And her father . . . he’d actually apologized? She tried to swallow down the guilt, but it wouldn’t go; it just sat there, a great lump in her throat, burning and garlic-bitter on the back of her tongue. How worried must her parents be, for her father to suggest he come to Panthea? He hated the city.
Her fingers trembled above the digitablet. She had to write Phae. And her father, too; she had to reassure him, convince him to stay away. But what could she say? She couldn’t promise him a visit, couldn’t promise him anything, not even her own safety. She couldn’t tell him the truth.
She pounded a hand on the table. For the first time since Dianthe had shaved her head, Aris hated Aristos. She hated the need for a disguise. If women were allowed in Military as themselves, she wouldn’t have to lie to her parents or Phae. Or Calix. She could at least tell them what she was doing, if not where exactly she was. They’d understand, then, why she couldn’t be there—
“Mosquito! We’re dying of old age over here!” Dysis yelled. Galec and Otto were staring at Aris, and now several other soldiers glanced up.
“I have to—”
“You have to get over here,” Dysis interrupted, a warning in her eyes.
“Fine, fine,” Aris replied. “But it’s your burning.” She turned off the digitablet. She needed quiet anyway, to figure out what to say. This wasn’t the time. The room was crowded, all the sagging chairs full, and several other card games in progress. In one corner, a group of soldiers sprawled on the floor watching the news. The noise wasn’t deafening, but it was definitely not quiet enough to think in here.
Otto whistled. “Big words from a little man.”
“And little words from a big man,” Dysis retorted.
Galec groaned.
Aris flopped onto the stained, deep-cushioned chair across from him and tried to keep up with the banter. When Galec leaned closer to deal her a card, he met her eyes. “Are you well, Aristos? Bad news from home?”
Your mother is distraught. . . .
Aris locked the words away, did her best to shut off the part of herself that longed for her father’s embrace, longed to have danced at Phae’s wedding. She smiled. “I missed a friend’s wedding, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry. Makes the time feel even longer, when you can’t be home for important moments,” he said. “Was it a close friend?”
She nodded. “Yeah, she—”
“She?” Otto interjected.
For half a second, Aris forgot to breathe. Then she steeled herself to brazen it out. “Yeah, she, Otto. Don’t tell me you have no female friends.” She’d learned she could say just about anything without arousing suspicion as long as she made it sound like a challenge.
“None I tell Dori about,” he said, but he grinned, no sign of suspicion in his eyes.
Dysis swatted him with her hand of cards. “You’re a lug. Let Aristos talk.”
Aris sighed. “My friend, back home, she married another good friend. He was Military, too, got sent away when they were Promised. He was injured, though, so he’s back home, probably for good.”
Galec stared at his cards. “Was it bad?”
“Firebomb burned away half his face,” she said, glancing at the older man. “But he’s in pretty good shape, considering.”
“It’s a tough break,” he said, “something like that happening. But at least he’s home. And your friend got to have her wedding day.”
Aris smiled, the pain in her heart easing. “You’re right. That’s the important thing.”
“Can we play now?” Otto flicked his cards at her. “You have a punch in the face waiting for you.”
Suddenly, a disembodied voice echoed from the stationpoint intercom. “All soldiers, report to the briefing room immediately.”
Aris stood as the room filled with the sound of squeaking chairs and thudding boots. “We don’t have a briefing scheduled for tonight.”
Dysis shrugged, her brow furrowing. “Maybe something’s happened.”
“It has,” Pallas said, unfastening his digitablet from its port and moving to join them. “I just saw it on the news. Ward Vadim is out of quarantine. She’s about to give a statement.”
•••
Aris sat with the rest of her unit, eyes locked on the monitor at the front of the briefing room. Commander Nyx, Major Vidar, and the other officers stood at attention along the wall.
“I must thank the people of Ruslana for your patience as I’ve recovered from my illness,” Ward Vadim said on-screen. She was standing before a panel of windows, probably in the lobby of the Ruslana Council Building. Beside her, Amadi Balias, Ward of Safara, stood at a respectful distance. What was he doing there?
