When we step through doors and into the entrance hall, we’re greeted by unexpected chaos. Well-dressed lords surge by, calling for their stewards, panicked like a bunch of colourful fish out of water.
“Thank God you’re here!” one exclaims, his only greeting to Father. He’s heavyset, stuffed into ridiculous velvet pants, and I don’t dare look at Cyar. We’ll both laugh. “The news arrived an hour before you, General. They’ve seized Hady! The Nahir. Overwhelmed us, caught us by surprise, and then”—the man looks like someone’s squeezing him from the inside out—“and then they hung the city consul and two of his advisors. God in heaven!”
Amusement about the velvet pants disappears.
Father glances at Arrin, then back. “Hady? The port city?”
“Yes,” the man moans. “They’ve access to the river and canal now. To the sea! How could they have organized such an attack?”
“How indeed?” Father shakes his head.
“Please, General. His Majesty is already in discussion with the council, and awaits your contribution to the matter. General Windom is also here. An old friend of yours, I hear.”
“Yes.” Father smiles. “It has been a while.”
I remember Windom from the years when we first moved to Valon. He was the first Landorian official to consider Father’s rule legitimate. He came in the summer with his daughter, touring the factories where the Safire airplanes and tanks were being produced at record speed, watching the impressive wealth steaming in on trains from the mountains. He was the first to see Savient’s promise—and believe in it. Now, apparently, the two of them are conspiring together over the South.
Father never forgets an ally.
The velvet-man brightens. “I’m confident the pair of you can concoct a grand strategy.” He glances to Arrin. “And bring your son. Certainly the hero of Karkev will have much to offer.”
God, they’re worshipping Arrin here, too?
But my brother pales slightly at the request. I give a questioning look, and he turns his back on me, which he can do now. Father ordered me to adopt Mother’s long-forgotten surname, Erelis, for the time being, as a safety measure.
“You’re young and untried,” Father said, “and I don’t want you in any crosshairs.”
So far, Arrin’s doing a great job of pretending I’m nothing but a speck of a junior officer to him.
They stride off to meet with General Windom, and Kalt stares after them, left behind.
Cyar glances at me. “A bunch of Southern rebels have overrun the Landorian army and taken an entire city hostage?” he asks in Savien, so none of the lingering footmen understand. “I hope the King doesn’t expect us to get it back for him.”
“My father can only hope,” I reply.
Cyar gives a short laugh. Reality must finally be dawning on him.
I offer him my bag. “Officer Hajari, could you carry this to my quarters?”
“Don’t get any ideas, Lieutenant.”
“That’s insubordination, Hajari. A punishable off—”
The nearby footman takes my bag quickly, then Cyar’s, and says, “Right this way, gentlemen,” politely waving us to follow.
We both gape like he’s offered to carry us, too.
“Dear God,” Kalt says, brushing me on the way by. “It’s like you came off a farm.”
But apparently this is real, and men are here to serve us—actually serve us—so we shrug and follow them, grinning, into the maze of gilded halls.
* * *
King Gawain hosts a reception in our honour that night. It’s held in a marble pavilion overlooking the sea, a more casual affair which is probably out of consideration for Father’s disdain of court formality, but still feels a bit like being talked down to. Like we can’t quite handle the full spectacle of a royal feast—the manners and the servants and the fifty silver forks to choose from. Violins mix with the stir of the evening tide, and brass tables—most with spirals of Southern flair, an exotic novelty—overflow with food and wine while courtiers, ambassadors, and military elite clink glasses in the salty breeze.
I find myself sympathizing with the exotic tables. Everyone’s staring at us in our Safire uniforms, like we’re foreign creatures that don’t quite fit. The Landorian officers chuckle behind glasses of brandy, dressed in their deep blue tailcoats and gold sashes. They all look the same—fair-skinned and well-bred and haughty. I can see the curiosity in their eyes as they study Admiral Malek, with his dark skin and many medals, every Safire uniform paying him deference. In their world, leadership looks only one way. I’m sure they’d question even Cyar—if they cared about two young pilots—for not fitting their ideal mold. I’m suddenly very proud of Savient. We might not have a palace the size of a city, but we do have a military where respect is earned and given on nothing but actual merit.
The girls in silk dresses aren’t much better.
“That one seems to have her eye on you,” Cyar observes, nodding discreetly at a blonde with a feathered wrap in her hair. She’s clearly appraising my value, the feather large enough she looks like she might topple.
I flick an olive into the air and catch it in my mouth. “You think?”
“Yes—and don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll just prove everyone right.”
I don’t care. If I’m going to be a novelty, I may as well make it worthwhile.
Gawain sweeps among his guests, large and formidable in a suit covered with emblems and medals. I’m not sure where he’d have won anything—certainly not on a battlefield—but he’s still striking in his own way. As tall as Father, with a grey beard kept trim, his face tan and soft from years of being well fed. He’s like the rounded lions carved into the arches of this pavilion. He also has three daughters, the eldest of whom possesses wide brown eyes and ample curves. Arrin’s predictably intrigued. He offers her wine, escorts her to a table with gallant flourish, but she rebuffs every attempt like he’s some mutt-dog getting under her feet. When he nabs the seat beside her, her polite disinterest flashes to temper.
Not a good game to play. Not with our base in the South depending on Gawain’s seal of approval.
“Keep an eye on him,” Father mutters to me, before moving on.
What am I supposed to do? Swat Arrin’s hand? I’m only an Erelis here.
I take the seat across from them and give a clear warning look, but Arrin pretends not to see. He’s busy bragging about his exploits in Karkev, routing the enemy and all that. She keeps her eyes on the food before her, stoic, but eventually her resolve weakens.
Arrin Dakar always wins a stalemate.
“Congratulations, Commander,” she says, adjusting a string of jewels around her neck. “You won a war in some backwater kingdom. I hope those farmers didn’t give too much of a fight.” She has a porcelain doll’s pout, entirely the opposite of Arrin’s normal red-lipped finds. She’s like something made of air or glass, perfect from every angle, and I like watching her. It’s enjoyable in a strange, frustrating sort of way.
“Those farmers with field guns, Your Highness?” Arrin grins. “No, we hardly broke a sweat. The only reason it took two years was because we quite liked the cold and didn’t want to leave so soon. The mountains in Karkev are stunning. Have you been?”
“I’ve no interest in visiting a corrupt place like that.”
“You’d prefer the heat? Then how about Thurn? There’s a rumour we’re headed there next.”
She fidgets with her fork. Even that’s graceful. “Thurn is a wild place, Commander.”
“Then let me tame it, Your Highness. I’ll do it for you, in your name, because you deserve nothing less. I’ll make that hell into a paradise, fit for both your crown and mine.”
She rounds on him. “You aren’t a prince! You’re a uniform and little else!”
Of course. That’s all we are in this room, to these people.
But Arrin tilts closer. “That’s not what most ladies say, not once they get beneath this uniform.”
She gasps.
It’s a damn good thing no one else heard that.
“Ignore him,” I say quickly. “He’s drunk.”