He nods, still reading. “Very good.”
Silence again. Ticking. Flies buzz behind the window blinds.
Eventually, he finishes and sits back in his seat. “Did you see your brother’s speech?”
I nod. “It was something else.”
“Indeed. Windom helped him with it, so he can’t claim full credit.”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t Windom’s idea to grin and call them all cowards?”
“No, but he did hope to provoke a reaction. Arrin may have taken it to the edge, as he often does, but the insult woke them up. They know they’re guilty of what he said.”
“And whose idea was it to bring up Mother?” I can’t hide my distaste.
Father pauses. “It earned us sympathy from the skeptics. Windom got Arrin in the right frame of mind this summer—never an easy task. I’m sure Arrin learned some humility.” And that’s the end of the discussion about Mother, conversation diverted easily around it.
No choice but to follow. “Arrin wasn’t excited about working with Windom. Said it was his own personal hell.”
“No doubt.”
“Why?”
“The problem, as always with Arrin, is a girl.” I give a questioning look, but he ignores it. “And Kalt? Did you see him with that Carr boy?”
I forgot about Father’s sudden switches. They’re like mental flick-rolls. I never know what’s next. And the intense question in his gaze, bordering on aversion, suddenly illuminates the whole “reporting” thing.
“No, sir,” I say quickly. “I only visited him once.” Which is true. I just don’t mention that they were together, in his cabin, Kalt half-dressed.
I steel myself for Father’s inspection. I feel like I can hear the blood in my ears as he looks. Then he tilts his head and sits back in the chair, no evidence of whether or not my half truth worked. “I’m returning to Etania next week. I need to ensure Sinora knows the position she’s now in—and Resya. I’ve decided an air demonstration would be a nice reminder of our power. And I did promise one for the Princess. It’s very generous of me to indulge the request of a sweet girl, for her birthday.”
Something like excitement spikes inside me cautiously.
“And I can’t do that without you,” he adds, like it needs to be explained. “I want to know how the winds are blowing.”
Yes, it’s excitement now. Undeniable. There’s a protest inside me somewhere, that noble part of me that feels whatever I’ve done so far is enough of a betrayal, and anything more only amounts to the kind of sin that can’t ever be forgiven. But the protest doesn’t come. I want to see her again, more than I want to think about whatever comes after.
“Yes, sir.” She’ll be thrilled to see me, that’s certain at least.
“See what you can find out about Resya, what Sinora’s been up to this summer.”
She’ll smile at me with that secret smile that says everything and nothing, then disappears, making me try harder, making me desperate to win it back again. Instead of the dreamlike vision she’s become, she’ll be real and welcoming and brighter than the nightmare of 3,500 feet.
“Arrin’s coming too.”
I snap back. “Arrin?”
He gives me a wry look. “I think you just went pale, even with the new colour on your face.”
I stare at him. This was inevitable, but it still sucks the heat from my skin. Too soon, too soon. A shadow on my wings, waiting for me to maneuver. “Why is he coming?”
“That isn’t your concern. You have one job, and only one job, and you’re doing well at it. Still writing letters?”
I nod, scrambling for an opening. Something to put myself in the middle of this. With her. Not just in my damn airplane, which will be useless against whatever Arrin’s planning.
“There’s a birthday masquerade, Father. She invited me.”
He looks unimpressed. “A masquerade?”
“Yes. You know, with masks.”
“I know what a damn masquerade is. How is this helpful?”
A very good question, but I hold his stare. “I’m sure you and Arrin will be busy with other … priorities, and I think I make a good decoy. A distraction. Because I doubt Sinora’s very fond of me at the moment. If you needed a distraction, I mean.”
I’m stabbing in the dark, hoping to hit on something that makes sense for his secret mission, and interest flickers on his face. “A distraction?” He nods slowly. “That could be helpful.”
“I should go?”
He glares at me. “No, you should stop talking. Your mouth irritates me more than Arrin’s sometimes. At least he’s honest.”
