Ariana obliged, confused, but resigned. It seemed that Asrea had known what she was, and that the water was planted. Why she had done such a thing was a question that would need answering, but for now, she was free of the cell, and completely mesmerized by her surroundings.
Asrea led her halfway down the Atrium, breaking away when she reached a shorter willow, where she ducked beneath its glowing branches and obscured herself from view.
Ariana maneuvered around the branches, too. But she couldn’t fight the urge to touch them. So she grazed the branch with her hand, the sparks and embers moving between her fingers as water would. They were cool to the touch. The scent of smoke floated out with the movement and tickled the inside of her nose.
A dreamy voice drifted into her ears. Ariana stopped. “What was that?”
“It’s this evening’s entertainment,” Asrea said. “A storyteller.”
At night? Ariana dropped her hand and meandered over to the stone bench where Asrea sat.
“I was hoping you would come.” Asrea’s eyes were focused on her interlaced fingers. But she looked up as Ariana sat beside her. “Do you trust me now?”
Ariana unfocused her eyes, letting the tree blur into a million spots of fuzzy light. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe. But how much trust can a prisoner really put in her guard?” She added, half-joking.
Asrea was quiet.
“You told me about the bag. Why?” Of all the questions she had wanted to ask, this one threw itself forward.
Asrea didn’t respond for so long Ariana started to think she never would. Finally, “Because if I’m right about you… then you should probably have it back.”
Ariana's eyes widened. “What?”
“I have a… theory. But I have to know everything you wouldn’t tell the Strattons before I can act on it. Or I'll be forced to take you back to that cell.”
Ariana assessed Asrea. She didn't look strong enough to force her anywhere. But she was in charge of prisoners for some reason. Did Ariana really want to take her chances and find out? “What about the Strattons?”
“My prisoner, my decisions.” Asrea said firmly. “They aren’t in the city right now. Left yesterday morning.”
Left? She wondered why. For Bintaro maybe?
“So will you tell me?” Asrea prodded.
Trust a girl who assured her it would get back to the Strattons? Or stay quiet and end up back in the cell? The choice was obvious. She just didn’t want to face it.
She stared into the sparkling tree, listening to the thunder of applause from the crowd at the end of the Atrium. Her tongue felt like it swelled to block her throat. But she choked out the truth anyway, hoping she wasn’t signing off on her own execution.
“I’m from Ionia,” she admitted.
Asrea clapped her hands together. “I knew it.”
“I’m not a princess.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“The Strattons think I’m with this boy they were talking to when they found me. I honestly don’t know who he is. But I know he’s trouble.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Ariana paused, considering the comment. Later. She’d ask later. If she stopped now, she’d never get through it. “I got here through one of the books in my bag, but the return’s disconnected. I can fix it. The fact that I can is what landed me here in the first place, and that’s a long story.”
Asrea went still in unison with the silencing of the crowd. For a moment, it felt like they were all waiting for Ariana to continue, but then the voice of the entertainer returned.
Ariana unclenched her jaw and barreled on. “I’m not after anything. I came here because someone was after me. I escaped thinking I could return rather quickly. But I couldn’t. And unless I get that book back, I never will.” Tears strangled the last of Ariana’s sentence. She blinked them back and cleared her throat.
“What a waste of time,” Asrea said brightly.
Ariana’s attention snapped to her face. “What?”
Asrea shook her head and patted Ariana’s arm. “If you’d have told the Strattons that two days ago, Keemeone, you wouldn’t have wasted a single moment in that cell.”
Ariana didn’t understand. Asrea, like Tehya, read her frown instantly.
“You're a Shadow. Am I right?”
Images flashed in Ariana’s eyes. Ruekridge, the symbols painted over the propaganda, Pabl entrusting her with the book, Madame Emory declaring she’d withdrawn Ariana’s enrollment. She was born into the Shadows, yes. But if she couldn’t be a part of that life, as the Master of Words or even just a student at Ruekridge, what could she truly offer the Shadowed Society that would deem her worthy? Her gaze fell to her hands. She shrugged. There was nothing so complicated in Asrea’s question.
