“Torren, I must speak with you.”
His heart pounded in his breast, his skin felt prickly, a dead certainty stealing over him this was what he’d been waiting for, though he still had no idea why.
“You know this man, Torren?” Sal asked, eyeing the newcomer warily.
“It’s urgent,” Micca insisted, leaning over the table. The Flyer’s face was haggard, as if he’d traveled many days without rest or sleep.
“His name is Micca,” Torren said in answer to Sal’s question as his gaze traveled around the inn. It being mid-afternoon, the common room was empty except for them and a couple of old-timers at a far table. His clear gaze came to rest once more on the Flyer. “How did you know I was here?”
Micca shot a suspicious look at Sal then dropped down onto a bench close to Torren. “Larana. She told me of your time together, and how you’d brought her to this inn.” The Flyer rubbed his face, exhaustion almost pouring off him. “I–I took a chance, hoping you might still be here.”
Without being asked, Sal dragged over a chair and sat down as well. Torren half-raised a brow at the older man’s motherly, protective attitude. “Then she probably told you about him as well.” He pointed at his friend. “This is Sal.”
Micca glanced over at the scarred man with a little more warmth in his eyes. “Yes…yes, she did.” He gave him a sitting bow. “Thank you for the help you gave her in the past.”
“I’d do anything for Torren here, or the young lass.” Sal sat back, his expression clearing, his eyes shining with growing curiosity.
Torren’s gaze locked with the Flyer’s. “Micca, why are you here?”
His insides were churning. Dread filled him—whatever news Micca brought with him wouldn’t be to his liking.
The Flyer hesitated, sending a worried glance in Sal’s direction. “I mean no offense, but…”
Torren waved his hesitation aside.
“You can speak freely. He can be trusted.” Besides, from the look of him, nothing short of a major cataclysm would move Sal from his seat, and he held doubts if even that would do it.
Micca nodded, though still reluctant, and focused on the worn tabletop. He seemed to study it unseeing until he ran across Larana’s hair clip. Tentatively, he reached out as if to touch it but stopped.
“Torren, we need your help.” His voice was quiet. “I need for you to come back to the capital with me.”
Torren went cold. “I don’t belong there. I thought this would have been perfectly obvious.” He amazed himself with the tightness in his voice. He could feel Sal staring at him, perplexed by his reaction.
“Y–yes, I understand, but…” Micca’s light-blue eyes sought his. “…but something’s happened, and we need you. We need someone from the outside who knows our ways.”
Apprehension coiled about Torren’s stomach and rose up into his chest. “Why?”
Micca looked way, guilt and more filling his features. “I failed her. Despite my lofty promise. I failed her.”
Torren’s apprehension solidified into fear.
“What’s happened?” he asked tightly. Of its own accord, his hand moved across the table and took hold of Larana’s hair clip.
Micca faced him, tears shining in his eyes. “She’s asleep and won’t wake up. We’ve tried everything, but she won’t wake up.”
“That’s ludicrous, unless she’s dead.” Sal shook his head, his eyes daring Micca to contradict him.
“I know how it sounds, but nevertheless, it’s true. She’s not dead, but she won’t awaken,” Micca insisted.
“And what do you think I can do?” Torren stared at his clenched hand, the clip eating into his flesh. A sleeping death. Why?
Again Micca hesitated. “For…for years, there have been rumors that spoke of things no one was willing to admit, but now that disaster has struck again, they’ve been given more validity.” He rubbed his eyes. “It’s been a suspicion of some the last Vassal didn’t die a natural death. It’s been suggested he was poisoned.”
Sal’s eyes grew wide even as Torren felt his chest grow tight.
“What?” The death of the previous Vassal had occurred a year before Larana’s kidnapping. And though he’d only been a young boy then, he didn’t recall hearing that the death had been anything but a peaceful passing due to old age.
