Half Discovered Wings

by David Brookes

  ‘You can enter,’ he rumbled to Caeles. ‘Have you any weapons?’

  Despite his earlier worries, Caeles had left the sword with Gabel. ‘None.’

  The man checked, obeying the regulations of his duty to the letter. ‘Don’t keep the Regent too long,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t.’

  A bow, and then he was inside. The doors closed behind him.

  ~

  The inside of the city hall wasn’t as he expected. It was only a single room, immense in size and almost square in shape. The ceiling curved to a large dome above him, and there were paintings he could barely see between the beams. There were no windows, only weedy electric lights that ran all across the walls. Faded ribbons hung from the rafters, deathly still in the stale air.

  His boots rang out as he walked slowly accross the stone floor. Caeles stopped with his feet together and hands clasped in respectful greeting.

  Before him was the great throne of the Regent: wooden, unadorned and not much higher than five feet. It was as unimpressive as the small, wrinkled man who sat upon it.

  ‘Greetings,’ said Caeles. ‘I hope you’re not too unhappy to see me, Regent, but my party and I had no choice but to enter your city, against our agreement.’

  The man looked slowly up at the voice. Long white hair, thin and uncared for, hung loosely around his shoulders, sprouting from the sides of his half-bald head. Upon his gradual recognition, he allowed his instant anger to dominate his creased face. Long-nailed fingers clasped at the wooden throne.

  ‘You! You … dare to enter my city.’ Spit landed in a light spray around Caeles’ boots.

  ‘I apologise for doing so,’ he said, bowing his head.

  ‘You apologise for doing so,’ the man derided. His neck seemed to have trouble supporting his head. ‘Ha! You don’t have to talk like the rest of them here, Caeles. For God’s sake, just act like yourself.’

  Slowly the head came up, and the Regent looked first at those dark, angry eyes, then at the deep scar that ran below them.

  ‘I was there when you got that,’ he said. ‘I remember you coming to take us all on, with that hideous gash dripping blood all through your bandages. You looked a mess. Praise to Alison!’ Jason Dysan laughed, teeth broken or missing, spit stretching between his lips and running down his chin. ‘You killed everyone on the ship, I think.’

  ‘Alison’s gone. You followed Tan Cleric into a nightmare – that was your choice. And I didn’t kill you.’

  ‘Whatever!’ the old man screamed. ‘You killed my friends! And you spare me? You put me through hell, you bastard!’

  Caeles watched as Dysan stopped to gulp in breath. Slowly the Regent regained his composure, taking a moment to collect his thoughts and emotions. Caeles couldn’t help but notice the glitter of intelligence brighten behind the faded lenses of his eyes. He wondered how a man made so grotesque by age and anger could still live, or at least retain control over a city as large as São Jantuo.

  The skinny chest behind the robes deflated as Dysan controlled himself. Slowly, and with deliberation, he reached into a fold in his robes and removed a small cardboard box, with a design that Caeles hadn’t seen for years. Long nails reached under a lid, and carefully parted two flaps of tin foil, and then removed a cigarette. An honest-to-god cigarette.

  ‘Not seen one of those in years,’ Caeles murmured.

  ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘No lungs.’

  ‘I know that you could smoke if you wanted to,’ Dysan replied. His old eye twinkled as he popped the cigarette into his mouth, filter first. His dry lips could barely hold onto it.

  With his bare forefinger and thumb, he pinched the end of the cigarette. It seemed to light itself. A red flame ignited the ancient tobacco inside the paper, and the Regent breathed in the smoke.

  ‘I only have one when I’m strung out,’ he explained. A little of his rage returned to his face. ‘You make me strung out, Caeles.’

  ‘I know that I’m breaking our agreement. I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice. I’m not asking for much.’

  ‘I told you to stay away from my city, Caeles. We agreed, after the Conflict, to stay away from each other, to let us both live out our lives without having to watch our own backs.’

  ‘You have enough people to do that for you now,’ Caeles replied. ‘And I’m not here to hurt you.’

