Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I will miss you, too, you know.”

  “You coat your words with sugar to humor me.” She protested them with another kiss. “But I accept them nonetheless.”

  “You will be fine, Mother. I’ll be gone less than a month, and then you can harass me about learning my part of the wedding ritual. You will find it thrilling.”

  “I think Ser Allyn is better suited for that task.” Her laugh reminded him of sitting on her knee when he was very young, as she traded stories with her siblings come to visit from Mova.

  “Did you want me to rise or not?”

  “I want one more morning with my child before he comes back to me a new man.” She was teasing, but he could hear worry in her voice.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You will. But you will not be the same Janto who leaves here today—you cannot begrudge your mother for feeling nostalgic.”

  “I begrudge you nothing. But I do need to rise, and you need to leave the room so I can dress. I may not yet be this new man you speak of, but I am not a child anymore, you know.”

  “I do.” She pinched his cheeks anyway. “But you will always be my baby. I will go—your father waits in the council room for us to break our fasts with him.” She gave him one last peck. “We must not keep him waiting or you know what will happen.”

  “‘The people need me.’” Janto approximated his father’s booming bass of a voice. “’I must not leave them waiting any longer.’” Sometimes, he could not imagine that his father had nearly become a priest. Dever Albrecht was born for kingship. Janto wondered if he would ever measure up.

  “Your father found his motivation for the kingship at his Murat, you know. Perhaps you will find your strength there as well.”

  “Yes, yes. Now let me dress, please.”

  She closed the wooden door behind her. Janto dressed then picked up the crown lying on top of the desk, polished and gleaming, the same circlet of brambles his parents donned. It signified the victory of the Lanserim over the Meduans at the Plains of Orelyn. His was a thinner bough, and silver unlike their white gold crowns. He always wondered at the difference, but the answer had only ever been “Because the king decreed it so,” whether he asked his parents, Ser Allyn, or the chief metallurgist herself, Mar Kurandyl.

  With the pins laid out for him, Janto secured the crown. Riding with it on would be bothersome, but the occasion called for it, at least until well into the Nevillim plains. At Jost, he planned to send it back home with Eddy. Pic waited outside his door, and Janto instructed him to bring his traveling bag to his horse. The caravan would depart after breakfast. Then he crossed the courtyard to reach the council room.

  Something caught his eye near the archway by the throne room. A gray-hooded Brother stood within it.

  “Good morning, Brother,” Janto called out.

  The man’s sleeves rose in greeting, but he did not move forward. In the early morning light, he appeared parchment thin as though a shadow. That was precisely the role the Brother had played the past few days, silent and on the fringes of the funeral procession and day-to-day activities of the castle. Janto could not recall him at the funeral feast at all.

  The thought of food made his stomach grumble, and the image of Mar Pina’s flaky sweet rolls leapt to mind along with ghostly wisps of the warmed apricot preserves that would be dripping over them. Janto walked faster toward breakfast.

  As Janto slid through the council room door, his father spoke. “My son deigns to bless us with his presence.” Janto took his seat and one of the rolls from a heaping platter. He wondered how many he could eat before the caravan set out.

  “Well?” The king stared, but Janto paid him no mind, closing his eyes in appreciation of the apricot, cinnamon, and yeasty dough melding in his mouth. “Are you ready for your Murat?”

  “Of course he is,” Queen Lexamy chided. “You know full well he has run himself ragged with preparations.” Their disagreements always amused Janto. His mother may get cross, but she had never asked for her own quarters in their thirty-seven years of marriage. His parents’ union was one of love … and banter. Constant banter.

  “Stabbing at dummies stuffed with wheat and saying a daily chant can hardly be viewed as preparation for the Murat.” His father reached for the pot of tachery brew kept warm over a fire in a clay ramekin. The smell of roasted seeds wafted over. Janto flipped his mug over for his father to fill.

  “Is there tachery on Braven?” A sudden panic took Janto and he gulped the liquid, then had to force his lips closed to avoid spitting it right back out again—it was hot!

