Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Rain drummed on the mansion’s roof, a low rumble of thunder announcing more thunderstorms on the horizon. The breeze that swept through the open double doors that led onto a brick patio and garden behind the manor held the damp chill of the coming autumn.
Fieran sprawled on a plush, overstuffed chair facing the open doors, staring at the rain and enjoying a few rare minutes when he didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to be.
The rest of the flyboys lounged about the mansion in a similar fashion. Some napped. Some read books. Others played cards or board games. At a desk, Tiny was industriously writing a rather lengthy letter to his girlfriend back in Defense City.
Lije, Stickyfingers, and Aylia had somehow roped Rothilion into a game of cards. Despite the fact that they were still teaching Rothilion the rules, he appeared to be winning.
Several of the flyboys had stumbled across some lawn games in a closet, and they’d turned the marble-floored foyer into a game area.
The crash of a heavy ball knocking over pins reverberated at intervals while cheering and hooting accompanied the noisy games.
Surprisingly, a bunch of the elven pilots had joined in with the games, creating a racket right alongside the humans.
Heaving a sigh, Merrik eased onto the chair next to Fieran and stretched out his boots before him, his left foot propped on his right prosthetic foot. The pant leg over his prosthetic glowed slightly green, showing he was using his magic.
“Tired?” Fieran eyed Merrik, taking in the slightly darker smudges under his eyes.
“Weather fronts make my ankles ache.” Merrik spoke without opening his eyes. “It kept me awake last night.”
“Ankles?” Fieran emphasized the plural in Merrik’s statement.
“Yeah. It is annoying enough when the ankle I still have aches. It, at least, has an excuse.” Merrik grimaced without looking at Fieran. “But it is especially aggravating when the ankle I do not have decides to hurt.”
Fieran wasn’t sure what to say to that. Merrik spoke so matter-of-factly with an edge of humor that indicated he didn’t want the compassion that welled within Fieran’s chest.
And yet Fieran couldn’t come up with anything humorous to say in reply. It was one thing for Merrik to joke about his lack of a leg, but Fieran still wasn’t sure when it was appropriate for him to joke about it or when Merrik wanted him to do so.
When Fieran’s silence lingered too long, Merrik lifted his head and met Fieran’s gaze.
“It is just a few aches, and they are infrequent. Often, wearing my prosthetic the next day and using my magic to move my foot makes the phantom pain go away, as my magical senses tell my brain I am feeling my leg. If it gets worse, I will go to the healer.”
Fieran nodded and cleared his throat. “Good. Uh, good.”
Merrik sighed, reached over, and lightly punched Fieran’s shoulder. “I am fine. And I can now predict when storms are coming.”
“That’s convenient. Especially for an aeroplane pilot.” This time Fieran actually managed a note of humor.
“Exactly.” Merrik settled back in his chair, closing his eyes again.
For a few moments, the two of them sat in silence, the rain beating a steady rhythm over their heads.
Then Merrik grinned and gestured at the roof. “I am so glad you dragged me into the Flying Corps. If you had not, we likely would have been in the infantry, languishing in the flooding trenches right about now. Instead, we get to lounge about a mansion and have a day off when it rains.”
“It is more pleasant.” Fieran slid farther down in his chair, enjoying the comfortable cushioning. Then he tilted his head to better face Merrik, searching his expression as he added, “Although, if you had been in the infantry, you might not have lost your leg.”
Merrik snorted and shook his head without looking at Fieran.
“Doubtful. I would have followed you or Adry into battle, one of you would have inevitably done something reckless, and I would have gotten my leg blown off anyway. Except instead of crashing into the airfield conveniently close to the hospital, I would have been lying in the mud of the battlefield far from help where I likely would have bled out.”
Fieran knew exactly what that felt like. He’d only survived because he’d been able to keep himself alive with his magic.
“Still, you would have been fighting at Adry’s side.”
Merrik barked a laugh. “That would have been disastrous for our relationship. I would not have been able to resist hovering and worrying, and she would have resented the smothering. It is better that we fight this war together, but in our own places.”
“Instead I’m the one who gets the full dose of your good sense.”
“Can you deny that you need it?” Merrik raised an eyebrow.
“Nope.” Fieran settled back in his chair, but his gaze remained on Merrik. “You’re okay. You’re truly okay.”
There was a note of peace in Merrik’s tone and in his face that hadn’t been there even a few weeks ago.
“Yeah, I think I am.” This time, Merrik’s sigh was more contentment than exhaustion. He slouched deeper in his chair, his eyes closed, his hands folded across his chest.
Some days would still be harder than others. But Fieran could see the way his friend had pieced himself back together. He would be all right. And on the days when he wasn’t, Adry would be there for him, as would Fieran.
The distant sound of ringing broke the silence. Fieran groaned, gathered himself, and forced himself to his feet. “I had better see who that is.”
Leaving Merrik to his lounging, Fieran picked his way between the groups of elven and human pilots as he crossed the parlor. In the foyer, he had to dodge the various lawn games that were very much not meant to be played indoors.
After hurrying down the corridor, he stepped into his office and picked up the telephone. “The forest sings at the birth of day.”
