Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  Uzziel looked to where she wilted against the wall and back to the guards. She dared to imagine placing her hands around his neck and wringing it. A rush of the familiar energy surged at the thought, but she suppressed it swiftly and held it within her, right beneath her skin. Harnessing it without releasing it—the sensation was amazing.

  “No, you may leave.” Her brother dismissed the guards. Vesperi waited until she heard the door grate shut to move.

  “You should be thanking me”—he held his head up defiantly, not realizing his refusal to have her punished was another sign of his weakness—“crying with gratitude on the floor where you belong.”

  She could give him this minor thing—she had better things to explore than the strength of her will against his. The wound on her arm no longer bled, and she tied the rag onto her belt.

  “I’m sorry.” Her contempt was difficult to conceal, but she managed. “What can I do to repay you?” What he asked for did not matter; she felt weightless, the seeds of a drapian tree floating on a breeze before infesting the tilled soil with their sticky spires.

  “I want you to go into town for me. I need something Father must not find out about.”

  How droll. Keeping things from Father was her oldest pastime … but it wasn’t Uzziel’s. Perhaps Lorne had influenced him more than she’d suspected.

  “I need an herb called fallowent. It’s black, and it’s supposed to taste like honey.”

  “What do you need it for?”

  He jabbed the tornian in her direction and sneered. “That is not your concern, wench.” Just as fast, his features softened. The abrupt change made him again appear younger than his years. “You will do it, will you not? Get the herb?”

  She gave him a brilliant smile. “Of course.” With raised elbows, she made for the door.

  “Don’t forget—Father cannot know.”

  She pulled on the handle, reassuring him with dulcet tones. “I will not tell.” Unless it suits me.

  Lorne sat in the smoky hallway where incense always burned, his lean legs stretched out far in front of him. The boy drank from a cup made from some sort of white metal Vesperi had never seen before. Using his own cup was smart; poisoning him would be that much harder. Never mind his father, perhaps Lorne would grow up to be an intriguing prospect. Perhaps he already was one.

  “Headed to town?” He took another lazy sip.

  So he was behind the fallowent errand. Her mind thrilled at the possibilities. Did he plan to poison Uzziel by filling his head with some tale of strengthened limbs? She wished him luck, if so, but there was no need to reveal that yet.

  “Why, I have not been since I returned home.” She feigned enthusiasm. “Going to town sounds like an excellent idea. Did you have need of something, my lord?”

  “I have many needs, but none involve you going to town.” His stare was pointed.

  She had never thought younger men her style, but he was a smooth talker. Yet she had more important things to do than a bold, handsome courtier with an alluring jawline. More important things than getting the herb, too, though she would have to do that soon if she wanted to avoid Uzziel’s anger. Her father’s wrath never followed far behind.

  “I hope you are able to satisfy your needs.” She allowed herself a hint of a seduction. “But I need to be on my way.” Elbows raised, Vesperi waited for his dismissal.

  He granted it with a wave of his hand, and she hurried to her room, not wanting to give Lorne time to change his mind and demand she stay. She had more pressing matters to attend to than pondering what advantage untying his breeches might bring. A flurry of energy still pulsed in her palm.

  CHAPTER 6

  SERRA

  Musicians played softly at the far end of the hall, blowing flutes and plucking lyres and mandolins for the subdued feast guests. The villagers that had accompanied the procession to the Mount had gone back to their homes in Callyn, each with a tale to tell of an honorable funeral given to a traitor, or so Serra assumed as she stared at the roasted redbird and field greens on her plate. Her aunt sobbed intermittently, and her uncle smacked his gums as he finished cleaning a thigh to the bone, making Serra’s appetite less than it already was. They were left mostly alone, perhaps out of respect for their grief. Serra thought it more likely the nobility in attendance did not want to associate with the Gavenstones and their stained reputation.

