She produces an opened envelope and hands it over. “Aurelia” is written on the front in small, rushed letters, no address anywhere, no other name.
I tug out the paper and unfold it. My heart flips. “It’s from the Lieutenant.”
“Yes. He gave it to me before he left. He asked if he could write you and I was thoughtless enough to hesitate.” She sighs. “He did look very hopeful.”
My exhaustion gives way to pure joy spiraling like lights. “He says he misses me, Heathwyn, and that he’ll try to write me, even from Thurn! He says he’ll never forget the way my smile—”
“Yes, I’ve read it, though I quite wish I hadn’t. I should have thrown it away.”
“But you didn’t,” I say, tracing the paper with a finger.
“I didn’t,” she replies, frowning at her own charity.
“You can’t tell Mother. Please don’t, Heathwyn.”
She gives a deep sigh. “You have everything, but I think you deserve one thing all your own. Don’t give me a reason to regret it, sweet girl.”
I’m already rereading the letter, the words written in wavering cursive, endearing in their sloppiness. “He’s going to send me an address as soon as he can. Hand me some paper, please! And a pen. I need to have a letter ready to go. I hope he doesn’t think I’ve forgotten him. I wonder if he’s already left across the sea?” I look up. “Tell me, Heathwyn. Do you believe the General can make the Nahir agree to peace? Do you think they might see his army and give up before there’s even a fight?”
She kisses my head, handing me a pen. “This war is young and doesn’t yet know what it wants. There’s time for all things hopeful.”
I’m determined to believe her.
I’ll believe it until the very day the earth opens up and swallows me whole.
26
ATHAN
Havenspur, Thurn
During our four days at sea, I’ve scoured every level of the Pursuit, an obsession born of claustrophobia. I have to know where it all goes. The ship’s a maze of narrow passageways, leading up and down with ladders and railways and metal steps, salt clinging to the dank air, the whole thing rolling side to side in the large waves. There’s not much else to do. Cyar writes love sonnets to his girlfriend when he thinks I’m not looking, and the other Moonstrike pilots mostly ignore us. They served in Karkev together and have their own inside jokes. Their own private camaraderie. The only moment of excitement is when a flare appears in the inky night, the Impressive discovering the bloody aftermath of an arms exchange gone badly. We don’t see anything of it. But it’s still a pleasant welcome to the South.
When Thurn materializes on the horizon, the frayed coast is a damn relief. Waves crash on broken rocks, a brilliant gold sun lowering beyond. The Impressive blasts her horn as we enter Havenspur’s harbour. Promenades meander along the shore, shaded by long-leafed trees, buildings of cream and sienna rising up, towers twisted and roofs decorated with broad arches. The Pursuit is quickly moored at a dock closer to the city. Next to her waits a local supply ship, the sailors on board the smaller vessel watching us disembark with vacant eyes. They rest against metal boxes, unhurried, tanned faces shining in the sun.
As we stand on the humid wharf, waiting for our hosts, an armed Landorian soldier orders something at them in Thurnian.
They shrug, bang the containers, then shrug again.
The Landorian looks chagrined.
Unsure what to do, we pretend not to notice. Sweat pools quickly on my neck and tiny bugs try for my ears. Ollie removes his officer’s cap, fanning his face with it, and the other Moonstrike pilots group around him, their backs to us, as usual.
“I wonder what sort of snakes they’ve got here,” Cyar says to me curiously, analyzing the strange, lush world just off the dock.
“Please don’t go looking.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” He grins. “They’ll find us.”
Right when Cyar’s about to go for a search anyway, three motorcars cut their engines on the road, and a short, stocky fellow steps out of the first. He’s dressed in uniform, fair cheeks burnt from the sun. He attempts pacing grandly down the dock to us, though he doesn’t quite have the build for it. “Gentlemen, I’m Major Wick. Welcome to Havenspur.”
He shakes Garrick’s hand and the two of them discuss the logistics of our fighters’ arrival, further along the coast, close to the airbase, then they motion us to the cars.
Kalt’s up on the Pursuit’s forward deck, and I wave goodbye. He nods with what might be a smile. It’s difficult to tell from below. Then again, sometimes it’s difficult to tell with Kalt up close.
We’re soon rolling into the downtown sprawl of Havenspur. It’s larger than it looked from the water, unfurling itself slowly as we rumble over patchy cobblestone and deeper into a warm maze of large colonnades, fancy motorcars, and women in wide-brimmed hats. Graceful buildings line the road, flecked with scaling paint—teal and coral and bronze—their bruises concealed by bright flowers. Ornate brass fences shelter billowing orange trees and patios for tea. It would almost be Norvenne if not for the many soldiers easing among the crowds, rifles slung over their shoulders, observing the late afternoon current with discreet precision.
Ollie rolls the front window down. Hot, fragrant air seeps into the car. “The girls here are quite pretty,” he observes, nodding appreciatively at one with a dress almost above her knees. He throws his officer’s cap back on.
The Landorian orderly behind the wheel chuckles. “Havenspur’s one perk, isn’t it? The ladies in this city come from good stock. Nobility, even. Did you know General Windom is a second cousin of His Majesty? His family was one of the first to settle here. He’s a good man, knows the land well.”
Ollie’s still tossing suggestive smiles out the window, distracted.
“Do the people here consider themselves Landorian, then?” I ask from the backseat.
“Yes and no.” The man brakes to let soldiers pass. “Somewhere in the middle, I suppose. But they’re loyal to the crown, of course.”
“Then why all the rifles?”
The man catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “Some are less in the middle.”
When we pull through the metal gates of the airbase, guards salute from their posts. A large flag above parades a winged lion with a crown between its teeth. We’re now on a flat, open ridge above the city, dusty with few trees, everything orange in the setting sun. Four wooden barracks, three curved hangars, and one long runway oscillate in the heat. A lone stone building, elegant but still bleached and weathered, sits apart from the rest, encircled by rosebushes.
“Welcome,” Wick says with pride, “to the centre of my fighter command, home of the 10th Squadron Lion’s Paw. Captain Carr, you and your first officer will come with me to HQ.” He waves at the elegant place. “The rest of your men may settle in the west barracks. Hard to get lost here, but if there’s any confusion, check with the pilots.” He points at a group of men sitting in rickety chairs by the nearest hangar, playing cards.
“You heard him, then,” Garrick says to Moonstrike. “Get everything in order before dinner.”
He and Ollie follow after the Major. The other Safire pilots shoulder their packs, wipe their sweaty foreheads, and head off. No invitation offered to us.
I turn in a circle. Faded green hills stretch east and south, nothing on them but a few smudges that might be little buildings or villages or maybe just barren patches of earth. Beyond that—who knows?
Cyar shades his eyes. “I think we should make some friends,” he observes, studying the men playing cards. “Otherwise it might get lonely here.”
He’s right. It’s doubtful Moonstrike will even look at us until we’ve shot down an enemy plane. And in Havenspur, that might take a while.