Skythane

by J. Scott Coatsworth

Jameson wondered if Jessa had missed him yet. Not that she’d ever be able to find him here, wherever “here” was.

  His next thought was how much he needed to piss. “There aren’t any… um… dangers here I should know about, are there?”

  “Don’t look at me.” Xander grinned. “I’m as new to this place as you are.”

  “No, you should be safe enough,” Quince said. “No wereveren or any other dangerous local wildlife. Just don’t wander too far. We’ll have a quick breakfast and then we’ll get to work teaching you to use those wings of yours.”

  They fluttered in response of their own accord, startling him.

  He excused himself and strolled out through the open gates into the garden, looking for a good spot to relieve himself. He tried to remember this place, to dredge up some long-lost memory of it.

  The pathways that wound through the grounds were marble or some other white stone. The fountains that lined them had long gone silent, but he could imagine the water leaping up into the air over the pathway, the musical sound of it laughing as it splashed back into its basin. They were all made of marble too, carved into the shapes of trees and animals and, occasionally, people, with an attention to detail and realism that amazed him. The carved people were like Xander… like him. With beautiful wings that spread out a couple meters from tip to tip.

  Bright flowers lined the path in irregular patches, in golds and pinks and blues and yellows. He could imagine how amazing this place must have been in its heyday, the pruned artistry of a formal garden rather than the decadent, wild beauty that occupied it now.

  It was still delightful, nonetheless.

  He found a place to pee, under a tall tree that reminded him of one of the weeping willows back at home on Beta Tau. It gave him some privacy. Soon he felt much better.

  Jameson decided to walk around the House of the Stars, exploring the gardens before he was called back to work on his wings. He’d had little enough peace and quiet these last six days since arriving on Oberon and having his whole life turned upside down.

  A few minutes later, he reached the statue of Erro, the sun god. This, for some reason, he did remember. The god stood on top of a fluted column of white marble, looking down beneficently, a calming smile on his golden face. His wings were spread out above Jameson, blocking out the sky, and his hand was outstretched, as if he were offering to take Jameson’s hand and lift him into the air, the way Xander had done the day before.

  Erro was the symbol of his own people, the Erriani—those of the skythane who lived west of here, along the shores of the Argent Sea.

  He reached out to touch that golden hand.

  A shock like electricity ran up his arm, and the world dissolved into nothing.

  Jameson remembered. Memory flooded through him like a tsunami tide, rushing into his mind and carrying with it a horde of information. He saw this place as it had been in its prime, a shining example of the skythane culture before the second wave of humanity arrived on Oberon. When the wing men had ruled both parts of the world before being beaten back and subjugated by the corporation.

  He stood in the midst of the gardens of the House of the Stars. The structure back on Oberon was the House of the Sky.

  Jameson remembered the agony of the Great Retreat, when the landers had come and the Gaelani, Xander’s folk, had been forced off Oberon and into Titania, a path of trial and pain and suffering to rival the great resettlements of the Native Americans on Old Earth. That influx had not been without strife or bloodshed, though the Erriani and the Gaelani had eventually made peace.

  The Gaelani refugees who had overwhelmed Errian, the House of the Sun on the shores of the Argent Sea, had been relocated to Gaelan, the House of the Moon, in the foothills of the Mora Mountains.

  He saw the Seven Weeks’ War that had erupted twenty-five years ago after the death of his mother, when the blame for her death had fallen squarely upon the Gaelani.

  And so the Great Division of the skythane, which had its seeds in the Gaelani’s forced migration, had begun.

  His mind was overwhelmed with information, and his head felt like it was about to split open.

  Jameson blinked, but everything seemed too bright and out of focus. He let go of the statue’s hand and collapsed to the ground.

  “I FOUND him!” Xander called to Quince, kneeling before Jameson’s prostrate form.

  When Jameson hadn’t returned after twenty minutes, they’d gone out to search for him.