“I am, too,” Asrea said happily.
“You are?”
Asrea shrugged. “We all are.”
“We all who?”
“Bolengard.” She spread her arms wide.
A smile crept into the corners of Ariana’s mouth as she pieced together the oddities of the city, but she stopped it from spreading further. “What about the Strattons?”
“Of course.” Asrea shook her curl-laden head. “We wouldn’t lock up our enemy’s prisoners.”
No. Asrea was right. That would be null. But… she had to be sure. “Prove it.”
“How?”
How indeed? Ionian and Heledian Shadows had very little communication. Would Asrea know their coded words? Doubtful. She’d have to use something else. Something more Heledian.
A sudden, morbid excitement enveloped her as she thought of her father. “What was the Shadowed Name of the last Master of Words?” Not many people knew this. But with all the work her father did to aid the Heledians during their war—before his murder—it was a viable option.
“Epeo Latry.” Asrea had hardly taken a second to think about it. “He chose the name himself.”
Ariana's spirits lifted. She smiled.
"My father met him," Asrea added. "Before the King killed him."
The world drew into sharp focus. "He did?"
Asrea nodded. "Such an awful way to go. I know he was the Master of Words, and was aiding our people in the war, so they had to make an example of him... but to burn him at the stake, with his life's work piled beneath him? That would certainly get the message across. Makes me never want to be a portal writer."
Ariana felt her heart sink. She had heard the story from her mother a thousand times. But something about it coming from someone else made it more real.
“Are you alright, Keemeone?”
Ariana shook her head to clear the thoughts of her father. “What—” she pinched her brows together, diverting her own attention elsewhere. “What is that you’re calling me?”
“Kee-me-own,” Asrea enunciated.
“What does it mean?”
Asrea blushed and averted her eyes. She scrunched her lips. “It’s… from the ancient Bolengaarda Tribal language. Means Rain.”
“Really?” Ariana chuckled softly.
“Yes. Well. It’s the prisoner code-word I gave you because…” she looked embarrassed. “Because you’re so rare.”
She seemed to read the look on Ariana's face, though it probably wasn't too difficult.
“The sun has cooked your skin like a newborn’s. You couldn't have come from Helede. So when George mentioned the books he found in your bag, I figured you were Ionian, or maybe Torieli. Plus, you have these blue, blue eyes. You’re the only one like that here. The only other blue eyes we have down here are my brother's. But they're not at all like yours.”
Now Ariana understood. She was as common in Bolengard as rain in Helede. Who had she been fooling out there on the surface with the Strattons? If Asrea had pieced that much together, certainly George and Harold had. But then, why would they think she was with the Fyrennian boy? Because of Hunter’s documents? Uneasiness settled in her stomach. She needed those pages as badly as s
he needed that book.
Asrea frowned. “I’ll stop calling you that, if you want. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Ariana started. “What? Oh! No. You didn't. I like it. I was just…” she stood, uncomfortable, anxious. “I still don’t trust the Strattons.”
Asrea took a deep breath and pursed her lips. "I understand," she said sadly. "Harold shouldn't have treated you the way he did, with the Aelgyn serum. But I swear, he's an ally."
To whom? Herself? Or Bintaro? "I need that bag," she said, steering the conversation away from the thought of the boy, the—maybe—prince. "As soon as possible.”
Several emotions flashed across Asrea’s face. They settled somewhere between determined and hopeful. “I've got to clear your transfer with my mother, first.” She jabbed a thumb at the crowd they couldn’t see. “Then I'll take you.”
“Promise?”
“Circle my soul.” She smiled. "Now, come. We're missing it."
She took Ariana by the hand and dragged her out from under the tree.
The magnitude of the Atrium hit Ariana again, off-balancing her. The lane was devoid of traffic. The quickly diminishing number of people in the Atrium intensified the sheer mass of the arches and trees. Asrea pulled her forward.
