Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  I make a face. “I don’t have much choice, do I? Otherwise I’ll be losing a limb.”

  He’s still grinning and takes my hand again. The angry red thorn looks terrible, but my face flushes slightly watching him hold me like this. It’s so precise, so focused. His calloused hand, larger, supports mine from below, my palm exposed to him, and it feels like I’m entirely naked before him.

  I want to kiss him.

  “It might sting a little,” he says instead, looking for approval from me.

  “It’s fine,” I reply, thinking only about his mouth, too close, so close.

  He dabs at the red mark, and it burns like an entire damn fire! I have no idea what the stars “sting” means to him, but I’m proud I don’t flinch. I may not be able to do more than two push-ups, but brambles I can survive. I’m determined about this until he pulls out a pointy metal object and presses it to my skin. “Don’t you dare dig anything out of me with those,” I warn.

  “How else are you going to remove this?”

  “Wishful thinking.”

  He looks up at me, apologetic. “I promise I’ll be gentle.” And I know he means it, so I relinquish the right to him, and try to focus on the roof of the Havis home. Then I realize that’s even worse—I need to see it happen. He pokes down, as careful as he promised, and I wince a bit, more at the sight than anything else.

  “I got a lot of these during Academy training,” he shares. “They made us crawl through the woods on our stomachs, which never made any sense to me because I sort of thought they meant to put us in the sky.” He makes a deep poke and I wince again. “Sorry. Anyway, Cyar and I had to wrench a lot of things out of each other, and believe it or not, he’s not as nice about it as me.”

  And it’s done. The offending thorn is removed, the pain with it, and Athan dabs again with the antiseptic. His right hand is still under mine, and he places his thumb over my palm, softly rubbing the place that no longer hurts. It’s as if it were never there. It’s as if he’s never touched me before. My face feels warm all over, desire fluttering in my stomach. It doesn’t help that he’s still not wearing a shirt.

  His expression must be a mirror of mine—it quietly wants, and needs. I don’t care if he can tell I’m looking at his mouth, the memory of a hurried kiss in the dark, the ache to try it again. To taste him alive and well. But it’s also more than that, something deeper, and he seems to understand. Without speaking, he draws me towards him, and then I’m in his arms, against his chest and his heartbeat. He’s holding me, and there’s nowhere else I want to be. After the fear, the horror, I’m safe here, his chin resting on my head, and I hope he knows he’s safe with me, too, far from whatever it is he’s trying to escape—to forget.

  “Thank you,” I whisper in Savien, listening to his rapid heartbeat.

  “You’re welcome,” he replies in Etanian, and the lilting familiar words make me smile.

  37

  ATHAN

  Four days, and I’ve laid myself bare to her in everything but my name. That will come. For now, I want her to be my friend again, to see if she can take these things that are forever worse than bearing the name Dakar. The name I was born with—I had no choice. But this war …

  It’s on me.

  My decisions.

  My strategy.

  I’ve spent too many days away, far beyond what I got my pass for. Garrick’s probably furious. Maybe they all think I’ve been stuck with a Resyan knife. Dead somewhere in an alley, and they’re trying to decide what story they’ll tell my father.

  I hope it’s a good one.

  On the fifth afternoon, we unearth two motorbikes from the garden sheds, twin machines that are equally ancient. The good one is gone, Ali says, because she and a maid girl stole it to go to the palace. I try not to grin. She’s got some bizarre story for every day she’s been here. But she’s delighted by the prospect of riding one, and she thrusts it at me. “Get it working,” she commands, a familiar gleam in her smile—the kind I can’t get enough of. She’s genuinely fun to be with, and the idea feels almost foreign.

  Fun.

  I try to explain to her that Filton does most of the mechanics on my plane, but it’s little use when she’s looking at me with such determination. Besides, I think she can tell I know more than I’m letting on. So I fill the bike up with fresh oil and gas, then check the spark plugs. A heel to the kick start turns the engine over, seeming healthy enough. A test-go around the lawn proves it. It’s nice the shrill sound no longer plants knives in my head.