Micca’s tired eyes held his. “Yes, the unthinkable. But with his death, the kidnapping of the new Aen as a babe, and now her falling into an endless sleep, the unthinkable seems very probable.”
“But who would do such things?” Torren demanded. “Landers don’t have access to the capital, let alone the Vassal.”
Micca’s face twisted as if in pain. “That’s the problem, don’t you see? If someone is responsible for these things, if someone purposely poisoned the last two Vassals, then another unthinkable fact must be true—it was done by one of our own.”
Torren sat back, the truth of it staggering him. A Chosen had poisoned the Vassal? It wasn’t possible!
“Hold on here.” Sal shifted forward, looking from one to the other. “Are you saying you and Torren…and the lass…are not Landers?”
Micca nodded once, after glancing around the room to make sure no one was watching. Quietly, he shifted his cloak just enough to allow Sal a peek at one of his wings.
Sal’s eyes grew even wider. “But—”
Torren cut him off. “Sal, it’s a long story, and I promise to fill you in, but not now.” Staring until his friend nodded agreement, he then turned his full attention back to Micca. “I still don’t see how this has anything to do with me.”
The Flyer’s look implored him. “She needs you. We need you. It’s imperative we find out who’s behind all this and why. But no one belonging to the council will bring it up—it would destroy our people, even if they were willing to believe such a thing. There are those already spreading the word this is El’s retribution for letting the Landers take her in the first place.
“Only someone from the outside, yet someone who is one of us and knows Lander ways has any chance of figuring out what happened.” He hesitated a moment and then plunged on. “And though what took you from us was horrible, it has also put you in the unique position to do what the rest of us cannot. And maybe, if El is willing, you might find out enough to let us save her.”
Torren laughed humorlessly in the Flyer’s face, the old bitterness rising into the back of his throat. “You don’t know what you’re asking me.”
“You’re right, I don’t,” Micca admitted. “But it still doesn’t change the fact your people need you, that she needs you, that there’s no one else who can do this but you.”
His dreams of the last few days—this was what they’d been about. Torren was sure of it. But why? And what in the world could he do?
Again he remembered the fear he’d seen in Larana’s eyes, and the anxiety he’d felt from her touch. Did she suspect something back then? Had she felt something from the men gathered around her? And he’d left her there. Left her to be poisoned and sent to an endless sleep after he’d assured her she’d be safe. The signs had been there for him to see, but he hadn’t. She’d known, and she’d let him go anyway.
And he’d let her.
He shook his head and opened his hand to look at the clip. The edges had gouged his palm, leaving deep, angry welts. He’d told her she’d be safe. “All right. I’ll go.”
Giving the impression he’d been half-expecting a fight, Micca slumped forward with relief.
“Thank you.” After a moment, he lurched to his feet, swaying slightly. “We’ll need to talk to my uncle first. Then we can start toward the capital.”
Sal stood up as well, grabbing the Flyer’s arm to steady him. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere. You’re about to drop where you stand.”
Micca shook his head. “No, I’m all right. The sooner we get back, the faster all this can be resolved.”
“You need food and rest,” Torren stated as he got up as well, his tone
brooking no argument. “And there are things I’ll need to take care of. Eat and sleep for a couple of hours—by then I should be ready to go.”
Micca stared at the two men, looking as if he would argue, but then sighed and gave in, seeing neither would be moved by anything he might say. “All right.”
“You can use my room,” Torren told him. “Sal will bring you some food.” He took charge of the Flyer from his friend and herded him toward the stairs.
Micca’s eyes were already half-closed by the time they made it to Torren’s room. It was as if only now that he’d received reassurance Torren would come could he allow himself to admit his exhaustion. As soon as his body touched the bed, Micca fell asleep.
Torren watched him, marveling at the ingenuity of his disguise and the fact he was even wearing it. Only pure despair would drive a Chosen to this. It only pointed to how badly things were. For the first and not the last time, he wondered what he was getting himself into.
