Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  One of the initiates recoiled. “From the inside? What do you mean? That’s impossible.”

  “No. It is very possible.” Serra closed her eyes. “I wish you were right.”

  Rynna Gemni stepped through the doorway next. Her face clouded when she saw them and the blood on their clothes. “Serrafina, Poline, Lourda,”—she took all three of their hands and clasped them between her own—“what happened?”

  Rynna Gemni bore no resemblance to Lady Gavenstone, but the feel of her hand’s warmth reminded Serra of when her mother would clasp her hand to comfort her. She filled with longing for a woman she would never see again, and then for Agler and Callyn and a time when she did not encounter something wretched and wrong around every corner. Then she sank to the ground and wept. Lourda knelt, wrapping Serra in sturdy arms and rocking gently. Serra did not stir as Poline told the rest of their tale of blood-stained drindem dolls and things that should not be.

  Time passed, and Poline placed a hand on her back. “Serra, Rynna Gemni wants us to come with her to see Ryn Cladio.” Cladio was head of Enjoin, the chief priest of the Order. “Will you—can you come?”

  Serra extricated herself from Lourda’s arms. The rest of the initiates and several priests had gathered around them now, wearing a mix of confused and horrified expressions. And why shouldn’t they? The almost-princess of Lansera had broken down in front of her people. It will not happen again. Serra wiped her tears with filthy hands.

  Gemni led them to one of the huts nearest the temple, where the priests made their dwellings. Inside sat a desk made of Wasylim wood, covered with stacks of bound paper, inkwells, and quill pens topped with tan, silky threads of marshweed. The man at the desk had an appearance so odd, she wondered if he was a Brother uncloaked. He wore the same sheath they all did, but his Rasselarian-dark skin wrinkled finely and completely, a beach shore lapped at by waves. His eyes were lavender and so radiant, she was unable to look away once he greeted them. That marked him as a descendant of Deduins, one of the oldest peoples in the world, though they’d rarely been seen outside of Medua since the division.

  “Ryn Cladio,” Rynna Gemni raised her elbows in deference, “I am sorry to interrupt you, but we have had more strange deaths.”

  More?

  Ryn Cladio’s face fell at the news, but his eyes shone brightly. “I take it these women found them?” His voice was warm. “I am sorry you had to see such a thing. What are your names?”

  “I am Lourda of Ertion, Ryn. We are initiates here.” She said it proudly.

  “Of course you are, Lourda. And who are you?” He gestured to Poline.

  “Poline of Wasyla.”

  “And you?”

  Serra raised her elbows. She had introduced herself to the other initiates as a citizen of Callyn, following Ryn Gylles’s advice, although the truth of who she was had spread fast enough. But saying that felt like a lie here. “Serrafina of Gavenstone, Ryn.”

  The purple of his eyes deepened, enchanting her.

  “Lourda found the bodies,” Serra continued. “We did not think them people but something that had decayed a long time ago. But then Lourda found belongings beneath the … the sacks of flesh, the corpses, I mean.”

  “And what did you do with your discovery?”

  “We buried them,” Poline answered. “Is this what has been happening throughout the marshes? We had word of it down south. Does the Order know the cause?”

  “We have suspicions, but we know nothing for certain. That it is evil, there is no doubt. We pray Madel brings us the tools we need to combat it before it spreads.”

  He took the news so calmly. How had Serra never heard of this before if it was well known to him? “Someone should tell the king. He will send people to hunt down whomever committed such crimes.”

  Lourda murmured her agreement, but Serra’s jaw dropped at Ryn Cladio’s next words.

  “The king knows what is happening.”

  Such horrible deaths would surely have been all Callyn talked about. If King Dever already knew, then why hadn’t Serra heard news of them?

  “Thank you for sharing this with me, initiates. I will see to it the kitchen has fresh food for you, once you have had the chance to bathe and replace your clothes. You may go.”

  Rynna Gemni exited first, the others shuffling behind her. As Serra reached the threshold, Ryn Cladio called out, “Serrafina of Gavenstone, would you stay for a moment, please?”

