Southern Sun, Northern Star

By Joanna Hathaway

Battles, revolution, and romance collide in Southern Sun, Northern Star, the conclusion to Joanna Hathaway's stunning, World Wars-inspired fantasy series.

Reeling from the tragedy that beset her family, Princess Aurelia has joined the resistance in Havenspur, spying on the Northern leaders who were once her allies and determined to stop her uncle’s machinations for war. Meanwhile, her beloved pilot Athan leads his squadron into battle as the Safire wage a losing war abroad and combat growing unrest back home.

When Athan is sent on leave to Havenspur following the death of a comrade, the pair reunite and rekindle their romance until Aurelia uncovers one of Athan’s secrets, a secret that could save countless lives. But exposing it to the right people will cost her Athan's trust, and this time, their shared memories of love might not be enough to stop the fateful path of destruction that threatens all they’ve fought to defend.

As history unfolds around them, every move they make drives them one step closer to either recreating their parents’ shadowed past or redeeming the alliance that could bring peace.

The breathtaking finale to a legendary series. Part war drama, part romance, Southern Sun, Northern Star is the epic conclusion to the Glass Alliance series.

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9780765396495

Joanna Hathaway

Joanna Hathaway is an avid storyteller and history buff whose writing is inspired by her great-grandfather's participation in WWI. She loves traveling the globe, flying in airplanes, and is forever a “horse girl.” Born in Montréal, Canada, Hathaway now resides in Minnesota. Dark of the West is her debut novel.

Book preview

SOUTHERN

SUN

I

CIPHER

1

ATHAN DAKAR

Garizal, Masrah

Today if we’re lucky, Garizal will fall.

Nice and easy.

For damn once.

It’s a smoggy blister on the horizon still, growing larger against the Black Sea, a port city of docks and railways and factory smoke, but since we’re skimming along at only a thousand feet, it feels even farther away. Below my fighter, the dusty expanse of earth is clogged by tanks and convoys and armoured carriers, a mechanical fist thundering towards battle. Someone said there were fifty thousand soldiers in the western flank alone, all of them grey and indistinguishable beneath my wings. But if they look up, they’ll see us. Twelve planes. Twelve reasons to keep marching, knowing we’re going to do our best to keep the skies clear above their heads when hell breaks loose.

Leader to squadron, I say over the radio to the eleven pilots following me. Hold low to the deck at vector three-two-zero and begin climbing on my order. We don’t want them picking up our transmissions.

Flying this close to the ground means our enemy can’t eavesdrop and peg our position, and we’re below radar.

No one affirms, because they know what awaits us. As we hurtle north over land, with the western flank of our army, the Safire naval fleet is currently surging south across the sea, to barrage Garizal’s shoreline. It’s a guarantee that the Masrahi Navy won’t be far behind once they realize the deflection. We’ve spent weeks concocting the ruse, making them believe our attack would come by land only. The trap’s finally been sprung and every minute counts as we fly to secure the advantage. To cover the ships and the soldiers from the air.

Everyone keeps quiet, cocooned by their own final, sweating thoughts.

All except for one of us.

Understood, Leader, the rookie on my right wing says. Holding at vector three-two-zero.

His voice sounds slightly strangled.

I glance over. His plane’s nearly clinging to mine, some new kid, a replacement who just showed up this morning. Not my first choice for a wingman, but it was my turn to babysit. I can’t even remember his name. I should have checked the board, but we were scrambled too quickly—ahead of schedule, thanks to Arrin deciding to take a stab at Garizal an hour early and throw the enemy for an extra loop—and the thought didn’t cross my mind. Now he’s nameless and breathy in my earphone, clearly riddled with nerves, the one I’m here to keep alive. He’s from Rahmet. I don’t really need to know his name, I just need to imagine him as Cyar and that will do.

You stay right where you are, I remind him, just in case he’s getting any ideas. Follow me and cover my tail. I don’t want you shooting unless it’s life or death.

I’ve discovered this is a good order to give them their first time up. Otherwise, they start shooting at everything that moves, wasting ammunition and putting themselves in a vulnerable bulletless situation for the entire ride home.

