Taking this as a sign from Father above, I chase after them both.
I can’t hear what the woman is saying, but it’s evident she’s in pursuit as well, and whatever she’s trying to share, the Captain refuses to listen. After an animated display of hands on her part, followed by the unfortunate verdict of “You’re just like your brother!” she spins on a heel and clicks the opposite way down the golden hall.
The Captain stares after her, then pushes through a pair of double doors to an outdoor balcony.
Guilty dog.
I race after him, reaching the doors—all glass, so the view of the Black remains glorious—and shove them open. Outside, a few brave guests stroll in the night air as I hurry down the walkway, arms wrapped about myself, checking every alcove, finding him finally at the farthest end. He’s smoking alone with desperate dedication.
“Captain Dakar!” I call, more bitterly than I intend.
He turns with a start. Surprise pinkens his cheeks in the palace glow, and I try to measure my frantic anger, the words on the edge of my tongue that I’d like to hurl. I won’t win information by accusing him off the cuff. I’ve observed him carefully all day, listening to him speak for peace on his father’s behalf, watching him avoid everything on his meal plate that was once alive—just as I did—and I believe there’s something reasonable, something softer, hiding behind his vague front.
But where do I begin?
“Princess Aurelia,” he says, looking at me like I’ve pulled a gun on him. He stamps out his cigarette quickly. “Can I help you?”
Only one neutral option presents itself, and I wave at the distant sea pathetically. “This is nice. I’ve never seen it before.”
He appears as unimpressed by my observation as I am. “Never seen what, Your Highness?”
“This.”
“The sea?”
“Yes.”
“Never?”
I shake my head.
“How could you…?” He looks at a loss for words, apparently unable to fathom a kingdom like Etania, entombed by rock and pine. “Well, you’ve missed out. It’s the only way to travel, I think. No one truly wants to be in the sky, and trains are bound to one track. But on a ship, you—”
He stops, as if realizing he’s talking too much. Instead, he fiddles to put his leather gloves back on. He has lovely hands.
“You can have your cigarette,” I offer nobly. “I won’t mind.”
He hesitates.
“Please,” I say. “You were out here enjoying your favourite place in the world and I interrupted you.”
The Captain gives me a sidelong glance, narrowed green eyes so like his father’s, holding a vague depth—and who knows what else. Clever secrets I can’t read. But he retrieves another cigarette from his wool pocket and lights it with haste, taking a long, luxuriating drag, smoke twisting from his nostrils. “My favourite place, Princess?”
“I doubt anyone joins the navy if they don’t like the sea quite a bit.” I pause. “Unless your father made you? Or perhaps you joined to get as far from your brother as possible?”
An inch of amusement appears. “No. You’re right. I like it quite a bit.”
Encouraged by this crack in his reticence, I say, “Does Savient truly want peace, Captain?”
“Yes. I’ve spent the entire day telling everyone—”
“I don’t want what you need to say. I want the truth.”
He looks at me sharply. Perhaps he hears the doubt in my voice, and his mouth flattens in suspicion. “Why do you think we want war? Did someone tell you differently?”
His voice is wary, and I shake my head. I don’t dare implicate Athan. Perhaps the Captain’s telling the truth here, or at least his version of it, and I’ll only annoy him further, pushing like this.
I change tactics. “No, I don’t think you want war. But I think everyone else does.”
He raises a brow.
“I think that war is profit for many,” I explain, “whether here or in the South. They like the show of it. The fancy ships and the rich business. But someone once told me that peace can be the better gain, and that’s what I believe.”
“I see.”
“May I ask you another question?”
He nods, a fraction more curious now than hesitant. Like I’m some odd phantom that’s appeared on his shoulder and needs to be explained.
“If someone meant to execute young soldiers in battle—boys, really—would you intervene?”
At first, I think he’ll say nothing. I’m making quite a large gamble. But then he shrugs. “I suppose I’d say we need all the facts first. Who are we talking about? Rebels? Conspirators? Were they—?”
