by Natalie Grey
“How are things with you?” Samara asked her softly, when Aryn said nothing.
I can’t stop thinking about home. She could taste the words in her mouth, but they faded quickly away. She had learned not to say anything she wished to say, not to sing the old songs she loved, not to do anything that might remind people of where she came from. And when she couldn’t say what she wanted, see who she wanted, do anything outside this penthouse…she was beginning to wonder if she even existed at all.
It didn’t even cross her mind to say that aloud. That was the sort of thing one never said—not to Ellian, who had given her everything, and not to Samara, who had nothing at all. How petty and selfish would she think Aryn was if she heard these complaints?
So she only said, with a practiced little shrug, “Everything’s very normal.”
Even this was strange to talk about. In a fit of boredom, she’d redecorated the penthouse suite in the latest and most fashionable style, spending whole days pondering the layout of each room—except Ellian’s study, of course. She’d gone to almost a dozen charity dinners in the past month because it was the Season in New Arizona.
But she couldn’t imagine trying to explain the concept of a charity dinner to Samara, or the idea of changing every piece of furniture in the penthouse because black was out and gold was in.
And she didn’t want to admit that although she’d sworn this life would never truly change her, that in her heart she would always be the miner girl from Ymir, she’d agonized over the renovations, terrified of what the other society couples might think. More, she didn’t want to remember picking out fabric samples and opulent silhouettes, because all she could think of from that memory was the yawning emptiness of the moment, and the terrified cry of her own mind: is this all there will ever be?
Once, she had fought for something. She had been a terrible soldier, she didn’t argue with that. But she had been there. She’d been working toward something better.
Now, she was just another rich wife.
“You look sad again,” Samara said quietly.
“I’m not sad,” Aryn said automatically. “Sorry.” She apologized a lot now, too. She felt her lips curve up in a smile like she was a little doll; she couldn’t seem to feel her body much these days. It went through its own motions, and she walked around the penthouse as if she was behind a pane of glass, servants not looking her in the eyes, and no friends to speak to. “I was just…thinking.”
“Thinking of Ellian?”
There was hope in Samara’s voice, and the tone was like a knife between the ribs. Of course Samara hoped. Aryn had lived out the fairytale. She was the deserving maiden from every story, whose purity and honor and kindness won the heart of the prince. She must surely be in love. She must be happy. Why wouldn’t she be happy? She had everything anyone could want.
“Ellian’s been very busy,” Aryn said. It was the sort of automatic evasion she’d begun to use in every conversation she had. For one thing, it was true—something had recently come up that had Ellian working late into the night, snappish and stressed. So she didn’t have to lie when she said he was working all the time.
She sucked at lying.
For another thing, if she looked sad and told people that Ellian was busy, they drew their own conclusions. No one thought to ask her if his absence was both a curse and a blessing. It sank her into silence as deep and dark as space, where there was nothing to distract her from her own thoughts—but at the same time it saved her from his scrutiny. Better, perhaps, that he was away so often now—she knew she could not hide her discontent from him for long.
She looked back, peering closely as she saw Samara’s head tilt. The woman was looking up at the ceiling, and a moment later the faint wail of air raid sirens came down the line.
“I have to go,” Samara said urgently.
“Samara—”
“It’s all right,” the woman assured her. “We’re all right. I just need to break satellite contact. I’ll be back in touch, Aryn. And—”
The line cut and Aryn pushed herself back from the desk so fast the chair overturned, opening her mouth in a cry that never came. One mustn’t cry out, not in a penthouse. That was what brought servants to see what was wrong, and servants told Ellian, and Ellian asked questions. The train of thought was so automatic now that Aryn did not even need to follow it. She needed to be calm. The satellite connection had been cut. That was all. Someone in the bunker had turned on the signal blocker and…
And the further she got from Ymir, the more horrifying it seemed. How had her life there ever seemed normal? Even a child could see that things were not right. Hired soldiers in the streets, people missing in the mornings.
She should be there. The thought made her stop in a swirl of satin skirts, hand grasping around the diamond necklace. She had the funds. She could wait, leave when Ellian was away, be gone before anyone noticed—
“Aryn?”
“Ellian.” She whirled, her cheeks flamed. Could he see the plans in her head? Ellian had made his career by reading the subtle cues that let him bargain so effectively.
But he couldn’t read minds, she told herself firmly.
“What’s wrong?” He crossed the room, arms open, and she tried not to flinch away.
My friends are dying.
“It’s nothing,” she said reflexively, as she always did, letting her head rest on his shoulder, forcing herself to relax into his arms. As always, the touch was unexpectedly calming. All these days of marble and satin and no one to speak to and no one to see… Aryn felt herself lean into his arms at the touch of flesh on flesh, and squeezed her eyes shut. She could not stop herself from yearning for Ellian’s touch, even when she knew it wasn’t his touch she wanted.
It was all she would ever have. That was the choice she’d made.
“The servants tell me you’ve been troubled,” he said simply. It was a command—or rather, an expectation. Ellian’s voice was mild. He did not give orders; he simply expected the world to conform to his desires.
Courage.
