Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  Velak came up behind her, holding a wrapped parcel.

  “What do you have there?” Janto pointed with the stick.

  “My baby’s third birthday present, a doll made by one of the Ursfolk. Dreadfully ugly, but the place was such a hovel, I could find nothing else. I thought Meditlan was supposed to be a paradise compared with dry, cold Ertion.”

  He handed Janto the package to hold while he pulled up a log. “Didn’t want to leave it near her.” He gestured back to the camp where the Meduan remained. “Besides, the fire is over here.”

  “Is it that cold?” Maybe Janto should offer the captive a blanket. He groaned at the impulse to protect, unable to shake her presence despite the return of the group. It was like she’d burrowed beneath his skin, and he could not escape her. Think of Serra. Think of two more days until you are wed.

  “Nah, it is early summer. On the icy streets of Varma, you could sleep outside naked. Not that I would know.” Velak winked. His wife was obviously holier than a Brother to put up with him.

  Marabil braided her hair near the fire. “I don’t know how you had time to find anything in that town. We were only there long enough to hire the messenger.”

  Ah, so that was the reason for the sudden trip. Lord Xantas had sent word of the woman to Janto’s father.

  “What did you say to the king?”

  “What do you think?” Xantas’s eyes drooped with sleep. “Caught a Meduan in the woods east of Urs. Female, angry, will not talk. Will bring her to Callyn. The prince fares well.” He closed his eyes.

  Janto wondered what his father would do with her. Perhaps trade her for an imprisoned Raven. Or more likely, bribe her family to take the intolerable woman back. She did not belong in Lansera, in his lands, no matter his Murat dream. It had not made sense when he first dreamed it and it made even less now. The sooner she was gone, the better. He would insist someone else guard her tomorrow rather than deal with her insolence for another day, pull rank if needed.

  That’s ridiculous. The admonition came in Serra’s voice, and it was right. He made the picture of a spoiled brat, an infantile king-in-waiting. Serra would have words of wisdom about how it was a test, a way for him to understand the Meduans should he need to entreat with them in the future. She would remind him they were his people too, by right, and maybe someday they would be again. “Understand her,” she would caution. “Get to know her.” Or at least he thought she would. It had been too long since they’d spoken, and his spirits were the poorer for it. He ached for the touch of her lips on his neck and the warmth of her body next to his beneath the flowering vines of the queensgarden. The blooms would be browned by now, fallen in piles beneath the trellises. As though he had not missed Serra enough already, his longing for her had grown far worse since that cursed dream. Picturing her clearly was difficult sometimes, especially after waking, and her voice sounded wispy when he imagined it, not strong and full of life as he knew it to be. What an unwanted twist of fate to have his beloved more difficult to bring to mind than a woman who assaulted his pride with every flip of her hair and steely jape of her eyes.

  The moonslight glimmered in the woman’s hair now as she peered into the forest, her face in profile. She seemed scared for a moment, and it softened her features. But the emotion fled her face so fast he must have imagined it.

  “What do you see when you watch her? You have been doing a lot of it.” Xantas scrutinized him as best he could with liquor-drowsy eyes.

  Janto did not hesitate in his answer. “An enemy.”

  “Are you so certain? What would Sielban have said?”

  Janto need not reach back far to remember the lesson, and his face colored that he had set it aside so easily. “To look harder.” Rynna Hullvy might have added that she was a child of Madel, too.

  “So you did learn more than how to slay mythical beasts? I am glad to hear it. I was beginning to fear Sielban only told bedside fables around the campfire these days, planting paper creatures painted silver where a prince’s ego would surely find them.”

  The admonishment burned from his throat to his cheeks, though he knew Lord Xantas only teased. But his point was clear. Janto had not gone to the Murat to kill the stag, nor to dream up a nightmare he did not understand. He had gone to become the man his people deserved.

  “You must be a Lanserim first, Janto of Albrecht,” he recalled Sielban saying as a pair of canoes had rowed onshore, “before you can be anything else. And Lanserim do not jump to conclusions so fast.”

