Pyralis sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. When he met her eyes, she saw an emotion with which she was intimately familiar.
Regret.
“I think you were right about Lieutenant Haan becoming a target,” he said. “We have reason to believe Elom set a trap for her specifically.”
Galena’s stomach sank. “But how did they know about the invisible wingjet?”
“I don’t think they did,” Pyralis said. “According to your son’s report, Lieutenant Haan said the veil tech had failed. She wasn’t shot until she was visible again. Someone must have warned them she was coming.”
Galena stared at the swirling blue-and-gray pattern of the top plate. “So you’re saying we have a spy within Spiro.”
“Or a breach in our comm security. That’s what Milek suspects.”
She sighed. How did Elom manage to create so much destruction? “And now Safara will know about the invisible jet. They’ll figure it out. If they develop one, we’ll lose every hope of an advantage.”
“Milek said his initial team retrieved the tech and burned the jet.” Pyralis shrugged. “But even if they find a way to retrieve and reverse engineer the tech, we’ll have a slight edge in terms of time. Our fleet of invisible wingjets is already in production. They’ll be up and running within a few months.”
Somehow the distraction of packing up her house was just giving her more time to ruminate. “So if it wasn’t about the wingjet, then what? An attack on Lieutenant Haan herself? To strike a blow at the integration process?”
“I think it’s likely. And it’s worked. The protests started again immediately after we announced her death, and soldiers are risking insubordination charges by refusing to work with women.”
Galena tapped her fingernails against the counter. “If that’s the case, we’ll strike a serious blow to their machinations if Milek’s team retrieves Lieutenant Haan alive.”
“Indeed.” Pyralis dumped two more handfuls of silverware into the basket.
Galena cleared her throat. “Would it be of any use to speak with Bett, do you think? Perhaps she has some knowledge of Ward Balias’s plans that she hasn’t shared?”
Pyralis turned away as if he hadn’t heard her, reaching up to grab another stack of plates from an upper cabinet. “How is Milek doing?”
Galena let it go. She rarely brought up Bett. Pyralis’s wife had been the one to sell the tech that Elom had used to create a double of Galena. Bett was also the woman Pyralis had chosen over Galena, twenty-five years ago. She was not someone Galena enjoyed thinking about, and the subject was difficult for Pyralis. She just hoped they weren’t missing something.
“Milek’s struggling a bit, I think,” she said. “It eats at him that he couldn’t go after Aris himself, but he has his unit to lead.”
“Perhaps you should visit him,” Pyralis suggested, as they moved upstairs.
Here they tackled the more personal items. Josef’s old tunics and pants were folded neatly and stacked, labeled DONATE. Pyralis didn’t say anything as Galena brushed her hands across the soft fabric, tears falling.
It was dusty, emotionally painful work, but Pyralis’s presence soothed her. He was part of her past, after all. They smiled over the yellow jacket she’d worn when they first met, and the gown from her first gala as Ruslana’s Ward.
“I don’t know what Milek will do if he can’t find Aris or . . . or if the worst has already come to pass,” Galena said, sifting through a stack of letters from Pyralis during his time in Ruslana. She’d sworn to Josef that she’d thrown them away, but instead had hidden them in a small wooden box in the back of her closet. Even now, it felt like a betrayal. “He’s already suffered so much.”
Pyralis stacked two spindly wooden chairs along the wall. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll survive. He’ll be even stronger for it, in the end.”
She ached for Milek. He’d had to endure so much over the past year: his father’s death, her disappearance and imprisonment, and now the woman he loved being in danger, possibly dead. But she ached for Pyralis, too, and the history that still drew them together.
Galena met his eyes, heart pounding in her throat as her fingers crushed the slick silco letters to her chest. “If he’s anything like me, he’ll hold on to hope, long after the reality shows it to be impossible.”
Pyralis closed the space between them.
“Galena, you can’t live in your quarters at the capitol forever. You need a home.” Pyralis stopped a handbreadth away but didn’t reach for her. Gently, he asked, “When this house is sold, where will you go?”