  ‘Like hell you’re not! Look at you! You’re a fucking child. A hundred and sixty years, and you’re still a child.’

  ‘You’re not looking too bad yourself.’

  ‘Get bent, you fuck. What good is this—’ He held up his hands, and the blood vessels under his skin burned and glowed. His hand seemed alive with fire. ‘—when I end up like this?’

  ‘So you’re old. But you’re alive. I haven’t done anything to harm you, even though I’ve known where you lived for the past however-many years. I gave you life, now you give me consideration.’

  ‘What is it you want, then, old friend?’

  Caeles breathed slowly. ‘My party and I are staying at an inn near the lake tonight. In the morning, if there’s a ferry, we’d like to cross the Lual. We only want to stay overnight and catch a boat. We’ll go the long way around on the way back, if you’re really that concerned. But for now, time is of the essence, so we need to cross.’

  ‘Found yourself another little group of friends, then, have we? You didn’t have many during the war.’ His old face dripped with malice.

  ‘Nobody has friends in war, you idiot. We all stayed away from each other. You’d know that, if you had done any proper fighting. You hid away like a child. You’re as pathetic as the rest of the errant freaks you hung about with. That ship should have been your tomb as well as theirs.’

  His voice echoed a few times, bouncing from wall to wall until it faded. In the silence, they glared at one another.

  ‘Great way to soften me up, Caeles,’ the Regent coughed. ‘But instead of letting you cross my lake, I’ll get you and your new chums executed. How about that?’

  Caeles’ eyes darkened with anger and he lunged forward, stopping just an inch from Dysan’s face. He could smell the filth rotting between what teeth he had left.

  ‘I’d kill you,’ he said.

  ‘Fine,’ Dysan choked. Caeles stood back. ‘Fine … As long as you’re causing no harm, I’ll allow you to pass through. I’m a bigger man than this.’

  A nod from his unwelcome visitor. ‘I give you thanks, Regent.’

  Jason Dysan then offered his hand, stretching as far as the weak arm would allow. He attempted a smile. Caeles looked at the withered appendage, then up into the old man’s cataract-capped eyes. Instead, he bowed in parting.

  The Regent suddenly lunged with a high-pitched wail. His hand snatched at Caeles’ face; it was ablaze, roaring with from within with inexplicable organic fire, and it hissed as he brought it to and fro, hitting nothing but air. The cyborg took a step back, unharmed, and let the errant release his rage, screaming as he leaned as far as he could manage, with his weak bones and diminished energy. The fire whooshed harmlessly between them.

  Caeles turned and left, paying no attention to the guards outside, nor the furious wailing that washed through the doors behind him.

  ~

  After finding the rooms booked at the inn empty, Caeles looked for Rowan, Gabel and the magus around the edge of the Lual. The lake danced with light, each tiny undulation catching the glow from the lamps of the street behind. The moon’s reflection was large, shivering on the surface. The scarred man stopped for a moment, looking at the glow of the lake and at the stars.

  A fragmented melody drifted out from over the water. Never had he heard song such as what he heard then, and he felt wounded that he couldn’t make out the words. Moving closer to the shore, Caeles began to pick up snatches of song. The words were indistinct, about the moon, the stars, the sky … Poetic but not immediately coherent.

  He perched on the top of a hill
that sloped gently to the bank of the great lake and saw Rowan about halfway down, looking out over the water. She had her hands in her lap, and was gazing at the lights bouncing off the faraway waves. Her music drifted out to meet them.

  At the end Caeles realised the singing had been for the hunter and not for him, and his heart sank. What had he been expecting? He’d certainly not entertained the idea of Rowan and himself together; he hadn’t thought that way for decades. It just didn’t appeal to him. His heart had been shown the warmth for just a few minutes, and afterwards fallen back under the ice. It was a feeling he was glad to cover up and forget.

  ‘Rowan,’ he said quietly.

  She started and turned around, saw the black-as-death silhouette crouched on the top of the ridge, stark against the moonlit sky.

  ‘Caeles?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He walked slowly down and sat by her. ‘I heard you singing. It was very nice, bouncing back off the water. You have a good voice.’

