On Wings of Air (Earth and Sky Book 1)

by J. L. Griffin

  They were halfway through the third course at dinner when a courier entered the room with a message for Hawkins. The Seneschal took the missive impatiently, irritated at having his meal disturbed, and he cast his eyes on the note’s contents. There was a brief crack in the Seneschal’s façade as he frowned down at the offending piece of paper.

  Hawkins excused himself from the table and hurried away as if handling a matter of import. Skye watched him for a moment before standing and approaching King Tempest. As prince, he should have merited a place at the table right beside his father, yet that ground-kissing Hawkins had managed to ensure that he would have no such easy way to indulge in whispered communications with the king.

  “Father,” Skye said, “I must talk to you.” Even if the fake piece of correspondence was forcing Hawkins to trek to the other end of the palace, Skye did not have a lot of time.

  Tempest frowned. “What is it, Skye?”

  “I don’t know what Hawkins said to make you believe that Cirrus is guilty, but you have to know that he would never do anything to hurt his people.”

  “Skye—”

  “You’ve been acting strange, Father, and I don’t know why, but—”

  “Your Majesty,” a cultured voice called suddenly, making Skye feel hard-pressed to hold back a growl, “I have realized that my urgent business is not so urgent after all.”

  Slowly, Skye turned, glaring at the approaching Seneschal with every ounce of hatred he could bring to bear in his gaze. The loathing in his heart was so great as to be indescribable. In that moment, Skye came within a hair’s breadth of attacking the man and removing him from his position permanently. Reason asserted itself, however, and he contented himself with glaring at the Seneschal.

  “Your Highness,” the man said calmly to Skye, a slight smile on his face, “you should sit down and enjoy your meal. You would be much better off saving your strength to . . . write fancy letters to your friends.” He paused. “Oh, I’m sorry . . . the only friend you have is a traitor to your people. I’m afraid writing letters would do you no good at all, would it?”

  Skye did growl then, longing to put his hands around that spindly little neck and break it, much as certain birds snapped the necks of their unwitting prey. “I will destroy you, Hawkins,” he hissed as the man paused beside him.

  “Oh, no, Your Highness,” Hawkins said in a low voice, his smirk growing wider, “I’m afraid that things will continue much as they ever have. I’m not going anywhere.” And then he chuckled to himself, as though he had made some grand joke, and moved once more to King Tempest’s side.

  Skye finished the meal, but everything he ate tasted like ash.

  * * *

  When Skye went to bed that evening, his frustration peaked as high as Celesta’s stars. He considered other schemes to accomplish his purpose—pleading letters to his father, tranquilizers in the Seneschal’s cup—yet he felt buried by the overwhelming feeling that Hawkins would beat him at every turn. Skye was by no means stupid, but he had always distanced himself as much as he could from the machinations of the court while still upholding his royal duties. Obviously, that had been a mistake, and it was too late to correct it now, but he wished he had been better prepared for a standoff against an opponent such as Hawkins.

  It was especially frustrating that the Seneschal’s goals were by no means transparent. Certainly, he must have wanted more power, yet Hawkins had been in his position at the king’s side for several years without making a move. If he had simply been biding his time, then what was the reason for it? Did he even have plans that he had begun to put in motion? And where did Cirrus fit into all this?

  When Skye drew his down comforter over himself—the sky realm was always chilly at night due to the high altitude—he was not certain he would be able to fall asleep. After he shut his eyes, the smug look on the Seneschal’s face seemed to cloud his mental vision, and it was difficult to push the image away. At last, however, sleep came upon him, but it was a fitful sleep. The nightmares came as no surprise.

  The first nightmare began with him in a cell, trying to claw his way out, scratching up the door, his fingers bleeding and raw as he screamed for the guards to let him out. Cirrus gazed in through the bars on his door and said apologetically: “I’m sorry, Skye, but they won’t let me see you.” Skye pounded on the door, shouting, yet Cirrus simply faded away in front of his eyes.

