Above the Storm

by JMD Reid

  They disappeared into a cottage, almost a confirmation of his target.

  He studied their cabin from the air, then his eyes drifted around to the camp’s inhabitants. A plan swirled in his mind. But he needed to study more. To learn the habits and routine of the inhabitants before he struck.

  A bold part of him wanted to land at the door and slip into the cabin. A quick jab with his beak or slash with his talons, and Briaris would be dead.

  But that is hardly subtle. It must appear as an accident.

  A tragic fire. A careless lamp knocked over, killing a young couple in their sleep.

  A figure crept up to Briaris’s cabin and lurked beneath the window. Wriavia clucked his beak, his gizzard tightening in surprise. What is this?

  ~ * * ~

  Vel crouched below Chaylene’s open window. For three days he’d stayed away, more afraid of Ary and his fellow marines than his desire to be close to Chaylene. But the ache beat down his fear, and he’d spent the last three nights crouched beneath their window. Listening. Yearning. Hating. Stroking.

  Their passion died. Vel’s stomach clenched, his body quivering, casting his salt to the wind, groaning through clenched teeth. Hearing her, even with another man, sent a dizzying, drunken thrill through him he couldn’t ignore.

  “Mmm, Ary,” she sighed, drowsy, voice thick and throaty.

  That should be me hearing that ardor, Vel thought.

  They kissed, the sound curdling his blood as he laced up his britches. He didn’t know how Chaylene could fake her enthusiasm so convincingly. But he knew whom she loved, and it wasn’t her brute of a husband. After his mad dash from the cottage and evading the marines, he’d realized he’d left the red daisies on the windowsill. The idea had struck him as he lay in his bunk, the excitement of the chase bleeding off and sleep descending. It jolted him wide awake, his stomach clenching in fear. He’d spent a paralyzing night dreading the morning. Chaylene had to have realized who’d lurked outside her window.

  But no one had dragged him off to Captain Vebrin for discipline. Ary had never shown up to pummel his face. Relief and joy filled Vel when he realized Chaylene hadn’t told Ary who spied on them. Because she loves me. She’s just afraid of the brute.

  So Vel returned, hoping that tonight Chaylene would sneak out to speak with him. To be with him beneath the starlight.

  “How was your day?” Chaylene asked her husband, her voice drifting through the cracked-open window. They had curtains now so Vel couldn’t see anything. But the memory of her naked form burned in his thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Ached for her.

  “I had to run the perimeter for an hour because Guts couldn’t hit his target on the third blast,” Ary growled. “Never mind that the rest of us struck ours. Guts even managed to land it on the fourth time.”

  “I’m sorry.” She was so good at sounding like the dutiful wife Vel had to beat down the pity rising for Ary.

  Run the perimeter because of someone else’s mistake? The Sergeant-Major sounded worse than a teamster free with his whip.

  “One day, we’re all going to pitch him off the skyland!”

  Vel perked up at that. Murder his superior officer? Vel saw clear skies before him. Chaylene would need her childhood friend to comfort her then. She’d have to pretend to grieve, but no one would question us.

  “No, you’re not,” she giggled, not taking the threat serious. But Vel knew Ary’s—the brute’s—temper. After the Xorlar, Vel knew murder lurked in his friend’s heart.

  “We are. We’re all plotting it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was found with a dagger planted in his back.”

  “Come on, Ary. Just forget about it and go to sleep.” Chaylene yawned. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I hit it on the second try, and does the man even give word of praise?”

  “I’m very happy you hit it on your second try.” Her voice sounded drowsy. “I’m very proud of you. I didn’t hit my target once today.”

  “Well, aren’t your targets farther out?”

  “Two hundred ropes. And even with a scope, they’re hard to hit.”

  “You’ll hit it tomorrow. I know you will. You’re an amazing shot.”

  “Ary,” she sighed. “You’re so sweet. I love you.”

  Vel’s stomach clenched as their lips smacked again, longer, deeper. He closed his eyes, pretending her lips were on his again. His one taste wasn’t enough. He deserved to be in her bed. He loved her.

