Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  The kitchen’s walls were smeared black from someone’s vain attempt to clean the smoke stains. Nearly all of the manor’s women were there, stirring one of the stew pots, poking at the hot coals in the oven, or huddled together beneath the sole window cracked open about as wide as Vesperi’s pinkie.

  Lady Sellwyn was at the closest oven, her back to Vesperi. She wore her usual mud-colored skirt with threads of pressed copper sewn into it so it would sparkle in the light, if she ever saw the light and the copper had not turned a dull green. A green apron covered her ruffled chemise, and her dark hair was pulled back in a snood of the same shade, the color of Sellwyn’s viper. She was a slight woman. Vesperi could not imagine the agony it must have caused her to give birth the many times she had. Only she and Uzziel had lived past their first birthdays.

  Her mother pushed a pot into the oven and rested a giant wooden spoon on the counter. She spun around, perhaps sensing Vesperi’s gaze. Her face dripped with sweat. Rust-colored liquid from the pot stained the apron. For a moment, all she did was stare, shocked to see her daughter in the kitchen, much less the manor. She probably had not known Vesperi had returned to Sellwyn. Vesperi had not sought her.

  When Lady Sellwyn reached out an arm, beckoning her forward, Vesperi bolted. She ran back into the hallway and lunged past the last few doors to her room. Hot tears poured down her face, and she cursed them as she grabbed at her bedcover. No, it would never do as a sack. It was covered with Sellwyn’s crest, the snake stitched into every patch.

  She would be found out before she made it to the next town. Next town? There was nowhere she could go in Medua. She pulled off the sheet instead, its edges frayed. It would not last, but she did not have time to search for something else to use. She had to move fast to get to the mountains. She had to run.

  The riverbed of the Sell cracked from thirst, a massive piece of lacework stretching ever westward. Vesperi’s feet struck the dry clay with a louder stomp than she had hoped, though no one should be seeking her yet, at least not here. Her father would not think she had the nerve to run, and when others tried to escape, they went for the cover of the swamps to the northeast or to the eastern road to Qiltyn, hoping to outrace both her father’s mounts and the liegeless men living in the wilderness surrounding it. All hanged from Lord Sellwyn’s rosewood tree in the end, but they never ran west. No one ran to Lansera. They’d already been rejected there.

  He would decipher her course eventually but not for a while. She hoped—nay, depended—on his underestimation of her. His inattention, that lack of the regard she had craved only half an hour ago, might be what saved her. She gripped her improvised pack more tightly.

  A dark form loomed around the first bend, and her heart fell. It couldn’t be him, not this fast—

  “I am not your father, Vesperi.” A dulcet voice she could not immediately place called out to her. But she did recognize his lengthy legs that dangled from where he sat on the riverbed’s bank.

  “Lorne? What are you—how did you—why are you here?” She could not begin to guess how he knew she had gone, much less where to find her. The voice in her head shouting Run! Run! grew louder, but she resisted it. He might simply think she was out for a walk … a woman, walking alone at twilight. It was ludicrous, but she had to try.

  When she drew close enough to read the boredom on his face, he spoke, “I am not going to tell him. You are making my task easier, actually. Uzziel will be much calmer without you stirring him up.”

  She could not bring herself to bat an eyelash at him, no room left in her thoughts with the pounding in her head and the panic in her chest.

  “Take this.” He handed her a petite sack.

  “What am I to do with it?” She undid the tie. The heavy scent of honey and musk made her gag. Fallowent.

  “You will need it.”

  “I think I’m tall enough already.”

  He laughed at that, sniffed the air, and reached behind him, producing two sturdy sticks of rosewood and a square of fabric coated in some sort of resin. “You will need this too. It’s going to rain.”

  She took it from him, eyes round. He fixed his azure ones on them. “Good luck, Vesperi Sellwyn.” Sadness crept into his playful tone. “You will need it. And so will the rest of us.”

  He disappeared into the brush on higher ground. Vesperi did not stop to process how bizarre his behavior had been or why he would let her go. She needed to run. It was all she could think to do.

