Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  “Why do you want him to have it so much? It’s just a weed.” Lorne was a playful one—it was safe to try and tease out the real answer … and entertaining.

  “Just a weed? Tell that to your brother when he gains three inches.”

  “Three inches? Uzziel has not grown since he was five. Has an adver blessed those seeds? I am sorry to tell you, but I scared our last one away.”

  Lorne laughed. “No doubt you did. Fallowent needs no blessing to work. And Uzziel is so excited to try it. Every day, he mentions how you haven’t brought it yet. Come to think of it, where have you been? I so enjoy throwing you out before my afternoon visits.”

  “I have been predisposed. Father wanted me to inspect the servants.” A lie. As often as possible, Vesperi practiced her talent in isolated corners of the manor grounds. It was useless. The progress she had made had stalled. Whole bushes caught flame when her goal was only a branch. She’d tried to burn the image of a snake into the wooden walls of a family cabin and had ended up singeing the entire structure. Luckily, no one lived in the cabins anymore. Families were not allowed in Medua, except for the noble ones. After the revolution, the liege-lords made their best men guards who kept watch over the common ones. Those men worked whatever trades the lords demanded—in Sellwyn, mainly field work and timbering the rosewood groves, though those had grown scraggly in these years of drought. The men lived in barracks, and women and children lived in the towns. No intermingling was allowed except if the men felt an urge—the women’s cabins had no locks. Lord Sellwyn did not allow his men to form attachments to their progeny, either. He hung the child if it was suspected. “Their loyalty should only be to me,” he’d explained to Vesperi once.

  “If you are so concerned with my brother’s growth, then why don’t you go into town?”

  “I do not have leave to purchase from your merchants.” Father permitted only the Sellwyns and their guards to buy goods directly. Guards granted supplication if the commoners needed provisions beyond their rations. Apparently, wards came under the same restrictions. Her father was smart to demand it. Lorne Granich should be watched.

  “It has always struck me as strange you have permission to go to town.” His words were lazy. “One might think your father favored you over other women.”

  “I am not other women. I am his daughter.”

  “And yet, I have not met the daughters of any other lord. Once, I recognized my sister when she brought me breakfast because we share the same features. I have not seen her since.” He sucked in air through his teeth. “Can you blame Uzziel for wanting to grow up faster when he has a sister like you?”

  She could blame Uzziel for a lot of things. But it flattered her that Lorne thought her father respected her. Lord Sellwyn did treat her differently than the other women, she had always thought so. He would recognize how invaluable she could be when she revealed her talent someday.

  Her smile fell when Lorne’s voice hardened. “Enough of this play. You will purchase the herbs and soon. I command it.”

  She could not protest, and she did not mind complying. A break from her recent failures would be welcome. “I will go today. Uzziel will have his fallowent by your afternoon visit.”

  “Good girl.” She grimaced when he kissed her head, but considering why she thought he had come, it was not so bad. She almost kissed him back for the delightful insight he had shared about her father’s feelings. If only she could piece together his reasons for giving it.

  The hood of her charcoal-gray traveling robe obscured her face. Her father had been very clear about that rule when she’d run into the manor one morning, her head uncovered. The scars on her upper arms bore witness to that lesson ten years later. “My daughter will not be recognized on the street—do you not know how grateful you should be that I let you leave the house?” She did know—as Lorne said, her father favored her. Yet every time Vesperi lifted the hood over her head and tightened the rope that bound it, her anxiety rose. Anonymity did not suit her machinations.

  The air was heavy with moisture that refused to fall as she stepped onto the walkway between the manor and its walls. The walkway had been built centuries before the war, before an Albrecht sat the Lanserim throne. Heat lingered in the gray-grained marble. Vesperi often took a breath of incense-free air on it before her father ordered her to Uzziel’s side. Too much time spent indoors dulled her senses, and she needed to keep her wits about her. When they weren’t, her tongue loosened and a beating followed.