I won’t move from here, the boy promises. He peers back at me through his windshield, buried in flight cap and goggles. He’s even got his damn oxygen mask on, despite the fact that we’re so close to the deck the soldiers below could spit at us.

They’ve been churning graduates out of the Air Academy like canned meat. Trying to fill up the exhausted squadrons. These days, Cyar and I only get to fly together when I’m out on the hunt for proper prey. Just the two of us. The open sky and the thrill of the chase. It’s getting rarer with the state of our campaign. Any pilot with combat experience is crucial. Last spring, Arrin tried to take Masrah the same way he took Resya, an entire battle fleet pummeling coastal defenses and bombers striking from the air. But it didn’t work. Our army charged the beach and made it about two miles inland before getting lodged in place for three months straight. Arrin was forced to order a hasty exit once he realized there was no point in bleeding his best dry before we’d even captured a legitimate foothold.

Then came the dramatic offensive farther south at Vilnek. It was the longer run to Masrah’s capital, the costlier way, but it was the biggest prize—a giant industrial city beside the Izahar River, precious oil fields within view. That’s where my squadron was hit the worst. Half of it decimated in a matter of weeks. The Masrahi Army is good, and their air force is even better. And while I know Father would like to just launch a carpet-bombing of the capital and every major city in between, suffocating the nation into quick submission and capturing his new greatest enemy, the elusive Seath of the Nahir, hiding within its borders, he can’t do that. Jali Furswana—exiled princess of Masrah, and our foremost ally—says that if he dares flatten even one of her cities, she’ll kill him in his sleep with a manicured nail to the neck. Which means my father is caught in a trap of his own making. He wants this nation to be an ally. He doesn’t want to simply conquer it through any means.

He needs Jali.

He needs Masrah.

But he also needs the revolutionaries currently in charge of Masrah to be out, and while half of Masrah welcomes their exiled princess’s return, the other half is calling for our blood. Which leaves us trying to solve the impossible puzzle of how to change a nation without trampling its entire heart.

I wipe the sweat from my face, itchy beneath my cap. I’m not the one who can answer that question. I can only fly this plane, here and now, and my fighter hums happily around me, unconcerned by the irony of our existence, killing some, protecting others, and on her flank, a black horse gallops—the one I dreamed of long ago, on a Landorian airfield. It’s painted proudly now, against the sun of Rahmet, a single strand of chamomile woven between its hooves.

The symbol of my Shadowborn squadron.

Eyes on the horizon.

Below us, the frothy morning sea has finally appeared. We’re right into the noose of Garizal now, and I check my watch. Seven o’clock. Too early for this ugly business, but here we are.

Begin climb, I order the squadron, and my altimeter ticks upward.

Eleven planes follow.

Wonder which of our pretty boats will arrive quickest to the party, Captain?

It’s Trigg, and his cocksure voice is good for morale, making all of this seem like a cinch. A helpful illusion right now. Especially for my rookie.

Ship, I correct him brightly, maintaining the charade.

Huh?

Not a boat. They’re ships.

He snorts, a fuzzy hiccup over the radio. You been hanging with your brother lately?

Wouldn’t want to offend our naval comrades, Thief. In case they’re listening in.

He’s right about my brother, though. Kalt has interrupted me countless times over the years to remind me that no, cruisers and destroyers are not mere boats, they are ships—ships!—and how the hell would I like it if he called my fighter plane a goddamn crop duster?

"Well, I hope they are listening, Trigg continues loudly, never one to resist needling a boundary. Hey, you fish fellows down there, wherever you are. You copy me? If you’re listening, I’d like to compliment you on your pretty boats this morning. Quite a spectacular show. Hope they’re good for—"

"I’ve got visual contact on the Impressive, Cyar intervenes. Ten o’clock."

That shuts Trigg up. Sure enough, on the distant water, far below us, countless grey monsters descend on the port city. The Impressive. The Triumph. The Victory. Perhaps the very sight of them—and the destruction they’ll bring with their massive turret guns—is enough to keep Garizal cowering.

