Glass Sword
Page 39
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The largest of the islands has a harbor filled with boats, navy judging by their size and the silver-blue stripes decorating their hulls.
“I assume you know what you’re doing?” I ask Cal, my eyes still on the islands. Who knows how many Silvers are down there, searching for us? And the harbor, crowded with ships, could hide any number of things. Or people. Like Maven.
But Cal doesn’t seem concerned with any of that. Again, he scratches his growing stubble, fingers rasping over rough skin. “Those are the Bahrn Islands, and nothing to worry about. Fort Patriot, on the other hand . . .” he says, pointing vaguely northwest. I can just make out the shore of the mainland, hazy in the golden light. “I’m going to stay out of their sensor range as long as I can.”
“And when you can’t?” Kilorn is suddenly standing over us, leaning on the back of my chair. His eyes dart back and forth, alternating between Cal and the islands below. “You think you can outfly them?”
Cal’s face is calm, confident. “I know I can.”
I have to hide my smile behind a sleeve, knowing it will only incense Kilorn. Though I’ve never flown with Cal before today, I have seen him in action on a cycle. And if he’s half as good at flying jets as he is at driving that two-wheeled death machine, then we’re in very capable hands.
“But I won’t have to,” he continues, satisfied with Kilorn’s silence. “Every jet has a call sign, to let the forts know exactly which bird’s going where. When we get in range, I’ll send an old one out, and if we’re lucky, no one will think to double-check.”
“Sounds like a gamble,” Kilorn grumbles, searching for anything to poke holes into Cal’s plan, but the fish boy finds himself woefully outmatched.
“It works,” Farley pipes in from her place on the floor. “That’s how the Colonel gets past, if he can’t fly between the sensories.”
“I suppose it helps that no one expects rebels to know how to fly,” I add, trying to alleviate a bit of Kilorn’s embarrassment. “They’re not looking for stolen jets in the air.”
To my surprise, Cal stiffens sharply. He gets up from his seat in a quick, jarring motion, leaving his chair spinning. “Instrument response is sluggish,” he mutters in hasty explanation. A lie, poorly made, judging by the dark scowl on his face.
“Cal?” I call, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even acknowledge me, and stalks off toward the back of the jet. The others watch him with narrowed eyes, still painfully cautious of him.
I can only stare, perplexed. What now?
I leave him to his thoughts and go to Shade, still sprawled on the floor. His leg looks better than expected, supported by the well-made brace, but he still needs the curved metal crutch at his side. After all, he did take two bullets in Naercey and we have no skin healers to put him back together with a simple touch.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t say no to some water,” he says begrudgingly. “And dinner.”
Happy to be able to do at least something for him, I collect a canteen and two sealed packets of provisions from Farley’s stores. I expect her to make a fuss about rationing the food, but she barely spares me a glance. She’s taken my seat in the cockpit, and stares out the window, enthralled by the world passing beneath. Kilorn idles next to her, but never touches Cal’s empty chair. He doesn’t want to be scolded by the prince, and is careful to keep his hands away from the instrument panel. He reminds me of a child surrounded by splintered glass, wanting to touch but knowing he should not.
I almost take a third ration packet, as Cal hasn’t eaten since the Colonel locked him up, but one glance toward the back of the jet stills my hand. Cal stands alone, fiddling with an open panel, putting on a show of fixing something that isn’t broken. He quickly zips himself into one of the uniforms stored away on board: a black-and-silver flight suit. The tattered clothes of the arena and execution puddle at his feet. He looks more like himself, a prince of fire, a warrior born. If not for the distinctive walls of the Blackrun, I would think us back in a palace, dancing around each other like moths around a candle. There’s a badge emblazoned over his heart, a black-and-red emblem flanked by a pair of silver wings. Even from this distance, I recognize the dark points, twisted into the image of flame. The Burning Crown. That was his father’s, his grandfather’s, his birthright. Instead, the crown was taken in the worst way, paid for with his father’s blood and his brother’s soul. And as much as I hated the king, the throne, and all it stood for, I can’t help but feel sorry for Cal. He’s lost everything—an entire life, even if that life was wrong.
Cal feels my gaze and looks up from his busywork, still for a moment. Then his hand strays to the badge, tracing the outline of his stolen kingdom. In one sharp twist that makes me flinch, he rips it from the suit and tosses it away. Rage flickers in his eyes, deep beneath his calm exterior. Though he tries to hide it, his anger always bubbles to the surface, glinting between the cracks in his well-worn mask. I leave him to his fussing, knowing the inner workings of the jet can calm him better than anything I might say.
Shade shifts, giving me space next to him, and I plop down without much grace. Silence hangs over us like a dark cloud as we pass the canteen back and forth, sharing a very strange family dinner on the floor of a twice-stolen Blackrun.
