Beneath Ceaseless Skies #201

by Gwendolyn Clare

  Doubtfully, he said, “So that is what all this is for? The research, the diadem, the herbs?”

  “Necessary preparations. I have a plan.” She paused and gave him a considering look, but said simply, “It’s complicated.”

  Dorial lifted the story page off the counter and held it up as if it were evidence. “I thought magic was for children.”

  She grabbed the page from him, balled it up in her hands, and dropped it into the herbalist’s lit hearth. The flames flared brighter for a moment, consuming the crumpled page like a flower that bloomed and died in seconds. She watched, entranced, the fire reflecting in her eyes.

  “It’s just paper,” she said. “There’s still time to write a different ending.”

  Dorial shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re out of time.”

  “But you’ll still be wanting this, I hope,” the herbalist interrupted.

  Dorial jumped; he had forgotten about the old woman. She was holding a lidded woven basket, which she slid across the counter toward them. Navidha thanked and paid the herbalist, then slung the basket’s leather strap over her shoulder and left the shop. Dorial followed her out the door. In the market square, Navidha tucked her hand under his elbow and they walked side by side, as if they were out for a stroll through the royal gardens. It seemed inappropriately familiar, given his relatively low station, but Dorial couldn’t think how to disengage her touch without insulting her.

  Scourge was easy to find, not only because he perked up at the sound and smell of their approach but also because of the circle of empty platform surrounding him. Everyone else in the marketplace had given the beast a wide berth, wary of sharp teeth and claws.

  “We have one last errand to run, you and I,” Navidha said as they stopped in front of the pterather.

  Before Dorial could answer, Scourge interrupted, bending his neck over Navidha and wuffling in her hair. She held very still for this inspection, but she did not seem especially disturbed at having the snout of a massive winged predator in her face.

  Dorial reached out to scratch the hollow behind Scourge’s jaw, and his eyelids drooped with contentment. “He doesn’t scare you?”

  Navidha smoothed her palms down the front of her richly embroidered kaftan, steadying herself. “There will be worse things to fear before this quest of mine is complete.”

  She was so clever and brave and determined—Dorial could not help but admire that, even if he found her optimism a bit naïve. She would pursue this with or without him, uncaring of the danger she might put herself in.

  “One more stop,” he reluctantly agreed, “and then it’s back to the palace with you.”

  Dorial got out the spare flight harness and held it up for her as one might hold up a cloak. Navidha threaded her arms through the leather straps and clumsily fastened the buckles, while Dorial tried his best to assist without actually touching her.

  “Don’t worry,” Navidha said brightly, “this errand takes us back up to the main island.”

  She unraveled a colorful scarf from around her neck and tucked her hair securely beneath it, preparing for flight, but when it came time to mount the pterather, she lost some of her shining confidence. Scourge crouched, folding his wingbones carefully back and presenting the length of his forearm as a mounting step. Navidha still hesitated, eyes wide as if the climb daunted her.

  Dorial sighed. “I’ll pull you up,” he said, mounting with ease, then leaning down with his hand outstretched.

  Navidha grabbed his hand, and he heaved her up onto the saddle seat behind him. Next he had to show her how to kneel properly in the saddle and how to clip her harness to the tack. Apparently, highborn ladies didn’t get a great deal of practical experience with flying, however much they might enjoy writing about it.

  Dorial was careful, though, to keep an expression of bland patience instead of showing his amusement. While Navidha might be in trouble herself for running away, that didn’t preclude the possibility that she could cause trouble for his career if she wanted to. Best not to offend someone of high station.

  Scourge, ever the show-off, launched himself into the air with a velocity no docile pteravod could hope to match. The market platform dropped out from under them like a stone.

  Navidha let out a little shriek and buried her face in the back of Dorial’s coat. Dorial stiffened at the warm pressure between his shoulderblades, intensely aware of the impropriety of the moment, but she didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she let out a giddy laugh, the sound muffled a bit by the sheepskin. She mustered her courage and slowly leaned away from him, leaving one hand pressed to the small of his back as if touch alone held her in the saddle.

