Glass Sword

by Victoria Aveyard

  The combination of the drugs and Cal’s dead weight knocks the Colonel out cold. He slides down the window, knees buckling beneath him, and slumps into a very undignified pile. With his eyes closed, he looks much less threatening. Normal, even.

  “Ow” sounds from the wall where Kilorn stands, massaging his cheek. Drugged or not, the Colonel packs a mean punch. A bruise has already begun to form. Without thought, I take quick steps toward him. “It’s nothing, Mare, don’t worry—”

  But I’m not coming to comfort him. My fist collides with the opposite cheek, knuckles knocking against bone. He howls, moving with the momentum of my punch, almost losing his balance altogether.

  Ignoring the pain in my fist, I brush my hands together. “Now you match.” And then I embrace him, arms closing around his middle. He flinches, expecting more pain, but soon relaxes against my touch.

  “They were going to catch you down here either way. Figured I’d do more good if I wasn’t in the cell next to you.” He heaves a sigh. “I told you to trust me. Why didn’t you believe it?”

  For that, I have no answer.

  At the observation window, Cal sighs aloud, drawing the attention back to the task at hand. “I can’t fault your bravery, but does this plan go much further than singing this sack of scum a lullaby?” He toes the Colonel’s body with a foot while jabbing a thumb at the window, indicating the guards still watching us.

  “Just ’cause I can’t read doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” Kilorn says, a bit of an edge to his voice. “Watch the window. Should be any second.”

  Ten seconds to be exact. We stare for exactly ten seconds before a familiar form appears, blinking into existence. Shade, looking much better than the brother I saw in the infirmary just this morning. He stands on his own two feet, with a brace on his injured leg and nothing more than bandages around his shoulder. He wields a crutch like a club, bashing both the guards before they get a chance to realize what’s going on. They drop to the floor like sacks of hammers, stupid looks on their faces.

  The lock of the cell opens with a joyous echo, and Cal is at the door in a heartbeat, wrenching it open. He steps out into the air of the passage, breathing deep. I can’t follow him fast enough and sigh aloud when the weight of Silent Stone drops away. With a grin, I pull sparks to my fingers, watching them crackle and vein across my skin.

  “Missed you,” I murmur to my dearest friends.

  “You’re a strange one, lightning girl.”

  To my surprise, Farley leans against her open cell door, the picture of calm. She doesn’t look at all affected by the drugs—if they had any affect at all.

  “The benefit of befriending nurses,” Kilorn says, bumping my shoulder. “A nice smile was all it took to distract Lena, and slip something harmless into the box.”

  “She’ll be heartbroken to find you gone,” Farley replies, twisting her lips into something akin to a pout. “Poor girl.”

  Kilorn only scoffs. His eyes flicker to me. “That’s not my problem.”

  “And now?” Cal says, the soldier in him coming forth. His shoulders tense, firm beneath his threadbare clothes, and he turns his neck back and forth, keeping an eye on every corner of the passage.

  Shade puts out his arm in response, palm pointed toward the ceiling. “Now we jump,” he says.

  I’m the first to put my hand on his arm, holding tight. Even if I can’t trust Kilorn, Cal, or anyone else, I can trust in ability. In strength. In power. With Cal’s fire, my storm, and Shade’s speed, nothing and no one can touch us.

  While we are together, I will never suffer a prison again.

  NINE

  The bunker passes by in flashes of light and color. I catch only glimpses as Shade lets loose, jumping us through the structure. His hands and arms are everywhere, grasping, giving us all enough space to hold on. He must be strong enough to take us all, because no one gets left behind.

  I see a door, a wall, the floor tipping toward me. Guards give chase at every turn, shouting, shooting, but we’re never in one place long enough. Once, we land in a crowded room blossoming with electricity, surrounded by video screens and radio equipment. I even catch sight of some cameras piled in the corner before the occupants react to us and we jump away. Then I’m squinting in the sunlight of the dock. This time, the Lakelanders get close enough that I can see their faces, pale against the evening light. Then it’s sand beneath my feet. Another jump and it’s concrete. We jump farther in the open, starting at one end of the runway before teleporting all the way to the hangar. Shade winces with the strain, his muscles tight, the cords of his neck standing out starkly. One last jump takes us inside the hangar, to face cool air and relative quiet. When the world finally stops twisting and pulling, I feel like collapsing. Or throwing up. But Kilorn keeps me standing, holding me up to see what we’ve come so far for.

