by Ellias Quinn
Her first urge was to answer him, but the pain came back, small and lonely. Hatred returned, holding fear at bay. The eyes appeared first, and then the entire face of that alva from her old life fastened itself in her thoughts. She kept her breathing steady and lay still. Eventually, she heard the sound of Dask settling back down.
* * *
“We can’t stay here,” Matil said.
Crell glanced up from his plate of pickled cabbage, his large orange eyes looking troubled. All around them dishes clanked and the sounds of muddled voices in before-dawn conversations were somber. The common room was dark, lit only by the roaring fireplace. It kept everyone warm, but the sight of the licking flames made Matil feel cold.
She stabbed at her own cabbage. “It hurts too much to stay.” Her eyes stung as she tried to hold the tears back. “I think we need to do something.”
“We are doing something. We have work now.” He gave her a small smile. “We’ll make it, Nychta.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and his smile turned to concern. “What’s wrong?”
Matil shook her head, slid off the chair, and ran through the inn’s door. Time. She needed time to think. She jumped up and flapped her wings, hiding on the inn’s roof just as Crell burst out.
“Nychta!” He unfurled brown wings with black markings and took off flying from the balcony.
Matil flew in the opposite direction, hurtling through the leaves for a long stretch, until the sun had risen and her wings could barely flap. She lit down on a branch, curled up under her wings, and covered her eyes. Images from that day became real in the darkness behind her hands. Beings made of pure light danced like demons and breathed fire. Their shouts and awful words scorched Matil’s ears, while smoke filled her nose and mouth. She needed to escape.
But she realized now that this evil should never have happened. This time, as the world crumbled all around, her numb fingers became hard fists. This time she saw herself flying at them instead of away. She pulled the night sky with her and drowned the burning sun in a sea of ink and stars. The capering creatures died with wails of remorse.
Now Matil was at the inn’s balcony. It was late afternoon and Crell sat slumped against the wall. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps and his eyes widened.
“Nychta,” he said, jumping up. “Don’t leave like that! I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
“I’m sorry I flew off,” Matil said. She had to tell him. Would he understand?
“Just be careful. Let’s stick together from now on.”
“Yes. Stick together.” His words encouraged her. “I figured something out, Crell.”
“Yeah?”
“I know what we need to do.” Cold and hot built up inside of her at the same time.
Crell looked at her blankly.
“If only they’d been executed, I wouldn’t feel so—” She reached toward her heart. “The magistrates failed. The magistrates let them go home, even though we can’t go home because of them.”
“And there’s nothing we can do about it.” Crell sat down with his legs hanging from the balcony. “I wish I were stronger. I could’ve protected us all.”
“We can get stronger!” Matil started pacing back and forth, her wings itching to fly again. “We can do something. My father said that Ecker’s Brug is full of powerful and dangerous alva. We should go there and find them. Someday they can help us punish the Sangriga.”
He puckered his face in thought. “Punish?”
“By giving them what they gave us,” she said.
“Giving them…” Crell said. “But…the Chivishi…”
“The Chivishi would say that it’s right.” She stopped pacing. “Doesn’t it always talk about justice?”
“I guess. But what they did to us…how could we—”
“If we sit here quietly and work for the rest of our lives, nothing will change,” she said. “They’ll just come back again and again until we’re all gone. They need to know they can’t get away with it!”
“Please calm down,” he said, standing. “Sleep. We stayed up too late.” He put a hand on her forehead. “The sun’s made you feverish. C’mon, you’ll feel better in the evening.”
Matil batted away his hand. “I’m not feverish! I thought a lot about it, and I know it’s the right thing to do.”
“No. All we have left is ourselves and each other. That’s what we need to focus on.”
She gave him a disgusted look. “You’re just like the magistrates, aren’t you?”
“What?” said Crell.
“You’re going to let them go!”
“Stop it, Nychta.”
“Good job, Magistrate Crell. Good job watching us all die.”
