Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  Votan slumped to the floor, his chest rising weakly. The wizards stopped chanting, waiting for instruction, but Romer stewed in his anger. The veins of his bald head pulsed.

  “I will contact Ralion at court, make him ready—”

  Romer’s silence disheartened Nouin, but he tried again anyhow. “We should send a company after her.”

  “Yes.” The Guj brightened at the suggestion. “I will find her no matter where she’s gone. She cannot outrun me. And send one after Garadin—word cannot get out that he failed to contact me. Send a bird to Lansera as well, warn them against her. They will not want our discards.”

  Nouin complied swiftly; being far from Romer was wise during these moods. But he did sweep the guards’ fingers into his robe before exiting. Such trophies should not be left to rot. The pigeons would peck the bones clean, finding the flesh tastier than anything Eyrti had gathered for them in the roost.

  CHAPTER 32

  VESPERI

  “There is a prophecy.”

  The king leaned against the dungeon’s stone wall. Its two barred windows filled the room with more light than anywhere Vesperi had resided before. His voice was more tired than the last time he had questioned her, before the wedding that was not to be.

  “It has not often been uttered in these last two generations. In part, because time makes it easy to forget what our forebears heeded. In part, because my family did not want to face its implications. War makes intangible threats disappear.”

  Why he bothered to discuss a Lanserim prophecy with her, she could not guess. Why he made no advances toward her was even stranger. She did not fear being alone with him, but she did not know how to respond, either. The guards regarded her with curiosity, not conversation, which was easier to ignore.

  “Have you heard these words, Lady Sellwyn? When evil–”

  “Don’t call me that.” The titles they insisted on using were annoying. “I am no one’s lady.”

  The king regarded her thoughtfully. “You gave me to understand you are from House Sellwyn. Do not the viper’s fangs clasp your cloaks at home?”

  “They did.” The truth flowed freely around this man, her resistance worn down. She was tired of lying. She had been doing it her whole life. “But I am not a Sellwyn now. I doubt my father would welcome a parley party. He would rather you march me straight to Thokketh than ransom me. Any messengers you send will be hanged outside the manor walls.”

  His eyebrows raised. “I see. Few here, not even my son, are still taught the sigils from over the mountains, so it will not be hard to put that past behind you. We have not wanted to open old wounds—” he sighed, looking out the windows “—nor do I wish to afflict new ones. It may be best that you keep your family crest hidden.”

  She wondered what he thought of then, his voice resigned, sad, but he continued nonetheless. “Still, I must ask if you have ever heard these words, Vesperi with a house no longer.”

  She considered telling him not to worry his royal mind with religious recitations. She had heard none since the convent and doubted the followers of Saeth sang the same praises as the worshippers of Madel. If they did, their female god was a lot more interesting than she had thought.

  “When evil spawns and overruns, from silver the weapon comes. Without her sight, mankind is done. With it, all will again be one.”

  Energy caressed her fingertips as he spoke, and she gasped. Her hands were bound, Esye hid from view. Then how? The king stared at her, amber eyes relaxing only when she met them. It was then she realized he glowed, glowed like she might when her talent flamed, a mesmerizing vibrant blue ringing his body.

  “I do not know those words.” The truth spilled out of her again, her mind reeling from the display. “What are they?”

  He smiled then, the first time she had witnessed it, and the blue shone more brilliantly. But there was no threat in the energy. Rather, she felt more at peace than she remembered ever feeling before. It is a different talent. The realization was a relief; he may not know all her secrets yet. Vesperi wanted, no needed, to keep hers close, and this dungeon was a comfortable place to rest. She needed time to develop an escape plan that would work.

  “As I said, it is an old prophecy. I first committed it to memory while going through my novice training with the Order—our priesthood—as a teenager.”

  The aura around him faded as swiftly as it had come. Something ached within her to see it go, but Vesperi scoffed at his words. A prince who wanted to be a priest of Madel, to serve a female god? No, the king was lying to her, and he was as bad at it as his son, thus the smile.

