Cry of Metal & Bone

by L. Penelope

  “Yes, I know.” He chuckled. Ella had forgotten Benn had worked near the Lagrimari settlement in the east for years and must know far more about their culture than she did.

  They sat, doing their best to communicate with the girls, though it was slow going. Today, two translators rotated among the tables, aiding in the interactions. Both were settlers—former Lagrimari prisoners of war who had been in Elsira for years. Benn greeted each man warmly when he came by to help.

  Together, they played with the provided toys, and worked on teaching the girls a handful of new Elsiran words, all under Gizelle’s watchful eye. Thankfully, the Sister didn’t appear to hold any animosity toward the children and kept her attitude in check. She even went as far as to play with Ulani, who marched a toy horse up the Sister’s arm.

  All too soon, the visit was over. Ella hugged each girl tight, tears clogging her eyes when she had to say good-bye. Tana clung to Benn; she’d opened up more with him, even gracing him with a rare smile—one Ella hoped to see a lot more of.

  Ulani spoke to one of the settlers, her voice pitched upward like a question. “They want to walk you out,” the man said.

  Ella looked to Sister Gizelle and held her breath. The Sister’s expression was glacial, but she gave a subtle nod. Grinning, Ella took Ulani’s hand as Tana held on to Benn and they made their way back into the day’s dying light.

  The warm glow of the visit cooled rapidly as the sounds of the protestors grew louder. Once they reached the parking area, it was clear that even more had amassed over the past two hours and they’d moved much closer, spilling onto the gravel, unfettered by the ineffectual guards.

  Ella stopped short at the unfolding chaos. Ulani’s hand in hers turned to stone. The little girl may not have been able to understand all the words or read the signs, but she could see very well the vitriol on the demonstrators’ faces and hear their barbed tones.

  Adopting and caring for these girls didn’t just mean sheltering, clothing, and loving them. It would also mean safeguarding them from the embedded hatred in their new land.

  Some of the protestors began pointing to where Ella and the others had emerged from the rows of tents. The demonstrators began marching forward at an alarming pace.

  “Take the children back,” she called out to Gizelle, who had been steps behind them. She pushed Ulani back, placing her body between the child and the approaching mob. Then she turned and picked the girl up, intent on carrying her back to safety. Benn was already hustling Tana away.

  A bang sounded behind her along with the spray of gravel. Anguished cries rang out. Ella glanced over her shoulder to see a shuttle bus had backed into the main driveway, perhaps to block access to the protesters. A screaming woman lay on the ground, next to a sign reading CULL THE HERD in blocky letters. Blood gushed from her arm, and her leg was twisted at an odd angle.

  The bus’s door opened and the white-haired driver stepped down, regarding the scene with surprisingly little distress. The Sister crossed her arms, with apparently no intention of rendering aid to the downed protester.

  Ulani wriggled to be let down from Ella’s embrace. She wanted to hold on tight, to protect her from any unpleasantness, but she allowed the girl to get down, resolving to lead her away. However, with a determined speed she hadn’t expected, Ulani raced toward the injured woman.

  “Ulani!” Ella shouted, running after her, not putting it past these protesters to harm an innocent child.

  Ulani crouched beside the sobbing woman, not touching her, and closed her eyes. Ella stooped down, wrapping an arm around the girl and keeping the surrounding people in her sights.

  Gasps rang out from those towering over them. Ella looked down in time to see the wound on the woman’s arm close. Then her twisted leg shifted, and with a soft pop, the bone snapped back into place.

  An uncomfortable hush fell across the crowd. For one pregnant moment, everything was still.

  Ulani opened her eyes.

  “Witchcraft,” whispered a tall, bearded man leaning on his picket sign.

  The injured protester, a slim woman of about thirty with a mop of curly ginger hair, scrambled to a seated position, running her hand over her leg. Her expression went from astonished to dumbfounded. She gaped at Ulani, jaw open.

  Scattered whispers coalesced into a crush of outrage. Ella grabbed Ulani around the waist and hauled her away, back toward the tents. A clamor of disgust and condemnation rose behind them. Half a dozen soldiers ran up to try to calm the situation.

