Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  “That was your mother in the front.” Mer Welset’s smile was knowing. Queen Lexamy had entered from the door closest to the throne. She wore a blue gown today with some sort of darker blue netting over the skirt.

  Mar Welset coughed into her handkerchief. “You were talking about the cost of soap?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Mer Welset refused to talk shop. “It is his wedding day! He can be distracted. And rumor has it you have not seen her since before your Murat. Your eyes must be thirsty!”

  Janto chuckled. “They are in dire need of a drink.”

  He excused himself from the Welsets when Queen Lexamy waved him forward from where she talked with a pair of Rasselerians near the throne, dressed in suits of gray and white that blended well with the walls. As he reached them, he heard his mother ask, “The waters are rising?”

  The marshfolk nodded in affirmation. The woman spoke. “It reaches to the floor of our lowest huts. Twelve families have moved in with others.”

  Her companion leaned into the queen, speaking low. “The waters bring darkness with them, the hidden swarms.” His mother clutched a hand to her throat.

  Janto frowned, the exchange confounding him. “Mother, what’s wrong?”

  “I am well. Fine, I promise.” She patted his arm and returned to the Rasselerians. “I will talk to the king as soon as the ceremony is complete.” She smiled weakly at them both. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Janto echoed. He didn’t know what else to say, not understanding their conversation. “Where’s Father?”

  “I am not certain.” Her voice belied no anxiety. “One of the Brotherhood was here earlier, and”—she nodded toward the Rasselerians—“they may have had pressing news.”

  “I think they were dropping off these gloves.” Janto held his hands up.

  She inspected them. “What a lovely material. I have not felt spec-tersveil since—”

  A loud creak resounded from the back of the hall as the doors opened. It was time, finally, it was time. A figure stood at the end of the hall in the shadow of the frame. The crowd ceased their conversations, and Janto’s heart leapt. It had to be Serra. She took a step forward, the beads of her dress sparkling as the sun streamed in from the ceiling. Her upswept hair, held by feathers, left her freckled shoulders exposed, and her necklace of cloves lay against her chest. He shouldn’t see it all at this distance, but he did. She was crying tears of what had to be joy—they had to be. He teared up in response, and his legs trembled, a sign of their overwhelming love, he was certain.

  A moment passed, then she took a step closer. Janto blinked and shook his head. A panicked groan came from his throat unbidden. It … it was not Serra, was not a woman at all who entered the room, but his father wearing his formal goldspun tunic. Had Serra stepped behind him? Janto’s vision clouded with tears, and he did not know why. Serra is there. She is right there—

  Only the brown-tinged darkness of the candlelit hall could be seen behind his father. King Dever Albrecht marched at a fast clip, and as his features came into focus, Janto recognized his glower, lips pulled taut. People whispered, their voices a sharp pain in his head.

  “Janto.” His father placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and Janto’s breath fled at the touch. He clapped his hands over his ears too late to block the words out.

  “She’s gone.”

  PART TWO

  THE CULLING

  When the silver stag runs free,

  blessed will he who binds it be.

  Rise up, ye treasured bird of three.

  Wing him what boons ye foresee.

  When evil spawns and overruns,

  from silver the weapon comes.

  Without her sight, mankind is done.

  With it, all will again be one.

  CHAPTER 31

  GARADIN

  Garadin braced himself for the sound of galloping hooves on the road to Kallon. Normally, their absence would give him cause to doubt the wizards’ prowess, but Garadin was too scared to pay that potential weakness much mind. Instead, Romer’s face in battle filled his head, a memory from when they’d fought King Turyn’s army in the bramble that final day of the war. Swollen and dotted with blood from a thousand thorn pricks, anger had twisted Romer’s face into a gargoyle’s as he swung his axe madly, chopping their enemies in two. Garadin had rolled out of the way to avoid the blade himself.

