Read Chapter 23: The Skies of Despair

The compound stank of mud and latrines, the cold leaching up through Étienne's boots as a guard shoved him past the rows of timber huts. His arm throbbed beneath the filthy bandage Marchand had tied before the crash, but the pain was a distant thing, muffled by the image of Lucien's face—gaunt, hollow-eyed, alive—twenty yards and a lifetime away.

"Move." The guard's rifle butt found his shoulder blade, and Étienne stumbled forward.

Beside him, Marchand walked with his head down, playing the beaten civilian well enough that Étienne almost believed it himself. But he saw the old man's eyes flick to the commandant's hut at the far end of the camp, and the way his jaw tightened beneath the grime of his beard.

"You two are lucky," the guard said in rough French. "The commandant wants to see you personally. Could have had you shot for balloon spies."

"That's generous of him," Étienne muttered.

The guard didn't catch the irony. Or chose not to. They were marched to a low building near the wire, its walls thin planks that wouldn't keep out a determined rat, let alone the cold that crept into Étienne's bones. The door swung open and they were shoved inside.

The room was bare—a desk, two chairs, a stove that had gone cold hours ago. Kohl was not there.

"Wait," the guard said. "He'll come."

The door slammed. A bolt shot home.

Étienne let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and turned to Marchand. "Your man seems to know the commandant's schedule."

Marchand didn't answer. He was standing at the single window, its glass cracked and filmed with frost, staring out toward the huts where the prisoners were beginning their evening meal. His fingers drummed against the sill.

"Marchand."

"I heard you."

"Then tell me what he's doing here." Étienne kept his voice low. "Because I saw my brother out there, and I need to reach him before—"

"You can't reach him now. There are guards between here and the prisoners' compound, and you're wearing a coat that identifies you as a captured balloonist. The moment you set foot outside, they'll know." Marchand turned from the window. "But I can reach the prisoners."

"How?"

The old man's face worked for a moment, as if he were wrestling with something he'd kept locked too long. Then he unbuttoned his coat and pulled up his left sleeve. On his forearm, just below the elbow, was a brand—a Prussian eagle, scarred but unmistakable.

Étienne stared. "You were military."

"Schutzmann." The word came out bitter. "Heavy infantry. Ten years, thought I was serving my country, thought I was protecting my family from the French wolves."

"And your son?"

Marchand's eyes went flat. "My son was murdered by a man I called my commander. Kohl. He said it was an accident, said the boy wandered into a restricted area during a weapons test. But I knew it was a lie. I'd seen Kohl's temper. I'd seen what he did to men who questioned him." His voice dropped. "So I left. Deserted. Crossed the lines with nothing but a needle and thread and a dead man's papers."

"You've been building your spy story since the first day you met me."

"I've been building it since the day I buried my son." Marchand's gaze was steady. "Every balloon I repaired, every envelope I patched, I told myself it was for France. But it was for me. It has always been for me."

Étienne could hear the engines of this man's grief beneath the words, the same hollow roar that lived in his own chest. He thought of Lucien's face in the yard, thin and drawn, the way he'd walked with a shuffle that spoke of cracked ribs and broken pride.

"Can you get to him?" Étienne asked.

"One guard between the prisoners' compound and the officers' mess. He'll be relieved at nightfall. If I can get to the mess before the relief comes..." Marchand shrugged. "I'll slip him a note. Have your brother ready to move at moonrise."

"Moonrise is in three hours."

"Then we'd better not waste them."

The door rattled. A key turned in the lock, and both men had their hands down and their faces neutral by the time the bolt slid back.

The guard who entered was older than the one who'd shoved them in—a sergeant, gray at the temples, with the weary look of a man who had seen too many wars and learned to hate all of them. His eyes passed over Marchand, hesitated, then narrowed.

"Your arm," he said.

Marchand's sleeve was still pushed up. The brand was bare.

Étienne's blood went cold.

"You're Rausch," the sergeant said. "The one who ran."

Marchand didn't move. The sergeant's hand went to the pistol at his belt, and in that frozen moment Étienne could see the entire plan crumbling—the note never delivered, Lucien left to rot, everything burning down around them in a single spark of recognition.

"He's my brother," Étienne said.

The sergeant blinked. "What?"

"Rausch. He's my brother. The war separated us—he went Prussian, I stayed French. When I found him on the other side of the lines, I made him come back with me." Étienne swallowed. "I've been looking for him for three years."

The sergeant's face was unreadable. His hand stayed on the pistol.

"Sir—" another guard appeared in the doorway, young and out of breath. "The commandant wants the prisoners brought to the square. All of them."

"What?"

"Orders came by wire from the front." The young guard's eyes were bright with excitement. "General von Moltke is sending a contingent through tomorrow. The commandant wants to make a show of the French prisoners."

The sergeant's gaze lingered on Marchand's arm. Then his hand came away from his pistol, and he jerked his head toward the door.

"You're going to the square with the rest. And when the commandant asks why you have a French deserter's brand painted on your arm, you tell him the truth—that you were captured wearing French clothes and that we stripped you down to see what kind of soldier you really are."

Étienne's lungs unlocked. "We'll do that."

The sergeant grabbed his arm instead, hard, pulling him toward the door. The brand was still visible on Marchand's exposed forearm, and the sergeant's voice dropped to a whisper as he passed.

"I knew Rausch. Your brother sits in that camp because a Prussian officer stole his son's life. We're not all Kohl." He shoved Étienne out into the yard. "Don't make me a fool for trusting you."

They were herded into the square with the other prisoners, a hundred ragged men in the failing light. Étoile lamps hissed at the perimeter, throwing long shadows across the mud. And there, in the third row, stood Lucien.

He looked worse than Étienne remembered. His face was sallow, his shoulders curved inward like a man trying to disappear into himself. A scabbed cut traced the line of his jaw, and his eyes were miles away.

Étienne drifted toward him, careful not to draw attention. The guards were focused on the front, where a corporal was reading from a list.

"Vautrin," Étienne whispered.

Lucien didn't turn.

"Lucien."

His brother's head came up slowly, like a man surfacing from deep water. His eyes found Étienne, and for one breathless moment there was nothing—no recognition, no light.

Then Lucien's lips moved. "Étienne?"

"I've come to take you home."

"You're in a Prussian prison camp." Lucien's voice broke, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "You call that coming to take me home?"

Behind them, the commandant's door opened. A tall man in a Prussian colonel's coat stepped out, his face cut from the same hard stone as the camp walls. Kohl.

"Gentlemen." His voice carried across the square like a knife. "Tomorrow, we have a guest. General von Moltke honors us with his presence. And when he arrives, I intend to show him what a proper prison camp looks like."

He paused, his eyes sweeping the assembled prisoners.

"Any man who tries to escape before dawn will be shot. Any man who attempts to assist an escape will be hanged." His gaze settled on Étienne—brief, curious, like a man studying a peculiar insect. "And any man who imagines he has a family somewhere outside these walls should remember: the only family that matters now is the camp."

Kohl turned and walked back inside, the door slamming behind him.

Étienne felt Lucien's hand close around his wrist.

"I heard about Papa," Lucien whispered. "The guards talk about everything. They said someone killed him near the river."

"He died saving me." Étienne squeezed his brother's hand. "And I'm going to get you out of here."

"With what? Your bare hands and that wound on your arm?"

Étienne reached into his coat and felt the weight of the bomb, still intact, still hidden.

With that. And a name that would make Kohl's blood run cold when he heard it.

But he kept his voice level as he said, "I have a plan."