“I was trying to help, sir.” It sounds convincing enough, a touch hurt even.
He says nothing to that, leaning back in his chair again, cracking his knuckles, and doesn’t speak for a long stretch. The flies continue to buzz behind the slatted blinds. Crawling, falling, flying in little bursts.
“Two planes down?” he finally asks.
I nod.
“All on your own?”
I nod again.
Silence.
“All right,” he says, “you’ll go.”
I glance up. “I will?”
“For God’s sake, is this a question now?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, sir.”
“Bring me something useful. Make this worth it.”
“Yes, sir.” I pause, then give a guilty smile. “But I might need a mask.”
He looks at me with what’s nearly a shred of humour. “Son, you need a lot more than that at this point.”
IX
A THOUSAND DAYS
35
AURELIA
Hathene, Etania
The morning of my birthday, I wake to a palace on edge.
The halls around me quiver with nervous voices and twitching hands, faces vainly trying to give me a bright smile, though they never break the hushed mask of uncertainty.
Down in Hathene, the protesters have gathered again, far beyond their usual numbers. They’ve swelled out of the square, trickling into side streets and luring more to their cause. We can hear them from Mother’s drawing room above the palace entrance. With the windows open, there’s a faint noise on the balmy breeze. Distant, yet palpable. Shouts and chants that won’t be silenced, along with the purr of our aeroplanes patrolling the sky.
Alone, Mother and I stand at the windows. I keep waiting for the faint sound to die down. Hoping.
“My star, this has nothing to do with your birthday,” Mother assures me, arm round my shoulders, “and everything to do with the General.”
This makes sense, of course. We can’t hear the protesters’ words from this distance, but the Safire will soon arrive, returning with the fresh controversy of new ambition in Resya, and certainly these crowds are as angry as when they threatened my Royal Chase this spring. They still despise the Safire and their bloody boots in our kingdom. But this time, I can see both sides, both worlds, and it’s not as simple as they imagine. I want to run before them and say, “I’m on your side, I swear it. I’m trying to bring peace in the best way I can!”
Instead, I have to stand here and simply listen, wrapped in a pastel-blue dress with ribbons and suffocating lace. I feel as tiny as the pearl pins in my hair.
Finally seventeen.
“Mother, I know this may sound presumptuous, but I’m wondering if I might host a meeting with both you and the General this evening. In honour of my birthday,” I add, so it might sound more qualified.
Her dark gaze turns from the window, holding me now with a question. “A meeting?”
“It would be very important to me. Could you arrange it?”
She lifts a hand to my cheek, the scent of saffron lingering. “And what do you wish to say?”
I pause, uncertain exactly how much to share with her in advance—these weeks since the Commander’s speech have upturned her usual gravity, leaving her weary and drawn, a fragile shadow beneath her eyes, but it compels me even further to do what
I must. After everything else she’s endured, she doesn’t deserve a kingdom divided and a homeland bound for flames. We have too much at stake. There’s no choice but to be bold and play a step ahead, keeping the General on our side.
I lower my voice. “I have an idea for peace,” I say in Resyan, “and I simply need you and the General to hear me out for but fifteen minutes. I promise it would be worth everyone’s time.”
A thin smile brushes her face. “My darling, you can no longer speak that tongue in this place,” she replies in Etanian, glancing cautiously at the door. “Please, speak as you should.”
The command feels suddenly wrong. I never thought of Resyan as mine. It’s always been the language I speak for her—to comfort her, to warm her in her loneliness. But now that it’s being taken from me, for no other reason than an unproven and distant allegation, I feel a sense of loss. Injustice.
It’s half mine, at least.
“I will speak what I wish,” I say in Resyan, annoyed by the larger world, not her.
She covers my lips with her hand, firm. “You have to be your father now, child. Do you understand?”
I step back. “I think I’ll be myself,” I reply shortly.
