one has the courage to face this evil thing, and they wait, simply staring at me like a pathetic spectacle, my mumbled Resyan words unknown to them. Somewhere a voice hisses, “Turn those cameras off!”

  It doesn’t matter. They can film this. They can remember it forever, because it’s over. No more beginnings or middles for her. She made her ending. She didn’t let him take it from her.

  Her secrets go with her.

  Her love, too.

  My hands push the hair from her face, away from the blood, searching for something that won’t come, some tiny breath of warmth, and it’s a long while before footsteps approach me. I don’t want to look. I refuse to. But the footsteps stop, waiting long enough that I glance right and find a pair of leather boots a few inches from my hands. They’re polished. Safire perfect. A little trim of gold at the top. I look up and up, over dark grey pants and grey uniform and find, far above me, a familiar, narrow face staring down, pale with regret.

  The General’s second son.

  The Captain.

  He holds out a hand—one long, elegant hand—and I take it, unsure what else to do. Everyone else is too far. He’s close. He brings me to my feet, and then his arm is against my shoulders, guiding me past the mute stares. Dakar. Gawain. All of them, fixated on me.

  “Make way,” the Captain orders, his voice firm, and everyone obeys. The nobles and princes, the cameramen and attendants.

  They all move for him as he glides us out of the room.

  * * *

  I’m in a petrified daze as we walk back for my prison. The fog is all-consuming, the shock, but I do know that whatever’s just happened to my mother, whatever she’s just confessed, will leave me alone and in trouble—me, the girl who waved Nahir propaganda before the League, who called them all cowards.

  She wanted me gone. Her letter told me to leave.

  Once again, I stayed.

  Her last wishes denied.

  I hope they kill me, I think as the Captain takes me down the stairs.

&nb
sp; Down.

  Down.

  I realize too late that it isn’t right, how far down we’re going, because we should be going up. I’m not sure where we are, and he’s so tall. They’re all tall in his family, but he might be the tallest, a tower with gentle and elegant hands. Pushing me forward.

  “You need to disappear,” he tells me as we go.

  My throat hurts. “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  He keeps talking, something about Athan, some kind of apology, but I can scarcely follow. I only know the words sound soft and firm with his Savien accent, distracting me from the grief threatening to overpower my entire being.

  I clutch his arm. I have no one else. “Thank you.”

  He nods, not meeting my eye, and then he’s opened a door and it’s suddenly overwhelmingly bright. I squint into the light. Sun on snow. An empty park covered in white. It’s lonely out here, the only footprints beginning and ending with ours.

  I’m glad I’m wearing my coat.

  “Go quickly,” he says. “I’ll stall them.”

  It dawns, at last, that we’re not in my prison. I’m free—and it’s because of him.

  I can’t form words. My frightened lips are half-numb, and none of this makes any sense. But then he lets out his breath, misting in the air between us. “You asked me two months ago what I would do to young boys who fought in battle.”

  Our conversation from another world, so long ago.

  I nod.

  “The truth is, Princess, my brother was a child of war, and look how he turned out. If I saw those boys on a battlefield, I’d do everything in my power to get them as far away as possible. That is my answer.”

  I try to say something, something to express the grateful turmoil inside me, this unexpected ending to our alliance that was never truly an alliance, but he stops me. “I don’t want to see you again,” he continues bluntly. “I want you to leave. I want you to go and try to…”

  He stops.

  Try to what?

  To be happy? To live and forget what’s happened this day?

  He knows he can’t fill that space with anything helpful, and so it gapes awkwardly between us, yet even in that, his honesty remains. Unwilling to fill this with false words that mean nothing.