But not before the ignited sulfur flashed bright as the Daystar, illuminating the night for a fraction of a second before acrid smoke filled the air.
They were on the move again at once, and so were too far down the sandy hill to see the lights that flared momentarily far ahead of them, like distant lightning, passing the message along in great leaps through the dark.
III
“The writings of the Gone tell us that this land—our land—was once far more than the charred, twisted sea of sand and wind it is today. The desert is a new happening, a curse left upon the heads of the living for displeasing the First-Born, the Daystar. What the Children of old did to earn this wrath, none know, but it is said the Last-Born, the Night’s Eye, took pity on us, and so every time the First-Born sleeps, She gives us shadow and coolness to ease our burning hide.”
—Sian-Lazzara Rhan, Third-Queen
“I beg your forgiveness, my Queen, but this is the extent of what my informants have managed to procure for us thus far,” Sassyl Gal hissed from his place at the foot of the stone dais, finishing his recounting. “I hope it’s brought you some ease of mind.”
The royal advisor was aging, his once-bright eyes no longer so sharp as in years past, but his mind seemed never to wear. The throne’s delicate webs of scouts and spies were as strong as ever in the old male’s weaving hands, and more atherian slaves had been freed since his rise to the position than in the hundred previous years. He was a rarity, to say the least.
Most males of their kind were useless brutes of little value aside from mating fodder.
It had been days since first word had reached the Under-Caves, but here at last was the whole story. Shas-hana Rhan sighed in relief, relaxing against the back of her stone throne. For the first time in what seemed like a small eternity, she breathed easy.
Her hatchling had been taken in by the trading clans. Her son was safe.
“You’ve done well,” the Queen said, waving him away with a clawed hand. “Go. Rest your tired bones. I will summon you if I’ve need. And send Uhsula to me.”
Sassyl bowed again, shuffling off, his body permanently rent crooked by the years. After he’d exited the audience chamber, the Queen let the relief wash over her in full. Her body shook, and she rested a scaled cheek in the palm of her hand, closing her golden eyes.
So even the First-Born had mercy.
Her child lived, despite his encounter with the slavers. The seer would have paid in blood if the boy hadn’t made it through but, as always, Uhsula proved right yet again.
Opening her eyes, Shas-hana rose to her feet, casting away the staff of black ash and ivory that was one of the few symbols of her position. She kept the crystal crown of obsidian glass, accustomed to its weight against her ridged brow. Tall and lithe like most younger females, she was ill at ease underground. It was her family’s blessing and curse, however, to be secluded here beneath the mountains humans called the Crags, hidden from the world.
Half of her own people, scattered across the desert, didn’t believe in Shas-hana’s existence. Some didn’t know she might even exist at all…
The Queen of the Under-Caves hissed in frustration. They were hiding. They had always been hiding. Most of mankind refused to accept her people as a people. “Lizards” they called them in their tongue. Common animals. Humans were unwilling to see the intelligence that lurked behind the eyes of the atherian, and as such had reduced them to savages and slaves. They couldn’t see the promise that dwelled in the Children.
Even so, showing herself to the world would do no good, Shas-hana knew. No atherian knew the language of man well enough to prove useful. There were still those amongst her followers eager to risk their lives and freedom to attempt assimilation, but the Queen was unwilling to let them. That hand had been played before, and to no avail. Even good-hearted men were turned against them, their opinions twisted by rooted misunderstandings and years of necessity driving her people to acts often below their intelligence. Eating flesh was in their nature. Man had once been prey like any other animal, and willpower was hard-pressed to win the battle over instinct when starvation was thrown into the mix.
No. The acceptance of the atherian into the world of man would take time, and would have to come from an angle unfamiliar to both sides. Uhsula, along with Shas-hana’s hatching of a winged male—a line most thought lost with the death of the Queen’s grand-sire—had provided an opportunity.
At that moment the seer herself arrived, leaning heavily on the knotted oak staff she always carried. While Sassyl was old, he was spry and youthful compared to Uhsula of the Other Worlds. Her eyes were nearly completely opaque, blinded by a combination of long years and a lifetime of living in the darkness of the mountain caverns. She moved at a snail’s pace, her left foot dragging uselessly along, much like her tail. The membranes of her ears—sky blue in an atherian’s youth, then sunset orange, then black and red—were now mottled gray. Her jaw hung agape, revealing worn teeth that were little good except for gnawing at old bones and chewing the thin strips of softened meat her acolytes readied for her meals.
“You sent for me, my Queen?” the elder rasped, eyes following the pacing of her sovereign despite being unable to see her.
“Uhsula. Come. Sit with me.”
Shas-hana took the ancient female’s arm carefully, leading her to the steps of the stone dais. The seer felt around for a moment before easing herself down, bones creaking so audibly that the young queen winced.
Uhsula smiled. “I hope one day you see the long days of my age, child,” she chuckled, slipping into a less formal tone. “By then you’ll have realized that aching joints and rotting claws are only some of life’s most insignificant troubles.”
Shas-hana nodded, her thoughts elsewhere again. She sat beside the seer, and Uhsula’s brow wrinkled.
