by Sharon Shinn
At that point in his musings, it occurred to him that he should be paying more attention to the land below him, looking for signs of Edori. Actually, and he knew it, he should be looking for other markers as well: plague flags raised by travelers or small villages, weather-related disturbances such as flood or drought, signs of blight on otherwise prosperous communities. Any angel who crossed any wide swath of land was trained to watch for these indications of trouble. Gaaron dropped a few hundred feet and slowed the pace of his wingbeats even more, and scanned the ground below for anything out of the ordinary.
They had flown perhaps another hour when Gaaron spotted smoke on the horizon. He dropped even lower and glanced behind him, to see Nicholas and Zibiah as rather indistinct specks in the distance. He slowed to what was almost hover speed and dropped a few more feet, wanting the two of them to see him as he angled in the direction of the smoke. Campfire? It was late enough in the afternoon that some travelers, having come across a friendly spot, might have decided to end their journey for the day and set up their tents. But the smoke seemed too black and heavy for a campfire. It looked more like it rose from the mass burning of clothes and furnishings that some groups practiced after plague or other sickness—a cleansing fire, but a sign of trouble.
Gaaron glanced back again to find Nicholas and Zibiah closer and following him. Nicholas raised his hand to signal that they, too, had seen the smoke and interpreted it as Gaaron had. Gaaron descended another few yards but picked up the pace. A fresh sense of worry prickled through his veins and drove him forward faster.
What he saw from the air made him miss a wingbeat and drop even closer to the ground in a sickening tumble. Or maybe the fall wasn’t what made his stomach clench and roll. Absently, he righted himself, flicking his wings in a slow, steady motion, holding himself above the burning circle, and stared down.
It had been a campsite, well enough. Even now, from above, Gaaron could see the charred remains of a few wagons, the blackened clumps of rubble that bore the shapes of men and horses. But that was all that remained, the bones of men and the cinder ribs of wagon struts. Everything else, flesh and wood and metal, appeared to have been annihilated in an unimaginably fierce conflagration.
He heard a gasp behind him and then a muttered prayer. Zibiah and Nicholas had arrived. He said nothing, did not even look at them, but remained where he was, hovering above the camp, looking down. His heart felt small and his wings felt weary. He did not even know the words to describe such devastation.
“Gaaron.” Nicholas was the first to speak in an urgent, frightened voice. “Gaaron. What happened here?”
“Are those—I think I see—are those bodies down there?” Zibiah asked, her voice little more than a whimper.
“I have no idea what happened. Yes, they look like bodies to me,” Gaaron said grimly. “Men and animals.”
He heard a small sob escape from Zibiah, then a coughing noise, as if she was fighting back the urge to vomit. He still did not look at her, only down at the burning camp. Not burning for much longer now, though, for there was very little left for the fire to consume. Another hour and even the smoke would be gone. They would have missed this sight entirely had they passed through much later.
“Edori, do you think?” Nicholas asked. “Or Jansai?”
Gaaron pointed at one of the shapes he thought had been a horse-drawn conveyance. “Jansai. Edori usually don’t travel with wagons. Probably traders.”
Nicholas was silent a moment. “Should we—should we go down there and see if we can find something? To identify them, I mean. So we can tell someone in Breven?”
“I suppose we must,” Gaaron said. “Not that I think we’ll find anything. A little jewelry, maybe. I don’t know what might be left.”
“You don’t think anyone—anyone survived, do you?” Nicholas said.
At any other time, Gaaron would have felt sorry for Nicholas, such a light and careless young man trying, in this crisis, to be responsible and decisive. But he couldn’t feel sorry for anyone except those strangers below. Their deaths had probably been quick, though, Gaaron thought; that was something to take comfort in. Had the fire not been instantaneous, there would have been some sign of that. For one thing, some of the individuals would have survived, escaping from the fast-building bright enemy. They would have run for help, or rescued their fellows or, at the least, died in a fanning circle away from the burning campsite, their own clothes on fire as they raced from the central disaster. But none of that appeared to have happened here. It was as if all the travelers, all their horses, had been engulfed in flame in a single moment, flame so hot that it instantly consumed their flesh and they turned into ash where they stood.