  CHAPTER 29

  SERRA

  Ellari, a popular hair weaver from Wasyla whom the queen hired for the occasion, tucked another gold-dusted feather into Serra’s hair, securing the last loop of locks to her head. One glance at the mirror, and Serra squealed. “It’s perfect!” She was grateful to be back at home, back in a place where hired hands made her beautiful and she did not spend half the morning pulling tangles out of her hair or flaking dried mud off her sandals.

  “Of course it is, my lady.” Ellari’s drawl was buttery. “I take pride in my work. Wouldn’t want rumors of how I ruined the wedding, sending the bride off to meet her prince with hair fiercer than a sandstorm.”

  “There is certainly no danger of that. The bard will sing your praises in all Lansera, and Lord Sydley will throw you a celebration parade worthy of any Murat Feat. Now go take your seat before the throne room fills up!”

  Serra pushed Ellari out the door then sat back at the mirror, alone for the last few minutes before the wedding ceremony began. Her hair was a masterpiece, dark blonde tresses tamed in rows of loose loops. Janto would beam with pride when he saw her. She could not wait. It was their day, their marriage, and she hoped it would feel that way despite the crowd. She wished they had reunited beforehand, but she’d had no more than a glimpse of him since his return home, when he was leading the Meduan captive through the eastern wall. She had inquired after him many times, but the response from Ser Allyn was always the same: “The king has greater need of him than you. And your wedding preparations have greater need of you than him. How many hand cloths are left to be embroidered?” It never failed to make her panic. Appearances were important, and this wedding must impress. She would have forever with Janto; there was only this one chance for their union to leave an indelible mark.

  The door grated open against the stone floor, and Queen Lexamy slipped inside, gorgeous in a powder blue gown and an overlaid skirt of sapphire ribbons and sparkling feathers. An enameled jade comb swept her red hair up and made the green of her eyes more prominent. Ellari had obviously done her as well.

  “Please, come in.” Serra smiled at the woman who used to sneak her jelly cakes when her parents weren’t looking. The queen returned the expression and settled behind her chair.

  “Serrafina, you are beautiful.”

  Serra’s cheeks colored. “Thank you.” She beamed in the mirror at the queen’s reflection and her own.

  “You are welcome.” Queen Lexamy placed her hands on Serra’s bare shoulders. “The king and I are as overjoyed as you and Janto this morning. It is not every day we watch our only child take his bride. But do not think we have forgotten you are alone today, sweet one.”

  Serra’s breath caught in her throat. There had been no time to think about her family since returning to Callyn. The rush of preparations had been such a welcome distraction. She’d hardly given a second thought to the Brotherhood, either, or her decision to come back.

  “I am sorry your family cannot be here. Your father and Agler, but today especially, your mother.” The queen paused. “I thought I might play mother of the bride for a bit if you will let me.”

  Serra nodded, and the queen called out the door, “My gift, please!”

  A servant shuffled in from the hall holding a bottle filled with a peach, transparent liquid.

  “Mystallan wine!” Serra exclaimed. She had never thought she would partake in the toast between a mother and daughter before a wedding. “How did you know?” />
  The queen tittered. “I was friends with your mother before you stirred in her womb. I know a few Gavenstone traditions.”

  Serra was stunned. “Thank you.” Tears welled in her eyes while the queen poured the wine in two goblets by her dresser. Serra hugged her, repeating, “Thank you.”

  “Enough with this superfluous gratitude.” She handed over the nearest goblet. “Drink up! It is time you married my son.” Their goblets clinked together. “To good health, happiness abounding, and a myriad of children running within the castle walls.”

  “Here, here!” Serra took a sip. The Meditlan wine was high quality with no acidity and a dazzling cinnamon nose.

  The queen finished her glass in one gulp. “And now, because I do not have a daughter of my own, I am subjecting you to a Brendel family tradition. A bit of advice for a new wife, if you will.” She winked.

  “I will.”

  “My mother repeated this to me on my wedding day and her mother before her and so on and so on for generations: ‘Her patience weathers the storm. Sacrifice holds her world together.’”

  A pit dropped into Serra’s stomach. “What did you say?” Those words … Ryn Gylles had said them in the cave before she refused to stay.