  Romer’s rage had not lessened over the years. Garadin had seen it in action many times, usually when the Guj reprimanded advers who failed in an attempt to kill one of their peers. The assailant would be flayed during a meal at Mandat Hall, hung upside-down and left to shudder in death’s throes on the stage. Once, decades ago, Garadin had been the target of a failed attack, and eating had been difficult during those conclaves ever since. The other adver had been a Durnish man—he never knew his name. The man had been jealous of Garadin’s post as a whisperer in Qiltyn, which did have its benefits, including visits to the girls at the convent. His enemy was flayed not twenty feet from where Garadin sucked the marrow out of a duck bone. The young man twitched and swung in torment but kept his pain-filled eyes fixed on Garadin who refused to meet his gaze. Instead, he watched the copper medallion hanging from the man’s neck—a thin, round disk with an opal at its center. The man jerked harder when the flayer moved from his arms to his chest, and the disc spun like a burning globe with a fiery white core at its center. When it finally came to rest, the man dead with half his ribs finished, Garadin had rushed to the privy. The duck did not stay in his stomach. He applied for reassignment from Qiltyn the next day, and the Guj had sent him to Sellwyn.

  Facing Romer’s justice was no option Garadin would take. If his hip were not lame, he would have ridden off alone on horseback to spend his last days covered in tar like the workers of Kallon, unrecognizable. But there was naught he could do about that, naught but put as much distance between him and his inevitable capture as possible. He had lived a full life, and who knew? Maybe Saeth, or Madel rather, would grant him another day of it.

  A PIGEON

  The bird tired. Her wings, ringed with gray and brown stripes, beat barely fast enough to keep her in the air. Many insects flitted about the closer she drew to the city and the refuse where they bred. Flies and moths rushed past but also bugs she had never seen before. They flickered in the light like red and black glitter and stuck together in groups, which would make it easy to catch a few for a meal. But she could not stop to suck them in yet, not with a paper tied around her leg. The only way to get it off would be to arrive at her next perch and let the human there remove the annoyance.

  The tall poles sticking out from the city’s buildings were in sight. Only a few more strokes needed to reach the familiar ledge. And then, she would feast.

  The pigeon landed on a ledge beneath the tallest structure, the one that shone red when the sun set. A layer of white, yellow, and brown droppings in various states of decay covered it. With the window’s shutters closed, the bird hobbled about, pecking at the wood as she was trained to do. She waited. No one came. She poked around the shutters’ edges but could not fit her beak between them, so she sat back down on the sill, curled her claws around its edge, and cooed. Still, no one came.

  Something dark flew by her right. She twisted her head and spied a swarm of the strange flickering insects. She was hungry, so hungry after such a long flight. The pigeon hobbled over and jabbed her beak into their midst. It filled with many bugs, nearly choking her as she swallowed them down. They tasted like the shiny metal disks she always tried to pull from the raised pool of water in the middle of the city. The pigeon did not have to hobble over to the insects for a second helping. They came in force.

  EYRTI

  After the daily prayer to Saeth, Adver Eyrti flung open the window shutters to bring a fresh breeze into the tower room of the temple. The pigeons inside flapped their wings at the rush of air but could not take flight, their legs tied to the branches of their shellacked perch.
Eyrti stared out over Qiltyn. It was a pretty sunset, the rooftops peach with touches of deeper red like honeymelon flesh. This time of day gave them borders, each building a framed painting hung on the same wall.

  He did not notice the dead pigeon at first, mistaking it for a pile of molted feathers on the ledge. The bird’s shape and girth were gone, leaving a grotesque sack of skin, claws, beak, and feathers. Eyrti lifted his handkerchief to his mouth as he made to flick it off the pane. At the last second, he noticed a minute scroll attached to what might have been a leg. Using a twig, he pushed the mass aside and cut the string with a dagger. A viper sigil sealed the letter.

  House Sellwyn. Eyrti’s blood quickened. Any word from that manor was to be brought to the Guj right away. The letter had taken longer to arrive than expected. Eyrti would give a million souzers to know what it contained, but he could not risk peeking at something so important. If it was as valuable as he’d been led to believe, the wizards would probably inspect it before opening and detect the magic Eyrti used to read words through rolled-up paper.

