by JMD Reid
“What do you want to get?” Vel asked, breaking the nervous silence.
“Mist,” Ary answered without thought. His eyes focused on a stained glass window depicting the Wrackthar army, row after row of men clad in metal armor. It astounded him every time he looked at that. So much wealth. The stained glass displayed more metal than found on the entirety of Vesche.
“I want Pressure,” Vel admitted. “I would love to have a pegasus and fly the skies on its back.” The nations used many winged beasts of burdens: pegasi, wyverns, rocs, and giant bats. None could fly and support an adult rider without a Blessing of Moderate Pressure to increase the lift of the mount’s wings. “You, Chaylene?”
“Wind. I want to fly without a mount.”
“But you’d need a Major Blessing for that. And that’s so rare. But Moderate Pressure, well, that’s good odds.”
“It’s not like it’s up to us. It’s all up to the Goddess.”
“True. But I prayed to the Goddess for Pressure, and I know she’ll answer my prayers. So I’ll give you a ride on my pegasus if you don’t get Major Wind. It’ll be fun. The two of us soaring through the skies.”
“I guess.” Chaylene fidgeted. “What did you pray for, Ary?”
“Oh, uh, nothing important.” Ary’s prayer echoed in his mind: Goddess Above, I would pay any price to not be drafted. Any price. Just let someone else be chosen in my place. Shame filled him for such a selfish request, but he didn’t want to lose Chaylene. The moment he finished his prayer, he felt the Goddess’s warmth on his face. He knew she’d answered. “You?”
“Nothing important,” she answered, her voice too airy and casual. He glanced at her gray eyes and understood. She doesn’t want me to get drafted either.
“You will be called in one by one,” a Luastria acolyte announced, her song-like voice trilling through the room. She wore orange robes that clashed with her brown feathers and stood before the ashpit. There, worshipers threw small effigies into a bonfire, their sins cleansed in Riasruo’s flames. “We will go alphabetically by family name.”
That meant Chaylene Brech would go before Ary Jayne. Vel Tloan would number among the last.
Ary took a deep breath, trying to control the roiling fish inside him. His eyes flickered to another stained glass window displaying Iiwroa and Qobthien, the last two survivors of the Hopeful Company. They stood on the summit of Mount Wraiucwii, amid the splendor of the Temple of the Heights. Above them glowed Riasruo’s sun. Golden feathers of light fell upon Iiwroa and Qobthien as Riasruo granted them the Four Blessings—Wind, Mist, Pressure, and Lightning—to fight the Wrackthar.
“Now we wait,” Vel said, rubbing hands on his denim pants, leaving behind wet streaks. “Riasruo Above, I hate this.” He glanced over his shoulder. “We could be out there enjoying the festival.”
“Dancing would be wonderful,” Chaylene said, her voice tight. “Because it would mean this was over with.”
“I’ll dance with you all night,” Ary said, taking her hand.
Her smile dazzled. For a moment, doubt fled. Only hope’s certainty remained.
“Brech, Chaylene of Isfe,” the acolyte announced after a dozen other youths.
“Good luck,” Ary said.
She smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“You’re in the temple,” groused Vel, arms folded before him. “You can’t be doing that here.”
Chaylene gave him a sharp look. “You need to find a patient girl to deal with your down-filled head, Vel.”
“Who says I haven’t?” he grinned.
“What are you talking about?” Ary asked as Chaylene turned and followed the graceful Luastria acolyte who stood a head shorter than Chaylene.
“Hmm?” Vel asked, staring at the Luastrian acolyte.
“Who’s the girl you’re interested in? Is it Brelyn? Or one of Master Oatlon’s daughters?” Ary frowned. “You’ve bedded both of them, right? Did one capture your heart?”
Vel shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Oh, no, not them. No one’s captured my heart.”
“You really should let one.” Ary’s eyes followed Chaylene as she skirted the edge of the ashpit. “Love’s amazing, even if it scares me.”
Vel shook his head. His lips tightened, then he asked, “So, you really want Lightning, right? You just said Mist to placate Chaylene.”
