Wings Unseen

by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

  “Another woman?” Lorne raised an eyebrow. “Surely you can satisfy these few men on your own?”

  He does not know about Serra. Perhaps the Guj did not know the seer had been found either. But Lorne knew far more about their movements than he should. She recounted his words … and then laughed. He must not have realized one of the guards holding him captive was a woman, probably had not considered it possible. Mertina’s hair was in a bun today.

  “Let him down.” Vesperi hoped they would listen. “I need to look him in the eye as he speaks to me.”

  The guards complied, except for Napeler who thrust his sword forward an inch or two then called out to Janto.

  “What’s going on there?” Janto yelled back, and Vesperi heard him trampling dry leaves in his haste as Lorne descended.

  Once Lorne’s feet were firmly planted on the ground, the jerk raised his elbows to her in mock respect. “Thank you, my lady.”

  The guards encircled him with their swords, and Vesperi narrowed her eyes, imagined fixing him with a stream of thanks—fiery, burning thanks. Oh yes, that would make me feel better.

  A hand wrapped around her arm, the touch making her realize her hairs stood on end. Her hand had lifted toward Esye.

  “You are trembling.” Janto placed his other hand on her waist, pulling her around to him. Serra stood beside them yet did not grimace at their contact. She had always done so whenever they’d touched before.

  “What’s wrong?” Janto’s concerned bronze eyes soothed her. Vesperi focused on them and her anger faded, at least enough to stop picturing Lorne consumed in ashes. For now.

  A perplexed Lorne pointedly stared at Janto’s arm wrapped around her. Let him stare, the slimy bastard. Though in truth, she was as confused by the action as he. But she could not deny how calm it made her feel.

  “So you fled,” she addressed Lorne, the rage controlled. “Leaving my father to die.”

  Serra and Janto gasped in unison.

  “Like you would have done anything different.” The confirmation of her father’s death stung, no matter how much she’d deny it. “We are Meduans, Vesperi, not fools. Our selves are all we have. And I did get your brother out of there.”

  Did he think she cared about Uzziel?

  Janto withdrew his arm. “What is going on here? Who is this man?”

  Lorne raised his elbows with only a hint of irony. “Lorne Granich, son of Cavallen, a lesser lord at Qiltyn who is hoping to use this woman’s brother to become a greater one. I hope you don’t mind honesty. I take it you are the prince? Of course you are. Only an Albrecht would sound so offended to have something occur in their absence.”

  Janto looked to her for corroboration, and she gave it. “And your father?” His speech was gentle.

  “Appears to be dead.” Saying the words brought a disquieting relief. “If he were not, we would be outnumbered by my father’s guards, not questioning this moron all alone. Something has happened at Sellwyn.” A gurgle of emotion threatened again, but she pushed it back like her talent. “It is no matter. It will make our task easier.”

  “Of course it matters,” Janto said, but she ignored him, prodding Lorne to continue.

  “Not until you introduce me to this lovely creature.” Lorne swept Serra’s hand into a kiss. Vesperi would have punched him. “I assume that’s the proper way to greet you? If you are Meduan, I will gladly get to know you more personally, perhaps a few trees away from this rabble.”

  Serra flushed and jumped back as the sword circle around Lorne shrunk. Janto added his weapon, his face red with anger. “You do not speak to her that way. You do not speak to any woman in that manner.”

  Idiot. Don’t let him know she is so important to you.

  Lorne lowered his hand to his side, likely considering the disadvantages of pissing off a prince, even one far from home and in enemy territory. Vesperi would think the same in his place. His eyes lingered on Serra for a moment, but then he turned back to Vesperi, his features softening.

  “I had no choice but to leave, you know. Once people started … collapsing … I had to move fast.” The claren. “One of the sweepers fell first, and luckily, I was in the hall to see it. I had been alerted they might be near, so I pulled out my handkerchief and ran to get Uzziel.”

  “You were warned?” She said it the first time, confused, but then her voice rose. “You were warned and you did not tell my father?”