“Never mind that. They’re children. What would you do?”
“I’d say it isn’t right to execute the underage, and the rest should be given a proper trial.”
I smile, relieved. “Yes, exactly! I feel the same. Though I believe there might be some in your family who feel differently.”
He hesitates, the kind filled with suspicion again. “Is that so?”
“Listen, Captain,” I say, leaning forward, trying to keep him focused on me. “You clearly want to do what’s right. And I know your father does too. It’s your brother who threatens to ruin the Safire name, chasing war and his own glory.”
The cigarette freezes between his lips.
He must know what the Commander has done, the crimes hidden away. He must also see what I’ve come to realize—that there is someone who wants war in Savient, the one who declared his case before the League this summer. The hot mouth who’s trying to make this war happen.
That’s why Athan sent me his veiled warning. I ordered him to never go to war again without telling me, and this was the best he could do. We were fools to think the Commander would stop after his campaign was denied by the League. He hasn’t stopped—he’s simply trying again, devising new evidence to convict Resya with, readying his army. And perhaps only one person can stop him.
His own brother.
“What is it you’re asking of me?” the Captain finally says.
“I wish to go to the League and set new rules of war,” I reply as calmly as I can, the way Lark always talked. “Rules that must be obeyed. I know for a fact that a crime has taken place in Thurn, a crime that I have photographs of, and if those photographs were exposed…”
I trail off, letting us both imagine the Commander shamed before the entire world.
A criminal.
A warmonger.
“Dear God, Princess,” the Captain says, stunned. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
It’s an echo of what Athan told me during the coup, that if I reneged on my word and exposed the photographs, the General would find his vengeance. But I’m sure that’s the overblown fear of a low-ranking lieutenant. Athan might have had to worry about the noose, but certainly not the General’s own son. And more importantly, there’s something gentler pressing up through his careful eyes, something honest and cautious. Familiar somehow.
It’s time to jump in entirely. I have to leap for it. “Everyone in the North knows your brother is reckless, Captain. It’s whispered in all the royal courts. Why, even here I overheard someone calling him a rake for what he did with Gawain’s daughter last summer. His reputation is hardly sound, and I have the photographs that would prove them right. Not to mention, my brother knows of other crimes in Karkev. No one believes the complaints of the defeated rebels there, but if a royal and the General’s own son stepped forward? Presented the evidence? My brother would do it. You’d have a king on your side, Captain. A king to speak for you.”
I realize, almost disbelieving, that his head is cocked, listening.
“We could do this,” I press, “and then you’d be the one to inherit Savient. Hasn’t the thought ever crossed your mind?”
He blinks, the spell suddenly broken, and takes a step away. “This is some old royal scheme, isn’t it? A younger prince betraying the crowned pr
ince for a throne?”
“Not at all,” I say quickly. “But in this modern age, not every eldest born is suited to rule, and we have to be clever in the ways we get the right person in power. We need to use politics.”
“And you’d have me throw my brother in prison for this?”
“I doubt it would need to come to that.” I pause. “He could simply retire?”
We share a look, and I think we both know that “retiring” the Commander might not keep him out of the papers. But it would be better than this. Once the Commander is removed from power, the threat of war will go with him.
The Captain sighs. “You shouldn’t be saying these things to me, Princess.”
“I have no choice. I believe you might be the best of your family.”
It’s another leap, hoping to endear me to him, and a fracture appears again. A wry smile on his pale face. “I’m not so certain you think that.”
I don’t understand his words, but his brow succeeds in furrowing deeper, considering my wild offer, and I pray that I’ll reach him. I need him. A king aligned with the Safire before the League would truly bring change. A chance to ensure that if there ever must be war then there will also be trials and fair deaths, no children ever again placed before a wall like unholy target practice.
And it will be even more dramatic when I bring Seath of the Nahir to the table.
Peace at last—everywhere.
The Captain glances down at me. “And when would you…?”
“Soon,” I say. “I’m headed to Resya on personal business, but when I return, we’d have to begin quickly. I’m not sure what other ideas your brother is concocting.”
