Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  He winked at them, hoping they would think of the Feats awaiting them in the coming weeks rather than of him. His father had once explained, after an especially grueling disagreement with Lord Xantas, that the best way to gain the loyalty of some men was to beat them. “The toy I will take is the peak of Mount Frelom, and I dare any of you to try and climb it first.” Janto had no experience climbing but knew many of these men probably dreamed of being the first to ascend the famed peak that year.

  The unnamed Wasylim stood. “I will beat you there with my arms tied behind my back.” His legs appeared thick enough he could jump from ridge to ridge, ignoring the climb entirely.

  “I would love to see you try,” replied Janto. “But before we rush off into the dark of Braven, claiming victory, what is your name?”

  “I am Rall, Your Highness—sorry—Janto.” He raised his elbows. “May Madel’s hand guide you.”

  “And you also. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Janto took up a teasing tone again. “I cannot wait to see who will come closest, but fail, to beat me in the archery logs.” He had more experience in that discipline, though he could never rival his father’s aim.

  “I will best you!” The uninjured twin made the declaration. “I’ve been picking crows out of the skies since I could hold a bow. No man’s arrow flies straighter.”

  “That’s a lie.” Tonim’s voice was deep though raised in jest. “If your line is straight, then mine is a beam of sunlight. There is no way you will defeat me at the targets, Flivio.”

  “I could shoot an arrow better than you with my eyes closed.”

  The group laughed at the sibling rivalry, obviously a well-practiced exchange.

  “It seems we can expect an epic battle between our Meditlan brothers, Flivio and Tonim.” Janto committed their names to memory.

  “You could,” Flivio broke in, “if Tonim were not the laziest arm this side of the mountains.”

  Tonim mimed shooting an arrow straight at his brother. Before the fake duel could continue, Rall prodded the Ertion to join in. “Jerusho, tell us what you hope to achieve.”

  “Certainly.” Jerusho put down his fork full of fowl. “I plan to find and catch a granfaylon.”

  A couple of the men gasped, but Flivio laughed so hard, he nearly choked. “You are going to spear a mythical creature? Not only is it imaginary”—the sarcasm in his voice was strong—“but it is invisible. How will you tell you have the fish if you cannot see it?”

  Jerusho’s cheeks flushed, but his voice did not waver. “So I should save no slice for you when I skin and cook it, then?”

  Flivio laughed harder, but Hamsyn spoke next. “I will take some when you catch it. Just don’t forget to remove the bones when you filet it, please. They are hard enough to pick out when you can see them.”

  “And what is your name and Feat?” Janto asked.

  “I am Hamsyn of Neville, and while Jerusho’s hunting fish, I will be hunting the beasts of the forest. I know no one ever has, but I hope to snare the silver stag.”

  Flivio let out a sharp whistle. “The head of our council claimed he shot it at his Murat over forty years ago. But no one has proven a kill, have they? Has it even been seen since the war?”

  “I don’t think so, but I mean to try.”

  “When the silver stag runs free, blessed will he who binds it be,” Jerusho recited reverently.

  “The way I figure, I may as well be the one to earn those blessings.” Hamsyn folded his hands. “I could use a couple more heads of lamtas for our meadows.”

  “Finding that deer will be as easy as crossing the Giant’s Pathway.” Rall sliced off another hunk of meat. “Good luck to you, but cresting Mount Frelom will be a breeze compared to catching a creature like that.”

  Janto cleared his throat. “Who is left?”

  Tonim rose, no twinge of pain evident from his ankle. “As I said before, I’m Tonim. My twin may be rumored to have beaten me once or twice while racing down Urs’s main road—”

  “You mean every time!” Flivio corrected.

  “—once or twice, but I will show him who the true runner is by beating him across this island while I have the chance.”

  “So we have people for climbing, fishing, archery, hunting, and footracing,” Janto recounted. “What else is there?”

  “Combat.” Nap spoke confidently, despite his height. “I will take any challengers at sword, axe, or mace, though I have not been bested since my hands were big enough to grip a weapon. I won the duels at Elston last fall.”