  “There was not time.” He sighed. “You know that. You wouldn’t be here if you yourself had not seen them attack. They move too fast.”

  “You know nothing of why I am here. I know nothing of why you are. If you have my brother, then why dangle from a tree, hoping for sight of me? I should have you killed. You have already admitted to plotting against my claim to Sellwyn.”

  “Lansera has either made you brave or reckless. Your claim to Sellwyn? I could kill you for saying that out loud. You honestly think I don’t know your business here? Maybe Lansera has made you stupid.”

  She lunged at him, but he was fast, and Janto’s free arm lashing out to restrain her was faster. Lorne ducked back toward the trees, and the swords moved with him, offering no escape. But if he was here for her, he should not want to escape.

  He did not try to. Instead, he raised his palm to her. She flinched, bracing for a slap although she knew swords and the length of Janto’s arm separated them. But he did not try to do that either. Silver energy swirled in his hand. It was fainter than her talent, and it only lasted a moment before sparking and dissipating. But it had happened. She was certain of it, and not merely because her companions were speechless.

  “You have the flame?” She felt buoyant but not with surprise. With hope.

  “Yes, I have it.”

  “But that means I am not the only one. There are others.” I don’t have to do this.

  Lorne’s smirk returned. “Oh, you don’t get off so easily. What I have is an echo at best. What you are is the real thing. The weapon.”

  “How do you know about that?” Serra spoke for the first time since she had returned with Janto.

  “The Brothers told me.” The Brothers had been in Medua? In Sellwyn? None of this made any sense. “They were the ones who warned me of the claren.”

  “But the Brothers cannot be in Medua.” Serra’s words gave voice to Vesperi’s thoughts.

  Lorne’s smirk deepened. “You know that’s not true, woman, if you are who I think you are. The Brothers told me of you, too, but they did not say you were a woman. I had assumed the prince was the seer. Regardless, the seer surely knows Madel’s hand extends everywhere. It is not limited to Lansera.”

  Vesperi had never heard a Meduan utter the name of the Lanserim goddess, not even as a curse. It had been wiped out entirely. She trusted this boy less than she had before. He knew too many things for a courtier. “We do not know what you speak of, Lorne. Are you one of Ralion’s bards, spouting tales of men who can keep it up all night?”

  “The truth, darling Vespy, is that I already know why I am here, but I would enjoy hearing you explain why you are.”

  “Because I have—”

  He waved a finger, chiding her. “Do not answer ‘because I have to be.’ No one ever has to do anything. Besides, we both know there is more to it than that.”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “The king. You are here because of what you saw King Albrecht do one afternoon.” How can he know … it did not matter. She could not explain the electric blue light that had wrapped around the king in that dungeon, so much purer than the stream in her veins, or how she had known he spoke the truth more certainly than she had known anything before. Who believed in such things? She scarcely did and she had seen it.

  “They had hoped you would be further along, but frankly, I don’t know what they were thinking. I suppose thinking might not be involved with the Brothers.” He stroked his chin. “But they have been right so far. I will answer for you, then, if you refuse to speak. Though
the whole thing is painfully dull for me to recount at this point.”

  “No!” Vesperi panicked.

  Janto was confused. “We know why you are here, Vesperi. There’s no harm in letting him talk. Maybe we will learn why he is.”

  “No!” She could not let this happen here. She was already too exposed so close to Sellwyn even if her father’s wrath was no longer to be feared—maybe especially because of that.

  Lorne kept talking, his gaze fixed on her, and she ignored him until she noticed his glow. It was feeble, as much an echo of how the king had appeared as Lorne’s talent had been an echo of hers. Even so, it was arresting.

  “You are here because there are some things you cannot deny, no matter how much you try. You are here because you have a job to do, and you are doing it because it is right.”

  She cried. Saeth’s fist, she had been crying since she’d crossed this path in the opposite direction eons ago. Fleeing had destroyed her, had destroyed the Vesperi Sellwyn she used to be.

