Glass Sword
Page 41
“You’ve given me worse.” Kilorn laughs, smiling. He’s not wrong.
The harsh, grating hiss of radio static shatters the peaceful moment. I turn to see Cal leaning forward, one hand on the steering instrument, the other clutching the radio mouthpiece.
“Fort Patriot Control, this is BR one eight dash seven two. Origin Delphie, destination Fort Lencasser.”
His calm, flat tone echoes down the jet. Nothing about his voice sounds amiss or even slightly interesting. Hopefully Fort Patriot agrees. He repeats the call sign twice more, even sounding bored by the time he finishes. But his body is all nerves and he chews his lip worriedly, waiting for a response.
The seconds seem to stretch into hours as we listen, hearing nothing but the hiss of static on the other end of the radio. Next to me, Kilorn tightens his belts, preparing for the worst. I quietly do the same.
When the radio crackles, heralding a response, my hands clutch the edge of my seat. I might have faith in Cal’s flying abilities, but that doesn’t mean I want to see them put to the test outrunning an attack squadron.
“Received, BR one eight dash seven two,” a stern, authoritative voice finally replies. “Next call in will be Cancorda Control. Received?”
Cal exhales slowly, unable to stop a grin from spreading. “Received, Patriot Control.”
But before I can relax, the radio continues hissing, making Cal’s jaw clench. His hands stray to the steering instrument, fingers tightening around each prong with steady focus. That action alone is enough to frighten us all, even Farley. In the chair next to him, she watches with wide eyes and parted lips, as if she can taste the words to come. Shade does the same, staring at the radio on the panel, his crutch tucked close.
“Storms over Lencasser, proceed with caution,” the voice says after a long, heart-pounding moment. It’s bored, dutiful, and completely uninterested in us. “Received?”
This time, Cal’s head drops, his eyes half-shut in relief. I can barely stop myself from doing the same. “Received,” he repeats into the radio. The hiss of static dies with a satisfying click, signaling the end of the transmission. That’s it. We’re beyond suspicion.
No one speaks until Cal does, turning over his shoulder to flash a crooked grin. “No sweat,” he says, before carefully wiping away the thin sheen on his forehead.
I can’t help but laugh aloud at the sight—a fire prince, sweating. Cal doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, his grin widens before he turns back to the controls. Even Farley allows herself the ghost of a smile and Kilorn shakes his head, disentangling his hand from mine.
“Well done, Your Highness,” Shade says, and while Kilorn uses the title like a curse, it sounds entirely respectful in my brother’s mouth.
I suppose that’s why the prince smiles, shaking his head. “My name is Cal, and that’s all.”
Kilorn scoffs deep in his throat, low enough for only me to hear, and I dig an elbow into his ribs. “Would it kill you to be a little polite?”
He angles away from me, avoiding yet another bruise. “I’m not willing to risk it,” he whispers back. And then, louder, to Cal, “I take it we don’t call in at Cancorda, Your Highness?”
This time I bring my heel down on his foot, earning a satisfying yelp.
Twenty minutes later, the sun has set and we’re beyond Harbor Bay and the slums of New Town, flying lower by the second. Farley can barely stay in her seat, craning her neck to see as much as she can. It’s only trees below us now, thickening into the massive forest that occupies most of Norta. It almost looks like home out there, as if the Stilts wait just over the next hill. But home is to the west, more than a hundred miles away. The rivers here are unfamiliar, the roads strange, and I don’t know any of the villages huddled against the waterways. The newblood Nix Marsten lives in one of them, not knowing what he is or what kind of danger he’s in. If he’s still living.
I should wonder about a trap but I don’t. I can’t. The only thing pushing me forward is the thought of finding other newbloods. Not just for the cause but for me, to prove I’m not alone in my mutation, with only my brother by my side.
My trust in Maven was misplaced, but not my trust in Julian Jacos. I know him better than most, and so does Cal. Like me, he knows the list of names is real and if the others disagree, they certainly don’t show it. Because I think they want to believe, too. The list gives them hope of a weapon, an opportunity, a way to fight a war. The list is an anchor for us all, giving each of us something to hold on to.
When the jet angles toward the forest, I focus on the map in hand to distract myself, but still I feel my stomach drop.
“I’ll be damned,” Cal mutters, staring out the window at what I assume are the ruins turned runway. He flips another switch and the panels beneath my feet vibrate, coinciding with a distinct whirr that echoes through the body of the airjet. “Brace for landing.”
“And that means what exactly?” I ask through clenched teeth, turning to see not sky out the window but treetops.
The entire jet shudders before Cal can respond, smacking against something solid. We bounce in our seats, fingers clenched around our belts, as the momentum of the jet sways us back and forth. Shade’s crutch goes flying, hitting the back of Farley’s chair. She doesn’t seem to notice, her knuckles bone white on the arms of her seat. But her eyes are wide, open, and unblinking.