“You are troubled, Hana?” she asked with her incomprehensible gift of making any question a clear statement.
The Queen nodded again. “My… the boy,” she said. “He’s been taken in. Moving men. After he killed one of the slavers he was beaten nearly to death. The scouts were able to do little more than keep the flesh-birds from tearing him apart. I ordered them never to touch him…”
Uhsula nodded, but remained silent.
“A merchant tribe found him. One of their elders cared for his wounds as best she could, but their language is a strange one. We don’t know what they’re planning to do.”
“Did they bind the child?”
The Queen shook her head. She had asked the same question of Sassyl already.
“No. They’d brought bindings, leather and cloth, but never used them.”
“Leather and cloth are good signs. I doubt anyone planning on selling the boy back to the slavers would risk comfortable restraints.”
Shas-hana nodded, feeling some of the residual tension trickle out of her system.
“Thank you,” she breathed, getting to her feet and pacing again. “Just one last thing…”
“Again?”
Shas-hana nodded. Despite her blindness, the old seer chuckled.
Then she began reciting, as she had every day for the last few weeks, ever since the Queen’s child had been taken from the base of the Crags:
Of one kind, and yet of another,
wings and wind bear him forth.
From chains comes his second birth
and never shall he stand for them.
Child of the Daystar, he will speak the language
and be the speaker of his people.
To leave and then return,
bearing a woman of ice and snow on his arm.
IV
“There is little interaction between the territories of North and South. While this is partially due to bubbling diplomatic and criminal issues that plague the desert plains, it would likely be more accurate to blame the climates for our
social distancing. Drastic spikes in heat make lengthy travel almost impossible in the South during the summer season, whereas those same months are the only limited time in which the harsh freeze of the North abates enough to move cross-land easily. These conflicting weathers force border traders and travelers into one of two choices: either move quickly in the few weeks at the beginning and end of the summer season, or be willing to seek shelter for most of a year until those brief periods of travel open up again.”
—from the libraries of Cyurgi’ Di, concerning trade
In the days that followed the rescue, the atherian was kept isolated in the Grandmother’s hut, away from the curious glances of the children and prying questions of the adults. The Arros were a strong-headed breed, however, and being kept at bay hadn’t done much to ease the tension amongst the most concerned. The commotion it had caused was slight, but for Agais it was amongst the most frustrating ordeals he’d had to deal with since his father’s passing left him head of the family two years prior.
It took several hours to calm the men and women enough to begin their trek anew. Most trusted outright in Agais and the Grandmother, and when both spoke out against leaving the lizard-kind to die, citing the nomadic code, they nodded their understanding and returned to the wagons. A few, though—namely the ones with young children—were less agreeable. None of them were open to the idea of willingly harboring what they saw as nothing short of a rabid animal all the way to the shores of the Garin.
“If the beast can do that to Jarden, what could it do to the other men?” Iriso, Achtel’s wife, demanded of Agais after he’d revealed the unconscious atherian to the rest of the Arros. “And the women? And the children? That thing is dangerous. It cannot be allowed to stay among us!”
Jarden, who was now swathed in proper bandages, making his injuries appear far worse than they were, stepped forward to defend his brother.
Agais’ raised hand held him up.
“Let me make this clear, Iriso.” Agais’ voice was firm and strong, ensuring that every other person standing around him could hear the finality in the statement. “I will not stand for murder in my clan. Lizard-kind or not, that creature is as alive and aware as you and far younger than even your own children. You want to taste the blood of an infant, you go somewhere else to find it.”
He’d stared her down then, the woman glaring angrily, gray eyes shining through her bangs of bleached hair. Finally, she’d looked away, conceding, and stepped back. Achtel put an arm around her shoulders to comfort her.
“And that goes for all of you!” Agais announced, looking around into the group. “Jarden and I were the only ones attacked. If anyone has the right to claim a voice in what happens to the babe, it is us. My vote is cast—”
“As is mine,” Jarden offered up, crossing his arms decisively and standing tall beside his brother.
“—and so the discussion is closed,” Agais finished. “The Grandmother has assured us that the boy will not leave her wagon, and as you all claim to trust in her voice, I hope you will consider this matter settled.”
There was a mixed murmur of disgruntled agreements, but ultimately the Arros let the subject go. They dispersed, some less content than others, to ready their wagons for departure.
“Think we’ll have any trouble from them?” Agais asked Jarden over his shoulder after all the men and women had returned to their own business.
His brother snorted. “From them? No. Tolman is the only one who could pose a problem if he wanted, but he’s sided with us.”
Agais nodded, still concerned. Jarden noticed the withdrawal.
“I could run a sentry to stay with the Grandmother,” he offered with a shrug. “Tolman, Ishmal, Kosen, and myself could easily cover the nights it would take to reach the Garin. We’re only two weeks out at this point.”
Agais shook his head. “Putting up a guard would only imply that we don’t trust our own. While I’ll not stand for murder, I’m even less inclined to allow this lizard-boy to create a rift in my family. He will heal, and once the Grandmother says he is fit to be on his own we can turn him over to the next atherian tribe we come across. There’s bound to be a few traveling through the oasis, and the damn child is winged. They should have no qualms taking him in.”