  “At least you didn’t have to spend three hours running because Guts couldn’t hit his target,” Ary muttered. “Warrant Officer Breston isn’t a complete sow’s dung.”

  “Nope,” she murmured.

  Their breathing slowed, and they drifted off to sleep. Vel rose and left the red daisy on the windowsill. It was the second time he had left the flower on purpose, letting Chaylene know that he was nearby. He had tried tapping on the window two nights ago once Ary drifted off to sleep. It turned out Ary wasn’t as light a sleeper as Vel remembered. Hearing Ary’s sleepy, “What’s that?” had spooked Vel into a frantic run. He’d reached the fence before he realized the brute wasn’t chasing him.

  “Goodnight,” he whispered, then slinked back to his camp. Maybe tomorrow night she’d find the courage to slip out and meet with him. He could be patient.

  For a while.

  ~ * * ~

  Wriavia followed the male spying on Briaris’s cabin as he snuck through the camp. The spy puzzled the assassin. The male wore civilian clothing. Was he an outsider? Wriavia’s gizzard did not like this aberrant behavior. Before departing, the watcher had left something on the windowsill.

  Until Wriavia understood what was going on, his plan was in jeopardy. The spy crept into the Spirituous section of camp, nimbly scaling the fences in his path. He paused at a building and pulled out a bundle of clothing shoved into a crack in its foundation. He changed into the white linen of a sailor.

  Bafflement gripped Wriavia. As strange as Humans were, this was outside his understanding. The male strolled normally to the barracks. He opened the door and light flooded out, illuminating his face. Wriavia committed the Human’s appearance to memory before winging back to Briaris’s cabin.

  He had to know what the spy had left on the windowsill.

  Wriavia took the risk, spiraling down out of the sky. As the night wore on, more recruits sought their beds. He alighted on the grass, the cool blades caressing his scaled feet. Wriavia cocked his head, staring at the red flower on the windowsill.

  A courtship ritual? How interesting.

  Wriavia adjusted his plans as he launched into the air. This spy could prove useful if he harbored romantic feelings for Briaris’s wife. He could twist jealousy to interesting ends. Wriavia never based his plans on any one scheme working. Backup strategies were important, ready to be implemented if chance interfered with the primary. Life was complicated. The smallest event could upset the most carefully constructed plot.

  ~ * * ~

  Ary jostled Chaylene awake.

  “How do I break the foci?” her husband groaned in his sleep, his body shaking.

  Ary was having the nightmare again.

  “The chains hurt too much.” Pain thickened his voice.

  Chaylene shook him; his body was clammy with sweat. “Ary, wake up.”

  “How can I help you?”

  He always muttered the same things during the nightmares. He thrashed, his muscles tensed, and the bed creaked in protest. She stroked his face, letting him feel her gentle touch, trying to bring him comfort and free him from the terror.

  “Hurts!”

  “It’s okay, Ary. I’m here. Wake up.”

  With an explosive gasp, he woke into her embrace. She kissed his cheek. He trembled in her arms for a moment, his eyes wild, then he relaxed. He sighed as he stared up at the ceiling.

  “Sorry for waking you, Lena.”

  “It’s fine.” She bit her lip. Why does he have these dreams? What does all his babbl
ing mean? “What is a chain, Ary?” Chaylene had never heard the word.

  “Huh?”

  “Why do the chains hurt so much? Are they monsters?”

  “I don’t know,” he muttered, rolling onto his side, his back to her.

  “Ary, maybe talking about the dream can help.”

  “It’s fine. Just go back to sleep.”

  She pressed against his strong back, wrapping her arms around him. She kissed his shoulder. “You can talk to me, Ary.”

  “It’s nothing. Just nightmares. We all have them.”

  “But yours are always the same.” Her hand stroked his side, massaging his clammy flesh. She brushed the puckered scar right below his ribs. How did he ever get this? She’d never thought to ask. She couldn’t remember any childhood injury causing the wound. It was an old scar, almost faded into his brown flesh. “There has to be a reason.”

  “There’s not,” he growled, his body tensed again. “It’s okay, Lena. Just drop it.”