“We’re down,” she breathes, almost inaudible over the deafening roar of engines.
The harsh, grating hiss of radio static shatters the peaceful moment. I turn to see Cal leaning forward, one hand on the steering instrument, the other clutching the radio mouthpiece.
“Fort Patriot Control, this is BR one eight dash seven two. Origin Delphie, destination Fort Lencasser.”
His calm, flat tone echoes down the jet. Nothing about his voice sounds amiss or even slightly interesting. Hopefully Fort Patriot agrees. He repeats the call sign twice more, even sounding bored by the time he finishes. But his body is all nerves and he chews his lip worriedly, waiting for a response.
The seconds seem to stretch into hours as we listen, hearing nothing but the hiss of static on the other end of the radio. Next to me, Kilorn tightens his belts, preparing for the worst. I quietly do the same.
When the radio crackles, heralding a response, my hands clutch the edge of my seat. I might have faith in Cal’s flying abilities, but that doesn’t mean I want to see them put to the test outrunning an attack squadron.
“Received, BR one eight dash seven two,” a stern, authoritative voice finally replies. “Next call in will be Cancorda Control. Received?”
Cal exhales slowly, unable to stop a grin from spreading. “Received, Patriot Control.”
But before I can relax, the radio continues hissing, making Cal’s jaw clench. His hands stray to the steering instrument, fingers tightening around each prong with steady focus. That action alone is enough to frighten us all, even Farley. In the chair next to him, she watches with wide eyes and parted lips, as if she can taste the words to come. Shade does the same, staring at the radio on the panel, his crutch tucked close.
“Storms over Lencasser, proceed with caution,” the voice says after a long, heart-pounding moment. It’s bored, dutiful, and completely uninterested in us. “Received?”
This time, Cal’s head drops, his eyes half-shut in relief. I can barely stop myself from doing the same. “Received,” he repeats into the radio. The hiss of static dies with a satisfying click, signaling the end of the transmission. That’s it. We’re beyond suspicion.
No one speaks until Cal does, turning over his shoulder to flash a crooked grin. “No sweat,” he says, before carefully wiping away the thin sheen on his forehead.
I can’t help but laugh aloud at the sight—a fire prince, sweating. Cal doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, his grin widens before he turns back to the controls. Even Farley allows herself the ghost of a smile and Kilorn shakes his head, disentangling his hand from mine.
“Well done, Your Highness,” Shade says, and while Kilorn uses the title like a curse, it sounds entirely respectful in my brother’s mouth.
I suppose that’s why the prince smiles, shaking his head. “My name is Cal, and that’s all.”
Kilorn scoffs deep in his throat, low enough for only me to hear, and I dig an elbow into his ribs. “Would it kill you to be a little polite?”
He angles away from me, avoiding yet another bruise. “I’m not willing to risk it,” he whispers back. And then, louder, to Cal, “I take it we don’t call in at Cancorda, Your Highness?”
This time I bring my heel down on his foot, earning a satisfying yelp.
Twenty minutes later, the sun has set and we’re beyond Harbor Bay and the slums of New Town, flying lower by the second. Farley can barely stay in her seat, craning her neck to see as much as she can. It’s only trees below us now, thickening into the massive forest that occupies most of Norta. It almost looks like home out there, as if the Stilts wait just over the next hill. But home is to the west, more than a hundred miles away. The rivers here are unfamiliar, the roads strange, and I don’t know any of the villages huddled against the waterways. The newblood Nix Marsten lives in one of them, not knowing what he is or what kind of danger he’s in. If he’s still living.
I should wonder about a trap but I don’t. I can’t. The only thing pushing me forward is the thought of finding other newbloods. Not just for the cause but for me, to prove I’m not alone in my mutation, with only my brother by my side.
My trust in Maven was misplaced, but not my trust in Julian Jacos. I know him better than most, and so does Cal. Like me, he knows the list of names is real and if the others disagree, they certainly don’t show it. Because I think they want to believe, too. The list gives them hope of a weapon, an opportunity, a way to fight a war. The list is an anchor for us all, giving each of us something to hold on to.
When the jet angles toward the forest, I focus on the map in hand to distract myself, but still I feel my stomach drop.
“I’ll be damned,” Cal mutters, staring out the window at what I assume are the ruins turned runway. He flips another switch and the panels beneath my feet vibrate, coinciding with a distinct whirr that echoes through the body of the airjet. “Brace for landing.”
“And that means what exactly?” I ask through clenched teeth, turning to see not sky out the window but treetops.
The entire jet shudders before Cal can respond, smacking against something solid. We bounce in our seats, fingers clenched around our belts, as the momentum of the jet sways us back and forth. Shade’s crutch goes flying, hitting the back of Farley’s chair. She doesn’t seem to notice, her knuckles bone white on the arms of her seat. But her eyes are wide, open, and unblinking.
“We’re down,” she breathes, almost inaudible over the deafening roar of engines.
