by Lindsey Byrd
She wasn’t sure what they were talking about any longer. She felt like she was lost at sea, and admitting it made her face burn from shame. “I don’t understand,” she mumbled, feeling more than a little stupid for not being able to work it out.
“When the humans came, at first they came to ask.” Raslidor stepped back and walked toward the lake. Kera followed, each one of the griffon’s steps equaling four of her own. She needed to sprint to catch up, feet fumbling in the sand. “They asked for our help. For our knowledge, and we provided. But we listened. We listened as they spoke of taking our gifts. Of selling our gifts. They would ask for our gifts and they would lie. They would not use them for the purposes they indicated. They were greedy. They were wrong.”
Lowering their head into the water, Raslidor drank some more. Then they settled down, with their talons dipped into the wet. “When you left home, your thoughts and intent were always clear. You wished to save the life of your son, and later, your daughter.”
“I thought I’d steal from you,” Kera admitted.
“We know.” Raslidor met her eyes, their yellow irises glowing bright under the moon. “But you did not. You followed for miles, watching as we walked. You did not stop to pick up the feathers we dropped. Did not stop to steal the nails we left in the sand. You followed. You may have thought of stealing what is ours, but your intent . . . your intent was different.”
Startled, Kera looked back the way they’d come. She barely recognized her surroundings. She hadn’t realized they’d gone so far. So curious had she been by Raslidor’s demeanor.
Aurora would be furious when she found out. Kera had put herself and all of them at terrible risk, just so she could follow a griffon as it walked. She should have collected the feathers and talons, but instead, she hadn’t even considered the danger or the terrible cost of her choice. She had just wanted to see what would happen.
“No . . . you don’t think of the danger you’re in. You’ve a remarkable talent for it.” It sounded like an insult, but Raslidor laughed as they said it. Their good humor was very infectious. (Perhaps John had learned it from them.) For a creature that had lived hundreds of years, Kera wondered how they could find anything humorous, least of all someone like Kera. She flushed, embarrassed by her own poor abilities. Raslidor seemed rather chuffed either way. “Long ago, we decided to no longer involve ourselves with the affairs of the humans. We listened only for their intent, and we did not let them pass. Did not reveal ourselves should they be deemed unworthy.
“But you, Lady Montgomery. You’ve been strong from the start.”
Strong? Kera shook her head. She tried to explain. No, she had been crying. She had been scared. She had made so many mistakes. She kept hurting Aurora time and again. She had become lost and confused. The night terrorized her until she jerked awake each night, body only sleeping when it was too exhausted to do anything else. She feared wraiths yet—
“Why does that not mean you are strong?”
“It doesn’t sound brave.”
“Yet, you are here, are you not? You have persevered. You have proven yourself. You’ve made your intent clear.”
Raslidor’s expression turned fond. It was a strange look for a bird. The beak couldn’t change shape, but the eyes lessened in intensity. The tufts on the top of their head were scooped down. “Rachel,” Raslidor explained. “You helped see Rachel to the other side.”
“You know about that?” Kera asked.
“We listened,” Raslidor repeated. “We listened as you met a stranger on the road and you treated them with respect. We listened as you fought the wraiths and as Ms. Aurora showed no fear. We listened as you spoke with John Sarren and you gave our boy peace. Peace that not even his general could provide.”
“Zakaria—” Kera cut herself off. She was not sure she even knew what she wanted to ask. The question died in her throat, but she stared at Raslidor until the griffon nodded, plucking her intent from her mind.
“Your general, Isra Zakaria, visited our boy often while he was still alive. He spoke to him many times, but never could he find the way to set him free or to give him his peace. You did what no other could do. You helped him go home.” Raslidor stretched a wing toward Kera and used it to pull her closer with a slight nudge of their feathers. She let herself fall against Raslidor’s body and be enveloped in a comfortable embrace. “You came to us to save your children. And we will save your children, because you have faced every trial, and you have persevered.”