She shakes her head with another weak smile, then kisses my cheek, and a loud drone envelops the valley, announcing the arrival of the Safire flight in all its vainglory.
* * *
When it’s time to make for the western balcony, I find myself trailing behind Mother and Reni and their retinue, stalling the inevitable. A tremble of nerves has me filled with anticipation. I feel both brave and scattered at once, and a sudden hand on my unsuspecting wrist makes me jump nearly out of my skin in surprise.
“Lark!” I hiss, realizing it’s him.
“Sorry,” he says, a sheepish expression on his face. Apparently he’s been lurking in the alcove. “I wanted to tell you I’ve left a gift in your room. For your birthday?”
His hesitant offer, and the fact that he’s tucked away in the shadows, drains my annoyance. I know why he’s hiding, and I glance towards the balcony. “Will you be all right?” I ask, suddenly not wanting to leave him—a Nahir fighter—alone anywhere with the many Safire uniforms soon about.
“I don’t particularly trust them,” he agrees bleakly.
“Then stay away,” I order. “Just stay put in your room.”
“Yes, but—”
“Stay out of the way,” I repeat, more firmly, putting my hand on his chest. “You don’t owe them anything. Leave it to me.”
He says nothing, but he knows I’m right. I have the luxury of trust.
He certainly doesn’t.
I give him a halfhearted smile. “I have to try this, Lark. For my mother. For all of us.”
He looks at me, his gaze distant. Some inner sorrow warring with his luminous fire. “You needn’t worry this much about your mother, Cousin. You should worry more about your uncle.”
I shake my head. I don’t have time to concern myself with Uncle Tanek, not now. His little plots with Reni feel so far from the larger danger of war.
Lark saunters back down the hall, alone, and I head for the sunny centre stage. Warmth greets me on the balcony. Etanian and Safire flags fluttering together. Facing the hangar and the forest, everything seems normal and bright, a crowd of loyal courtiers gathered for the display, the only change the plentiful liveried guards patrolling the grounds, many on horseback. The Queen’s Royal Mounted Guard. Their horses are lovely, large creatures, like Liberty, trained in the barracks outside the city, and today they’re groomed to a gleam in honour of my birthday.
My eyes skim past them, searching the seven planes shining silver on the tarmac, and something warm and wonderful nips inside my stomach, easing the uncertainty.
Athan.
Where is he? Which plane is he waiting in?
I’m ready to run to the railing and find him, but Mother diverts my plan with a polite wave, and I step back reluctantly. The General is with her, wearing a sanguine smile, formidable today in his slate-grey uniform, adorned in medals, a force that won’t be intimidated. “I’m sorry these protests must happen on your birthday,” he says to me, as if he should be the one apologize. “But rest assured, we can still celebrate without fear. We’ll send our squadron over their heads afterwards, how about that? Get them to reconsider?”
“Thank you,” I say, unsure if his confidence makes me feel any better.
Lark’s photographs have already blurred my perception of him.
“There’s no reason to be alarmed,” he assures firmly. “It won’t last the afternoon.”
“Regardless, General, I’m grateful you even thought to bring me this demonstration.”
“It’s your doing,” he replies. “You made an impression, and I haven’t forgotten our first meeting.”
We share a smile then, thanks to our private memory, and I try to convince myself that such a calm and reasonable man would surely be willing to hear me out. That he might even listen to a man like Seath, who also wants to defy the order of things.
Mother leads him off, and I spot Lord Marcin waiting with Violet in a shady patch of the balcony. Her lips are painted red, but the look on her face approaches despair. I assume this means her captain hasn’t made an appearance. Then I look beyond her and nearly choke on my own breath.
There’s Reni, with the General’s son.
The Commander!
They’re at the farthest end of the balcony, laughing together in some sort of friendly conversation that defies all reason. The Commander has his arms crossed, leaning against the railing. No indication of the blood on his hands—children’s blood. Instead, he looks comfortable as a lazing dog, trussed up in his fancy uniform and cap, and my hatred burns, thick and sour. I want to go right up and ask him about the photographs. I want to demand he admit the truth. But I need to be subtler than that, I know, and I force myself to take a breath.