“I said, stop it!” His voice rose.
“You’re not even a magistrate,” she said bitterly. “You’re a Sangriga.”
“Nychta!” He seemed ready to hit her. Instead, he kicked the banister and began walking toward the inn. “Go to bed,” he tossed over his shoulder.
When the inn door slammed, Matil felt loneliness open like a terrible chasm in her stomach. The same thing in the past had come close to swallowing her whole. As she slipped toward it and as her throat tightened with small gasps, a cold, hard hand seemed to grab her. It wrenched her back from the gaping hole. It took her in its steely arms and whispered in her ear. Justice.
She stood, knees shaking, on the branch of a tree. Her bag was packed and slung over her shoulder. Outlined against the red and purple western sky was the inn, where Crell was content to stay.
“You said…” Matil wiped her eyes. “You said we should stick together.”
She looked past the inn to the golden half-sun visible above the tree canopy. For one last moment, she let herself cry. Then the cold hand grabbed her again and turned her around. Deepening blue spread across the sky. She cinched her bag’s strap, pushed off from the branch, and flew into the welcoming arms of night.
Chapter 20
Seekers Found
The breeze threatened to blow Lyria off-course, but it was a small inconvenience. She found that it woke her up to fly straight to the teardrop-shaped Ambermeet rather than through one of the administrative buildings in the trees flanking it. Morning light came through the trees and a few clear rays hit the warmly-glowing walls of amber. The Ambermeet hung suspended from a branch, fastened in place at its tip with bronze fittings. A broad bridge of wood and metal ran through the massive, jewel-like Council hall, holding it secure at the bottom and leading on either side to doors in the neighbouring trees. Windows speckled the tree-buildings, some windows shut tight, others kept open while Sangriga floated in and out of them. The Obrigi of ages past were great craftsmen, and this place reflected their ambition and attention to detail.
While Lyria flew, a few other Council members arrived at the bridge in palanquins borne through the air by their servants. She recognized Duke Bevan by his frizzy and grey-streaked yellow hair. Poor Bevan had to disembark from a cramped palanquin beside Lord Cad Gan as the latter stepped down from his large, curtain-draped litter, assisted by fastidious maids. Bevan’s face showed its usual envious pucker. If she didn’t constantly remind herself of the nobles’ pettiness, she might herself grow resentful wishing to be one.
She rose over the bridge and floated back down to land on its smooth wooden beams. Her triangle-topped staff met the bridge with a thunk. Spirited shouts ascended from the ground nearly a greatlength below, where a grubby group of commoners had gathered. They’d started protesting every morning since the tax increase was proclaimed, and their number had grown since then. Soon there would be enough of them that the guards would interfere. As Lyria paused to watch the upset commoners, regret hit her like a wave on Lake Vangara.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I tried.”
A careful and familiar voice drew her attention. “
Lyria.”
Nearby was a woman in a purple Council robe with her hair done up in braids that circled her head. It was the same hairstyle this woman usually wore, just as Lyria didn’t often deviate from her simple bun.
“Branneth,” Lyria said as she fell in behind the other Councilwoman.
The two walked across the bridge near each other, but never side by side. When they reached the archway into the Ambermeet, Branneth moved to the side and turned to face Lyria. A councilman floated past them with a greeting.
“Did you hear about the intruders at Icto Lan?” Branneth said, the light of news glimmering in her cobalt-blue eyes.
Curiosity caused Lyria to forget her awkwardness. “Not yet, no.”
“It’s mind-numbing how little happens out there most of the time, but,” Branneth lowered her voice, “having ears in the university has finally paid off. The incident happened two nights ago. Three outlaws got in. Two Ranycht and an Obrigi. Sound familiar?”
She didn’t have to pretend to be appropriately shocked. “You don’t mean the ones who escaped earlier this year?” Blazing sun, what were they doing in Icto Lan?
“Of course I mean them, mudhead. Er…Lyria.” Branneth looked up at the light streaming through the leaves.