“No.” A half-truth. He didn’t want Lightning, not really, but that boyish part of him still dreamed of glory. But he’d witnessed the Intrepid’s wreck and the only true reward a hero received—death. “I want to be a farmer and marry her, Vel.”
“Do you really? You’ve always wanted to go and fight for the Autonomy. Why don’t you? Your ma hates you, and she took away your inheritance. What do you really have to look forward to here?”
“Chaylene.”
“So? You can ask her to marry you after you join up. I’m sure she’d say yes. And once you’re through training in three months, you could marry her. I bet she’ll be more than happy to follow you across the sky, living in some far off port.”
“She won’t say yes if I enlist,” Ary answered, the guppies writhing in his stomach. “And I’m not sure how she’ll answer if I get drafted. She’s scared of me dying like her pa.”
“If she really loves you, then why would that matter?”
How could Ary explain it to his friend? He understood grief. He learned it the day of the Cyclone. Having someone ripped out of your life left a hole, and what filled that hole wasn’t always good. His own ma let bitter madness fill hers, burying the good left in her. If it wasn’t for Chaylene, his ma’s bile would have drowned him.
“So you’ll give up your dream for her?” Vel shook his head.
“Absolutely.”
“Being a farmer’s the last thing I want.”
“Then enlist or gamble on getting drafted.”
His friend scowled. “I don’t want to be gusted to and fro, controlled by others. I want to fly free. If I get Pressure, I can get a job as a courier. Flying around Vesche on a pegasus, delivering mail, bringing important documents, letting the wind fly through my face. Or maybe I could get a job on Vion or Les.”
Ary clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”
“Don’t be so quick to give up your dreams, Ary. My pa did, and he’s been miserable with my ma ever since.”
“Chaylene is my dream now.” Ary said. A new family. Me and her.
~ * * ~
Guilt roiled through Vel. I’m trying to pry Chaylene away from him, and he . . . he just wants me to be happy.
What kind of friend am I?
Vel stared at his hands. He sighed, grinding his teeth as he stared in the direction where Chaylene had vanished. The acolyte appeared, calling another name. Tloan put him near the end of the list. He’d have a long wait. A long time to reflect on his desire. To hate himself for following his dream.
She’s my dream, too, Ary. He yearned to blurt that out, to proclaim just how much he loved her. But he couldn’t. Guilt is a useless emotion. Vel hated it. It kept him from what he’d wanted for the last two years. At the Wedding Day festival months back, dancing with Chaylene, it all felt so easy, just him and her. The words rose from his heart, about to be breathed on the wind and . . .
He closed his eyes, remembering that night . . .
~ * * ~
“Glad I got to dance with the prettiest flower of Isfe,” he said, the music gay and festive, drums beating, flutes zithering. She didn’t fight as he pressed their bodies tight.
“Vel! You shouldn’t say such things,” she said, a laugh on her lips.
“Because of Ary? He hasn’t plucked you yet.”
Her cheeks burned with heat. “I’m not one of the slattern daisies you like.”
“No.” His face twisted with regret, wanting to say the words, to admit the feelings building in him since that moonlit night. The ground beneath his feet no longer felt solid. A yawning pit opened before him, something he c
ould fall into as he stared into her eyes.
He felt it building between them, a static charge in the air, the moment preceding a lightning strike, breathless in anticipation of the surging heat, blinding light, and clapping thunder. He wet his lips, certainty filing him as they spun around the Green with the other couples.
“Chaylene, I care for you.”
“I care for you, too.” Her voice was tight, breathless.
“No, I really—”
An avalanche crashed onto his shoulder. Ary’s strong hand pulled Vel away from her. A broad smile spread Ary’s lips, his head nodding. “Thanks for keeping her company.”
Chaylene, oblivious to Vel’s love, quipped to Ary, “Your dainty feet rested?”
“I have twice your weight.”
Vel stood rooted to the spot, unable to object as he watched Ary carry Chaylene away. Vel tried not to hate his friend, but right then, when he stood on the cusp of ripping out his heart and giving it to her, Ary didn’t care. Didn’t see his pain.
He just took!
