Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  “Apologies, my compatriot.” Jerusho raised his elbows in regret, his pallor green. “’The sweet lapping of waves,’ as my ryn described it, is not as soothing as advertised.”

  Janto laughed and flipped over to let his drenched clothes soak up the warmth.

  Jerusho regained some coloring as he spoke. “‘You will be a legend,’ my ryn told me. ‘All the boys in Mova will dream of you and your Murat fame.’ Let me tell you, my new and hopefully more trustworthy friends.” Jerusho raised his voice so the other men pulling in their canoes could hear, “I’m the one dreaming. I am dreaming of my rug by the fireplace and sipping my nana’s hot-brewed tachery.”

  A compact lad, no more than five and a quarter feet tall, came up behind the Ertion. His voice was heavy with the drowsy accent of Wasyla. “We just arrived. I am certain we will not spend the whole time dripping wet.” He gave Jerusho a reassuring pat then extended his hand. “My name’s Napeler.”

  The Ertion shook it heartily, his seasickness apparently abated. “May Madel’s hand guide you, Nap.” The Wasylim made to object at the nickname, but Jerusho kept on talking. “I’m Jerusho, and I still wish I had a fire.”

  Conversations struck up around him, and Janto listened while enjoying the warmth. He had not introduced himself to anyone yet. A rynna had been the only person to greet him at the docks at Jost. Janto had bid his farewell to Eddy and the rest of the stable hands outside the small town. A pair of Meditlans had been there first, so alike in appearance they had to be twins. Janto had whispered his name to the rynna, who winked and crossed it off her list. He wanted to complete the Murat on his own merits, not those given him by name and birth. There were few enough times when he could walk unknown, without expectations for his behavior.

  It wasn’t that he disliked being prince, not at all, but the rules to abide by—or at least to bend only as far as his father and Ser Allyn would allow—could be stifling. For as long as possible, Janto wanted to see these men as peers rather than civilians posturing before royalty. With any luck, he could convince Sielban to keep his identity quiet, once their legendary trainer made his appearance.

  Sielban loomed large in the minds of all Muraters, including those who had completed the challenges decades ago. He lived in complete isolation on Braven, except for the yearly group of Lanserim men whom he taught and pushed as he saw fit. Rumor had it Sielban had been banished to Braven, but many years later, the Order appointed him as mentor to the Muraters, a post he’d held for at least two generations. The man was longer lived than any other alive.

  Janto’s new companions moved from the shore, not knowing what to do next. He watched them from afar, unwilling to leave the sandy warmth yet. They were a small group at seven. There were never more than the number the Brothers proclaimed and no qualifications other than a firm belief Madel meant for each young man to go. The Brothers had accepted ten this year but some applicants must have decided not to come, likely due to the flooding in the marshlands and the western Nevillim plains. Doubtless, the men had made the hard choice to take care of their farms and holdings instead. He prayed Madel repaid them for their sacrifice—they were proving their worth by other means.

  Janto had always known he would enter the Murat. All Albrecht men had. As this year’s competition drew near, he had felt more and more confident it was the right time. His failure to understand his father’s reasons for burying Agler at the Mount merely made his need to become a better man that much clearer. What sort of king would he make if forced to take the crown next month or next year? One not worthy of it, that much he knew.

  Near the tree line, thirty yards or so away, the Meditlan twins, of average height and build, talked in low voices before offering Jerusho a towel from knapsacks embroidered with the vines of Gavenstone. Janto wondered how they’d inevitably bring honor to their country, lands, and family—Murated men always did, yet surprisingly few Lanserim felt the call to come. Perhaps most did not want to claim such a fate for themselves. Glory and the promise of power allured, but his people did not thirst for such things as lustily as the Meduans, and he had faith anyone with purely selfish motives would be refused application by the Brothers. There was also money to consider. For Janto, affording the travel and time away from home was a simple matter, but for others, it could exact a great toll. Yet if a man was truly called to come, his community recognized it and they made the sacrifice together—it sounded as though that had been Jerusho’s path.