  “I am sorry. Please continue,” she tried not to smirk as she added, “my king.”

  “It was recited at the beginning of every ritual before my father’s war—I suppose I must have had it memorized as a child, too. What is it you call our great conflict?”

  “A revolution.”

  “Of course.” Grimness took the place of his smile. “The Brotherhood considered the prophecy of utmost importance to Lansera’s future. All their messages touched on it, but after the war … well, we did not have the stomach for pondering what other evils our castoffs might create.”

  “Your castoffs? You mean, us, the Meduans?”

  “Yes. Do you mind?” He gestured toward the sole chair in the room. She shook her head at the absurdity of a king asking her permission. The alienness of his behavior made her second guess what she had seen and felt moments ago. The king had not acknowledged it. A trick of the eyes. I am out of sorts. And if the king insisted on acting baser than he was, granting her needless courtesy, then she could risk poking a little fun to see what she might learn from him. “That’s quite an interesting term, castoff. The Sisters at the convent taught we had won our freedom in the war from the likes of you and your pretentious brethren.”

  “One man’s freedom is another man’s perversion. But tell me, Vesperi, my spies report that the women of your land are not exactly free. Is that not so? And I am most intrigued by the Sisters you mentioned. Were they in charge of your schooling?”

  “Your spies—the Ravens, I assume you mean—are correct. And I learned nothing from my teachers at the convent school. Most women are useless.” She shrugged. Telling him these things was harmless. They were known.

  “And you, Vesperi, are you also useless?”

  The proper answer at home would be to agree, but this was not her father asking nor did anyone stand ready to strike should she say otherwise. This man had traded more words with her in two meetings than Lord Sellwyn had spared her in years. So she deflected. “Tell me the prophecy again, my king. I may have recognized a word or two.” If she pretended to, she could buy herself more time.

  “Certainly. I will start with the beginning stanza. It is the most remembered among my people. 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. What do you think? Is any of that familiar?”

  “Stags and wings? I do not know them.” But the words were familiar. She felt it in her blood. Or maybe in the hair rising on her arms as the king was again bathed in blue. He made no note of it, just stared with curiosity. No doubt she appeared spellbound.

  “Vesperi, are you all right?” He touched her, the aura dimming.

  Have I gone mad at last? Father would be pleased. If she was sane, then that prophecy held some sort of power here. Perhaps she had heard the words as a child before the Lanserim sympathizers had been weeded out entirely, but she could not remember anyone singing chants in the manor, not ever, and she was never in town for long. “It’s sung during rituals, did you say? I am sorry, but I do not think we have kept any of your hymns.”

  Did she utter the words I am sorry and mean them? These people infested her with their goodness. She would forget how to survive if she spent any more time with them. But she was not ready to leave. She wasn’t. And it has nothing to do with how serene that blue … whatever it was … made me feel.
<
br />   “That is a shame. I had hoped you might know something of it.” He knocked on the cell door. “I apologize for all the questioning, but it’s not often a Meduan comes to Callyn. My Ravens provide me with information, but they cannot fully understand what it is like over the mountains. They were not raised like you.”

  A guard opened the door while another walked inside to escort the king out. He raised his elbows in farewell, and as he turned, his cloak fell flat against his back. It bore a three-headed bird ready for flight with radiant plumage of silver, copper, and gold. Minus the colors, it was the exact double of the carving at Sellwyn Manor. No, Vesperi did not know the words of the prophecy, but she knew how they appeared in an old, forgotten language chiseled out of marble. “King Albrecht!”

  “What is it, Vesperi?”

  She stammered, unsure whether she should reveal the connection. It meant something to him but not to her, and sharing it would give him the advantage. “I … I am surprised at the emblem on your cloak. Janto did not have such a creature on his.”