  Xander looked up at the golden statue of the sun god looming over them, the reddish sunlight glinting off its wings.

  Quince hadn’t seemed all that worried when Jameson hadn’t immediately returned, but Xander didn’t know this world and its dangers. He didn’t want to see anything happen to Jameson. For purely practical reasons, of course. They were in the same boat.

  Fortunately, Jameson hadn’t gone far. He lay in a heap in the little semicircular amphitheater that surrounded the sun god’s statue, prostrate on the broken pavestones.

  Xander turned him gently over onto his back. He was still breathing, if shallowly. That was a good sign, but his skin was deathly pale.

  Quince arrived with Morgan right behind her.

  “I found him like this.” Xander cradled Jameson’s head in his lap. “He was lying here by the statue. He doesn’t look so good.”

  Quince put her hand on Jameson’s forehead. “He’s ice-cold. Morgan, go and grab me one of the sleep sacks.”

  The boy seemed to understand. He ran off toward the campsite.

  Xander raised his eyebrow. It was the first time she had addressed the boy directly. Once again, progress.

  The boy had gone silent again of late—Xander wondered what was going on in that little head of his. Once they finished this quest, he could try to get to the bottom of the mystery of Morgan.

  “Xander, pick him up, gently, and hold him to your chest. He needs your warmth.”

  Xander nodded and lifted Jameson as if he were made of glass. He pulled the man close to him, wrapping his wings around them both. “What do you think happened to him?”

  She looked up at the statue. “Divine intervention?” The way she said it sounded like a curse.

  Xander stared at her blankly. “Surely you’re joking.” Quince had lived two and a half decades in Oberon. She should have left such ridiculous superstitions behind.

  She glared at him. “Bite your tongue. You don’t know the rules of this place yet. You have to remember that we’re not on Oberon anymore.”

  Yes, but superstition was superstition.

  Morgan arrived with the sleep sack. Quince took it and opened it up all the way, wrapping it around the two of them.

  Jameson fit so perfectly in his arms. He looked at the man anew, seeing how handsome he was, and how vulnerable. Totally dependent on Xander at this moment for his well-being.

  He held Jameson in his arms for what seemed like an eternity, but at the same time felt like no time at all. The red sun inched up into the pink sky, but otherwise it was as if time stopped its advance.

  The last time he had held someone, or just been held like this, before Jameson, had been with Alix. Long-lost Alix.

  After a while, Jameson stirred. Xander put his hand on Jameson’s forehead. It was definitely warmer, and the color was coming back into his face.

  The man’s brown eyes flickered open. He looked up at Xander, and this time he didn’t flinch.

  “Welcome back, handsome.” Xander leaned down and kissed him.

  Jameson accepted the kiss for a brief moment, but then turned away, his face flushing crimson. He pushed himself gently away from Xander, who let him go.

  Xander masked his disappointment with a cough.

  Jameson stood up on his own, still a little wobbly. “What happened to me?”

  “I don’t know.” He stood and helped Jameson up. “I found you collapsed here, cold as ice. Quince said we needed to warm you up.”

  Jameson glanced over at Quince and Morgan.
“Thanks. I think.” He cast an uneasy look at Xander, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

  Quince looked up at the statue of the god. “He touched you, didn’t he?”

  Jameson stared at the statue for a moment, and nodded. “I think so. I… remember a lot of things.” His brow knitted with concern. “Things I couldn’t possibly have seen myself.”

  Xander wondered what he meant. “You okay now?”

  Jameson nodded. “I think so. My head still hurts like a sonofabitch.”

  “The touch of the gods can do that.” Quince gave him a rueful laugh. “Come on, let’s eat. Some food will do you good.” She led him back toward the camp like a child. “You need to get a flying lesson this morning, and we have to be on our way.”

  Jameson looked back at him, mouthing, “Gods?”

  Xander shrugged and shook his head.

  He trailed after them, wondering about this strange world he found himself in, and why it suddenly seemed that he liked Jameson more than Jameson liked him.

