Chapter 13

Thirteen

Fieran could barely keep himself from bouncing on his toes as he stood in the line just outside of the aeroplane hangar. He wore the fur-lined leather cap, coat, and boots needed to stay warm in the air, even though he was roasting in the warmth of the mild spring day. A set of goggles rested on his forehead, waiting to be tugged over his eyes.

Three flyers had been wheeled outside and now waited, one beside the other, to the side of the airstrip. These flyers were two-seater biplanes, which could be controlled from either seat.

He was going to fly today. Finally.

The bubbling, buzzing sensation filled him so completely that he didn't even realize that magic sparked around his fingertips until Merrik nudged him.

Fieran clenched his fists, snuffing out his magic. He worked to stuff his magic down, clamping his control even tighter. He hadn't realized how much those morning practice sessions with his dacha helped keep his magic steady. After so many weeks of not using his magic, the about-to-break-out-of-control feeling in his chest just kept getting worse.

Over the past few weeks, Fieran and the other pilots-in-training had sat in the flyers, familiarizing themselves with the gauges and practicing moving the ailerons and elevators—the flaps on the wings and horizontal flaps on the tail—with the stick. They controlled the rudder—a vertical flap on the tail—with a bar at their feet.

After that, they had spun the flyers up and jounced up and down the airfield, occasionally lifting off the ground, then bouncing back down to earth. Sometimes the narrow, spoked wheels would skid on wet grass, and their aeroplane would veer unexpectedly into the tall weeds. Or the wheels would catch on something, and the whole aeroplane would tip forward. Most of the time, the hooked training skids sticking out of the front caught the aeroplanes on their noses before they turned all the way over upside down. One aeroplane had tipped all the way over, crunching the upper wings. The pilot-in-training had survived with nothing worse than a few broken bones that had been healed by Fort Linder's elf healer.

For the past few days, Capt. Arfeld and the other two flight instructors had been going on training flights with each recruit in alphabetical order. While they flew, the rest of the unit had to spend the hours in that tiny room, studying up on aerodynamics and taking quizzes.

While none of the quizzes were hard, Fieran was glad it was finally his turn to take to the sky instead of take another test.

A few of the men in the training squadron had washed out after their practice flights—and practice crashes—deciding that such danger wasn't for them.

Capt. Arfeld nodded to the lieutenant standing by. The lieutenant stepped in front of them, then read from his clipboard. "Fieran Laesornysh, Elijah Lake, Merrik Loiatir."

The three of them stepped forward and shouted, "Here, sir."

The lieutenant directed each of them to one of the flyers, and Fieran found himself waved toward the flyer where Capt. Arfeld stood.

Capt. Arfeld started to reach out a hand, as if for a handshake, before he must have remembered that he was now a captain in the army's Flying Corps instead of a civilian daredevil pilot. He withdrew his hand, but there was still something more casual in his gaze than that of an officer interacting with someone below him. "Fieran Laesornysh? Son of Prince Farrendel Laesornysh?"

"Yes, sir." Fieran braced himself, not sure what Capt. Arfeld's reaction would be. So far, the drill sergeants had taken particular delight in doing whatever they could to make Fieran's life miserable because of his last name and who he was related to.

But Capt. Arfeld got that light in his eyes, more like Pip than the drill sergeants. "He's a hero to all of us who flew in those experimental early days of flight. We would not have achieved flight without the inventions created by your father and Lance Marion."

Dacha was a hero to a lot of people, it turned out. Fieran just nodded, hoping that Capt. Arfeld wouldn't gesture to the aeroplane and mention the magic powering the flyer even now. Because Fieran was totally going to lie and agree that it was Dacha's power in that flyer. He was already getting too much special attention from his captain without admitting that it was his magic currently powering the aeroplane.

Capt. Arfeld turned and grabbed one of the wing supports, using the toe step to climb easily into the rear seat of the two-seater. As he settled into the seat, he tugged his goggles down over his eyes.

Using the toe step, Fieran climbed up and over the side of the aeroplane. He had to fold his knees nearly to his nose as he wedged himself into the cockpit. He was on the tall end of the height restrictions for pilots. He shifted his legs and managed to get himself crammed into the space as comfortably as possible with his toes tucked into the toe grips on the rudder bar and his knees braced underneath the engine compartment.