He’d sworn years before he wouldn’t go back, after he’d finally healed and learned enough to be able to survive in the world and could return on his own. Too much had happened, too many things were unresolved. Yet here he was, willingly returning for a girl he barely knew. He fingered the clip in his hand then placed it in his pocket.
Sal showed up as Torren placed his pack by the door. Gathering his things hadn’t taken long at all. The two men stepped out into the hallway once Sal set the tray down by the window.
“So,” he asked cautiously, “you’re going?”
He nodded, knowing where this was headed and not sure how to stop it. He wasn’t even sure he should.
“And you’re a Flyer?” The volume of Sal’s voice rose slightly, his hand rubbing absently at his scar.
“Flyers have wings.” Torren set off for the stairs.
Sal sent him a startled look then laughed as he hurried to catch up to him.
“It explains a lot,” he said knowingly. “You could have told me.”
Torren stopped, aware of how much he owed this man, this Lander who, like his saviors, had forced him to live and learn to fight despite how much he’d resented the interference in the beginning. “It wasn’t important.”
“Actually, I’d always pegged you for a half-breed,” Sal admitted.
He stared at him in surprise.
“Well, it neatly explained some of your attitudes and your continuous gloom.” Sal grinned. “Besides, it’s not as if I couldn’t help but notice you never needed to shave. Everyone knows Flyers grow no facial hair.”
Torren felt himself actually blush. He’d never suspected anyone had noticed. For years, he had gone out of his way to mimic the process just so he wouldn’t be accused of such a thing. Strangely, he now realized he’d not followed his usual practice with Larana. He had no explanation why.
He had never met a half-breed in his travels and didn’t think they actually existed, but it was a persistent fantasy. The Chosen didn’t mingle with Landers unless they were duly elected to ambassadorial posts. Even then, they only dealt with those in authority to trade goods and arrange for transport contracts—bad experiences in the far past kept most of them from wanting to deal with those below. His father had been of a different mindset, but he was in the minority.
The prejudice against Landers went deep, so the thought of a dalliance with one of them was repugnant to his kind. And though in his time amongst them, he had come to find many of what his people held as truths about Landers were false, those in the floating islands fully believed them. Landers were the first to be blamed when anything major went wrong.
“Did the same thing that happened to you happen to the lass?” Sal asked quietly.
Torren stared at his friend in confusion until the meaning of what he’d asked finally clicked into place. “No. The Vassal is born without wings. It is supposedly El’s way of reminding us of our origins.”
As he said it, he realized none of them truly saw it that way anymore. Though the facts were that the Chosen had once been Landers, it seemed to be something none of them ever really thought about or wanted to remember.
“You’ll need food for your journey. Feel free to take whatever you need.”
Torren nodded. “Thanks. And if you’re willing, I have something you could do for me as well.”
Sal agreed without hesitation. “What do you need me to do?”
He said nothing for a moment, and resumed descending the stairs then went into the kitchen, striving to put all his thoughts together. “There’s a group of men in black leather armor sporting good horses and money. They were the ones who killed Larana’s Lander family, the ones who set up the attack on the inn and made a grab for us on the road.”
Sal’s eyebrows rose at the last, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I want you to try to find out who they are and what they’re up to. I’m pretty positive they’re somehow related to the rumors about the buildup at the border—that might be the best place to start. It’s even likely one or two of them are still here in town. I’ll give you what money I have to grease some palms and loosen tongues. If it’s not enough, sell my half of this place for whatever you can get for it.”
Sal nodded. “I have people who owe me favors from the old days. One or two of them even work for the guard. They might know more about what’s going on than they’re telling and might also be interested in this band of black-dressed men of yours.” He slapped him on the arm. “You can count on me.”
Torren looked away. “I really appreciate all this. I wasn’t certain how you’d react once you knew the truth. To some, Flyers are as unwanted as Landers are to them.”
