Page 37 of Storm to Victory
They’d had many parties over the months they’d been a squadron. But this one beat all the previous ones. Perhaps it was the impending losses—the coming fracturing of the squadron—that had all of them savoring the night more than ever before.
To one side of the foyer, Stickyfingers was snorting soda out his nose as Lije pounded his back. Pip was leaning out of the splash zone as Mak tossed a towel at Stickyfingers. Tiny had gotten a care package from his girlfriend, and he was passing out the donuts she’d made, doling them out in pieces so everyone got a bite. Aylia led some of the elven pilots in singing a song that was as raucous and loud as an elven song ever got.
A group of both human and elven pilots were setting up some kind of contraption around the grand staircase, and Pip and Mak were supervising them when they weren’t making sure Stickyfingers didn’t choke.
Stepping into the somewhat quieter parlor, Fieran leaned against the wall next to where Rothilion had stationed himself well out of the chaos. “Are you going to miss this?”
Rothilion opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. “I want to sayno, but strangely I fear I will.”
“We’ve gotten under your skin.” Fieran elbowed Rothilion’s arm.
“Like a fungus.” Rothilion gave Fieran a flat look, although he couldn’t quite hide the slight twitch fighting to break into a smile.
Fieran snorted and shook his head. “But you don’t know what you’d do without us.”
“No.” Rothilion settled more firmly against the wall behind him.
Fieran let the silence lengthen for a moment before he spoke again, the smile dropping from his face. “Stay safe doing whatever my uncles will have you doing. It’s going to be dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than your mission into Mongavaria.” Rothilion’s eyes searched Fieran’s face.
“I’ll be with Pip and my dacha. We’ll have enough magical power along to destroy an army if necessary.” Fieran rolled his shoulders in an attempt at a nonchalant shrug, although he didn’t think he was fooling Rothilion.
“Still, take care of Pip and yourself.” Rothilion reached out and clasped Fieran’s shoulder. “We will meet again once this war is over.”
“I have no doubt.” Fieran clasped Rothilion’s shoulder in return. “Take care, Saranthyr.”
“And you, Fieran.” Rothilion nodded to Fieran before he dropped his hand.
Stickyfingers appeared in the parlor doorway, a few wet splotches on the front of his uniform shirt the only indication of his soda-spewing. “All right, everyone! Time for the show!”
Fieran pushed away from the wall and gestured from Rothilion to the crowd of pilots heading for the door to the foyer. “Now if you think I’m going to let you keep hiding in the corner…”
Rothilion sighed and shoved away from the wall. “Fine. I suppose I will have peace and quiet on my flight in the morning.”
“That’s the spirit.” Fieran fell into step with Rothilion, making sure he wasn’t about to back out.
The two of them stepped into the foyer, only to be ushered to a line of the cushioned chairs that had been lined up facing the grand staircase. Pip took the other seat next to Fieran while Merrik was ushered to the final seat, a footstool placed in front of him with an extra flourish, as if the flyboy were presenting it to the king.
Another flyboy had a towel over an arm and a tray in hand as he formally offered each of them a glass of the finest vintage of soda found in the latest supply shipment. Apparently this was what Stickyfingers had been taste-testing.
All the lights were dimmed except for those that had been turned to focus on the grand staircase and the area immediately in front of it.
One of the flyboys, who had a resonant voice, stepped to a landing where the two wings of the staircase met. “Give your attention to this, the first performance by the Half-Breed Players.”
“We agreed to be the Half-Breed Acting Troupe!” one of the other flyboys called out from somewhere just out of sight.
“No, I thought we were the—”
“Ahem.” The flyboy making the announcement shot a look over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. We’re getting started.”
The others fell silent.
One of the male elven pilots who had a similarly deep voice joined the flyboy on the landing. “Behold, the story of the Half-Breed Squadron.”
With that, the two announcers retreated farther up the two wings of the stairs until they were nearly out of sight.
Around each side of the staircase, the human flyboys and elven pilots marched forward, dressed in their uniforms. While the elf and human narrated the story, the two halves of the squadron pantomimed flying and training in a clumsy version of the acting-dancing of that elven entertainment troupe.
