“Oh, did I say silly planes? I meant the pilots.”
His rude comment nips even though it has nothing to do with me. I’m about to tell him to show more respect for his men, but he laughs, a nice-sounding laugh, the sort that makes whatever came before it seem entirely like a misunderstanding. “Beautiful mountains,” he remarks instead. He’s even more handsome than in the film reel, all perfect angles and glamorous confidence. The one who’d shoot boys holding the hands of old men. The one who dared condemn Resya before the entire world.
I’d like to spit in his vain face.
“Yes,” I agree, straightening. “What were you talking about with my brother?”
“Politics. But I won’t bore you with that.” He leans his arms on the rail. “You have a friend down there?”
“Lieutenant Erelis.”
“Never heard of him.”
I raise my chin. “He’s new to the squadrons, and I’m sure you’ll hear of him soon enough.” I indicate Athan on the tarmac, still readying his plane. “We happened to meet earlier this summer. I was impressed by his manner.”
“You happened to meet? How?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because if some low-rank commoner has managed to tempt a princess, I’d like to know his strategy.” He grins again.
“The Lieutenant isn’t common,” I say pointedly. “He’s an officer, and I don’t appreciate your insinuation.”
The Commander raises a suggestive brow. “I’m only saying I was that age once too. No one ever put a princess in front of me, but if they had, I sure as hell know what I would’ve done.”
“Not everyone lacks a moral compass as you do,” I say, thinking of the blood-spattered wall more than anything else.
“Princess, he’s a boy and you’re a girl, and”—he leans closer, lowering his voice—“please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’d certainly leave the compass pointing north.”
I gasp.
He frowns, as if offended that I’m offended. “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about him.” He waves at the tarmac.
“Do you have no manners at all?”
“When I feel like it.” He flags a passing servant, and holds out his empty drink. “Another one, please. Less ice this time, extra gin—in fact, bring a larger glass. Thank you.” He turns back to me. “How was that?”
I refuse to look at him. “I’d like to watch the silly pilots now, if you don’t mind.”
“You’re still on that?”
“It was insulting to your men.”
“It’s not my fault they’re useless,” he says, glancing at the sky. “They spend their time in a pristine cockpit, playing tag two miles above the real battles, and—no, don’t look at me like that, Princess. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking ‘What do you know? You sit behind a desk and get medals while they do the real fighting.’ That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
I hate that he’s right. “They’re shooting down your enemy,” I say hotly.
“In theory, yes. And I have no problem with the ones who do. To them, I say thank you and please do it again. But too many of them are show-offs. They get a thrill from the game of it, and while my men are being torn to bits on the ground, strafed by enemy planes, I look up and find these idiots spinning around the sky like a flock of goddamn sparrows.” He shakes his head. “War isn’t a show.”
“It’s not like that.”
“You’re speaking from your vast military experience?”
“You should watch your tongue, Commander.”
“Why? Because I’m honest? People never like the truth, Princess. They don’t like discovering that the Jewel of the South is actually a den of the Nahir. They hate the ugliness of that reality, but there it is, whether anyone likes it or not.”
“Truth?” I spit furiously, stepping too close, into his minty scent. My whisper is fierce. “Resya isn’t what you believe it is, Commander. The real truth to be discovered is what you did in Beraya.”
This wasn’t how I planned it happening, but here we go.
He stares at me. “What did you say?”
“You heard it.”
“How do you…?”
“Photographs,” I say under my breath. “I’ve seen them.”
Anger flares behind his clear blue eyes, and he leans down closer, voice equally low. “The Landorians did something in Beraya. Not me.”
I’m certain he’s lying. The denial’s too quick, too practiced, and his sudden hostility borders on guilt. “You should be careful, Commander. You’ll tarnish your father’s reputation, and I don’t think you can afford that. Not with the League still considering your petition for war.”
His gaze darkens. “Good God, I certainly don’t need a lecture from you on strategy. You have no idea what it’s like down there.”
Someone clears a throat. “Excuse me, sir.”
He turns from me abruptly, facing a nervous servant holding a drink. The Commander grabs the glass, waving the man off, and then takes a very long drink—most of it—eyes on the tarmac again. “You tell me to preserve my father’s reputation?” Unfriendly laughter growls from his chest. “I did nothing, Princess, and even if I had, where do you think I learned it?”
That unrepentant observation saps my burst of confidence. The aeroplanes below suddenly glint in a sinister way, creatures of prey, blood on their claws, and I hate that I must smile on it.
“I don’t want your show!” I snarl. “I didn’t want it before, but they made me accept it and I wish I’d refused. I want nothing to do with you or your father!”
He blinks down at my fury, stunned by the rude words. I realize I might have just ruined my own plot for negotiation. In this moment, I don’t even care. But then he smiles. “Nothing to do with us?” he repeats. He looks at the runway, at Athan’s plane, then bursts into laughter. He laughs so hard, with such sudden delight, that I’m certain he’s finally drunk.
I spin to leave, but I’m not quick enough.
“We’re set to begin, Your Highness,” the General calls, his steady voice like firm ground. “Are you ready?”
I force myself to face him. “Yes, of course.”
“Got my second drink,” the Commander adds, raising it. “Now I expect this show will be spectacular.”
The General shoots a look at his son. It holds a sliver of pure derision, reminding me, at this very important moment, that they aren’t one and the same. He walks over and places himself between us. “Would you like me to tell you about the planes, Your Highness?”
“Please,” I say.
He does just that, pointing out pilots and aircraft, explaining how he pulled them from three different squadrons since he couldn’t very well pull an entire operational unit home from Thurn. My gaze drifts to Athan again. He’s inside his plane now, Cyar in the one beside it. I’m hardly listening, but I nod every now and again while the General explains this and that about firepower and special cannons, and then the planes have come to life. Flames licking from exhaust pipes and propellers spinning.
They roar into the sky, and from where we stand, it’s like they’re mere feet apart, nearly touching. Three of them separate, spiraling. Three more do the same, and soon they’re moving in pairs, diving far too steeply, a whistle screaming as they devour hundreds of feet of air. The crowd cheers, but I can scarcely breathe. Didn’t Cyar say pilots can become disoriented and lose sight of the horizon?
Two planes pass above the crowd, rolling their wings and flying inverted. They make it look effortless, like a skip in the sun. Even Reni appears impressed.
Other pairs take their turns, the General explaining each maneuver to me, and finally the two planes with no squadron symbols on their flanks approach from the west. Athan and Cyar. The leading plane does two wild spins as if caught on an invisible string, snapping over twice before swooping high again.
“A double flick-roll,” the General observes.
“Is that difficult?”
“This low to the ground, yes. It can easily become a stall and you need room to recover from that. A bit of a risk.”
I’ve no idea what a stall is, but secretly I’m pleased to see Athan showing off for me. Of course it was him.