  ‘I used to sing at the church sometimes, when I was stronger. I think I was drawn to the spontaneity of it.’

  ‘You haven’t sung that song before?’

  ‘No. Does that surprise you?’

  ‘It was as if you’d been practising it all your life.’

  ‘Maybe I have,’ she said quietly.

  It was the first time she had referred to her missing memories; that period of nothingness, a void that stretched up until the Father had found her, taken her back to the church and looked after her. That had been almost two and a half years ago.

  Caeles let it go.

  Rowan stood and walked to the bank of the lake, her feet almost in the water, and washed her face. Caeles stood beside her.

  ‘Tell me about the war,’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Why? Rowan, I don’t think…’

  ‘Please tell me. I want to learn as much as I can, about everything. Before I die.’

  He sighed. ‘No, Rowan. You’re just upset. There must be something else you can do … I don’t want to talk about it.’

  She started to cry, and washed her face again. Each time the tears fell, she washed them away with water. They stood there for five minutes, the night getting colder.

  ‘It’s just…’ he tried, but stopped.

  Colours rippled across the surface of the water.

  ‘What?’ she whispered.

  ‘You remind me of someone.’

  Caeles stood a few feet away, looking at her. He was unaware that he was flexing his hands, and that his eyes were raw. She knelt and once more palmed water up to her face, and he took the opportunity to quietly leave. He made his way up the ridge, and Rowan turned to catch a glimpse of his back before it disappeared. The waves of the Lual lapped at her feet, as if telling her it was time to depart.

  *

  Nine

  THE CASTILIAN COURIER

  Second Chief Marko Kinneas stood with his back straight, as he had always been instructed to by Chief Naja. His armour glistened quietly under the starlight, the delicate folds and stamped emblems giving the light ridges to follow. When Kinneas finally turned – in response to the shriek from inside the hall – the light swam in a hundred lines over his chest.

  He gleamed when outside the hall, but as soon as he stepped through the doorway he was dark once more. Only his eyes shone.

  ‘Marko,’ called the voice of the Regent. ‘Thank you for coming to me.’

  Always polite, the Second Chief thought, even when he means to punish.

  ‘I was waiting for your call, Regent.’

  He moved closer, so that they were within talking distance. Dysan sat old and frail within the sparse light of the dim strip-lighting.

  ‘Prepare a falcon and get ready to write down a dictation, Marko,’ he said curtly. ‘Be sure to arrive back here within the hour.’

  ‘Yes, Regent.’

  That allowed for twenty minutes until the clock chimed – more than enough time, Kinneas thought. He saluted and left, glad to be rid of the oppressive darkness of the place and its discoloured ribbons.

  Two streets away was the royal falconry, a single-storey building rebuilt from ruinous foundations soon after the war. Inside were three rooms: the study, the store room and the mews, where the birds roosted with sleeves of cloth over their eyes, waiting in the darkness to be called upon and given the chance to spread their wings.

  Each of the six birds had a leather jess, binding a claw to the perch. None of them could escape, and if they were left untied, as sometimes happened, they would never be able to remove the hood, nor find their way through the corridors and out the door. Each falcon was safe, secure, and never thought of escaping.

  Marko Kinneas often frequented the falconry, more so than duty required. It was a hobby, and the birds were his security blanket; big and strong as he was, the man was sensitive on the inside. He hurt whenever the birds were released, despite the conditioning that assured their return each time.

  He unlocked the heavy wooden door and closed it behind him. A heavy bolt-action lock on the inside prevented anything without fingers coming or going.

  Behind the next locked door he prepared the necessary equipment for dictation: a plastic ink pen, and a scroll of treated papyrus paper that rarely tore in the claws of a falcon. Kinneas put them together on the table, ready to be picked up quickly if he lost track of time with the birds. They recognised the noise of a sliding bolt and called quietly to him, each in turn. In the almost complete darkness the ruffle of feathers could be heard, combined with the scratch of talons on wood. They were unnerved, perhaps sensing some danger lurking around the outskirts of the town.