“It has been a difficult journey, especially with the loss of my dear husband while I was unwell. I would not have been able to overcome these trials without the expertise of Atalanta’s finest menders and the support and well wishes I have received from all across the Five Dominions. I would like to assure you my illness has, finally, run its course, and I am now able to resume my duties as Ward of Ruslana.” She paused. Applause filled the room.
When her audience, a small group of reporters just off screen, quieted, she said, “I am as aware as you are that these are confusing, dangerous times with much at stake.”
Even bathed in the golden, wholesome lights they’d set up, Aris thought the Ward looked pale and thin. Then she remembered how she’d felt after her long illness and was impressed at how well the Ward looked after all, at the fact that she was actually standing.
Ward Vadim continued, “Therefore I felt it necessary to sit down with Ward Balias, as my first order of business, to discuss the reports of abuse to his people and atrocities on the battlefield in Atalanta. As Ward of Ruslana, it is my duty to give each person an opportunity to defend themselves against their detractors.”
Aris found Ward Balias’s expression unsettling; he was smiling a little, his chin held at an arrogant angle. In news vids, he often looked like he knew something the reporters didn’t and was pleased at the knowledge.
She glanced at Dysis. Her sectormate was tense, all of her attention and energy focused on the monitor.
“In our meeting,” Ward Vadim said, “Ward Balias laid out proof that the information my sources had gleaned was, in fact, misinformation. On each point of concern, he presented me with facts instead of conjecture, with truth to counter the lies.”
There were murmurs from the soldiers watching, so loud Lieutenant Daakon had to hush them. On Aris’s other side, Pallas stared silently at the screen, his face pale.
“As such,” Ward Vadim continued, “I have determined that the sanctions I instituted before my illness are not, in fact, in the best interests of the people of Safara. And indeed, they could be dangerous. I cannot in good faith continue a policy that has endangered the health and lives of everyday Safarans.”
Explosions of “What?” and “No!” sounded around the room. Aris’s own, “I can’t believe it!” blended into the uproar.
“Silence!” Lieutenant Daakon shouted.
Ward Vadim turned to look at the Ward of Safara. “But I am deeply concerned by your actions against Atalanta. I must caution you, Ward Balias, in pursuing this ill-advised war. The access to the Fex River you seek will only cause prolonged suffering and strain your dominion’s resources. With our newly agreed-upon trade terms, surely ongoing fighting is no longer necessary?”
The briefing room was suddenly eerily silent as the soldiers waited to hear Ward Balias’s response. Aris held her breath. Could this be the end of the war? Right now?
Ward Balias nodded, smiling wider, and all of Aris’s muscles tightened, as if she were caught between his strong, white teeth. As if she were his prey.
“Thank you, Ward, for meeting with me,” he said. “I applaud your decision and am grateful, on behalf of my people. It is a difficult time to be Safaran. Clean water has become our most precious commodity. We are still struggling to contain the resultant illnesses and st
arvation. My desire for access to the Fex River is only out of necessity; I cannot stand to watch my people die when I have the means, however unpleasant, to save them. Our new trade agreement with Ruslana will go a long way in sustaining the lives of Safaran children and their hard-working parents. And I will, of course, take your recommendations concerning our current conflict with Atalanta under advisement.”
Reporters began calling out their questions to the two Wards.
“Off,” Commander Nyx snapped, and the monitor went black. Lieutenant Wolfe and the other officers stood frozen, silent, as the room erupted in loud-voiced questions and conjecture. Lieutenant Daakon rubbed his chin, shaking his head in disbelief.
Major Vidar’s eyes narrowed and his lips twisted in disgust, and Aris knew what he was thinking, because she could feel her eyes narrow, her lips twist into the same expression.
She’d seen Ward Balias’s face. His glee. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted from Ruslana.
And it wasn’t going to stop him.