  The thought was ungenerous, as hers were prone to be these days, and she chastised herself. Why Agler’s death brought forth such resentment was a mystery. They had not been close, not when they were young and less so after she came to the castle. Her parents had willed in their final bequests that Serra live with the Albrechts. She had thrown a tantrum loud enough to wake the whole manor when told of the arrangement. But the royal family had accepted her without hesitation, and when she went back home for official family business, she found her brother had become nothing more than a surly youth surrounded by a cloud of advisors. All men, they’d stared with open lust once she had blossomed. She had not known they were Meduan priests and doubted Agler did at first, but it made sense when the truth came out. He let them poison his mind with old rivalries and thoughts of stealing power from the king. When the assassin he sent was discovered in Callyn with a vial of hemlock in one hand and a sharpened feather quill in the other, Serra went sick with shame. Only Janto’s insistence on fresh air and food had succeeded in bringing her out of her room and her misery. Agler had done more than embarrass her. He’d made her feel out of place in the Albrechts’ company, a molting rufior with trembling wings in a pool of svelte swans.

  But now she clutched at Agler’s handkerchief as though he had meant the world to her. He had left it with her the night before he joined the Ravens. Agler had been a broken man then. His face had always worn a smirk and a well-fed flush, but that day it was hollow and sunken. Still, his eyes lit up when she walked into her bedroom. He must have been waiting for hours in secret, knowing she would never agree to see him. She had closed the door fast, worried they would be seen together.

  “Serra.” He had tried to grab her hands, but she would not let him. “You must understand how sorry I am.”

  When children, he’d chased her around their manor’s hall with spiders trapped in his hands. Apologies never passed from his lips unless threatened with spending a day curing wine barrels with their father—peasants’ work, Agler had called it. The sight of him begging forgiveness that day had been impossible to fathom.

  “You are ashamed of me.” He fell into a chair, defeated. “You should be.”

  “You cannot be here,” she hissed. “You have no idea what your presence could do to me.”

  “But I do, sweet sister.” He did not say the endearment with the irony he once had given it. “Believe me, I do. Please, listen to me for a moment?” His voice quavered, tears in his eyes. “I’m leaving for the Ravens tonight. I wanted to see you first to make amends, if I could.”

  Queen Lexamy had told her of Agler’s intent to join the Ravens after receiving his pardon from the king. She’d claimed he was genuinely remorseful. Serra had not believed her. Bewilderment was all she’d felt when the king did not sentence him to prison but forgave him instead. Yet there Agler sat, more sincere than she could have imagined. Did he mean to play her for a fool?

  They had not lived together in years, but he read her thoughts fast enough. “I’m changed, truly, I swear.” He pushed his chin-length, curling hair behind his ears. “The king, he came to me at Gavenstone. I was imprisoned in our study and allowed no visitor until he arrived. I knew I had been found out, of course. I knew it the moment my advisors—that pool of sheven—deserted the manor. They had received a message from our contact in Callyn. They did not tell me we had been discovered. They just ran, leaving me alone in my ignorance and pride as Captain Wolxas rode up with a battalion behind him. If I were smart, I would have run, too.”

  He paused, his eyes filled with disgust. “No, if I were smart, I never would have rebe
lled in the first place. Try to kill the king and take his place with a Meduan army I had never seen? By Madel’s hand, I was stupid.”

  “You are an idiot.” Serra did not hide the anger she felt. “A selfish, arrogant boy who thinks only of himself. Why did you do it, Agler? What possessed you?” His failed plot stunk of Meduans, and she could not stomach listening to it. How could her brother have taken part in such vile deeds? She was to become queen! What higher place than brother to the crown could he have wanted?

  “I was an idiot,” he responded calmly. “But I have changed. Serra, the king forgave me. He did not force me to kneel but sat in the chair beside me in silence for agonizing minutes. When he spoke, he described his Murat dream. It was about Lansera, about the peace he had maintained and the future he hoped would come to pass. He spoke passionately of us, of all Lanserim, and how we could become an ever nobler people if we but tried. He foresaw a time when the Meduans would reunite with us, no longer intent on working evil on others, inspired by our compassion, our deeds. He believes this time will come sooner than anyone can imagine. As he spoke, I realized I had no idea what valor was, what it truly meant for someone to live his or her life with a meaning and purpose. But the king is valorous, and when he shows it—by Madel’s hand, Serra, he glows.”