  “I practiced a bit on one of these,” Ali shares proudly.

  “Are we going to race?” I reply. “Because I’ll warn you, I do fly airplanes and I might be very good.”

  “Can’t really race round here, can we?”

  “No. It’s rather small. Also, that other bike’s front tire looks beyond hope.”

  “Perhaps we should go down to Madelan then?”

  “Ali, we can’t leave here.”

  “Yes, we can.”

  “We can’t.”

  She’s already behind me on the seat, all of her pressed against my back, which puts my stomach in my throat. “Let’s go, Lieutenant,” she orders into my ear.

  I consider just staying parked there for a few minutes, or an hour, to simply enjoy the feel of her holding me, then maybe asking her to hold tighter. But that seems a bit selfish—and more like an Arrin move—so I give us another test run, zipping around the stone fountain at breakneck speed in the hopes she might reconsider going all the way into town.

  She only grips my leather coat harder—victory!—and says, “I want you to drive it as you fly your aeroplane.”

  We’re facing the gates now.

  “Do you not value your life?” I reply wryly.

  “Fly!” she says into my ear, above the engine.

  I do. I open the throttle—and it’s glorious. We hurtle down the road, back in Madelan far faster than it took Havis’s vehicle to crawl through the hills. Ali directs me, keeping us in the “good” parts of the city, but there are still too many Safire tanks and soldiers around. I don’t dare let anyone see me racing around here with a local girl, and it becomes a stupid, wild, wonderful game avoiding them. The old motorbike is hot and rattling beneath us, angry at all the excitement as we avoid the wrong eyes, skidding on the corners, weaving us down roads and alleys. Ali’s arms grip me tight, and I realize I like this better than my plane. It’s just a blur of green trees and bright colours sailing by. The hot air choked with smoke as I grab the clutch, shifting the old bike into its snarling version of a flick-roll, Ali laughing into my ear.

  We’re both laughing at the madness of it.

  “You’re good at this,” she declares. “I’m impressed.”

  “I can’t do poetry,” I reply, revving the motor again, “but I can get you anywhere you need to go in half the time!”

  When she finally makes me stop, it’s at a small city square beneath an ancient Resyan fort, a cautious market in progress, everyone looking half-startled by its existence. But as I’ve discovered between the coast and Madelan, these people know how to carry on. They don’t stop. They sell their fruits and vegetables, their flowers and desserts, and Ali flits from stand to stand, procuring a meal to eat back at the estate. I wander self-consciously, eyes on the ground. I’m not in my uniform, and I could simply be another fair-haired Resyan—they do exist here. But I feel eyes on me. I know they’re staring, and I’m afraid they can see the truth of who I am. That they’ll know what I’ve done to them. Their brothers. Their cousins.

  A war criminal.

  When I glance up again, I’m at the mouth of an alley. Another line of little stands stretches into the shaded area, and a familiar figure in Safire uniform is haggling with an elderly woman who looks beyond exasperated.

  Trigg.

  I have no clue how we got this close to the airbase, with all the flying around on the bike. I should have been paying attention. Not that directions are my strong sui
t.

  I turn to leave too late.

  “Oh, Captain,” Trigg calls. “You’re here!” He sprints over to me, a grin on his face and a jar in his hand.

  The woman spits at the ground where he just left.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him warily.

  “Acquiring interesting things.” He holds up the jar. There’s something that looks suspiciously like an organ in there. “But I’d rather know what you’re doing, Captain. Or who.”

  His smile is sly syrup.

  “No one,” I inform him. “Did you give up the ruse?”

  “Not me. But Hajari did. He’s not very happy with you right now,” he says as an afterthought.

  “Did he tell Garrick?”

  “You know he doesn’t lie. And I tried, but I sort of ran out of answers. There aren’t many legitimate places to go here.”