  Dorial released pressure on the curb bit, and powerful wingbeats carried them upward.

  “Where are we going?” he called over his shoulder.

  * * *

  The office of the royal cartographers was a wide, low structure built into the steep stone side of the main island. The building had a modest landing platform of its own, but it was also connected by rope bridge to the massive floating towers of the military docks, where half a dozen royal airships of varying size and purpose were currently berthed for the night.

  The hulking silhouettes of the dock towers made Dorial vaguely uncomfortable. The training facility for pterathers and their riders was not in Cloud City, so Dorial had only a passing familiarity with these docks, but something about them still brought to mind his time as a young recruit. That difficult time, before Scourge had chosen him, when he’d faced an uncertain fate.

  Scourge backwinged over the little platform, alighting with a whoosh of air. Dorial unclipped his harness and shifted in the saddle to see to Navidha, worried about the strength of her stomach after that landing. But when he turned, he found Navidha grinning, wide-eyed with delight. The wind had pulled loose her headscarf, and her black curls were a mess, but if she knew she didn’t seem to mind.

  Dorial slid down first and then reached up to help Navidha dismount. She stumbled a bit when her feet landed on the platform, and Dorial had to steady her with a hand on her elbow. “Those saddles can be hard on the knees,” he said, trying to be sympathetic despite the unimpressively short distance they’d traveled.

  “I’m fine,” she said brightly and stepped away from him. Her cheeks colored a little, embarrassed at needing his assistance but not resentful of him for providing it. “Shall we go inside?”

  As they walked up to the entrance of the cartography hall, Dorial cast her a sidelong glance. “There were no maps in your stories, I’d like to point out.”

  “No?” she answered with feigned innocence. “I’ll have to write one with maps in it, then. Magical maps, of course.”

  Dorial pressed his lips together to keep himself from laughing. There was something infectious about her effervescent mood. He did not look forward to her inevitable disappointment when he delivered her back to the palace.

  Navidha let herself inside, Dorial following. She called out, announcing their arrival, and one of the royal cartographers emerged from a door on their left. Like the boy in the library he wore the brown kaftan of the Scholar, but he seemed a little older, a little wiser. Not quite so awed by Dorial’s flight gear and willow-leaf blades and posture of authority. The cartographer exchanged a familiar greeting with Navidha—too familiar, in Dorial’s opinion—but it did not seem quite like a reunion among friends so much as a gathering of co-conspirators. One to which Dorial had been accidentally invited.

  While he could not help but feel like an intruder, the cartographer welcomed him into their confidence without question. “Come along into the map hall,” he urged them both.

  Compared against Cloud City’s cavernous library, the map hall was small and modest, though the strategically placed oil lamps kept the room well lit even at night. Instead of books, there were maps—maps everywhere. Some were stored rolled up like scrolls and tucked away in little square cubbies. The largest hung framed upon the walls. The rest were housed in cust
om-built wooden chests with wide shallow drawers, lined up in rows as if they were bookshelves.

  The cartographer led them to a long table, whereupon an array of maps were laid out. The topmost map was well familiar to Dorial, showing His Majesty’s holdings and the lands surrounding them.

  The cartographer flicked a questioning glance from Dorial to Navidha. “Shall I explain...?”

  “Please do,” she said. “As you described it to me.”

  He nodded and turned to Dorial. “The sky islands are not perfectly stationary—their position wanders over time. It’s a slow process, but with a thousand years of maps it’s possible to calculate the speed and trajectory of each island’s wander. By tradition, we draft our maps with Cloud City in the center and plot the position of all other islands relative to the capital, but in actuality Cloud Island also wanders. We can prove this with the star maps.

  “So what I’ve been searching for, at the request of the lady Navidha, is a true center for the sky islands. A sort of magnetic north, if you will, for all of aether magic: the island that does not wander.”