But the Masrahi planes will come.

They always do.

The Masrahi destroyers, too, fixed with anti-aircraft guns, and we make splendid target practice if we get too low. I adjust my throttle swiftly, ready for power as we fly higher. Everyone stay out of our ships’ range, I order the squadron. I don’t want your last report to admit you were sent into the drink by friendly fire. And watch out for Moonstrike and Nightfox. They’re sharing this sector.

I’ve learned to sound calm, official, but as always, a tendril of fear twists with the adrenaline suddenly coursing through me. A practiced urgency. My muscles sharpening into total awareness, ready to flick from eyes to brain to hands to feet. All of me present. Determined. Angry at the very nerve of Death.

Not today, you son-of-a-bitch.

The Safire heavy guns haven’t yet fired the opening salvo, which means our battleships are still pulling within range, preparing their armour-piercing shells and brass powder cartridges. I’m sure our enemy has this city bristling with defenses. But it’s also a civilian city, with neighbourhoods, homes, schools …

No, can’t think about that.

Precision is key, and that’s up to the fleet. I know they’ll target only legitimate military objectives. I motion at my nameless rookie, through the glass. Stay close and cover my wing, I remind him yet again. Call out those dive-bombers as you see them, and if one of their fighters drops on us, you fly like an idiot. I want you all over the sky, as fast as you can move. I’ll take care of the rest.

He affirms—or a squeak that sounds like it.

Five o’clock low, someone says.

I think it was Trigg, and there they are beneath us—a dozen hefty enemy dive-bombers, prepared to strafe our Safire ships. Bombs clinging to their guts.

Our targets.

Since I’m lead plane, I always go first, the rest following. This lucky rookie gets to join me in that dubious honour. He doesn’t say anything helpful, but he does stick with me as we plunge into a dive, which is all he really needs to do at this point. I’m through the enemy formation in a minute, my guns blazing. The dive-bombers scatter in confusion. I have one in smoke already from the initial clobbering, and the rest are scrambling to regroup. My rookie still hugs close, evidently unfazed. I’ll give him a point for that.

And here come the actual Masrahi fighters. Lithe and lean and fast, angry at us, protecting their own. We circle around to get on two of them as they attempt to do the same to us. A turning duel is never smart and I catch the flash of red nose as one of them loops over.

My adrenaline pulses harder.

Ace.

These enemy fighter pilots are vain bastards. Once they get five of us down, they paint their noses blood red, so that when you look in your mirror, you know you’re being chased by the best. It’s frightening for the rookies—and clever. So I did the only thing I could think of and fitted my own plane with a red nose. My rigger Kif says it makes me an excellent target, but that’s fine with me.

I want to make them fear equally.

I want them to come after me and not the breathy kid sweating off my right wing.

Can’t let the rookie know all of this, though. There’s no point in alarming him further. Let’s drag this one back around to Thief and Fox, I say, because the best way to destroy an ace is to separate them from their own wingmen, then pounce as a pack. You got your finger on the trigger?

Yes, sir, he affirms swiftly. No squeak left.

Good. I don’t want him letting loose, but he still needs to be ready. Because if my number comes up—which it will, eventually, someday, poof—then he’s on his own and he’d better be firing like hell or else he’ll never make it home.

I take a lunge at the ace. The face-off is now in motion, and he must see my own red nose, because I swear to God I catch him grinning through his glass canopy as I barrel overhead, peppering his fuselage. He waggles his wings before flinging himself into a steep dive.

A damn taunt! I feel my own morbid grin rise as I wrench my stick forward and open the throttle to keep chase. It’s all so instinctive, the half-second shift into battle, no second guesses, that it takes me about five hundred feet before I realize my rookie is lagging behind. And in that empty space of five hundred feet, another Masrahi fighter zips between us, jumping on him without mercy.

This is how it happens.

You’re suddenly all in, whether you’re ready or not.

Watching in my rear mirror, I send my rookie a silent good luck as he pushes his plane into a surprisingly efficient spin, plucky and precise. Another solid point for him. Hopefully he’s smart enough to eventually wind up back with me.