  JAMESON AND Xander stood on the wide balcony of the House of the Stars. Jameson looked over his shoulders at his golden wings. They were still smaller than Xander’s, but they were catching up quickly. He stretched them out to their full width and took a deep breath.

  “Do they itch?” Xander rubbed some more of Quince’s unguent into them.

  Jameson nodded. “A little, but not so bad as before. That salve is amazing.” His gaze lingered on Xander, but then he ripped it away. He was trying to forget the kiss. The second kiss.

  Xander, for his part, kept his voice detached, professional. “Okay, let’s try a few drills. Stand here and face me, with your legs a little apart.”

  Jameson complied. Xander walked around him, looking at his outstretched wings. He touched Jameson’s back with his hand, his warm palm resting between Jameson’s shoulder blades. Jameson’s pulse quickened.

  “I want you to try to feel your brain’s connection with your wings. Feel my touch?”

  Jameson nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Feel the connection from your muscles here”—he moved his hand across Jameson’s back to his shoulder blades and his left wing—“to your wings here.”

  Jameson shivered, hoping Xander wouldn’t notice.

  “You’ve done it before by instinct. Now you need to learn to control them intentionally. Put out your hands like this.” He stepped away to stand next to Jameson and swept his hands out and up from his side.

  Jameson followed Xander’s motion. He had strong arms, tanned from their time in the sun. His own arms were thin by comparison. He imagined Xander’s arms laid over his own, warm skin against skin….

  “Feel that? How natural it seemed? Now do the same with your wings.” He demonstrated, sweeping his black-feathered wings up and out with a swoosh.

  Jameson tried, but although his wings quivered, nothing happened.

  “Up!” Xander jumped at him, with a short, sharp shout. Jameson stumbled back and his wings went out defensively. Jameson glared at him, and Xander laughed. “There you go—just needed to put a little fear into you. Now do it again.”

  Jameson shook his head. “I don’t know how I did it….” His wings spread out behind him. “Damn.”

  Xander smiled.

  Damn that suggestive smile.

  “Now you’re getting it. Let’s practice.”

  They spent the next two hours working on his control of his wings and his reflexes. Xander ran him through the basics of control—how to pull his wings tightly to his sides when he wanted to plummet, how to catch an updraft on a warm day.

  By the end of it, Jameson could make his wings do what he wanted, at least when he was standing on solid ground, and he had a better idea of wing mechanics. It was all strangely exhilarating.

  “It’s time for your first flight,” Xander said at last, standing at the edge of the balcony. “Normally I wouldn’t rush you like this. We should probably train you for a week, or at least a few days, before throwing you into the deep end, but as Quince pointed out, we’re short on time. What with the world ending and all.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready,” Jameson said, grimacing. Theory was one thing, but a man could get himself killed in the air. Or rather, slamming into the ground.

  Xander flashed him a wicked grin. “One way to find out.” He grabbed Jameson’s hand and pulled him off the balcony, and they plunged toward the ground below.

  Jameson screamed.

  “Spread your wings. Like this!” Xander’s black wings flew out on either side of him, and he let go of Jameson’s hand as he was lifted up into the sky.

  Jameson searched for that place inside like Xander had taught him. The ground raced up toward him. Impact from that height would hurt him badly, if it didn’t kill him. “Spread, damn you!” he swore, and they did, yanking him up into the air, pulling back his shoulder muscles as his wings did what wings were supposed to do. Damn, that hurts.

  Then he was soaring just meters above the ground, and it was just like he had always dreamed. The cool morning air whistled past him, and the ground whisked by below.

  He looked up. Xander was above him, circling. “Feel for the thermals like I told you,” Xander shouted down at him. “The warm air. You can ride them up into the sky.”

  Jameson concentrated on his wings, and found he could sense the temperature of the air currents through the membranes. There—a warmer updraft. He veered into it. It took a couple tries, but soon he was riding it up toward Xander, into the clear blue sky.

