Wing & Nien

by Shytei Corellian

  Wing shifted a little and groaned.

  Sech’nya, he swore silently, my body hurts.

  He wondered briefly if it had been a good idea leaving Rhusta’s before he was well healed. Looking up at the bright morning sky, however, he found himself agreeing with the decision to leave. He’d rest here, as he needed; it was good to be away. To be free. To be alone with his thoughts. Free of the strain of worrying about inconveniencing the old man.

  The Old Man.

  Rhusta.

  Rhegal.

  “Bleekla,” Wing said. “Unbelievable. And I thought I could keep secrets.”

  He scratched the cub between the ears.

  “Let’s see if I can move,” he said, after closing his eyes for a time to let the sun warm his eyeballs.

  He got up gingerly, and found that his leg would barely take his weight. Leaning over, he shucked up his pant leg. The leg was swollen again around the healing break. He sighed.

  Stupid, he said at himself.

  And his shoulder; he could barely lift his arm.

  Rhusta had given him a hand-drawn map, plotting out the least strenuous route to Legran. Wing had missed the valley in the first place by veering off a direct course to the sunrising and going instead to the southing. Healthy, it would have taken less than a turn to get back on track, but the break in his leg made such a pace impossible. The terrible wounds in his back and hip where the shy’teh’s claws had grappled him were stiff with scabs and still sore to lie upon.

  So, each day he traveled as far as his leg permitted, and when the pain became too much he would rest, fish, and bathe in the sun beside any number of bubbling streams he found along the way.

  Lucin, so he’d named the cub, stuck around, watching him hunt and fish, making small efforts at both.

  Naming it wasn’t exactly going in the right direction to getting the cat to live wild, but as it showed no signs of leaving, Wing decided he couldn’t call it “Cub” forever.

  With Lucin at his side, Wing now moved through the mountains as if he belonged. Domesticated as the cub seemed to be, Wing never doubted that Lucin was as wild as Wing felt himself becoming. He lost track of time, involved and content in simply making his way, seeing to the necessities, Lucin a quiet, easy companion.

  A day or two beyond a turn passed as easily as if it had only been a couple of days and Wing found himself marveling that such was the case, that, tomorrow, he would be in Legran. Lying on his bed of tree boughs and watching the stars through heavy branches, the notion struck him as fantastical. He no longer felt the compulsion to arrive there, realizing that what he’d felt before had been a symptom of the need for survival rather than an altruistic goal. Suddenly, here in the mountains with Lucin, Commander Lant and his request for Wing to deliver the Plan to Master Monteray in Legran was a thing he felt entirely disconnected from. Even Rhusta and his time in the cabin seemed distant.

  Rieeve itself…well, that was forever ago. That had been another life. Another Wing.

  Running a few sentences through his mind in the Legrand language, Wing placed a hand behind his hand for a pillow and watched the insects play around his fire.

  “Careful,” he admonished them softly. “I understand the attraction, but you’ll get your wings melted off.”

  Closing his eyes, Lucin came and curled up at his side as was his custom, and Wing let the night come, no longer feeling a sense of relief that he would finally arrive in Legran but that, once he’d given the Plan to Master Monteray, he could return here with Lucin where he would choose a place, make a home, and live this simple, uncomplicated life — just like Rhusta. Forgotten, anonymous, unknown.

  It was a delicious, liberating thought.

  Chapter 59

  Into Legran

  M oving steadily, eyes trained ahead, Wing followed a well-beaten path down a narrow canyon that emptied into a street of Legran.

  Just inside the trees at the mouth of the canyon, Wing paused for a moment to observe and gain his bearings. His heart beat quickly. He took a breath to steady his nerves. He’d never seen another race; he’d never dreamed, as Nien had, that he’d ever visit another valley.

  From descriptions given him long ago by Nien and more recently by Rhusta, Legran was a valley only slightly larger than Rieeve and, in general, its native population were smaller than Rieevans and stockier in build, with light eyes and brown hair. It was also a haven for travelers and traders.