  The queen took no notice of the quaver in her voice. “It’s an old Ertion saying. My mother explained it to me on my wedding day. It’s advice on how to survive fights with your husband.” The queen laughed. “Believe me, Serra, it has kept me from attacking the king on several occasions. Patience is a virtue, but it also keeps you from murdering your loved ones.”

  Serra nodded at the queen’s words but her legs shook. She put a hand against the wall to steady herself.

  “Are you all right?”

  Serra gulped. “Yes, just my nerves, I suppose.”

  The queen gave her another embrace. “We all get those, dear. Finish that glass of wine and focus on Janto’s bound-to-be ridiculous reaction the moment you step through the throne room doors.”

  “I will.” She felt nauseous.

  “Good.” The queen pecked her on the cheek and left.

  Serra let the chill of the stone wall sink into her skin. Those words could not be a coincidence, but she had made her choice. They said she had a choice.

  A knock came at the door, followed by Ser Allyn’s voice. “Lady Gavenstone, it is time.”

  She swallowed the rest of her wine. “I am coming! Go ahead and begin the opening chant.” She waited until his footsteps receded then went back to the mirror, her pallor white as its alabaster frame. Then she opened the door.

  The hallway leading toward the throne room was empty. Everyone was inside, waiting for her beyond its first set of closed doors, everyone she loved in this world. Janto would be there, willing her to come to him.

  Her eyes filled with tears as she took the other path, the one that led away from all that. She spun around.

  A Brother waited in the shadows behind her, a gray robe with no limbs to hold it up. How had she never noticed their lack of feet before? She clenched her jaw and stepped toward the wraith.

  “You lied to me.” She threw the words at it.

  “We cannot lie.” The Brother’s voice raised the hair on the back of her neck.

  Her eyes burned as tears rolled down her cheek. She did not wipe them. “I made my choice.”

  “Yes, you have.” It took her hand, and the castle’s stone walls dissolved around them. When the pressed reeds of Enjoin’s temple replaced them, she took her first breath in the week since she had left.

  CHAPTER 30

  JANTO

  Janto was distracted. The belt was not in the trunk. He had rummaged through it twice already. But as he felt under a cloak for the third time, the sharpened end of it pricked his finger. The belt was an heirloom, a piece of interlinked metalwork two centuries old, crafted by the head metallurgist for Queen Drustalla’s husband. Janto should know his name. What is it? Hersh … no, Mershen … neither sounded right.

  The belt’s tip drew no blood, luckily. Janto did not want to present himself to Serra in a stained groom’s tunic. He clasped the belt around his waist, careful to avoid the edges of the links. Now, do the fur-lined boots from Ertion come next or the cloak the Rasselerian weavers sent? He could not keep anything straight. The damned dreams continued unabated, though Vesperi was locked in the dungeons until his father decided her fate. All night, Janto had been with her in spirit, chasing her in human and deer form around decrepit buildings in an abandoned village he had never seen. It could have been in Medua, he supposed, but that did not seem likely. The village’s temple had Madel’s hand reaching from its dome, not the fist of Saeth. He should ask Vesperi if any temples remained undefiled in Medua.

  I will not ask her anything. He would be married as soon as he finished with his preparations—it was bad enough he could not get her smell, of all things, out of his mind. A phantom musk invaded his senses each time he dreamed. Janto took an earthenware jar from his mantle and dipped two fingers inside, pulling up a glob of perfume. The scent of lemons and anise filled his nostrils, and he rubbed it over his chest and arms. The wedding guests would titter about the strong perfume on a prince, but Janto did not care. Crinkling her nose, Serra would hold her questions until after.

  “An accident,” he’d tell her and she would laugh, strings on a lyre being plucked. And if I say that, I start my marriage with a lie. His stomach clenched. Damn it! He hurled the perfume jar against the wall. The shatter was briefly satisfying.

  “My prince, are you all right?” Ser Allyn queried from the hallway, waiting to escort him to the throne room.

  “I am fine. But send in a servant with a wet cloth, please.”

  “Right away.” Ser Allyn’s faint tread disappeared down the hall.

  Janto sunk his head onto the mantel. He lifted it a few moments later when Pic entered the room, followed by Ser Allyn.