  “I will find you both later,” Serra said. Lourda nodded as she ducked through the doorway.

  Once they had left, she raised her elbows again. “How can I be of service?”

  “Serrafina of Gavenstone? That’s a strange choice of home for a woman who’s lived so long in Callyn and is nearly the princess of the realm.” A hint of amusement showed in the corners of his luminous eyes.

  She was confused. There were many names she could be called, but Gavenstone was always the first she reached for, outside of Enjoin. “I apologize. I did not mean to hide myself from you.”

  Ryn Cladio laughed. “You could not do that, Lady Serra. It struck me as an odd choice, is all. I would encourage you, however, to consider yourself Serrafina of Lansera. You will soon be indispensable to us all.”

  Words said in kindness, but they made Serra feel as cold as Ryn Gylles’s words had done before. She shivered despite the humidity of Enjoin. “I do not want to be rude, but did you wish to speak to me about something else? I would like to wash myself of today’s events.”

  “And you shall in but a moment. I want you to know you are not alone here, Serra. You have made few friends—yes, I have been watching you. Times of mourning are troubling ones, and you need all the support you can get. Reach out to your companions. Show them more of who Serrafina of Lansera is.”

  He was right. She had thought her grief abating, yet her collapse in front of the temple indicated that her sorrow had only been mollified. “I will try to take your words to heart. Thank you.”

  His lavender gaze followed her out of the hut.

  CHAPTER 15

  GARADIN

  Garadin followed the swinging, clanking mass of brown velvet robes and bones, making sure not to trip over his own in his haste to keep up. The ache in his hip killed him, but it would be far more fatal not to eavesdrop on the walk to Mandat Hall. The heads of his two closest fellow priests locked together as though a pair of swans in love. Squawks of excitement occasionally punctuated the steady drone of their conversation, but they were well-trained plotters, and Garadin could not make out their words. One head twisted around, hunting for curious ears, and Garadin rubbed his hip and groaned with augmented pain.

  “Adver Garadin.” the schemer inspected him with the indigo eyes of the Deduins. They took on that inhuman color from the flesh of the sheven that swam the moat of Thokketh. “Why do you walk alone?”

  Garadin always imagined being pricked by a sheven’s thousand sharp teeth when a Deduin looked his way. “I did not want to interrupt, Adver Votan. You seemed quite intent on your conversation.”

  “Never too busy for you.” Votan wrapped an arm around him, causing a rattle as a row of sharpened bones sewn onto his sleeve rubbed against the ones on Garadin’s shoulder. “Besides, it does not matter what you hear, old man. You are no threat to me.”

  “And why should I be?” Garadin’s shoulders tensed, the movement undetectable beneath the layers of his robe. “I have no desire to become the Guj.”

  “Who said anything about the Guj? We were not talking about the Guj, were we, Yan?” Votan did not break his gaze while addressing the second priest.

  “No, no,” the milky Yarowen replied raspily. “We merely wondered what ghastly things the cook would declare ‘food’ this year.”

  “Saeth’s fist!” Garadin pounced on the excuse to reach into his wealth of stories. “Do you remember the murky pool of entrails he called ‘Feast of Flavor?’ That was the worst soup to ever pass my lips or anyone else’s. I will never understand why the Gu
j didn’t lop off his head right then and there!”

  The three of them laughed high and hollow, a chorus of teakettles, and went on to the dinner feast. Garadin’s maturity made him suppress a sigh of relief at how the interaction went. He rarely came under suspicion, and that was precisely how he liked it. It had taken many years of work to be so pitied by his peers. This crop of priests were young, inexperienced twits—they hadn’t even realized he rarely ate at Mandat Hall. None had been alive during the Revolution and only he and Romer, the Guj, had survived the fifty-odd years since—Romer because he was too powerful to touch, and Garadin because no one paid him attention. Garadin’s memories of the Revolution were often clearer than recalling whether or not he had locked the door to his chamber at whatever manor he was assigned to that year. He accepted it as part of aging, but he also knew loss of memory was not the same as loss of lucidity—a mistake his comrades often made.