  Their accomplishments and ambitions impressed Janto. Greatness lay in their futures, notoriety they would earn rather than have bestowed on them by nature of their births. He hoped he could say the same someday. After the meal, Hamsyn and Jerusho worked together to start a fire, and the men spent the night around it, warming their hands in the brisk air and learning more about each other. Rall and Tonim were the only married men among them, though Flivio claimed he had his eye on a particular beauty who worked his father’s vines. Janto had a hard time picturing any woman who would take a man who flung as many barbs as Flivio. If he was nearly as good a shot with an arrow as with his words, Janto had no doubt he would break the archery records.

  When the flame burned itself down to a red jewel, Sielban appeared beside it, holding a dark pouch. A few nodding heads jerked back to wakefulness.

  “Where did—how did—” Jerusho spoke for them all.

  “Where and how are not nearly as important as did, little child.”

  Nap’s features were sullen. “Are you here to take us to our beds?” Sielban nodded, his eyes glimmering, then poured a handful of black sand from the pouch and raised it over the last embers. As it trickled through his fingers, a burst of blue swallowed the red, and darkness enveloped them.

  “Are we to follow you into the dark, Teacher?” The baritone voice may have been Hamsyn’s.

  “For a time, but you will find the light wants to be found. If you cannot manage this hike, I fear you will not manage the Murat at all.” With the quietest of rustles, he moved from the fire and toward the farthest side of the clearing.

  Seconds later, Janto could neither hear nor see him. “Can anyone hear him?”

  “I can.” A Wasylim spoke, but Janto was unsure whether it was Nap or Rall—they both had the accent. The man hurried after Sielban, or at least Janto hoped he did. The rest of them walked forward as a group, listening for his calls of “this way” or “over here” every few feet.

  As they stepped into the wood, the forest morphed into a canopy of crisscrossing branches. Bushes shifted in and out of focus, revealing another brushed dirt path. It shimmered in the moonslight with quartz flecks. They trudged on until the blinding glare of a torch greeted them. Sielban laughed as they stumbled over each other, not realizing their teacher was so close. When his eyes adjusted, Janto saw the mouth of a deep cave with more torches lit inside it.

  Sielban beckoned them from past the lip. “The little children always think their beds are far away when they are just around the bend. Come in. You will find your packs inside.”

  They shuffled into the cave, which was tall enough to stand in. Each man wandered around until he found his pack. Janto’s survived the journey over intact—Sielban either had the means to make them disappear and reappear like himself or his helpers paddled better than the Muraters.

  Hard-packed dirt and pine needles comprised the cave floor. Many needles were clumped together in human-sized piles that Janto hoped weren’t their beds. Rall dropped onto the closest one and closed his eyes instantly, confirming Janto’s fears. Janto took the pile beside him, trying not to flinch as beetle ants darted from beneath it.

  “Little children,” Sielban spoke once all the spots were claimed, “this is your home. When you wake tomorrow, you will find it is not where you remember it to be. But it is always reachable, if you try. You will find this to be true of most things on Braven.”

  “Do we start tomorrow?” Nap unfolded
a blanket from his pack. “Will the Murat begin in earnest then?” He appeared willing to start that moment, despite the day’s events.

  “Your Murat began the moment you stepped into your canoes,” Sielban explained. “Tomorrow will be an exercise of skill and strategy, one many of you have enjoyed for years but forgotten.”

  Janto wondered what he could mean—surely the others had also been in Murat training for months. What could surprise or overwhelm them? The answer came faster than any had that day.

  “You will play Lash the Feather.”

  Nervous chuckles echoed in the cave. Lash the Feather was a game for young children. Older children or adults strung feathers on sticks and dangled them over younger ones’ heads. The children would leap and giggle, trying to catch the constantly twirling feathers. The sticks appeared from everywhere, especially during festivals when people lined up to watch the prince have at it.

  “You are young, so we start with children’s games.” Sielban went silent.

  “He’s gone,” Hamsyn announced from the front of the cave where he had claimed his bed.