  It wasn’t Kinneas’ worry at the time. He had a job to do, and he was doing it; the guards could take care of any trouble that might arise.

  His dark hands touched the leather rufter of one of the falcons. None had names, despite the man’s desire, but he could distinguish them by looks. The one Kinneas touched now had delicate strokes of carmine along its pinions. The bird raised its head at the man’s touch, startled, probably woken from a doze. It trilled at him, nipping his tough finger with its beak in affection.

  ‘There, my beauty,’ he purred. His voice was low, and the birds stopped to listen. ‘There, there.’

  He lifted the hood and the head turned sideways, showing off the creature’s beautiful profile. The round watery eye blinked sleepily, the pupil contracting ever so slightly. Another chirrup, along with a brief readjustment on the perch.

  ‘There, there. On my hand.’

  His skin was thick enough so that he barely felt the talons. In ten years Kinneas had only ever used a glove with wild birds. These six eyas, taken at birth from their nests, were as thoroughly-trained and indoctrinated as any good soldier. Kinneas envied them: they never doubted their superior.

  ‘Here we go.’

  He carried the bird to the study, after carefully bolting the mews door behind him. Outside, the whole town was quiet in its somnolence, but the study was wholly silent. Calm, away from the serene wash and tide of the Lual, the chirp of grasshoppers in the scrub, and the sound of the wind through the trees.

  He asked the bird to drop from his finger to the back of a chair, and did so immediately. The only other movement was a brief shuffle along the wooden plank to find a suitable resting place. A single, unnoticed curl of shaved wood spiralled to the floor underneath it.

  Kinneas paced by the falcon for a few more minutes, and stopped now and again to stroke its feathered head. He could feel its fragile skull beneath the down; he had always liked the feel, but had never known why. Maybe it was a power thing, knowing that he could so easily kill the bird if he wished.

  The thought disturbed him, and he was shaken for a minute until he gathered himself and the equipment, and left the falconry with the bird on his arm, tied there by a jess.

  The hall again beckoned to him, that huge doorway like an open mouth. The falcon was uneasy, and scratched his forearm. Kinneas didn’t mind. The bird didn’t know
what it was doing.

  He hadn’t realised that he was holding his breath until he stepped inside.

  ‘Marko. Thank you for being quick.’

  ‘Yes, Regent.’

  ‘Are you ready for dictation?’

  ‘Yes.’ He let the falcon perch on a disused torch bracket and put pen to parchment, to show that he was ready.

  The dictation took just over two minutes, with Dysan pausing every now and again, as if to re-phrase in his head what he was about to say. Kinneas was certain that Dysan already had the message planned out, despite the show of thoughtfulness. The Second Chief had learned the body language of his ruler.

  When the message was transcribed, the armoured man read it back until the other was satisfied. Then Dysan said:

  ‘There’s a messenger outside city who has a horse. His name is Henrique. Send the bird to him with orders to pass the message on immediately to the addressee.’

  ‘Yes, Regent.’

  Outside, Kinneas untied the jess from his arm and then fastened it around the rolled up scroll. The bird clutched it tightly in one talon and flapped its wings in anticipation of flight. Delicately, the large bear-like man stroked the bird’s downy chin, patted down its wings, then launched it into the air and watched it go.

  The falcon called to him once, wheeled three hundred and sixty degrees above the city, and then vanished over the water.

  ~

  The bird flew for two hours in the night, faster than any man or animal could have run. It made its way over the water of the Lua, following the coastline. The longwing then swung around over the trees of the forest, the highest leaves just a metre or so below its yellow claws. The messenger was familiar to it by sight, and it had his location as thoroughly memorised as it did its own roost in the falconry.

  The courier was known to the Regent as Henrique Unger, but his real name was Henrique Martínez. A native of New Castile, he had migrated further west and overseas to find a place that was not so caught up in civil war. After living in São Jantuo as an artist, he’d been mildly successful before leaving to live in an abandoned camp he’d come across halfway around the Lual, and joined the group of men that lived there.