  They entered the dining hall, pausing to kiss the feet of the Guj’s statue, which had been completed soon after he and his wizards had incinerated King Laz Suma, putting an end to the brief monarchy in Medua, a failed idea of some of the “nobler” rebels. This was all done openly in front of Laz’s second son, now King Ralion Suma. Ralion understood to whom he owed his crown, and ruling through a figure-head was easier than dealing with hundreds of lords trying to claim the throne. The priesthood knew where the real power lay, and each one of them plotted to take control of it themselves.

  At least seventy men filled Mandat Hall, named for the idiot who had tried insisting a religion was not the way to rule a country after King Turyn Albrecht ceded them the land. They came here to gather and shovel mush together whenever the Guj sent a command to do so. Advers did not tend to spend time together otherwise, usually stationed at court or at separate manors, ones where rumors of a lordling gaining favor with his people had been reported. Romer sent out priests to stir things up by shouting in the town square, only the shouting was really whispers behind closed doors. Garadin took pride in such work. He would tell villagers of a scream he heard from the manor house the same day a little boy went conveniently missing or some other ploy. But he would only foment enough discontent to keep the people wavering between disloyalty and revolt. That balance was how they maintained control, and it was brilliant. Romer had seen beyond seeking embarrassments like trade pacts and understood the need for the complete isolation of Meduan lands.

  Garadin took a seat at one of the far tables to avoid falling under the Guj’s gaze. He had stayed alive by playing the imbecile and keeping his distance. A guard on the stage pounded the urum drum, an immense ceramic vessel placed over a hole in the floor. When struck, it emitted a hollow sound that resonated so the ground would rumble. Garadin had heard some of the young priests claim it magic, but he knew better. The Guj’s three wizards held the only real magic here. They entered first, each draped in a thin, lengthy veil of pounded levere. The Guj entered the room next, hale despite his seventy-some years, though Garadin thought he spied a miniscule limp as he walked in. Otherwise, the Meduan leader appeared well. More’s the pity.

  Silverware clattered against tabletops as those eating stopped mid-bite. The wizards stood at the corners of the stage, waving their hands in semicircles in a protection spell they would continue until the Guj finished speaking.

  “Advers.” Romer’s voice was balmy and soothing. “Thank you for coming at my behest.” He clasped his hands together and raised his elbows in greeting. “Some of you need new missions, and I will take care of that. But first, there is a more important matter at hand.”

  A twitter made its way through the crowd. More important matters weren’t in the script. The Guj had a group of advisors he kept close, the only people he consorted with beyond the giving of commands.

  “It appears King Ralion is getting a bit anxious these days. He has planted his seed in every whorehouse this side of Lansera.”

  A few priests nervously chuckled, but Garadin doubted the claim. King Ralion Suma preferred whores of the hairier persuasion, even kept one at court, though he was smart enough to pretend the man was just a councilor. Romer was scheming.

  “We do not want a hundred illegitimate sons of Suma challenging our claim to rule in twenty years, do we?”

  Yells of “No, my Guj!” and “Cut off his member!” came from the crowd. Romer smiled, exposing a mismatched line of teeth. “I don’t plan to kill yet another Suma after we have spent so much time building up their loyalty. Instead, we will give Ralion what he needs, a woman for him to use at his leisure, one who would never deny him anything—a wife. One of our own choosing, of course. Now, I have called you here to gather the names of the women in your manors that may be suitable for the title Queen of Medua.”

  Consulting his priests in the? Maybe Garadin was not the only one growing senile in this room. This move would be seen as a weakness by the younger advers. They stared unseeing as they shuffled through memories of the young women in their precincts. Garadin thought it a risky business to offer up a name. Choosing the right woman could bring great distinction, but avoiding such attention was how he stayed alive. And if he picked the wrong one? Well, his head would not stay on his shoulders, either way. No, he would stay silent. Garadin wanted to die in his sleep, a bottle of mead tucked under one arm and a woman in the other, not with his skin burned off in a haze of wizard’s smoke.