  Great. Now Garrick knows I’m with Ali. Not a helpful secret to offer him, although Garrick had his own undercover fun with the singing girl in Etania. We have one on each other—except mine holds far higher stakes than Garrick could ever imagine.

  Trigg shades his eyes. “You know, you should just enjoy yourself, Captain. No one gives a shit about you. Not really.”

  I’m feeling nicer now that I’m headache-free, and I resist throttling him. “Thanks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I turn, not waiting for his half-hearted salute.

  “Oh! Captain!”

  I stop walking.

  “I almost forgot. Your papa’s arriving at seven thirty tomorrow morning. You might want to be there.”

  That gets my attention. “You’re sure?”

  “It’s the word on base.”

  This is it, then. This has to be my last day with Ali. No more dragging out the daydream. “I’ll be there,” I reply reluctantly.

  Trigg looks concerned. “I’d lie to him for you, but I think he’d shoot me.”

  No, he’ll only shoot me when he finds out where I’ve been.

  I wave him off and head back in the direction of Ali—or where she should be. Turning a circle, I realize she’s nowhere in sight. Our bike sits abandoned at the edge of the square, and there’s no girl in boots and a sundress flitting around anymore. Panic hits my chest, and I turn to find Trigg, but he’s gone too. My throat constricts, my aloneness suddenly petrifying. Everyone in the square stares. They’re all glaring at me, and I’m sure they know what I am. They saw me talk to Trigg in Savien. They see my guilt. Their unspoken hatred suffocates me, spitting from every direction.

  I can’t breathe.

  Then somewhere high above, my name shifts on the breeze. The top of the fort.

  I run like hell for Ali.

  AURELIA

  The view is lovely and vast, rooftops shimmering below with heat. The citadel’s sandstone steps were beckoning when I found them, curving round the grand tower and wide enough to carry knights of old. I rest my hand on the thick walls, wondering what stories linger in each crack and crevice, from long before the North ever arrived. I trace the rough stone, then the air above, gathering the sun in my palm, like a gift.

  There’s a sudden commotion behind me.

  I turn and find a very upset Safire lieutenant. I didn’t think it was possible with his tan, but he looks deathly pale.

  I smile. “You found me.”

  He stares. “You left me.”

  I realize he might actually have been very afraid just now, and the breathtaking view suddenly loses a shade of its beauty.

  It’s hiding smoke and bones, the reality I’ve fought to ignore—if only for these precious few days—and I motion Athan closer. He obliges, walking to the edge of the tower, looking out for a long time, shadows and sunshine on his strained face, gradually calming in tiny breaths.

  I hold out my bag from the market. “Marzipan. My favourite dessert.”

  He still doesn’t speak, but he does look inside the bag.

  “Have one,” I urge.

  He shakes his head.

  There’s something else in him, something struggling, and I wish I could drag it out. Athan Erelis has become a very complex creature. Even though it isn’t his fault, it still frustrates me. I remember when he held me at the masquerade, the trapped look in his eyes behind the dragon mask, trying to be brave, and yet even then I knew that no matter how he tried, how he pretended, he was too gentle for a life of war, and it broke my heart. Because I knew he was still going to march right into it. He was still going to choose it.

  It’s both baffling and pitiful at once.

  “I can’t enjoy this,” he admits, gesturing at the marzipan, “when Cyar’s still eating the shit on base.”

  I wince at his coarseness, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Cyar is always his weak spot. “You can take some of it with you,” I suggest, trying to sound more optimistic than we both feel. “Give the rest to him.”

  Athan shrugs, and I have no choice. I have to win him back.

  “Did you know I whispered you to me?” I say. “Before the war ended.”

  Two aeroplanes growl high over the fort, and Athan looks at me, confused. “You did what?”

  “I told you to find me,” I explain. “I said it on the roof of the palace, watching those mountains right over there. I willed you to come to me. I knew you would. And you did. You found me.”