  The Wasylim called Nap stood with what looked to be one of his countrymen. They had the same hair, fine and pale yellow as an eaglet’s down. None had Janto’s mother’s skin, dark as an Elstonian stout, which confirmed the missing men were Rasselerians or from the villages beyond the marshlands where his mother had grown up. He hoped their regret would be slight when news from the Murat was proclaimed. Criers went forth and spread word to the villages when a Feat of special valor was achieved. A record performance on the archery course would qualify or climbing Mount Frelom, the snow-covered peak in the far west of the island. Perhaps one of the island’s mythical creatures would be killed this year: the jurgen’s spiky tail was said to lash at its prey as it galloped through the woods, and the granfaylon was longer than a sheven, thinner than parchment, and invisible to most eyes. And the silver stag, well, it could leap through the forest in a flash. Many Muraters had been exhausted by the hunt for the elusive creature, and if the old adage were true, the good favor promised to any who caught it:

  When the silver stag runs free, blessed will he who binds it be.

  Rise up, ye treasured bird of three. Wing him what boons ye foresee.

  Of course, the men might also see visions in the dreams they had toward the end of the Murat. Not everyone had them, but those who did used them as a compass to guide their future endeavors. His father had had such a dream, and whatever it revealed convinced him to take up the throne upon his brother Gelus’s death. An easy choice to be king rather than a solitary priest, many would say, but Janto knew his father better than that despite how justly Dever Albrecht ruled Lansera. Only when the king’s eyes closed during a meditation did he ever truly relax. Only then—and after his first bite of Mar Pina’s sweet rolls, a fixation Janto had inherited. He groaned, recalling he had eaten the last one he had smuggled into his pack that morning.

  The only Nevillim besides Janto was a solid man already gray of hair who had paddled his own canoe. He knelt over that boat now, cursing under his breath. Janto sighed and let the sand warm him for a second longer before rising.

  “Have you lost something?” Janto bent down to examine the dark, quartz-flecked sand under a discarded oar.

  “Yes, my cursed sister’s seeds! She tied them to my belt so I could plant a few on Braven.” The man shook his head, exasperated. “She’s afflicted with some notion of spreading her latest cultivation over the whole country like feathers fluttering in the wind.”

  “Is she an herbalist?” Janto ran his hand between the supporting planks of the canoe.

  “She thinks she is, but she hasn’t been to Leba for training.”

  Leba, the Wasylim capital, was home to the society of herbalists. Janto’s mother had spent considerable time there before she married the king—it was where they had met, in fact. He had come to purchase a satchel of libtyl leaves to take back to Callyn, being fond of their pungent taste. He left with a bride as well.

  “What are the seeds for? My mother has some experience with herbs.”

  “I don’t know.” A fond smile for his sister overcame the man’s grimace. “A ward against jocal flies or something ridiculous like that.

  I told her I would bring them, being a good older brother, but I am afraid our rough voyage over that freezing water has made me a liar.” He kicked the side of the canoe. “Like Braven needs help protecting itself from bugs. I haven’t seen a single insect here yet.” He paused, then clasped hands and raised his elbows. “My name is Hamsyn, by the way. What’s yours?”

  Janto ducked t
he question. “May Madel’s hand guide you, Hamsyn. What color are the seeds?” He felt around the back of the vessel.

  “Black.”

  Janto looked at the sand beneath his feet and back at Hamsyn incredulously. Then he bent over laughing.

  The Nevillim threw his hands up and guffawed. “Well, I had to try to find them. My sister is formidable. She will strangle me when I return.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twelve.”

  Janto socked Hamsyn’s arm good-naturedly.

  “Come see her for yourself before you judge me!” The Nevillim’s hands went up in surrender. “I promise you will give her the honorific of ‘Most Frightening Woman in the Land’ despite her age.”

  “I am afraid Lady Gella of Ertion already has that honor.”

  “You’ve met Lady Gella?”