The information made her head spin. She tried to come to terms with all of it. Tried to put each moment into perspective, but the waters of her mind splashed onto a shore of nothingness. “I didn’t know they were trials.”
“Life consists of one trial after another. You will never know what the trials are for or when they will be judged, but each action you take is a trial in and of itself. You are here, and you are succeeding, because of who you are. No more. No less.”
Tilting their head to the left, Raslidor tapped her with their wing once more. “Sit in front of our wings.”
“What?”
“Your children . . . Time is of the essence, don’t you agree?” They squinted, and the feathers fluffed a little around their beak—like a smile, and Kera reached out. She placed one hand on Raslidor’s neck, the other on the space between the wings, and with a careful hoist, she managed to climb up onto Raslidor’s back.
Her legs hung over the griffon’s shoulders. Her hands clutched against feathers she had just sorted through. She wasn’t given time to adjust. Almost as soon as she was in position, Raslidor started to run. Three steps, four, kick! They were airborne and Kera screamed.
Wind whipped around her body, her hair flew in all directions. She held on for dear life and gaped at the sights before her. There was a gray sky above her, and ground below. The five lakes stretched out as far as she could see, with no obvious end in sight. The forest was a carpet of green so lush and vibrant she’d never seen anything like it.
Her heart fluttered faster and faster. She was flying. She was flying! Kera’s mouth widened into a smile. The wind clawed at her face. Tears came to her eyes from the pressure alone, but she felt a sense of unrepentant glee bursting out from behind her ribs.
Raslidor landed far too soon for it to be all right. Kera wanted to keep flying. She wanted to stay up in the air and— Oh. Yes. She wanted to stay up in the air and avoid confronting Aurora, who was very much awake and staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. I left her alone, asleep, and unprotected, Kera realized as Raslidor landed in the fire ring. She needed to apologize. Again.
But not yet. Not now. Raslidor bent enough for Kera to slide off their back and return to solid ground. “I . . . I found the griffons?” Kera offered, as she met Aurora’s dumbfounded expression.
There was a touch of hysteria on Aurora’s face as she snatched Kera’s arm. “Kera . . . when I told you that ‘maybe you should spend some more time with ghosts,’ I did not mean for you to take that as an active invitation to go riding on griffons!”
Raslidor’s wings started shaking again, though they didn’t produce the laughing sound that Kera had come to recognize. “Aurora, this is Raslidor,” Kera introduced. “They said they’d help Aiden and Faith.”
“Welcome to our home,” Raslidor added politely and Aurora flinched. She stared at the griffon in numbed shock. “We have much to discuss,” Raslidor continued. “But first . . . we’d like to see to the little ones.”
Without pausing, the griffon lifted up one front leg and slammed it down on the ground. Two strips pulled off one of their longest talons. “Take them and grind them,” Raslidor instructed, and Kera scooped them up. There was a rock nearby, not too big and just heavy enough.
Laying the strips out flat, Kera smashed them as hard as she could. It wasn’t enough the first time, and so she smashed it again and again and again. She threw all of her energy into the process, eyes keeping track of any stray bits and moving them back into plac
e.
When she had managed to crush them to dust, she looked up at Raslidor.
“Mix it with water, and allow them both to drink their fill.”
Aurora fetched their canteen and brought it to Kera. She shook it thoroughly before shoving it back at Aurora.
“Give it to her,” Kera told her.
“But Aiden—
“Her hair is failing out, Aiden can wait five seconds, please.”
Tears filled Aurora’s eyes as she mumbled out a thank-you before kneeling at her daughter’s side and bringing Faith’s head up to her lap.
Carefully, Aurora tipped the canteen over and encouraged her daughter to swallow mouthful after mouthful. Faith drank until the canteen was half gone and then Aurora passed the bottle to Kera for her to do the same for Aiden. They held their children while Raslidor watched over them.
Then, just as the sun peaked above the horizon and light began to stretch out across the land, Faith’s and Aiden’s intermittent shaking stopped, and together, their fevers broke at long last.