  Lorne’s words kept rolling. “Vesperi is here because she’s the weapon, chosen to rescue Lansera from the claren’s blood thirst. She’s here because she knows she is supposed to be, and though everything in her screams to run, she has walked back into her worst nightmare—her home—to face that destiny. Because Vesperi wants to take part in it. She wants to be better than me and all Meduans who think only of power, lust, and greed. She has seen that life is more than that, and she wants everyone else to see it too. Vesperi is here because she is a hero, a servant of Madel, the true god. And Madel’s heroes do what they know is right.”

  Never in her life had she wanted to smite someone out of existence so fervently.

  CHAPTER 51

  SERRA

  Vesperi slept in the early morning light, arms clutched around her waist. The Meduan captive—Lorne—had unnerved the weapon, and Serra had not thought that possible. But she never thought she would journey into Medua, either. Nor would she have thought she would grant Janto freedom from their engagement, from her, and do it with only a few tears shed. Yet here she was.

  When Vesperi muttered from her blankets in dreamt fear, Serra did not take the satisfaction she would have felt a day ago. Instead, she ran her hand down the woman’s back to soothe her. Vesperi jumped at the touch, reaching toward a phantom dagger at her ankle. Yellow-green crusts of sleep nearly glued her eyes together.

  “Shh,” Serra said. “You were having a nightmare. I meant to calm you.” Vesperi nodded then closed her eyes and shifted onto her other side. Serra watched until her breathing normalized and wondered at the concern she felt. Perhaps it was because Vesperi’s father had died. Serra knew better than most what it meant to lose family, especially ones who had never been what she wanted.

  Outside the tent, morning had broken with a shower of rain that left mist rising from the ground. Sar Mertina packed their belongings into saddlebags, blankets tightly rolled to fit in between straps. Hamsyn and Napeler were also awake—Serra was never certain Nap slept at all. She gathered an armful of the light wood the men had collected the night before and went to join them at the fire pit. They would

  only cook in daylight hours now. Serra did not need her companions to tell her that.

  Nor did she need them to tell her they were scared. The guards would never admit it, but their faces were collages of worry lines.

  Janto slept. Once upon a time, Serra would have worried what the others thought of her as she ran a hand over his hips, searching under his tunic, but it did not matter now. Her fingers brushed the hardened leather of the pouch she had given him. He did not stir as she undid the clasp and pulled out a bag of crushed tachery pods. Then she hung a pot over the blaze Hamsyn had built and poured water into it from the jug they filled each morning. These mountains overflowed with water. The grapes on the Meditlan side of them would have rotted on their vines if this wet.

  The water would take time to warm, so Serra left Hamsyn in charge of it, telling him to call her over when it was done. Then she walked to the edge of their encampment where Lorne slept with nothing to cover him, his legs and arms bound in case he tried to flee during the night. Blond hair wrapped around his chest like a Nevillim shawl of braided corn husks.

  Then Serra peered deeper. Her stomach clenched as she concentrated, imagining herself kneeling on a prayer rug in Enjoin, scratchy reed fibers bristling against her knees. Each drop of moisture from the fog hung heavy before she watched them fall. Then she focused the sight on Lorne. Her brow furrowed as her gaze narrowed in on his nose and mouth. The air around him illumined with an effervescent blue. Nothing else appeared but a few jocal flies that veered away when their tiny wings brushed his face, as uniformly black as the handful of fallowent seeds he had shown them yesterday. Not a spot of red on their wings. He was clean.

  Lorne was the first person she had seen who had survived the claren’s attack, except for those who had been in the kitchen when Mar Pina fell. If his story was true, Vesperi’s brother would be the second.

  “It was the fallowent,” Hamsyn called from the fire, “and the water is boiling.”

  With the release of her breath, the world returned to the muted colors of reality. The reality of this world, she thought, but not of Madel’s.

  “How did you know what I was doing?” She walked back to the campfire.

  Hamsyn laughed, a sound that warmed her after using the sight. The brilliant colors of the other realm were too harsh to live in. “We have been traveling together for weeks, Lady Serra. I think we all know what you look like when you’re searching.”