  His father laughed so loud the cups and platters shook. “You see what I mean?” He appealed to his wife. “He asks if there’s tachery on Braven.” Another laugh followed by a wink, and then he regarded Janto with soft, if pitying, eyes. “There’s naught on Braven of tachery or any other nourishment you are used to. You will be fed, but you best acquire a taste for jerked craval beast and the flat cakes Mar Pina has packed in your bag.”

  Janto felt like a dunce for not thinking of food before. His mother suppressed laughter, likely at his expense, but he could not share in the merriment. What sort of man would he prove to be if he did not consider his basic needs before an extended journey? What else had he overlooked?

  He glowered and took another roll from the platter. “Father, the Brother … he is not here about me, is he?”

  The king settled back into his chair, raising an eyebrow as he stopped to consider his words. That alone increased Janto’s unease. Was the question that hard to answer?

  “No, he is not here for you.”

  “Then why? Brothers don’t usually come for a funeral.” “No, they do not.”

  “Then what is his purpose here?” Silence was the response, so Janto tried another way. “I mean, I should know how to receive a Brother when I am king, but they come so rarely, I have no idea what to do and there might not be another for many years.”

  The queen regarded him quizzically as she reached for a sweet cake covered in sticky almond frosting. “Do you foresee your father’s death, Janto? I did not know you had such a gift.”

  His cheeks colored. “No, of course not. I merely wish to know why he is here, so I can learn from it.”

  “Luckily, his business does not concern you or it would be another obstacle to your concentration in the days ahead.” His father waved away the subject. “You have had enough trouble recently. Ser Allyn tells me you did not include a rag for wiping your blade among your provisions.”

  His mother exhaled loudly. “Can you blame him for such a little oversight? He has been a bit concerned with Serra.”

  “As have we all.” The king stabbed a piece of smoked tartine with his fork and brought it to his plate. The fish’s yellow flesh was marbled with a greenish-blue hue where the bones had been removed. “Do you think these past few days have interfered with your readiness, son?”

  Janto considered his answer. His body ached from the repetition of thrusts and parries, having sparred with no less than twenty of the noble children who had been holed up in the castle for days awaiting the funeral. Janto had made use of their different skills and sizes. An afternoon recitation and a run through the hillside had cleared his mind daily. But he had been tense, unable to talk with Serra or spend time with her. The separation had wrapped tighter around his chest every day like a rope, even before news of Agler’s death had been received.

  Or rather, it had felt that way until last night. Holding her, breathing in the smell of clove from her grandmother’s necklace that she always wore, had made Janto more relaxed than he could remember. Focusing on being pure of body, mind, and heart had done less to prepare him for the Murat than that hour of stolen time.

  “I am ready, Father, and these past few days have only made it clearer to me why this is so important. I want to be the man my country, and my lady, need. If the Murat will make that so, then I am ready for it.”

  “We
ll said, Janto.” The king placed a hand on his shoulder. “You will be missed, you know.”

  “I know. I will miss you, too.” Then he reached for another sweet roll.

  Doubts about the rashness of meeting with Serra last night did not return until Janto mounted his horse and took his pack from Pic’s proffered hand. The pleasing tang of Mar Pina’s sweet rolls had already disappeared from memory, but he could feel the specter of Serra’s lips on his own. As he galloped through Callyn, waving farewell to the townspeople who lined the streets, his thoughts were not of battle tactics but Serra’s soft tangles of hair and protestations of love made beneath the mingled lights of Oro and Tansic. He could imagine no worse—or better—companion on the road ahead.

  CHAPTER 8

  SERRA

  King Dever Albrecht leaned forward on the throne. From the back of the cavernous room, his station was nondescript, yet walking toward it was a breathtaking experience. With each step forward, the throne gleamed with more luster, the sun reflecting off its seemingly smooth surface from the glass ceiling above it. A few paces closer and the illusion fell away as hundreds of copper cords, interwoven to give the impression of a bramble bush, became evident. Queen Scrulla Albrecht, the first of the Albrecht line, had the throne designed to resemble the chaparral covering the Plain of Orelyn, where she had spent her early life. She had not known then that her grandson three times removed—King Turyn, Janto’s grandfather—would fight his final battle with the Meduans there. Nor were they called Meduans in Scrulla’s time, or even in Turyn’s. Before the war, they’d been an outgrowth of Lanserim, countrymen who no longer wanted to live in a country that prized valor more than greed. A truce created the dual kingdoms and the Meduan people.

