Wondering how her new admirer is enjoying the show, I peek over my left shoulder to where the Safire soldiers are seated across the aisle. Cock leans forward in his chair, his captivated gaze on Violet. Beside Cock is the pilot who flew the second fighter plane, the one with jet-black hair and high, handsome cheekbones. There’s a weary weight to his head. I follow the line of Safire and realize they each appear quite bored—or perhaps quite tired—with the exception of Cock.
Movement at the end of the row catches my attention. I peer harder in the low lights, realizing it’s the blond boy, the daredevil, discreetly waving at me. He makes a spinning motion with his hand, kept low behind the seat, then places it to his chest, face something like regretful.
I give him a confused shake of my head. At least his hair’s finally combed.
He tries again, a bit more dramatic, though still low enough not to be seen by those around him. It’s the worst kind of charades, and I stare at him, baffled.
Reni nudges me sharply. “Violet’s singing,” he whispers.
I face forward again as she reaches her highest note. The violins swell, and she lifts a hand, like she’s the star of the North. Rousing applause greets her. Then the lights lower, instruments shifting hands, a horn sounding in the darkness, and she begins a song in Savien.
Both Reni and I turn to each other, stunned.
When did she learn this?
The strange words sound sharp along the edges, but the melody is haunting. A beautiful song that brings the room to perfect stillness.
I glance over my shoulder at the daredevil again. I can’t resist.
He’s still watching me, but there’s an annoyed look on his face now, like I’ve offended him somehow. I’ve no clue what he’s getting at. I try to convey that in the faint light, try to shrug at him without being noticed, and then, as if frustrated by me and the theatre and even this beautiful song in his own language, he gets up and marches down the aisle and abandons the show.
Just like that.
15
ATHAN
The music show is the end of my endurance and I can’t listen to another word of that miserable song.
Sinora picked it on purpose.
I know it.
The familiar words fade behind me as I escape the theatre, desperate to shut them out. Words about soaring hawks and seaweed fish and waves crashing on white cliffs. It’s a folk song from Mother’s home. The north of Savient, where mountain and water meet. She used to sing this same song to me during the revolution, drowning out the night gunfire, promising me over and over that the flashing lights on the horizon were too far away to hurt us.
Grief twists my anger, aching.
I’ll never hear her voice again. Not now or any day until I die.
And it’s because of Sinora Lehzar. Sinora, who knew who I was the moment she looked at me, a razor question in her gaze. She’s the face from the photograph on Father’s desk, beautiful and hard, wielding something far more formidable than a gun—a gold crown.
“Slow down,” Cyar calls at my back.
“I’m not listening to that poison.”
“It’s just a song, Athan.”
From anyone else, the comment would snap the thin restraint inside me. But it’s him. And he says it in his usual honest way, calling a spade a spade, and maybe it is too ridiculous to think Sinora could have known this song, this one song, was mine.
I slow my stride.
At least he’s talking to me again. Up until now, he hasn’t said more than one full sentence. For Cyar Hajari, that’s approaching merciless. He blames me for giving in to the Etanian pilots and their obnoxious goading, and now we’re both marked spies. That’s a bit true, since I could have turned back when they suggested Safire pilots are only able to fly with fancy machines. But how could I let that go? And how was I supposed to know aerobatics are forbidden this close to the palace? They should have mentioned it. Cyar says I should have asked.
Yes, because my family always asks before acting.
“I just want to sleep,” I admit to him, rubbing at my raw headache. The long day of travel, the time adjustment—it’s ruined us all. Well, all of us except Garrick, since that girl on stage might as well have been singing for him alone. “When are we up for watch?”
“Three in the morning,” Cyar says with his own look of woe. He’s as excited as I am about the prospect of babysitting airplanes in a cold hangar.
Together, we walk the silent halls for our guest rooms. Everyone important is still perched in their theatre chairs, and I think of the Princess watching me with her perplexed little look, pretty eyes and full lips ruined by the same disease of Norvenne. That displeased, royal frown. Reminding us we’re strange foreign creatures, baffling and base, to be endured only until no longer needed.
We turn the corner for the Safire apartments and find two figures standing together in the low evening lights. It’s Malek and a rich-looking Etanian man.
“The shipment went to your eastern airbase,” Malek says quietly, “so it should be easy to unload. I trust you have the proper way to disperse it?”
“Indeed,” the man replies, sounding pleased. “I’m well-connected, I assure you. On paper we have it bound for the Queen’s Mounted Regiment.”
It takes my distracted brain this long to realize I understand them not because they’re speaking Landori but because they’re speaking Savien, and I stare at the mustached man.
An Etanian lord knows Savien?
Malek spots us walking towards them, and steps away.
“The show over, Lieutenant?” he asks me.
“We left early.”
Malek gives me an examining look, like I’m the one discussing logistics with one of Sinora’s men. But I remember the lord now. He was at her side when we arrived. He didn’t look so friendly then. A bit hateful, actually.
Now the man offers me a meaningful smile on his way by, the sort that implies we’re in on the same secret. I’m the wrong person for that. But I give him the same smile in return, because I’ve learned it’s always best that people at least think you know the secrets.
“Good evening, Lord Jerig,” Malek says.
“Pleasant evening, Admiral.”
The man disappears down the hall.
Then Malek nods at me. “Lieutenant,” he says simply, and since I find the man intimidating even on a normal day, I say, “Admiral,” and keep walking for our room.
Cyar shuts the door once we’re inside and turns on me.
“Tell me what you know, Athan.”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, but his glare is still suspicious.
I wave my hands in surrender. “All right. There was a shipment of vintage weapons. It’s a royal tradition to share these things. They use them in parade.” The excuse sounds even worse now that I’m saying it out loud. I must have been really tired when Kalt used it on me.
Cyar looks at me hard, clearly deciding whether to let it go or force the discussion further. Then he shakes his head and begins unbuttoning his uniform, shedding it quickly and dropping into bed.
I make it as far as my shirt. “I swear I don’t know anything else, Cyar. I’d tell you.”
He says nothing, dark hair buried in the pillow.
Guilt leaves me standing there, half-dressed, because I do know more. I know that if I don’t get the royal siblings to talk to me, if I don’t show up with something useful at the end of this week, it will be Cyar facing enemy planes without any kind of tactical advantage. Possibly in an entirely different squadron from mine.
Sinora’s supposed to burn—I want that.
But Cyar is a different matter, and holding this secret feels like uncomfortable power.
I strip off the rest of my uniform, hating the feel of satin sheets on my bare skin, hating how it smells like Sinora’s lair all around me. And then I force myself to close my eyes.
There’s a knock at the door within moments. Or at least that’s how it feels.
“Get up bootlickers,” Garrick orders. “Your turn to watch the birds.”
I push from bed, groggy, and everything feels stiff. I’d like to ignore him and say to hell with the fighters. Who’d touch them, anyway? But Cyar’s already standing, pulling on his shirt. Can’t let him go alone.