  “Naturally.” Flivio turned over on his pile of needles, falling instantly to sleep. The others followed suit after pulling snacks from their bags or bunching clothes together to make a pillow.

  Janto sat up, listening as his companions’ breathing slowed and a few light snores began. Well, mostly light. Rall sounded like a bear in hibernation. In a few more weeks, it would be Serra’s breathing Janto heard, nestled up beside her as husband to wife. He missed her, the way the corners of her eyes turned up when she smiled, the blush on her cheeks like sprinkled red quartz dust. By Madel’s hand, he wanted to come out of the Murat a better man for her, a man who knew how to ease her grief and bring joy into her life again. She needed him, and he would never need someone else more. Of that, he was certain.

  CHAPTER 12

  SERRA

  Bini cried when the rynna said no, she couldn’t stay. They had arrived at Enjoin after three days riding in the carriage. Her normally tidy braid frayed, Bini clasped Serra’s hand. The servant’s skin felt smooth and cool as always, but her composure was the opposite. The pollen that drifted inside whenever Serra drew the curtains for fresh air had already reddened Bini’s eyes, and her dress had wrinkled on the journey, but both worsened at this farewell.

  Serra must have looked much the same. As they hugged, she felt the black mourning ribbons Bini wore and was touched by her handmaid’s loyalty. The same black shreds of ribbon were tied around Serra’s arms. Sometimes, she wondered if they wrapped around her mind.

  “I will be fine.” Though if honest, being left here with no one familiar frightened Serra. Alone was all she had craved for over a week, but with Bini leaving too, Serra found the idea less appealing than it had sounded in the throne room when the Brother invited her to come. Perspectives could change so swiftly. Had Agler thought the same as he burned?

  “Oh, Lady Serra, don’t let them make me leave you, not so soon after your brother’s death. You need me!”

  Serra breathed in the scent of Bini’s salve, libtyl oil and the milky nectar of soothpricklers that made her skin so cool and inviting. She put on her fixed smile and poise that had been given much practice of late and pulled away from her handmaid. “It will be fine, I promise. The ryns and rynnas will look after me here. Besides, who else but Madel could give me peace?”

  Bini gave another loud sob, but she withdrew. “Goodbye, Lady Serra.” She sniffled. “I will relay all the plans we discussed for the wedding to the queen. We will make it perfect for you.” Bini raised her elbows in farewell. Serra returned the courtesy then took Ser Allyn’s hand and allowed him to help her down from the carriage. He was in charge of the small group that had brought her here: Bini, the carriage driver, and a pair of mounted guards who had hauled her trunk and their provisions on a cart.

  “Where should we put her belongings?” Ser Allyn asked the rynna who greeted them, a slight woman with the strawberry-blonde hair that people from the Western regions sometimes had—hair like Janto’s. Her garb was simple, a thin, ivory-colored garment. Serra envied her; in this thick air, her traveling gown made her feel twenty pounds heavier. If she had traveled more often, she might have known it would be far too confining for this weather.

  “You may take them back with you. We will provide all the Lady needs.”

  Ser Allyn made to insist, or at least that’s what she thought the quick reddening of his face meant. His cordiality stopped him as it nearly always did.

  “It’s fine,” Serra said for the third time in two minutes. “My clothes would do me no good here. I did not think to ask advice on packing, and besides”—she leaned up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear—“I would not want the other initiates thinking me pretentious. The princess should not put on airs, correct?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “The trunk will go back with us.” Sers Irven and Rullo, who sat on their horses heroically in the heat, tunics soaked with sweat, dismounted to place it back on the cart.

  “You are welcome to refresh yourselves here,” the rynna offered.

  Ser Allyn waved the thought away. “This trip was unplanned—I cannot stay away from the king for long. But if you would replenish our water pouches …”

  “I will send someone to you with fresh water.” The rynna raised her elbows to him and then to Serra. “Follow me, Lady Gavenstone.”