The control column of the aeroplane was between his legs while the panel before him held a temperature gauge for the engine compartment. Another gauge measured the magic levels. It should stay in the green. If it jumped into yellow, the magic was burning through the wiring and would eventually send the aeroplane plummeting out of the sky. If that gauge went into red, well, an explosion might be imminent.

Fieran fixed the goggles over his eyes, adjusting the way the strap ran over the points of his ears. How he missed the goggles he had back home, which were comfortably broken in and shaped to his face and head.

Capt. Arfeld walked Fieran through flipping the correct switches and pushing the right button to start the engine while a crew member turned the propeller. Not that Fieran needed much instruction. It was essentially the same as starting the engine of his automobile back home or starting an engine for testing at the AMPC.

The magically powered rotary engine gave a crackling, high-pitched whine as it powered up. The propeller started into motion, then whirred faster and faster until it set up a deep hum. The aeroplane eased forward.

Capt. Arfeld had to shout over the hum of the propeller as he maneuvered the aeroplane to the end of the airfield, telling Fieran what he was doing as he did it. Fieran kept his hands on the stick, feeling the power and control through the column.

Then they reached the end of the airstrip, and one of the ground crew ran over and put chocks in front of the wheels, staying low to avoid the whirling propeller.

Capt. Arfeld opened the power to full, the propeller buzzing loudly, the engine whining at a pitch that made Fieran wish he had a set of elven moss earplugs. They sat there for several long minutes, held back by the wheel chocks as the aeroplane spun up to full power. The other two aeroplanes waited behind and to the side of them, also spinning up.

Finally, Capt. Arfeld waved to the ground crew, and a man dashed forward, grabbed the chocks, and raced out of the way.

The aeroplane rolled forward, faster and faster. The rubber tires on the spoked wheels bounced over the ground, and the whole wooden frame of the flyer shuddered, as if it were about to be shaken apart. Fieran was rattled from side to side in the seat, his head occasionally banging against the minimal leather padding around the lip of the cockpit and behind his head.

Fieran's heart crawled into his throat as the aeroplane hurtled toward the end of the runaway. The grass strip had seemed so long before, but now the end was rushing toward them, the wind of their passing blasting into his face.

The wings wavered, and the whole flyer felt light around Fieran. Then it crashed back to the ground, and every ounce of Fieran's weight pressed into the hard leather of the seat.

Then he was pressed even harder into the seat, as if a giant hand was pushing on his shoulders. Yet that same hand seemed to catch under the biplane's wings and pull the flyer off the ground. The tires left the ground as the nose tilted toward the sky.

They were flying.

Fieran swallowed back his whoop and concentrated on breathing through the rush of air snatching at his nose and mouth. The air grew increasingly cold even as the earth fell away beneath him in a way that sent his stomach into his toes.

Yet even as his stomach dropped, his heart soared. This was what it meant to be alive. The rush of frigid air. The hum of the propeller vibrating through his bones. The freedom of an open sky all around him.

As they leveled off, Capt. Arfeld shouted, "I'm going to turn control over to you."

Fieran gripped the control column, his heart hammering instead of soaring. Through the stick, he could feel the strange firmness of the air beneath the wings, as if the air was solid rather than immaterial.

"Ease the biplane into a gentle turn. Remember, it will turn slower and tug upward when turning to the left but turn sharper and downward to the right." Capt. Arfeld shouted his instructions from the rear seat.

Fieran eased the stick over while pressing on the rudder bar with his feet. He'd thought it had been gentle, but the aeroplane was suddenly on its side. Fieran's shoulder rammed against the side of the cockpit, and he hung from the lap belt strapped across his hips.

He tried to correct, and suddenly his nose was going over and up, the aeroplane wanting to tug into a roll.

"Gentle movements. Feel the way the air interacts with your wings." Capt. Arfeld somehow managed to sound completely unruffled. Capt. Arfeld's hand appeared in Fieran's peripheral vision, pointing. "Keep an eye out for the other two flyers. They are coming up behind and under us."

Fieran glanced in that direction, leaning over the side of the aeroplane to see a second aeroplane to the side and beneath him, barely visible around the lower wing of Fieran's biplane.

That was something to get used to. When driving his automobile, he only had to worry about a level plane of directions. But here in the sky, all directions were possible. Even above him and below him.

His magic jumped around his fingertips again, as if to protect him in his vulnerable position in a wooden flyer alone in the unprotected sky.