We’ll see.

All of my attention is now on the ace who’s turned his speedy dive into an impressive climb for altitude. I’m hot on his heels, checking my mirror constantly. No doubt he’s using the same strategy as me, luring me back to his own wingmen. He flits loosely across my gunsight as we head up into the heights and I have to work for every second of the chase. I love it. This is why I came. I hate feeling like I’ve killed someone by default. Swooping in, ending their life in a moment because they’re simply too young and inexperienced to know any better. It kills a part of me, too. But this—this chase with another ace feels life-giving. An earned victory that’s going to be mine.

I continuously fire on his left side, trying to arc him back towards my squadron, but he’s too smart.

He knows.

He defies me, dancing away from my guns with expert hands, the opposite direction, through the empty realm of 12,000 feet. It’s blue as far as the eye can see, wispy clouds flung along like horse tails. I fire another burst, grazing his wing, but he still slips away. Back and forth, back and forth, like two forgotten birds caught in the lazy updraft of a storm-filled sky.

Two minutes.

Four minutes.

Hot, agonizing, splendid seconds. Sweat pours down my neck and spine, and I forget the world below. The sheer entirety of my being is channeled into my gunsight, my trigger, this glorious prey before me. Fire. Turn. Climb. Spin. Fire. Dive. We’ve memorized the steps now and we need to find the ending. It’s nearly here. I can feel it creeping through my breathless elation and burning gut. Dread and delight. This strange existence that no one on earth will ever understand.

I line up my sight one last time, then wait until my friend does exactly what I would do next—a cheeky roll into the sun—and I point my nose straight up. A murderous deflection shot.

I fire my cannon and the ace explodes.

Orange and black.

Gritty smoke and metal plumes against the pristine sky, then rains down gently, chunks of his fuselage and wings falling back to earth in flickering fragments. Every muscle in me loosens. The sudden wash of relief, like its own punch to the gut while my pounding heartbeat is loud enough I hear it in my veins. A cramped cockpit of damp skin and heavy breaths and humming propeller.

Then the flash of loneliness hits.

It always does, for an instant, like a half-formed realization somewhere out of sight. The sudden sense of alienation before the infinite blue. The chase is no more. The wonderful game we shared—just us—exists in my memory alone now, something that will live only as long as I do. And then we’re both gone.

Forgotten.

I’ll see you soon, I tell his plane, landing somewhere far below in the grey water.

That’s when I notice the dark specks sailing from the east and my adrenaline surges back. Below me, some of our ships are in smoke from dive-bombers, and the Masrahi Navy is now within sight, a full naval confrontation minutes from unleashing. The barrage of Garizal needs to begin before that enemy fleet pulls in range, but my squadron is still chasing enemy across the city.

I order them out over the open water.

All affirm except one.

Fox, you see my rookie? I ask Cyar.

Negative, he replies, his loud guns stammering even through the headset.

He’s in his own chase, and I decide not to bother him further. I spin my radio to Air Control. Leader to Control, don’t let those ships fire.

Shadowborn Leader, we have … battleships … your pilots to move out, Air Control replies, beginning fuzzy and ending clearer. You should have had them into the western sector by now.

"I said tell those ships to wait."

There’s a pause. It’s your brother.

Well, shit.

I switch the channel and get access to the ops coordination for the fleet. I request connection to the Impressive’s bridge where Kalt probably is—no doubt needling at Air Control to get my fighters moving faster. Silver, hold fire, I order him, or whoever is listening. Silver is the codename for our Safire flagship. A simple little name so enemy intelligence never quite knows which one we’re referring to in a mid-battle naval game of feints and speeds and distances. I’m clearing my squadron.

Naval Control accepts my intervention. Understood, Squadron Leader.

Kalt does not. Squadron Leader, get your fighters out of this field or we’ll start firing anyway, his garbled voice growls. These guns are pointed right where I need them and I won’t compromise that precision for a few damn planes.

I don’t tell him it’s just one.

One rookie still wandering out there alone.