I try to sniff for any reaction, any hint of mobilizing armies, but the Captain only pulls out another cigarette, lighting it. “Resya, Princess?”
“It’s a family matter.”
“But it … isn’t a safe place.”
“I promise it’s not as terrible as your brother would have you believe. In fact, I—”
“Darling!” a familiar voice calls. “What the stars are you doing out here?”
It’s Mother. She’s nearly to us, her dress catching in the breeze, bare shoulders wrapped in a blue velvet stole. “Havis said he saw you in the hall. I thought you were in bed ill?”
She studies me, my nightgown and my long hair gone frantic in the salty air, then the General’s son—her expression shifting to something sharper.
The Captain, for his part, smokes a little faster, evidently knowing his chance has come to an end. “I’d best get inside,” he tells us both, savouring one last taste, then tossing it over the rail. He offers Mother a stiff nod. “Your Majesty.”
She returns it slightly.
“Good evening, Captain,” I say. “And thank you for your time.”
He smiles, a very tiny thing, but still a smile. Then he stalks off down the walkway, and Mother turns to me. “What was this about?”
“I was being a diplomat,” I reply firmly.
“With regards to?”
“Resya.”
She lets out a sigh, staring at his retreating figure, and I feel suddenly cold, the sea wind at last crawling across my exposed skin.
“I’m afraid of what’s to come,” I admit. “I don’t know if I can believe anyone’s promises here.”
She looks at me, her face gaunter in the palace lights. Her gentle arms draw me close. “Nor do I, but never forget the truth, my star. I will protect you, no matter if there is peace or war or whatever lies between. I always have.”
She leans down to kiss my forehead—like I’m a child again, small and restless at midnight—and I surrender to it, holding on to the sun of my mother, a warmth against my skin even as the night presses down on every side, a taunting chill of worse to come.
10
ATHAN
The Black Sea
Our sea-crossing is swift since we’re moving at a reckless speed, racing the clock. The metal passages are cramped with the scent of burning fuel from whirring engines deep beneath our feet, and everyone aboard the Intrepid—the Moonstrike and Lightstorm squadron pilots, their mechanics, the crew of this massive carrier—waits on edge. Perhaps even the four well-armed destroyers trailing in our wake. Our Safire flotilla is completely spread out, to avoid arousing suspicion, and an unsettling awareness hangs across the grey water, the awareness that the Landorians might, at any moment, discover our ruse for war and seize our ships—or worse.
“This carrier’s the perfect target,” Trigg informs Cyar and me on the third day. “We’re so heavy, they had to strip away all the protective armour to ensure we’d be able to keep up to the rest of the fleet.” We gaze at him in horror, and he grins. “My uncle’s with the navy, remember? I know a lot about this shit.”
Trigg’s commentary ruins any sleep we hoped to have. We can only pray the men and women up on the bridge don’t misjudge and put us right into the guns of Landore’s Northern Star, because thanks to endless meandering monologues from Kalt, I know that ship is lethal. Nearly equal to the Impressive. And quite frankly, drowning to death while trapped in this tin can is not the best exit from life I’ve envisioned.
But in the end, the greatest drama of the trip is when nerves get the best of the normally sober Garrick Carr and his drunk self is sick all over the forward deck, a violation of ship policy which Ollie Helsun nobly steps in to take credit for. By the time we halt in the warmer waters off the coast of Resya, there’s an uncanny calm all around—nerves aside. The faint outline of mountains appears a hundred miles off, but there’s still no sense for how many of our ships are actually gathered here.
The Resyans are certainly growing suspicious. Their constant reconnaissance flights prove it, no longer convinced we’re docking in Thurn to the east, and it’s only a matter of time before they call the ruse and wire their friends in Landore.
Perhaps only hours.
I busy myself getting reacquainted with my plane. My mechanics, Filton and Kif, fuss with me as fighters sit on the wide carrier deck, gleaming with the squadron symbols and mottos.