  “Fine,” she huffed, rolling away from him onto her side. “I’m just concerned, Ary.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, okay?” He yawned. “Just a nightmare. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Fine. We won’t talk about it now.”

  Chaylene stared at the window, where the breeze rustled the curtain. She caught a flash of red.

  Vel had left her another flower.

  A flush of heat went through her. She shook her head, dreading talking to Vel and setting him straight. As touching and romantic as it was, she had a husband. The longer she put it off, the greater risk that her friend would be spotted again. He might not escape a second time. She didn’t understand her reluctance to speak to him. Do I want him to keep leaving the gifts? Ary’s breath slowed, sleep stealing over him. She rolled out of bed, her naked feet slapping on the wooden floor. She pushed the curtain aside and seized the flower.

  “Vel,” she sighed, staring at the red daisy. She stroked the vibrant petals out from their orange center. You have to sail on.

  A part of Chaylene wanted to add the red daisy to the vase of flowers Ary had bought her yesterday in the market. He wouldn’t notice one more. It’s so pretty. And it’s a present. She brought it to her nose and inhaled the fragrance, a smile crossing her lips.

  Then she balled up the flower, wincing as she destroyed Vel’s sweet gift.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Coajyoa 18th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  Chaylene wished she could do more to help her husband deal with the brutal the Sergeant-Major. Often over the weeks they’d been at Camp Chubris, she’d witnessed Ary and his fellow marines running and sweating, exercising or performing shooting drills all under the constant barrage of the hate-filled man. She didn’t have to train under the Sergeant-Major and she loathed the man. How could she not? Her husband complained about him at every meal and when they readied for bed. At night, before she fell asleep, her eyes would drift to the window. Is Vel leaving a flower tonight? She’d destroyed five flowers, forcing herself to rise early to dispose of them before her husband awoke.

  Finally, she talked to Zori for advice.

  “You lead him on,” the woman shrugged.

  “No I don’t!” Chaylene protested.

  “Did you tell Ary who was outside the window?”

  Chaylene shook her head. “He’d be hurt to learn his friend is in love with me.”

  “And now Vel thinks you care for him. He’s a driven man. Those eyes . . .” A smile crossed Zori’s face. “They’re intense.”

  “Yeah, but I want him to focus that intensity somewhere else,” Chaylene complained.

  “Do you?”

  Zori’s question startled Chaylene. A warmth flushed through her. “Of course I do. I mean, I’m flattered. It’s very romantic.”

  “So romantic,” her friend agreed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I mean, he’s sneaking through camp, risking your husband’s wrath, to leave proof of his love for you. If only Guts was half as romantic . . .”

  Confusion swirled through Chaylene. She needed to put a stop to it, but she kept finding reasons not to visit the Spirituous section of camp to confront Vel.

  People will gossip about me seeing another guy.

  I’m too tired.

  Ary might get the wrong idea.

  Now she wondered at the way her heart beat, the exciting thrill it brought in her, knowing a man cared that much for her. Shame tinged her. She had Ary. She shouldn’t encourage another man to leave her flowers and gifts. But her blood . . .

  She couldn’t help her Vaarckthian blood.

  Fleeing her thoughts, she asked, “How are you and Guts getting along?”

  Zori’s grin broadened. “Those big hands of his can be very gentle. But I have to drag out any feelings from him.”

  Chaylene’s smile dropped, understanding.

  “What’s wrong?” Zori asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Zori gave her a firm look.

  “Ary has the same nightmare every few nights. But he won’t talk to me about them.”

  Zori shrugged. “He just doesn’t want to appear weak. Besides, you got your secrets. Let him have his.”

  “My secret’s to protect Vel from Ary thrashing him.” Maybe even kill him. She hated even thinking that.

  “Well, if Vel is outside your window, go out and set him straight after Ary falls asleep.”

