I don’t want to imagine the Nahir in Resya—perhaps several, far beyond just Lark, further confirming the Safire’s suspicions about this kingdom. But I came here to learn the truth, so I must hear the answer.
Lady Havis pauses. “They’re everywhere. They’re an idea, you see, and ideas are never stopped by borders. Are there some in Resya sympathetic to Nahir resistance of Northern control?” She shrugs. “There’s one in every family, I’m sure. Youth will always carry on the fight. Youth is where change begins, and I respect that, though I may not always respect the means.”
I’ve never heard anyone talk of the Nahir like this. Neither approving nor disapproving, simply offering an objective interpretation that feels … unbiased. There is both good and bad to these young revolutionaries, hiding in their dark corners and smoke-filled basements, plotting illegal operations in neighbouring Thurn. Willing to pay any price for freedom. Willing to consider this woman’s granddaughter worth the cost when caught in the crossfire.
It frustrates me.
How can something be so simple and yet so complicated at once?
“Does the rest of your family still live here?” I ask, prying from a different angle. “I heard you have seven sons.”
“Had,” she corrects. “I lost one to sickness as a child, and another to murder. The rest are elsewhere, in business, wealthy, no longer interested in me.”
As if on cue, Havis himself appears round the stable corner, sweating and flustered and waving impatiently for his mother.
Lady Havis pats my shoulder. “My pride and joy summons.”
The trace of sarcasm on her tongue is nearly another point in her favour.
Nearly.
Left alone, then, with the stallion, I savour his inquisitive expression—the sort of stare a horse can give that feels both divinely eternal and cheekily mischievous at once—and I breathe in his familiar scent, letting it soothe my heart in a way nothing else here can.
“I think I’ll call you Oraluk,” I inform him.
It means liberty in Resyan.
“Unfortunately, he already has a name,” another voice says behind me, the Landori words accented. “Savas.”
Startled, I turn to find the maid girl watching me, the one who brought us from the aerodrome.
“Captain?” I translate.
The girl nods, brightening at my quick understanding. She switches to Resyan. “He’s been to war, you know. During the troubles with Myar years ago. A lot of men went to the southern border and died. A lot of horses too. Savas went with the late master of this estate, and I think he’s quite earned his rank of captain, don’t you?”
I nod, kissing the stallion’s nose, as if that might take away whatever darkness he’s lived through. I can’t imagine this beautiful creature on the frontlines.
The girl comes to my side. Up close, she’s younger looking—at least my age, but with narrow shoulders, nearly bone-thin beneath tan pants and a smudged blouse. Her curly, raven hair is tugged backwards into a hasty knot that’s barely contained.
“I’m Tirza,” she offers shyly.
“Aurelia,” I share in return, relieved to have found someone who might be an ally. “Do you work here?”
“Yes. My brother and I both.”
“With the horses?”
“Whatever Gref wants at the moment,” she replies with a laugh, but I don’t echo her amusement. She’s just called Havis by his first name, and that fact immediately undoes the hope of a newfound friend. She rushes on, apparently sensing my distaste. “I’m also a writer,” she reveals. “A journalist of sorts, actually. It’s my most important work.”
“You write for a newspaper?” I ask, surprised that someone so young is involved with such an influential task.
“Well, newspaper might be a bit generous, Princess.” She smiles sheepishly. “My brother and I run a small press out of our basement, and our circulation remains rather … limited. But we do our best to record what’s happening.”
“That’s good,” I say, nodding. “We need people to document.”
“Yes.” She pauses. “And I really loved what you said to Gref this morning, about wanting to expose the truth. That’s our hope too. Especially now.”
We share a smile—a real one this time—and my attention drifts down to the colourful bracelets encircling her delicate wrists.
“They’re from Havenspur,” she says, offering one for closer inspection. “My cousin lives there.”
“Ah, I have a friend who’s toured Thurn,” I reply. I don’t mention his “tour” was as a pilot of the Savien Air Force. “He said Havenspur was very pretty, with the sea and the promenades.”
