He nearly stepped forward, wanting to feel that rush once more, but the needs of the moment intruded upon his childish desire, and he sighed with regret. This was not precisely the location he would have chosen had he given any thought to the matter, but it was as good a place as any.
He cast a brief glance about, and noting that he appeared to be alone, he sat on the edge of the clouds.
Skye forced himself to relax, gazing upon the beauty of the endless blue of the sky, taking deep breaths and willing his troubled thoughts to subside. Then, when he felt ready, he closed his eyes and sought that center that he had been taught to look for as a young child.
It was a form of Skychild worship—in fact, it was just about the only one in which they indulged. While Celesta did not refuse the adulation of her people, she did not require overt rites of reverence and sacrifice or congregations of worshippers murmuring shared prayers. All Skychildren were taught at a young age to meditate and, in so doing, commune with their goddess. While Skye had never heard of Celesta actually speaking with any of the Skychildren, if a Skychild concentrated hard enough, the goddess’s presence could be felt everywhere. The air about them; the clouds which watered the earth and held the Skychildren settlements aloft; the great blue sky stretching as far as the eye could see; the moon hanging over the earth, beautiful as the purest diamond; and the stars which dotted the brilliant firmament at night, their brilliant glimmering inspiring daring dreamers and aiding nighttime navigators—all were evidence of her majesty. Even the earth below had been created as a result of her power, and the Skychildren acknowledged it, though they did not revere it as they did the other reminders of her majesty.
How long Skye sat there attempting to center himself, he did not know, but the normally calming activity was a miserable failure. His concerns were not to be repressed; his agitation could not be quieted. Thus, when the voices of the boys returning to the palace in their gliders pulled him from his thoughts, it was not an unwelcome interruption.
“Come on, Cloud! You’re falling behind!” one called out.
The name of the boy—Cloud—only served to make Skye think once more of Cirrus, and he rose with a sigh.
I have to talk to my father, he reflected with no small amount of irritation. Maybe he can shed some light on Cirrus’s disappearance. I can’t avoid it any longer. If Cirrus is in trouble, then I have to help him.
Skye turned once more toward the palace. He hastened past the guards on duty at the front gate and made his way to the throne room. Inside, King Tempest was holding an audience with Raptor, one of the lords of the sky realm.
Impatient, Skye crossed his arms and stood in place, knowing there was no sense in attempting to rush his father. It would have been easier to convince the sun not to set.
A nearby thunderbird made a quiet call which echoed throughout the cavernous room, and Skye shuddered at the sound. Thunderbirds had a cry that was a raucous bellow—a sound that was harsher, louder, and more grating than a crow’s caw. The unappealing noise complemented their gray and blocky bodies, which had long necks and talons made to rend and tear. Their plumages only completed the image, for they were always wild and unkempt, like a Skychild’s hair on a windy day. They were not lovely creatures.
The thunderbirds were perched in various places throughout the palace, but they were thickest in the throne room, as if their primary purpose was to intimidate any royal audiences. Something about the lighting in the room made the caruncles on their heads and necks seem especially garish, and the random bald patches scattered all over their bodies often flashed a hint of skin when the birds moved within the shadows in which they typically liked to roost. Whenever a thunderbird chose instead to perch on top of the king’s ornately decorated throne or the intricately carved sculptures nearby, Skye always felt uneasy. At such times, he could not shake the sense that the powerful birds believed they were truly the ones in control of the sky realm. The feeling was probably a result of their inexplicable connection to the throne room. For countless generations, it had been impossible to think of the one without the other; perhaps it would always be so.
The throne room itself was a large and rectangular room fitted with massive columns. The columns had been hewn from the same rock which constituted the rest of the palace, and they were situated at regular intervals throughout the room. The walls had been adorned with all types of murals depicting the history of the Skychild race and the greatness of Celesta. The throne room truly was one of the wonders of the sky realm.
Skye’s eyes were drawn to a figure found on the wall behind the throne. It was a large and colorful depiction of a creature of flight. The beast had four legs, each armed with sharp claws that protruded like daggers, and a long neck that ended in a head with eyes filled with intelligence and fury. Its wings extended upwards, almost larger than life, and a wisp of smoke rose out of the creature’s mouth, looking real and hot. The image seemed alive, as though the creature would spring off the wall and take flight, wreaking destruction and dealing death upon all.
The creature had a name, though it was one few were ever comfortable speaking out loud.
Dragon.
Yet while the name was treated with a sort of fearful reverence, a living example had never been seen. It was a legend, and nothing more, for all the awe-inspiring nature of the mural. Its presence in the throne room had always been a mystery to Skye, as it was unlike the other artwork to be found there.
Feeling a sense of discomfort he could not quite explain, Skye tore his eyes away from the image and focused on the throne upon which his father sat. The throne was significant not only due to the fact that it was the symbol of the king’s power, but also because it was considered holy. Every year at noon on midsummer’s day, the sun would shine into the palace through a large opening in the throne room and bathe that area in its light, and in that light, the king would stand and offer praises to Celesta.