Lyria paused before going on. “What did they do?”
“The reports say they met a traitor and then ran off with him to the north. They likely came from the north in the first place, by way of Fainfal.”
Traitor? Fainfal? Now she was itching to know if they had a plan or had simply gone mad. If only she’d known earlier that they were so close.
Branneth continued. “Can you believe a respectable Sangriga scholar would up and fly away?”
“Scholar? From Icto Lan?”
“Naturally. Not a very important scholar, granted, but that’s what spies do, isn’t it? Slink about in the background so no one notices?”
“I…suppose you must be right,” Lyria said. She tapped her staff with her finger. “You called him respectable? That’s hardly the word for a fellow like him. Reckless, perhaps. Coarse and disloyal, certainly. A mercenary scoundrel.”
Branneth laughed. “You haven’t lost your delightful way of cutting alva down, Lyria, well done. We should be getting to our seats, but…I thought I might share.”
Lyria thanked her quietly, and then the two parted as they entered the Council chamber. The news still ran through Lyria’s mind. Assuming it was true…
The scholars in Icto Lan were famed for their studies on the Elders and related artifacts, such as the Book of Myrkhar. What could have compelled the man to join the outlaws? She knew only the vaguest details of their travels, but all signs pointed toward a mission of significance and urgency. It would require this scholar to be a brave sort, unafraid and capable. Perhaps he even knew the dangers of the Book and was willing to do what he could to stop it.
Lyria almost tasted the freedom and simplicity of such a life compared to the cloying perfumes and maze-like politics of the Ambermeet’s golden hall. If the Icto Lan situation was as she deduced, then this runaway scholar was quite remarkable.
* * *
Wide-awake Dask made a snoring noise to underscore the steady torrent of words flowing from the Sangriga behind him.
“You know,” Simmad said, “it’s fascinating how much influence different Elders have had on different kinds of alva! Icto Lan is named after Icto the Great Scholar, of course, because he founded it, and in Nychtfal,” he gestured at Matil and over his shoulder at Dask, “Shora established Ecker’s Brug and its system of judges. Falgar founded Corwyna with the Obrigi, though it was then known as Ared Thunn.”
“Ared Thunn,” Khelya breathed. She was following Dask and Simmad’s beetle in order to hear the Sangriga talk.
The day after Simmad joined them, they had told him about Mr. Korsen and Hasyl the hermit – he nearly keeled over with joy when he held the journal – and explained Matil’s connection to Nychta. Then the four of them continued into Fainfal, generally moving eastward toward Ansi’s clan. They expected to meet Eletsol on their way there. Simmad said that he knew enough of the Eleti language to communicate, and Dask planned to pass them off as a very small traveling circus.
“That great city Ared Thunn,” said Simmad, “was wonderfully industrious until the Hibernation, when Falgar’s blessing left the Obrigi. The Time of Loss hit your alva the hardest.” He nodded sympathetically at Khelya.
Her face grew troubled and she looked down at him with sudden urgency. “You know a lot about the Elders, so you’d know…you’d know if the Elders are still here, right? If they’re really sleeping and ain’t just…well…dead or something?”
Simmad’s blue eyes looked back at her keenly. “Interesting you should mention death. It’s one of the less popular theories regarding the fate of the Elders, but it is in line with the scant archaeological clues known to us. So I can’t honestly say I know. Why do you ask?”
Matil’s heart sank. Dask turned to watch Khelya.
The Obrigi sighed, shifted the bags hanging from her shoulders, and said, “Just…curious. I think I could use a bite. Anyone else hungry?”
They lunched beneath a spray of ferns, eating the last of the mouse jerky that Ansi and Teres had given them. It was around noon, so Simmad’s wings had been faint in the light, but under the shade they illuminated everything. Despite giving the wings a few uneasy glances, Matil didn’t say anything.