  Navidha sucked in a breath, excited to see the glint of victory in the cartographer’s eyes. “You’ve found it?”

  He grinned and tapped the far northwestern corner of the map with his index finger. “Here; a small island chain called the Pearl Isles. They do not wander relative to the stars.”

  “So that is where I must go,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “The heart of aether magic. Perhaps even its origin.”

  Dorial stared at the map; on paper, the Pearl Isles did not look especially worthy of notice. “What do you hope to find there?”

  “Answers,” she replied. “And if I’m very lucky, I’ll find the next questions—the ones I don’t yet know to ask.”

  Navidha thanked the cartographer for his service and passed him a coin to pay for his discretion, though Dorial doubted it was necessary to buy this man’s loyalty. From the respect in his gaze, she already had it.

  Dorial and Navidha walked out into the night, where Scourge waited for them. He crouched motionless on the platform like a massive gargoyle, moonlight catching on the smooth planes of his plumage. They stopped beside him, Dorial disquieted to find a reluctance inside himself; he ought to mount immediately, pull her up after him, and fly for the palace, but he did not.

  “I’m afraid it’s time for you to decide,” Navidha said, her mood shifting like the wind, anticipation vanishing in favor of a hesitance that bordered on dread.

  “Decide what?” Dorial replied stiffly, as if he did not already know what she would ask of him.

  “Which it will be,” she clarified. “Return to the palace? Or aim for distant skies, in search of magic and adventure?”

  Deep in his gut, Dorial knew that if he returned her to the palace, she would not simply forget about her chosen mission. He could absolve himself of responsibility for her, at least in the eyes of his superiors, but sooner or later she would find a way to escape again. And then she would be traveling halfway across the known world, a highborn lady facing dangers her sheltered upbringing had never prepared her for.

  Was it not Dorial’s duty to protect her? And what waited for him back on the Emergence but tedious patrols and the constant need to prove himself?

  Scourge stuck his snout in Navidha’s face, gave her one last sniff, and let out a low whistle of approval. Dorial patted the pterather’s neck, acknowledging his opinion. Rider and mount were in agreement.

  “You were wrong,” Dorial told her. “This is not our last errand. I can’t have his Majesty’s favorite niece freezing to death on my watch, so you’ll be needing your own flight gear. There’s an awful lot of bright, cold sky between here and the Pearl Isles.”

  Navidha smiled like sunlight dazzling through a parting in the clouds. Dorial shook his head, bemused at her excitement. He could not muster such unbridled optimism; it was not in his constitution.

  But perhaps Navidha had enough hope for the both of them.

  Copyright © 2016 Gwendolyn Clare

  Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website

  Gwendolyn Clare resides in North Carolina, where she tends a vegetable garden and a flock of backyard ducks and wonders why she ever lived in the frozen northlands. She has a PhD in mycology, which is useful for identifying wild mushrooms but not for much else. Her short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and previously in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, among others. She can be found online at gwendolynclare.com.

  Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  BLOOD RECKONINGS

  by Alec Austin

  “Is this really the best time to be robbing a tomb?” Aziz asked, following Beatriz through darkened streets as smoke from the riots in the Travestere District rose to efface the stars.

  “Of course it is,” Abbess Beatriz said. The black enamel of her knight’s harness glittered in the torchlight as they marched past Imperial ruins which had been mined for their stones over the course of centuries. “The great families are keeping their guards close. So there’s no one left to guard the necropolis.” The satchel she bore slapped her hip with each stride, its weight reminding her of blood debts she meant to repay.

  Aziz turned to Sister-Sergeant Holly, who lifted one of her pauldrons in a shrug. “She’s right,” Holly said. “The only creatures stirring on a night like this are grave robbers and wolves.”

  “And which one of those are we?”

  Both, of course, Beatriz thought. Aziz was a good man in a fight, but no one in the company she led chattered more than he did.