That time was special for various reasons. It was significant to all Skychildren because it was the precise hour in which the eldest of the goddess’s children was born—her children being the progenitors of the entire race—and the day was significant to Skye in particular because it was his own birthday as well. Of course, the festival celebrating that day was a few months away yet, and when it came, Skye would be turning twenty. The event felt significant, though there was no particular reason for it to be so. Skychildren came of age at nineteen; twenty was not especially notable.
The audience continued for some time before it finally ended. Skye had not been heeding events closely enough to know how they had turned out, but he saw when his father made an indication for him to come forward.
As Skye walked toward the throne, he was favored with a piercing look from Seneschal Hawkins. The man quickly turned his face into a blank mask, but Skye felt hard-pressed to refrain from snapping at him. Skye had never trusted Hawkins, and his distrust was strengthened by the fact that the Seneschal had been gaining an inordinate amount of influence over King Tempest during the last year or two. To make matters even worse, Skye had noticed that Hawkins had been disappearing at random intervals over the past several months at least—though his suspicious activities could certainly have been going on for longer than that. It was nothing to garner any true notice, and Hawkins was not gone for long periods at a time, but anything untoward about the Seneschal put Skye on edge. The two men tolerated each other for Tempest’s sake, but when Skye became king, he would immediately find a new Seneschal—a fact which was not lost on the man in question.
“Skye,” King Tempest said flatly in greeting, “what an unexpected surprise.” What he really meant was: What are you doing here?
The shaky relationship between Skye and his father had been particularly strained since Skye’s mother, Dawn, died a few years before, but Skye cared for Cirrus more than he disliked dealing with his father, and so he forged ahead. “Father, I want to ask you about my personal guard.” Knowing his father was mor
e caught up in notions of hierarchy than most Skychildren, Skye had resolved not to betray the intensity of his interest in what had happened to Cirrus if he could avoid it.
There was a flicker of something in the king’s eyes, but it was quickly hidden, and he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Is Cirrus hurt?” a female voice inserted into the conversation.
Skye’s eyes moved briefly to look at his stepmother, who was seated upon the queen’s throne. Queen Mista was a remarkable beauty, with short golden hair, a voluptuous bosom, crystal blue eyes, and pouting lips. Unfortunately, her head was filled with as much substance as a cumulus cloud . . . and that was being generous.
“I don’t know,” Skye said in a low voice, biting back his annoyance and attempting to keep any emotion from his voice. “I have no idea where he is. When he left the palace, he wouldn’t tell me where he was going, and I had the distinct impression that he was leaving on ‘official business’ of some kind.”
The king, who never slouched, nonetheless sat a little straighter in his throne. “Sentinel Cirrus has taken brief leave from the Cloud Sentinel to visit relatives. There’s no need to worry about him.”
“Oh, good,” Mista said with a relieved smile.
Skye glared at his father, wondering if the man truly believed what he said about Cirrus . . . or if there was something else at work. Skye knew for a fact that Cirrus was not with his relatives. Cirrus would have told Skye if he intended to visit some far-off sky settlement. But he had made no such comment. Rather, the exchange had occurred in a much more mysterious fashion.
Skye, sensing that something was wrong, had asked, “Why do you have to go?”
Cirrus had smiled, shaking his head. Like all Skychildren, he was tall—even taller than Skye, who was of greater height than the average Skychild. The short hair that curled around Cirrus’s head lent him a wild look, and his genial and jovial air would have made it easy to underestimate him. But Skye, who knew him quite well, would never make such a mistake.
“There’s no reason to concern yourself with me, Skye,” the man replied with a laugh. Cirrus was the sort of person who, though serious in many ways, always tried to inject levity into a situation.
“Then where are you going?” Skye demanded.
“Sorry, Skye, but I can’t tell you,” Cirrus said, smiling and cocking his head to the side. “Top secret stuff, you know. But don’t worry—I’ll be back before you know it. And then we’ll souse ourselves on sky mead and talk about Lord Eagleclaw’s beautiful daughter.”
That last was said with a grin and the dig of an elbow into Skye’s chest, and the prince felt his cheeks turning warm. Eve was a beautiful specimen of a Skychild, and Cirrus had not stopped ribbing Skye about how he had stared when the woman in question had visited some weeks earlier.
“Fine. Off with you, then,” Skye replied, his voice turning gruff.
Cirrus’s only reply was a laugh and one last slap on Skye’s back before he hefted his pack, gestured for Skye to precede him, and then left his room behind without another glance.
That was the last Skye had seen of him.
Bringing his concentration back upon his father, Skye said firmly, “I believe my personal guardsman would have seen fit to inform me if he was doing something innocuous like visiting his family.” The only relatives Cirrus had to speak of were a mother and a younger sister who lived in a village which drifted close to the capital from time to time. Such a simple thing as visiting them would not have been shrouded in secrecy.
Tempest’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Are you questioning me?”