  As she took the next step forward, a drop of rain hit her head. More fell on the parched ground as she went, strikes on the stretched skin of an urum drum.

  CHAPTER 18

  JANTO

  Janto’s vision blurred as he walked along the path, trees and bushes indistinct, as though spied through an inverted reading glass. He had spent the morning at the archery Feat, shooting flying-squirrel-shaped target after flying-squirrel-shaped target to no avail. After dashing through the woods for an hour, wasting not an arrow as he picked off each target he could find, Sielban’s voice had rang in his ear. Tonim broke the king’s record: all thirty targets hit in forty minutes. After the announcement, Janto had yelled in frustration, but only the birds stirred. By the time he had reached the others, he meant the congratulations he gave Tonim with a backslap. He also commiserated with Hamsyn over how neither hunter had won before heading out on his own to make peace with the defeat.

  The air was crisp, as though a breeze had swept up from the Giants’ Pathway. Around the next bend, he sighted Jerusho by a stream, holding his fishing pole. The Ertion stood tall, no sign of weariness in his body—he had not attempted the archery Feat. His head bobbed with the current, eyes fixed on the water. As Janto drew close, Jerusho raised his fingers to his lips to hush him. He pointed to the water where water bugs skimmed the murky surface, leaving little pools no grander than a cent-piece in their wake. Jerusho’s brow was smooth, excitement evident only in the shaking of his free hand as though a tambourine were in his grasp. Janto’s eyes crossed from both confusion and missed targets cycling through his mind.

  As another bout of weariness came, something sparkled in the water. Something thin as a scroll.

  “Is that the gran—”

  Jerusho clapped his hand over Janto’s mouth. “Silence!”

  Janto watched the fish wiggle, a saw of brushed steel in motion. The humongous creature was nearly four feet long. How could he not have seen it before? Yet each time he blinked, it disappeared until he focused on it with crossed eyes.

  The line jerked. Jerusho used two hands to hold it. He raised his arms high in the air and lifted the line out, stepping backward as he did.

  “The net!” Jerusho yelled as the granfaylon rose out of the water, exposing its flat snout. “Behind the tree!”

  Janto spotted and grabbed it in one movement then held it beneath the struggling creature. It was completely out of the water, but he could only catch glimpses every few seconds. He eased the net forward blindly, adjusting his aim as Jerusho called, “Left! Right! Higher!” Then the Ertion unhooked the creature’s fat lip, the thickest part of it Janto could see. The fish fell into the net, and Janto nearly dropped it. It weighed far more than he would have guessed, heavy as the fattest trout he had fished out of the River Call.

  “You did it! You caught the granfaylon!”

  Jerusho laughed raggedly. “I did, didn’t I?” He leaned against a nearby pine and wiped the sweat from his head. The fish struggled fiercely in the net, and Jerusho pulled out his knife, a simple blade with a handle of beige rock from the Ertion quarries. He shook the fish out a few yards from the banks. One hand on the wiggling body was not enough to settle it, so Janto knelt down, trapping its bottom half. Jerusho took the knife and sliced into the shimmering flesh above its eye. It thrashed more violently, and he cut a deep “X” into its head. The fish flexed once more and went limp. As it did, the full body formed on the ground, no longer flickering. Its flat, iridescent backside only made it appear paper thin. The
fish was about three inches thick, and it would make quite the feast for the men.

  Now that the killing of the fish was complete, Jerusho flushed red with excitement. He clapped Janto on the shoulder with a whomph. “You must be a good luck charm. I have been tracking this fish for days, but it never stayed so well in sight until you joined me around that tree.”

  “Give me no credit, Jerusho! This victory is all yours. I did not think it existed until I saw its scales shimmering in the water. You came to the Murat knowing you would leave with a purse full of those scales.”

  “Hmm, I like that idea. Would your father accept a new fish-scale currency? I will be the only one with it, but that seems a fine idea to me.”

