I swipe at his arm. “I hope those aren’t your opening remarks to the General.” I notice, then, that nestled against his elegant green coat is a ceremonial pistol. “And I hope you’re planning to take that off.”
“It’s custom,” Reni replies. “Father wore his to every diplomatic function.”
“But we’re insisting the Safire remove theirs. It doesn’t look right if we refuse to do the same!”
Reni shrugs. “Dogs are muzzled, not royalty.”
On that vain note, he marches back for the hall, waving for me, and I say a quick, fervent prayer to my father that Reni doesn’t begin a whole war in one day.
* * *
Outside, the west entrance of the palace is bright with sun, its honey-coloured walls almost a glare. Etanian and Safire flags dance in the thick mountain wind, displayed in hopeful unity, and courtiers wait along the wide stone steps with chiffon skirts blowing, music sparkling amid the excitement. All eyes are on the long runway before us.
Reni and I stand on either side of Mother as she waits quietly, regally, at the top of the open-air steps in a maroon gown trimmed with gold, her chin raised and my father’s crown glimmering on her black hair. It’s a rare occasion for her to wear it. But today it gleams, luminous as she, a glorious reminder to the kingdom that there is nothing to fear and she rules in splendour. But there’s still a tiny tremor nearly hidden. She fingers the lace detailing of her skirt, and I wish I could squeeze her hand in reassurance.
On the tarmac, the two Safire fighters have landed, silver pipes along their nose trailing exhaust. The wind smells strongly of petrol and smoke. In the distant sky, a larger aeroplane appears, wide-winged and imposing. We watch it lower, hitting the runway with a high-pitched screech. It’s very large, propellers on either side, and the wings rattle as it brakes, swaying side to side slightly. There’s a fox-and-crossed-swords crest painted on the flank, and everyone lining the steps ceases their chatter, tilting their heads, whispering now as if their words might already be heard by the General himself.
One of the Safire pilots leaps down from his now idle fighter. His red hair is ablaze in the sun. The second pilot walks over, and they light up their cigarettes without even a glance at the royal court waiting nearby. Etanian ground crew attempt to speak to them, but they ignore it, striding for the large plane, trailing smoke like their fighters.
Mother flicks her hand. The royal guards on the tarmac come to attention.
Safire uniforms emerge from the General’s plane as the metallic creature hisses in the sun, steel and aluminum pieces settling. They march down the stairs, appearing confident, but none of them look quite like General Dakar—at least, not as far as I know. I’ve only ever seen a few distant photographs in the newspapers. It’s not until the two Safire pilots stamp out their cigarettes and straighten that I think we must be nearly to him. A man with dark skin appears at the top of the stairs. His uniform’s richly medaled, his head swiveling round to take in the runway and palace.
“Admiral Malek,” I hear one lord say knowingly to a nearby friend.
Then the Admiral is down the stairs and another tall, grey-clad figure looms in the door of the plane.
The General, at last.
He pauses there for a long, weighted moment, surveying the world before him. His gaze moves from the line of royal guards to the stone steps and then on up to Mother beneath the arched facade. He smiles.
Descending the stairs, he greets Lord Marcin and Lord Jerig with handshakes. They both put on a good show, thank the stars, then Admiral Malek and the General walk across the tarmac together, the General offering those he passes a formal, yet affable, nod.
When they stride up the palace steps, he’s still wearing his polite smile, and Mother returns it. It’s her polished one that radiates certainty. The General drops into a short bow before us. The rest of his Safire party, following behind, do the same.
“Your Majesty,” he says. “At last we’ve arrived. We’re honoured to be your guests.”
Mother dips her chin in respect. “You’re most welcome in Etania, General. The honour is ours.”
I can’t help but stare at him, now only a few feet from me. He towers over her, his face angled and weatherworn, dark chestnut hair greying, and he speaks Landori with a pleasant accent, his voice low and graveled.
He turns to Reni. “This must be your prince. Nearly a man grown, I see.”
Reni conjures a sudden smile. “Welcome to our kingdom, General.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“I must say,” Reni continues, “your remarkable reputation precedes you, and we have enjoyed following all you do with an attentive eye, particularly in Karkev.”
Stars, I’d like to slap Reni for that, but the General simply tilts his head and says, “Is that so? Well, I hope you’re learning something.”
Reni’s expression tightens, and Mother laughs, the kind that makes everything seem light, motioning me forward. “And this is my star, my daughter.”
“Ah, yes.” He glances at me. “Pretty as your mother. They must say that often.”
“It’s truly an honour to meet you,” I say. “We’re grateful you’re willing to grace us with your distinguished presence.”
“You are kind.”
His green eyes study me, as if waiting, and I’d rather not disappoint, not after Reni’s jab. I nod at his fighter planes nearby. “It’s been said, General, your aeroplanes are the most impressive in all the world. Perhaps while you’re here, you might be willing to give us a demonstration. We’d be quite thrilled.”
Reni looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.
The General turns to Mother, smiling. “I think I like your girl best.”
He offers me no further reply, nor any acknowledgment of my compliment. He even turns his back slightly so our conversation is clearly ended, and my cheeks sting a bit. The Admiral beside him looks me up and down, a cursory appraisal, detached, and it feels like the entire world has just witnessed my rebuffed attempt at diplomacy.
The entire world except for one.
Violet’s standing a few steps away in her tempting emerald gown, beautiful, lit by sun, and oblivious to my miserable ex change with the General of Savient. She’s happily occupied with something else—the red-haired Safire pilot. He’s gulping her in without shame, confident as a strutting cock, and she blushes with that breathless delight that makes him try even harder.
“Let’s move inside,” Mother says. “This wind is strong, isn’t it?” She smiles again. Always smiling, no longer a tremor to be seen. “In the mountains, weather can change with the moment. We’ll be sure to safekeep your planes inside our hangar.”
She motions Reni and me to her, and we head through the tall doorway for the cooler halls of Hathene Palace. Marching boots echo in the quiet. The music’s long since ceased. Palace guards approach when we reach the grand staircase of the main foyer, decorated now with large porcelain vases of Etanian orchids and Savien chamomile. The tender white flower with its sunny yellow middle seems entirely dissonant alongside the men it represents.
Mother addresses the Safire. “As was agreed upon prior to your arrival, I will now ask each of you to lay down your sidearm. This is a peaceful meeting and I wouldn’t wish to invite any opportunity for mistrust.”
No one mentions the fact that the Prince of Etania has a pistol strapped to his hip. The General simply nods and hands his over first, then waves his men forward. They go, one by one, Mother scrutinizing each with great attention, as if memorizing their details will keep them from entertaining trouble. The last to surrender their weapons are a younger pair, fresh-faced and lean. One with copper skin, and after him, a fair-haired boy.
Up close, they can’t be older than Reni, and Mother stares longest, a strange expression on her face.
“You’re starting them quite young these days,” she says to Dakar.
“We don’t spoil our boys in Savient,” he replies, glancing at Reni, which seems vaguely rude.
Mother raises one arched brow. “Indeed.”