  Taking a peek in a nearby stream at himself, Wing tucked his hair behind his ears and, with a tilt of his head, appraised the look.

  His hair was considerably shorter having been cut by Rhusta sometime after the shy’teh attack. His clothing was rustic and showed some mountain wear. And over his shoulder he had the duffel and the green staves of Legrand make.

  I might pass for a trader, Wing thought, thinking it funny that he might blend in better here, in this foreign valley, than he ever had in his own.

  Of course, there was Lucin. That was not going to be helpful.

  “Listen,” he said to him. “You’ve got to stay here. I might draw enough attention; with you along…” Wing started to walk away slowly, motioning for the cub to stay.

  Lucin refused, stepping out after him.

  Frustrated, Wing yelled at him, waving his arms.

  Lucin cowered briefly, but as soon as Wing went to move on again he jumped along, as if tethered to Wing by some invisible lead.

  “Sech’nya,” Wing swore.

  Lucin looked up at him, his green eyes so intent and devoted that Wing’s shoulders slumped.

  “Fine.” He raised his own green eyes and looked down the narrow fold in the mountain at Legran. “So much for not wanting to cause a scene.”

  Wing proceeded out of the trees and onto the dirt trail that soon turned into a street of long flat stones. Lucin jogged along beside him as the street grew wider, making its way into town, breaking off into smaller roads like the branching of a tree. Before they’d reached the main road, however, Lucin had clearly had enough. Torn between staying with Wing and escaping the fearsome barrage of new sights and sounds, Lucin turned and leapt away, running for the outskirts. Wing watched him go momentarily, wondering…

  Nothing for it, it was, after all, what he’d wanted before they’d entered the valley.

  Continuing, Wing came upon the main road, the steady undercurrent of sound created by the wheels of carts and hundreds of voices, slowly rising to meet him as he entered what he supposed to be the main trading center of town. On display in carts and small, open wood-frame shops, Wing took in the colorful array of merchandise for sale: beads and fine linens, animal pelts and fresh meat, pots of clay and wilting vegetables, jewelry and high leather boots, weapons of blade and wood. Most of the traders were dressed in the poorest of materials, clothing that was torn and ragged — as Wing had looked before coming to Rhegal’s. But the rest were dressed much like Wing was now, in skins, with what they owned packed on their backs or slung over their shoulders with frayed rope and worn leather straps.

  Without Lucin he hoped he might, now, be able to pass through without drawing much attention; from the looks of things the locals had to be accustomed to visitors, tradesmen, and travelers from all different valleys.

  Still, from behind booths, shop-owners looked up and stared. Traders and street shoppers paused in their selling and purchasing long enough to watch as Wing walked passed. There were a few gaping mouths but most just watched him with an intermingling of curiosity and animosity, neither of which Wing could account for.

  Having little other choice, Wing moved along, adjusting the bow and leather quiver at his back, and keeping his eyes trained ahead. The many long lines of the open market passed into a section of brief inns and plentiful pubs not too far from where he was.

  Perfect, Wing thought. I need to get out of here and think. What I really need is to find Master Monteray.

  If the Master were anything in reality as were the descriptions of him by Commander Lant
then Wing figured he might be able to ask just about anyone for help in finding him.

  But he could hardly do that with them cowering behind their selling booths.

  Raising his face, Wing pretended to be uninterested with the vendors and their wares and began scanning faces, taking them in before they had time to do likewise — but he might as well have been on exhibition. Even those surrounding bartering tables paused and stared openly as he walked by.

  A good step higher than any other head around him, Wing’s black hair and green eyes stood out as starkly as they ever had in Rieeve.

  Finally nearing the end of the open-market street, Wing’s eyes narrowed in on a pub over which hung a large wooden sign that read, “Hiona” in large, flowing purple letters.

  Hiona. Wing was sure that was the name of the wine that Commander Lant had been so fond of.

  Wing crossed the dusty, stone-laid road, the limp in his leg lending a strange authenticity to the sure nonchalance he faked.