“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” I whisper, hoping for some kind of absolution. Though he’s only a year older than me, I’ve always relied on Shade’s advice.
“I assume you know what you’re doing?” I ask Cal, my eyes still on the islands. Who knows how many Silvers are down there, searching for us? And the harbor, crowded with ships, could hide any number of things. Or people. Like Maven.
But Cal doesn’t seem concerned with any of that. Again, he scratches his growing stubble, fingers rasping over rough skin. “Those are the Bahrn Islands, and nothing to worry about. Fort Patriot, on the other hand . . .” he says, pointing vaguely northwest. I can just make out the shore of the mainland, hazy in the golden light. “I’m going to stay out of their sensor range as long as I can.”
“And when you can’t?” Kilorn is suddenly standing over us, leaning on the back of my chair. His eyes dart back and forth, alternating between Cal and the islands below. “You think you can outfly them?”
Cal’s face is calm, confident. “I know I can.”
I have to hide my smile behind a sleeve, knowing it will only incense Kilorn. Though I’ve never flown with Cal before today, I have seen him in action on a cycle. And if he’s half as good at flying jets as he is at driving that two-wheeled death machine, then we’re in very capable hands.
“But I won’t have to,” he continues, satisfied with Kilorn’s silence. “Every jet has a call sign, to let the forts know exactly which bird’s going where. When we get in range, I’ll send an old one out, and if we’re lucky, no one will think to double-check.”
“Sounds like a gamble,” Kilorn grumbles, searching for anything to poke holes into Cal’s plan, but the fish boy finds himself woefully outmatched.
“It works,” Farley pipes in from her place on the floor. “That’s how the Colonel gets past, if he can’t fly between the sensories.”
“I suppose it helps that no one expects rebels to know how to fly,” I add, trying to alleviate a bit of Kilorn’s embarrassment. “They’re not looking for stolen jets in the air.”
To my surprise, Cal stiffens sharply. He gets up from his seat in a quick, jarring motion, leaving his chair spinning. “Instrument response is sluggish,” he mutters in hasty explanation. A lie, poorly made, judging by the dark scowl on his face.
“Cal?” I call, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even acknowledge me, and stalks off toward the back of the jet. The others watch him with narrowed eyes, still painfully cautious of him.
I can only stare, perplexed. What now?
I leave him to his thoughts and go to Shade, still sprawled on the floor. His leg looks better than expected, supported by the well-made brace, but he still needs the curved metal crutch at his side. After all, he did take two bullets in Naercey and we have no skin healers to put him back together with a simple touch.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t say no to some water,” he says begrudgingly. “And dinner.”
Happy to be able to do at least something for him, I collect a canteen and two sealed packets of provisions from Farley’s stores. I expect her to make a fuss about rationing the food, but she barely spares me a glance. She’s taken my seat in the cockpit, and stares out the window, enthralled by the world passing beneath. Kilorn idles next to her, but never touches Cal’s empty chair. He doesn’t want to be scolded by the prince, and is careful to keep his hands away from the instrument panel. He reminds me of a child surrounded by splintered glass, wanting to touch but knowing he should not.
I almost take a third ration packet, as Cal hasn’t eaten since the Colonel locked him up, but one glance toward the back of the jet stills my hand. Cal stands alone, fiddling with an open panel, putting on a show of fixing something that isn’t broken. He quickly zips himself into one of the uniforms stored away on board: a black-and-silver flight suit. The tattered clothes of the arena and execution puddle at his feet. He looks more like himself, a prince of fire, a warrior born. If not for the distinctive walls of the Blackrun, I would think us back in a palace, dancing around each other like moths around a candle. There’s a badge emblazoned over his heart, a black-and-red emblem flanked by a pair of silver wings. Even from this distance, I recognize the dark points, twisted into the image of flame. The Burning Crown. That was his father’s, his grandfather’s, his birthright. Instead, the crown was taken in the worst way, paid for with his father’s blood and his brother’s soul. And as much as I hated the king, the throne, and all it stood for, I can’t help but feel sorry for Cal. He’s lost everything—an entire life, even if that life was wrong.
Cal feels my gaze and looks up from his busywork, still for a moment. Then his hand strays to the badge, tracing the outline of his stolen kingdom. In one sharp twist that makes me flinch, he rips it from the suit and tosses it away. Rage flickers in his eyes, deep beneath his calm exterior. Though he tries to hide it, his anger always bubbles to the surface, glinting between the cracks in his well-worn mask. I leave him to his fussing, knowing the inner workings of the jet can calm him better than anything I might say.
Shade shifts, giving me space next to him, and I plop down without much grace. Silence hangs over us like a dark cloud as we pass the canteen back and forth, sharing a very strange family dinner on the floor of a twice-stolen Blackrun.
“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” I whisper, hoping for some kind of absolution. Though he’s only a year older than me, I’ve always relied on Shade’s advice.