“Remember the Sangriga who helped us get outta Tyrlis a while ago?” Dask said. “The one who could make his wings go away? Sparkles here needs to do that. Those back-torches are too obvious.”
Simmad appeared hurt. “Well, maybe. I-I’d prefer it if you called me—”
“Can you do it?” said Dask
Matil began to braid her hair. “It’s a good idea, since we usually don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.” She eyed Dask. “Would you please stop calling him Sparkles?”
Dask sat back and rubbed his fingernails on his tunic. “I’ll stop calling him Sparkles when he stops sparkling.”
“My aunt taught me how to dim my wings once,” Simmad said. “Hopefully it’ll work.”
“Hopefully?” Dask said. “We need more than hope.”
Simmad lifted his chest and nodded. “I’m absolutely positive that I can remember. After that…well, I couldn’t actually manage it last time.”
Dask looked wearily at Matil and Khelya. “This guy.”
The Sangriga stood up with a self-conscious stoop. He closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. “Sun is shining…sun sets…sun sets…” He opened his eyes, twisted his head to get a look at his glowing back, and shut his eyes again. “Bother.” He straightened himself up. “Sun…sets. Sets! Good night, sun! Lovely to see you, but I’m afraid it’s time…for…you…to…” With each word, his wings grew weaker. “Go!” They became so dim that Matil could barely notice the faint light they cast. Simmad’s eyes popped open, and he surveyed his work. “Brilliant! Or, I suppose, it’s the opposite of brilliant! You get it, of course, because my wings were brilliant before – brilliant as in bright – but now they’re…do you get it? Er, never mind.” He spun around, trying to see his wings. “I did it!”
Khelya watched him proudly. “See, Dask? He’s an expert.”
“Hardly!” Simmad slowed down and stopped. “But you’re kind to say so.”
“Can you keep it up?” Dask said.
“Hmm, not for long,” he said. “It’s too difficult.”
Dask shook his head scornfully. “Fine, here’s what you’ll do. You’ll keep those eyesores turned off for as long as you possibly can…”
Simmad began nodding.
“…and when you can’t do it anymore,” Dask added, “we’ll tie you to a rock and leave you there.”
He paused mid-nod. “Oh.”
Matil look
ed askance at Dask. He lifted his hands as if to say, Just trust me.
Khelya had missed their exchange and was blushing heartily. “We ain’t gonna tie you to a—Mr. Simmad, Dask’s jokin’. Whatever you can or can’t do is okay.”
“It’s your first time dimming your wings all the way, right?” said Matil.
“Yes,” said Simmad, glancing between Khelya and Dask in confusion.
Matil smiled. “You’ll get better.”
“W-well, in time, certainly,” he said.
She made herself look serious. “We don’t have much time.”
“You’re right.” Simmad squared his bony shoulders. “I’ll get to work on it right away.” He squinched one eye shut with the effort. His wings, which had been growing in light as he spoke, suddenly vanished.
“Now that Sparkles isn’t so sparkly,” Dask said, “let’s get moving.”
They got the beetles together and led them out from underneath the fern.
Simmad looked at the quiet forest surrounding them. “In the last couple of days I’ve felt…odd. Can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s as though the woods are breathing down my neck…” He shivered.
“I feel it, too,” Khelya said.
“It’s always like this,” Dask said. “That’s Fainfal for ya.” He started climbing into Olnar’s saddle.
“Wait,” Matil said before she mounted up. “I’ve wondered if we should have the necklace out for when we meet any Eletsol. The last few times, they were so quick that we couldn’t do much besides get caught.”
Dask rubbed at his stubble. “I don’t know…see, we wanna keep it safe. In my experience, keeping something out in the open makes it less safe.”
“That’s true.” Matil pulled out the red wooden pendant from a pack on Dewdrop and let it dangle as she observed it. Her ear flicked around. She’d heard a leaf brush against something.
Dask, Khelya, and Simmad yelped in unison. Matil looked up and held back her own squeak.