I stare at him. I have no idea what to think. Perhaps he’s being honest, or perhaps he’s ensuring Mother stays in power and he remains in her good favour. What good does a crown do? Murder is always possible, crown or not. Look at my father. Look at what those rumours did in the dark.
“I know no more than that,” I say honestly, because this is all from Violet’s lips, a passing comment, and perhaps she made the whole thing more grand in her head.
“Don’t let this happen,” he repeats.
But I promise nothing.
I’m fairly certain Gref Havis is as good at playing desperate as he is at playing noble.
30
ATHAN
Havenspur, Thurn
High noon.
Engines growl to a start and the long runway wavers before us. Another afternoon in the sky. We fly over the harbour and practice war games with the naval ships, film cameras following our aerobatics, recording our show to take home to the North. The two allies, Savient and Landore, united in flight. Then we land, pass off the planes to ground crew, strip out of our hot flight suits, and drive down to the water for a swim.
In the evenings, the mail arrives, and I pretend not to get too excited when it’s a letter from Ali. More often, they’re from Leannya. Lengthy reports about school and life in Savient, subtle critiques buried within, as is the Dakar way.
“Thank you for the perfume, Athan, but now I smell like a complete rose garden, so could you send something less fussy next time? I like notes of orange and citrus.”
To which I said:
“Leannya, what are these ‘notes’ you speak of? Musical? Written? If a smell can be a note, then I might be able to send you notes of kerosene and petrol.”
To which I only got a one-line reply:
“You’re not as smart as they say.-Leannya.”
But this lazy schedule isn’t enough for the seasoned pilots growing restless. The absence of skirmishes against the enemy brings boredom to a head the night of my birthday. They think I’m turning twenty-two, and every pilot wants to make sure I celebrate right. Which means getting drunk. Garrick, Merlant, and Wick are conveniently off base, so Greycap produces a bottle of local mezra and promptly offers it to everyone, excited to finally share it around. It tastes like boot polish in flames, but I choke some down.
Too many shots later, a drunk Ollie challenges a drunk Baron to a bet. Baron can’t resist. Even though it’s nearing on midnight and planes are grounded, two of the more sober pilots, Greycap for the Landorians and Sailor for the Safire, fly into the darkness. One charging east, the other west. Up to 5,000 feet and then down in a steep corkscrew dive.
The rest of us wait along the runway flare path, watching navigation lights spiral through the black. It’s a tense few minutes, breaths held, but it’s agile Greycap who lands back on the tarmac first. He emerges from his cockpit and gives an over-the-top bow.
“Landorian supremacy!” Baron announces, taking yet another shot of mezra.
A vexed Sailor lands not long after. It’s difficult to get our fighters to dive that tight. It takes sheer focus. I’m sure I could have done better, but I’ve been working hard to prove myself, to everyone, and especially to Merlant. Not going to throw it away on a stunt like this. Not now that I’m eighteen.
Morning comes and a good number of the pilots on base are hungover in bed. Wick’s furious. “This isn’t a game,” he spits at us. “You can’t be having your reckless fun with rebels lurking in every corner. Are you trying to get shot down and waste aircraft? Waste your own damned lives? And now look at the lot of you—couldn’t fly if you wanted.”
He grounds everyone who’s sick on their feet—Spider, Baron, even Ollie—then marches Cyar and me to the briefing room and waves at Garrick, passing us off like an inconvenience. “Fill them in, would you? At least they’ve got more sense than your first officer.”
Garrick nods, jaw clenched. I’d take a guess he’s less than pleased Ollie got himself into this. “You’re both walking straight?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
“Good.” He casts his eyes to the map on the table before us. “You’ve got your first sortie over Hady this afternoon.”
Cyar and I look at each other.
Maybe we should have taken those extra shots.
“Lightstorm’s carrying out a strike on the Nahir-occupied airbase,” Garrick says, “and they’ll be bearing the brunt of the rebel planes. Our job’s to lure some over the sea, to help ease pressure on them. It won’t be as heavy as what they’re facing, but it won’t be easy either.”