  The passion in Agler’s words had raised her gooseflesh. But she could not imagine such a meeting taking place. King Dever Albrecht fulfilled his duties efficiently and with wisdom, but she had never heard him express anything resembling zeal, much less seen his countenance consumed with it. Yet her brother sat directly across from her, nearly alight with some sort of fervor of his own.

  “I asked for his forgiveness right then and there, and he gave it,” Agler continued. “There are many who think King Dever Albrecht is a hard man. I once thought him a weak one, but I was wrong, horribly wrong. He is king because Madel wants him to be, not because he was the only Albrecht left after the war.” Tears fell, and he made no move to wipe them. She reached across the table and took her brother’s hands in hers for the first time she could remember.

  “But why are you telling me this, Agler? Why have you come to me?” When he met her eyes, she could have sworn her father looked back, eyes green as young grape leaves. It made her yearn for a time and place she had forgotten. Did he see the same reflection when he watched her?

  “I wanted you to know it was true—the plot, the poison, all of it. I wanted you to know it from me. And to know I am sorry. I wanted you to see I am changed, not to just hear about it and scoff as I knew you would.” He unclasped the leather pouch on his weapon belt and pulled out the same handkerchief she held now, a sallow gray cloth stitched with the grapes of Gavenstone in pressed-gold thread. “But I’m here for more than that, Serra. I am here because I’m weak. A Raven’s life is not a safe one. I need to know someone might miss me and wish me well. You are my only family, sweet sister.” He smiled at her, eyes soft. “Would you try to remember me while I’m gone? Think of me fondly once in a while? Pretend if you must, but take this from me so I know someone has something of me.”

  Taking the cloth, she nodded, stunned at both the depth of her brother’s remorse and his affection. “It would be a lie for me to say I forgive you. But I will not forget you. That much I can promise.” She wiped his tears with it then placed it in her dresser drawer, where it had lain until three days ago, when she’d received the Ravens’ message.

  That afternoon, when she had kissed her brother farewell, the last member of her family had walked out her door forever.

  Dessert was warmed bread baked with bananas from south of Elston and topped with fresh cream and ground peanuts from the bushes in Callyn. It was Serra’s favorite—Mar Pina, the chef, let no person go uncomforted if she could help it. Serra tried to eat but gave up, her stomach in disagreement. Janto caught her eye from the far end of the table. He tilted his head toward the door and mouthed the word, “Garden?” She nodded. She needed to get out of this room, and maybe their paired absence would not be noticed tonight. Serra was not certain she cared.

  Janto rose first, excusing himself from the company of Lord Xantas and Lady Gella, who was balanced on her husband’s lap despite the occasion. Ten minutes passed, and Serra bid her aunt and uncle good night, telling them she would meet them tomorrow at their chamber so they could see Janto off together. As she walked toward the southern door to the courtyard, she ignored the condolences from the servants and hoped they would forgive her the lack of a courteous response. Being a proper lady had never felt like such work before.

  A wall of humidity greeted her in the courtyard despite it being early spring. She took the gravel path by the well and followed it to the grove of Wasylim orange trees on the western side of the castle. The tree branches were bare this far to the east, but Serra could not see through the many skinny trunks crowded together to form the hedge that marked the entrance to the garden. No one else would see her walk through them either.

  Yet she felt eyes on her nonetheless. Serra spun on her heel but glimpsed nothing more than a dark robe’s hem whisking past the alcove that led back inside. An out-of-town noble getting a little lost on the return from the lavatory, no doubt. Serra shook her nerves away and slipped through the trees.

