“Father just—”
“I know,” she says, and there’s no reaction. Not a flinch or a tremor, only weary acceptance. She’s seen a thousand things from him. She’s seen worse.
I want to tell her what he said, the threat that now hangs over me, but I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know whether to lie or tell the truth or find somewhere in the middle, and she pushes me back, still gentle. “Are you going to make Top Flight, my love?”
Her question holds no mystery.
She wants to know whom I’ll choose. It’s the only question there’s ever been.
“I … I don’t know,” I admit. “My flying scores are too low, but perhaps they’ll put me here, in transport. I’d be closer to you then.”
She silences me with a feather of a finger. “Is that what you truly want?”
The clock on her table ticks away the midnight silence. One, two, three, four. It winds up my brain, ticking it into the stupid knot it always is. No, I want to shout at the entire world. There are a hundred things burning inside me and I don’t even know which one is true. I want to be away from here. I don’t want this life any more than I want my own body buried in the damn ground! But I also want to fly, every day if I can, because it’s the only place that feels right. I want to fly with Cyar, because the thought of him flying alongside some other pilot, some stranger who doesn’t even care about him the way I do, who won’t keep him safe, makes me feel like I’m kicking at walls and can’t get out.
But I don’t say it.
I don’t know if I’d be betraying her or myself.
“I know you’re confused,” she says softly, but firmly. She’s been made tiny from years in His shadow, light worn away, but somehow she’s still outside of it. “A mother knows the depth of her saddest child. She feels the pain of her most broken one. You were mine, but I gave you up long ago. Please don’t leave your brothers alone in this. Don’t choose me. I fear for what he will ask of them.” She peers up into my face, her grief holding the weight of an entire family.
I look at her helplessly. “But I’m not like them.”
“No, you’re not. They are earth and sea. They can only go so far until they run up against each other.” She touches my cheek. “But you are the sky, my love. You are limitless.”
The conviction in her eyes is too much. She thinks I’m better than them. She’s always thought that, earned or not, and it’s as unfair as Father’s threat, an expectation I can’t ever live up to. I’m selfish and rotten at the middle. I’m even as drunk as Arrin right now.
I don’t want to do what she asks.
I give her the briefest kiss on her cheek, then escape for my room, chased by guilt and frustration. I’m surprised to find Cyar waiting there, still a bit wide-eyed. He’s supposed to be in the guest room downstairs. Oh well. Don’t want to be alone tonight. I give him my bed and take the floor, and he gives me a torn glance before pulling the covers over himself.
He knows when to say nothing. But he wants to.
In the silence, the walls seem to shrink by the minute, caving, burying me alive. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I drift into the wide sea of memories from long ago, with smoldering towns, flashes of bullets, the smell of petrol and ash. I see a mangled corpse lying in a ditch. My brothers stare like it’s the carcass of a wild animal—nameless, forgotten—and Arrin kicks at the twisted limbs. He’s thirteen, godlike to me. Tall and unafraid. He can talk back to Father and take the punishment without flinching. He can run laps for hours, in the heat, in the mud, with Father cursing him every step. A fierce fire that never dies out. And all I want is for Arrin to look at me. All I want is for him to say my name and—
I close my eyes.
Nothing’s gained without sacrifice. Everyone seems to accept that but me.
6
AURELIA ISENDARE
Hathene, Etania
“Ah, you look lovely in blue, Aurelia.”
“You say that about every colour I wear.”
Heathwyn, my governess, smiles. “Because it’s always true.”
She pins my dark hair with a maroon feather clip, her aging hands soft and warm, her own hair brown and greying. In the mirror, my silk dress gathers in all the right places. The rich hue illuminates my amber skin, still a bit paler from winter, and silver beading spirals across the bodice like lights and colours in a night sky. I raise my chin, as Mother would, pearl-drop earrings swinging.
I look seventeen already.
“Now please be courteous with the Ambassador tonight,” Heathwyn instructs. “I’ll not hear of any more impertinent comments. A smile and nothing less.”
I turn from the mirror, facing both my governess and the delicate chaos of my room—chiffon and lace dresses strewn across the bed, headbands of gem and pearl scattered, textbooks towering and filled with notes for the university exams. “But I can’t smile at him.”
“You must.”
“I can’t.”
“But you will.”
And she’s right—I will. Such rotten luck, but I will.
At the banquet hall doors, I find Reni waiting for me between the marble pillars, dressed in a decorated military coat, though the only place he’s ever fired a gun is on a hunt. He offers an arm, and down the velvet promenade steps we go, smiling grandly.
Smiling, smiling, as we should.
Before us, a long table shimmers with crystal pitchers and silver platters, chandeliers casting a golden glow, illuminating the painted ceiling above, where wild elk arch their antlers before the immortalized form of Prince Efan, his resting sword decorated with peaceful pink orchids—the sacred flower of Etania—and a fox crouched loyal at his feet. Each represents an aspect of the man who began our Northern dynasty six hundred years ago, a man who was brave and gentle and clever at once. I’m sure in Landore they have the same glorious painting, except with their own sacred white roses on display. Every kingdom honours Efan.
Mother stands near the head of the table, dressed in a taffeta gown of gold, tiny mauve flowers stitched into the waist and trailing down to the hem, her chin held high despite the tension of the General’s impending visit that permeates the court. She shows no fear, sharpened by a crown she never asked to wear and steeped in the patience of a woman forced to navigate the council of men. In Resya, it’s custom for friends to greet each other with a kiss, and she places one now on the bearded cheek of her oldest and most loyal advisor, Lord Marcin. She bestows this honour only on family and those she trusts intimately. It’s an elusive gift, one the men of our court crave. Anything to prove they’re beloved of Boreas Isendare’s ruling widow.
And as for Havis?
I spot him standing in a corner by himself, sipping a very full glass of red wine, stifling a yawn. Stars. But I give him a polite nod, the most I can muster, and he raises his brimming drink in my direction.
“Try a bit harder in public, couldn’t you?” Reni whispers.
“Not until I find out what’s in his rotten letter.”
I can’t help but wonder if it might be about me, a marriage proposal mixed in with his other more political requests, but my brother only grimaces through his smile. A princely feat.
The ladies of court, dressed in beaded gowns and draped in silken evening shawls, part respectfully when we arrive at the table. Lord Marcin and Uncle Tanek and the rest of Mother’s council, all of them in tailcoats, bow from the neck. The retiring Colonel Lyle, whose party this is, stands with his entourage from the Royal 3rd Squadron, each wearing a uniform inlaid with the gold and green of the Etanian flag. It’s a pretty picture of harmony, which is a relief considering the war of opinion beyond our palace gates.
“Beautiful darling,” Mother says, taking my hand. She kisses my left cheek, then the other, trailing a scent of jasmine. “What a gown this is! Sapphire goes lovely with your dark hair. You’re breathtaking, my little star. Is she not, Lord Marcin?”