  She traced her finger around the elaborate carvings on its railing, scenes of knights-in-training and crowds cheering them on from bleachers. Most looked terribly boring, but one drew her in, a group of men in loose-fitting robes standing around a three-headed bird. She had no idea what the creature or ritual was, but she liked brushing her hand over it.

  It had been years since she’d been to Sellwyn’s tiny village, but her feet set out on the shortest path of their own accord. No one paid her any mind; she could have been any woman who worked at the manor, and the guards would not stop her unless they needed something, whether an urge quenched or a chamber pot emptied. Women were not known for conversation, too tired to utter more than a “Yes, my lord” or “Right away” while frantically raising their elbows in compliance.

  Cabins rose up after only ten minutes of walking. “Keep your people close,” Lord Sellwyn had once said, “or they will not be your people for long.” Most holdings had changed hands after the war, but not Sellwyn Manor. Her father’s steel grip was the likely reason why. What sort of man was dunce enough to let his villagers move freely from one town to another or admit unapproved guests past his city’s walls? Not Jahnas Sellwyn.

  Children’s wails echoed through the empty, narrow street. The cracked windows were too caked with red dust and silt from Saeth’s altars for anyone to see through, which suited Vesperi. A few men lived in town, those unsuited for physical labor. They became merchants or learned other trades the Sellwyns had need of. The herbalist had his own cabin, a luxury. A haze of incense smoke billowed into the street when she entered it. The man sat in a padded chair, another extravagance, by a table holding rows of miniature red-clay pots. His bloated legs gleamed purple from the veins straining against his skin. When she lowered her hood, he clapped his hands together.

  “Vesperi Sellwyn! It has been ages since I saw you last. You have been too busy with those fancy lordlings to come visit old Graw.” His voice scratched like the black scruff on his chin. “Though I have noticed fewer coteries riding through of late.” He cocked his head. “Did those suitors find the merchandise too used?”

  She glared. “None of them were suited to my needs.”

  “Oh, I am certain I have something that would suit your needs.” He grabbed at the sagging bulge beneath his belt.

  She ignored him. “You do, actually. I have need of fallowent. Do you know of it?”

  “Fallowent, aye, I may have some of that, though it’s scarce these days. The plants grow best by the river, and they disappear as fast as the Sell’s waters. But I may have some in the back.” His face lit up as he spoke, confirming what Vesperi had pieced together years ago—this man loved his craft more than his pleasures. He was harmless, as far as men went.

  “What is it used for?” She hoped he didn’t realize she should already know.

  He didn’t. “A few of the older boys swear it makes them taller. Some of the older folks used to call it ‘weapon’s helper’ and ground it into a paste each night, smearing it over their mouths and noses. They said it would save them from the coming scourge.” He shrugged. “It never made sense to me, but they died off, and we’ve not been scourged that I know of, unless you count this drought.”

  “Lanserim dreamers, clinging to some infantile ideal. Saeth smote them to end their misery.” She gestured toward the back room. “I will take what you have, and be quick. Father does not permit me to be gone for long.” He would not notice her absence for hours, but Graw need not know that.

/>   Each hobbled step he took drew forth a curse. After some shuffling and banging, he returned with a pot in hand. Cloying scents of honey and musk rose up as he lifted the lid. She dipped a finger and it came out coated in black, sticky seeds no bigger than a flea.

  “I will need more of it.” She had no idea how long it would last. “So you had best figure out how to get some or my father will hear of it.”

  His face paled. “I will. There is no need to tell your father. I will have the guards take me foraging tomorrow.”

  “Good. I will return for more next week.”

  He raised his elbows as she made to leave but stopped her at the door. “You were right—”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “—about those men, your suitors? To reject them.”

  Vesperi had little patience for stammering, but this was an unexpected compliment.