She shrugged. “I’ll find a place in Sibetza, I suppose. I’ve only three more years in my term as Ward, and I don’t think I have the stomach to run again. After that, I quite like the idea of settling outside the city.”
He reached for her hands, a strange nervousness flitting across his features. “Or you could settle outside another city. Like Panthea.” He tightened his grip on her fingers, like he was trying to draw strength from them. “With me.”
Galena’s breath froze in her throat. The sudden swirl of emotions made chaos of her thoughts. Even with their history, even knowing how he felt about her, it was the last thing she’d expected him to say. The silence between them lengthened. Her mind still couldn’t provide any clarity. At last, she forced herself to say, “I . . . I don’t know.”
The grooves at either side of his mouth softened, and his eyes filled with a longing that nearly undid her. Galena offered him a soft, sad smile, forgetting her scars until she felt them pull along her cheeks.
How was it that her life had become a series of questions to which she had no answers?
Chapter 23
Consciousness broke upon Aris slowly. A slash of sunlight flicked across her face each time the sheet covering the doorway rippled in the breeze, giving her no sense of time beyond that it was daylight. From outside came the faint sound of children’s voices. Aris shifted and realized that at some point she’d turned onto her side. Which meant she was still unrestrained.
Before moving, she snuck a glance around the room. Empty. At least from this vantage point. She sat up in stages—rolling onto her back, pushing up on one arm. Her wrist ached, but it was a manageable pain. The splint that encased it was roughly made—wooden sticks sewn into a thick piece of canvas—but it was doing its job. She peeked under the bandage that covered the gash on her forearm; the skin was no longer puffy and red. A line of neat stitches closed the wound.
As quietly as she could, she slid the sheets off her legs and touched one toe to the rust-streaked floor. No one came running in. She made a quick, silent circuit of the room. Someone had dressed her in loose white linen pants and a thin-strapped top. There was no sign of her armor or weapon. Her uniform and shoes were missing, too.
Two long counters lined the walls, with cupboards above and below. She slid open each drawer, freezing when one squeaked. Still no one came. Many of the drawers were empty. Some contained bandages and strips of cloth. A dented can of loose cotton. No mediguns or meds, nothing she could use to defend herself. She did find a stack of soft house shoes, so she slipped on a pair. They didn’t provide much protection, and they were too big, but it was better than going barefoot.
At the far end of the small room, a sheet covered another doorway. Standing off to the side so she wouldn’t cast a shadow, Aris peeked around the fabric. Another room, this one much bigger, stretched out before her. It was filled with med-beds, some occupied. A woman and man in mender white flitted around their patients, speaking in soft, soothing voices. Aris didn’t recognize anyone. Where had Alistar and Samira gone? Had they meant to leave her here, unshackled and alone?
Was it a trap?
Looking around her private room, she thought it must be the surgery room. There was extra equipment for more prolonged procedures, but most of it was worn and years out of date. They’d left no scalpels or knives for her to find.
Aris snuck to the doorway leading ou
tside. She could still hear the faint sound of children laughing and calling to one another. But the view was eerily desolate. Before her a small, dusty plain edged a gray shoulder of mountain.
She’d made it to the mountains.
There were no gentle foothills here. These cliffs rose abruptly and were formidably steep. A handful of buildings clung to them, strung with narrow rope bridges that swayed precariously in the dry desert breeze. Aris studied the few other buildings gathered here on the solid ground around the plain, watching for movement, but no one appeared.
The sun hung just above the mountain, pouring heat into the bowl of the plain. It was morning, then. She hadn’t lost too much time.
With quick, silent steps she snuck out of the clinic. She crept around the side of the building, keeping to the shadows. Hunger tightened her stomach, but she ignored it. As she rounded the far corner of the clinic, a screech sent her to a crouch.