  “Advers, this will be a written, secret vote.” The Guj bared his teeth again in a smile, and the tension relaxed noticeably. “I do not want blood spilt over this task—not that any of you would think of revenge if your woman wasn’t chosen, of course. If you will write a name on your slip of paper”—guards passed them out at the tables—“then we will collect them. I will choose a group of you to decide between the nominees, a group I can trust to be quiet about the proceedings. Please consider your names carefully.”

  Garadin could not risk being ratted out for not submitting a name with all the other advers crouched over, considering the task. He wondered which women might be ideal from Yarowen, where he ministered presently. There were few of noble birth to choose from; most had been killed in the last battle over lordship of Sunkin Manor. Perhaps little Elvia Sunkin would do. He had never heard her speak a word—Lord Sunkin kept her locked away except for manor dinners. Garadin could not imagine she would be anything but grateful for the new surroundings. Yet such gratitude might release her tempers; women were so hard to peg down. Maybe a married woman would be best, having had any rebellious tendencies beaten out of her years ago. Lady Guntha was a safe bet for temperament. Her sunken eyes never sparkled at any feasts he had attended. He wrote Simor Guntha with the supplied feather pen.

  Most of the priests had already laid their quills down, nitwits so eager to submit the right name they left their own safety out of the thought process. Some would learn with time. Others would die for their naivety.

  The guards gathered the slips, and the Guj spoke again once the baskets were brought back to the stage. “I will now call the names of those who will help me choose the woman: Adver Cormal, Adver Hin, Adver Raino, and Adver Garadin.”

  Garadin gasped, horrified. This is bad. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Romer chose him for his prowess at keeping secrets—he concealed his presence well enough most of the time. Not this time. His thoughts raced, searching for an excuse to avoid such a close audience with Romer, but he could think of no way to refuse.

  “The rest of you may adjourn for the evening. We will meet again for the morning meal, and I will give assignments to those of you who will be changing them. I will also announce the name of the chosen woman for our dear king. Named men, meet me here.”

  Garadin fought the urge to slip in with the exiting advers and approached the front of the room.

  “Garadin, my old friend,” the Guj greeted him. “It has been too many years!”

  “Indeed, my Guj.” He raised his elbows in deference. “I am honored to be in your presence.”

  “As you should
be.”

  Advers Cormal and Raino made their ways forward as well, but Garadin was shocked to find Hin missing. Romer spoke calmly to one of his guards. “Find Adver Hin and kill him.”

  The guard sprinted out of the room, holding his spear before him.

  “Come.” The Guj walked through a doorway behind the stage. Garadin clambered after him, cursing his hip under his breath. The other priests and the wizards trailed behind them. No one mentioned Hin and Garadin would not mourn his death. He had always come across as a sniveling child, though he had been an adver for at least half as many years as Garadin, part of the first generation of true Meduans.

  The Guj opened the door at the end of the passage, then they walked into a dark hallway empty of servants. A grand door covered in levere shields stood at its end, a security measure anyone would assume the Guj needed. But Romer stopped at a tapestry that depicted him wielding his hammer on the plains of Orelyn instead. One of the wizards stepped forward and lifted a finger. The tapestry rolled to the side, and a plain door swung open from behind it. Romer stepped through it into a room less sizable than Garadin’s manor quarters at Sunkin. The members of his council already sat at a round table in the corner of the room, laughing uproariously as they read through the collected slips of paper. Romer took the last seat at the table.

  One of his counselors, Adver Nouin, a rotund man from the tar sands of Kallon, took a slip and held it to the pillar candle on the table. “Useless. A shame to see all this paper wasted.”

  The Guj nodded. “But necessary. We don’t want the chattel thinking we planned for her to be placed on the throne.”

  The woman is already chosen. Garadin knew Romer would never leave a thing such as this to chance. It was far too risky. But whom did he have in mind? Had the king taken a liking to one of his Qiltyn consorts?

  “Vesperi will be brought here under the guise of banishment. Her father has written three times asking for permission to send her to Thokketh,” Adver Tolliv said.