The Atrium fed into an ampitheater with wide steps gradually descending to a raised platform at the bottom. There were so many people crowded on the steps, listening intently to the woman atop the platform, it may have been the entire population of Bolengard. Out at night. Instantly on edge, she was concerned for their safety.
Then she remembered what Asrea had told her. They were out after dark because they were a city filled with Shadows. There was nothing about the night to fear.
Ariana relaxed and allowed herself to marvel at her surroundings. Several sparkling trees stood at random amidst the audience, giving the impression of a celebration suspended—sparkling confetti thrown high in the air and frozen mid-fall.
They moved down the steps, weaving through the audience toward three young boys midway down, the oldest, who looked about ten, waving enthusiastically at Asrea, pointing toward the empty space beside the younger boys.
The woman at the dais was deep in the middle of a story. She didn’t look tall, though it may have been the many layers of shawls draped over her shoulders. There were at least four of them; one black, one gold, one purple, one blue. She wore a loose blue-green dress with long sleeves. The gold bangles that encircled her wrists glinted as she raised her hands. Her coal-black, spiral strands of hair were held away from her face by a series of intricately woven golden strips, but hung freely to her shoulders. Her skin was the color of pecan shells, similar to Asrea’s, similar to most of the population, actually. An ashier, darker tan than Ariana's own skin, burnished red-gold from her days in the Heledian sun.
The boy who'd been waving smiled at Ariana when they reached him. His teeth flashed brightly against his dark skin. His grey eyes were so similar to Asrea's that Ariana knew without a doubt this was her brother.
"You're pretty," he said by way of a greeting, and touched her cheek. "I like your eyes." He turned to Asrea. "This is the one?"
Asrea laughed and gestured for them to sit. Ariana sat, eyes wide, so surprised she didn't know what to say.
"Yes. This is Ariana." Asrea turned to her. "Ariana, this is my brother, Gideon."
Ariana laughed, stretching her legs out in front of her on the wide steps. "He's about as shy as you are."
Asrea winked at her.
"Hallo Gideon." Ariana put a hand to his cheek in return. "I like your eyes, too."
"What about me?" came a smaller voice. "Do you like my eyes, too?"
The other two boys popped up behind Asrea. "And me?"
They were six; maybe seven years old. Identical. Hair sheared on the sides, leaving a strip of long, thick, tentacle-like braids that hung to their backs. Their only noticeable difference was that the one on the left had muddy green eyes, much like Harold's, while the one on the right had dark blue, the same shade as an evening sky just before the blackness of night takes hold.
"Oh, yes. Very much," Ariana said. "And you are...?"
"I'm Jace," said the green-eyed boy.
"Oren," said the other.
"Come now, brothers," Asrea said kindly, "time to listen."
The twins piled into her lap. Gideon sat next to Ariana, leaning back against the step behind him. Once they were all settled, their focus turned to the storyteller.
Her eyes were round and expressive. Her voice was rich, soothing, like a dream. Her accent affected strange pieces of words, making even the plain bits otherworldly.
“It is why we must never take for granted the creatures that roam our worlds. Take for instance the Daeixs."
She paused, raising her hands from her sides as though holding a bowl over her head. “The cousin to the Phoenix.” She pulled her hands apart. A white translucent substance swirled in the air between them. She pulsed her palms toward the audience.
The swirl expanded, forming the large image of a bird that hovered above her, its wings flapping slow and steady, the tips of its feathers shaped like raindrops. Its beak was thick and curved like a hawk’s. The crest consisted of long, thin, ornamental feathers that curled in droplet-shaped spirals at the tips.
The bird gave a silent cry, then flew out over the audience, circling wide. Children jumped from their seats, pointing, waving, swiping at it when it dipped down close enough to touch.
As the bird flew, the storyteller conjured another. This one lithe and graceful. A long neck stretching into a longer beak, sharp as a dagger. Its wings were massive, the feathers plentiful and hard to make out, as though they were made with the inconsistency of flame. The bird wheeled and cried above the crowd.