  As he approached the pub, he caught the eyes of a young man leaning casually against the poorly constructed wood-frame building beneath the large Hiona wooden sign. The boy was holding a leather-clad journal in one hand and in his other, a writing brush. Something quickened in Wing’s chest. Though still a few paces out, Wing thought he recognized the make of the brush; it looked Rieevan. His brain argued that such couldn’t be the case even as his feet continued to carry him toward the boy holding it.

  “Good morning,” Wing said.

  The boy’s lackadaisical manner skipped town. He started to say something but the words fell out in an ill-collected manner. He shifted feet nervously and a lock of light hair fell over his big eyes, their colour reminiscent of a clear Ime day.

  Wing smiled ever so slightly and said in well-rehearsed Legrand: “I was wondering if you could direct me to the home of Master Monteray.”

  The young man’s eyes sparked with the luminosity of moonlight through fine glass. The apprehension in his features fled.

  “How did you — ? Monteray is my uncle!”

  Wing managed to keep both the surprise and wonder from showing too dramatically on his face.

  “Wonderful,” he said as if that were exactly the answer he’d expected.

  “I can take you there if you like.”

  “I would like that,” Wing replied.

  The boy’s face broke into a broad grin of white, uneven teeth, and to the dismay of those gawking from shop fronts, the two strode off side by side.

  A short distance out of town the unlikely pair entered a long stretch of fields. As the green and golden grasses brushed by Wing’s boots a familiar calm embraced him. The tension fell out of his shoulders and his heart stilled to a pace that Wing had not thought he would ever experience again.

  He’d learned to appreciate the mountains, but in the wild one must always be alert, aware. It was different, he realized with the aide of sharp contrast, in fields of tall grass or grain. Tension he’d been unaware of seemed to melt from his joints, flowing out through his bones into his blood and evaporating like mist through his skin.

  It was clear the boy’s brain was buzzing with questions, so Wing said, “Since everyone in town believes we know one another so well, you might as well tell me your name.”

  “It’s Call. Who are you?”

  “Wing Cawutt.”

  “You managed to stir up the town. Are you really from Criye?”

  “Criye?” Wing asked curiously. “No. I’m Rieevan.”

  That he was from Rieeve and not Criye seemed to disturb the boy even more.

  “Rieeve?” the boy said. Wing nodded, wondering why the boy thought he was Criyean. “I, uh, I’m sorry, but I thought, I mean I heard that the Ka’ull, that they…”

  The boy couldn’t finish his sentence but a painful cold began to grow in Wing’s heart. “You heard?”

  Clearly nervous, the boy, Call, said, “Yeah. I mean, I’ve heard stuff in town. You can only count on those kinds of rumours being about half true. But I heard this from my Uncle. And, well, my brother Jason was killed.” The boy paused and pointed at a shallow canyon on the far side of the valley to their left. “He died there, after the battle in Jayak, to keep the Ka’ull from coming into Legran.”

  Wing listened, feeling intent. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So, your uncle, Master Monteray, told you he knew Rieeve has been taken by the Ka’ull?”

  “He said he thinks so.”

  Wing hunted the boy’s eyes a moment, but before he could say anymore, Call said, “Well, there it is, just ahead there by the river. I better leave you here and get home. I’ve been, uh, gone a while.”

  Wing looked down into clear blue eyes of the boy. “All right. Thank you.”

  “No problem. Come back into town sometime and find me, or I’ll see you here. I’m out here a lot.” Call shifted feet. “I — I’m sorry about what happened to your people.”

  Wing nodded to him and Call took off at a jog across the fields. Turning his attention ahead, Wing continued to the big house and its companion structures. Like his own home in Rieeve, this one faced away from the town. Also like the Cawutt home, the structure was magnificent; perhaps even more so. It was, in fact, the kind of home Wing had often imagined building for himself. It was pleasing to look at, but also interesting; what must have been a spectacularly lit and vaulted ceiling from the inside, looked like cut glass from the outside, caressing smooth cornices cutting into each other from five different angles. Wing had never seen anything like it, but he supposed, suddenly, that Nien might have in Quieness. Walking up to the side of the house, he laid his hand upon it, caressing the stone near a window with the hand of an artist admiring his latest work.