  Beyond them stood trellised arches arranged in an inward spiral that ended at a statue cast in silver. Braided balac vines had been laced through the latticework to form a covered path. She knew green leaf buds dotted them, but she could not see them in the dark. Rather, she let the pale light that shone from Oro, the golden moon, and Tansic, the copper moon, guide her. Esye was clouded, and Onsic never gave off light except for its nebulous cobalt halo. The soft gold and copper rays glinted off the statue and reflected from the metal exposed through the balac vines. She was careful not to step on any of the herb patches planted at the bases of the trellises—Mar Pina would call for heads if so much as a minty libtyl leaf was trampled.

  The reflection off the statue gave Janto’s strawberry-blond hair an ethereal cast. The sculpture was of Ginla Xantas, an ancient heroine of Lansera from the time before an Albrecht sat on the throne. Janto reclined beneath it, watching Serra approach, which made her blush. The sensation felt good, normal for a change. She knew how to do this, how to meet Janto alone in the garden. It was their sanctuary, the place they escaped prying eyes in the castle with the orange grove to hide them. She wondered at how it had never bothered her before, this occasional bending of propriety so they could just be themselves. Perhaps the new rashness she felt had been manifesting longer than she’d realized.

  Janto drew her into his arms as she neared. She relaxed into them, feeling some of the tension in her body drain away. His familiar smell—eucalyptus and brine—comforted her, and she smiled for the first time all day.

  “How are you?” He kissed her forehead.

  “I’ve been better.” It was an understatement. She had no words to describe the emotions she felt.

  “You are amazing. And you’ll get through this. You know that, right?”

  “I know.” She sighed. “Thank you for suggesting this. I almost suffocated in there. If I had to listen to Uncle Jehos chew any longer, I would have screamed. How do you always know what I need?”

  Janto beamed at the compliment. “Knowing you is my life’s work.” The hint of a tease only reinforced his words. “Come here.” He led her around Ginla’s boots to the other side of the statue. On a nearby bench lay a cylinder, about two feet long. It sparkled in the dimness, which meant it could only be made of one thing: quartz.

  “A seeing glass!” She gasped and swung her arms around his neck. Janto had given her a bantam one when she first came to Callyn. He had told her how to point it at Gavenstone. “Whenever you feel homesick,” he had instructed, “just look through it.” It had been blurry, and no bigger than a speck of dirt, but seeing the spire jutting from the top of her family’s entrance hall had given her endless comfort after the move and her parents’ deaths.

 
“Mer Groven had some new wares when I went to pick up my tunics for Braven. This caught my eye—how could it not?—and I had to buy it. It is heftier than your last one, and you will not be able to see as far as Braven, but I thought you might appreciate it anyhow.”

  “I love it.” She kissed him. “I can imagine Braven in the distance, even if the sea I sight is only the brown waves of lamta herds. If I can point it toward my family”—she caressed his cheek to make her point—“then it is good enough for me. Thank you.” She kissed him again and let her lips linger. In the morning he, too, would leave her. But for now, Janto was hers and she his, and that was enough to stem her sorrow and remind her of what was important. Not tears, nor anger, but love and hope for the future she had been destined for since she had first seen him at Gavenstone Manor, commanding Agler to give her back her drindem doll. “I miss you already.”

  He nodded, pulling her back into his arms. They watched the lesser moons of Lansera shine more intensely than ever before, trading the glass between them.

  CHAPTER 7

  JANTO

  The touch of his mother’s hand on his cheek woke Janto the next morning. He blinked, adjusting to the soft light drifting in from his window like ribbons of brushed gold. The queen wore a green gown with an overlay of speckled woranbird feathers, and a crown of golden brambles nestled above her red tresses. She did not wear the crown often, but seeing her son off for his Murat called for some ceremony.

  “Good morning.” Her face was cheerful as she stroked his cheek again.

  Janto stretched and yawned. “I don’t think you’ve woken me since I was twelve. You are lucky I don’t keep a dagger beneath my pillow.”

  She tsked at the jest. “I did not raise my son to fear his own walls.” Then she kissed his forehead. “Is it so wrong to want to see you this morning?”