“So if we can hold off Iriso for another two weeks, we’ll be rid of him.”
The clanmaster chuckled, then nodded.
A week later travel was steady, if a little rough. The family got bogged down for a day by a sandstorm that half buried the caravan, but otherwise they’d encountered no trouble. Once, when Gale nickered nervously, tugging along with their other draft horses, Agais caught sight of a large black shape scuttling along the top of the dune to their left. Almost immediately it disappeared, burying itself into the sands. The scorpion didn’t surface within sight, thankfully, and after a few hours Agais relaxed, confident the thing wouldn’t show up again.
The atherian’s progress was even better. Grea visited him daily, aiding the Grandmother whenever she was able. The young woman seemed to have taken to the infant as only a pending mother could, cooing over his slumbering form much as the Grandmother herself did. They’d managed to feed him cut strips of dried meat over time—it was fascinating to watch the child instinctively swallow them whole—and getting him to drink was much the same. Once, Agais had even walked in on Grea speaking to the boy, telling him about the baby in her stomach and how it kicked so fiercely sometimes. When she noticed her husband, she’d stopped and smiled.
“Watch,” she told him, and ran the tips of her fingers over the ridge of the atherian’s snout and small head. As she did, the lizard-babe’s torn ears, healing at last, spread slightly. The sapphire crest along the back of his neck flickered, and his mouth cracked opened in what was unmistakably some small expression of pleasure. Though those golden eyes remained closed, trapped in the stupor of Grandmother’s herbs, the child called out in a quiet tone much like the low cry of a baby bird.
Even Agais couldn’t help but smile, though his measured amusement was far gone from his wife’s.
What deceptive innocence for such a dangerous creature.
________________________
They were less than four days out when the Grandmother made her decision. The babe healed at a remarkable rate. Already the gashes along his ribs, thigh, and shoulder had sealed completely, rapidly grown over by new, shiny black and olive-green scales. His jaw was mending, and the gash beside his left eye where he’d been struck twice—once by some blunt object and again by Jarden’s shovel—was little more than a dark bruise visible beneath a few broken scales. His wing was still fragile, though she’d been able to remove the splint a few days earlier, and she hoped her plan wouldn’t cause the brittle new bone to crack again. The slices she’d had to cut through the membrane had sealed over in a matter of hours and, now, less than three days later, there was no trace left of them except for three pale lines she doubted would be visible through the night.
“It’s time, child,” she murmured, stroking the infant’s smooth cheek gently. “Rise now.”
The ritual was a private one, something the Grandmother knew most of the other Arros wouldn’t approve of without deliberation. Still, it had to be done. Carefully, muttering her prayers to the Twins, the old woman tipped a thin stream of eastern sea-salts from a glass vial into the bowl of hot water she’d laid beside the babe’s head. It dissolved instantly, and quickly she followed it with a few drops of oil pressed from the redgrass leaves they could find around most watering holes. At first the fluid refused to mix, clinging to the water’s surface. Then slowly it sank, spreading out to hang like a thin layer of broken red silk along the notched bottom of the bowl.
Her concoction ready, the Grandmother drew a long silver needle from one of the many small chests she had spread around the room. Heating it over a candle, she waited until the metal burned white-hot before slipping it
into the fluid.
There was a hiss of boiling liquid. A tiny puff of steam wafted from the bowl, dissipating beside the atherian’s face. The Grandmother held her breath until the haze dispersed completely, carefully avoiding the wafts. The opiate mixture had its uses, good for bringing some small bit of strength back into the limbs of the old or ailing, but to the healthy it could be addicting, even deadly. She had to be careful not to inhale it or she’d find herself so pent full of energy she’d be unable to sleep for days.
The process was repeated again, then again, and each time the old woman watched the babe. At last, as she slid the heated needle in for a fourth time, he stirred suddenly, yellow-gold eyes flickering.
Going through the motions one last time, her prayers stronger now as the potion hissed, the Grandmother checked to make sure the cloth bindings around the atherian’s wrists, ankles, and wings were secure. The restraints were more for the boy’s safety than her own. He would be extremely weak rising out of the herbs’ influences, and the woman wasn’t sure she’d be able to convey to him that he needed to keep still. Getting up to throw the rest of the mixture out into the desert night, she returned and scooted her chair just a little closer.
No need for the child to wake up thinking he was tied down and alone.
It took another quarter hour before his eyes opened again. All the while the boy stirred and twisted, subconsciously fighting the cloth wrappings that held him to the L-shaped bed, his injured right wing extended to one side, the other pinned under his body. There was little room left in the small hut, and the Grandmother realized with a twist of her stomach that if she’d miscalculated the boy’s strength, even in stupor, she would have nowhere to go.
Still, the bindings were designed to comfortably hold down a full-grown man. She had her doubts the babe couldn’t have broken out of them uninhibited, but the old woman had been careful to dose him only enough to partially awaken. He just needed to be aware of his surroundings, needed to understand that he was being taken care of. She hoped that, when he was ready, the boy would realize that he was among friends.
Child of the Daystar (The Wings of War Book 1) Page 4