Her smile fades. “Yes. The lovely promenades. Havenspur’s most noted feature.”
I’ve clearly offended her, catching the bitterness in her tone, and I realize I must sound terribly foreign and uninformed. I wish I could share all that Lark taught me last summer—how I truly do understand that there’s more to Thurn than fierce revolution and sunny walks by the sea, all of the in-between space, the history simmering up between cracked stones, the forgotten kings and queens and conquests. But my knowledge feels suddenly very tiny and insignificant next to hers.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know how that sounded.” I struggle for a way back to the pleasant common ground we had before. “Perhaps I could visit your press? I’d love to see what you do.”
“We don’t really allow visitors. My brother’s rules. To protect the integrity of his work.”
“Oh.”
I’ve touched on something sensitive again, but I don’t understand exactly why, and I have no idea how to redeem myself. But to my surprise, Tirza tugs a violet bracelet from her wrist and offers it to me. “Here. I have many.”
I stare at the unexpected gift, the colourful threads woven with false gemstones, and her gaze reflects her own hesitation—watching me like she’s equally hopeful and apprehensive all at once. Perhaps she thinks that a princess won’t be friends with a girl like her. Perhaps she thinks our connection will begin and end here in this stable, because I have a crown and she exists in another world entirely. Some world that has clearly been unkind to her, judging by the gaunt shades of her skin.
But I take the gift and slip it on. “Thank you, Tirza.”
She gestures at my necklace. “That one’s special too.”
“Special?”
“Yes. The boy who sells those in Havenspur is famous. He and his father make them from the ancient rocks on the shore. You have to climb down the pier when the tide is out, crawl into the caves, and the Landorians don’t like it. But these stones have been there for centuries.” She reaches out and turns the amber stone over, her hand against my neck. “Perfectly cut. This could be thousands of years old.”
I swallow, feeling the warmth from her skin, remembering every time I’ve dismissed this creation as crude, precious only because it came from Athan. But it has its own story. Another gentle imprint glimmering on its surface.
Deeper.
Farther.
Stronger.
“Do you want to go for a ride?” Tirza asks, tickling Savas’s nose. “I can take you.”
Shadows from palm leaves speckle her cheeks, a note of true desire slipping through her voice, and I long to accept her perfect offer, desperate for a connection that feels familiar and true—the shared love of rhythmic hooves and breathless winds and reins against raw palms.
And yet …
“I’d rather go to the palace,” I suggest softly. “Perhaps you could take me there instead?”
Her hand stops against Savas. “Why?”
“To find the truth of this war.”
I hope this works, an appeal to our other shared passion, a reason to break the rules for me, and something flickers on her face. Surprise, and then respect, like I’ve chosen the more noble option. “Gref already made me swear not to do it.”
“Of course he did,” I mutter.
“But it’s you, Princess
, and I’d do anything for you. We can steal one of the motorbikes!”
Her smile emerges, brighter than I’ve yet seen, and her words hold the weight of something else, some devotion which makes me uncomfortable. It’s like being offered something I haven’t yet earned. I may be a princess, but that shouldn’t mean I can do anything I want. I’m the one who has killed. I’m the one who squandered valuable evidence to save my own family.
But I still feel some smirking satisfaction when I think of poor Havis, anticipating my gambit. Unfortunately for him, he’s underestimated the bond of two girls who love horses—and who share a mission.
“We’ll need to lull them to sleep first,” Tirza cautions. “My cousin always says that’s the first rule of revolt.”
“I might also need some pants,” I confess. “And boots.”
Tirza’s sudden laughter is a sweet sound. Genuine and unaffected. “Don’t worry. I’ll lend you a pair.” She puts her foot against mine. “See? We’re the exact same size.”
I don’t know why, but seeing our shoes touching, a perfect match, sparks hope I haven’t felt since landing here.
Escape.