He runs over strategy and formations with us, then Merlant arrives at the table.
“Weather’s clearing nicely off the coast. We’re set for two o’clock. I’ve picked my four pilots still able to fly. And I’ve requested Charm as my wingman.”
Garrick straightens from the map, frowning. “These are my rookies, Captain. I’m responsible for them.”
“I understand that, but Officer Helsun is now grounded, which means you’ll be tasked with both. Two rookies is too many their first time up.”
Garrick can’t argue with that logic. “Fine. I’ll take Hajari. He’ll be less trouble, anyway.”
The next few hours pass painfully slow. Why the hell do they drag it out like this? I’d rather have gone straight from the briefing into the skies. I force myself to eat lunch, feign excitement. Cyar can’t see me afraid. I may not have much practice with being a leader, but this seems important, and I know what Arrin would do. Fear’s contagious.
By quarter to two, Filton and Kif are running around my fighter, Filton hollering orders at Kif as they fuel, test the engine. Cyar and I sit on a wood bench, lacing our flight boots. When we stand, the hot tarmac feels warm even through the thick soles.
“It’s going to be easy, Fox. At least we’re not with Lightstorm, right?”
He gives a nervous smile. “Yeah, sure.”
“See you up there.”
“See you.”
Then he’s walking for his plane, and I wish I’d added, “Be careful.”
Merlant marches to each of his pilots, offering final instructions, his gaze alert and determined. Something else I can’t place. He strides over to me, helmet on, goggles resting on top. “Once we’re airborne, Charm, you stay on my wing. Never lose sight of me.”
“Not planning to be anywhere else.”
“Good.” He doesn’t smile.
“Any other advice?”
“If you find yourself under fire, never—and I do mean never—fly straight for long. Understood?”
I nod.
“All ready, sir?” Filton calls.
I turn and he’s waiting by the nose of my fighter. He’s glossed up the wings until they shine, a fresh paint job on the Safire swords. Prettiest plane in the sky, just like he promised.
“Ready, Filton.”
I shoulder my parachute and rest a hand on the wing. Then I jump up and climb into the cockpit. Filton assists with hooking the parachute, the oxygen tubes. My damn hands tremble a bit on the buckles, but only Filton sees. He attempts a smile, his brow furrowed, shoulders tense. He looks at me like he’s memorizing details under pressure. “Be careful, sir.”
This time when the cockpit shuts around me, it’s with a sense of finality. I adjust the gages, checking glycol and flaps. Everything looks good. I prime the engine, faithful propeller kicking to a spin.
Takeoff is smooth and familiar. The same steady voices give us clearance. I follow Merlant’s right wing, and the other four Lion’s Paw planes, including Greycap, lead the formation. We level out at 11,000 feet, my breath coming a little funny through the oxygen mask. My hands sweat in the gloves.
I glance left. Cyar’s not far off, following Garrick. Good to know he’s right there.
The sea below churns with whitecaps as we follow the coastline, and miserable thoughts make the thirty-minute flight feel an eternity. Does Kalt know what I’m doing? Should I have said some kind of g
oodbye? Maybe I won’t get another chance. Not to mention, I’ve hardly sent Leannya any of my promised letters. And Ali? Can’t I at least see her one more time? That’s not too much to ask, is it?
God, I don’t want Mother to see me afraid.
She never wanted this.
I shouldn’t be here.
I shut my eyes for a breath, so there’s darkness, nothing. Only roaring engine and shaky metal. The memory of Mother in all her gentle glory.
I’m not actually here.
I’m far away and no one can touch me.
Then light again, the world in a sunny flash, and Hady finally appears, a shadow on the horizon.
“We’re scaring first,” Greycap says over the radio cheerfully. “See you on the other side, fellows!”
He and the two Landorian planes waste no time, diving down, away from us. They’re barely above the city buildings. Their olive-green wings zigzag through the sky, growling their challenge, reminding the people below they made the wrong choice and soon vengeance will come.