  Janto considered it a failure that his forebears had not crushed the Meduans outright. But Serra respected the wisdom of Turyn’s Peace, recognizing no good could come from forcing darkness to mix with light. The Meduans would have plotted against their civil society no matter the cost—was not her brother proof of that? The rebels’ deeds and words corrupted good people. Separating them out to wreak havoc only on themselves was the better plan. King Turyn gave up a quarter of his kingdom but saved his true subjects with that peace.

  “Serra, thank you for coming,” King Albrecht greeted her once she was close enough to hear. Gold leaves peeked out from between the metal branches of the throne. A few steps closer and rounded onyx thorns would be visible as well.

  The king smiled today, no doubt proud of how radiant Janto had been in his crown, thanking each liege and commoner alike who came to see him off with raised elbows. As he fell in line with the caravan of stable hands, Janto had dared a wink at Serra from the back of his parsnip-colored mare. It was enough; she’d had her goodbyes last night.

  Ser Allyn stood by the king with another man, whose shrouded head and dark gray robe, like a sword needing polishing, revealed him to be a Brother. No one else in Lansera wore that gloomy shade. Serra had heard of the Brother’s arrival the same day she had learned of Agler’s death. But she had not spoken with him, preferring the solace of her room, which did not demand decorum and duty. Her grief grew more difficult to curb with each stitch she dropped and “May Madel’s hand guide you” she uttered.

  Serra raised her elbows to the king. “For what purpose am I called, my liege?”

  “Our Brother came to ask about you,” King Albrecht answered, a dark brown eyebrow raised. It had yet to turn gray like the hair on his head.

  Serra had only seen a Brother once before, two weeks before her parents died. A pair had come to pay their respects to her family. They stayed a few days, dining with the Gavenstones but mostly speaking in soft voices with her parents and never directly to her. She had paid them no attention, finding her newly carved drindem dolls with their tattooed faces and spindly, jointed appendages much more intriguing.

  She raised her elbows to the man. “I thank you for your concern, Brother.” He did not answer. Am I to guess why I’ve been called? Only one reason came to mind. “I am grieved by my brother’s death, but I am well.”

  The billowy cloth of his hood hid his reaction. Was he displeased? He could not expect her mourning would be over already. Serra’s training to not leave a silence unfilled kicked in. “Was there something else you wanted?”

  King Albrecht answered. “The Brotherhood would like you to study with the Order for a time.”

  “But what could the Brotherhood want with me?”

  Ser Allyn spoke tartly. “It is not unusual for royalty to spend time with the Order in their youth. Why, King Albrecht did himself.”

  Her cheeks colored. She must be careful not to offend the king on the subject. After all, he would be a ryn today had his brother, Gelus, not died from a poisoned wound a decade after Turyn’s Peace. “I meant no disrespect. But I am unsure how my presence would benefit the Order. What is asked of me?”

  The king answered again. “Our Brother wants you to study Madel’s precepts more closely than you can here. It is a rare opportunity, Serra, not usually given to those not taking an initiate’s pledge.”

  “But it takes a month to learn the rituals, does it not?” She tried to keep her voice level. “The wedding, it would have to be postponed.” She would not agree to that—it did not matter if Madel reached Her fiery hand down in the flesh. Thoughts of the wedding and joining fully with Janto were all that brought her joy.

  The king’s face flushed. “You do not decline a Brother’s invitation for a wedding, Serra.”

  The Brother spoke, gesturing with the sleeves of his robe. They dropped back to his side before she heard his quavering voice. “It must be her decision.”