  That night, Chaylene intended to, but a day spent training left her exhausted. Half of her days were spent in the classroom above the stables, sweltering in the stink of dung, learning how to navigate her way back to her ship flying through the empty skies with a compass and an hourglass, to use a sextant, and by star constellations. She had to learn how to draw maps, how to mark them with ships’ positions, strong points on skylands, supply dumps, and so much more. It left her mind wrung out. The other half of her days were spent in physical training. She could now climb the flagpole with ease, and her once soft hands had grown rough with callouses. Her marksmanship with the pressure gun was improving. She could hit targets out to five hundred ropes now when lying prone, and two hundred ropes from the crow’s nest of the Dauntless when shooting at targets on the skyland’s edge as the ship sailed past.

  The evenings she had energy, she funneled it into Ary. They didn’t unite their fires every night, but when they did, all the day’s effort crashed down on her when they’d finished. Every time she tried to wait for Ary to nod off so she could sneak out to confront Vel, she’d drift off to sleep first.

  Despite her worry over Vel’s attention and the physical weariness of training, she found one good thing about the Navy: Whitesocks, her pegasus. She’d fallen in love with the gelding and his coat of deep chestnut, marred only by the white of his ankles. Gray wings thrust with majesty from his shoulders. When extended, the feathers’ sheen caught the sun, flashing with a hint of orange and yellow. Every morning, she mucked out Whitesocks’s stable and groomed his coat with a curry comb. Breston taught her how to check her pegasus’s teeth, feel the muscles of his legs and wings for strain, inspect his feathers, and tend to his hooves. He nuzzled her hand and belly, black-eyes liquid with affection.

  She couldn’t wait to fly him.

  On the Eighteenth of Coajyoa—just over a month into their training, and thirteen flowers from Vel—Breston deemed them ready to fly. They knew the theory and had trained with the pressure saddles. Unlike an ostrich saddle, a pressure saddle contained a built-in engine capable of channeling Moderate or Major Pressure, manipulating the air around a pegasus’s wings. Chaylene could create more lift for her mount, allowing Whitesocks to fly while carrying more weight than he naturally could. While a pegasus could carry a single, slim person into the skies, they needed a good stretch to get up to a gallop. That wasn’t practical on a ship. Thanks to the saddles, a pegasus carrying two riders could take off from a standstill.

  Chaylene led Whitesocks from his stable, slipping him an apple from her coat pocket and delightin
g as his rubbery lips caressed her hand as he ate it. “We’re going to fly today,” she cooed in his ear, stroking his muzzle. She smiled and gave his nose a kiss. “Won’t that be fun?”

  Whitesocks gave a snorting neigh.

  “I thought so.”

  She threw the saddle blanket over his back, followed by the saddle: hog’s leather stretched over a hickory frame. The smokey quartz, the size of an acorn, that was set into the pommel was the engine. She cinched it tight. After double-checking everything, she led through the camp to the field just outside the perimeter fence.

  “I can’t wait to do this,” Zori gushed, leading Dancer. Her pegasus’s coat was entirely chestnut. “Guts is gonna be so jealous.”

  “I know.” Chaylene smiled. “And Ary has Minor Wind, so he’ll be training with us soon.”

  Zori blinked. “What?”

  “Marines with Minor Wind are taught how to fall from pegasi and float down to the ground. For special operations.”

  “Why didn’t Guts ever tell me? He gots Minor Wind as well.” Then her grin turned wicked. “I guess that means he might fly with me, his strong arms wrapped about my waist.”

  Color blushed Chaylene’s cheeks. She nodded enthusiastically. She imagined Ary’s strong arms wrapped about her. Then Vel held her, a red daisy clutched in his hand. I love you, Chaylene.

  She fought her imagination. I want Ary behind me.

  They passed a group of sailors marching off to the Dauntless. Xoshia and Ithene flashed Chaylene sneering looks. The women were still bitter over their fight last month. Chaylene often heard their barbed comments: “Watch out for her, she’s got a roving eye. That big marine she’s married to doesn’t got enough fuel to feed her Vaarckthian fires.”

  Chaylene ignored the giggling laughter. She walked back straight, chin forward.

  “Sows,” Zori muttered. “I should bruise that pretty face up again.”

  “It’s not worth it. We’re going to fly today. And Xoshia and her friends are just dung stuck on the ground.”