  He tucked the scroll inside his robe and did not close the window in his haste. Nor did he notice when a pigeon on the perch collapsed in on itself, beak opened wide. Another quickly followed then another and another, masses of feathers swiveling upside-down and dangling from claws tied to branches.

  “The Guj is not taking visitors today.” For the third time, the guard on the left refused Eyrti with obvious enjoyment. Eyrti refrained from waving a hand in front of the man’s face and moving his pea-sized nose to his ear, where he would likely never find it. No need for these buffoons to know he possessed a little magic, though he really, really wanted to show them. They always gave him a hard time, because he stood a full foot shorter than the lot of them.

  “You are not understanding me.” Eyrti gritted his teeth. “I am under strict instruction to bring this message to our esteemed ruler immediately or I will lose my head, and both of you will, too, when he finds out you delayed me.” Threats to their bodily safety were the only language these men understood.

  “You cannot go inside without permission.” The guard’s smirk swallowed his tiny nose whole.

  “Then go ask for my permission!” Eyrti hoped he yelled loud enough for someone behind the door to come investigate. But the next voice he heard was not a welcome one. It was Adver Votan’s, that Deduin cretin, rounding the corner with two of the Guj’s council trailing behind him, the fat Adver Nouin and the silver-haired Yarowen, Adver Tolliv. Half the bones Votan had sewn into his robe had to be fabricated by some sort of spell. He wasn’t old enough to have killed so many men. And he spent far too much time whispering in the halls to make that great an accomplishment. Being near other magic users unnerved Eyrti despite the levere talisman he wore at all times. Maybe it worked to shield him, or maybe the Guj’s wizards simply saw him as no threat. Votan would not be so kind.

  “Having problems, my friend?” Votan raised his elbows in greeting. Eyrti returned the gesture begrudgingly. He did not want to mention the letter with Votan around but this … this could mean his head.

  “I have a very important message for the Guj and these simpletons will not let me deliver it to him. I should report them for their insolence.”

  “Hmm.” A simpering smile lingered on Votan’s face. “Insolence against the bird keeper? That is a remarkable crime. Perhaps I could deliver this message for you?”

  “You? They will not let you in, either. ‘The Guj is not taking visitors today’ or so I have been told a million times this—”

  Eyrti gasped as the guards unlatched the door and swung it open without a word.

  “Oh yes,” Votan gloated, “the Guj did tell me he was not seeing visitors earlier. That is correct.” He leaned down to meet Eyrti’s eyes. “Now did you want my assistance with that message?”

  This is … this is ridiculous, insufferable! Votan had access to the Guj’s chambers? The man was barely out of swaddling clothes. Had he charmed the Guj somehow? Was his magic that strong? More importantly, should he give Votan the scroll? The purple-eyed sheven waited, pale hand palm up. He would undoubtedly take credit for whatever the message said. The guards would not provide witnesses in Eyrti’s favor. Then again, the Guj might slaughter everyone in the room should the news be ill received. But if good tidings, well, Eyrti would not let that slimy Votan steal his reward.

  “No. I must deliver it personally. If you would tell him I am here—”

  “Enough!” Votan snatched the scroll from his hands, and Eyrti grunted in consternation. He stamped his feet, fuming, as the Deduin and the Guj’s councilors went through the door.

  What now? The minutes passed. But as he went to return to his birds, a sweet sound stopped him—Adver Votan screaming. The piercing yell was music to Eyrti’s ears. Footfalls followed it to the door, which opened to reveal Adver Nouin out of breath and beck-oning Eyrti inside.