  He was saved from answering when one of the Meditlan twins ran toward them, waving his arms. “There’s something in the trees throwing rocks. Come quick!” The man reversed sharply and ran back.

  Janto and Hamsyn exchanged excited glances. It was probably a rhini, a fur-covered creature no larger than the twins’ knapsacks. They lived in the trees on the northern shores and attacked any humans that came close with twigs, rocks, or whatever their three-fingered hands could grasp. It could be a cantalere or a jurgen or even the silver stag, but those beasts did not throw things. A rhini was much more likely—it existed. And they were dangerous.

  Janto clutched the dagger on his belt. They reached the tree line in time to watch Nap climb the nearest pine.

  “Wait,” Janto called. “You don’t know if it’s safe!”

  As if to answer him, a strange call like a raspy lute came from further in the woods, making his arm hair rise.

  “That does not sound like a rhini.” Jerusho looked treeward with a nervous tremble.

  “No, it doesn’t.” Either way, Janto would not let Nap head toward it alone. He jumped at the nearest tree and climbed. Something whizzed past his cheek as he ascended. The call came again, and he grabbed a branch from a neighboring tree, glad the ancient growths were at least as thick around as he was.

  Up ahead, Nap shifted direction.

  “Do you see anything?” Janto called.

  “Yes.” He pointed further into the tree cover. “It blends in with the needles, but you can see it when it jumps.” He grabbed the next limb and yelled back, “Definitely not a rhini!”

  Janto heard shuffling below him as the others began to climb. He considered waving them off—there was no sense in everyone putting themselves in danger—but decided against it. They did not know what lay ahead, but he and his companions weren’t afraid. Blood pulsed through him in a heady rush, and he barely felt his weight as he moved from tree to tree, following Nap’s lead. The calls continued intermittently, and the group soon worked their way far enough into the woods that the shimmer of black sand and the rough waves that had brought them here disappeared.

  Jerusho must have volunteered to take the Meditlans’ bags. He huffed and cursed from below while trying to keep pace with the rest of them. Janto could barely make out the Ertion’s knot of black hair through the tree cover. A dozen or so swings later, his collarbone began to ache from the constant strain to his arms. He rested on a branch, breathing in the crisp, evergreen air. A redbird hopped from one bough to another, twigs in its beak, but Janto did not stay long enough to watch it reach its nest. The other Muraters drew close, and he vowed to be the first to reach the creature, whatever it was. When another whoop sounded, he grabbed the next offshoot.

  Soon, it became impossible to see farther than three or four trees away. On the ground with Jerusho, it was probably dark as twilight. Janto caught up with Nap at last, who lifted his finger to his lips. Obliging, Janto pulled himself close and scanned the vegetation. There were plenty of distracting noises: the rustling of leaves as flying squirrels leapt with more grace than he would ever manage, the clicking of beetle ants as they dug further into tree trunks, Jerusho’s loud and clear panting. But the strange calls had ceased altogether, and no rocks had been thrown for quite a while.

  One of the Meditlans swung up beneath him and tugged on his boot. In a girlish voice, the man said, “Did he catch it?”

  Janto shook his head. Then he noticed a shift in the brown and green foliage of a tree to his right. He squinted and swore he could see the outline of a man against the wood. But how could anyone or anything blend in that well? Before he could ponder any longer, the creature shifted again.

  “There!” Janto yelled. He swung toward it, and the camouflaged being opened its eyes. Lips shaped into an “O,” and it let loose a high-pitched hoot, the same call they had been following. Then the thing—the human—swung away fast.

  “I saw him, too,” Nap confirmed, and the two of them led the rest in the direction the man had gone. Janto could see him easily now; either he knew what to watch for or the person no longer tried to hide.

  They swung so fast from branch to branch, Jerusho’s gasps and pants disappeared entirely. One of the twins called out every so often to confirm their direction. Janto’s bones ached. With each new grab, a pain spiked from his underarm to his elbow. They wouldn’t be able to keep up this speed. Nap’s breathing was ragged, and he had appeared to be the fittest man in the group. Yet the mysterious person leading them had no problem setting the pace. He even grinned back at them between calls. In the middle of one such stare, he dropped straight down and out of sight.