  Two airjets dominate the hangar, their wings spread wide and dark. One is smaller than the other, built for a single occupant, with a silver body and orange-tipped wings. Snapdragon, I remember, thinking back to Naercey and the swift, lethal jets that rained fire down upon us. The bigger one is pitch-black, menacing, with a larger body and no distinguishing colors to speak of. I’ve never seen anything like it, and dimly wonder if Cal has either. After all, he’s going to be the one to fly it, unless Farley has yet another skill in her bag of tricks. Judging by the way she stares at the jet, her eyes wide, I doubt it.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  The voice echoes strangely in the hangar, bouncing off the walls. The man who appears beneath the wing of the Snapdragon doesn’t have the look of a soldier, wearing gray coveralls instead of a Lakelander uniform. His hands are black with oil, marking him as a mechanic. He glances between us, taking in Kilorn’s bruising cheeks and Shade’s crutch. “I-I’ll have to report you to your superiors.”

  “Report away,” Farley barks, looking every inch the captain she was. Next to her scar and the tense cut of her jaw, I’m surprised the mechanic doesn’t faint on the spot. “We’re on strict orders from the Colonel.” She gestures quickly, pointing Cal toward the black jet. “Now get this hangar door open.”

  The mechanic continues to stammer while Cal leads us to the rear of the jet. As we pass beneath the wing, he reaches up a hand, letting it drag against the cool metal. “A Blackrun,” he explains quietly. “Big and fast.”

  “And stolen,” I add.

  He nods, stoic, reaching the same conclusion as me. “From the Delphie airfield.”

  A training exercise, Queen Elara had said at a luncheon long ago. She brushed aside the rumor of stolen jets with a wave of her salad fork, humiliating the now dead Colonel Macanthos in front of her trove of ladies. I thought she was lying then, covering up more of the Guard’s actions, but it also seemed impossible—who could steal a jet, let alone two? Apparently the Scarlet Guard could—and did.

  The back of the Blackrun, beneath the tail, yawns open like a mouth, creating a ramp for loading and unloading cargo. Namely, us. Shade goes first, leaning heavily on his crutch, his face damp and pale with exertion. So many jumps have taken their toll. Kilorn follows, dragging me along, with Cal right behind us. I can still hear the echo of Farley’s voice when we clamber inside, navigating through semidarkness.

  Seats line both curved walls, with heavy-duty straps dangling from each one. Enough to transport two dozen men at least. I wonder where this jet flew last, and who it carried. Did they live, did they die? And will we share their fate?

  “Mare, I need you up here,” Cal says, pushing past me to the front of the jet. He drops heavily into the pilot’s seat, facing an unfathomable panel of buttons, levers, and instruments. All the dials and gauges are pointed to zero, and the jet hums with nothing but the beating of our own hearts. Through the thick glass of the cockpit, I can see the hangar door—still closed—and Farley, still arguing with the mechanic.

  Sighing, I take the seat next to him and begin to strap myself in. “What can I do?” The buckles click and sna
p as I tighten each one in turn. If we’re going to be flying, I don’t want to be bouncing around the inside of the jet.

  “This thing’s got batteries, but they need a kick, and I don’t think that mechanic’s going to give it to us,” he says with a bit of a glint in his eye. “Do what you do best.”

  “Right.” Determination floods through me, strong as my sparks. It’s just like switching on a lamp, or a camera, I tell myself. Only a lot bigger and more complicated—and more important. Briefly I wonder if it can be done, if I’m enough to jump-start the massive Blackrun. But the memory of lightning, purple and white and powerful, streaking out of the sky to strike the Bowl of Bones, tells me I am. If I can start a storm, I can certainly bring this jet to life.

  Arms outstretched, I put my hands on the panel. I don’t know what to feel for, only that I feel nothing. My fingers dance along the metal, searching for anything to latch on to, anything I might be able to use. My sparks rise in my skin, ready to be called on. “Cal,” I mutter through gritted teeth, reluctant to let the cry escape.