~ * * ~
Vel rose out of his memory. He blew out a breath, his gaze flicking around the temple and ending on the ashpit. His hand clenched, wishing a fire blazed like one would on any other Dawnsday. A great inferno upon which to throw his effigy. He’d fashion his friendship into a stick figure made of wicker and twine. He could pursue Chaylene with ease if his memories of youthful days didn’t poison his resolve.
“The fire cleanses us all,” the priestess would chirp when she came to Isfe every month to lead the remote village in the worship of Riasruo Above. The fire would burn on the Green, a great holocaust to devour all the sins of the villagers. To let Riasruo’s flames purify the evil from their hearts.
But it could also cleanse Vel of the stain of friendship.
Ary leaned forward on the pew, resting elbows on his thighs. His hands rubbed together, sun-darkened from working the field. Callouses puckered the pads of his fingers, palms tanned into leather. Vel glanced at his own hands. He had callouses from his chores, linen to Ary’s burlap.
Poison entered Vel’s heart. Responsibility had broadened Ary’s shoulders, strengthened his body. Pain tightened his face, his shoulders trembling. Vel had seen the look before, a younger Ary walking back straight while his mother screamed her bile at him: “Theisseg cursed him! He was out in the Cyclone!”
Ary’d flinch at every word, but he’d keep walking, shoulders bowed another fingerswidth, more weight added to the crushing load.
Ary tapped his foot. The pew shook, jarring Vel out of his memories.
“Can you stop that?” he groaned.
“Sorry. I just . . . What if I’m drafted?”
“You think she won’t marry you if you’re drafted?”
Ary didn’t answer.
“You can’t help being drafted.” Vel’s heart beat so eagerly. “She can’t be that fickle.”
“I know.” Pain flicked across Ary’s face before stone swallowed it.
He’s lying to himself, thought Vel, convincing himself she loves him. But she doesn’t.
“I mean,” Vel continued, guilt roiling as he pried at the cracks in his friend’s heart, “I guess I can get her saying no if you enlist. That’s a choice you’re making. But to abandon you if your name gets pulled? That’s cruel. That can’t be love.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” Vel shook his head, undaunted. He had to exploit this. He beat down guilt and stabbed his friend’s heart. “I thought love was wanting to be with someone no matter what. She can’t love you if she’d abandon you that easily.”
Ary bit his lip.
“You’d know if she loved you. It’s easy to spot. It’s fire blazing between two people. Raging flames demanding action. Flames that burn through any obstacles. If she blazed for you, she wouldn’t hesitate. Girls have loved me. The things they’ve done for me . . .” A grin crossed his lips. “So you’d know. You wouldn’t have doubts.”
The things Chaylene will do for me . . .
“My parents loved each other,” Ary said. “I know that. They never burned like you’re talking. It was more like . . . coals. A steady heat, not dancing flames. They were close. They understood each other.” He smiled, color returning to his cheeks. “They were always laughing, like they had these jokes that only they understood.”
My parents only fought.
“You know, like if I say duckbeard.”
A smile cracked Vel’s lips, followed by a burst of laughter. He could feel the cold mud sticking to his chin, embedded with the duck’s feathers. “I almost had that mallard. I got his wing pinions.”
“Stuck on your face.” Ary grinned, laughter in his eyes.
“Closer than you got.” For a moment, the rift in their friendship vanished. Nothing stood between them. They laughed together for the beat of a dozen heartbeats before chortles drifted off into silence.
Chaylene, bathed in moonlight, returned to Vel’s thoughts. He scowled, whipping back his feelings. Remember what matters! “That’s friendship. Not love.”
“Isn’t friendship a part of love? She’s my closest friend.”
Ary’s words stabbed Vel’s heart. His jaw set. He gives me nothing! “I wouldn’t abandon you if you joined the Navy. And we’re friends.”
Ary chortled, missing the vitriol twisting Vel’s words. “We’re not that sort of friends.” His laughter trailed off. “I really think she’s going to say no if I’m drafted. I want to propose after the draft. I got plans, too, where we’ll live, how we’ll earn our keep. But . . .”
The vulnerability returned. Vel pounced. “But if you’re not drafted, you won’t ever know how she truly feels.”
