“Ali, what the devil are you doing!”
I lower the weapon, spinning.
Reni strides from the wash of pine trees, his face horrified. “You’d better thank your stars I saw this instead of Mother.”
“And why shouldn’t she shoot?” Lark inquires, irritated.
“Please,” Reni says. “This is dangerous for a woman.”
“Why?”
At this moment, I quite appreciate Lark’s dogged Nahir persistence.
But Reni is freshly returned from his tour and armed with the news from the Royal League. General Dakar’s son has given my brother a great gift—justification for his enmity. He scowls at our Resyan cousin. “Why? This is a live weapon. In the hands of a girl who has never fired a thing before in her life!”
“It was only going to be one shot,” I say.
“Don’t make me the villain today, Ali. I was trying to bring you good news, but now you’re sour.”
I frown at his interpretation, but hand the pistol back anyway, not wanting Lark to bear the brunt of Reni’s strained civility. “Then tell me the good news.”
“You passed your exams. You’re now a student of the University.”
The words, announced in the damp gloom of the target range, don’t feel very inspiring. Not the way I expected. “Oh,” I say.
“And you have a surprise for your birthday.” Reni appears even less enthused about this part of the good news. “The General is coming. He’s giving you an air demonstration.”
“A demonstration?” I ask in disbelief.
This I wasn’t expecting, not by any stretch.
“Yes. He says you requested it, and he doesn’t wish to disappoint.”
Thin laughter slips out. My request from a month ago seems foolish now, like a silly question from a silly girl who asked simply because she could, and of course there are far more important things at hand. Why should he remember it?
“He’s not coming for that reason alone,” Reni continues, sensing my thoughts. “He has much to discuss with Mother, about Resya. He’s also bringing his son, since the Commander’s the one who will inevitably be on the ground there.”
Thick revulsion coats my mouth, and Lark stares at me from behind Reni, a question in his eyes. I know he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. I have a power in my hands, the power he longs for and will never have, and the terrible wall sits between us, an unforgivable crime that no one knows.
But we do.
“No, I don’t want the air demonstration, Reni. Not if his son is coming.”
Now my brother looks stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“I don’t want it. That rotten Commander won’t come to Etania. You’ll have to tell the General an excuse.”
Lark looks a bit in awe.
“But he said he’s planning to bring your friends,” Reni says. “The Lieutenant and the other one.”
At that, my noble certainty crumbles to dust. The offer in those wonderful and unexpected words is as radiant as a hundred suns—Athan, here, far from danger and close enough to touch, to see where it might lead, and the temptation makes me light-headed. But then I imagine the Commander’s brilliant smile gloating over his victories, impressing our kingdom. That isn’t the sort of show I asked for at the beginning of the summer. There won’t be any joy in it, not knowing what I know, not even with Athan in front of me. Perhaps there’s another way to see him again. Surely there is, but not like this.
“I don’t want the demonstration,” I say, surprising myself with how calmly the words come. “Tell the General.”
Reni shakes his head, expression drawn, tense. “We can’t refuse the General. Not now with the situation in Resya. I don’t think it matters what you want.”
And I shrug, because really, I never expected it did.
When Reni has left—with a strict order that I not touch the pistol—I turn to Lark, the two of us alone again in the drizzly silence. “What will you do?” he asks, distressed. “That General isn’t interested in talking round a table. He’ll have another angle. He could ruin our whole damn negotiation!”
“But what if he would talk?” I ask aloud, remembering how he and I did that very thing earlier in the summer. How civil it was, with tea. Surely he and my mother could settle this matter of Resya and do so without force. The Safire and Nahir have too much in common. Surely he’d listen to Seath? We could bring him to the table and— “You can’t trust him,” Lark says sharply.
“I have no choice.” I look at my cousin helplessly. “The Commander may be bold and reckless—unpredictable, as you said—but I have to trust the General is not. And if I can keep him talking to us, and away from Resya, won’t the world be better for it? I can’t let these suspicions grow, Lark. My mother needs him as ally.”
Lark watches me with hollow copper eyes. “Do what you’d like. But your first and last mistake will always be trusting an ambitious Northerner.”
34
ATHAN
Havenspur, Thurn
Father arrives at base one morning with no warning.
His motorcar rumbles through the gates just past noon, flanked by armoured carriers. The vehicle halts and everyone on the tarmac stares. Father steps out, greeting Wick with a handshake, and armed Safire soldiers surround him. Casually, as if this isn’t a show, he and Wick peruse the compound, walking across the runway, pointing, smiling. Wick has to look up, since he’s at least a head shorter.
Inside the hangar, I clean my plane with Kif. He sits on the wing, rag in hand, and I pretend to work, watching Father. Waiting for him to wave for me.
Kif chatters about his theories of gun alignment, cleaning as he goes, but eventually, his voice lowers a touch. “I have to say, sir, that whole speech at the Royal League has got me thinking.”
“Yeah?” I’m still looking out the doors.
“I’ve been wondering since we got here, you see, about the camouflage on these planes.”
Father and Wick have stopped, isolated together on the far edge of the runway.
“I mean, these wings are still grey,” Kif continues, patting the metal he’s seated on. “I got here and the first thing I said to Filton was ‘When can I paint them?’ and he says, ‘We’re not painting them,’ and I thought ‘Not painting them?’ Everywhere in land from here’s mostly desert, right? These wings need to match. I told him just that and he said to wait, because the orders hadn’t come.”
Father and Wick turn, heading back this way.
This is it. He’s going to wave me over.
I set down my rag.
“But see, here’s the funny part, sir. Why would we wait? If we’re here to help Thurn, setting up a base and all, then we need to change the colours now. Might as well. But Resya … see, Resya’s mostly mountainous jungle. The jewel of the South. Desert camouflage wouldn’t work there. And that’s when I started wondering.”
I turn back to Kif, his words finally registering. “What are you saying?”
He’s earnest atop the wing. “Between you and me, sir, it’s almost like they knew we’d need to paint the planes again soon. So they didn’t bother to do it yet.”
“Kif, no one could have predicted this.”
He swallows, hesitating. “It just seems a bit convenient.”
I shake off the uneasy feeling and give Kif a pointed look. “You shouldn’t talk like this.”
He drops his eyes. “Sorry, sir.” Freckled cheeks red, he begins to clean the metal again, and I glance out the hangar doors.
No sign of Father anywhere.
* * *
The day shifts forward, hours passing, and still no invitation comes. It’s nearly dinner now and I’m getting impatient. He wouldn’t leave without seeing me, would he?
I sit in the lounge, hands idly constructing a little ship out of newspaper. Folding, folding.
Distraction.
Right when I’ve talked myself into marching over on my own, Wick stomps through the door and points. “Lieutenant.”