  He understands and works quickly, reaching under the control panel to something beneath. Metal tears with a biting screech, melted at the edges, as he pries away the panel casing. He reveals a mess of wires, crossing in woven bundles, and I’m reminded of veins beneath skin. I only need to get them pumping. Without thought, I plunge a hand into the wires, letting my sparks pulse out. They search on their own, looking for somewhere to go. When my fingers brush a particularly thick wire, a round, smooth cord that fits my hand perfectly, I can’t help but smile. My eyes fall shut, allowing me to concentrate. I push harder, letting my strength flow into the power line. It carries through the jet, splitting and branching along different paths, but I force my sparks on. When they hit the engine and the immense batteries, my grip tightens, nails digging into skin. Come on. I can feel myself pour into the batteries, flooding them, until I brush against their own stored energy. My head dips, leaning against the panel, letting the cool metal calm my flushing skin. With one last push, the dam inside the jet breaks, bursting through the walls and wires. I don’t see the Blackrun power to life, but I feel it all around.

  “Well done,” Cal says, sparing a second to squeeze my shoulder. His touch doesn’t linger though, in accordance with our agreement. No distractions, least of all now. I open my eyes to see his hands dancing across the panel controls, flipping switches and adjusting knobs seemingly at random.

  When I lean back, another hand takes my shoulder. Kilorn lets his hand rest, but his touch is strangely gentle. He’s not even looking at me but the jet, his face torn between awe and fear. With his mouth agape and eyes wide, he looks almost childish. I feel small myself, sitting in the belly of an airjet, about to do what we never dreamed possible. The fish boy and the lightning girl, about to fly.

  “Does she expect me to ram this thing through a wall?” Cal mutters under his breath, his own smile long gone. He looks over his shoulder, eyes searching, not for me, but my brother. “Shade?”

  My brother looks liable to faint, and reluctantly shakes his head. “I can’t jump things this big, this—complicated. Even on a good day.” It pains him to say such a thing, though he has no reason at all to be ashamed. But Shade is a Barrow, and we do not like to admit weakness. “I can grab Farley, though,” he continues, his hands straying to his buckles.

  Kilorn knows my brother as well as I do, and pushes him back into his seat. “You’re no use dead, Barrow,” he says, forcing a crooked grin. “I’ll get that door open.”

  “Don’t bother,” I spit out, my eyes fixed outside the cockpit. I push my power outward, and with a great screeching groan, the hangar door starts to open, pulling up from the floor in a smooth, steady motion. The mechanic looks puzzled, watching the mechanism controlling the door grind away, while Farley bolts. She sprints out of sight, racing the rising door. A blaze of sunset follows her, cut with streaking, long shadows. Two dozen soldiers stand in silhouette, blocking the opening. Not just Lakelanders, but Farley’s own Guardsmen, marked by their red sashes and scarves. Each one has a gun aimed at the Blackrun, but they hesitate, not willing to fire. To my relief I don’t recognize Bree or Tramy among them.

  One of the Lakelanders steps forward, a captain or lieutenant judging by the white stripes on his uniform. He shouts something, a hand outstretched, his lips forming the word stop. But we can’t hear him above the growing roar of engines.

  “Go!” Farley shouts, appearing at the back of the plane. She hurtles into the closest seat, buckling herself in with shaking hands.

  Cal doesn’t need to be told twice. His hands work double-time, twisting and pressing, as if this is second nature. But I hear him muttering under his breath, like a prayer, reminding himself of what to do. The Blackrun lurches forward, wheels rolling, while the rear ramp rises into place, sealing the interior of the craft with a satisfying pneumatic hiss. No going back now.

  “All right, let’s get this thing moving,” Cal says, settling back into his pilot’s chair with an almost excited twist. Without warning, he grabs a lever on the panel, pushing it forward, and the jet obeys.

  It rolls ahead, on a collision course with the line of soldiers. I grit my teeth, expecting a brutal scene, but they’re already running, fleeing the Blackrun and her vengeful pilot. We tear from the hangar, gaining speed with every passing second, to find the runway in chaos. Transports roar past the barracks, heading for us, while a troop of soldiers fires boldly from the roof of the hangar. The bullets ping into the metal hull, but never puncture it. The Blackrun is made of stronger stuff and pushes on, turning a hard right that rattles us in our seats.