  “I know you are a woman, and Saeth teaches that women are prized only for their cunts and the kitchens, but fallowent won’t do anything to make that brother of yours a man. He would let us all fall into the hands of Durn, or Saeth forbid, the cow lords of Yarowen.”

  Graw shuddered, and Vesperi gave him a brilliant smile, encouraging him to continue. “I would—I would rather you take over than him someday, and you can’t do that if you get married. I am very attached to my store, you see”—he petted the padded arm of his chair—“and I would prefer things stay this way.”

  “If we are lucky, my father will live many more years.”

  “Of course,” he said hurriedly. “I did not mean to suggest—”

  “You didn’t,” she assured him. “And Saeth may yet give my mother another son Lord Sellwyn can be proud of. We must pray for that.”

  He nodded, eyes downcast. But his head lifted when she placed an extra pile of souzers on the table.

  “Your loyalty is noted by House Sellwyn.” It was all she could say safely. She exited without another word, but the hood did not feel quite as binding when she pulled it over her head.

  CHAPTER 11

  JANTO

  After Sielban disappeared and reappeared multiple times over the next few hours. After they swam a stream with aching arms that made it feel as wide as the River Call. After they hiked through dense forest for half a day. After all that, Janto finally caught his breath. The cool, stone surface he leaned against was a marvelous balm on his back. His clothes would have been drenched with sweat in the dense mainland air. Had he lain on the sand to warm himself only a few hours ago? Janto closed his eyes, praying their teacher had no future lessons in mind that day.

  Sielban had been nearly silent the whole sojourn, indicating what the men needed to do with gestures, looks, and the occasional muttering of “little children.” He showed no signs of weariness. Janto half-expected a horn to sprout from his forehead like a cantalere’s.

  Napeler and the other Wasylim had kept pace with him and Janto for most of the journey. They collapsed on the ground beside the hillside now. One by one the others caught up, and loud gasps for air gave way to mild wheezing as they cast as many curious glances at Janto as at their leader. He sighed. Everything I do is now the feat of a prince, not just a man.

  Jerusho rejoined the group last, but he came supporting one of the Meditlan twins.

  “Little child, are you injured already?” Sielban’s voice was reedy, and he moved swiftly to the limping man.

  “I do not know what happened.” The Meditlan grimaced through his pain. “I tripped over something and my ankle is swollen.” Purple and pink bruising covered the area where skin stretched taut over the engorged ankle.

  “This is nothing.” Sielban tsked, waving the injury away as though a foul smell. “Tell me, what is your name?”

  “Tonim of Urs, ser.”

  “Tonim of Urs, your leg will be healed come morning.” The young man huffed, and all eyes inspected his ankle, expecting to see the swelling lessen. It did not. Sheepish glances came next.

  Sielban’s tongue tasted the air. “And you will call me ser no longer. None of you will. I am your teacher. You will call me only that.”

  “Teacher”—Nap rose to his full height, no easy task after so little rest—“if you can choose your name, can we choose not to be called children? We are men grown, and some of us have wives and children of our own.”

  “I call you only what you are.” Sielban’s face revealed no hint of a jest. “You can choose to become something else, but it will not happen in a day.”

  Nap appeared either sullen or crestfallen at those words. It was hard to read the Wasylim’s mood. Jerusho’s was much easier to decipher, his face flushed and a hand on his stomach. “Ser—no, mer—no! Teacher—sorry—Teacher Sielban?” He took a prolonged look at the nearby clearing. “Excuse me, Teacher, but I don’t see any food. It is getting dark, and shouldn’t we—I mean—hadn’t we better get some dinner?”

  “You are wiser than you think, little child.” Sielban’s eyes glimmered with a hint of something that might have been humor. “Food is just around the bend.”

  “The bend?” Nap peered into the distance. “But this meadow makes a circle. It is one unending bend.”