Coming, I repeat, dropping into a reckless dive, trying to make up ground. Or rather, make up thousands of feet of air. I struggle with the stick. Going a bit fast even for me. The ships below grow in size very quickly, and I know exactly why Kalt wants his guns pointed true, why he won’t lose that precision for our sake. All it takes is a few moments of winds shifting and hulls drifting in the tide for those mighty turrets to lose accuracy. One way or another, they’re going to pummel the coastline. But if they’re aimed right, it will only be enemy defenses and airfields and heavy guns which take the worst hits.

Not the neighbourhoods and parks and schools.

I know all of this, but I still need to buy my pilots a few more minutes. Wow, you look great from up here, I offer, trying to distract my vainest brother. It’s rather—

Captain, I’m giving you two damn minutes, Kalt interrupts, increasingly staticky. Arrin is waiting on me, and now I’m waiting on you. You can guess the mood he’s in.

That explains the situation better. Ground forces aren’t going to start moving on Garizal until after the naval bombardment. And the bombardment can’t start because of my squadron.

I’m dead.

They’re both going to kill me.

Panting a bit now, I’m practically on top of the fleet—guns, turrets, decks. Really, I say, that Silver ship looks … what’s the word?

Twenty seconds, Athan.

Someone else on the communication system says, Enemy ships starboard ahead! Close!

No, hang on, Silver, there’s a word for it.

Ten seconds, Kalt stresses.

Impressive! That boat looks impressive!

You’re such a goddamned—

I switch the channel back to my squadron and miss the end of Kalt’s compliment. And there’s my rookie barreling straight across the port, about two hundred feet above the sea, tailed by three Masrahi fighters. He’s flinging himself all over the place as promised, but he’s far too low and sticking to our convoy as if it’s some kind of protection. A terrible idea. My brother’s twenty-two-inch batteries will be deadly once fired.

I sure wish I knew his name right now.

Kid, get climbing, I order, hoping he knows I mean him.

Nothing.

Then, Radio … hit. Can’t … off me!

Get height! I repeat more loudly. I’m not supposed to shout, but at times like this, it might be the only thing that cuts through his blind panic, gets him to actually listen and function properly.

Lining up my sights, I litter one of the enemy fighters with machine gun fire, the wounded plane immediately limping off to the right, trailing white vaporous glycol. The four of us remaining—two Safire, two Masrahi—are whipping along past the ships. I can see the sailors as we streak by, all of them loading up their salvos, scared to the teeth, I’m sure, because their battle is about to begin in full. Enemy nearly in range.

You need to take your damn plane higher, I hurl at the rookie, hoping he can hear at least part of my order. "Stick back, now."

Something finally gets through to him. His nose goes upwards, pointed at the sky, and I’m struggling to follow and wound another of the Masrahi fighters before it’s too late, but they beat me to the kill. It’s too fast. Too good. It would have been hard for even me to evade, and the rookie’s left wing slices clean in half. He has no height, no spare seconds to bail. His little plane turns a tiny loop, upside down, and plunges nose-first into the dark water below, a tremendous spray of sea and glittering sun.

I wrench back on my own stick, going nearly vertical, abandoning the chase, climbing my ass up and out, and in my mirror, I see the ships now canopied by feathering explosions. Flaming tendrils reach across the sea and obliterate the shoreline of Garizal, others firing east at the approaching enemy convoy, a dozen dragons in fiery rage. Soon there will be flames bursting through decks, metal sent to the bottom of the sea. Slick black oil bleeding out, an unseen graveyard lodged in the murky depths, far, far below, forever.

A strange gathering place of souls.

My ace. My rookie. All those unlucky ships.

But before me is blue—perfect blue welcoming me with open arms, and this is my sky.

My escape.

Her.

I head for the battle now begun.

My dearest Reni,

I’m writing to you even though I doubt you’ll ever get this letter and I’ll probably just burn it in the stove fire, to be safe. I’m writing to you—a testament, of sorts—because someone should know the secret history of our family, the myriad paths we’ve taken, and perhaps if you look close enough, if you really pay attention, you’ll still recognize the outline of me in all this, a few familiar shades left deep and whole and intact.

