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CHARLIE

I f you’ve never crashed into the sea in a burning biplane, let me just tell you it’s one hell of an unpleasant experience. There’s the heat, obviously, and the feeling of your stomach flipping over as the plane drops. Then there’s the sight of the water rushing up to meet you and a feeling of terrifying inevitability that can only be summed up with two words: oh, shit.

After the splashdown I blacked out—for how long I don’t know—and woke to find myself neck-deep in water. My plane was floating, half submerged, nose down and tail up, riding the violent seas of the Bormish Channel like an oversized cork. I cut my way out of my straps, grabbed my emergency oilskin bag from behind the seat, and clambered up onto the tail to wait. One of three things was bound to happen. I would either be rescued, I’d wash ashore, or the plane would sink, taking me to a watery grave.

I spent the night that way, clinging to the plane’s tail rudder, riding the swells in moonless blackness. Wind gusted relentlessly, waves crashed all around, and frigid water sprayed over me, freezing my skin and stinging my eyes. I was hungry. Thirsty. Painfully cold and exhausted. It was a hellish night, one of my worst, and there were moments when I almost considered letting go and dropping into the black water just so it would be over.

But when dawn came, I was somehow still there. I was relieved to find myself in the arms of a rocky shoal. Wave after wave shoved the plane toward an unfamiliar coastline of jagged cliffs—and right to the mouth of a sea cave.

I was glad to be near land, but the rocks presented a new danger. To be caught between those cliffs and the crashing waves would be like being between a hammer and an anvil. I had to get off the plane and onto the rocks, but I also had to time my dismount with the precision of a circus acrobat to avoid slipping into the treacherous water.

I watched as one good sized rock came closer, closer—and I leapt. An especially large swell overtook me at the same moment, smashing me into the stone and sweeping my plane overtop of me. Water rushed over my head and body, yanking like a thousand frigid, violent hands, but I clung to the rock, a tenacious barnacle, and somehow when the wave receded, I was still there. I held on as another swell came, then another, each pushing my beloved plane closer to the cliff—and toward the sea cave set in its face. That was good. My guess was these were enemy shores, and having my plane hidden from view might prevent my being discovered.

I watched my plane wash closer to the cave, until with one last swell, the silver wings disappeared into the cave entrance. “Goodbye, ol’ girl,” I said. “You were a hell of a plane.”

The last thing I saw was the name and emblem painted on her tail. The Silver Wraith.

* * *

I made my way to shore, jumping rock to rock, and I sat for a long time in the shadow of the cliffs, listening to the crashing waves, watching the mist burn off to a blue sky, and wondering how the hell I was still alive.

It wasn’t until a pang of hunger stabbed at my belly that I finally opened the emergency bag, looking inside for rations—and cursed.

Instead of useful things like food, flares, and first aid items, it contained a silky dress, make-up, a reporter’s credentials, and a jumble of other random stuff. It was Kitty’s flight bag.

I’d just flown my fiancée from her small hometown of Drue back to Ironberg, to the air force base. From there, she’d been supposed to hop a transport flight into enemy territory so she could write her big story about our enemy nation, Maethalia. But the moment we’d hit the ground, the alarm had gone off, scrambling our squadron. I’d gotten Kitty out of my plane, kissed her goodbye while we refueled, then taken to the skies again. Apparently, I’d taken her bag with me.

I groaned and sat back, too irritated and exhausted and hungry to do anything more than stew. My mood darkened.

Our nation would be waking up to the news that the Silver Wraith had fallen. How would people react when they learned I was gone? Would they toll every church bell? Would they be weeping in the streets? Would the Air Force place the flags at half-staff and wear black armbands on their uniforms?

I thought of the young boys and girls who sent me letters calling me their hero, and of the tearful smile the president had given me last fall when he pinned the Iron Sun on my chest.

Could I just give up? Let our nation’s hero waste away shivering on some foreign beach? Hell no. I had to get back home.

But how?

My plane was destroyed. I had no supplies. There was no boat at hand. Swimming the miles of bitterly cold seas back to friendly shores was impossible. I couldn’t get home without help. And rescue from these dragon-patrolled shores seemed a bleak prospect. Still, there had to be a way.

In a dogfight, whenever things went against me, I’d find some unexpected way to turn it to my advantage. That’s what I had to do here. All adversity held a kernel of opportunity—that’s what General Peckham liked to say. What was the opportunity here?

Well… no one from the URA had set foot in Maethalia in over a century. Kitty was to be the first. Perhaps while I was here, I might find a way to get into the capital city and gather some valuable intelligence. Identify targets for future air raids. Learn the secrets of the dragon riders. Perhaps I could even convince the Maethalians to send me back themselves in some sort of diplomatic deal.