16
ATHAN
North of Esferian
Army Group North marches hard. As Arrin’s divisions push inland from the sea, Evertal’s army strikes the eastern border from Thurn, opening up a two-pronged front to stretch the Resyan forces thin. Our squadrons fight to keep ahead of the advance—Arrin issued that order at me personally. Power lines, railways, bunkers. Wherever we can hit, we hit, and on the third day of war, we’re sent to a captured enemy airfield for our next base of operations, hoping the field gunners haven’t torn up the entire tarmac in an overly enthusiastic siege.
But I fly with a sickening fear. All thanks to a rumour I heard right before we left the Intrepid for the last time. It doesn’t matter that Cyar is sitting off my portside, still fuming about the first engagement. It doesn’t even matter when black stars materialize from the beautiful evening haze. Resyan planes? Or is my throbbing head playing tricks again? My finger drops to the trigger, instinctual, almost disappointed when the distant enemy formation disperses quickly, perhaps hesitant to provoke death this late in the day.
We lower, leaving the orange sun behind.
2,000 feet.
800 feet.
Hell.
That’s where we land. Wheels jostle down onto an uneven runway, shrouded by thick trees and a half-destroyed building that was apparently an airbase this morning. I stop my plane and stand in the cockpit, my fear growing exponentially. Wounded men sprawl at the edge of the tarmac. Limbs spill out of makeshift medical tents seething with groans, canvas sides dripping in the dank heat. The smell is assaulting. Dried blood, days-old sweat. Vomit and urine and every imaginable piece of insides. Everywhere, skin razed open in the humidity.
And the sounds …
I’m suddenly very aware of my clean olive-green jacket and mudless boots. I shove past Cyar’s anger and Trigg’s startled face, both of them marooned by the sights around us, and sprint for the place I need to go. One soldier with a half-burnt face still manages to spit at my winged uniform as I pass, his condemnation like a fist to the gut.
We weren’t there to save him.
Sun and skies.
Up.
Halting in the doorway of the medical tent, I face the nightmare. It’s every horror I witnessed in glimpses as a child of revolution—the stiff limbs, the charred bodies—now spread before me on a banqueting table of repulsively epic proportions. I’d managed to suppress the memories I only remembered in fragments, enough to know I didn’t want this life.
But now, here I am—and it might have finally stolen something real from me.
“What the hell do you think this is, kid? A holiday at the damn sea?”
I shake myself as a glaring medic stalks towards me, his white sleeves sprayed dark red. I realize I look like the worst voyeur standing here in the doorway. “No, I’m just trying to find my—”
“Follow your captain and get to the ops room!”
He hurries by, not a clue who I am—or just not caring. I remain there, frozen, unsure what to do next, when a familiar voice asks, “Hey, Charm, you okay?”
I turn. Ollie’s behind me, his black hair still askew from the runway. He and Sailor have taken to smearing oil on themselves, some weird ritual from Karkev, and now he’s got cavalier black smudges on his sloping cheeks. But his dark eyes are concerned.
I give up. I have to tell someone. “No,” I say bluntly. “I heard a rumour this morning that my idiot brother went in with the first wave.” Supposedly his left flank was stuck on the beachhead, and he decided to go fix it himself. I yank at my hair, trying to stop the fresh throbbing in my head. “I just need to know that someone’s seen him since then, but apparently it’s like the hand talking to the foot with the army and air force, and no one has any damn clue. I have no idea if I should be worried or not. Someone would tell me if he was dead, right? Or would they not tell me? Would they keep it a secret? Maybe they’d keep it a secret from all of us, for morale reasons, but I have to know. I have to know. He’s my brother!”
I sound like I’m panicking. I probably am. But Ollie’s voice is calm. “I hear you, Charm. One of my good friends is in army intelligence, right over there.” He points across the airfield. “I got him a date with my cousin once, so he kind of owes me. My cousin is amazing. A pilot, too, actually. I’ll make sure we find something.”
His words—steady and ordinary—steady me as well.
“Thank you, Ollie. Really.”