  Once they were hidden by a row of tents, Ella put Ulani down and ran a hand across her face, reassuring herself that the girl wasn’t hurt.

  “You’re an Earthsinger,” Ella said, pitching her voice to make clear that she wasn’t upset or afraid.

  Ulani nodded.

  Tana ran over and skidded to a stop before them, clutching her younger sister in her arms. “She is … not thinking always,” she said in halting Elsiran. “Feels everyone.” The older girl shook her head.

  Ella’s stuttered breathing had not yet slowed down. “Ulani, sweetheart, it’s kind of you to want to heal people when they’re hurt, but everyone doesn’t want it. Some people would rather be injured than accept your help.”

  Ulani frowned. “No help?” Her bewildered voice trembled.

  “Not everyone. They’re afraid.”

  “Afraid … me?” Her eyes widened so much it was almost comical. If Ella wasn’t tempted to cry she may have laughed.

  “I’m so sorry. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Tana crossed her arms, looking angrily in the direction of the parking lot. The storm on her face matched the one in Ella’s heart.

  This was just the beginning of what Ella feared could become another war. There may not be a battlefield or tanks or weapons, but there were two sides in conflict and only one could win.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Angry to be abandoned by those who had sent her on this journey, the seeker stayed with the family of Woman-With-Eyes-Like-Fire long after her foot had healed. There was joy and laughter and bickering and cursing. There was life which she had not known before.

  As the days passed, the shadows grew long, but she would not be moved.

  —THE AYALYA

  As the taxicab plodded through heavy traffic, Lizvette could not take her gaze from Tai’s scarred hand lying atop Uncle Rodriq’s briefcase. He sat across from her, looking out the window and drumming his fingers absently on the smooth leather. His expression was contemplative now, a far cry from the intensity he’d shown when questioning Rodriq.

  Lizvette had never been a fan of violence, and she hadn’t been around it often in her life. If she’d been asked a few days earlier if she would ever condone such a manner of gaining information, she would have absolutely refused. But seeing Tai leap to her defense and compel Rodriq to shed his superior demeanor had made her pulse quicken.

  Tai’s hair looked purple in the passing streetlamps, and the tattoos etched into his skin were more intriguing than frightening. Perhaps it was the thoughtful, almost brooding expression he wore that cast him in such a different light.

  As if he could feel her perusal, his gaze confronted hers. This time, she didn’t look away. Though his eyes were sharp and had likely seen things she couldn’t even imagine, they held a kindness.

  He’d done it for her.

  She shook the thought away as quickly as it had come. He’d been tasked with this mission by the Goddess. Though She wasn’t his deity, he’d appeared just as in awe of Her as the rest of them were. Tai likely only wanted to wrap things up here quickly so he could return to whatever business he’d been about before. Lizvette’s method hadn’t yielded results; Tai’s had.

  But something lingered in the back of her mind, making her wonder. She wasn’t a vain woman and had no reason to believe Tai thought anything of her other than the spoiled, rich princess he derided. But he’d been so zealous when dealing with Uncle Rodriq. When he’d snapped at the man, telling him t
o not talk to her again, his words had resonated deep within her bones. Did she like the violence? No, she certainly did not, but she did like the feeling of being defended, protected. No one had ever stood up for her like that.

  Their cab pulled up in front of the hotel. Lizvette broke her eye contact with Tai to find her change purse and pay the fare. She’d been entrusted with the funds from the royal treasury for this mission. On legs leaden from the weight of the day’s events, she clambered up the stairs, into the hotel, and up to their suite.

  Once inside, Darvyn and Tai caught up Clove and Vanesse on the latest with Verdeel, but Lizvette could not shake the tiredness that had infused her body.

  Tai placed the briefcase on the coffee table, and they all stared at it in silence. “Would you like to do the honors?” he asked.

  Lizvette nodded, feeling grim. She clenched her hands together and shifted forward to reach it. The lock was engaged, but Tai produced a pocketknife and jiggled the mechanism expertly until it popped open with a snick.