  Kilorn gets the brunt of it, not having fastened his safety belts properly. His head bangs against the curved wall and he curses, cradling his bruised cheeks. “You sure you can fly this thing?” he growls, directing all his anger at Cal.

  With a sneer, Cal pushes further, urging the jet to its top speed. Out the window, I see the transports falling away, unable to keep pace. But ahead, the runway, a bland gray road, is steadily coming to an end. Soft green hills and stunted trees have never looked so menacing.

  “Cal,” I breathe, hoping he hears me over the scream of engines. “Cal.”

  Behind me, Kilorn fumbles with his belt, but his fingers are shaking too badly to be of any use. “Barrow, you got one last jump in you?” he shouts, glancing at my brother.

  Shade doesn’t seem to hear him. His eyes stare forward, his face pale with fear. The hills are closing in, seconds away now. I picture the jet driving over them, steady for a moment, before tipping end over end to explode in a fiery wreck. Cal would survive that, at least.

  But Cal won’t let us die. Not today. He leans hard on another lever, the veins in his fist standing out sharply. Then the hills fall away, like a cloth pulled off a table. It’s not the island I see anymore but the deep blue autumn sky. My breath disappears with the land, stolen away by the sensation of rising through the air. The pressure pushes me back into my seat and does something almost painful to my ears, popping them. Behind me, Kilorn stifles a yelp and Shade curses under his breath. Farley doesn’t react at all. She’s frozen, her eyes wide in shock.

  I’ve experienced many strange things these last few months, but nothing compares to flying. It’s a jarring contrast, feeling the immense thrust of the plane as it ascends, every tick of the engines throwing us skyward, while my own body is so powerless, so passive, so dependent on the craft around me. It’s worse than Cal’s speeding cycle, but also better. Biting my lip, I make sure not to shut my eyes.

  We climb and climb, listening to nothing but roaring engines and our own pounding hearts. Wisps of cloud flit by, breaking across the cockpit like white curtains. I can’t stop myself from leaning forward, almost pressing my nose to the glass to get a good look outside. The island wheels below, a drab green against the iron-blue sea, growing smaller by the second, until I can’t distinguish the runway or the barracks.

  When the jet level
s out, reaching whatever height Cal decides on, he turns in his seat. The smug look on his face would make Maven proud. “Well?” he says, staring at Kilorn. “Can I fly this thing?”

  A grumbled “yes” is all he gets, but that’s enough for Cal. He turns back to the panel, hands resting on a U-shaped mechanism centered before him. The jet responds to his touch, dipping gently when he turns the U. When he’s satisfied, he punches a few more buttons on the console and leans back, seemingly letting the plane fly itself. He even unbuckles his safety belts, shrugging out of them to get more comfortable in his seat.

  “So where are we heading?” he asks the silence. “Or are we just winging it now?”

  I wince at the pun.

  A resounding smack echoes through the jet as Kilorn slaps a stack of papers against his knee. Maps. “The Colonel’s,” Kilorn explains, his eyes boring into mine. Trying to make me understand. “There’s a landing strip near Harbor Bay.”

  But Cal shakes his head like an annoyed teacher with an increasingly foolish student. “You mean Fort Patriot?” he scoffs. “You want me to land us in the middle of a Nortan air base?”

  Farley is the first out of her seat, almost ripping her buckles apart. She examines the maps with sharp, deliberate motions. “Yes, we are completely stupid, Your Highness,” she says coldly. She unfolds one map, before shoving it under his nose. “Not the fort. Nine-Five Field.”

  Gritting his teeth against a retort, Cal takes the map gingerly and examines the square of lines and color. After a moment, he laughs outright.

  “What is it?” I ask, pulling the map from his hand. Unlike the giant, indecipherable ancient scroll in Julian’s old classroom, this map displays familiar names and places. The city of Harbor Bay dominates the south, bordering the ocean coast, with Fort Patriot occupying a peninsula jutting out into the water. A thick brown strip around the city, too uniform to be natural, can only be another stretch of barrier trees. As in Archeon, the greenwarden’s creation of strange forests protects Harbor Bay from pollution. In this case, probably from New Town, the labeled area hugging the barrier trees like a belt, forming a wall around the outskirts of Harbor Bay.