  “The swan is the sigil of the Albrechts, but this is mine, chosen when I became king. I took it from one of our stories of creation. I don’t wear it often, but it seemed appropriate today. Are you not familiar with the myths of Lansera?”

  She shook her head, and he sighed again, sadness returned to his voice. “May Madel’s hand guide you, Vesperi.”

  He left. More out of habit than desire, she checked that the door handle was stuck fast as best she could with tied hands then flounced onto the bed. The coincidence was uncanny—the carving had been the only thing that gave her comfort in Sellwyn, and the feeling the blue light had ushered in was much the same. No, I need not be so hasty to escape from here. Trusting the Albrechts to keep her safe wasn’t as unsettling a notion as she thought it might be.

  CHAPTER 33

  SERRA

  Footsteps trailed away from the hut, waking Serra. She grimaced as she opened her eyes to the dark. Serra hated waking in the dark. For the last five days, nothing had forced her from bed before her natural rising. No one knew what to do with her, so there were no demands to fill. Funny how that works. She had left her whole world behind to play whatever role the Brothers had foreseen for her, and none of the ryns and rynnas knew what it was. No Brother had shown its … hood … since her transportation from Callyn in a blink of whirring air that dissipated as soon as her feet materialized on the sloshy ground outside the temple. A novice had seen her first and screamed, but Ryn Gylles had shushed the woman with a shake and a whisper. Then he came to Serra, not asking why she had returned but accepting her presence with a wave of his hand and a hug. He then launched into a list of all the lessons he needed to prepare for the novices trickling in every day, and he was surprised to see so many, and did she want a room to put her things in?

  Serra did not question the peace and quiet. The noise in her head was plenty, drowning out the initial relief she felt at making the choice to return. What will they want of me? was her most common refrain. He will never forgive me was the next. The worst, which grew louder each day she was left alone, was they wanted Janto to marry someone worthier. To her dismay, it never failed to make her cry. She had had enough of tears, enough of feeling as though her life were out of her control.

  So she slept as she liked, waking when the first farrowbird raised its voice to complain with high-pitched trills about the heat of mid-morning. Then she started a fire for tea in the hearth and hoped none of the mice living beneath its stones nibbled at her toes. Food was left at her door each morning, and she drank her tea while she ate, imagining how much better the porridge would taste if Mar Pina had sprinkled her famous spice blend on it. Then a walk for fresh air and a short visit with Ryn Gylles. He shared the news of Lansera freely, though he never spoke of the prince. Serra was grateful. Once or twice, she had joined the novices in their training sessions instead of seeing Ryn Gylles. They’d learn a bit of every trade in Lansera, and the ones who had returned to Enjoin earliest got a head start.

  Serra yawned in the dark and rolled off the bare cot. Perhaps a message arriving this early meant the novices planned an excursion into the woods. Learning more about the herbs used for healing might be sufficiently distracting. Serra had always been fascinated watching Queen Lexamy mix up a compound. On the dusty rug outside, she found a piece of slim, pressed birchwood with a message scrawled over it: “Meditation begins soon. A novice would be there.” It had to be from Gylles. No one else knew how to challenge her here. But Serra had attended no rituals since her return. She was here. What greater display of faith could she make to Madel of her willingness? Everything—everyone—had been given up for it.

  But another day of searching for cracks in the huts’ walls sounded worse than holding on to that stubbornness. She pulled on her sheath, ran a brush through her moisture-thickened hair, and started up the path.

  The novices were already assembled on their prayer mats. About thirty initiates had returned to take the next step, meaning a quarter of their number had stayed home. By the doorway sat a welcome face. Lourda. Seeing her friend, wild hair pulled back and laced through with a marshweed-colored ribbon, made Serra happier than she had felt in a month. Perhaps my calling is to be a hairdresser for wayward Ertions. A genuine smile bloomed on her face.

  “Lourda!”

  Lourda clapped her hands with delight. “Serra, my princess!” She hugged her close. “I thought you had returned to Callyn to wed that prince!”