For two weeks, she had been working up her courage to say this. She rehearsed every night in front of her mirror, and when she went downstairs to have dinner with Ellian, her nerve failed her.
But people were dying. She could not stay silent any longer.
“It’s Ymir,” Aryn said at last, biting her lip.
“Darling, I know I promised you that you could stay in touch with your friend, but if those calls are upsetting you—”
“I want to.” Her voice came out stronger than she intended it, and when Ellian drew back, his eyebrows raised, she shook her head and smiled. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Of course. I feel…”
Guilty.
“My dearest, that life was never for you.” Ellian smiled and stepped back, taking her hands in his. “Look at you. You are perfection. You need not cling to that place out of guilt.”
“What did you say?” Fear shot through her. He could see the guilt. He knew. Her breath caught in her chest.
“Don’t try to hide it, Aryn.” He stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear; if he noticed that she was shaking with the effort of staying still, he said nothing. “I, too, lived in poverty in my youth. You feel guilty that you have things others do not.”
Relief hit her so quickly that her knees nearly buckled. She managed a smile and a nod.
“Oh, yes.” That guilt. That guilt she could admit to.
“Aryn, you need not feel guilty. I did, for many years.” He smiled, a confident flash of teeth. “But I learned it was their anger and nothing more. It is the way of the world that some rise and the reasonable people do not resent them for it. I made sure to reward those who understood.”
His sister Mara, she knew, had been one of those—before she apologized and said all of the right things, behaved in all of the right ways, for Ellian to be magnanimous about taking care of her.
Ellian liked to be magnanimous.
He smiled at her n
ow. “You, above all, deserved to rise.”
“Thank you.” She smiled back automatically. By now, she did everything Ellian expected of her, automatically.
He turned away, looking out into the glittering lights of the city, and she clenched her hands.
Things are worse there than I knew. The Warlord is trying to kill them all.
“There was…something I wanted to talk to you about.” She wrapped her fingers together. Her palms were sweaty.
“Oh?” He turned back to look at her. “What is it?”
“Things are…they’re very bad on Ymir.”
“Ah, Aryn. That is how it has always been.” He smiled at her. “Do not trouble yourself with it.”
“They’re worse than they were when I left,” she insisted. She tried not to waver at Ellian’s look of surprise. She never contradicted him. “The Warlord has started bombing the districts.”
Was it her imagination, or did she see a touch of evasiveness in his eyes? Was it her imagination, or did he not look surprised at this new information?
But all he said was, “You must be grateful that your parents are in the city now.”
“I am,” Aryn hastened to assure him. “Always. Every day.” That had been one of his gifts to her: a new house for her parents, warm and dry, away from the mines. He’d offered the same to her sister, though Nura was too proud to take it; Aryn still pleaded with her, but Nura no longer returned her messages. She had not even spoken to Aryn, once she learned her sister was leaving. “But all of the rest of them are still in danger.”
“Aryn, I keep telling you that thinking of this will only cause you pain.” His voice held a note of warning now, and he had turned back to his collection of ties.
“Couldn’t you talk to him?” The words came out too loud, too sudden, but she’d done it. Pride and fear twisted in her chest.
Ellian turned slowly.
“What?” He was too surprised to have an opinion yet, and Aryn, with courage she’d never known she had, pressed her advantage.
“The Warlord. You could talk to him. You know him, don’t you? That’s how you got the house for my parents. And I’m so grateful, Ellian, I am, and I would never ask this if it weren’t important, but it is. He’s bombing the districts and the people are in terrible danger—”
“Aryn, you know as well as I do that he’s bombing the villages because that’s where the resistance is.”
She tried to keep her face as expressionless as she could. He mustn’t suspect her past. He could never suspect it. Here on New Arizona, where traders flocked from all over human occupied space to buy anything and everything, freedom fighters were not welcome. They caused trouble.
The resistance is right, she wanted to cry. He doesn’t have any right to that planet. He seized it, and everyone is too afraid to try to stop him. You know it isn’t right, Ellian, you know that.
“It’s cruel,” she said quietly, instead. “Children live there, Ellian. Children like Josef.” His nephew, his sister Mara’s child, held a special place in Ellian’s heart. Though they had settled into a comfortable life on the inner planets, Ellian often spoke of bringing them to New Arizona when Josef was old enough to start learning to run a business. One day, if he showed the talent for it, the child might be Ellian’s protégé. “There are criminals in this city, too, Ellian, and you’d never want him to suffer only because he was near them.” Her voice, to her shock, was steady.
Ellian stared at her, and she stared back, heart pounding. Had she gone too far? She could never read him. The moment stretched so long that she began to wonder what to say, if there was anything she could say, if he was going to—
And then he smiled, and her heart unclenched.
“Aryn, you are the most honorable woman I have ever met.” He came to take her lightly by the shoulders, kiss her on each cheek. “It is what I have always loved about you. I will do what I can, of course. I simply….” he hesitated.
“What?”
“I know that you think highly of my abilities to persuade….” he began carefully.
“I do,” Aryn said eagerly. “You could persuade anyone of anything.” How often had she wished for Ellian to speak to the men he dealt with and ask them to treat their workers more kindly? How often had she wished that Ellian had as much care for the powerless as he had intelligence and cunning?