Imagine the headlines then: Our greatest ace, now our greatest spy.

I couldn’t help but smile.

My eyes drifted back to the bag and I dug out Kitty’s travel documents again.

Kitty Rowley, Reporter, Ironberg Times.

Purpose of Visit: Journalism

Approved by: Hoatam Porchain, Minister of Foreign Affairs, Kingdom of Maethalia.

A plan was taking shape in my mind. A crazy plan. It would take a hell of a lot of luck. And cunning. And balls of steel. But if anyone could pull it off, it was me.

* * *

A few hours later, I was riding into the famed City of Issastar behind an Maethalian princess. It seemed too lucky to be true. And yet, it had to be. How many one-armed beauties were likely to be galloping along cliff-tops on splendid horses? And if she weren’t truly Princess Essaphine, why did the guards bow and step aside for us at each gate and sentry point we passed? Even the girl’s friends seemed to treat her with a certain deference.

I watched them with interest. The young dwarf woman had a plain face and short, dark hair, but a wicked humor glinted in her eyes. Her arms, though short, were powerful, and there was a confidence in the way she held her mace and in the sarcastic retorts she gave to nearly every comment from her friends.

The princess’s other friend, the one she called Ollie, was harder to pin down. He was clothed in dark blue robes and wore a black cloak speckled with white dots that reminded me of stars in a night sky. His head was shaved except for a strip of hair down the center which stretched in a long braid down his back, and a long sword hung at his waist, along with a trio of throwing knives. His voice was somewhat high for a man’s, and there was an acuity in his sharp, blue eyes. Taking all this into account, along with the deft way he’d handled that bow, I guessed he must be a Torouman, one of the eunuch guards who supposedly kept watch over Maethalian royals—another hint that the girl was truly the queen’s daughter.

“Do you always ride along the coast in the mornings?” I asked.

My pretty captor turned her head halfway back toward me. “No. We were searching for my sister. She was battling a squadron of your planes yesterday and she and her dragon reportedly went down.”

“Paemalla? Is that right?” I asked, feigning ignorance. Even back in URA, everyone knew the name of the lead dragon rider and her terrible dragon, Horban. I’d shot her down yesterday, though I had no idea now whether she was alive or dead.

“Yes,” the princess said. “Paemalla.”

“Are you a rider as well?”

She snorted. “The term is Skrathan. And yes,” she added, more quietly, “I am a Skrathan—though nowhere near the rider my sister is.”

Paemalla was a good rider. Of the five lead riders I’d defeated so far, she’d been the toughest to shoot down.

“So, where’s your dragon?”

“Resting,” she said. “After a night of throwing your planes out of the sky.”

She turned her head a little further and I caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were a hazel of sorts, but there was something kaleidoscopic about them; they contained many more colors than I’d ever seen in an iris before. Her hair held a similar quality. It seemed sometimes chestnut, sometimes auburn, sometimes nearly blonde, changing hues as often as the sun changed its light between drifting clouds. And the smell of that hair, as it brushed my face—I couldn’t help but notice—was the most sublime fragrance I’d ever known, nothing like the pungent perfumes Ironberg dancing girls wore. Essaphine smelled of sunshine, sea air—and wisteria, when the flower’s scent wafted through open windows on the breeze of a springtime night.

She was small, but not frail. Short, but possessing an energy and exuberance that far outshone her physical frame—as evidenced by the fact that she’d already knocked me into the dirt.

And the way she’d rode her horse now, galloping along the edge of the cliffs with the wind in her hair…

The Maethalians claimed to be more than human, to have descended from a race of elves long departed from the world, to have magic in their blood. It was a claim the people of our nation scoffed at. But looking at Essaphine, I couldn’t help but wonder if it might be true.

If so, it only made the Maethalians even more dangerous.

The thought reminded me of my peril. I was riding into the heart of enemy territory, a place where if they learned my true identity, I’d find my head on a spike as fast as a mousetrap snapping. And yet I couldn’t help but gape in wonder as we passed the gates and entered the city.

The terrain was hilly, and the buildings seemed a part of the earth itself. Homes were half buried in knolls, with walls and doors and windows emerging as naturally as moss or stone. Shops sat built into massive trees, some of which towered above, with windows peeping out of them, at a distance as high as any brick tower in Ironberg. But where URA cities paved over and built upon nearly every inch of earth with hardly a tree in sight, here the buildings seemed as much a part of the earth as a stone or a fern. And yet the city seemed no less vibrant or populous than Ironberg. On the contrary, all manner of unusual-looking people bustled everywhere. Merchants pushed colorful carts, shouting out their wares. Warriors in green cloaks strode along, grim-faced in their gleaming armor, gloved hands resting on sword hilts. A tall, too-thin man grinned at us with a mouth full of shark’s teeth, a strange, magical glow emanating from an object in one of his hands. Several short folk—like Essaphine’s friend mounted on the pony beside us—had formed a quartet, sitting outside a pub and playing a merry tune on pipes and drums. Children screamed and laughed, chasing one another among the throng. A woman in what looked like a dress of glimmering leaves walked past, holding skewers of steaming meat and vegetables, and I nearly slid off the horse, melting with hunger.