The fire circle died out, unattended and unimportant. Raslidor lay with their wings folded along their back, as Kera and Aurora sat by their children’s sides. Aiden’s skin had started to take on a healthy color, a perfect mix of the bronze he inherited from his father and her smoother shades of brown. Kera watched the transition. She traced her fingers along her son’s cheek, feeling the heat die beneath her touch. His breathing felt natural. No more hitching gasps. Each inhale long, deep, and full. And above all else, his body remained still. His limbs weren’t shaking. He no longer mewled in his sleep, coughing and gagging around a lump tight in his throat. He was at peace.
Not far away, Faith was doing just as well. Aurora kept kissing her daughter’s face, whispering quiet thank-yous to Raslidor over and over again. She started crying the moment Faith stopped shaking, and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. Her gratitude was burning hot and bright, and Kera knew she would do anything Raslidor asked of her to show her appreciation. Raslidor told them they had done enough already; their debts had long since been paid.
Faith and Aiden slept now, but this time that sleep felt natural. It felt healthy, and no longer sliding down a slippery slope with death waiting for them at the bottom. Kera settled Aiden by Faith’s side. He cuddled his head against her in his slumber. Siblings, Raslidor would have called them. She supposed after all this time they might as well be.
When she looked up at Aurora, she knew she didn’t want to see Aurora leave now that their journey was over. Everything about the other woman was important to her. Even Aurora’s accent had carved out a space in Kera’s heart, rewriting her past discriminations until she found the sound charming. She wanted them all to go home and live together at the Ivory Gate. She wanted Aurora with her, sharing in her companionship and conversation. She wanted someone to talk to, someone to hold late at night, and someone to be there when the bad dreams threatened to overwhelm the good ones. She had started to become comfortable sleeping in the arms of someone else.
Kera bit her lip when she looked at Aurora, trying to hold back on an urge she knew might very well be inappropriate. She glanced toward Raslidor, knowing the griffon could hear her thoughts and divine her intent. Raslidor observed without comment.
Kera didn’t like feeling judged. Of all the feelings in the world, shame in this moment was not the one she wanted. Yet she felt it festering deep within her, starting out as a tingle on the underside of her brain, and growing more and more pervasive with each passing second.
Aurora was beautiful. She was wonderful. She’d helped them and saved them. She had scolded Kera and held her. She wanted Aurora to stay by her side and never leave again.
Kera had no desire to meet for Sunday tea, nor even to spend meal times discussing events of the weeks and then bidding goodbye once they’d finished conversing for the evening. Kera wanted Aurora’s hand in her hair and Aurora’s arms around her body. She wanted to feel Aurora’s smile against her cheek. She wanted to be scolded when she made an error, and to be rewarded when she did well. She wanted to laugh at midnight with the blankets pulled up over their heads. Listen to what the children did today! She wanted to wake in the morning and attend to her matters and have Aurora with her on the sofa when the bankers came to barter. She wanted to hold Aurora’s hand when she told them to go away, because the Ivory Gate was Kera’s and she was not going to let anyone take it from her. She wanted the endless companionship that her husband failed to provide. She wanted the happiness that he’d reached out across the divide of life and death and urged her to seek out. He could never be what she truly wanted. He’d left her, in the end, for nothing.
Kera’s lips felt warm. The top and bottom heated up and pulled all her focus to them. She’d rarely paid much attention to her lips in the past, but now she was hyperaware of their presence on her face. Of how they rolled over themselves. How her tongue wet them.
How she needed to stop thinking of it.
How there were other matters to attend to.
How much she wanted to kiss Aurora and hold her close and thank her for everything she did for them.
Kera forced herself to look back at Raslidor. “You said there was much we needed to talk about?”
Raslidor’s tail flicked from side to side. Annoyed, though they sighed and responded with little delay. “There is.” The disgruntled tone grated Kera’s nerves. It set her teeth on edge.