“No. No, I think they’re all dead,” Gaaron said slowly. “But I think we should do an air search of the area. Who knows, someone may have been off gathering firewood or hunting for dinner when—when the blaze started.”
Zibiah, who had drifted some distance away, either to be sick or to compose herself, now floated closer. Gaaron heard the soft flutter of her wings before she spoke. “What do you think—how did the fire start?” she asked in a quavering voice.
Gaaron shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Come on. Gaaron wants us to look for anyone who may have survived,” Nicholas told her. Then, aiming his words back at Gaaron, the younger angel asked, “Should we split up?”
“Yes,” Gaaron said, and then, a second later, “No. We don’t know what happened here. We should stick together.”
And without another word, Gaaron led them away from the nightmare camp. He spread his wings to their fullest and coasted low to the ground, watching for signs of life. A little summer river could be found just north of the campsite; anyone who had left to get water would have gone in this direction.
But they arrived at the water’s edge, and skimmed up and down its banks, and found no one.
Gaaron went farther. A hunter could have ranged five miles from the camp and even now be on his way back. Or a whole contingent of merchants could have fallen half a day behind, doing last-minute business in a farm community while the rest of their caravan moved on to make camp for the night.
But they made a broad circle a few miles out around the perimeter of the camp, and they saw no tired, happy men making their way back with unexpected bounty.
Farther out, then? Someone who had been absent from the camp when the calamity came, but close enough to see that disaster had struck, and smart enough to run away? Gaaron banked and headed back to the river. Any Jansai, any Edori, separated from his group, would know he had no chance of solitary survival unless he stayed by water. Gaaron heard Nicholas’ voice behind him, calling his name in a questioning voice, but he flew on anyway. They would search north along the river for a few more miles, and then they would search south. And then, if they saw nothing, they would give up.
They had gone about two miles up the river when Gaaron spotted a piece of red cloth lying in a patch of tall grass.
He pointed so the others would see it, then drove his wings hard for speed, tilting his shoulders down so he would drop as low to the ground as he could without crashing. A bitter disappointment coursed through him as he got nearer, for the scrap of red fabric appeared to be just that—a shirt, a shawl, some garment discarded by the side of the road. He landed on his feet and walked closer, pushing through the waist-high weeds to the spot of color in the grass.
And the red shirt twisted, and resolved itself into a small girl, who began shrieking at the top of her lungs.
Gaaron froze mid-step as the girl kept screaming. She looked to be about ten years old, small-boned and underfed, with the smooth skin and long sleek hair of the Jansai. Except that skin was scratched and bloody from some headlong and treacherous flight. The veils around her head, the type worn by every Jansai woman and girl to hide her face from strange men, were ripped and ragged, and her dress appeared muddy and torn. She backe
d away from him, still screaming wordlessly, trying to draw the remnants of her veil around her face, covering her cheeks with her hands. She was the very picture of lunatic terror.
Gaaron felt rather than saw Zibiah and Nicholas approach overhead. He pointed twice, once to the left of the Jansai girl, once to the right, and the two angels landed behind her just where Gaaron had indicated. Now if she turned to run, one of them could stop her.
She could not have heard them land, for they came to earth soundlessly as falcons, but some suddenly developed feral sense allowed her to feel them arrive and know herself surrounded. She whipped her head from side to side, her howls intensifying, and then she wound her arms around her head and dropped to the ground, weeping.
Gaaron stood where he had stopped, unwilling to terrorize her further, absolutely at a loss. Clearly they could not leave her here, but just as clearly, she would be hysterical as long as they stayed. He looked over at Nicholas, whose eyes were as wide and shocked as the girl’s, and the younger angel spread his hands if to answer an unspoken question. The question had been, What can we do? and Nicholas’ reply had been, I don’t know.
And then Zibiah, silly Zibiah, began to sing.