  Janto laughed, but his thoughts zoomed. Right in front of him was proof the granfaylon existed. If it did, what else was possible? What if the creature in the woods that first morning had been—

  “Don’t keep staring off like a craval beast that’s forgotten where the grass is, help me move it. I have been wanting to rub this catch in Flivio’s face for weeks.”

  “Of course.” Janto lifted its tail. “Lead the way.”

  The fish sizzled over a fire not long after, its fat sparking as it dripped down the spit. The others had been amazed to see it, and Jerusho enjoyed their attention, especially Flivio’s fake faint as he and Janto came around the bend. Janto thrummed with the excitement of it and with the certitude that another creature hid in those woods for him. He scanned the tree line constantly, hoping for something bright and shiny.

  “You must go find it, Janto. There is not much time left in our Murat.” Hamsyn’s hand fell to his shoulder and squeezed. “And you must take the Old Girl. She’s the best weapon here.” He held out his treasured bow.

  “I could not.” The hunt felt preordained, but Janto would not risk marring the beautiful weapon during it. He had no idea what lay before him.

  “If you don’t, I will spread rumors of a prince refusing a gift from his fellow Murater.” Hamsyn smiled as he made the threat, but it had the desired effect. Janto raised his elbows in defeat. He brushed his fingers over the Old Girl’s polished curve. It felt smooth as Serra’s skin.

  Just as he cocked his finger to test the string, a bedazzling, silver flash shone in the woods. Janto jumped to his feet, bow clenched in hand.

  “If only I could see what you see now,” Hamsyn said, pushing him forward. “Go, my prince. Go.”

  CHAPTER 19

  SERRA

  “Are you all right?” Poline leaned toward Serra at the breakfast table full of stewed oats and dried fruits. “You are pale.”

  Serra nodded to her blonde-haired friend who never failed to treat the younger initiates as her grandchildren. “I’m fine, I promise. I waited too long to break my fast this morning.” She had taken on the same ghastly pallor as the initiates, but for a much different reason. They would be leaving in three days and were not allowed to discuss their decisions on whether or not to continue as novices. Ryn Cladio gave them the instructions himself, after their morning rituals two days ago.

  She … well, she had felt especially relaxed and clear-minded that same morning, maybe for the first time since finding the bodies. Her good mood had lasted up to the moment when Ryn Simsi, a Rasselerian, struck the ritual bell and Serra opened her eyes. It was then she saw a Brother near the western wall of the temple, his gray hood contrasting with the green, pressed reeds. His presence made sense—the appearance of one of Madel’s closest servants might deepen the initiates’ meditations, taking them to a place of greater tranquility—but Serra had tensed. If destined for this life, maybe the Brother’s presence would have brought her comfort and peace, but in her experience, Brothers did nothing but spout confusing prophecies and refuse to give her straight answers.

  After acknowledging the Brother, Ryn Cladio had instructed the initiates to confide their decisions in a priest when ready. They were not to share them with each other to avoid rumors spreading as to why anyone made the choice they did. When some of them returned as novices in two weeks, they would know what those choices were. Lourda had pulled Ryn Simsi aside that very afternoon, and her face lit up as she confided in the little marshman, the joy of her decision easily read in the happy wrinkles around her eyes. Serra had laughed, imagining Lourda’s someday parishioners hesitating to confide in a woman who wore her emotions so easily.

  She had watched as Poline did the same the next day with Ryn Gylles, though Serra could not discern what decision Poline had come to. Her older roommate always smiled. What she did see, though, above Poline’s head, had been an effervescent, blue orb suspended in the air like a raindrop that forgot to fall. Quickly, the orb vanished, and Serra knew she was seeing things.

  But she wasn’t. Each time an initiate gave his or her decision, a lambent orb had appeared above their heads before flaring and vanishing. After two days of watching it, Serra was jumpy enough to shriek whenever a butterfly flitted by.

  With Poline’s eyes on her, Serra scooped out a generous helping of the gloopy oats. She had little appetite, in truth, but the earthy steam lifted her spirits a tad, regardless. Poline was satisfied with the overture and turned her attention to the others at the table. “Vironyl, you should eat some more, too. You look near to fainting.”

