Page 13 of Under the Iron Sky

The feed went dead, but Noreen didn’t look at Soraya. Instead, her eyes drifted to the map of Vordell carved into her table, her expression tightening just a fraction at the gold sun figurines that represented the territories the Vordellians still held, the bronze coins that were the safe houses, then the sharply cut black stones that represented those lost to the Dar’rak. So much black. So little gold.

Noreen stared at the map, deep in thought—and it wasn’t until Soraya reached the end of her temper and sent all those pieces clattering to the floor that her mother finally bothered to look at her.

Noreen hadn’t seen battle in years, but she still wore her old Queensguard armor, not a scratch or dent in sight. Her midnight-black hair was pulled into its usual tight braid across her skull, and her desk was perfectly organized. Pristine as always.

She assessed Soraya slowly, taking in the oil on her hands and clothes, the goggles still slung around her neck, then the grease no doubt smeared across her face.

“You arrive an hour after I called for you, and you still couldn’t be bothered to make yourself presentable?”

“Cut the shit,” Soraya bit out, placing both hands on the desk. “What do you want?”

There’d been a time when Soraya would have crumbled beneath her mother’s answering glare. When one glance from those burning green eyes would’ve brought tears to her own—but that was a long time ago.

A part of her—albeit a very small part—wondered what Noreen felt when she marked the fresh bruises on Soraya’s arms, the bite marks and scratches across her shoulders and face. Some families grew closer in war. Some treasured the time they had together because they knew it could be snatched away at any moment. Soraya and Noreen were not those people. When her mother looked at the scrapes on her daughter’s armor, she saw not the close brushes with death, only the resources needed to repair them. Always a commander. Never a mother.

It was a long time before Noreen spoke. “Contact your mole. We need the location of the final nest so we can begin preparations.”

Soraya folded her arms, mirroring Noreen’s cold stare. “It doesn’t work like that. We meet once a week at a predetermined location and time. I’m scheduled to see him again in two days. It’ll have to wait until then.”

Noreen’s nose crinkled. Soraya hated that hers did the same when she was annoyed. “We cannot wait that long. We need to strike while the iron is still hot. Contact him now.”

“And risk exposing him? The only reason this scheme has worked for as long as it has is because he’s discreet. If any of the Dar’rak figure out he’s leaking information to us, he’ll be executed and we’ll lose the only advantage we have.”

“That did not seem to bother him when he slipped that first note into your armor,” Noreen countered. “Perhaps he is not being watched as closely as you think.”

Soraya still had no idea how he’d done it. She’d just returned from battle, her face bloody and spirit bruised, and when she’d peeled off her armor, intent on forgetting the nightmares of the day at the bottom of a lukewarm bath and bottle of something strong and brown, the parchment had fallen to the floor and there it was: a date, a time, and a location, all there in neat script signed by a single word. Ma’varea. An old Dar’rak word they’d later learned meant “ruined.”

At first, no one had believed that one of the Dar’rak had turned against their master. There’d been a lengthy debate on whether the note could be trusted—Soraya was one of the people arguing against the meeting, but Noreen had overruled her, because of course she did, and a week later Soraya had been at the rendezvous point.

He hadn’t given her much that first time. Just the location of a base where new recruits were being trained, should they be inclined to cut their enemy off at the knees. Those young Dar’rak had never stood a chance—and the relationship had flourished from there.

Soraya shook her head. “Even if I did have a way to contact him, which you know very well that I don’t, I wouldn’t risk that. If it weren’t for him, we’d have lost this war a long time ago.” A harsh truth, but the truth nonetheless. Ma’varea was the reason humanity had been able to claw their way back from complete demise.

He’d given them days’ notice of impending attacks so they could evacuate, leaked battle strategies and the locations of all the stalker nests so far. The Vordellians had given him nothing but a promise of a pardon when and if the war ended, but they owed him everything.

“Soraya,” Noreen sighed. “Don’t make this difficult. Just contact him.”

“No.”

Noreen clicked her tongue in that way that’d made more than a few soldiers skitter away over the years. Soraya just stared back, and when it became clear that she had no intention of backing down, “Fine.” Noreen opened a drawer in her desk full of black and gold pieces and began rearming the map. “If you’re not going to help, then we have nothing more to discuss. You are dismissed.”

“Nothing more to discuss? Aren’t you forgetting something?”

A long, deep, suffering sigh left Noreen. “Forgetting what?”

“Noah.”

That one word slashed into Soraya’s chest, branding her like a whip. Noreen didn’t even flinch. Didn’t say a word. Just continued adding bits of black rock to the map as though Soraya had already left. As though that young boy’s body wasn’t being stored in a room somewhere in this very building—warm, because they couldn’t spare the power necessary to keep him chilled.

“We’re burning him at dawn,” Soraya said. Still, nothing from her mother. She tried again. For Noah. Because he’d want her there. “Wear the blue shirt, that was his favorite on you.”

“I’m not going.”

Noreen never did, but the words cut deep nonetheless. “He told me to tell his mother he was sorry, you know.”

Noreen didn’t react. Showed nothing of the clawing, bleeding thing Soraya felt carving her up from the inside out. Again, she tried to stir something in the woman she looked so much like but had never felt so far away from. “He died in my arms. Clung on for just a few more seconds after the blast. I held his hand when he went.”

Those cold eyes finally slithered up to Soraya’s. Target engaged. “Is that supposed to matter?”