Merlant’s voice crackles over the radio. “Our turn, Charm. Follow close. Stay on my wing.”
“Understood, Leader.”
Stick forward and down we go. Hady grows in size, coming near, though we don’t go as low as the first group. Surprise isn’t on our side anymore. But we’re still there, moving so fast it’s hard to focus on anything except the little bit of reason nipping at my brain. Why are you here again? Why are you willingly flying over people who’d like to shoot you down?
Garrick and Cyar circle behind us from the west, then our throttles are opened and we’re back in the wide sky, no one in flames.
Merlant orders us to 6,000 feet. From this new altitude, black puffs of smoke appear to the south, beyond Hady. Anti-aircraft fire. The remnants of large shells hurtled into the air. I know exactly the acrid scent of burnt metal and smoke, memories that feel woven into my existence as tightly as charcoal pencils and brilliant skies. Lightstorm’s facing that vicious assault, trying to weaken the Nahir defenses. For what? Is there an army on the way?
“Here they come. Stay awake.” Merlant’s voice is calm.
No time to worry about the big picture. Six dark dots are hurtling close. Colourless wings. My hand clutches the stick tighter.
“Greycap, give them a chance to reconsider,” Merlant says.
“Will do!”
The three Landorian planes break away and meet the pursuers from above. We’re on the offensive at this height. Greycap holds fire until they’re close, then his guns light up the air with red tracers and bullets. A quick burst and away. It looks easy, effortless. One rebel plane chokes out black smoke. Someone was asleep there. Down he goes, spiraling, bits of plane glinting.
A parachute?
Yes. Lucky him.
“On my turn, Charm. We’re going next.”
We fling our planes to the side, world shifting hard, familiar weight against my limbs. Blood racing to my feet. One of the rebels is alone and Merlant locks sight on him. A burst from his plane forces the rebel to break upwards, a beginner move, and I’m waiting for it. I pull the trigger. A stream of fire from my plane, like a dragon. The rebel pilot dodges, spinning down, and Merlant maneuvers into position. He wounds it in seconds. We’re so close behind, going so fast, that we’re over the smoking wreckage before I can look for a parachute to appear.
“Thanks for the help, Charm. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I don’t need your charity, Knight.”
He laughs.
My hand itches on the trigger. I glance around, wondering where else I can point my plane. Voices blur over the radio, calling out victories, strategies. The sky’s become a little battlefield. Of the six enemy planes who answered our challenge, three are already down, one still tries to engage, and another flees with two Landorian fighters in hot pursuit. This feels too easy. I almost wish for more of a challenge.
A shadow momentarily blocks the sun and I glance up. Garrick’s Moonstrike plane shoots past a hundred feet above me, flying hard. No wingman behind.
Wait, where’s Cyar?
I glance side to side, trying to spot him in the fray. Nothing looks familiar. Can’t spot one from another at this distance. “Fox, do you copy?”
Breathe, he’s fine.
Stupid, reasonable voice. I don’t trust it right now.
“At five o’clock,” Merlant says.
I twist around. Cyar’s plane loops wildly below us with a rebel on his tail. My breath catches, amplified by the oxygen mask.
“Bring him this way, Fox,” Merlant says. “We’ll get him off you.”
“I can’t make it!” Cyar sounds scratchy, panicked. “He almost got my left wing. I’m taking him lower!”
He dives, disappearing into cloud cover, the rebel plane behind.
“Do not pursue, Charm,” Merlant warns. “We need to do this together.”
The warning doesn’t register. I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. It’s not even a question.
I’m gone.
“Don’t leave my wing, Charm!”
“Follow your leader,” Garrick barks.
The only one who seems to agree with my decision is the plane between my hands. She responds immediately, engines spurring to a furious roar as we plunge deep and to the right. We’re going far too fast for the dive, and I hang on to the stick with all I’ve got, plunging through thousands of feet of air. The overwhelming force hits like an anvil against my chest, against my head. Grey smoke appears at the edge of my vision.