  He had not been in the Guj’s chamber in ages, and truth be told, he had not wanted to return. Being in close proximity to their leader was not usually a pleasant experience, but Eyrti followed Nouin to the large levere-shielded chamber at the end of the hall where a pleasant sight greeted him, that of Adver Votan crouched in the far corner, whimpering. Votan’s body jerked all over, and the man covered his head with his arms as though in the midst of a needlestorm back on the Deduin ice plains. Eyrti felt a passing pity for him, as their positions would be reversed if Eyrti had handed in the message. Sometimes being only the bird keeper was an advantage.

  The Guj sat on a pile of pillows in a number of bold, jewel-toned colors: amethyst, jade, emerald. His voice resonated although the walls were covered with cloth.

  “Adver Eyrti”—the Guj paused his speech as Eyrti raised his elbows in deference—“Votan tells me you gave him this scroll. Is that true?”

  Votan’s head lifted at his name, and eyes that normally glowed with a life of their own looked flat as a snuffed fire. Eyrti noticed, suddenly, the wizards in the room. They stood in an alcove behind the door, their hands joined while they chanted inaudibly. Perhaps Votan’s needlestorm is not imagined.

  “Yes, Your Greatness. I gave him the scroll from Sellwyn.”

  “Why did you not bring it yourself?” His voice was measured, calm. Could the news not have been that bad after all? Perhaps Votan’s torment was for some other affair.

  “I tried to, Your Greatness, I swear it. A …” How could he describe the disgusting mess on the window ledge? “A pigeon brought the scroll. I discovered it after the evening ritual, and when I saw the sigil it bore, I ran straightaway to your chamber door. The guards did not believe I had your leave to enter unbidden.”

  The Guj turned to Adver Nouin. “You will kill these guards.” His manner was easy. Nouin left the room immediately. Everything was turning out better than Eyrti had hoped.

  Votan’s whimpering started up again. Such a hideous noise. Was the man trying to ruin his mood?

  “Did you read the scroll, adver?” The Guj rolled it up and stood.

  “Oh no, Your Greatness. Other than the viper on its seal, I have no idea what it contained.”

  “Good.” He tossed the parchment into the fireplace. Its top edge caught fire instantly. “You would do well to keep it that way. Tell no one you received it.”

  “I would not dream of it.”

  “That’s very wise. You are dismissed. See you keep your birds well fed. I may have need of them tonight.”

  “Of course.” He wasted no time making his way back out through the narrow hallway and crashed into Adver Nouin in his hurry.

  “Apologies, Adver, I did not mean—”

  “No harm done, Eyrti. You best be careful as you leave. The exterior hall is a mess, and the servants have not been called yet.” Nouin’s face betrayed nothing.

  “I will.” Eyrti continued on his way, making sure to grab an extra bag of seeds from the kitchens.

  NOUIN

  Adver Nouin clutched the guards’ wet, sticky thum
bs in his hand. Once inside Romer’s false chamber, he bent his knee and offered them. “Yours, Your Greatness.” It was a shame he could not keep them himself.

  Romer threw them against the wall. They hit a tapestry, leaving a smattering of red blood on Saeth’s hairy chest. When the Guj spoke, all pretense disappeared. “Run away? How could she have run away?”

  Nouin watched Votan, who appeared to pay no attention to their conversation, his hands covering his ears as he whimpered, trapped in the wizards’ spell. “Do you want to keep him here? While we discuss this?” Why the Deduin lived was a mystery. He had heard too much. Seen the sigil.

  “What does it matter?” Romer spat at Votan, who did not flinch. “Without her, none of it matters. You know that.”

  I do. The Sellwyn whore was the key to everything. All these years they had sought to be ready, keeping the women controlled and under strict observation so they could use the silver weapon once found. Medua was a wasteland compared with the riches of Lansera, and they were too few strong men to raise a true threat against the Albrechts’ army again. But the silver weapon destroyed threats to mankind. It could surely kill man just as well. Its power had been prophesied for millennia, and they had watched and waited, but somehow, their best chance of attacking the Lanserim had escaped them. It—she—had been their battle plan. The weapon needed someone to sight it, and they were determined to be the seer.