  A shadow stirred near the necropolis gates, and Beatriz raised a hand, bringing their procession to a halt. Bows, blades, and halberds were readied, then lowered as the shadow resolved itself into Geert, the company’s lead scout.

  “Your path to the mausoleum is clear,” he said, strolling into the torchlight.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure as death.”

  Beatriz nodded and waved her escort forward. She had nine soldiers with her; enough to give rioters and other robbers pause. With any luck, they would make it to the Corvisi mausoleum without incident.

  And once they had their prize... Beatriz patted her satchel, feeling the mirror within.

  Then their force being so small would cease to matter.

  The Corvisi mausoleum sat at the foot of the necropolis’s tallest hill, overshadowed by the tombs of older and more prominent families. Robed angels served as caryatids, supporting the mausoleum’s roof, and the bronze-plated doors were chained and bound with a massive padlock.

  Beatriz rounded the hill, approached the doors, and nudged the padlock with her gauntlet. “This thing must be half rust now.”

  Aziz grunted. “I don’t suppose you have a key?”

  “No,” Beatriz said as Holly arranged their escort in a semicircle. “Something better.”

  The hand mirror she produced from her satchel was strangely dull, its metal absorbing the light from their torches instead of reflecting it. After a heartbeat, ruddy glimmers emerged on the polished metal, but the reflected flames were tiny, drowning in a well of shadows.

  A challenge for you, sister, Beatriz thought.

  There was a gust of wind; the sound of beating wings.

  And as the torches guttered and Holly swore at the men holding them, a voice very like her own echoed in Beatriz’s mind.

  More interesting than the last one, I hope? Mazes are for children.

  Beatriz didn’t dignify that with a reply.

  Since we’re in a graveyard, I assume you didn’t call me because you’ve acquired some of the Red Pope’s blood.

  Alas, no. Beatriz gestured with the mirror. You see the lock?

  That tedious lump of corrosion?

  Beyond it lies the tomb of Cardinal Alfonso Corviso.

  Oh? The voice abandoned its detachment. The one who died in bed with two choirboys, a serving maid, and the niece of Pope Immaculate VII?

  Just so.
But Cardinal Corviso wasn’t only renowned for his venery. He also collected the feathers of Prodigals.

  There was a silence. When the Prodigals fled Heaven for the Inferno, they’d fled in haste, leaving parts of themselves behind. The detritus of their passage was precious to collectors and sorcerers alike, both for its rarity and because it could be used to accomplish the impossible.

  Like pulling your half-Prodigal sister through a mirror, Beatriz thought, and anchoring her to the world.

  I would very much like to be real again. What do you need?

  Reconnaissance. Advance warning of dangers, supernatural or otherwise. And a little help with the lock.

  A faint breeze rose, like an exasperated breath, and the padlock began to vibrate. Motes of rust erupted from the keyhole, followed by larger and larger flakes until, with a loud report, the lock dropped open and the chains holding the door closed clattered to the ground.

  “Subtle,” Aziz said, though no one but their escort was in earshot.

  Two footmen and an archer muttered prayers or made the sign of the sun disc as Beatriz put her mirror away. “Quit your grumbling,” Holly snapped. “The Abbess has dispensation from the Pope himself to practice sorcery.”

  “Which Pope is it this week?” Aziz asked. “The Red Pope, in Orval? Wait, no, we tried to kill him. Is it the Green Pope, in Courlais?”

  Holly shot him a dirty look. “That would be His Holiness Benevolent XIV, raised to that office by the grace of God and the Council of Ryburg.”

  “Ah, right. The Kunst Pope. How silly of me to forget.”

  “Easy for you to make fun,” Holly growled. “Your holy city isn’t migratory.”

  “Now, children,” Beatriz said, though she was barely a year their senior. “Save it for our enemies. Heaven knows we have a few.”

  Geert cleared his throat. “Speaking of. I’ll take the archers and watch the approaches to this section.”

  Beatriz raised her hand in benediction, and Geert vanished into the dark, followed by a pair of women with bows.