He nods. “He’s fine, Athan. I guarantee it.”
Ollie can’t guarantee that, not at all, because if anyone thinks it’s impossible to kill a Dakar son, that’s a damn myth. And Arrin’s only going to increase that likelihood if he runs into the fire to rescue his own divisions.
I saw the way those soldiers looked coming off the beach.
There’s too much that needs to be stuffed back inside.
But Ollie jogs over to intelligence, and the sun’s now behind the trees, gas lamps blinking to life. Sounds still spill from the tent behind me, crawling against my wet skin. Haunted howls of bodies in a death spiral. They’re all dosed up on painkillers but what good does that do when you wake and see your liver glistening?
I’d be screaming, too.
I’m still watching the place where Ollie disappeared when I sense Cyar at my shoulder. There doesn’t seem to be any anger now, only exhausted disbelief at the hell we’ve stumbled into.
I don’t face him. “I sent Ollie to find out if my brother is alive. Do I want to know?”
“Yes. You do want to know.”
I let out a breath.
I trust him.
“Thank God Kalt isn’t here,” I continue as a truck barrels in carrying fresh injuries from the frontlines. “I keep seeing the Fury going over. I swear it was down in under ten seconds. Ten damn seconds. There’s no time to…” I turn, finally. Cyar’s expression is wounded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you behind.”
“What the hell were you doing, Athan?”
I shrug, confused by my own logic. “Trying not to think so much? I wanted to see what would happen if I did nothing but follow my instinct.”
His dark eyes narrow. “Well, that’s a stupid thing to do. You can’t just run off and do what you like.”
“I’m a Dakar,” I reply bitterly, the pain in my head intensifying. “What do you expect?”
He steps into my face. “Yeah, you are, and your brother didn’t go in with the first wave because he decided to stop thinking. Because he felt like doing his own thing. He went with them, because he knows what it means to lead.” Cyar pauses pointedly, well aware that praise for Arrin is the last thing I’ve ever wanted to hear from him. “I know you hate it, Athan, but he’s good. He’s really damn good and there’s a reason he wins. And now that you’re here with me and Trigg, you sure as hell at least better giv
e this thing a proper try. You’d better push yourself or else I might regret ever letting you take first place in Top Flight.”
I stop rubbing my forehead. “Wait,” I say, “you let me—”
“I’m kidding.” He rolls his eyes. A wry smile twists his lips. “Look, you don’t have to be him. In fact, please don’t be. You’re better than him and I’ve always believed that. But now you have to prove it to everyone else too. You have to use your Dakar brain for good.” He stops, glancing down. “Not to mention … you’re my only brother, the only one I worry about. So no, I won’t let you mess this up. I need you here.”
Oh, God.
I feel like utter shit now as I look at him, his shoulders still tense from the flight in, something strangely older in his strained gaze. Like I’m seeing a version of him from the future, how I imagined him looking years from now, back in the Academy days. But the future has already caught up to us. It came all at once, in three hellish days of invasion.
“Then let’s do this together,” I say quietly. “Always.”
“That’s the only thing I’ve ever asked for,” he replies.
He’s right, and across the runway, Ollie gives me a thumbs-up, grinning beneath the oil streaks.
Relief floods me, my stupid brother alive for another day at least, and Cyar eyes the wound on my forehead. His smile switches to concern. “Now go get someone to look at your head, you idiot. You’re bleeding again—and we’re strafing a bridge at dawn.”
17
AURELIA
Madelan
Tirza and I make our break for the palace at dawn.
For two days, I’ve bided my time as Tirza advised, pretending I’m as impervious as the Havis family and content to ignore the daily radio addresses spewing horror and death. I’ve learned how to wield both a snarling motorbike and a wide range of Southern curse words, the most popular invocation being “fasiri,” a local specialty which can mean coward or fool, or whatever you want it to mean really.
Lady Havis also teaches me about the best rifles, made with Haroshi steel.
Storm from the East Page 11