Fieran squashed his magic until he almost felt like he was smothering, his breath hitching. He couldn't unleash his magic here. Not only would he risk incinerating his own flyer if his magic got out of control, but he could overset the magical power cell and cause an explosion.

After several moments of wrestling with the flyer, the wings tipping first one way, then the other, Fieran finally managed to level off again, his heart racing, his hands shaking on the control column.

"Not too bad, but let's try that turn again." Capt. Arfeld's shout somehow remained utterly calm.

Capt. Arfeld talked Fieran through a variety of turns and gentle maneuvers. No spins or corkscrews for this first flight. Even a simple turn felt dangerous enough.

The longer Fieran flew, the more accustomed he became to the way the aeroplane handled. He had the growing urge to throw the flyer into a roll or a sharp banking turn, just to truly test the biplane's—and his own—limits.

But he didn't. He followed orders like a good recruit and stuffed down both his magic and his soaring excitement.

All too soon, Capt. Arfeld directed him to turn around, and they headed back toward the aerodrome. As they lined up for a landing, dropping lower, Capt. Arfeld took over the aeroplane once again, though he continued to talk Fieran through the process.

They swooped lower and lower, the ground rushing up to meet them. Then the wheels touched down with a jolt, and the biplane went from a graceful bird in the sky to a jolting, shuddering contraption lumbering over the ground, the wings wobbling as if about to tip one way or the other.

The tail dropped, and the tail skid dug into the earth, slowing the flyer. As they slowed, Capt. Arfeld turned the aeroplane, finally halting it to one side of the airfield near the hangar.

The ground crew rushed to meet them as Capt. Arfeld turned off the engine, though the propeller continued to spin in ever slowing circles for several more minutes.

Even as Fieran uncramped his legs and tried to pry himself out of the cockpit, another biplane came in for a landing. It touched down, jouncing back into the air to fly another few yards before falling back to the ground and staying there this time.

Fieran finally managed to unwedge himself from the cockpit. He shakily found the toe grip and lowered himself onto solid ground. As the other aeroplane parked nearby, Fieran pulled off the goggles and drew in a deep breath, not sure if the adrenaline coursing through him was from fear or the excitement of flight.

When Merrik climbed out of the other flyer, Fieran met his gaze, unable to hide his grin any longer.

Merrik grinned back unreservedly as he so rarely did. The flight must have been as freeing for him as it had been for Fieran.

As Lije's aeroplane landed, skidding a bit on the grass, Fieran joined Merrik as they stepped out of the way of the ground crews.

Fieran's face hurt from his wide grin, and he had to clench his fists to hold back his magic from dancing around his fingers. "That was even better than I imagined."

Merrik turned his face to the sky for a moment, as if feeling again the breeze of flight on his face. "I did not think I would enjoy it, but…I do not know how I went my whole life without flight."

Fieran's grin faded as Merrik's words registered. "You didn't think you'd even like flying? And you still enlisted with me anyway?"

Merrik shrugged, not meeting Fieran's gaze. "I could not let you enlist by yourself. We have always watched each other's back, and I was not going to stop now."

"Linshi." Fieran found the elvish word for thank you coming out instead of Escarlish. There was just something extra meaningful in the elvish, especially for Merrik.

Lije bailed out of his aeroplane and strode toward them with a huge grin on his face and an extra bounce to his step. "That was epic."

Fieran slapped him on the back, then the three of them strode toward the hangar.

As they stepped into the shadow of the hangar, Pip met them, though her gaze skipped over Merrik and Lije to land on Fieran. "I see you brought my flyers back in one piece."

"Your flyers?" Fieran's grin returned as he fell into step beside Pip. "I thought they were the army's flyers."

"Well, I'm the one keeping them functioning and in the air." Pip gestured at the hangar, grinning back. Her curls were tied back in a high ponytail while her green coveralls weren't yet stained with grease. "Me and the other mechanics, anyway."

"Efforts I greatly appreciate." Fieran didn't want to think about falling out of the sky. Right now, he just wanted to ride the high of the flight.

This was what he'd been dreaming about for years. Flying.

He couldn't wait to do it again.

Pip perchedon the stool at the long, stainless-steel countertop in the soda parlor in Bridgetown and sipped her root beer float. The remnants of her chicken sandwich remained on the plate in front of her. It had been so huge she hadn't been able to eat all of it.

"You going to eat that?" Tiny reached past Fieran and pointed at her plate.