But it works.
Through sheer will I level out, and the chase is on.
Cyar’s maneuvering his fighter with a light hand—left, right, up, down—trying to shake the enemy. My head spins working to keep up. I give a solid burst of machine-gun fire and graze the attacker’s tail, some work for his ground crew. Hady looms ahead. Galloping towards it seems like a bad idea, perhaps why Merlant was against this pursuit. But to hell with reason. It’s not going to serve me well up here.
We reach land just west of the city and our three planes are damn close together. Spent shell casings from the rebel’s guns rain against my cockpit, rattling glass and nerves. Have to be careful with my shots. Don’t want to hit Cyar by accident. I haven’t said a word to him over the radio, but conversation seems pointless right now. At least he knows I’m here, that I didn’t leave him on his own.
I push up to get some altitude when another dark dot appears ahead, racing straight for us at an alarming speed, smoking from one wing. My pulse scatters.
“Watch yourself, Fox! Eleven o’clock.”
“I see it.”
Cyar dips his wings deeply to the left, preparing for a turn, and his attacker does the same. But at the moment of spin, Cyar swings his fighter back the other way, breaking up and out. A brilliant move, and the plane in pursuit finishes his now pointless roll to the left. The game’s over. Time for me to break and follow. But something still burns inside. I hate this pilot in front of me. This person who thought they could hurt Cyar. I hit the throttle, ready to pounce, then freeze.
Damn it, the second plane!
I jam my feet against the rudder, throwing my stick right, flinging myself into a wild downward roll. Anything to get out of his crosshairs. For half a second—half an infinite moment—I brace for the inevitable red fire, the pounding bullets into my fuselage. But then the enemy wings flash silver above me. Bright silver with glorious black swords painted beneath.
Safire!
My breaths are ragged. The injured Lightstorm fighter passes close overhead, and I’d like to shoot him out of the goddamn sky. What the hell’s he doing over here by himself, charging me! My reckless relief and fury are twin flames. But I hate myself most. If he hadn’t been friendly, I’d have been shot down my first time up. Top Flight, my ass.
But no time for this. I search the sky for the rebel plane and spot him diving, almost falling, in a frenzy to get away. I’ve come this far. Not stopping n
ow. I throw my plane into another steep dive, straining to hold it all together. She shudders around me. The poisonous grey clouds my vision, the anvil pressed to my chest like a death sentence. I ease back a touch. Blacking out over Hady will only turn me into the Nahir’s first prisoner of war. But once we’re level …
He flies straight at five hundred feet. No choice, low as he is, and he uses the speed of his dive to propel him forward. I fling open the throttle and push my plane hard. “Come on,” I say, like anyone’s listening. “Prove to me you’re the best damn plane in the world!” She doesn’t disappoint, and we close in. He must be panicking now. He tries a sudden roll to the left.
Not bad. That was good thinking, and I have to check myself.
He scrambles higher again, racing for clouds above. A terrible mistake. He doesn’t realize this is our moment of glory, these climbs into the heights. The altimeter ticks our easy ascent and I’m right on his tail. Now I have him. Now I have this person who tried to touch my brother. Finger on the trigger, line up the gunsight.
It’s much quicker than I expect.
Easy.
The shot’s right to the undercarriage with my deadly twenty-millimeter cannons, and his engine smokes. The nose drops, then it’s falling down and away. I finger my trigger again, amazed.
A little parachute appears below.
The plane explodes.
That’s right, I tell the pilot. Go see the wreckage of your plane. Go take a good look at what I’ve done.
Heart racing, I head back for the formation.
* * *
The pilot in the wounded Lightstorm plane returns to Havenspur with us. Smoking and chased from the rest of his squadron, he’d figured his best bet was to make for our friendly group. As we fly along, he fields the many questions about how the attack on the airbase went. There’s lots of laughter, boasting, now that tension has passed.
Dark of the West (Glass Alliance) Page 30