  I’m flying.

  He remembered.

  Flying like this. It was his first time, and yet he remembered doing it before—the feel of the wind on his wings, how to ride an updraft. As if he had been doing this forever.

  Xander grinned at him. “You’re going to need some practice, but you’ve got the basics.”

  “You could have killed me, you bastard!” He pushed those memories aside, for now.

  “You made it. I had faith in you.”

  Jameson couldn’t hold on to his anger for long. The sensation of flight was too glorious.

  They soared over the House of the Stars, and Jameson could see the lay of the land for miles around. They were in the middle of a vast forest, the morning mist over a river nearby just starting to burn off. The leaves of the trees had a purple hue, so different from the silvery blue of Oberon’s forests.

  It was like being in a plane or a shuttle, but so much better and more immediate. Real.

  He never wanted to come back down.

  Eventually, though, they had to.

  They made it back to the balcony safely, although Jameson bungled the landing, slamming into the wall and earning himself a nasty bruise on his left arm. Still, he got up, and they tried it again a few more times until Jameson had a handle on it. I can do this.

  When they landed together for the last time, Jameson swept Xander up in a big hug, feeling the man’s warm chest against his own.

  “What’s this for?” Xander squirmed.

  Jameson grinned. “You taught me how to fly.”

  QUINCE WATCHED Jameson plunge from the balcony, and her heart almost stopped. “Damn you, Xander…,” she whispered as she ran to the edge to watch twenty-five years of hard work and planning crashing toward the ground. He wasn’t going to make it….

  Then Jameson extended his beautiful golden wings and swept up into the air, missing the ground, and her, by less than two meters. So like his mother.

  Her heart started to beat again.

  The bond was growing between the two of them. She could see it. It was aided by the pith that she’d put in each of their meals, but it would have grown with or without it, if she’d judged these two right. The pith just hastened the process along.

  Although she disapproved of Xander’s teaching methods, she was grateful that Jameson was learning so quickly. He was a natural in flight, and it gave her hope that they’d be able to reach the city on time. It was growing s
hort, and they were still three days’ flight from Gaelan. They needed to be on their way.

  She still didn’t know what she would find there. The King was dead—that much Robyn had been able to tell her—but what had happened with his OberCorp “allies”? Was Robyn herself in command of the city now? If so, why hadn’t she sent Quince another message before they’d departed Oberon City?

  She glanced up at the sky, wondering if the gods were watching over them. It was rare for them to intervene in the affairs of mortals, but she recognized their touch when she saw it. Jameson had been chosen. She just didn’t know if it would turn out to be for good or ill.

  The gods were famously fickle.

  Chapter Sixteen: Ballifor

  THEY HAD a brief, cold lunch in the early afternoon in the courtyard of the House of the Stars, the sun warming them as they ate in a companionable silence. Quince had snagged some of the citrones on the far side of the waygate before they’d come through, and she used them to supplement their rations.

  Then they took to the sky. Quince led the way, taking them west toward the mountains that Quince called the Mora, the great line of peaks that ran along the western edge of the world. She leapt into the sky, and Jameson followed, straining his wings to keep up.

  Xander brought up the rear with Morgan strapped to his chest in the reconfigured harness, leaving his wings free. It felt good to fly again, to soar up into the sky. He wasn’t sure where they were going or what would await them there, but for the moment he had no worries.

  The day was warm and breezy, a summer straggler as the season moved steadily into the fall. The House of the Stars fell away beneath them, its white walls shining in the afternoon sun, quickly becoming just a dot in the distance.

  The terrain below mimicked the part of Oberon they had left behind, save that there was no desert to the south. Just a seemingly unending succession of tree-covered hills, mostly red from this high up, with bits of gold and purple woven in like some grand tapestry.

  Just south of the House of the Stars, a river wound from the west out to the east, the reverse image of the Theseus.