"Nope. Go for it." She slid her plate down to Tiny. The half-troll grinned his thanks, then picked up the remnants of her sandwich and dug in.

All around them, the soda parlor bustled with troll children getting sodas and elf families tying their bicycles up outside and coming in for a soda and sandwich to complete their day out in Bridgetown. A few people of all ages—trolls, humans, and elves—came in by themselves and got a soda, sandwich, or a piece of candy.

Even living at the far western edge of Tarenhiel where they interacted with the humans of Afristan and the dwarven kingdoms across the plains, Pip had never experienced a city like Bridgetown where trolls, humans, and elves mingled so freely.

She wasn't even as short compared to many of the humans. She'd seen a few humans on the streets of Bridgetown who were shorter than her. Always an exciting moment for her when she was anywhere other than visiting her dwarf grandparents. There, she was one of the tallest people around.

Next to her, Fieran held up his bottle of raspberry soda. "A toast. To our first flights. May there be many more to come."

Tiny, Stickyfingers, Pretty Face, and Lije all held up their glasses or bottles and clinked them.

Pip clinked her root beer float with Fieran's soda. "And may all those flights land safely again on the ground."

Perhaps it was her dwarf half, but she couldn't quite understand the lure of the sky that drew these flyboys. She'd much rather keep her feet planted on solid earth.

"And to the mechanics who keep our flyers running." Lije leaned forward to grin at Pip, even as he held up his soda bottle again.

The others echoed the toast, clinking their glasses again.

Fieran finished the last of his soda, then pushed his empty plate and glass away from him. He glanced at her. "Are you ready?"

Pip took one last sip of her root beer float. Her stomach was so full her skin ached from being stretched so tight and her lungs felt like they were crowded. She couldn't possibly finish off the last of her float.

She pushed it away from her, then swiveled on her stool. She couldn't touch the step bar, so she gripped the edge of the countertop and slid off the stool, taking the impact with her knees as her feet hit the ground.

Fieran held open the soda parlor's door for her, and she nodded to him as she stepped through onto the busy sidewalk.

A few automobiles with shining fenders buzzed past on the stone street. Black, intricate lantern poles lined the street, the blue elven lights burning bright as dusk fell over Bridgetown.

Pip glanced both ways, then darted across the street, Fieran easily keeping up with her.

Across the street, a small park filled with trees, brick pathways, and a fountain that tinkled with the splash of water provided a sanctuary amid the bustle of Bridgetown. Parks and squares like this were dotted all through Bridgetown, showing the influence of the elves as this city was built.

Merrik sat at the base of one of the trees, both hands flat against the grass and moss, a hint of his green elven magic twining around his fingers.

"Enjoying your time communing with the trees?" Fieran nudged Merrik's boot with a foot.

"Yes. You should try it sometime. You might be less reckless." Merrik's mouth twitched with a smile, and he cracked an eye open, peering up at Fieran. "You need to do something. You have been even more jittery than usual."

Pip glanced from Merrik to Fieran. She had noticed that Fieran couldn't help but tap his foot or wiggle on his seat in the soda parlor, but she hadn't thought too much of it. He just seemed like the type of person who was in constant motion.

Fieran gave a little shrug, then glanced at Pip. "My magic doesn't exactly enjoy being reined in for so long. But I'll be fine. I'm not going to self-combust."

"Hmm." Merrik let his eyes fall closed again. "I doubt it."

Pip just shook her head. She'd seen the way her dacha latched on to trees after spending too much time underground or crossing the Afristani plains. Merrik was probably wishing she and Fieran would stop annoying him.

Pip grabbed Fieran's sleeve and tugged him away. As they strolled down one of the paths, Pip glanced around, then lowered her voice so it wouldn't carry. "There's something I've been wanting to ask you."

Fieran's shoulders stiffened, his smile freezing into that polite one that he wore as a mask instead of the genuine one that lit his eyes. "Ask away."

"Your dacha is a prince, and your macha is a princess." Pip peeked up at him. Way up, since he was walking next to her. "Does that mean you're actually Prince Fieran?"

Fieran grimaced and sighed. "Technically, yes. But it's a pretty useless title. On the Escarlish side of the family, I'm about three hundredth in line for the throne. Well, maybe not quite that far, but a whole trainload of people would have to die before I ever came close to inheriting the throne. There are fewer people between me and the Tarenhieli throne, but enough that I'd assume the world was ending if I inherited it."