  “You recognize craftsmanship when you see it,” a man said rounding the side of the house.

  Wing looked up to meet the eyes of a middle-aged man of good height — and forgot where he was. For an instant, Wing was back in the ramshackle hut at the edge of the Cantfields, talking with Commander Lant, considering his protean gaze and wondering at all the things the Commander knew and could never say.

  Slightly embarrassed by the lapse, Wing inclined his head toward the house and said, “I do. This is one of the finest homes I’ve ever seen.”

  The man smiled. Intelligent and strong, Wing realized it wasn’t only the man’s eyes and bearing but also his presence that reminded Wing so profoundly of Commander Lant.

  “It’s taken more than a few revolutions and at least a few broken bones,” the man said, “and it still isn’t finished.” He chuckled, squinting into the distance. “Was that my nephew I saw running back across the fields?”

  Wing nodded. “I met him in town. He was kind enough to show me here.”

  “He’s a good kid. Smart. His father and mother are a bit harangued by him, but it’s a thing I think will prove of value. Anyway, the name’s Monteray. And you are?”

  “Wing, from Rieeve.”

  For an uncomfortable moment, Wing felt Monteray take him in, not as one would a stranger, but rather as an old friend whom he’d not seen in a long while.

  “You’ve come a ways,” Monteray said matter-of-factly.

  “I have.”

  The man, Master Monteray, waited a moment.

  Wing said, “I came to fulfill a promise to an old friend of yours.”

  Monteray’s eyes grew thoughtful and then sad before he replied, “Netaia Lant?”

  Wing nodded.

  Monteray cleared a quiver from his throat before speaking again. “Well then, come, dinner is almost ready. We can eat together and talk after. If you’d like to refresh yourself before the meal, there’s a river out back or a wash basin within, whichever you prefer.”

  “The river, if you don’t mind,” Wing replied.

  “Good. We’ll have dinner as soon as you’re ready.”

  Wing nodded in thanks and, following Monteray’s direction, headed around toward the front of the house.

  In a state of awe over the man
y curious cases of familiarity he’d experienced since entering the valley, Wing was unprepared for the vision that filled his eyes.

  Stretching out before him was a blanket of grass so tall and velvety he could barely see his boot tops. Amongst the grasses wildflowers of every imaginable colour grew and through them weaved a well-beaten path leading down to a river. The river was not the rushing, rapid water of the mountains, rather, it flowed softly, slowly, the movement of the water barely visible beneath his gaze.

  Wing had often thought of mountains as grand, but never a river — until now.

  Taking the narrow path through the grass, Wing began to walk downstream. In the near distance beside the river, he noticed a small cabin. Wondering who lived there and whether it belonged to the Monterays, he arrived at the bank, undressed, and moved into the water.

  The glassy surface opened to receive him.

  As if in the arms of a lover, Wing floated to his back and let the river brush his body with a great warm hand. Backstroking every so often, his eyelids opened and closed dreamily. Immersed in every moment, Wing’s breathing steadied and deepened and he unknowingly let the current carry him past the small cabin.

  Raising his head as if waking from sleep, he saw just how far down he’d let the gentle current carry him.

  With reluctance, Wing decided he’d best swim back and get on up to the house — he didn’t want to keep his hosts waiting for too long.

  Diving, Wing swam, surfacing near the small cabin, then diving again, and swimming the rest of the way to the spot on the spot where he’d left his clothing.

  He crawled out onto the bank, wet and naked, to find Lucin, curled up on his clothes.

  Water streaming off his body, he looked down at the cat as it looked back up at him. “Thought I’d lost you for good,” Wing said. Lucin blinked. “Get off my clothes.”

  Lucin growled.

  Sighing, Wing reached down, grabbed a pant leg and pulled. Lucin grumbled but didn’t move.