Moonstrike: First into the fray.
Lightstorm: With eagle eyes above.
Eastwind: Silently into the sun.
In a last-ditch effort at distraction, I produce two rum bottles for Cyar and Trigg, parting gifts from Katalin—whether to wish me well or wish me dead, I’m not sure. We hide behind my fighter, and Cyar lets Trigg choose which one to drink first, but Trigg just stares at the contraband items.
“They’re Karkevite,” I explain. “Katalin suggested the blue one first.”
Trigg still stares, like I’m holding a trap that might bite his hand if he reaches.
“Hurry up! This isn’t a trick.”
Trigg glares at me, a bit of heat on his cheeks. “Not thirsty, Captain.”
I’m about to point out that we’re all sweating, the Southern sun beating down on metal and skin, when Garrick swings around the nose of my fighter. There’s no time to hide anything. Cyar and Trigg scatter, and I offer up the blue bottle to him lamely.
Garrick rolls his eyes. “For you, I’ll pretend I didn’t see this.”
In other words, he’ll pretend he didn’t see this, and I’ll pretend I don’t know that it was him, not Ollie, who threw up all over the pristine wood deck of the Intrepid.
He ignores my conciliatory bottle, offering me metal tags instead. They’re the ones for around my neck, the not-so-subtle reminder that someone, in the very near future, might be needing this tag to identify the charred biscuit on the ground as me.
I accept them warily.
ATHAN DAKAR is stamped in big letters.
Confused, I quickly check the other one, and sure enough, they both say Dakar, not Erelis. Last spring, Father didn’t want to put me in any unnecessary crosshairs. He gave me Mother’s unknown name as protection, so that everyone in Landore and Etania and Thurn would ignore me. Not anymore.
“These could save your life,” Garrick explains, sensi
ng my thoughts. “If you’re captured as a Dakar, they might play the game instead of shooting you.”
I glance up. “I doubt my father would play a game over me. And I think they’ll shoot me either way.”
“He’s not going to let you die.”
I wish that could inspire some kind of hope. But it doesn’t. Not even Garrick looks entirely convinced, and I have no idea what my father wants for me. As an Erelis, I’m nothing. As a Dakar, I’m everything. Both are weapons for him to wield in his plot—and I don’t know where the safest place is anymore.
“You know what your problem is?” Garrick asks. He sounds a lot more like an officer when he isn’t moaning in his bunk, clutching a photograph of his Etanian sweetheart. “It isn’t pride after all. I thought it was, last summer. But it isn’t. You just think too damn much. You need to silence it up here.” He knocks me on the head. “If you want to be as good as you can be, you’ve got to—”
A roar of deafening propellers cuts him off. Above us, a fighter skims 500 feet up, engine cackling in glee, trailing white vapour. It’s low enough to see the twelve black kill marks on the flank from Karkev and Thurn—and the nightmarish cartoon fox smirking on the nose.
For the first time in days, I grin.
“What the hell?” Garrick asks. “He’s supposed to be on the Victory!”
We both know who it is. There’s only one pilot with that distinct fighter, and I sprint forward as the lone plane curves lower to land on board. Everyone—even the sailors—stares as it catapults down, careening to a spectacular, screeching halt on the frighteningly short carrier runway.
Fuming in the sun, sputtering flames, it’s a very apt show for the captain of the Nightfox squadron: We spit fire.
I don’t even hesitate. I’m at the cockpit as it opens, and the officer I’ve longed to train under since Academy days appears. Captain Thorn Malek. His smile is bright against dark skin deepened by months spent in Thurn, patrolling supply routes for the Landorians and defending them from Nahir attack. He ignores the mechanics buzzing around his busted plane, zeroing in on me, and his infectious smile grows brighter.
“Athan!” It’s always my name. Never a title. “Thank God I picked the right carrier to crash into!” His muscled frame hops to the ground, his radio set dragged off a sweaty brow. His strong arm claps my shoulder with affection. “It’s good to see you, kid!”
Storm from the East Page 7