  Then suddenly Skye and Cirrus were down on the ground world, running from a pack of garms. The beasts were vicious, ravenous, murderous. They snapped and snarled with jagged teeth, thirsty for Skye’s life’s blood . . . and gaining on him.

  The garms halted at the sharp command of a shadowy figure at the edge of his consciousness. The figure stepped forward, doffing its hood and revealing the face of a beautiful young woman. Beneath her dark cloak, she was dressed in a long, loose dress, all drab browns and grays, such as any Skychild would not dream of wearing, but with slits along the sides like any brazen temptress would wear. Her face was indistinct, as if Skye’s vision was obscured by a fog between them, though he could tell she possessed a roundish face, much like he had heard most Groundbreathers possessed, but with shining amber eyes that appeared bright in the dim light. The thing that most caught his attention was the wealth of rich, luxurious dark tresses which fell in waves down her back, proclaiming her heritage as one of the Groundbreathers. She attempted to say something that he could not quite hear. Her words were swallowed up by the growls of the beasts, and Skye knew they would be on him again if he did not run once more.

  He fled the beasts, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground in his haste to escape—for some reason, he could not fly—and then one of the garms leaped on him. He did not try to fight it. Instead, he froze. He could not struggle against its weight. He remained motionless, stuck in a paralysis he could not understand.

  Then he realized what it was. The form on top of him was not an animal—it was a human.

  “W-what?” he stammered, working his mouth with some difficulty.

  “Skye,” a familiar female voice said in a sultry whisper, “I know you’ve been upset, but I’m here to comfort you.” And then manicured fingers trailed down his bare chest, sliding the softness of the blanket that covered him (Blanket? his mind asked hazily) down his body, long nails scraping gently against the skin of his chest.

  “Who?” was all he could manage, the fogginess in his head only intensifying.

  “It’s Mista, handsome boy,” she answered in a low purr. One hand began to glide back up along his chest while the other was thrust into his short hair, fingers threading in the blond strands and tugging gently. And then her mouth was on Skye’s, her soft lips pressing and needy.

  The prince wrenched his eyes open, his heart pounding as he realized this was no dream. He turned his head and broke away from the kiss with his stepmother, but she merely used the opportunity to start placing kisses on his cheek, his jaw, his neck.

  He reached out to push the seductress away, grimacing to himself as he realized how scantily clad she was. With a careful placement of his hands on her upper arms, he succeeded in removing her mouth from his skin, but as she sat back—still on top of him—she looked at him in confusion. The nightgown she was wearing displayed a generous amount of cleavage and left little to the imagination. He wanted to close his eyes or turn his head to block the sight from his mind, but he could not trust her to refrain from kissing him again. So instead, he kept his eyes focused firmly on her face.

  “Skye?” she asked in confusion. Her brow crinkled, and she tilted her head as she looked down at him.

  “You’re my stepmother,” the prince said hoarsely. “We can’t—you can’t just come in here and think that . . . Why would you . . . ?” His mind was scarcely functioning. Why in Celesta’s bright blue skies is this happening?

  “Don’t you want me?” she asked. Her chin was starting to tremble.

  “Of course I don’t want you,” S
kye said, suppressing the urge to groan. “You’re . . . you’re my stepmother. This is wrong.”

  “We aren’t related by blood,” she said with a sniffle. “My age is closer to yours than to your father’s, and you’re much more handsome.” This last she said in a sort of a purred whisper, as if imparting a great secret.

  Skye had to withhold another groan. Sweet Celesta, it was like talking to a child. “If you hold my father’s age against him,” he said slowly, “then you shouldn’t have married him. Mista, you have to go.”

  She shook her head. “No, I want to comfort my stepson!”

  “Mista, go!” Skye shouted, finally losing his tenuous grip on his patience.