Chapter 30
When Elom came to release Galena from the bed, he brought her a brush so she could tidy her hair. He also gave her a new white robe and five extra minutes in the washroom. She cleaned up, reveling in the feel of clean fabric against her skin, the pleasing pull of the brush through her tangled hair—wishing she didn’t feel so suspicious of the new routine.
After she ate a meal of brown, tasteless soup and a hard chunk of bread, Elom invited her to sit on the chair by the bed. “It’s time for your statement,” he said.
Galena looked toward the door. Was there a camera crew? She heard nothing; the silence hadn’t changed in all the time that she’d been here. Glancing back at Elom, she narrowed her eyes. If she was the captive she felt like, why would he let a camera crew in? Why would he give her the opportunity to denounce her kidnapper?
“Will you be filming it?” Perhaps he would coach her on what to say, film it himself, and give the vid to that pretty reporter, as if he really were her mender, carefully managing her illness and stress after the death of her husband. What did he want her to say?
Elom bared his teeth in what she supposed was meant to be a smile. His bald head gleamed. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “One moment.” With that, he abruptly left the room.
Galena sat with her hands folded in her lap and awaited his return, because it was the only thing she could do. The one thing that kept her going was the very thing that had most assuredly led to her imprisonment—her job. She was Ward of Ruslana. Her absence from her post could only go on so long. They needed her. She couldn’t just disappear.
The door hissed open. Elom reentered the room. Galena sat up straighter and looked behind him for the news team. But he was alone, a small black digitablet in his hands. Why was he holding that? Did he mean to record her using the device?
Her confusion mounted when he placed it on her knees, as usual.
“Is it another report? I thought you said we were going to record my statement.”
Elom tapped the screen. “We are going to watch your statement.”
Galena froze. Slowly, the world tilted. What did he mean, watch? She hadn’t made any statement. How—
And suddenly there she was, her pale blond hair smoothed back in her habitual style, a flattering pink shirt warming the color of her cheeks.
“But, how . . . I don’t understand.” Galena whispered the words, felt them slip sluggishly though the rapidly closing space in her throat.
Because she wasn’t the only Galena speaking.
“I must thank the people of Ruslana for your patience as I’ve recovered from my illness,” the woman on-screen said. “It has been a difficult journey, especially with the loss of my dear husband while I was unwell . . .”
Galena’s hands and legs were shaking so hard Elom had picked up the digitablet and was holding it for her. He wanted her to hear every word, to watch her own mouth form each one.
“I would like to assure you my illness has, finally, run its course, and I am now able to resume my duties as Ward of Ruslana.”
NO!! Galena didn’t know if she screamed it aloud or only in her mind. She threw herself out of the chair to the door and scrabbled desperately to open it. It didn’t move. From a distance she could hear her voice, hijacked by that imposter, faint beneath the words clawing their way from her throat, “You can’t have my life! I won’t let you have my life!”
A sting. The cold fire of Elom’s medigun slid through her veins.
This time, she was grateful for the darkness.
Chapter 31
A shuddering crash yanked Aris from her dreams. Heart in her throat, she blinked against the utter black of the room; the wind didn’t so much whine as scream as it pummeled the thin outer wall behind her head.
A fist pounded against the door. “Haan, Latza. Up! Now!” As the door slid open, she threw a panicked hand to the back of her neck. She always slept with the diatous veil on, but—
The almost imperceptible smoothness of the device against her fingers addressed her most pressing fear. She was still Aristos.
“Report to the landing pad. Now.” Major Vidar’s voice rumbled louder than the storm.
“Yes, sir!” she responded, Dysis’s voice a softer echo.
Aris leaped from the bed and closed the door behind Vidar as he stalked down the hall.
Dysis touched the pad on the wall, and light flooded the room. “What’s going on?” she asked, her deep voice still thick with sleep.
Aris yanked on her pants and threw a shirt over her head. “I don’t know, but it can’t be good.”
A gust of wind buffeted the building.