“The shy moon retreats.” The voice on the other end finished the other part of that week’s recognition code.
Taking inspiration from the elven entertainment the other day, the recognition codes had been lines from elven poetry, although something was lost in the translation to Escarlish.
“General Julien Ardon and General Laesornysh have requested that Major Laesornysh, Capt. Loiatir, Capt. Rothilion, and Capt. Detmuk-Inawenys join them in General Ardon’s office at headquarters. ”
Here in the depths of the house, Fieran didn’t have a window to glare at the rain, but he could still hear it pounding on the roof. Did the truck even have a canvas top? “We’ll be there shortly.”
Fieran sighed as he hung up the telephone. So much for a leisurely rainy day off.
“Why would I be included in this meeting?”
Fieran glanced down at Pip where she was clinging painfully tightly to his hand. The two of them huddled beneath the shield she held over their heads. “I don’t know.”
Rothilion and Merrik trailed after them beneath the edge of the shield to stay dry as the four of them sloshed through the puddles on the cobblestone road, crossing the street from where he’d parked the truck.
Uncle Julien’s office was on the first floor of the townhouse he’d taken over, and Fieran led the way in that direction. The MPs at the door let them in without too much hassle, and soon the four of them were standing in the foyer, their boots leaving puddles on the tiled floor.
Multiple voices resonated from a room deeper within the townhouse. Who else was there with Dacha and Uncle Julien?
Uncle Iyrinder stood just outside of a door in the corridor to their right. His gaze went first to Merrik before he motioned to them.
Apparently they were to head right in. Fieran led the way down the corridor, then into the office.
Dacha had planted himself with his back to the wall, his swords resting against his back, his hands gripping the back of one of the chairs. Uncle Julien lounged behind the desk, a grin framed by his beard.
But across from them stood a man with auburn hair, eyes that looked blue in the current light, and a laugh that filled the room.
Pip squeaked, her steps faltering, as her gaze landed on Uncle Edmund and she realized Dacha and Uncle Julien weren’t the only ones in the room.
“Uncle Edmund!” Fieran let go of Pip’s hand to step into Uncle Edmund’s hug.
“Fieran.” Uncle Edmund slapped Fieran’s back, finished the hug, and turned to Pip. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Pippak.”
Pip’s eyes widened still further. “You know who I am?”
“Of course I know who you are.” Uncle Edmund grinned, his eyes sparkling in that way that held secrets. “I was on the diplomatic mission to Dalorbor with your parents. They are quite proud of you and your brother and happy to talk about you.”
“But you wouldn’t have known about…” Fieran reached for Pip’s hand again, clasping it.
“That was a surprise on my return.” Yet somehow Uncle Edmund’s tone didn’t sound as surprised as he should have. “I returned before they did, as my part in the diplomacy was complete by then.”
“Diplomacy?” Dacha raised his eyebrow at Uncle Edmund.
“Yes, diplomacy. That’s all it was this time. Well, mostly.” Uncle Edmund’s grin was accompanied by a hint of a shrug. “It isn’t my fault Dalorbor doesn’t know to be wary when I show up to a diplomatic meeting.”
Pip glanced from Uncle Edmund to Fieran, her brow wrinkled. This conversation would make far less sense if one didn’t know exactly what Uncle Edmund did with his time.
Fieran leaned closer to her. “Uncle Edmund is Escarland’s head spy.”
On the surface, Uncle Edmund seemed much like Fieran’s mother: gregarious, personable, friendly. But that hid the devious layers beneath.
Her eyes widened. “Am I cleared to know that? Isn’t that some kind of national secret?”
“Somewhat. Mongavaria knows, so it isn’t exactly a very well-kept secret.
And there’s my last name. I’m not exactly hiding my job from anyone who knows elvish.
” Uncle Edmund shrugged and waved as if it wasn’t a big deal.
“But if you didn’t mention it to your dwarven relatives, I’d appreciate it.
They might start re-examining every move I made while on the diplomatic trip, and that might make our new treaty more shaky. ”
“I won’t say anything.” Pip swallowed, nodding, before she leaned closer to Fieran and whispered, “I had wondered about the last name, but I didn’t think a real spy would just say he was a spy in his name. I thought it must be some kind of inside joke or something.”
Fieran grinned as he whispered back, “That’s Uncle Edmund for you.”
Uncle Edmund’s and Aunt Jalissa’s chosen last name Ispamir meant Spy Prince in elvish.
Merrik and then Adry strode through the doorway, though Fieran wasn’t sure when his sister had arrived. Rothilion remained at the door across from Uncle Iyrinder, as if he didn’t feel fully welcome inside the room.
“Uncle Edmund!” Adry released Merrik’s hand to hug Uncle Edmund. “When did you get back?”
“A few weeks ago.” Uncle Edmund returned her hug.
Uncle Julien straightened and stood. “Now that everyone’s here, we can head to the planning office for the meeting.”
“Meeting?” Fieran glanced between all of them.
“Yes. The one on how to end the war.” Uncle Edmund’s grin vanished as he turned and headed for the door.