  And then her eyes did fill with tears. Yet despite that, she leaned down, obviously aiming for his lips once more.

  He shoved her off the bed.

  She sat there for a moment on the floor, her eyes wide and round—again, like a child’s—as she stared up at him. He could see the pain and lack of understanding etched on` her face, but he knew it was impossible to reason with her. When she got to her feet with a sob and fled, he did not chase after her. He merely stood and closed the door she had left wide open.

  What in the blazing skies was that?

  Celesta looked upon what the dark-eyed Terrain had wrought with his actions, and she turned her head away from his progeny in shame. In her disappointment and sorrow, she called his children “Groundbreathers,” as they spent their lives in squalor, breathing in the dust of the world.

  Celesta wished Terrain could be content with what she had given him, and she mourned for what would never be. Terrain’s pride was too great for him to enjoy her gifts. He could never learn to take joy in that which brought his mother happiness.

  Terrain, her precious child, firstborn of her love, had fallen from the heights of the cosmos to the bowels of creation. He was her greatest triumph. He was also her greatest failure.

  —The Book of Celesta

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Fall

  What Skye wanted was to return to bed. Despite the surreal events which had just taken place, he still felt as though he were scarcely awake. He had enough on his plate with Cirrus, and he did not want to get caught up in something else. This—whatever “this” was—had come at a highly inopportune time.

  He knew, however, that Mista was going to run to someone, and that someone was likely his father. At the very least, Skye needed to go defend himself.

  Forcing his limbs to move, he fumbled around to find some clothes—normally, he had clothes laid out for him, so it took him a few minutes to locate everything—and finally dressed himself. Then he took a deep breath and opened the door to the hallway.

  Mista and his father had worked quickly. Skye had scarcely taken two steps outside his quarters before he was intercepted by a group of guards. They seemed slightly out of breath, and Skye figured King Tempest had sent one Sentinel to fetch others for the purpose of making a more effective display of power.

  “Your Highness,” one man said grimly, “your immediate presence is required by His Majesty.”

  Gritting his teeth, Skye said, “Fine. Take me to him.”

  Skye’s quarters were not far from his father’s, but King Tempest was not about to cede any control to Skye by coming to the prince’s quarters himself. No, instead, he would use the Sentinels as a symbol of his authority . . . and a way to ensure that Skye would be unable to flee. It was quite disappointing that King Tempest would distrust his own son’s honor in such a way. Apparently, his relationship with his father was more battered than Skye had realized.

  They marched forward, and though Skye’s mind was still heavy with sleep, he attempted to focus on the problem. Mista had always been flighty and a little stupid, but he had never thought her capable of infidelity. He had no idea what she could have possibly been thinking when she decided to accost him in his bed. Was her relationship with his father merely a cover for something more sinister? And what did Hawkins have to do with the matter? Mista had been introduced to the king through Hawkins, who was her uncle, but though she deferred to Hawkins, Skye had never seen anything to make him believe they were especially close.

  Unfortunately, Skye had no time to consider the problem fully, as moments after he left his room, he was ushered into the king’s outer chambers. The sight which met him caused his heart to sink.

  Mista was curled into a ball on the corner of a sofa, crying. King Tempest sat beside her, patting her shoulder in an effort to comfort her. Yet he was not speaking to her and did not even seem concerned at the fact that she was distressed; rather, it appeared he was merely going through the motions. Perhaps Skye could have handled the situation easily if that was all he faced, but there was another occupant in the room. The Seneschal stood stiffly behind them both and glared at Skye as he walked into the room. His presence was particularly troubling, as Skye had arrived so quickly after the incident that he did not see how Hawkins could have been summoned.

  Tempest looked up, his expression confused and unfocused. He then appeared to collect himself, shaking his head. When he caught sight of Skye again, his eyes seemed clear, and he directed a glower at his son.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, glancing at his sobbing wife. “Your stepmother tells me you tried to take advantage of her.”