  Serra followed the rynna down the short path toward the Temple of Enjoin, the central sanctuary of Lansera. It was the same shape as all the others she had seen, though perhaps twice as immense. The glass dome roof was capped by a model of Madel’s hand reaching skyward. In the towns, temple walls were painted with vibrant, colorful murals done by artisans. These were plain white with a sheen of yellow from the pollen of Lake Ashra’s flowering bushes.

  Serra’s arm itched as she walked. When she reached to scratch it, the mourning ribbons dragged against her hand, and the sensation shocked her like a bee sting. She whirled around, heart pounding, and ran as fast as she could to the cart that held her trunk. How could I forget, even for a moment? She lifted her skirt and jumped to where the trunk rested, tripping over all the fabric.

  “The key,” she demanded of Sers Irven and Rullo on their horses. “Where is the key?” Their astonishment at her impetuous behavior showed only in their eyes. Ser Irven fumbled in his saddlebag and pulled out a key covered with engravings of Gavenstone’s vines. Serra grabbed it, her hand shaking as she turned the lock. Where did I put it? She had been in such a hurry to pack; Ser Allyn would faint from the sight of so many pricey gowns tossed in disarray. Luckily, he had gone into the carriage with Bini.

  Her fingers grazed the pebbled exterior of Janto’s seeing glass, and she hesitated, wishing for it, too, but it wasn’t what her heart wanted right then. There. Agler’s handkerchief peeked out from beneath a set of her undergarments. She snatched it and held it close to her chest, closing her eyes in relief. When she opened them, she found all her companions staring at her with concern. Bini’s eyes filled once again with tears.

  “I am sorry.” Serra clutched the cloth in her hand. His ring she had left for safekeeping in her room, but this she could not part with. “I forgot something I needed, that’s all. I did not mean to worry you.”

  Ser Allyn disapproved, but the others nodded with understanding. She supposed a near-princess who had lost a brother was allowed a few moments of gracelessness. Serra took Ser Irven’s hand to disembark then gave Bini another hug. “Thank you, again.” She raised her elbows to them. “Have a safe journey home. Tell the queen I will miss her greatly.”

  She hurried to where the rynna waited not ten feet from the sanctuary’s door. In the distance, mud sucked under the departing horses’ hooves and the wheels of the carriage and cart. Serra stepped past the threshold. The rounded walls inside were darker than those of Callyn’s temple, covered in a layer of dusky green material. Serra pressed her hand against the nearest panel: reeds
, immature, pressed reeds. In Callyn, it was the pale yellow of dried Nevillim grasses. At Gavenstone, preserved grapevines with berries that held a faint purple hue.

  Thin cushions of varying shades lined the stone floors rather than rows of wooden chairs like in the other temples she’d entered. Serra hoped they were more comfortable than they appeared. Learning about the Order would likely require spending a lot of time on them. The few people inside stared at Serra, unused to seeing someone wearing such fine garb, though her gown was practically soaked through with sweat and splattered mud.

  “Is this her, Gemni?” A ryn—perhaps fifty years of age, paltry in stature and with a mop of waist-length brown hair the color of caramelized boar’s skin—came up behind her.

  Rynna Gemni—Serra colored when she realized she had not bothered to ask her name—nodded. “Lady Serrafina of Gavenstone, betrothed to Prince Janto of Albrecht, future ruler of the realm.” Gemni introduced her with raised elbows, but she let them fall quickly. “But in Madel’s service, she is an initiate.”

  Taking on that title had been the main source of Serra’s doubts about this trip. It implied she might have something to do with the Order after her initiation was complete. On the journey, Ser Allyn had spoken at lengths about the honor of going through the training. Most initiates never took the next step of becoming novices to the Order. Nevertheless, it made Serra uncomfortable.

  The ryn raised his elbows to her, and they shook with his obvious excitement. “I am Ryn Gylles, also of Meditlan, my lady. And I have the pleasure of being your guide here at Enjoin.” He stretched out his hand to her, and she took it as he led her back outside. Several well-marked trails of packed rocks emanated from the temple, and he walked the closest one at a brisk pace.

  “Ryn Gylles.” A few strides in the heat made her breathless after her earlier exertion. “You will need to walk more slowly if you wish me to make it wherever you are taking me.”