See? There are principles and rules—rules I might have broken a bit today—but we’re not out for blood. We’re out for the challenge, for the grin of victory. Doesn’t that make sense, Ali?
I don’t even know why I’m worried about explaining this to her. She’d probably agree with me.
I sigh and lean heavily on my arms, sinking into the mattress.
“This bed is as old as Thurn,” Cyar says below. “It creaks every time you breathe.”
“Sorry.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“No.”
He slides out of bed and stands beside the bunk. Even in the scant light, he still looks a bit undone. “You know this is only the beginning.”
“I know.”
“We’re going to have to keep going up there, facing better pilots than that. And when this summer ends, who can say what’s next? This could be on for years. Years, Athan. And this is our life now. There won’t ever be a day when we do our best, and then it’s over. It’s not like the Academy. The better we do, the more they’ll send us up.” He pauses. “And they’ll keep sending us up, over and over until we…”
“Until we win,” I finish for him. I won’t let him think the other option.
He catches himself. “Yes, until we win.”
Neither of us mentions that “win” is a vague term in the South. In Savient, there was an end. We unified. Is that even possible here? I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows. If it was up to me, I’d just give the rebels their Free Thurn and then everyone’s happy.
But no one’s going to ask me.
“We’ll be the best and see it to the end,” I say.
“We will.”
“I won’t go up there without you, Cyar—I won’t.” That’s the truest thing I know.
We share a thin smile, vague in the darkness. Then he returns to his bed and I fold my paper. I’ve survived my first day of eighteen.
Tomorrow, I’ll write.
VII
TRUTH
Dear Ali,
Here we go—this week’s exciting installment is about a bet.
Two planes, one Landorian and one Safire, raced each other in the absolute middle of the night, then dove a good thousand feet through the air. Before you ask, no, it wasn’t very safe, but that’s why I didn’t participate. It was a bunch of other bored (and very drunk) pilots, and tragically, the Safire pilot lost. He couldn’t quite make the winning dive. Though I’m sure if it had been me flying, the Safire honour would remain intact. I’m not bragging here. It’s just the truth.
(All right, maybe bragging a little.)
Beyond that, we play kickball, we swim, we drill in the sky. The evening is my favourite, when it’s finally cool and I can sit out here in the hangar and find some quiet. I really should be writing my sister, you know. She sent me a strongly worded letter this week about how those who break promises are bound for the worst parts of hell. Well, it wasn’t quite so direct, but to that effect. And it’s true. I did promise her a letter a week. But somehow they each end up addressed to you. You’ve captured all my thoughts, Ali, and I don’t have any left for her. And before you tell me I’m cruel—don’t worry, I’m not even her favourite brother, so I think I’m safe from hell for now. She just likes telling people what to do. It’s a habit that runs in my family.
So what should I share with you next, Princess? I feel like I owe you something heroic in here. Something impressive I’ve done, that you’ll read over and over and over again. But to be honest, I don’t find this mission very inspiring. I mostly feel a bit overwhelmed. We walked the streets (it’s so damn hot, sweat everywhere, sorry for the smudges) and a local girl actually threw herself at Cyar, begging for help. She believes we Safire are here to rescue them. Can you believe it? They think we’ll fight against the Landorians, at their side, which just shows how complicated this whole mess is.
I wish there was an easy answer. I know there usually isn’t.
Instead, I’m just going to lie here and enjoy this evening, see the sky filled with a hundred thousand stars. I’ve never seen this many stars, Ali. It reminds me of your eyes. I think I’ll always remember your dark eyes when I see the perfect night sky here. So perhaps there is something beautiful here and it’s tied, forever, to you.
I’m saying too much now. And I haven’t even had a glass of wine. This never ends well. Cyar’s the poet, not me. I love your pictures of the woods and mountains. I have them pinned near my bunk here. I’ve included more of my own—the freckly-faced fellow is my rigger, Kif. (I have my own ground crew. Did I mention that in my last letter? Am I still bragging?)
Thank you for writing me so faithfully. I look forward to each one of your letters.
Yours,
Athan
To my most talented Lieutenant (Star of the Safire pilots):
Of course you’d have won the bet! I have no doubts about that. You once put our own Etanian pilots to shame, and though no one quite realized it, you were in fact the talk of the palace, remember? I should have mentioned this to your General when we spoke. I mentioned your good manners and he said that wasn’t enough for a promotion, so I’ll be sure to mention your exceptional talent and daring moves in high wind next time. I’m determined to see you awarded the highest rank in your entire air force. What would that be? Commanding Captain or Colonel or some such title of a famous squadron? With golden diamond wings?
I’ll allow you the bragging, Lieutenant. It’s well-earned, I think. But you really should do something about that younger sister of yours. May I speak from experience? There truly is nothing worse than a brother who says one thing and does another. I know you might hold a differing opinion of Renisala (and I don’t blame you) but he is everything wonderful to me. He’s a piece of my soul. When he pays me no attention, it’s like I’m on the earth and he’s in the sky, discovering an entire realm of places I can’t follow. My greatest fear is that someday he’ll stay up there for good. That he’ll lose sight of me below. And you really are in the sky, Athan, so now can you imagine how your sister might feel?
Anyway, thank you for sharing your feelings on Thurn. I like to hear your thoughts, since you’re so close to it all, and I agree there are no easy answers. But I believe they must be out there. And I believe we can find them, together, perhaps even before this gets any further along.
Imagine if there didn’t need to be any war!
Perhaps there’s time to make things right.
Now, for your next letter, you must tell me what it’s like to fly. Do you get nervous? Have you had any close calls? You must also write it after a few glasses of wine. I’d very much like to see what you have to say then.
Consider this a royal command, Star of the Safire.
(But write your sister first.)
Yours with affection,
Ali
31
AURELIA
Hathene, Etania
Transpiration, condensation, precipitation.
I spend my days balancing between two worlds—one where I study for my exams and pretend everything is fine, learning the mechanics of the earth, drafting essays for Heathwyn and taking practice tests, and another where I hide in Father’s library with Lark while he quizzes me on health and biology, dispelling any illusion I once had about the terrifying Nahir. He knows far too much about the common head cold.
But when we open my history books for our weekly discussions, I discover he lives in another third world altogether. We can’t read a single page about the South without him pointing out something that shouldn’t be there, or should be there, or is vaguely inaccurate though not quite wrong. Battles. Treaties. Accords. He goes on and on about forced borders and displaced peoples and I listen, wondering what I can trust from his mouth and what might simply be his version of a “locked” chest.
“This,” he says, pointing at a page which describes the wasted potential of long-ago Thurn, “is classic Northern arrogance. They pretend there was nothing grand before they came. As if our cities aren’t as old and beautiful as Norvenne itself!”