Finally seventeen.
“Mother, I know this may sound presumptuous, but I’m wondering if I might host a meeting with both you and the General this evening. In honour of my birthday,” I add, so it might sound more qualified.
Her dark gaze turns from the window, holding me now with a question. “A meeting?”
“It would be very important to me. Could you arrange it?”
She lifts a hand to my cheek, the scent of saffron lingering. “And what do you wish to say?”
I pause, uncertain exactly how much to share with her in advance—these weeks since the Commander’s speech have upturned her usual gravity, leaving her weary and drawn, a fragile shadow beneath her eyes, but it compels me even further to do what I must. After everything else she’s endured, she doesn’t deserve a kingdom divided and a homeland bound for flames. We have too much at stake. There’s no choice but to be bold and play a step ahead, keeping the General on our side.
I lower my voice. “I have an idea for peace,” I say in Resyan, “and I simply need you and the General to hear me out for but fifteen minutes. I promise it would be worth everyone’s time.”
A thin smile brushes her face. “My darling, you can no longer speak that tongue in this place,” she replies in Etanian, glancing cautiously at the door. “Please, speak as you should.”
The command feels suddenly wrong. I never thought of Resyan as mine. It’s always been the language I speak for her—to comfort her, to warm her in her loneliness. But now that it’s being taken from me, for no other reason than an unproven and distant allegation, I feel a sense of loss. Injustice.
It’s half mine, at least.
“I will speak what I wish,” I say in Resyan, annoyed by the larger world, not her.
She covers my lips with her hand, firm. “You have to be your father now, child. Do you understand?”
I step back. “I think I’ll be myself,” I reply shortly.
She shakes her head with another weak smile, then kisses my cheek, and a loud drone envelops the valley, announcing the arrival of the Safire flight in all its vainglory.
* * *
When it’s time to make for the western balcony, I find myself trailing behind Mother and Reni and their retinue, stalling the inevitable. A tremble of nerves has me filled with anticipation. I feel both brave and scattered at once, and a sudden hand on my unsuspecting wrist makes me jump nearly out of my skin in surprise.
“Lark!” I hiss, realizing it’s him.
“Sorry,” he says, a sheepish expression on his face. Apparently he’s been lurking in the alcove. “I wanted to tell you I’ve left a gift in your room. For your birthday?”
His hesitant offer, and the fact that he’s tucked away in the shadows, drains my annoyance. I know why he’s hiding, and I glance towards the balcony. “Will you be all right?” I ask, suddenly not wanting to leave him—a Nahir fighter—alone anywhere with the many Safire uniforms soon about.
“I don’t particularly trust them,” he agrees bleakly.
“Then stay away,” I order. “Just stay put in your room.”
“Yes, but—”
“Stay out of the way,” I repeat, more firmly, putting my hand on his chest. “You don’t owe them anything. Leave it to me.”
He says nothing, but he knows I’m right. I have the luxury of trust.
He certainly doesn’t.
I give him a halfhearted smile. “I have to try this, Lark. For my mother. For all of us.”
He looks at me, his gaze distant. Some inner sorrow warring with his luminous fire. “You needn’t worry this much about your mother, Cousin. You should worry more about your uncle.”
I shake my head. I don’t have time to concern myself with Uncle Tanek, not now. His little plots with Reni feel so far from the larger danger of war.
Lark saunters back down the hall, alone, and I head for the sunny centre stage. Warmth greets me on the balcony. Etanian and Safire flags fluttering together. Facing the hangar and the forest, everything seems normal and bright, a crowd of loyal courtiers gathered for the display, the only change the plentiful liveried guards patrolling the grounds, many on horseback. The Queen’s Royal Mounted Guard. Their horses are lovely, large creatures, like Liberty, trained in the barracks outside the city, and today they’re groomed to a gleam in honour of my birthday.
My eyes skim past them, searching the seven planes shining silver on the tarmac, and something warm and wonderful nips inside my stomach, easing the uncertainty.
Athan.
Where is he? Which plane is he waiting in?
I’m ready to run to the railing and find him, but Mother diverts my plan with a polite wave, and I step back reluctantly. The General is with her, wearing a sanguine smile, formidable today in his slate-grey uniform, adorned in medals, a force that won’t be intimidated. “I’m sorry these protests must happen on your birthday,” he says to me, as if he should be the one apologize. “But rest assured, we can still celebrate without fear. We’ll send our squadron over their heads afterwards, how about that? Get them to reconsider?”
“Thank you,” I say, unsure if his confidence makes me feel any better.
Lark’s photographs have already blurred my perception of him.
“There’s no reason to be alarmed,” he assures firmly. “It won’t last the afternoon.”
“Regardless, General, I’m grateful you even thought to bring me this demonstration.”
“It’s your doing,” he replies. “You made an impression, and I haven’t forgotten our first meeting.”
We share a smile then, thanks to our private memory, and I try to convince myself that such a calm and reasonable man would surely be willing to hear me out. That he might even listen to a man like Seath, who also wants to defy the order of things.
Mother leads him off, and I spot Lord Marcin waiting with Violet in a shady patch of the balcony. Her lips are painted red, but the look on her face approaches despair. I assume this means her captain hasn’t made an appearance. Then I look beyond her and nearly choke on my own breath.
There’s Reni, with the General’s son.
The Commander!
They’re at the farthest end of the balcony, laughing together in some sort of friendly conversation that defies all reason. The Commander has his arms crossed, leaning against the railing. No indication of the blood on his hands—children’s blood. Instead, he looks comfortable as a lazing dog, trussed up in his fancy uniform and cap, and my hatred burns, thick and sour. I want to go right up and ask him about the photographs. I want to demand he admit the truth. But I need to be subtler than that, I know, and I force myself to take a breath.
I march for the railing and my eyes sweep the seven planes assembled below.
Searching, searching, wanting only one thing, the one thing that makes sense, that needs to be true, and then I find it.
My heart skips.
Athan.
He’s there and I’m up here, and even that feels much too far at the moment. He pushes the tousled blond hair from his forehead, sharing words with a mechanic, and then, as if written in the stars, glances up to where I am. He gives a beautiful smile. It’s all for me, and I return it to the point my cheeks hurt. I’m ready to abandon this balcony and close the now crossable distance between us, no sea to swim, no letters to speak words for us. There’s nothing else I want in this moment but to fling my arms round him!
“I’ve never seen a girl this delighted by a bunch of silly airplanes,” a silvery voice observes.
I spin, startled, and look up into the face of the Commander. He grins, holding an iced gin in one hand.
“They’re impressive,” I manage, and immediately regret such a mindless answer.
“Perhaps in show, Princess.”
“They’re your aeroplanes, Commander.”