Sal laughed. “You are who you are, Torren, and it has nothing to do with where or to whom you were born. All that traveling around at least got that much through my thick skull. All I care to know is you’re my friend and you need my help.” Torren found himself in a steel-armed hug. “When you saved my life I didn’t care what you were. Why should I start now?”
“All right, old man, enough already!” He felt a half-grin tugging at the side of his mouth as he tried to pull away. He was amazed at his relief that Sal didn’t hold his birth against him, though he couldn’t say he’d done the same.
Landers had killed his father. And he’d been forced by circumstance into looking the same as them, to live among them. He’d picked his profession so he’d have a chance to kill some of them, to get what vengeance he could. But over the years, though he’d not once been reconciled to what had been done to him, he learned not all of them were at fault, and that some could be trusted to the point of being called friends.
Sal let him go, smiling widely, slapping him on the back. “Let’s get you those provisions, then.”
Several hours later, Torren headed back up to the room to wake Micca. Sal came behind him, carrying hot meals for the two of them to add to what he’d left in the room before. Micca stared at the strange fare warily for a moment, but then dug in with abandon. Though Torren felt far from hungry, he made himself eat as well.
Halfway through the meal, he got up and bent over his pack and brought out his pouch of money. “Here, Sal. Make it go as far as you can.”
“What is it for?” Micca asked between mouthfuls.
“Information,” he told him. “I don’t want to rely only on what can be learned at the capital.”
“How will I get what I find back to you?” Sal asked as he tucked the pouch out of sight.
Micca answered before he could. “Contact our ambassador. His name is Rux. He’s my uncle and can be trusted. He’ll make sure whatever you learn gets to us. I’ll let him know you’ll be by.”
Sal nodded. “All right.”
They finished eating. Getting up, Torren grabbed his backpack and sword belt and put them on. He stared at the two men with him, knowing only disturbing times were responsible for such an unusual gathering—a Lander, a Chosen and one not quite either. But it didn’t feel wrong. If anything, it felt almost natural.
&n
bsp; “We’d better go. It’ll take time to get to the embassy, and I want to make sure we don’t pick up any tails on the way.”
Sal followed them downstairs to the door. “May I see you both soon.” He placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
Micca appeared startled by Sal’s gesture but said nothing, only nodding in return. Torren opened the door.
Warm sunshine blinded him for a moment. Normally not one to stay indoors, he realized with a start he’d not looked at the sun or sky since he’d left Larana. It was almost as if he’d stopped living until the moment Micca entered through this very door.
Shaking the thought away, he stepped out into the street. With the Flyer in tow, he took a convoluted route to the embassy. Though chances were no one was keeping an eye on him, he felt he’d taken too many things for granted before to allow himself to make any mistakes now.
The sun was low to the horizon when they finally reached the gated entrance. Micca rang the bell and banged against the locked doors insistently until one of the guards came to check.
“It’s me, Micca. Let us in.”
The guard opened the door quickly but then hesitated on opening the gate, surprised by the Flyer’s unusual garb and his unexpected companion. “Sir, didn’t you—”
“Yes, but I’m back now. I have to see my uncle immediately.” Something in his tone startled the guard enough that he hurriedly opened the gate. Micca rushed through with Torren right behind him.
Without preamble, they entered the building and headed straight for the ambassador’s office.
“Uncle, are you here?”
“Micca?” Rux stood up from behind his desk, a shocked look on his face. “What are you doing here?”
His brow rose another notch as he spotted Torren behind him.
“The unthinkable has happened,” Micca told him. “The Vassal has been driven into a sleep from which she cannot wake.”
“What?” Rux’s face drained of color. He reached behind him for his chair and sat down. “How did this happen?”
Micca shook his head, not looking at his uncle directly. “We’re not entirely sure. She’d been doing fine—learning the ceremonies, walking amongst the people. She was never alone. Yet after the evening meal three days ago, she collapsed. We’ve not been able to wake her since.”
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