I march for the railing and my eyes sweep the seven planes assembled below.
Searching, searching, wanting only one thing, the one thing that makes sense, that needs to be true, and then I find it.
My heart skips.
Athan.
He’s there and I’m up here, and even that feels much too far at the moment. He pushes the tousled blond hair from his forehead, sharing words with a mechanic, and then, as if written in the stars, glances up to where I am. He gives a beautiful smile. It’s all for me, and I return it to the point my cheeks hurt. I’m ready to abandon this balcony and close the now crossable distance between us, no sea to swim, no letters to speak words for us. There’s nothing else I want in this moment but to fling my arms round him!
“I’ve never seen a girl this delighted by a bunch of silly airplanes,” a silvery voice observes.
I spin, startled, and look up into the face of the Commander. He grins, holding an iced gin in one hand.
“They’re impressive,” I manage, and immediately regret such a mindless answer.
“Perhaps in show, Princess.”
“They’re your aeroplanes, Commander.”
“Oh, did I say silly planes? I meant the pilots.”
His rude comment nips even though it has nothing to do with me. I’m about to tell him to show more respect for his men, but he laughs, a nice-sounding laugh, the sort that makes whatever came before it seem entirely like a misunderstanding. “Beautiful mountains,” he remarks instead. He’s even more handsome than in the film reel, all perfect angles and glamorous confidence. The one who’d shoot boys holding the hands of old men. The one who dared condemn Resya before the entire world.
I’d like to spit in his vain face.
“Yes,” I agree, straightening. “What were you talking about with my brother?”
“Politics. But I won’t bore you with that.” He leans his arms on the rail. “You have a friend down there?”
“Lieutenant Erelis.”
“Never heard of him.”
I raise my chin. “He’s new to
the squadrons, and I’m sure you’ll hear of him soon enough.” I indicate Athan on the tarmac, still readying his plane. “We happened to meet earlier this summer. I was impressed by his manner.”
“You happened to meet? How?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because if some low-rank commoner has managed to tempt a princess, I’d like to know his strategy.” He grins again.
“The Lieutenant isn’t common,” I say pointedly. “He’s an officer, and I don’t appreciate your insinuation.”
The Commander raises a suggestive brow. “I’m only saying I was that age once too. No one ever put a princess in front of me, but if they had, I sure as hell know what I would’ve done.”
“Not everyone lacks a moral compass as you do,” I say, thinking of the blood-spattered wall more than anything else.
“Princess, he’s a boy and you’re a girl, and”—he leans closer, lowering his voice—“please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’d certainly leave the compass pointing north.”
I gasp.
He frowns, as if offended that I’m offended. “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about him.” He waves at the tarmac.
“Do you have no manners at all?”
“When I feel like it.” He flags a passing servant, and holds out his empty drink. “Another one, please. Less ice this time, extra gin—in fact, bring a larger glass. Thank you.” He turns back to me. “How was that?”
I refuse to look at him. “I’d like to watch the silly pilots now, if you don’t mind.”
“You’re still on that?”
“It was insulting to your men.”
“It’s not my fault they’re useless,” he says, glancing at the sky. “They spend their time in a pristine cockpit, playing tag two miles above the real battles, and—no, don’t look at me like that, Princess. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking ‘What do you know? You sit behind a desk and get medals while they do the real fighting.’ That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
I hate that he’s right. “They’re shooting down your enemy,” I say hotly.
“In theory, yes. And I have no problem with the ones who do. To them, I say thank you and please do it again. But too many of them are show-offs. They get a thrill from the game of it, and while my men are being torn to bits on the ground, strafed by enemy planes, I look up and find these idiots spinning around the sky like a flock of goddamn sparrows.” He shakes his head. “War isn’t a show.”
Dark of the West (Glass Alliance) Page 35