“Sweetheart.” He took her hands in his again. “I only want you to be realistic. You know how long the Warlord has been in power. I can speak to him, of course. I simply do not know how much I can do to change his mind.”
“Anything,” Aryn whispered. “Anything you can do, Ellian, please.”
“Of course, my love.” He kissed her on the lips. “And so now it is my turn to ask a favor of you.”
“Oh?” Aryn blinked. When had he last asked something of her as if she might not grant it?
He took a moment, and his face was unguarded, as it so rarely was. It looked as though his heart ached.
And then his careful smile was back.
“You know I worry about you, my love. You know that those who trade here are not always good men. We’ve spoken of this before, and you tell me that you don’t need a bodyguard, but it is time. For my own peace of mind, my love, if nothing else. Tell me you will allow it.”
“Of course,” Aryn heard herself say. It was the correct response.
Now it was Ellian’s turn to blink.
“’Of course?’” he repeated, almost comically. This had been Aryn’s one defiance for the past two years. Every time he spoke to her of it, she insisted that she did not need a bodyguard, that it was a frivolous expense.
She had never told him her real reason for saying no. She had so little time when she was truly alone, and not being watched. She could not give that up—or so she had thought.
Right now, though, she was too giddy with relief over her small victory to care. It was more than a fair trade, some part of her said.
And then all of it vanished: the panic of speaking her mind, the relief of having him not be angry with her when she did. It faded away and she remembered where she was and who she was, and the part of her that had become a society wife found the correct words and the correct smile.
“Yes,” she said. She nodded. She had the sensation of floating—she could not feel herself at all. Was she still smiling? “It is important to you, my love. I don’t wish to scare you.”
“Good,” he said, after a pause. He was smiling, although she thought he looked oddly sad. “That’s good. I’ll have someone for you to meet this evening, then. A contact—a friend of a friend, someone in the military—says he’s found the perfect candidate. Professional, competent, very quiet. You’ll hardly notice him.”
“Mm.” Aryn drew away to sit at her vanity, pretending to look over her jewelry for the night. In the wake of her adrenaline rush, she could feel her legs shaking. She found another smile for Ellian. “I’ll leave it all up to you. I’m sure you know best.”
Whatever courage she had possessed, whatever fire had made her come alive, sank away again and all there was left was cold—and her own pale reflection in the mirror.
6
“So, what exactly are we doing?” Loki followed the motions as Jester showed him how to make the knot on a tie. He’d gone with Talon and Sphinx today to get fitted for dress clothes but part of him had still not expected the clothing to arrive—or himself to wear it. He’d never worn anything like this. His eyes widened at the sight of himself in a crisp black suit, with its white shirt and black tie. Red cufflinks winked at his wrists.
At some point, you’ll need to pick your own way to wear the red, Talon had dropped, off-handedly. Whatever you want.
A Dragon, one of the most legendary Dragons, giving him a nickname and telling him to do whatever he wanted—as if he were an equal, not a farm boy. It still made Loki’s stomach flip over when he thought about it.
Thinking about any of this made his stomach flip over, frankly.
<
br /> “Boss is being pretty tight-lipped about this one,” Tersi said. He looked over with a shrug, and Loki again felt a sense of shock that Tersi didn’t look at him like an imposter, like an unwelcome guest. He was private, and he liked to insist on alone time in their shared bunk, which Loki still didn’t really understand, but he was nice. He shrugged. “I just got told we all had to dress up. Well, ‘cept Aegis and Nyx.”
“Why not them?”
“We always leave two on board in case we need a pickup, or air support, or whatever. Aegis doesn’t do manners and Nyx doesn’t wear dresses. So.” He gave Loki a meaningful look.
There was a ripple of laughter at the dress comment, and Loki wondered if he’d be able to get the story out of anyone—there clearly was one.
“I don’t blame her,” a female voice said from behind him. “Dresses are terrible. I had to put my sidearm on the inside of my leg, and I’ve only got one knife.”
Loki looked up before turning, and caught sight of Tersi’s face. The man was completely transfixed.
When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Sphinx there, struggling to get earrings into place on her earlobes. Loki had been there while she was fitted for the dress, so it wasn’t so much of a surprise, but he had to admit she looked absolutely beautiful. The dress was a few shades darker than her flyaway golden hair, making her brown eyes glow. Not to mention, the way it clung to her figure was impressive—though less impressive than the fact that she’d still found ways to hide weapons under it.
Those brown eyes, dressed up with eyeshadow in reddish browns and bronzes, were locked on Tersi. Loki looked between the two of them….
And abruptly realized why Tersi was so insistent on his alone time in the bunk.
“Loki, man—your tie’s crooked.”
Loki looked over at Jester, then over into a mirror, and frowned as he ran his fingers over the tie knot. He opened his mouth to say it wasn’t crooked in the least, and then realized he was the only person standing between Tersi and Sphinx. He beat a hasty retreat, going to stand with Jester as the other Dragon made a show of readjusting Loki’s tie. He caught Loki’s eyes with a meaningful grin.