"But you're still a prince." Pip couldn't help the slight smile. Fieran looked so uncomfortable admitting that he was a prince.

"Yes." Fieran side-eyed her. "But don't spread that around. I don't want anyone getting ideas. Beyond even the fact that I won't inherit a throne, my title is only a courtesy title because my grandfathers on both sides of the family were kings. But I won't pass on the title of prince or princess to my children, although my wife could be a princess if she wanted. Though, I suppose, I do have a laundry list of other titles that will get passed down."

Pip snorted, then she couldn't stop her laugh. Fieran couldn't even hear what that sounded like. Titles were so ordinary to him. He just dismissed the fact that he was a duke or lord or something as if it was nothing special. As if everyone had titles they could just throw away as utterly meaningless.

Fieran halted, turning to her. "What?"

He was so puzzled that Pip had to bend over, bracing her hands on her knees, under the force of her laughter.

When she finally got herself under control, she patted his arm. "Don't worry about it. Just don't ever change."

A noise from the street broke through her laughter as Fieran turned in that direction, his forehead scrunching.

A newsie—a young boy in a slouch cap—hefted a stack of papers in one hand, holding up a single paper in the other hand. "Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Mongavarian ships threaten Kostaria!"

After sharing a glance with her, Fieran hurried in that direction, and Pip followed as fast as she could. The newsie—who was probably about ten—was nearly as tall as she was.

Fieran dug into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins, and paid for a newspaper, handing the newsie far more coins than necessary and waving off the change. After hurrying a few steps away and putting his back to a nearby haberdashery so that they weren't standing in the flow of the sidewalk, Fieran opened the paper.

Pip crowded in next to him, and Fieran held the newspaper lower, putting it more level with her face instead of forcing her to stand on her tiptoes to see.

The black headlines splashed across the page declared that a fleet of Mongavarian dreadnoughts—along with a few of their airships—had come rather suspiciously close to the cluster of islands off the coast of Kostaria. They hadn't done anything aggressive or crossed into Kostaria's waters.

But their very presence was a provocation and a warning.

The main trade route between Tarenhiel and the elven kingdoms on the far continent—the source of Tarenhiel's silks and fine porcelains—cut through those waters. Not to mention, Dar Goranth—the largest naval base in all three Alliance Kingdoms—occupied a chunk of one of those Kostarian islands. Because Dar Goranth was on one of the outlying islands, it wasn't protected behind the magical Wall that shielded the rest of the Alliance Kingdoms.

By sending their warships into waters nearby, the Mongavarian Empire was flexing its might and thumbing its nose at the Alliance and at Kostaria specifically.

Pip swallowed, the bubbling laughter of a few minutes ago turning to ash in her mouth. As idyllic as this weekend of leave was, she couldn't forget that they were all training for war—a war that seemed increasingly inevitable. "Do you think Mongavaria will strike at Dar Goranth or Fort Defense first?"

For weeks, the newspapers had been filled with pundits debating which military base Mongavaria would strike first.

Fort Defense was the joint military base nestled between the foothills of the Whitehurst Mountains and the Hydalla River on the Escarlish side of the border with Mongavaria. Everyone knew that Fort Defense would become the main headquarters in any war with Mongavaria.

However, Fort Defense was protected by the Wall. Mongavaria could send their airships over to duke it out with the airships stationed at Fort Defense, but they couldn't attack more than that.

Since Dar Goranth wasn't protected by the Wall, Mongavaria could attack from sea, air, and land, if they could get close enough. If they took Dar Goranth, they could cripple the naval power of all three kingdoms and likely enforce a blockade of the coast.

Fieran shrugged, grimacing at the newspaper in his hands. "Perhaps they will attack both. Though both are heavily fortified and prepared for such a sneak attack. Any attack would be costly."

"It doesn't seem like Mongavaria cares." Pip resisted the shudder that traced down her spine.

Cut off from the rest of Tarenhiel as they had been at the western rail terminal, she hadn't known how tense things were with Mongavaria. But here in Bridgetown, the possibility of war was just about the only topic in the papers. People chatted on street corners about a coming war as casually as someone might talk about the weather. Everyone talked as if it was a matter of when and where, and not if.

She'd joined the Mechanics Auxiliaries because she'd been restless. But it seemed that her restlessness would lead her straight into a war sooner or later.