Is it enough?

I’ll let you be the judge, because you are my brother.

As it turns out, Reni, a princess is entirely forgettable. Untethered from the spectacle of the main show, she becomes only another girl—simple, plain-dressed—jostled between weekend crowds and between the hands of uniformed men, invisible. A girl whose eighteenth birthday came and went in late summer’s silence, pushed into the arms of a Southern autumn where there are no colourful forests or longer nights or scatterings of snow. No chills you feel right down the throat. It’s as warm and sun-dazzling as mid-winter, an eternal circle of bright days and saffron scents and salty sea tang.

It’s beautiful.

It’s Mother’s home, and some nights, I’m certain I can feel her memories whispering up into the silence. I sense them stirring beneath my feet and hands and skin, those voices she longed to return to. Not the story of a lost nation—though there is that, too—but the story of a lost family—ours, Reni.

It’s been ten months since her death and the fragments of news and gossip prove what I was afraid would happen. That her sacrifice has been carefully and completely covered up by all who witnessed it, a shameful, unfortunate tragedy disappeared into the recent past, the war in Masrah now commanding all attention. Isn’t it remarkable the things that can disappear so suddenly in this world? Nations and people, alike. Swallowed whole and never to exist again.

They took Vilnek with only twenty-five thousand casualties.

That’s what the papers say. Only twenty-five thousand. Twenty-five thousand! Once upon a time, I thought how dare they diminish people to numbers? How dare they take an entire universe and make it a mere checkmark on a map? But now I’ve discovered the truth: they do it because they must. There’s no other way to go on, to find the end. You have to break down the tragedy into pieces that make sense, set them aside into tiny columns, lock them up in your heart, and never look too closely. Because to do anything else risks falling apart and never being put back together again.

You learn to make things small, manageable.

You learn to survive.

A part of my heart died on that floor with Mother, Reni. The moment I saw the world as it is, and I don’t think it will ever return. Though I long to see you again, long to go home, to be safe and known, and brought back to life, I know that helps no one besides me.

Here is where the deep fire burns. Here is where I can be useful, piece by piece, inch by inch. My days of grand missions are well and truly over—my insistence on what my little hands might change before the complicated beast of our world—but still I go forward, walking as far as I can go, putting one foot before the other, doing what I can. And even if my feet bleed and my heart flares out, then I’ll go like a skeleton to the place where our uncle is—and we will talk.

I will speak the world’s language as my own, with its numbers and a half-dead heart.

We will find the end, together.

All of my love,

Ali

P.S. Why did I leave you behind with only rotten words and angry accusations? You were wrong, Reni, but you didn’t understand where your choice would lead—not truly—and I’m sorry. I love you enough it hurts and please don’t forget. Please feel my love!

2

AURELIA ISENDARE

Havenspur, Thurn

The seaside café’s open windows welcome a lazy breeze, the briny aroma mingling with the fresh lavender and bread and disinfectant wafting up from the long wooden counter I sit beside. Someone has plucked the purple flowers and placed them in vases throughout the small room, though the lace-trimmed tables behind my silver stool are still mostly empty. A piano trills on the radio, and outside, Havenspur’s shoreline stretches along the sunny promenade in a shimmer of blue seawater and iron warships.

A few streets over, tough young soldiers wield giant dogs at checkpoints. Long humid lines of men, women, and children who simply want to cross town, visit friends, get home. Guns are slung like casual laughter as uniformed officers inspect each passbook and terrified face. Mocking comments muttered in a language they think we don’t understand, determining who should go forward and who should be detained to sweat a while longer.

But not on this fancy promenade.

Here, money buys a way around the lines.

Anything for you, miss? the boy at the counter asks me in polite Landori.

He’s local, perhaps about my age. His dark hair is gelled back, his white apron starched. Smile glossy.

Still deciding, I reply in the local tongue with my own polite smile. I’ve become almost fluent after months of diligent practice. It shares a lot with the Resyan I grew up speaking.