  Papers had been thrust inside haphazardly, and she began the job of sifting and organizing them. Financial statements, correspondence, bits of flotsam and jetsam that would take days to go through and understand. Near the bottom, a much larger sheet of paper was rolled up. She unrolled and flattened it on top of the other piles she’d made.

  Clove, who had been listening to the radiophonic in the corner, popped up, her interest piqued. “Is that a Caxton M18?” she asked.

  On the page were top, side, and angled views of the schematics for an airship, with enlarged callouts for various smaller pieces and mechanics. The words Caxton M18 were printed in small type in the lower right-hand corner.

  “You know this model?” Lizvette asked.

  “It’s the same as the king’s,” Clove said. She sat next to Lizvette and studied the renderings intently. Her finger traced the lines and curves of the drawing. After a few minutes, her brow furrowed.

  “What is it?” Vanesse asked, inclining her head to take in the design.

  Clove leaned forward, nearly pressing her face into the paper. Her eyes blinked rapidly, filling with tears. “You got this from the ambassador?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Lizvette said, a flutter of fear forming at the woman’s reaction.

  “Verdeel is a sponsor of one of the ships in the race—a Clinton IV.” Clove’s attention never left the paper.

  “So why does he have the plans for a Caxton M18 in his case?” Vanesse asked.

  All eyes went to Clove.

  “There are three M18s competing—me, Archibald Jaspergrace, and Cardenna Cattleman. Cardenna is widely thought to be the front-runner.” Clove traced a grouping of lines to where pen marks had been scribbled on part of the drawing. “Here is the location of the elevator. On this type of craft, the lifting gas is only used for takeoff. The elevator flaps control altitude at racing speeds. These drawings are for a modification, an extra component attached to the flaps.”

  Lizvette’s head spun. “Is that illegal?”

  Clove shook her head. “Mods are expected, and many pilots take pride in doctoring up their vessels for an advantage over the competition. But I’ve seen this modification before, and it’s not standard. I thought it was a dampener—they’re often used by newer pilots to cap their maximum altitudes.”

  “But you don’t think that anymore?” Vanesse prodded when Clove went quiet.

  “No,” she whispered. “I should have looked into it more, but I didn’t even open it up. I never thought … These specs…” She shook her head and started again, pointing at a small, blocky symbol on the paper. “That is the mark for an amalgamation.”

  Lizvette looked up confused, but apparently Tai and Darvyn were a few steps ahead of her. Both men stiffened. “What?” she asked, looking back and forth between them. “Someone planned to add an amalgam to this ship? What does that mean?”

  Clove swallowed. “An amalgam wouldn’t be needed to merely cap the ship’s altitude, but it could be controlled remotely and effectively take over all height control.”

  Lizvette looked at the somber faces of the men and women around her.

  “Where did you see this modification before?” Darvyn asked.

  Tears slipped down Clove’s cheeks. “On Prince Alariq’s ship.”

  Lizvette’s heart nearly stopped beating.

  * * *

  Clove told them about how she had inspected the ship quickly on the day the Mantle fell, after having been called to pilot the vessel by Jack. He’d been desperate to get to the border and save Jasminda from being forced into Lagrimar.

  No one looked at Lizvette accusatorially, not even Vanesse, Jasminda’s aunt, but the guilt still burned inside. It was Lizvette’s fault that Jasminda had been taken along with the refugees and nearly sent to the brutal hands of the True Father at all, even though she was a lawful Elsiran citizen.

  Both Vanesse and Clove bore remorseful expressions. Clove ran a hand through her short bob, mussing it. “I noticed it but didn’t think anything of it at the time seeing as Prince Alariq had been a novice pilot. I should have investigated more. If the power of the amalgam hadn’t run out, I would have put Prince Jack in danger that day.”

  She sat back heavily, head in her hands. Vanesse leaned in, holding her close and whispering words of comfort.