  Hamsyn examined the meadow’s borders with his shepherd’s eyes. “No, there’s not a single bend, but there’s a path a few yards that way.” He pointed, and leaves rustled. The branches shuffled together to make an archway, and a path of brushed dirt appeared clear as day beneath them.

  They gaped, but only the twin with the high voice spoke. “That was not there. We would have seen it.”

  “Perhaps you did not look hard enough then, but you know to look harder now?” Sielban walked through the center of the group and started down the path. He made a sharp turn to the left, beyond where they could see, and disappeared again. They hurried to follow, running around a couple of bends. Janto’s stomach growled as they reached a more substantive clearing than the first. It held a wooden table, a fire pit, and an uncovered well. The table was laden with food, more than enough for this group of eight. A few steps closer and the smell of squeezed lemons and charred fowl greeted him.

  Jerusho could keep his appetite in check no longer. The Ertion ran as fast as he could, making it halfway by the time the others joined the mad rush. Janto may have spent half his days in fencing drills and archery training for the past few months, but those activities had only worked up a smidgen of the appetite this one day on Braven had. Even Tonim hobbled over as fast as he could, no longer needing the support of someone else’s arm. That made Janto pause his rush—had Sielban done something to heal him after all?

  Once everyone had taken a seat at the table, Sielban moved to address them. Jerusho put down an apple he had already bitten into.

  “This is your meal,” Sielban said. “Your first together, but not your last. You will come here every night for rest and nourishment, but you must always find the path. It will always be just around the bend.”

  Were riddles a central part of Murat training? Perhaps Janto should have spent more time with a bard than his sword.

  “Teacher?” The Wasylim whose name Janto hadn’t learned raised his hand. “Will we be sleeping out here in the open?”

  “No. I will show you where you rest soon. But for now, get to know each other. Here, you are all you have, and out there—” he pointed at the sky and then around them “—you are all you need. I will be back before your fire runs out.” He disappeared in a flash of green and brown.

  “Whoa.” The uninjured twin spoke everyone’s thoughts. “Where did he go?”

  Janto did not care to guess. Sielban was the biggest riddle on this island, and he could handle no more contemplation tonight.

  “I bet he’s still here.” Tonim tipped his head toward the trees. “He’s probably going to watch us all night, see how we act without him around. Sounds like something we would be tested on, doesn’t it? How we act without him?”

  The others mulled the thought over, casting nervous glances and expecting to hear an eer
ie whoop at any time.

  “If we are being judged at the dinner table, then I, for one, do not want to be seen as wasteful. Making use of our resources is a virtue, is it not?” Jerusho picked his apple back up. “We must seize what Madel has seen fit to lay before us.”

  The laughter that followed eased the tension they had felt since the first rock flew from the trees that morning. Janto speared a leg of roast fowl and poured warm lemon sauce on top. No meal had ever smelled so good before—something he would be certain not to tell Mar Pina when he returned to Callyn. He was not prepared to give up his sweet rolls.

  As he pulled the meat from the bone, he wondered where the provisions came from. Sielban could not have prepared it all himself; he’d spent the day leading a group of grumbling young men through the forest. Did cooks from Jost come daily to prepare such feasts? Janto shrugged, reaching for the platter of steaming Oostian greens. They tasted fresher and crisper than they would have from Lord Sydley’s own table.

  “So”—Hamsyn raised his voice so they could hear him over the din of smacking gums and clattering plates—“I think we ought to introduce ourselves to each other.” The color promptly drained from his face as he remembered who remained at the table now Sielban was gone. “I mean, if you think that would be a good idea, my prince?”

  Fantastic. Janto had to stop that behavior right away or it would only get worse. He gritted his teeth then rose. “That’s a great idea. I will go first. My name is Janto Albrecht, and yes, I am your prince.” He spoke faster and with more nervousness than he had hoped would show. “But here, I am no more than your compatriot, and I ask you please treat me as such. If we are children, as our leader believes, then consider me your sibling, the one who wants to get your favorite toy before you do.”