  “Thanks, runt.” Janto ruffled Pic’s hair and pointed at the dripping ooze. “Right over there.”

  Ser Allyn raised an eyebrow, his gaze landing on Janto, unimpressed. Doubtless, he noted how many pieces of ceremonial apparel were still missing. Janto’s head hurt to think of it. His acquiescence was not easy.

  “I could use your help. I may have some wedding jitters after all.”

  “Of course.” Ser Allyn huffed as he went to the open chest. He took out the brown and green cloak embroidered with silhouettes of marsh-folk scattered among cattails. “Rasseleria came before Ertion, so you will need to take off those ridiculous boots. And the belt, please. The Albrechts bind us all together so that comes last.”

  Janto lifted an arm or leg when asked and focused his thoughts on Serra. He imagined how she would appear in his mother’s beaded wedding gown. A garnet, the jewel of Gavenstone, would adorn her crown. She would be luminous, and the shine in her eyes would draw him to her, would be all he needed to feel content. That was his destiny, joining with Serra and taking his place as the heir to his father’s throne. The last couple days of breaking bread with the enemy, a woman who could not begin to understand the concept of affection for anyone but herself, was a foray into the wilderness. And over.

  Ser Allyn slipped a pair of gray gloves onto Janto’s hands, lettering embroidered over the palms in an ancient script, one he had not seen since his religious studies with Rynna Hullvy as a child.

  “Who sent these?” Janto worked out the words. They sounded familiar, at least the part he could translate: Without her sight, mankind is done. Perhaps one of the ritual chants? He rarely paid attention to the words, usually hummed along.

  “A Brother delivered them for you early this morning.” Ser Allyn tugged them on. The dense, velvety material felt weightless as lace. “They must bless your union, though I do not remember them bringing your father a gift for his wedding. There, that’s the last of it. You are ready.”

  From the chants, then. He would have to research the passage. “Do I look a fool with all these accoutrements?” The gifts w
orn together made a weighty outfit.

  “You look like the prince of Lansera, proud to wear the goods his people provide. You smell like a fool, though.” Ser Allyn straightened his surcoat. “On your order, my prince.”

  Janto took a deep breath and stepped into the hall. “Let us go on to the throne room, ser.” He would not keep Serra waiting any longer.

  Balac blossoms decorated each chair, and green grapevines from Gavenstone laced their way around the tall posts. A quick glance toward the front of the room revealed Serra’s absence, which meant Janto would have to exchange pleasantries with their guests. He was surprised to arrive first with all the readjustments needed to his attire. “Ser Allyn, would you please check on my bride?”

  “Of course.” Ser Allyn raised his elbows and walked out the back entrance.

  The room was packed with councilmen and lieges from all over the country. Janto greeted Lord Sydley, who was seated near the front of the room. Lady Gella had also arrived, never one to miss a celebration. She wore a fur-trimmed shawl and fanned herself relentlessly. May as well get the worst over with.

  “Oh, Janto, my prince.” She jammed him between her arms. “I am so happy for you both.” Tears moistened his cheek. “Here I am crying and getting you all mussed up.” She dabbed at him with a violet hand-kerchief. Lord Xantas walked up behind her and pulled her back from the embrace.

  “Gella, are you trying to smother the groom?”

  She stopped mid-shush of her husband when she saw Janto’s boots. “Oh, how lovely. I had my best trappers hunting for the perfect fox for those boots, you know. They are perfect.” She beamed and fanned herself again. “Just perfect.”

  “Come now, let the man greet his guests.”

  Janto mouthed a thank you over her head. He greeted Mer Refusa next, owner of the marketplace in Callyn. “I am delighted you could attend.”

  Mer Refusa wore a tunic studded with feathers, as did most of the guests in the room. “Much honor to you, my prince.” He snapped his fingers, eliciting a chorus of howls from the piebald dogs at his feet. Janto gave each a pat on the head before moving on. He was grateful for the small talk, no thinking needed to go through the motions, and he could keep one eye on the door. A creak sounded as he shook hands with Mar Welset, owner of an inn, and her husband. He stopped mid-sentence and straightened up, but the doors remained closed.