It was a lullaby, a pretty, soothing song that mothers sang to their fretful babies, and Zibiah sang it in a soft, comforting voice. She was into the second verse before the sobbing child began to quiet, and by the time she reached the chorus, the sounds of weeping had ceased altogether. Zibiah took a step closer to the cowering girl, and began the song over again at the beginning.
Nicholas glanced at Gaaron again, eyebrows raised. This time the question was, Do we join in? But Gaaron shook his head. Jovah knew, the Jansai girl had every reason to be hysterical at the approach of strangers, but maybe some of her fear could be attributed to the fact that Gaaron was male. The Jansai were fiercely protective of their women; not only did they keep the women cloaked from the eyes of strangers, for the most part, they kept the women hidden away entirely from the outside world. It was said that a woman might speak to only three men in her entire life: her father, her brother, and her husband. This child might have been traveling with the caravan, but she had no doubt been kept inside one of the wagons, under the watchful eye of her mother, and it was likely she had never spoken to a strange man in her life.
And Gaaron, even he had to admit, was a big enough example of maleness that a sheltered girl might find him terrifying in the extreme.
Zibiah continued to sing and continued to move closer to the girl, taking small, unalarming steps. When she glanced at Gaaron for direction, he merely nodded. This was out of his hands. Neither of the men would be able to get close to the girl without sending her into shrieking panic.
Nonetheless, Gaaron held his breath as Zibiah drew near enough to kneel down beside the shivering, silent bundle of red misery. But there was no renewed outburst. The little girl seemed to shudder, and then turned herself into Zibiah’s embrace. The angel drew the Jansai onto her lap and leaned her head down, singing even more softly into the child’s ear. Her lacy wings folded forward, enclosing the girl in a white net of safety, shutting her off from the sight of men. Her head bent even lower, till her face, too, was hidden by the feathered weave of her wings. They could hear her voice still crooning.
Gaaron stepped back a few paces and motioned Nicholas over. “I don’t want to make camp for the night,” Gaaron said, “but I don’t know if she’ll be able to travel.”
“If Zib carries her—” Nicholas began.
Gaaron shook his head. “But what if flying sets her off again? A lot of people are frightened when they’re taken up in an angel’s arms.”
Nicholas glanced at the sky. Late afternoon, and they had at least a three-hour flight ahead of them. “We don’t have any camping gear,” Nicholas said. “Not even a blanket. We don’t even have much food between us.”
“I know. There are a few farms not far from here—twenty miles at the most. You could get provisions while I stay to guard them. We could spend the night, take off in the morning when she’s calmer.”
“If she’s calmer,” Nicholas said.
“I know,” Gaaron said soberly. “She might never calm down as long as you and I are nearby, and we can’t leave Zibiah alone.”
“Gaaron,” Nicholas said, his eyes wide with a new thought. “We can’t camp here. We can’t build a fire.”
Gaaron’s head swung up, his expression arrested. “No, of course we can’t,” he said slowly. Not unless they wanted to guarantee that the girl would grow crazy with fright again. “You’re right. We have to go back tonight.”
“Should I go on ahead?” Nicholas said. “Warn the Eyrie?”
Gaaron shook his head. “I’d rather we stayed together if we’re flying. Just in case—I don’t know. Just in case.”
They returned the few paces to where Zibiah sat, half concealed in the tall grass, rocking the child on her lap. She put her finger to her lips to enjoin silence.
“I think she’s sleeping,” the angel said. “But your voices might alarm her. She’s afraid of men.”
Gaaron nodded, but secretly he was pleased that Zibiah had reached this conclusion on her own and had made all the other corresponding deductions—that she would have to be the one to carry the girl, and communicate with her, and essentially control the rest of this expedition. He spread his wings and extended his arm, then raised his eyebrows with a question. Can you fly? he meant to ask. All the way to the Eyrie? Tonight?
Zibiah nodded and rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet, the girl in her arms. “I don’t see that it will do us any good to wait,” she said. “And maybe she’ll sleep through the flight. If we can get her to the Eyrie and put her in a room before she sees any more men, maybe she’ll calm down a little.”