In front of her, spread in haphazard lines, a group of at least twenty children played. All were dressed in dirt-streaked tunics and too-short pants. Toddlers followed bigger children through the lines, tugging on shirts so they wouldn’t be left behind. The older children, some nearly her age, led the way, but Aris could tell many were lagging, showing little interest in the game. She swallowed back a gasp. Some of them were scarred, limping. One boy hopped between two metal crutches, his pants pinned up over the stub of his missing leg. All of them held wariness in their eyes like an old friend.
“Attempting an escape, are you?”
Aris stood up so fast she banged her shoulder into the wall. Alistar leaned against the building beside her. “Have you considered how you’ll feed yourself? What supplies you’ll be able to steal before we catch you? I assure you, you’ll need supplies. The mountains here are like Balias himself: brutal, dangerous, and entirely without mercy.”
Aris didn’t have an answer, so she asked a question of her own. “What happened to these children? And how are there so many, in such a small village?”
Alistar sighed. “Most of the little ones are orphans, their parents killed in battle, by Balias’s men, or by starvation. Their relatives bring them here. We’re known as a place of safety.”
Dismay filled her. “And the older ones?”
Alistar pushed away from the wall. “When Ruslana joined the war, Balias conscripted our children.” His voice shook. “Boys as young as ten. These boys . . . these are the ones who’ve survived. Or whose parents hid them in time.”
Looking at the boy with the missing leg, Aris couldn’t see her enemy.
In a patch of sparse grass, away from the game, a woman sat with several babies and a toddler, who climbed in and out of her lap, laughing. The long, dark braids gave her away; it was Samira. But the look on her face was a far cry from the hard, bitter glares she’d leveled at Aris the day before.
“Surprised?” Alistar asked.
“How can you and Samira leave? Are there others to care for these children? How will they—” She cut herself off. Of course. “It’s not just you and Samira seeking asylum, is it? You want . . . you’re going to . . .”
Alistar nodded. “It isn’t for us. We seek true safety for our charges.”
“True safety?” The rough concrete behind Aris radiated heat, making her back uncomfortably moist.
“None of these children left the Military with the proper permission. As far as Balias is concerned, they’re deserters. Deserving of death for their lack of commitment to the cause.” Alistar shifted his weight, as if this knowledge physically pained him. “We can only keep them hidden for so long. We’ve been planning an exodus to Atalanta, hoping your people would take us in. We thought, maybe, if Atalanta knew what Balias is doing to his own people—it might help somehow.”
Aris’s brain spun like an out-of-control wingjet. How cowardly did Balias have to be to send ten-year-olds to war? Suddenly, she remembered the young soldier who’d died beneath the wreckage of the downed Safaran jet. Disgust turned her stomach. No wonder he’d looked like just a kid. That’s exactly what he’d been. “How does Ward Balias get away with it? What about selection? Students aren’t supposed to be assigned to a sector until their eighteenth year.”
“Our sectors have broken down completely. There is no selection. Men are forced into Military while women and the elderly are left to handle everything else, with few resources and the constant fear their children will be taken from them.” Alistar stepped closer, so she was forced to look him in the eye. “If you truly are an Atalantan soldier, you could be our salvation. Your word would have weight with the Atalantan authorities.”
Her suspicions and distrust might have remained, were it not for the children before her. Maybe she would have felt differently if she hadn’t seen that poor boy die before her eyes. “I’ll do what I can to help you once we reach Atalanta,” she said. “You have my word.”
Alistar slumped back against the building, smiling a little at her. “Perhaps you’ll deign to tell us your name now?”
Aris reached out her uninjured hand. “Lieutenant Aris Haan.”
As he shook it, his eyes widened. “Lieutenant Haan? We have limited access to the news here, but everyone has heard of the woman who rescued Ward Vadim and changed Atalanta’s Military laws. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Aris quirked a grin. “Words I never expected to hear in Safara.”
Alistar watched the children playing, a new hope filling his dark eyes with warmth. “If we help you return to Atalanta, surely your people will protect us.”