Essaphine must have felt me leaning.

“Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of food at Charcain,” she said.

Charcain. The ancient citadel of the Maethalian royalty, seat of their power.

How many missions had we drawn up at headquarters with the aim of bombing that storied place into rubble, dropping paratroopers into it, running tanks through it? But every attack we’d tried, the dragon riders had repelled.

What would General Peckham say if he could see me trotting in on horseback, with my arms around the Princess Essaphine?

Probably that you’re a fool about to get himself beheaded, I thought.

And yet I felt pride, too, as I imagined the looks of astonishment the faces of my fellow pilots when I told them this story at the bar. If I ever made it back to tell them…

Above, a blur of motion caught my eye. A flock of a half-dozen birds darted and spun overhead. They were as large as eagles but moved with the grace, speed and coordination of starlings. Their colors were scarlet and gold, with long, lovely tail feathers which, as they flew, seemed to dissolve into trails of sparks behind them.

“Do you have phoenixes back in your country?” Essaphine asked.

“No,” I said, watching the birds in wonder.

“They are revered here,” she said. “They say they can communicate telepathically with dragons—just like we Skrathan can.”

So that rumor was true. Very interesting…

I watched as the birds wheeled and disappeared among the rooftops.

Suddenly, the princess pulled back on the reins in front of a low, earthen building with a sign of an anvil hanging out front. The others stopped too and the dwarf dismounted.

“You don’t want to come with us, Clua?” Essaphine said. “It’s going to be wonderfully dramatic when I show Mother the foreigner we caught.”

I tried not to bristle too much at the word caught . Did she not realize I could leap off this horse, run down a side street, and be gone in a second? Yet even as I thought of it, I knew I’d never try it. Being lost in this strange city would gain me nothing, and without the princess’ protection, I’d likely be caught and killed within the hour. Already I was receiving wary glances from the passersby.

“Can’t,” the dwarf said sullenly. “Borrin will tan my hide if I’m not back on the forge soon.”

Essaphine sighed. “I warned you not to take this apprenticeship,” she said. “You miss all the fun.”

“Better to be useful than fun,” Clua said. “Father said when he apprenticed me here— Clua, the gods granted you a pair of strong arms. I expect you to…”

The dwarf glanced at Essaphine’s missing arm and there was an awkward moment as her words ground to a halt. With the princess’s body so close to mine, I thought I could feel her deflate slightly.

“I mean no offense, of course,” the dwarf said quickly.

The princess forced a smile. “Like you could offend me. We’ve been friends too long for that. Go and be useful. I’ll share all the gossip with you later.”

And she nudged her horse onward.

Down the bustling streets we rode, the buildings becoming grander as we went, the earthen and wood structures replaced by buildings of white stone. Everywhere eyes watched us. There were smiles and bows, calls of hail Princess , and long live Essaphine !

She is well liked, I noted. I should jot that down when I have a moment, and also sketch out a map of these streets. There were so many distractions all around me, but I had to stay focused. Every sight and sound held a wealth of intelligence that might prove invaluable when the time for an invasion came.

At last we rounded a corner and a vast palace came into view. My breath stopped in my chest. I’d always imagined the Citadel of Charcain as a gray and sinister place, its turrets topped with rotting heads, its walls stained in blood. But as it rose before me now, I saw walls of swirling white stone gleaming in the midday sun. The stone itself was beautiful, iridescent as the inside of an oyster shell, and delicate spires and buttresses rose in wild spirals of impossible complexity, layer upon layer, in a way that reminded me of the petals of a blooming white rose. Atop its walls, blue flags snapped in the breeze, each emblazoned with the symbol of the country—a white star.

“That’s Charcain?” I said dumbly.

“What, that?” she pointed to the palace. “No, it’s a fisherman’s brothel.”

“Essa…” the remaining friend—the one she called Ollie—chastised her, but he was laughing.

“He’s our enemy,” the princess said. “Can’t I at least tease him a little?”

The eunuch glanced at me, a thoughtful, pitying look in his blue eyes. “I would say be kind to him. These moments before your mother gets a hold of him may be the last happy moments he has.”