“I’ll know.” He said the words too fast, too assured, for Vel not to hear the hollow ring behind them.
“Will you?”
“I’ll. Know.”
“Jayne, Briaris,” chirped the acolyte, her head surveying the solar in jerky turns.
Vel prayed, Riasruo, please, give him something vital for the Navy.
Chapter Eight
Ary’s nerves grew as he crossed the Solar to the waiting acolyte, but the calming warmth of Riasruo’s light warmed his back. Besides Vel’s doubting words, what did he have to fear? He was about to receive the Goddess’s Blessing, freely given out of her love.
“This way,” trilled the acolyte, whirling around and passing into a hallway made of the same red sandstone.
Ary followed. Her talons clicked on the floor, echoing with the beat of Ary’s heart. It wasn’t a long corridor, containing only three doors, one to the right, one to the left, and one at its end.
“Which one?”
“The door straight ahead leads to the rear courtyard,” she answered, head twisting to look behind her. Ary’s skin crawled. He’d rip his head off trying to turn that far. “When you are finished, you will exit through there. Your Autonomy military officials will enter your name in the draft.”
She seized the ivory knob of the door to the right, opening it with finger-like pinions. A stairwell led down. Cold air rushed past, raising goose pimples across his arms.
“The sanctum?” he asked, surprised it lay below the ground. He had thought it resided in the tower.
“The Goddess’s love can penetrate rock and flesh. Her light shall illuminate the way.”
Ary took a deep breath and stepped into darkness.
Radiance birthed before him.
The moment Ary’s foot touched the first stone tread, light flared from yellow quartz set in the red sandstone walls of the stairwell. The light, warm and bright, shone with the Goddess’s love. As he descended the tight spiral, more flared to life, leading him into the darkness. Even in the depths of the skyland, Riasruo blazed.
The thought buoyed his steps.
He forced down Vel’s words, the doubt his friend had chipped into his emotions. Ary refused to believe Chaylene to be so fickle. The Navy scared her, but she still loved him. She just tho
ught herself weak, her mother reborn. But she’d weathered her childhood and still could laugh, blossoming brighter than any other of Isfe’s flowers. She could not fake her smiles, her touches, her hugs, her whispered compassion.
She felt genuine.
It grew cold and damp the lower he went, mildew’s musk tickling his nose. The light was his only companion. Every few treads, a new sun rose out of the darkness before him as an old one set behind. The stairwell delved as deep below the temple as the tower rose above it. At the bottom, he found a simple door of rosewood carved with Riasruo’s sun—a disk surrounded by five feather-like rays of light.
Uncertainty filled him. Do I just open the door? He raised his arm, slow and hesitant, and tapped his knuckles against the wood.
“Enter, child of Riasruo,” a calm, sing-song, Luastrian voice answered.
Ary grasped the red-stained, ivory handle, twisted it, and pushed the door inward into the Sanctum. He discovered a small, circular room cut out of the granite of the skyland. The floor had a diamond carved a fingerswidth wide into it. At each point stood a wooden plinth containing a glass dome covering a small device or object: a thin glass tube with a marble sphere in it, a bowl full of a thick, gray smoke; two thin metal spires jutting from a piece of wood; and a thin spire of bone with four radial arms ending in cupped bowls. At the center of the diamond stood a fifth plinth, which held a piece of charcoal beneath its glass container.
As Ary stepped into the sanctum, the light caught the glass domes oddly, refracting and distorting into rainbows. Not glass, but clear crystal. They’re engines. Ary knew enough about engines, devices which harnessed the Blessings into new effects, to recognize them. Always made of crystal and wood, the combination of specific types of gem and species of wood dictated their function.
“Welcome, Child of Riasruo,” a singsong voice spoke.
The bishopress stood near the wall, a wizened Luastria draped in sun-bright silk, a crown carved of pale-yellow cedar upon her brow, five feathered rays of light bursting radially from it. The brown feathers marked her as a Jwauahwiian Luastria—most priestesses hailed from that flock. Her feathers were dull and tattered, her right wing stunted and deformed, twisted by infirmity or a defect of birth.