Sighing, Reni leans forward and kisses my forehead briefly, rare affection from him, and I look up, at his tired face. “We’ll get through this,” he says softly, certainly thinking of the illusionist’s stunt tonight. “Tomorrow is for us, isn’t it?”
They’re the words of our father, the thing he’d say when long meetings kept him away from us, when he had only time to pat our heads and promise us better the next day.
I nod, wanting to savour Father’s promise, but I feel dark, dark, dark and void of colour.
The sun, rising and falling.
II
MURDER
7
ATHAN
Rahmet, Savient
The four-hour flight from Valon to Rahmet is as miserable as expected. My family sits tense in the airplane, too small a space for all of us at once, and my hungover head throbs to the beat of propellers. Far below, the land changes from faint green to sparse brown, powerful bluffs rising up amid a swath of red plains and feathered ravines. I try not to think about Cyar. He was desperate to come along, to see his home after months away. He longs for Rahmet the way I long for mountains. This is his earth, his sacred place, and I wish I’d had the courage to stand up for him. To ask Father to bring him along.
But I didn’t. And now I’m left weighing the facts of my life alone.
Cyar in Top Flight.
Me not in Top Flight.
Me translating wireless reports for twelve hours a day.
Me exposed as a traitor with my nose broken—or worse.
Father sits across the aisle from me now, working on his speech, his sleeves rolled up, the tattoos from his long-ago rebel life on display—crossed swords with a shrewd fox between them. His pistol is visible against his uniform, its bloodstains left behind on the cement at home, ready to be scrubbed up by some unfortunate bootlicker. And I wait for something. A glance, maybe. Even a flare of anger. Anything. He can’t destroy me and then pretend I don’t exist.
But I get nothing.
* * *
We arrive at the military base in Rahmet’s capital mid-afternoon. It’s a sprawling complex of sun-browned buildings and tiny gardens, flashes of colour everywhere. Sunflowers and red sage. Trees of purple jacaranda, pink hibiscus, sun-bright lemons. All the sights and flavours Cyar tries to describe when we’re huddled together during cold nights of field training. But on the drive from the dusty airfield, we also passed walls pockmarked with the wounds of bullets and mortars. Broken homes and ruined plazas. All of Savient looks like this in places, and even Valon has roads that lead nowhere, neighbourhoods destroyed and left as nothing.
Perhaps it feels wrong to rebuild on old bones.
While we wait by the base steps for our ride to the city square, where Father will give his speech, I study the intricate architecture of the skyline. My hand itches for a pencil, my uniform already wet with sweat against my neck. It’s damn hot.
Mother clings to Father’s arm, pale, the product of her many sleepless nights. “Don’t give your speech today,” she pleads. “Let’s wait until tomorrow. Only tomorrow.”
“I haven’t come all the way here to wait,” he replies, motioning for a nearby attaché.
“Then I’d like to stay here.”
“Sapphie, you know it means a lot to have you at my side.”
“Does it?” At her question, he glances back with a knife-sharp gaze, the sort that might make anyone else cower. But she only straightens. “I’m afraid.” There’s a tremor that belies her boldness. “I don’t want to be on those streets today. I want to stay here.”
Father doesn’t respond to that. A convoy of shiny black mo torcars has grumbled to a halt before us, men getting out and saluting, and Father nods at each. Mother’s fear is swept aside by protocol. We all move to get in the nearest car, but she remains where she is, planted with arms tucked around herself.
Father waves a hand, wearied of her. “I don’t need this. If you wish to stay, fine. Athan will stay with you.”
I step back from the car. An indirect order.
“No, let me,” Arrin says out of nowhere.
Father turns with a frown. “You?”
Arrin nods.
There’s a moment of silence, Father deliberating, and we all wait for the inevitable dismissal of Arrin’s request. If anyone should be on that podium, it’s the decorated eldest son with his medals. Not to mention, Mother and Arrin left alone together would probably end in anarchy.
But Father relents. “All right. Athan will stay too.”
Kalt gets his little wisp of a smile, the one that’s silently pleased with the outcome of events. Now he’s the only son to be seen with Father. They climb into the car and it’s Leannya who pauses at the door. She looks divided, no doubt regretting any decision that takes her away from Arrin, tiny gold shadow that she is. But she offers us an embarrassed wave, an innocent betrayal, then slides in beside Kalt.
“Don’t forget to wear your sun hat,” Mother calls.
“I won’t,” says Leannya’s voice from the window.
The convoy springs to life, spitting up thick dust, and the three of us left behind stand awkwardly. I tug at my sweaty collar.
“Let’s walk in the gardens,” Mother says to me.
“Now?” Arrin asks behind her. “At least wait until it cools off.”
“It’s the only place beautiful here.” She’s still talking to me.
Arrin opens his mouth, and I cut him off with a sharp look. He rolls his eyes but stops, surprisingly cooperative today.
“A walk would be nice,” I lie, giving Mother a reassuring smile.
She returns it.
In the compound garden, there’s not much to see. We loop the fragrant yard on an old dirt path lined with flowers and spiked agave, one fountain sputtering warm water in the middle. Mother clutches her arms to her chest as she goes. She glances up at the apartment buildings beyond the high walls. We follow ten feet behind, giving her space. We both look ridiculous, dressed in our best uniforms—Arrin with his medals—and wandering this trail in uncomfortable silence.
I pluck a tiny lemon and put it in my pocket. For Cyar. Academy food usually tastes like old newspaper, and he’s relentless in his attempts to improve it with the dried herbs his sister sends.
Cheers rise from the nearby square, drifting in the heat. Malek’s voice echoes over a microphone. He applauds the Rahmeti people for their loyalty and courage during unification. It’s always the same shiny words. In my mind, I see a young Cyar, hiding in his basement with soldiers bleeding on the floorboards above his head, an entire town decimated by shells, ripped apart at the seams.
Loyalty and courage.
“Father’s rather furious with you,” Arrin observes.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I reply.
Anger’s still hot inside me. I’m certain it was Arrin who told Father about my seventh-place standing. Arrin who would have made a deal of it and suggested that maybe I wasn’t trying entirely hard enough, whispering my treason.
He shrugs after a moment. “I’m sure it was the same speech we’ve all heard. How he didn’t sacrifice everything to have such a lousy, useless, rotten son. Am I right?” There’s a trace of humour in his voice.
“Maybe,” I say, annoyed he’s right.
Mother sits down on a bench to adjust her sandals. We stop, keeping distance.
“You’re carrying the tradition,” he continues, “and you had it coming. Don’t look at me like that—you did. Trying to flunk out of the squadrons without Father noticing. Are you an idiot?”
“Better than your brand of it.”
Father’s amplified voice drifts over the walls.
“Some men look to the stars to find their destiny. Some men wait on fate. But Savient leaves stars and fate to lesser men, for we forge our own destiny and shape it to our will. Soon the war in Karkev will be won…”
Arrin points at the square. “Are you listening to those words? Are you really hearing them? That’s our father. That’s what you’re up against and you think you can win by playing the fool?”