  “So had I.” Serra sunk into the hug. There were questions in Lourda’s eyes, but a Brother swept in through the door and floated to the center of the temple, grabbing their attentions. Yet the novices looked awed, not disgusted at its presence. How could no one else see them for what they were? Still, Serra had come back knowing the truth, had let one of them whisk her through their spirit realm to get here. What did that make her? She rested her head on Lourda’s shoulder while the Brother gave its instructions in an ethereal voice.

  “Chosen few, you are here to learn how to breathe and to be. You have done this before, whenever you’ve attended a ritual. But a priest must endure more than an hour’s worth of show. A priest must continue his or her meditation until Madel instructs them to stop or the last parishioners have received their fill of glory. Sometimes, that will take only a few moments but at other times, it may be hours. Those who experience true distress or true rapture lose track of time as we know it. They inhabit another space where Madel resonates within them. So today you learn to breathe, and through breathing, you learn to let Madel in.”

  The exercise would continue until the last of them reached their limits, unable to lie prostrate on the mat any longer. There would be breaks for meals, but no touching, no communication. Lourda withdrew from Serra and returned to her mat. Serra claimed one of her own, thinking it better to be lost in thought among others than alone again in her hut.

  They began by counting to seven, the number of regions in Lansera before Turyn’s War. They counted slower with each recitation, the words spoken between inhalation and exhalation of air. As they went, they lengthened their breaths, a technique taught in religious courses growing up. It naturalized the meditation process, purifying the mind of all thoughts but the vital task of breathing. This allowed one to feel Madel should She reach out Her hand.

  One. Two. Three. Serra had never participated in the breathing rituals before, not really. Maintaining her composure was more important than practicing religion, according to her mother, who’d said, “Meditlan lieges must have their wits about them at all times, especially so close to the mountains and Meduans.” Lady Gavenstone had shown Serra how to breathe shallowly rather than deeply so no one would think her meditation faked. When Ryn Raspier hit the ending chime of the ritual bell, Lady Gavenstone had always fluttered her fan to give the illusion of faintness.

  Six. Seven. One. Agler had ignored their mother’s training and was quite devout as a child, though not that great at meditation. The first ti
me Serra saw his lips turn blue, she was four and determined to have blue lips, too. Fervor was something her brother had that she did not, and she had wanted it. Luckily, by the time he planned assassinations, his irresponsible actions no longer held any romance. She would never want to imitate that behavior.

  Five. Six. Sev—was it One, now? She struggled to focus on the exercise. Sitting motionless was difficult, even with a lady’s discipline. Her body ached above her ass, where the stretch was most pronounced. Her hands occasionally went numb, wrists pressed to the ground. Sometimes, she gave in to the temptation to open her eyes and inspected the room. The novices mostly murmured the counts by that point in the meditation, their breathing soft and bodies stilled. Once in a while, her eyes met the tired gaze of someone else’s, and they exchanged grins before closing eyes again.

  As the morning passed, Serra relaxed into the exercise. The mundanity of repeating numbers out loud comforted her. After an hour or so, she was so at peace, she hoped she would not fall asleep. She felt, rather than heard, the instruction to breathe slower as time went on. When midday arrived with the chime of a bell, a single breath took her nearly ten seconds to finish. She opened her eyes, blinking to rid her vision of reddish-black spots. A few dark specks lingered in the back of the room. She blinked again. Gone.

  Are my lips blue? she wondered as she walked the short distance to a kitchen table laden with lentils and bread, food meant to sustain acolytes rather than supply pleasure. She sat next to Lourda, but they did not speak. No one did. The extended meditation had drained them of conversation. She recognized most their faces but had not learned all their names during the initiation. Tiny Asten and Gullo, a young grainsorter from Neville, were among them. Poline’s absence surprised Serra. But she had learned that Madel rarely led people down paths they expected.