  Vironyl, a middle-aged Meditlan, reached for the ladle. His hand shook as Serra passed it to him. The strange orbs playing Lash the Feather with her frayed nerves were one thing, but she was glad to be spared the choice the initiates were making. She couldn’t imagine deciding her life’s course on a few weeks of lessons and rituals, but she knew what it would be, if she had to make it. Flee. Blue orbs, human skins, and proximity to the Brothers were not things she would ever choose. The unexplainable was undeniably alive in Lansera, and she did not want to be near it any longer.

  Yet her time here would make her a better queen for Janto. She had learned much about her people, about Madel, and about how life shut up in Callyn made ignorance of both easy. If she was to be the Serra of Lansera that Ryn Cladio had named her, she would do well not to accept the walls of the castle as her world in the future.

  Another initiate walked into the kitchen cabin, Rynna Gemni right behind her. The priestess’s beautiful hair was bound in a braid, but Serra first noticed the orbs over their heads. She focused on her oats, imprinting her mind with their cardamom tans and pearly creams, colors that were meant to be there. When she raised her head, Serra nearly screamed.

  A Brother stood outside the window, staring at her with no eyes she could see and surrounded in a coruscating blue haze. His voice reached out to her through the glass with a frosty bite. “It is time. Come.”

  No one else stirred. Serra trembled and examined her bowl again. Poline put a hand on her shoulder. “You do seem ill, Lady Serra.” She called out, “Rynna Gemni, please come here. We need you.”

  Serra tried to wave away the help and saw that the Brother was gone. Rynna Gemni soon filled her gaze instead. The rynna tucked her braid inside her sheath and leaned over Serra.

  “What’s wrong?” Her voice was sweet as the syrup Mar Pina served with creamed cheese dumplings.

  “I am fine.” Serra’s voice shook so no one believed her.

  The rynna felt her wrist, closed her eyes, counted, and opened them again. Serra had never seen Queen Lexamy do that when a servant fell ill. “You have no fever, though your blood flows faster than it should. Did something upset you?”

  “Yes, there was a—” Could she tell them? If the others had seen him, they surely would have mentioned it. Even in Enjoin, a Brother’s appearance did not go unnoted. And how would she explain the dread that had come over her? They would think her mad for being afraid of Madel’s servants. She could not say they were wrong.

  She gulped. “It was nothing. Perhaps all the tension in the air is getting to me.” She took Poline’s hand reassuringly in her own. “You know ‘Grandmother’ here. She would have us in our huts, resting all day, if she could.”
<
br />   Poline pursed her lips but the others laughed.

  “That’s the truth.” Colini picked up his spoon again. “She would call you over if one of us stubbed a toe.”

  Poline’s consternation quickly resolved. “Well, someone needs to look after the likes of you—I cannot imagine a rattier group taking care of Lansera’s people.”

  “All the same,” Rynna Gemni took Serra’s arm, “I’m taking Serra to my hut until I’m certain this is a passing mood.”

  Serra let herself be led from the common area, no excuse leaping to mind. “Thank you, Rynna. It’s probably not necessary, but I would not mind some rest.”

  The rynna’s braid fell against her tanned skin as they walked toward the semicircle of priests’ huts surrounding the temple’s rear. Ryn Gylles leaned against his doorway as they neared. Serra raised her elbows to him, but rather than return the gesture, he stepped into their path. “Gemni, how did you know I was in need of our initiate here? Did Madel whisper it in your ear?”

  “No, I did not know. She took ill in the common room.”

  “That’s not true.” Serra was unwilling to lie to her guide. “At least, not completely.”

  “What do you mean? Either you felt unwell or you did not. If you fetched our healer, then something was wrong. Correct me, but drawing attention to yourself here has never been your goal.”

  “I did not mean to. Poline thought I looked pale, and she called Rynna Gemni over. I am fine.”

  Rynna Gemni nodded. “You are. Your blood was racing, but there is more color now in your cheeks. If you want to go with Gylles, I see no reason to force you in my hut.”