“What could I possibly give you?”
“A voice,” he says with certainty, like he’s perfectly aware of how the world sees him—how I see him—and he’s fine with it, since he is only himself. His energy becomes his honesty. “Your mother’s voice, in particular. It could be the one we need, someone who comes from both worlds, who has allies on every side. Not everyone needs to pick up a rifle to fight. Not every battle looks the same. She could plead our case if you showed her the truth. You said she’d listen to you.” He swallows again. “I know you want to protect your family’s reputation, and yourself, but what about the rest of us? What about everyone beyond this palace?”
It’s too familiar, an echo of Athan yet again, asking me on the mountaintop if I’d think only of myself. Live forever behind these walls and do nothing. I stare at the map on the table before us, where the world looks wonderfully safe and simple. Divided with lines and colours, the soft, small hearts entirely invisible.
Lark clears his throat. “There’s also the matter of your uncle’s debt.…” I freeze, and he looks equally uncertain, which does nothing to reassure me. “I know he still owes Seath money, and you should understand that Seath doesn’t let betrayals go, not when there is so much to gain. A Northern royal family is valuable leverage.”
He offers no hope, only the truth.
I close my eyes to the devastating reality before me, this world with too much at stake. We’re ensnared either way. In debt not only to the Nahir but with a family member in its ranks. And if Lark is one, then what about Lark’s father? And his siblings? And everyone else? If this truth spread on the wind—Sinora Lehzar, Queen of Etania, blood to Nahir fighters—it would be far worse than any feeble connection to Resya’s questionable loyalties.
This would ruin her. Forever.
Unless …
“Let me simply talk with you,” Lark says urgently. “You want to talk. That’s why you found me here. So I’ll tell you what I know, and at the end, you can decide if it’s worth your neck on the line to speak on my behalf. Our behalf,” he adds, and I’m not sure if he means the two of us, or the Nahir, or all of the South itself. He pauses. “Not all of us can be like your father, Cousin. Not all of us can choose to hide from the world. We have to live with it, darkness and all.”
I let out a trembling, terrified breath.
“Do you truly believe this, Lark? That Seath would speak to my mother? To the North?”
It sounds too impossible.
But Lark nods fervently. “I do, Aurelia. I do. Your mother is one of us. And Seath … he’s old. He’s weary. Everyone’s tired down there, even the Landorians, and Seath is ready to take any gamble he must. Let a truce be reached. But the Safire? They are young. They’ll bring fresh air to the flames, stir the South far beyond Thurn, and how can anyone escape that alive? The North will suffer as much as any. Their General is a tyrant. Too good at war and too ambitious to stop.”
It’s a mirror of what Reni said months ago. To hear it repeated, from one on the other side, only frightens me more, solidifying itself into an inevitable truth. But then that fact frustrates me further. I’m tired of anticipating the worst, of bracing for our family’s condemnation. Of never acting and always despairing. This can’t be all there is to life—surrendering to terror, allowing a few desperate men to dictate who lives and dies, dictate when there should be war and when peace. What if they all sat down for only a moment? What if they stopped long enough to hear one another out? Couldn’t my mother undo the wrong by negotiating good?
Perhaps my wayward cousin is actually right. Perhaps there’s another move to make.
“Talk to me then,” I say. “I can at least listen.”
28
ATHAN
Havenspur, Thurn
Major Wick gives a briefing in the ops room before our first flight up. Pacing before a map of the South, he carries on for an hour about land grabs, city divisions, broken treaties, and stalemates. It’s a complex situation. A lot of names punctuated with swearing. Resya is an erstwhile ally—isolationist, now, and refusing to allow Landorian army boots into the kingdom. Myar was once under Landore’s control, but they lost it during their retreat north fifty years ago. Masrah was Thurn’s neutral neighbour—quiet and ambivalent—until it wasn’t. And Thurn itself has four different territories, each in various states of upheaval.
“The people round Havenspur are quite likable,” Wick says. “They appreciate our hard work, what we’ve done for them. It’s the ones farther out.” He waves his hand, sweeping east to west. “They can’t be trusted.”
Generally speaking, he’s just pointed at the entire map.
“And Seath?” a Safire pilot asks. “Does he have any sympathy near Havenspur?”
“Seath,” Wick responds darkly, “could talk a prince into trading his own crown for a bloody rifle. So yes, I’d imagine he does have sympathy here. I always plan for the worst, gentlemen. I trust no one.”
I can’t help feeling a bit bad for Greycap. He’s seated next to me and Cyar, and didn’t need to be in this briefing, since it’s all for the Safire. But he came anyway, showing us to the mugs of coffee, poking us into the right chairs, and now he has to sit and listen to someone disparage most of his countrymen.
“It’s not that bad,” he assures Cyar and me under his breath. “Wait until you taste mezra!”
We all grin—Greycap because he’s excited, Cyar because he’s always intrigued by new food, and me because the whole thing’s contagious—then Wick growls at us to pay attention, the older pilots giving us unimpressed looks, and we shut our mouths and straighten quickly.
A board near the door has the Moonstrike squadron divided into different groups, call-signs written in chalk, and we walk over with our nearly empty coffee mugs. Garrick and Ollie are at the top—Falcon and Hawk. Never anything subtle with them. The other pilots locate their names, laughing about who’s going up with who.
Two extra names are scrawled at the bottom of the first flight—Charm and Fox. That must be us.
Garrick claps a hand on my shoulder. “Ready, Charm?”
“I thought for sure I was the Fox,” I reply.
“No, too obvious. If we want the enemy to go after a plane, we have to make sure it’s Hajari’s.”
I turn to object, then realize he’s laughing behind us. “Arrin picked the name for you,” he explains. “He said you’d be my little good luck charm in the skies. I sure as hell hope he’s right.”
I ignore that. Probably a taunt rather than a compliment, coming from Arrin.
He motions gamely for the door. “Let’s go meet the ladies.”
We march outside and the morning heat’s already brewed full force. Garrick directs me to the nearest hangar, then takes Cyar across the runway to another. The Moonstrike pilots have already found their fighters, and only one remains lonely, shining in the light, calling to me. I zip my flight suit, excitement kicking into gear. Also some nerves.
A middle-aged man with blond hair waits by the nose. His pants have oil stains, the Safire crest stitched to his grey shirt. “A nice day for flying, Lieutenant,” he calls.
I nod, confused by his familiar address.
“I’m Filton,” he says, “your chief mechanic. Arrived last night from Brisal.” He jabs his thumb at a thin, freckled boy behind him. “And that’s Kif, your rigger.”
Right, my new ground crew. The perks of being in a squadron even though it hardly feels earned yet.
I extend a hand, trying to seem confident, older. “Pleasure to meet you, Chief.”