Aris followed his gaze. “How will they make the trip over the mountains?” she asked, her eyes caught on a skinny boy with blood-red scars running up his frail arms. He leaned heavily on a stick, limping as he attempted to follow the others down the line.
Alistar shrugged. “The stronger children will help the weaker ones. And we have several other adults who will travel with us. The rest will stay behind to care for those who find their way here after we leave.”
At that moment, Samira noticed them talking. She yanked up the toddler and babe at her feet, and hurried over. “Why is she here? I told you, Alistar! She can’t know—”
“And I told you we should tell her the truth.” When Samira opened her mouth to argue, he held up a placating hand. “Sister, she’s agreed to help us. She is Lieutenant Aris Haan.”
Samira didn’t look impressed as she turned her glare on Aris and tightened her grip on the children in her arms. The baby looked to be a few months old, with a silky wisp of brown hair and enormous chocolate eyes. The toddler buried his head in Samira’s neck, but Aris could make out a mass of tight brown curls and round cheeks.
“Are these your children?” Aris asked. As soon as the words were out, she wished she could call them back. Samira wasn’t likely to appreciate her curiosity or concern.
The woman narrowed her eyes. After studying Aris long enough to give her chills, Samira tipped her chin down to kiss the baby’s head. “Hazel and Jaff are mine. Their papa was killed less than a month ago in a firefight.”
Samira owned her pain with a proud ferocity. Within her confining embrace, the littlest—Hazel—squirmed.
“I’m so—” Aris started.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Samira stated, her voice flat. “Your sorry doesn’t make a damned bit of difference.”
Aris leaned against the wall and drew deep ragged breaths into her lungs. It was one thing to battle a faceless enemy for your dominion, for your way of life. But now, if what Alistar said was true, Aris had to face the reality that the men—the children—she was fighting were as much victims of this war as the Atalantan soldiers she rescued.
What could she possibly do with this information? And what did it matter?
More importantly, how were they going to get thirty kids over the mountains into Atalanta?
Suddenly a piercing whistle silenced the scuffs and quiet laughter of the children. An older man stood panting at the edge of the clearing, signaling somet
hing with his arms. He whistled again, high and urgent, before sprinting on. Samira spun and ran across the plain, Hazel and Jaff bouncing in her arms. In a matter of seconds, all of the children disappeared, fading into the pockmarked cliffs.
Aris had no idea what was going on, but that didn’t stop the panic from rising. “What’s happening? Where did everyone go?”
Alistar grabbed her arm and dragged her back the way she’d come. “Hurry.”
They raced along the building and burst through the doorway into the clinic. Alistar didn’t stop, instead continuing on to the long room with rows of med-beds. He pushed her toward one of them.
“Alistar, please tell me what’s going on,” Aris pleaded as she lay down.
“I don’t have time to get you to the caves, and you have to hide. Here.” He yanked the sheets up to cover her, even part of her face. “Don’t move, don’t breathe. Balias’s men are coming.”
Chapter 24
Dysis woke to the roar of wingjets. Before she’d reached full consciousness, she was on her feet, solagun at the ready. Daakon was on watch, and Calix was standing next to him.
The glow of dawn along the horizon outlined her companions.
“What’s happening?” Dysis whispered. Through the trees, she could see pinpoints of light as the wingjets sped away.
Daakon didn’t move from his position. “They finished loading the wreckage. They’re leaving.”
“What about Aris?” She stared down into the ravine. There was no sign of activity. Already the rush of the wingjets was fading.
Daakon stretched his neck back and forth. “I didn’t see any sign of her. They didn’t search the area. Hopefully that means the ruse worked and they assume she was killed in the crash.”
“So what do we do now?” Calix asked. “We don’t have another blood trail to follow.”
Dysis couldn’t be sorry about that. Less blood hopefully meant a less serious wound.
Daakon withdrew several nutrigel pouches and a bag of freeze-dried meat from his pack, handing the supplies around. “If you were hoping for rescue and arrived here too late, where would you go next?”
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