“I follow, sir. Though I don’t think you’ll need to worry about any laces untied with me.”
I regret the words the moment I say them, right as they’re leaving my tongue, but it’s too late to call them back and there they are.
He shoves a furious finger in my face. “The next time you speak to me like that, I’ll punish Hajari for it. I doubt you’d be so bold if you had to watch him run fifty laps at midnight.”
Cyar looks up from where he’s been cleaning his boots, alarmed.
He has no idea how mild this threat really is, comparatively.
But I nod. Garrick disappears back out the door, perhaps off to grope his fancy girl some more, the girl who certainly won’t bother to remember him after this week, and I give Cyar a repentant look. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize yet. But please don’t let it get to the point where you need to.”
Reluctantly, I pull on my shirt again, then my uniform, then my muddy boots. A cold, lonely hangar. Until dawn. I gather my sketchbook pages, then realize Cyar’s dressing as well. I give him a dismissive wave, but he pulls on his gloves anyway.
“I’m not letting Sinora murder you without me there. I couldn’t live with that.” He glances at the page in my hand. “Is that the Princess?”
I hide it quickly. “No.”
“Yes, it is. I just saw it.”
“So?”
He sighs. “You shouldn’t be spending time with her. She doesn’t seem to have anything useful to offer, and you’re not very good at separating how you feel from the job that needs to be done. You know that.”
I haven’t told him about the murder confession. Maybe I’m hoping I’ll forget.
“True, but I need to learn,” I say. “Otherwise I’ll never get a squadron. And then I’ll have to take orders from goddamn Garrick the rest of my life.”
He doesn’t smile. “Be careful, Athan. There’s no talking yourself out of this one if it goes bad.”
“I can talk my way out of anything.”
“But can she?”
I don’t like that question. I don’t like it because it reminds me there’s another person involved in this. I like having my own things to control, my own problems and solutions. The prospect of flying with Cyar is stressful enough, having to worry about him when the sky’s on fire. I don’t want to worry about this girl a world away whose mother is destined to burn.
But I do.
21
ATHAN
The next day I hide in our lounge. I’m not exactly worried about the Prince, but I’m also far from inclined to take any undue risks, now that he knows the truth. Besides, I have Thurnian lessons to catch up on. We’re supposed to be studying the local language before we sail south. I busy myself conjugating verbs, trying not to think anything undignified about Aurelia, and then suddenly, like magic, she’s right there in front of my desk in the Safire lounge, inviting me to tour the palace.
I don’t know what to do.
I need to follow Cyar’s advice, and I try to look to him for help, but he’s pretending to read a book on the nearby couch. So much for his noble lecturing last night.
He’s officially useless.
She continues to press, and I tell her I need to finish the assignment, but she just says, “I’m sure Officer Hajari would finish it for you. Wouldn’t you, Cyar?”
He looks up, surprised. As if he hasn’t been listening to everything. “Yes, I suppose I could.” He catches my look. “Or no. I don’t know … I mean … there’s a Landori word for this, but I can’t remember—”
And that’s that. I stand and announce, yes, we should do the tour, and she beams at me, all bright and warm and smelling too damn wonderful, and I make sure to hurl a dictionary at Cyar on the way by.
“I hope you find that word you’re thinking of.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he calls with a guilty smile.
* * *
The palace is a friendlier place now that it’s free of Sinora and Father and Malek. The court has decided that without the promise of speeches and good food, there’s little point to being here, and the halls are empty and echoing. As long as we stay ahead of the Prince, we should be fine.
Aurelia takes us from statue to tapestry, explaining each one, the story and significance, how it fits into the five hundred years of Etanian glory, and it’s a little overwhelming how one tiny kingdom can have this much history. She’s particularly proud of her great-grandfather, showing off a marble bust of his bearded face.
“He helped end the Wars of Discontent in the Heights,” she explains. “Drafted the peace treaty, in fact. They were awful wars, went on for twenty years. I think two hundred thousand soldiers were killed?”
“Battles in mountains aren’t advised,” I say.
“Truly, how can anyone fight for twenty years? In any case, we learned our lesson. War is no good. We’ve no interest in a repeat.”
She tugs me along, pulling me by the arm—which I pretend doesn’t affect me but is actually the best part of the tour—and we enter the grand ballroom. Without the din of music and laughter, without the tables and silks and steaming dishes, it’s like a hollow golden shell. Our steps sound lonely on the marble floor. Their royal ancestor, Prince Efan, gazes down from above, a sword in his hand and a fox at his feet.
“I like the fox,” I say with a grin.
She replies with her own smile. “We’re going to hold my birthday masquerade in here,” she announces, stretching out her arms. “You should come, Athan. It’s at the end of the summer. Surely you could get leave?” Her voice is teasing, but there’s a genuine question in her eyes.
“I don’t think you know how the military works,” I say, teasing back. “Or war in the South.”
We exit through narrow corner doors on the far side, presumably where servants scurry in and out, then make our way, stealthy, down some narrow stairs, down another hall, and into a library. This room’s smaller, with shelves of colourful books. The carpet on the floor bears the woven crest of Etania, and the windows stretch from floor to ceiling, letting in light and a beautiful view of the mountainscape beyond.
“My father’s library,” Aurelia says with another grand sweep of her arms. “His favourite place.” Dust particles shimmer around her like a halo. “Want to see my favourite painting?”
She has that secret look, just for me, a perfect hook.
“Of course, Princess.”
“Please, call me Ali.”
But I can’t. I really can’t, not when she’s already this close under my skin. Cyar’s right—people have a way of lodging themselves into my heart, and once it’s done, it’s done. I’ll lose all sight of Father’s mission. Maybe I already have.
“Or at least Aurelia,” she pleads, coming near, gold earrings shivering with the movement.
I give in. “Whatever you’d like.…”
She waits.
“… Aurelia.”
Victory brightens her face, settling on her lips in a mischievous quirk. I can’t win against that. She takes my arm again—my reward for weakness—and tows me into an adjacent room. On the far wall hangs an oil painting of a dragon and unicorn, the two creatures crouched together on a sunset cliff.
“My father painted this one for me,” she says. “The fable I love best—Elinga, the unicorn of the mountains, and her friend, Elois. I’m dressing as Elinga for my masquerade. I’ve designed a gown and matching mask!”
“Delightful,” I say with exaggerated interest.
She hauls me to another painting. This one’s a battle scene, with swords flashing and horses rampant. Three suns blazing. A black steed in the centre, tail in flames, its eyes charged with flickers of orange. “More to your liking, Safire boy?” she asks wryly. “That’s Prince Efan winning his battle. Remember the one I told you about yesterday, with his horse?”
“Prince Efan. The man every king in the North claims to descend from.”
She looks surprised. “You know the story?”
“Believe it or not, we do have history books in Savient. Though I am wondering—why’s the horse on fire?”
“They say he was a gift from God to win the battle.”
I grin. “Fate happened, and you wound up with a crown on your head. Not bad.”