That linguistic connection earns a more intimate nod from him, and some respect, since we now have an unspoken understanding blossomed between us. It isn’t earthshaking. But it’s the quiet, wordless bond between two people who know exactly where the other has been without even asking. A shared, silent fury.

Though in our case, that’s not entirely true.

This boy has no clue I was a princess only ten months ago.

On the radio, the pleasant pianist trickles away, replaced, as usual, by a bleak news report. It immediately dampens the bright atmosphere in the café as the distant man—perhaps broadcasting from here, perhaps from Norvenne up north, across the sea—announces that the three-week-long battle for Garizal is finally over. Savient has won, though barely. His words are circumspect, purposefully vague, but the length of the siege speaks for itself and does little to inspire optimism for anyone cheering on the Safire.

Does he sound a tad gloating even?

I study my nails. They’re unhelpfully hiding traces of dirt from digging in Kaziah’s many potted plants. I should have scrubbed them a bit better before coming here. This is the best outfit I have, the only one that would allow me into a promenade establishment without some raised brows. Kaziah and I share the dress, depending on who needs it more. Today was my turn. I also got the string of pearls for around my neck. They belonged to her mother, her sole prize-worthy possession, and as much as she needles me, I have to respect the magnitude of this offering.

A mother’s wide love held in those tiny cream orbs.

And dirty nails.

Stupid.

The waiter brings me a cold water, the glass dripping. Here, miss. While you decide.

He smiles again—just for me—and I thank my new friend kindly, studying the menu’s black script. I’d like to tell him he’ll be waiting a while longer, since I’m not trying to decide between chocolate cake or peach sorbet or cherry pie. I’m making my real selection from the three Safire soldiers who currently occupy the round table nearby, close to the open window. Two of them look important. They’re older, maybe thirty, with caps and badges, conversing confidently in Savien while the third one nods along wordlessly, like he knows exactly what they’re saying and wants to appear involved, but he’s clearly outside the animated huddle.

He’s the perfect one.

I stretch a bit, a vain attempt to attract some attention, then adjust my skirt.

I’d recommend the cherry pie, the local boy offers from behind the counter, where he’s cleaning wine glasses.

I do love cherries. But it’s warm today, and I think something chilled is in order.…

The sorbet, then. It’s made with fresh—

One of the older Safire officers laughs abruptly. It’s more a bark, reverberating sharply in the delicately set room, and for a breath, my waiter’s face holds pure hatred. There and gone. Funny how it’s the laugh that does that. Never mind that these foreign soldiers are from across the sea and have no business being here. Never mind that they man checkpoints all around the city and help the Landorians ferret out suspected Nahir revolutionaries and sympathizers alike. It’s that damn laugh. So loud and self-important in this cramped space.

I turn in my seat and raise my brow at them, hoping to garner the attention I’ve been waiting for. The oldest one notices, nodding at me. Apologies, he says in Landori, but he’s still grinning, muttering to his decorated friend, and the younger one leans nearer like he’s also a part of the joke, even though he isn’t.

It’s absurd how comfortable they are, so far from Savient and Rahmet and whatever the third place is called. At least the Landorians have some sense of what’s beneath their boots. They’re well aware what came before them here, the history breathing hot at their necks. The Safire? They have no memories of this land. They have only now, themselves, and long ago, in some other world, I thought it obnoxious how they wandered our palace like they owned it.

Now they’re doing the exact same thing in someone else’s entire country.

The youngest one, still firmly on the outside, glances my way at last.

I give him a consolatory smile.

Look at us, my smile says. What are we to do with them?

He returns it quickly, grateful.

Finally, things are moving, and I turn back to the menu, pretending to deliberate some more. It doesn’t take long. Boots creak on the polished wood floor, then a shadow who smells of aftershave takes the stool beside mine. I turn as if surprised to find the young soldier there. Brown eyes, brown hair, tanned skin. Nothing very memorable, the picture of any soldier, anywhere. Which is good. Because then I’ll never remember his face distinctly. Not tomorrow, and not in a month, when they’re listing casualty numbers. And certainly not years from now if I don’t make it to my uncle and halt the terrible thing unleashing right beneath my