Page 51 of Stalk the Sky

“No, sir, there will not.” Fieran was too tired and hungry to squirm.

“I will not be writing up an official report of this incident. Nor will I give you and your men an official reprimand.” Commander Druindar’s voice held little mercy, despite the reprieve. “But this will be your only warning, Lieutenant. Cross the line again, and I will not hesitate to write a thorough and scathing reprimand, no matter the difficulties I might face for it.”

“I understand, sir.” Fieran nodded, swallowing.

He waited, but Commander Druindar didn’t dismiss him. Instead, the commander’s gaze dropped briefly, as if gathering himself for the next thing he wished to discuss with Fieran.

When the commander lifted his gaze again, the hard anger had disappeared into something more like regret.

“I received word this morning from the mainland.” Commander Druindar made the slightest motion toward the communications room where the telephones connected to the mainland via the underwater cables were located. “Wreckage has washed up on the Kostarian shoreline. Pieces of an Escarlish aeroplane. Perhaps two aeroplanes.”

Another blow, and this time Fieran couldn’t help his flinch.

His missing men were dead, then. Their bodies would never be found, unless they, too, happened to wash up on the Kostarian shore.

“The missing elven pilot?” Fieran’s voice rasped out far more hoarse than he intended.

“Still no word. But it is assumed that he, too, is dead.”

Three dead. And for what? A Mongavarian scout airship that had gotten away.

It brought up the memory of Capt. Arfeld after the Battle over Bridgetown. At the time, Fieran had been too focused on the promotion and the praise to do more than subconsciously note the other paperwork on the desk.

But he remembered it now. The stacks of letters addressed to the families of the pilots who had died.

That was Fieran’s job now. Lt. Rothilion and Commander Druindar were the ranking officers and the official telegram informing the families of the loss would go through them to the proper military channels.

But Fieran was the only one who was also Escarlish. Those men had been lost under his command and his watch, even if the orders that had sent them into the sky that night had been Commander Druindar’s. A more personal letter of condolence should come from Fieran.

“Thank you for informing me, sir.” Fieran wasn’t sure what else to say.

“You are dismissed.”

Fieran hurried from the room. As none of the lifts were on this floor at the moment, he trudged up the numerous flights of stairs, ignoring the stares—and worse, the whispered words and laughter—of those he passed.

Once he was on his floor, he found the rooms set to rights and most of his men rotating through the showers. Some had curled up on their newly made beds for a quick nap before lunch.

At last, it was his turn for a shower, and the three minutes of hot water was the most luxurious thing he’d ever experienced. He dressed in a clean uniform and dumped his grimy fatigues into the bag for wash day.

Merrik fell into step with him as he headed for the stairs again, even though Merrik’s muscles must have been aching as much or even more than Fieran’s after scrambling to right the rooms. Neither of them said anything as they plodded downward.

As they entered the mess hall, Fieran kept his head high, not meeting anyone’s gaze.

Lt. Rothilion sat with his cronies at the table nearest the door. One of them leaned away from the table, calling out, “Done building sandcastles?”

The others snickered.

Lt. Rothilion gave a haughty sniff, his voice plenty loud enough, as if he wanted to be sure Fieran heard. “What else could one expect from the half-breed son of a—” He ended that sentence with the crude and derogatory term for Dacha’s illegitimate birth.

Fieran halted, something inside him boiling, his gaze filling with blue. He was done. So done.

“Fieran, do not—” Merrik grabbed his arm to prevent him from doing whatever he was going to do. Even Fieran wasn’t quite sure what that would be.

Shrugging off Merrik’s grip, Fieran stalked toward Lt. Rothilion’s table. Letting just a hint of his magic rage inside him, he swept out a hand. His magic flashed out, in an instant consuming every scrap of food on the elves’ plates, including the bite of food one was bringing to his mouth and the piece of fruit Lt. Rothilion had pinched between his fingers.

Lt. Rothilion lunged to his feet, swearing in elvish. “What the…are you crazy, Laesornysh? You could have hurt someone.”

“But I didn’t.” Despite his anger, Fieran had kept his power under control. Nothing had been harmed besides the food.

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