“I merely want to know what’s happened to my personal guard,” Skye replied, doing his best to keep his voice even.
“Don’t worry needlessly,” the king snapped. “I’m sure he will return in his own good time.”
Hawkins chose that moment to speak up in his smooth baritone: “Your Majesty, we still have much to do. Perhaps you can entertain the prince’s questions after the business for the day is complete?”
Skye eyed the man with distaste. Today was not an official day of audiences; otherwise, Skye’s presence would have been required as part of his duties as the crown prince. Skye would have been forced to sit and listen to some self-absorbed lord droning on about the needs of his lands or some greedy merchant requesting a boon that would supposedly make him a rich man. But that was not what today was; instead, today was nothing more than his father entertaining bootlickers and toadies, the sorts of nobles that Hawkins loved to bring before King Tempest.
The king’s features hardened in response to the Seneschal’s words, and he glared at his son. “Hawkins is right. I’ll speak to you on this matter later, though I can assure you there is nothing to worry about.”
Knowing he had done all he could, Skye bowed and then turned on his heel, stalking from the room. His concern for Cirrus was swallowed up in that moment by his frustration with his father, his distaste for the Seneschal, and his annoyance toward the fact that Mista had nothing more substantial than clouds in her head. But above all, Skye was worried.
Though Skye and his father had never been close, the king had become even more distant in the past few years . . . or perhaps more precisely, he had become more distant since he had taken Mista for his wife. Skye was sure that the woman herself was not to blame, as she could never have orchestrated any kind of plot to separate father from son, but he could not quite discern the reason for the change. Even more troubling was the fact that Tempest had become more erratic in his behavior during the past months, his moods swinging rapidly and without warning. At times, Skye felt as though the man was a stranger.
Thinking to lose himself in a book and temporarily forget his troubles, Skye returned to his room. He paused by a painting that Cirrus had commissioned for him as a gift, feeling another twinge of worry, and then he moved to pull a random book off the shelf. It was one of his childhood favorites, yet it took him some time to immerse himself in it. He finally lost himself in its pages, though, letting the hours pass him by.
He skipped dinner, not feeling up to the meal, and when he finally went to bed, he fell into a restless sleep. The sound of his name being whispered awoke him, and as he sat upright, he grabbed the sword he kept under his bed and held it at the ready, pointing it toward the intruder in his room. He squinted at the figure highlighted by the scant moonlight coming in through his window. Suddenly, his jaw dropped in recognition.
Standing in front of him, beaten and exhausted, was his mentor.
“Cirrus?” Skye whispered.
As the Groundbreathers continued to grow in number, they spread out across the face of the land, feeding on and despoiling the greatness of Celesta’s creation like locusts. But while the goddess gave some thought to curbing their excesses, she decided not to take action, for her original purpose had been to give the Groundwalkers dominion over the earth, and though she had no love for Terrain’s children, they were part of her creation.
A part of Celesta pitied them. They would never know the thrill of soaring through the skies, free as the winged creatures she had created. And with Terrain as their father, they would never understand the beauty of her works.
But despite the growing numbers of Terrain’s descendants, Celesta knew her son remained discontent. The glitter of the stars she had created caused him to recoil; the caress of the winds she sent caused him to shudder. Celesta knew he would always feel constrained by her majesty. She would always exist above him, and for Terrain, that was intolerable.
—The Book of Celesta
CHAPTER
TWO
Confined
Tierra had not meant to eavesdrop.
As the second-born daughter of the Groundbreather king, Tierra was aware that listening to the private conversations of others was not proper. But when she saw a large group of guards and garms returning from somewhere outside the castle late one afternoon, her curiosity was
aroused. And while it was perhaps not precisely dignified to hide out of their sight behind a column, she had a cramp in her leg, by Terrain, and she was not about to hop around moaning and groaning where anyone could see her. She had to wait until the cramp worked itself out!
She watched as the members of the Iron Swords dispersed, presumably to either give reports or return to their normal posts, and then she nearly gasped as one of the dark brown garms passing by turned its curious gaze on her. The large canine was winded, but the sword sheathed on its back—for a scabbard was always strapped on a garm to assist with equipping Iron Swords with weapons—seemed to be free of blood.
Of more concern to Tierra at the moment, however, was the possibility that the big dog would give away her presence.
“Please go,” she whispered as quietly as possible, trusting that the animal’s sharp hearing would carry her words home.
Its dark eyes gazed at her.
Then, finally, she was able to release the breath she was holding. Rather than call the attention of its handler to her, the garm began to amble along on its path once more, no doubt accustomed to seeing the Groundbreather princess in the castle.
Then two guards started talking.
“What happened?” one of the men asked in a low voice. “I heard the commotion, but I was commanded to keep to my post.”
“We are not really supposed to discuss it,” the other said uncomfortably, “but a Skychild—not one of our slaves, but a different one—was discovered in the castle. I do not know what he sought, but it cannot be good for our people.”
On Wings of Air (Earth and Sky Book 1) Page 2