  The king’s flush deepened. “Of course, I apologize. I forgot my place for a moment in my respect for your Order.”

  That was curious. Serra had thought no man could overrule the king. “I apologize as well, Brother, but I know no one besides the king and our Rynna Hullvy who has been trained in the ways of Madel. Why have you chosen me for such an honor?” Perhaps she could learn a thing or two about how to govern a ruler if she studied with the Order. Not that she didn’t trust Janto to make wise decisions, but she knew from experience that honest men could be led astray by false advisors. Agler’s ashes buried within the Mount were proof of that.

  “Serrafina Gavenstone,” the Brother uttered her name leisurely, as though examining each syllable for meaning, “we tell you only that we want you to come. You need not stay beyond the initiation, if that is what you choose. But Janto Albrecht will not return in four weeks. He will be delayed.” The words floated toward her as his arms fell to his sides.

  She gasped at his proclamation. Was that a prophecy? How could Janto be waylaid? The king’s eyes belied a shared reaction, but he said nothing to question the Brother, only drummed his fingers on the throne, waiting for her response. Serra suppressed the foreboding she felt—she was not thinking clearly, had not been for days. Madel would not allow more tragedy to befall her. She refused to consider it. Any number of things could delay his return. Tornadoes on the Nevillim plains. Janto attempting a special Feat after the Murat concluded. Every town on the journey home might insist on celebrating his newfound renown—he was sure to be entered into several of the Order’s lists.

  Reassured, Serra considered the Brother’s invitation. A few more weeks might be beneficial for the wedding plans; Bini had mentioned a delay for the Elstonian lace and the seamstresses already complained of the modifications needed for the queen’s wedding gown. And Serra had been so suffocated since Agler’s death. Her garments and layers felt constricting. She wearied of the servants’ chatter. Why should Janto be the only one off on his own before they married? She mourned Agler, to be certain, but that would follow wherever she went. Maybe a quiet place to finish grieving so she could be content again in these halls was just what she needed.

  “I will go.”

  The Brother’s voice wrapped around her. “You will leave in the morning.”

>   Tomorrow? Tomorrow she was to see her aunt and uncle off and spend the afternoon quilting tapestries with the queen and the other noblewomen who remained at Callyn. The task appealed, suddenly, for its normalcy. Was her decision hasty?

  “I will send a trunk to your room,” Ser Allyn said. “And set your servants to pack it at once.”

  “Yes, please.” She would need help to be ready so fast.

  Ser Allyn hustled through the side door, and King Albrecht’s smile returned. “My time with the Order was not easy, Serra. It was a different sort of training than the Murat, one for the soul rather than the body and mind. I have never felt such fulfillment as I did then, but it takes more work and strength of will than you might believe.”

  The king rarely talked so freely about his past. She realized they were alone.

  “Where did the Brother go?”

  “He must have left with Allyn.” King Albrecht looked as perplexed as she felt, but his reminiscing soon took over. “I did not wish to rule, you know, but the world called me back and I had to sacrifice for that world. We all do.” He stared off, lost in his thoughts of times past while she waited impatiently in the present, wishing he would find his point. The past had brought her only pain, and now the future was not as well laid out as she had thought. Why did I say yes?

  “You will come back to us a richer Lanserim.” The king finished his speech at last. “For all are who touch Madel. I am pleased for you. Not many have been given this opportunity.”

  Serra forced herself to smile in return, but she had no words to speak. She had made a choice, but whether she would regret it, only time would reveal. Her family was not known for making wise decisions.

  CHAPTER 9

  JANTO

  The canoes glided onto the black sand of Braven. “Finally!” Jerusho, the portly Ertion whom Janto had been paired with during the row across the channel, lunged out of the canoe. It tipped over, rolling them both onto the beach and splashing them with the freezing water of the Northern Sound. Janto lifted a handful of the sand, letting the grains—fine as his mother’s healing barrow root powder—spill through his fingers. The soft sand was surprisingly warm, the dark color retaining heat. Lying on the beach felt like a dip in one of Elston’s many hot springs.