Aurora took Kera’s hand—squeeze and release—and led her forward until they were standing before Raslidor’s face. Even lying down, the griffon’s head was massive. It was almost as wide as both of their bodies standing side by side, and at rest it was tall enough that Kera could look them in the eyes.
A bird chirped from a tree nearby, hopping along the branches as it sang its morning song. Raslidor tilted their head to listen for a moment, eyes closed and feathers fluffed in an almost pleasant expression. As the song ended, their eyes opened again. “If you return to your homes now, your children will fall ill again, and you will not be able to return.”
Aurora’s palm squeezed Kera’s like a vise. It crushed her fingers in its grasp. Kera couldn’t tell if it was the pain in her hand or the words themselves that caused her to freeze in place. She couldn’t tell what the source of the reaction was, only that it was there and it burned her with terror and uncertainty.
“It’s temporary?” Aurora asked.
But Raslidor was shaking their head, their feathers ruffling along the sides of their face. Tufts twisted to the left and right before pointing forward once more. “No, they are cured of their current ailment. This is not what will kill them. But the next one will.”
“I don’t understand,” Kera whispered.
“Your . . . plague . . . is not a sickness at all,” the griffon explained.
The words weren’t good enough or clear enough for Aurora. Her hand squeezed Kera’s even harder. Her voice became harsh and aggressive. “Of course it’s a sickness, that’s what you call something when it makes someone die!”
“What we mean to say is that your plague is not an illness of normal means. It’s magic,” Raslidor told them. “Any other illness would have killed them long before they arrived. But you did arrive here. And you did so because you managed the curse.”
“What curse?” Aurora snapped even as Kera’s thoughts spun outward. Of course they were cursed.
When is a plague not a plague? Mori had written, with his page shrouded in black ink. Physicians and learned fellows had told her time and again that there was no cure. Nothing could be done to stop it. No research was provided. Kera’s head ached. She pressed her free hand over her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. Breathe in, breathe out. Think. The mark on Mori’s book didn’t seep through the pages. It shrouded the letters and words with black. Shrouded them. Shrouds.
The drum beat of Kera’s heart began again. She pulled the memory back into focus. Envisioning it before her, she could almost see her hand on the page
as it traced the ink splotch. She could see herself flipping the paper back and forth, examining it for its peculiarities before looking up to see . . . to see a wraith.
A wraith who longed to drain the life from the living and use it to become alive again. A wraith powerful enough to summon a storm to blow out their fire. A wraith who had hunted them through the night. A wraith who had followed them to Mount Maladh. Who had only stopped chasing them when they became blind to its eyes. Hidden behind crystals.
She looked to Raslidor, and the griffon nodded. “A wraith’s call,” Raslidor confirmed, still meeting Kera’s eyes.
“That’s impossible,” Aurora whispered. Her grip around Kera’s hand was near bruising. Kera could feel her bones shifting, but she didn’t dare pull away. The feeling was grounding. It held her in place and kept her steady and calm. It kept her from crumbling under the weight of the horror that had started to build within her. “They both fell ill within the city, Aiden fell during the day even. How could a wraith have affected them at all? How could no one have seen?”
“Wraiths hunt in shadows. If there’s enough darkness, they can emerge. Wherever the shadows lie, there a wraith can be.”
Kera tried to remember the exact moment that Aiden had fallen ill. She’d been in her bedroom, trying not to accept the fact that she was failing in maintaining her home. There had been a scream downstairs, and she’d run to see what was the matter. But the sun had still been up, the light flooding the windows. Aiden had crumpled to the floor and been frothing at the mouth. They had been the only ones in the house. She, her children, sister, father, and the bankers. She hadn’t seen anything else. Nothing except the cellar door open. Cracked just a little because the children liked to play down there.
There, where darkness existed all the time and not a hint of light burned through. The children needed candles if they were going to play in the cellar. She didn’t remember any candles. Kera was going to be sick. There had been a wraith in her house. A wraith close enough to try to steal away her son. (Something rotting in the floor.)