“Unlike the Phoenix,” the woman said, “the Daeixs is not large.” She flicked her hand. The first bird shrank to the size of an apple and flitted around its cousin like a bee around a flower. Its wings beat harder now, with more purpose.
“It is covered in white and silver plumage, tipped with blue.” Another flick of her hand and the smoky bird was tinted with color. It fluttered over Ariana and Asrea, descended, and brushed its feet against both their heads before moving on. Its little talons tickled Ariana’s scalp and uncovered a memory that made her heart ache.
She was young. Young enough that her mother still read stories to her. Madame Emory would mold creatures from the air—foxes, Mustangs, dragons—and let them roam atop the bedcovers as she read. Then they’d curl against Ariana on the pillow, often entangling themselves in her hair, and stay with her until she fell asleep.
“The Daeixs is the polar counterpart of the Phoenix.” The storyteller’s voice lured Ariana back to the present. The Phoenix was also full of color now. Reds and golds like the setting sun.
“The pair as similar as yellow is to violet. Yet they are still alike. Firebird. Waterbird. Complementary species, you could say.” She extended her arm, and the wispy birds flew toward her. They swooped, each landing deftly on one of her outstretched hands. She raised her arms high and the birds stretched their wings proudly. “Naturally, the clearest distinction between the two birds is not the size or coloring but the manner in which their transformation occurs.” She let the birds take to the sky again.
With a snap of her fingers, the golden-red bird burst into flame and crumbled to ash.
A child shrieked with excitement as the crowd oohed and aahed.
“At the end of its life, the Daeixs freezes.” The wispy bird stiffened mid-flight, became glassy. “And shatters into snowflakes.” The little bird dissolved into white flecks that drifted lazily toward the audience below.
Many people gasped. Ariana smirked. This was likely the only time anyone here had ever seen snow. But then she frowned. How sad that was. They were enraptured by snowfall made of shaped air, knowing full well it wasn’t real.
The snow piled in the air above their heads.
“Then it is reborn fro
m the drift,” the storyteller continued. The white flecks swirled upward as though carried by the wind, twisting into the shape of the bird once more. It flew into the woman's hands, cupped at her waist. She clasped them together and the bird disappeared.
“Though the Daeixs has been little less than impossible to find since the birth of the worlds, it has left evidence of its existence. The postal quill, it is said, was harvested from a molting Daeixs.” Her expression soured. “As with the postal quills here in Helede, the Daeixs has vanished from the worlds. Not extinct, of course, but no more likely to be seen than the Watchers overthrowing King Fyrenn.”
The crowd chuckled.
"Watchers?" Ariana wondered.
"Fyrennian Air Guard," Asrea whispered back.
“This is truly unfortunate," said the woman. "For what we know of the Daeixs suggests that its powers rivaled that of the Phoenix. The full extent of those powers, of course, will never be known.”
She stepped to the front edge of the platform and opened her arms. “The lesson here today is that we must treat those etâmic creatures that still exist in Helede with reverence and respect, for they could someday become like the Daeixs—nothing more than the air between a storyteller’s hands.” She bowed.
The audience erupted into wild applause. Ariana found herself standing among them, cheering and clapping.
“Boys, head on home. We will be there soon." Asrea instructed her brothers over the myriad of voices.
Ariana's heart twisted with panic."Will they be okay?"
Asrea smiled. "Of course, Keemeone. Shadow city, remember?" She grabbed hold of Ariana's elbow and guided her down the steps.
When they finally squeezed through the exodus and reached the podium, she noticed the storyteller in conversation with a tall, dark, bald-headed man with eyes that held no humor. His freshly pressed navy cloak sported silver buttons, polished to the point of looking brand new. But she saw no one else.
“Where’s your mother?” she asked.
“Oh, no. Hide,” Asrea whispered.
Ariana’s gaze flicked through the crowd. “What? Why?”
“Just—” Asrea flailed her hands.
The Onyx Vial (Shadows of The Nine Book 1) Page 16