  Truthfully, it was more that I found him, but that isn’t important right now. I need to twist the story to bring him into it. To remind him that even when all of this feels terribly grey and empty, there’s still something else at work, something unseen that brought us together. That wants us together again—here and now.

  He steps closer at last, his face softer. “You made me come here?” he asks, and he’s finally playing along. He might not believe me. But he’s playing. I reach out to rest my hand on his, and I suddenly picture a wild horse of the mountains, running, bleeding, refusing to give up. He has that proud, scared spirit. His eyes hold all the regret in the world.

  “I did,” I whisper.

  “You spoke it out loud?”

  “Like an order.”

  He faces me, so close I can count every freckle on his nose. “What else can you make me do?”

  “Many things, I hope.”

  His hand touches my cheek, something beautifully desperate in his gaze. His other hand goes to my waist, as if we’re about to dance, a dance he doesn’t even know how to do. But his touch is honest. Certain. His eyes are only for me. “Did you know I adore you, Ali?”

  I’m not sure why that word reaches so deeply into my heart. But it does. It doesn’t matter what’s in my blood. It doesn’t matter who my family is. This person adores me, as I am, and perhaps he’d even adore me if I told him the truth. He knows my heart—and that’s all that matters here. That’s all that matters between us, his hands on me, overpowering the words we can’t speak.

  It’s not who we are.

  It’s what we do.

  And this time, I don’t have to ask for what I want. This isn’t a dark room in the middle of a coup. This place is all light, all freedom, and his hesitant kiss on my lips is as gentle as his thumb across my palm, feather light, as if I might push him away. Perhaps I got us off on the wrong foot at the masquerade. I’ll never push him from me again, not like that, because I want him close—closer than anyone has ever been—and I move my hands to his chest, letting him know it’s fine, that I want the same, feeling his galloping heartbeat. At last, his mouth becomes wonderfully firm and precise, exactly where it needs to be. The fantasies retreat in the wake of what’s real, and the heat in me matches the sky, all radiant and perfectly good.

  He draws my hips closer. He’s growing insistent. I love it. No fear, no darkness, only the sun of our desire across every inch of skin, the taste of his mouth, the edge of his tongue. Let it last forever and ever, this moment. The saffron-drenched air and the colourful city and nothing but peace as far as the eye can see—both of us high above, free.

 
On fire.

  “What the stars is this?” a rough voice demands.

  Our kiss dies in a rush.

  We spin, broken apart, and find an old man glaring. His hands rest on frail hips. “This is indecent. Here of all places. This testimony of our strength!”

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologize in Resyan, flushed. “Sorry.”

  The man scowls further.

  Athan glances at me, questioning. He has no idea what conversation is taking place, only that it’s certainly about him, and we’re in trouble. “Apparently he doesn’t like the two of us kissing on this tower,” I explain.

  “Did you apologize?” Athan asks.

  “Twice.”

  “This city mourns,” the man hurls at me in Resyan, “and you act like a spring vixen with the enemy!”

  That harsh accusation stuns me. He knows. He knows Athan is Safire, and my breathless smile vanishes swiftly. Humiliation replaces it. I shake my head at the man, afraid to explain myself, because I have no explanation that will satisfy, and grab Athan’s hand. Quickly, I drag him after me for the stairs, for the earth, for reality—my lips still tasting of him.

  38

  AURELIA

  Guilt rears its head in full force as we leave the city. Though we’re settled back on the motorbike, retreating for home, the old man’s ire chases my thoughts. It wasn’t his anger that frightened me. It was the hurt lurking beneath the offense, as if I’d spit on someone’s grave—and in truth, he’s right. I’m acting as if no one has died, as if entire worlds haven’t been ripped in two. I got my bright sun back. I have Athan. But too many others never did, and now they’re lost in an eternal night that no one sees.

  By the time we reach the grand gates of the Havis home, it’s well past sunset, lights shining in the windows.

  As I dismount from the bike, Athan stands and urges me nearer in the hushed darkness. “Can I tell you one thing?” he asks.