  “Stop!” Janto called. “He’s on the ground!” He thanked Madel he need not reach for another limb before hugging the trunk and working his way down. His grip had weakened since they’d gone up, and his hands were bloodied from the tree bark. The sting of scratches had gone unnoticed in the thrill of the chase.

  Once the ground was close enough, Janto jumped down to it with legs of custard that made him fall to his knees. How long had they been up in the canopy? The closest Meditlan hit the ground next but kept his footing and drew close to their curious prey. “What are you?”

  The human’s garment fit tightly over his body, the same clothes the marshfolk wore when they came to court. But this suit was different, more vivid, more alive. Janto could not guess the material. Two bands of color overlapped each other in a swirling pattern all over it, the exact shades of the needles and tree trunks. Through a trick of the eye, they shifted back and forth. Though he was only as tall as Janto’s chest, the man’s arm and leg muscles strained against the cloth. No matter his height, he would be no easy foe in a duel. Unfortunately, Janto realized he would be challenging him soon … or at least taking his lessons.

  Too tired to raise his elbows, Janto hoped respect came through in his voice. “I take it you are our teacher, Ser Sielban?”

  “That is my name,” the man answered. “You hunt identities as well as you do men, princeling. Welcome to Braven.”

  The others gasped. Janto wondered if the revelation of Sielban’s identity or his own surprised them most.

  “You? You are Sielban?” The Meditlan who had reached him first managed to raise his elbows, casting a cursory glance toward Janto as he did. “It is an honor.”

  The rest of the men repeated the deference, but Sielban bid their arms lowered. “It is not my honor you seek here but your own.” His tongue flicked out of his mouth as though a snake tasting the air. Sielban was more reptilian than any Rasselerian Janto had seen.

  An endless volley of curses grew louder and louder, preceding Jerusho who burst through a bramble bush. He stumbled to where the others gathered on the forest floor, and held the packs out to the Meditlans.

  “Here, I’m here,” was all Jerusho could manage, scarcely noting their new companion.

  Sielban registered the last arrival with a cocked head, and Janto swore their teacher’s nose wiggled. “Good. All the little children are here.”

  Then the man sprang over the same bush Jerusho had trampled and disappeared.

  Janto leapt through only ha
lf a second behind him.

  CHAPTER 10

  VESPERI

  She woke to a shift of weight in her goose-down bed. The faces of Lord Sellwyn’s guards flipped through her mind, and she hoped for gentle Bellick rather than rancid Lokas declaring her period of resistance over. It required a delicate balance, making the men believe she respected their dominance while instilling a vague fear of what would happen if they pushed her too far. Sometimes, the pendulum swung the other way. At least this man did not smell bad.

  “You know, you almost resemble the other women when you sleep. There’s something vacuous about your frown …”

  Lorne’s was not the worst body she could wake up to. But it was dark out. She hated sex in the dark, too dim to gauge reactions to her touches properly, crucial information to amass. Maybe she could talk her way out of it. She was his potential mother-to-be, if his father made good on that offer of marriage.

  Vesperi rolled over. Hair that fell to her bedspread covered all of his face but his pale blue eyes. He lay on his side, one arm trapped beneath him. She stroked his other one.

  “Now, now.” His hand rested over hers. “We would not wish to appear inappropriate. My father would be so chagrined.”

  Her response was pure instinct. “Your father would not have to know.” Wait—is he refusing me? She sat up while pulling down her sleeping raiment to cover her legs better. If he did not want a show, he would not get one.

  “It’s as though you think I do not share all my activities with my father. You wound me, woman, with your lack of faith in my loyalty.” He clutched his hand to his chest. “I am not here for your ample goods, tempting though they may be.” That was punctuated with a bottom-to-top inspection and a smirk. “I’m here because Uzziel has yet to procure fallowent.”