  “Take advantage of her?” Skye cried. “I was sound asleep in my bed until I woke up with this . . . this harpy on top of me, trying to seduce me!”

  “How dare you accuse my niece of such crass behavior!” Hawkins broke in.

  “I only dare because it’s the truth!” Skye snapped in response. “I have no reason to lie. Ask the guards. They found me outside my room on my way to discuss this matter with my father. Or are you suggesting that I manhandled my mother-in-law into my own room so I could assault her there?”

  Skye’s statement only increased Mista’s wailing, though the Seneschal’s expression hardened in response. Tempest appeared to be confused, and he turned to his wife with a questioning eye.

  “Is what he says true?”

  “Of course not,” Hawkins growled. “The prince is obviously lying.”

  For the briefest of moments, the old King Tempest seemed to make a return. He almost appeared commanding, as he had in Skye’s youth when Queen Dawn was alive.

  “I was speaking to my wife, Seneschal,” Tempest told him in a pointed tone.

  The Seneschal seemed to realize his mistake and bowed his head slightly, though his eyes glittered. “Of course, Your Majesty. Shall we not hear more of your wife’s explanation?”

  At the king’s curt nod, both men turned back to the sobbing queen with an air of expectation. Mista, realizing that the attention was focused on her, strove to gain control over her sobs, though it was a few moments before she finally spoke.

  “I . . . I was in Skye’s r-room,” Mista said, wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “See?” Skye interjected. “I’m not sure what my stepmother was thinking, but I’m willing to forget this incident ever happened.” He eyed the Seneschal with some distaste and said, “We should talk more in the morning, Father, without any interference. It has been some time since we spoke at any length together.”

  Tempest’s features softened, and he appeared as though he was about to agree when Hawkins once again spoke.

  “I believe the queen had not finished speaking when she was cut off by the prince,” the Seneschal said, haughtily enunciating each syllable.

  “Your opinion is not needed or wanted, Hawkins,” Skye snapped. “You will leave now.”

  But the comment had done its damage. The king’s eyes darted to his wife, and he lost his momentarily congenial manner as he gazed upon her. With jerky motions, he indicated that she should speak again. Hawkins, to Skye’s frustration, refused to depart as commanded.

  “I was in the prince’s room,” Mista stated with some pique, her former despai
r having all but vanished. “He asked me to join him because he wanted me to help him with Cirrus.”

  Skye gasped. “That’s a lie! I’ve been asleep since early this evening, and the guards can back me up. I’m not sure what game you’re playing, Mista, but it stops now!”

  “You lured my wife into your room with the intent to assault her?” Tempest demanded, his eyes wild with rage. “And you used Sentinel Cirrus as an excuse to do it?”

  This was not good. Skye had thought he was about to reach his father, but Mista’s words had blown over the situation like a chilly winter’s breeze, and whatever gains he had made seemed to have evaporated as clouds under a hot sun.

  Skye was at a loss. He had no idea why his father was vacillating between congeniality and anger and taciturnity like a child who could not decide what toy to choose. Nor was it apparent why Mista had come to Skye’s room in the middle of the night to seduce him. Furthermore, he did not understand why Hawkins was so intent on ending Cirrus’s life and casting aspersions on Skye’s character. Everything had to be connected, yet Skye was having problems putting the pieces together. Were the Seneschal’s actions against Cirrus merely an attempt to isolate Skye himself? If so, for what purpose?

  Trying to keep hold of his temper, Skye said: “I have never had any malicious designs on my stepmother, Father. I did not lure her anywhere, and I did not seduce her or assault her or commit any similar such travesty. I don’t care about the lies that she and her uncle may feed you, and you should feel the same way!” He was starting to show his anger despite his resolve, and he hated the Seneschal’s smug look. He longed for nothing more than to wipe it off with a solid punch to the man’s face. “You have known me all my life, Father. Terrain’s hell! You raised me! You should know my character better than anyone!”