Now Nicholas waved his hands to get her attention, holding up his canteen and then mimicking eating a bite of food. Zibiah smiled.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “And I have plenty of my own water. I gave her some, too, before she fell asleep. I think we’re ready to go.”
So Gaaron nodded, the signal to ascend, and as slowly as their wings could manage the separation from the earth, they lifted themselves into the air. Gaaron waited for the howl of anxiety to come from the abandoned child, but she did not waken—or, if she did, she did not cry out again. Staying as near to the ground as he could so that the Jansai girl was not buffeted by cold air at the higher regions, Gaaron led them back to the Eyrie. Zibiah fell in place behind him to coast as much as possible on the drag created by his passing, and Nicholas flew behind her to be ready to offer assistance if she needed it.
It was the longest, slowest flight of Gaaron’s life. He had never been so happy to see the serrated range of the Velo Mountains come into view, or to touch down on the wide, cool stone of the landing at the Eyrie.
C hapter F our
The Lohoras had been traveling as fast as they could, northwest from Luminaux, when they fell in with the Tachita clan. As always when two Edori tribes came together by happy chance, there was great rejoicing at the opportunity to visit together, tell stories, and share campfires.
Susannah was particularly overjoyed to meet up with the Tachitas, and she spent that first evening at her brother’s campfire, catching up on family news. Paul, her older brother, was looking so much like a settled man, so much like their father, that she could not help but laugh at him and tease him about the extra pounds he had gained. Linus, who was now nearly sixteen, she scarcely recognized, for he was taller than she was and could lift her off her feet with a strength he had not possessed even six months ago. Her nephews, aged two and one, at first were shy of her, but then consented to sit on her lap, both at one time, as long as she jogged her knees up and down and pretended to give them pony rides. The older one in particular was quick to respond to her voice and her laugh, and he readily tilted his little face forward when she leaned in to rub noses with him. She thought maybe she should wait no longer; it might be time for h
er and Dathan to have a child after all.
“You all look so well and happy,” she said to Ruth, Paul’s lover, who stirred the supper pot while Susannah amused the children. “I commend you for the care you have given all the men in my family.”
“They are easy to care for,” Ruth said, ducking her head shyly and smiling in a bashful manner. Susannah was not sure, but she thought she saw a thickening around Ruth’s waist. Another baby on the way so soon? There must be a great deal of love in this tent. “They miss you, but there does not seem to be any other great sadness in their lives. Even your father is better these days. He is able to talk of your mother and tell me many happy stories about her. For so long, he would not even mention her name.”
“That is good to hear,” Susannah said. She absently leaned in and kissed the two-year-old on the top of his head. He squirmed in her lap and she let him jump up and run away, though she kept her eyes on him to make sure he did not wander too near the fire. “For Amariah is such a pretty name.”
“I have asked Paul, and he thinks it would be a good idea,” Ruth said, her soft voice rushing over the words. “If the new one is a girl—and I’m sure it is—he thinks we might name her Amariah. Unless it’s the name you want for your own daughter, when you have one?”
Susannah laughed gaily, though she was a little amazed that Ruth had picked up on both her thoughts—that it was time for her to have a baby, and that Ruth herself might be pregnant again. “You’re welcome to the name, for I’m still not sure when I might want a baby,” she said. “I think the news will make my father happy as well.”
Indeed, when the men returned a little while later, Susannah was deeply pleased to see for herself the truth of Ruth’s words. For her father seemed whole again—older, a little slower, not quite as quick to smile—but not the hurt and grieving man he had been for so long after Amariah’s death. He sat by her during dinner and described their wanderings since the Gathering, their sojourn in Breven, their camp at the Caitana Mountains not far from Windy Point. The Tachitas rarely moved out of the Jordana province, having many contacts among the merchants and petty farmers there. The Lohoras, on the other hand, knew no boundaries and traveled pretty much where they would.