  Lizvette was numb. The accident that had taken the life of the former Prince Regent—her fiancé—was no accident at all. That day the clear blue sky had turned dark and stormy unexpectedly, and when he’d died, Lizvette had cursed the contraption, cursed the thunder and lightning, and even faulted Alariq and his stubborn insistence on flying. Alariq had never been an irresponsible man. On the contrary, he was renowned for his careful deliberation and consideration of all angles before taking any action. But he’d loved the airship and the feeling of freedom he said it gave him. But that love had come at a heavy price.

  “So he was murdered?” Saying the words aloud made her throat close up. Her hand flew to cover her mouth as a sob threatened to wrench itself from her body. She kept it in, barely, as her breathing sped.

  “But these plans are not for the prince’s ship?” Darvyn asked.

  “No,” Clove said. “The model is the same but the date is from just last week. The ship Verdeel sponsored hovers between second and third in the ranking, depending on who you ask. If the front-runner had an accident, though…”

  Vanesse rubbed circles on Clove’s back. “Accidents aren’t uncommon in the Classic,” the Sister said. “It’s one of the hardest courses in the world.”

  “A working elevator is necessary, but no one would think twice of a contender crashing, especially near Rolinor’s Peak or in the obstacle course.” Clove shivered.

  “How can we prove it?” Lizvette asked through shaking lips. The internal barrier maintaining her composure fractured at the thought.

  “Verdeel can be made to talk,” Tai said darkly. He cracked his knuckles, and the sound shot a thrill of relief through her. She was becoming bloodthirsty, but she couldn’t be bothered to care.

  “Do you think Uncle Rodriq had something to do with Alariq’s crash? Did my fath—” The thought of her father having a hand in the death of the Prince Regent was unfathomable. He’d claimed everything he was doing was for the love of Elsira, the future of Elsira. All he’d ever wanted was for her to be the princess, and she’d been so close. But to kill Alariq before they were married was illogical. She refused to believe that Father could have known, but nothing made sense anymore. “Why?” Lizvette whispered.

  Vanesse shifted and pulled her into an embrace. It was awkward for Lizvette, not used to such warmth, but she accepted it, understanding the woman’s desire to help.

  After a few moments, Lizvette pulled away and stood, wringing her hands. Unsure of what to say, she raced into the bedroom and closed the door. Alariq had been a good prince and a good man. He was kind and would have made her a good husband, even though he’d never held her heart. The knowl
edge that he may have been murdered—and that people she had trusted could’ve been involved—cut deeply. She could no longer exert the strict control she’d always had over her emotions, and the dam finally burst.

  She lay on the bed sobbing her pain and heartache into her pillow, hoping no one would hear.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When the kindred clan was ready to travel on, Woman-With-Eyes-Like-Fire begged Ayal not to join them. “You have forgotten your mission, you must continue, or I fear there will be much suffering.”

  The friends looked upon one another with sorrow and love. When Ayal opened her mouth to say good-bye a flame emerged from her lips, flickering wildly in the air between them.

  —THE AYALYA

  Kyara stepped into her cell, the clang of the rattling bars ringing in her ears. She waited to speak until the jangling stopped and the reverberation inside her skull had calmed.

  “Nothing new,” she whispered. Though that wasn’t precisely true. She was always past the point of exhaustion after having her Song drained, but today she felt much worse. Her limbs were lead. Even the dim prison lights assaulted her eyes. She needed to wash the blood off, but she didn’t have the strength to even cross the short distance to her bed.

  Everything was so quiet she heard only the drip drip of the blood from her palm hitting the concrete floor. The rattle of a struggling breath pierced the silence. With great effort, she turned her head to witness Varten shuddering on his bed. Dansig and Roshon watched him, hollow-eyed.

  True to her word, Asenath had sent medical staff for Varten. They’d come in long white cloaks and whisked him away on a stretcher. Several hours later they had brought him back. He had been pale and sweating still, and even less responsive than before. Since then, he’d grown steadily worse. He hadn’t eaten at all and had coughed up much of the water his father and brother had forced down his throat. None of them knew what this illness was, though the symptoms were similar to the onset of the plague, only extremely slow moving.