  Of course they would notice. It amazed her how narrow she let her perspective be. She shook the tachery pods onto a flat stone then raised another stone over them. It hit with a loud crack, then she rocked the top stone over the other again and again. Satisfied with the size of the grounds, she brushed them into the pot of boiling water. Creamy brown foam ballooned within it.

  Hamsyn stoked the fire. “My sister took up gardening when she was four. She had figured out that dillweed brought the prettiest butterflies to the fields. Took first prize for her squashes at Lady Gella’s raccoon festival two years back. But last fall, she became obsessed. I took to calling her ‘the Black Thumb’ because she spent every daylight hour over those fallowent plants. They were tiny, no taller than my thumb, and the seeds could barely be seen without a lens. But every day, she harvested them, soaked new seeds in water, and planted them again in her hut of glass. She had hundreds of them.”

  “What was she doing?” Serra leaned over the pot, waiting for the smells of rich tobacco and sharp berry to rise up, but the liquid was not done steeping yet.

  “Saving us.” He grinned. “Don’t ever tell her I said so—I would never hear the end of it. But from what I gathered, the fallowent saved the lives of Lorne and the little Lord Sellwyn.”

  “It did.” The captive’s bored voice sounded before he opened his eyelids. He yawned and stretched—until the ropes dug into his skin. Serra could practically hear him roll his eyes at the afflicting knots. “These are not necessary.”

  Nap, who Serra realized had positioned himself near their prisoner this whole time, frowned sternly. “They stay until Janto commands otherwise.”

  “I know, I know.” Lorne tried to raise his elbows to indicate compliance but the ropes pulled tight. “When does he rise, anyhow? I thought Lanserim awoke with the call of the birds and the dew from a fairy’s wings on their noses.”

  Serra laughed despite herself. Waking to a fairy on her nose sounded rather charming.

  “What a pleasing noise, Lady Gavenstone.” Lorne flopped and hopped until in a sitting position. “Your laugh complements your features. You ought to use it more often.”

  She blushed. “You do not act how Vesperi described Meduan men. I have a feeling I should not trust your words, though they are sweet ones.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. But you should trust your charms regardless. We may have to cover you when we head to Qilt
yn. Wouldn’t want anything to spoil your tour of our fair country, and keeping someone with your beauty out in the open would certainly do that.”

  Janto yawned, his voice scratchy from sleep. “You aren’t coming to Qiltyn. But you may be right. We will need to disguise all the women on our way there. The Guj has men looking for Vesperi. We encountered some in Rasseleria.”

  “Good morning, prince.” Lorne lifted his hands in Janto’s direction. “If it pleases you, have these ropes cut.” Janto laughed sharply, and Lorne’s exaggerated smile evaporated. “You will not need disguises on the way to Sellwyn. There is no one left to pilfer your women there.”

  A whole village gone? The claren grew. Serra shuddered. But Janto sniffed the air, and she found herself laughing for the second time that morning. His mussed strawberry locks stuck up like beetle ant antennae. Janto patted his pouch then smiled boyishly at her. “Did Madel’s hand guide you to my tachery?”

  The tent’s walls swayed violently, and Vesperi’s head of curls poked through the opening. “Are we leaving soon? I want to get this over with.”

  Janto’s whole demeanor changed, thoughts of tachery dropping as fast as the smile from his lips. “If it’s too much, we do not have to go to Sellwyn. I just—I thought you would maybe want to find your father.” When she neared, he took Vesperi’s hand, which the woman was careful not to acknowledge. How hard it would be to live like that, never able to show how someone’s touch affected you.

  “Touching,” Lorne broke in, “but you do need to go. There is something in Sellwyn we must bring with us.”

  “You aren’t going,” Janto repeated. “We cannot take a prisoner with us.”

  “Then make me not a prisoner.”

  Nap tapped the man with his sword. “You do not address him that way. He is your prince.”

  “That wasn’t necessary.” Janto sighed. “We do not hurt our prisoners. And we are not launching an invasion here—we are quelling one.”