As soon as they were dressed, they ran along the dimly lit hall toward the door that led to the fleet of wingjets.
Major Vidar was standing with Lieutenants Wolfe and Daakon at the edge of the landing pad, rain pummeling them.
Aris and Dysis skidded to a halt in the open doorway.
Vidar nodded toward the swirling mass of water and lightning that roiled beyond the yellowy lights of the landing pad. “Can you fly in this?” he shouted.
Aris glanced out into the flashing darkness and felt a shock of fear down her spine. Fly? In this? But she nodded, because she knew Major Vidar wouldn’t ask unless it was absolutely necessary.
“We got an emergency call from Tarik, a village in Southwest Mittaka.” Major Vidar briefed them as they ran to the nearest recon and transport. “There was a raid by Safaran troops, and several of our men were injured.” He stood by the wing of the transport, his face all hard lines and angles, wet with rain. He stared at Aris. “They can’t wait till morning.”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He turned away to look at Wolfe. The thin man gave a curt nod as another flash of lightning lit his ghost-pale face. They climbed into the transport with Daakon.
Aris and Dysis flung themselves into the smaller recon, snapping the dome closed as quickly as possible, though they were both already soaked.
“Can you really fly in this?” Dysis hissed.
Aris didn’t look at her. She flipped on the nav panel and felt the faint hum beneath her feet as the wingjet came to life. She squeezed the controls tightly, to calm her shaking hands. The rain clattered loudly against the glass dome.
She’d been caught in weather like this once in Lux. She’d been flying along the cliffs, just playing around, when a storm blew up out of nowhere, flinging her through the air as if she were a child’s kite. At first she’d panicked and fought against the wind, fought to steady herself, to push through the wild currents of air.
And she’d almost crashed.
But a fanax had been caught in the storm as well, and through the gray, whip-fast clouds, she’d seen it, flipping and coasting with the wind. The bird had let the gusts fling it through the air, only correcting when it got too near the cliffs. And slowly, circuitously, it made its way back to the grove, to its home among the scattering leaves.
She had fol
lowed, riding the currents of the storm, until it finally blew her out behind her parents’ house, and she’d landed, legs shaking and hands, wet with terror, clinging to the controls.
“I can do this,” she told Dysis, as she slammed the helmet on her head.
At first, it was like that day on the beach. They swayed and slid through the darkness, thrown by the wind. In the black, it was harder to tell the direction of the air currents, how close they were to land, but she kept an eye on the nav panel and felt the shudder of the wingjet in her bones, telling her which way to go. Lightning lit the sky with the precision of a sat-photo; rain stood out as individual drops of light against the black, over and over as they tumbled through the dark.
Thunder boomed. The recon shivered as if it were about to rattle apart.
“Oh Gods,” Dysis whispered, her deep voice shaking. “We’re going to die.”
Aris, busy at the controls, didn’t answer.
Gradually, as they moved away from Spiro, the lightning and crashing thunder eased, though rain continued to whip against the dome of the wingjet, leaving silvery trails along the glass.
“Aristos, any damage from the storm?” Major Vidar asked over the comms.
“No, sir. We’re fine.”
Dysis grunted under her breath, disagreeing.
“You?” Aris added.
“All fine,” Lieutenant Wolfe reported. He sounded as cool and remote as ever, and she wondered what it would take to break through his impassive shell.
“ETA ten minutes, Specialist. Be on your guard. There could be enemy fire.” Major Vidar’s voice crackled, gruff but otherwise expressionless, in her ear. Dysis shifted in her seat, hands ready on the gun controls.
But as they flew over Tarik, the land beneath them and the sky around them stayed quiet. No flashes of airfire lit the night, no attack set the nav panel beeping. Even the lightning had subsided; all Aris could see were faint strikes in the distance. The only sounds were the hiss of static over the radio and Dysis’s breathing. A faint orange flickered far beneath them. Even with the rain, the village still burned.
The Diatous Wars 1: Rebel Wing Page 14
