I fling my plane into a spin.
All of her shudders with a slight stall, all of me weightless for a moment. “Reckless,” the instructors would call it. “Save it for battle, son,” they’d say. I’m not worried. They’ve never seen my true instinct in the air, how the plane becomes mine, how it becomes a part of my very soul. Hands on the trim and feet on the rudder. Sky goes over sky, my stomach wheeling with it. Heart pounding with exhilaration. It’s like rocking through an invisible swell of waves, a cartwheel of colours, the dawn sea of clouds below, then above, then to the side.
Then sharp orange sun again and I squint, blinded, a large shadow hurtling at me from one o’clock.
I haul back on the stick and throw the plane right.
“Awake now, Athan?” Familiar laughter crackles over the earphone, another plane’s engine growling dangerously close above my canopy.
“Damn it, Cyar!”
He’s still laughing, circling back around. A perfect attack from the sun, I’ll admit that. “And this is why you’ll end up shot down one day,” he announces. “Too busy daydreaming.”
“That was a perfectly executed flick-roll, in fact.”
“Perfectly off course too.”
“Jealousy,” I say. “I’ve seen your rolls—a little too much slip.”
“Yes, and I’m also finished and heading back. Should we expect you around noon?”
“Not if I happen to run out of fuel in those mountains.”
There’s a sound from him. A snort of laughter if I had to guess. Cyar Hajari’s the only one who skims the surface of my discontent, but he’ll never get any further. The truth of my charades would hurt him most. They bunked us together when we first arrived here six years ago, both of us wide-eyed and far from home. He showed up at my door, brown-skinned, black-haired—exactly the opposite of me—and was from Rahmet, the last region to join Savient. A place of lizards and lemon trees. I only knew about it from campaign reports on the wireless radio and from black-and-white newsreels, and since most boys my age were too scared to talk to me, being the General’s son, I expected the same from him.
And I was right.
He hid in his bunk that first night, silent, but I caught him crying over his photographs of home. It was the deep hiccupping sort of grief my father would have cuffed me for, and I’d never seen a boy cry. At least I wasn’t the only one feeling alone.
I knew, then, he’d be my friend.
“Just follow me, would you?” Cyar says now, his plane fading through the layers of smoky cloud.
“If you insist.”
We’re far enough from Academy airspace that no one’s listening to our conversation. Cyar always tries to cover for me up here, and I try to do the same for him on the ground, fixing his math calculations when he isn’t looking. He’s the only person who knows I’m more than my last name, who understands that, but still expects my best in the sky. He believes in me. Which is actually a lot more terrifying than the cold and simple expectation of my father. Expectations can be worked around. Negotiated, if you’re clever. But loyalty—and I know this better than most—is what you die for.
Loyalty is deeper than blood.
We emerge into the brightened world below, motorcars winding down roads, locomotives hissing steam. Cyar quickly finds the tracks and final objective, an old army depot buried beneath a crop of trees. I jot down the time in my flightbook. A perfect twenty-five minutes behind schedule. I can forget being an officer in Top Flight, or even an enlisted pilot, for that matter. Which puts me right on target. I’m aiming to fly in transport. Then I can be stationed at home, and fade from Father’s radar, and then—mountains.
I’m still trying to figure out how to talk Cyar into it, too. His noble soul isn’t built for deception.
“Start studying your maps better,” he instructs. “We’ve only got five weeks left, and I can’t help you on test day.”
“I know.” I fly above him.
“And we’re both making Top Flight. I’m not going to the squadrons without you.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, hating how easy the lie’s become.
“Just have to follow the river south.” Must be checking his map. “Fifty miles back.”
“As long as you know where you’re going.”
“What are you saying, Dakar?”
I make a tight spin to the left, wings dropping, gaining airspeed so fast my stomach leaps to my throat. Cyar tries to keep up with the wild spiral, but it’s too late. I’ve already swung around behind him. He’s in my gunsight.
I grin. “When I’m an ace, I’ll need a wingman who knows how to get me home.”
Cyar groans. “You’re not half-bad when you focus.”
“Be sure to write your girlfriend about this one,” I say. “Tell her how splendid my flick-rolls are and how I nearly shot you down.”
“Sorry, she doesn’t like blonds.”
That’s how it goes, the whole fifty miles back.
Tall lights appear eventually, guiding us to the wide hangars and brick barracks of the Academy. Flags flicker in the dawn breeze, bearing the Safire ensign—a fox between two swords—and runways crisscross along the western side.
Control directs us back onto the circuit and gives clearance to land. Cyar goes first, a perfect show. Wheels kiss the tarmac lightly, then a gradual deceleration. I follow behind and make sure to come down at a ridiculous speed, jolting the plane against the runway with a rookie’s charm. That’ll earn some frowns from the flight instructors.
At rest by the hangars, the propeller spins to a stop and I look at my crumpled map again. It’s a damn mess. Lines here and there and everywhere. No one’s going to believe I found the proper objectives based on this.
I jump down from the wing to begin post-flight checks. Cyar settles his plane, then jogs over. “Let’s see the nightmare,” he says, gesturing for my flightbook.
“I lost it.”
“Right. That will go over—” He freezes, looking past me, eyes wide.
Alarm grazes my pulse.
Let it be Torhan. Let it be only Torhan. Let it be—
I turn. Oh, God. It’s Major Torhan indeed, standing by the airfield fence, arms crossed. And next to him?
The ruler of Savient.
General Dakar.
My father.
They’re discussing something intently, waiting in the silver light, eyes trained on us. No, on me. Who am I kidding? I move to climb into the cockpit. “Well, I’m off to get lost again. Mountains, hopefully.”
Cyar shoves his map and flight plan at me, hidden by the shadow of the plane. “Take them.”
“No.”
“Take them!”
He’s going to make a scene. There’s no other choice but to accept his selfless offer. And just in time, too. Torhan waves, motioning me to them.
I draw a breath and square my shoulders. Here goes. There’s no sense fabricating answers in advance. Father’s stare tangles them up somewhere between the brain and the mouth, and I can’t afford that. Not at this point. If he figures out my mistakes are not from lack of talent, but deliberate self-sabotage, it’ll be the end of me. And he’s very good at figuring out lies. Just ask any man who dared betray him during ten years of revolution—I’m sure they were wishing for better answers as the ropes tightened on their wiggling necks.
But I walk towards Father as if it’s perfectly normal he’s decided to drop by and check on me. Like I have nothing to hide. I haven’t seen him in at least three months. He’s got a war in bordering Karkev to worry about, a land thick with corruption that’s also conveniently a chance to demonstrate his military might to every royal kingdom in the North.
When you’re the youngest son, you tend to end up lower on the priority list.
And that’s fine with me.
Major Torhan wears a formal smile as I approach. I return it. Father offers nothing, dressed in his grey Safire uniform, green eyes examining close enough I feel them hit my bones. If I wasn’t so well practiced with it—his stare—I’d be sweating a hell of a lot more right now.
“A rather rough landing today,” Torhan observes.
“Came in too fast, sir. Tailwind.”