by M. S. Verish
He reached for the staff now, gripping it firmly as he pushed out of his chair. He stared at the empty tray next to the letter—a testament to his antisocial behavior for the morning meal. The one person he should speak to—the one to whom he owed an apology—was not likely in a position to humor his meager excuses. And he had plenty of excuses, enough to make him question exactly what it was he sought to accomplish by overstaying his welcome in this Human castle.
He rubbed his brow and found himself staring at the letter again. Turning away, he shuffled across the room to where he had left his pipe and filler by the bedside. To where do I go now? I have lied my way into the Belorn library to find that it contains nothing of what I seek. What is the likelihood that The Forging is but a myth that arose with many others from the Humans’ Cataclysm? I am an old man looking for an older book, and to what purpose? Because I feel I have been wronged? Because some ancient account will give me the courage to return to Markanturos to face those who ostracized me? Is there truly any sense in this?
He lit the pipe and took a few puffs. “I cannot return to Mystland,” he murmured aloud. That much was certain. His entire vocation in medori territory had ended shamefully. He had had a respectful position as a curator of magical antiquities, and he had been passionate about his work. As time passed, however, his unresolved and bitter feelings toward his people had infected his new life. He had grown lazy in his research, uncaring about the history that once captivated his interest. It had become clear that his life was a farce—a solitary Markanturian trying to blend in with Human medori. He knew more of their trinkets and artifacts than they did, but of his own history, nothing was solid. As he came to see it, he was a man without a past, present, or future.
What was real, what was accessible, was the only escape that brought him solace. In Markanturos, his homeland, it was one of the Sacred Trio: good company, good food, and good wine. The wine had followed him in his travels. It was a reliable companion when he was alone, and he had come to accept that he was always alone. One might argue it was the wine that cost him his position as curator. He did not care to speculate; Mystland had been just another place in which he did not belong. He took what he could carry of his belongings and accumulated funds, and set out for Belorn under the pretense of historical research.
It was not a complete lie, he reconsidered. His eyes flicked to the letter. “What further insult do they wish to weigh upon me? Did I forget to sign my resignation?” He stomped to the table and snatched up the item in question. He pulled open the paper, and a second sheet fell to the floor. He ignored it and began to read.
Master Prentishun,
On behalf of your old acquaintance, I have been employed to escort you, at your will, to the residence of the elusive wizard William. Unforeseen events have left me temporarily indisposed, and I regret that I will be unable to join you for the first stretch of your journey. There will be a caravan leaving from Belorn, destined for Valesage. Your place has been reserved; I intend to meet you when you arrive. Please accept my companion as a gesture of good faith. I look forward to making your acquaintance.
Regards,
Hawkwing
“What distasteful antic is this?” He cast the letter aside, only to be confronted by the fallen page at his feet. “Oh, bother!” He kicked at it, then grunted as he bent to pick it up.
Greetings, my Markanturian friend!
I regret to disrupt your studies, but my disruptions are always worthwhile. It has been a long time since we have conversed over the vineyard’s finest. Mystland is a tired setting, and so I invite you to my humble home. Hawkwing knows the way; he will find you, as he is an expert tracker and guide. Please be kind to him.
Expectantly,
Bill
“He cannot be serious.” He reread both letters. He is serious, of course. He wants me to visit him. I am wary of the word “journey.” Warier still of a man who calls himself “Hawkwing.” And what does he mean by his “companion?” The messenger had not mentioned that anyone had accompanied the letter.
“You are quite presumptuous to assume I will accept your invitation, William,” he grumbled. Worse than the invitation was the fact that he could only accept. There was nowhere for him to go, his funds were nearly exhausted, and—what he refused to admit to himself—was that William had spurred his curiosity.
He took both letters and stuffed them in his travel bag. “My hosts will likely be pleased to hear of my imminent departure. Perhaps as pleased as I will be to leave.” He thumped his staff and left the room.
*
The floor was cleaner than she was. Dirt, grit, and blood were wedged beneath her shredded fingernails as she scrubbed at the greasy stone. Her knuckles were scraped raw, and the filthy water stung with every dip of the scouring brush. The bruises were not a result of her labor so much as Clerk Melgora’s irrational tantrums. Broomsticks, pots, and cooking utensils made convenient instruments of punishment, and when no such item was within reach, Melgora’s feet or fists were equally as effective.
Kariayla tried not to think about her situation, but despair was difficult to ignore. One evening she was in a dress, beside a noblewoman; the next day she was in rags, scraping at the encrusted kitchen floor. The blame for Eleana’s disappearance was yet another addition to her list of failures. She could understand the need for the Barendorns to punish her. She could even understand why Eleana had to take advantage of the opportunity to leave with her lover. But what tore at her heart was how quickly she had been discarded, forgotten. What did it truly mean to be called a friend when there was no obligation of fidelity?
She wondered where Eleana had fled, and she wondered if they would inevitably be found. Or she will keep her freedom and become his wife. They might seek refuge in a small town, raise a family. A happy life with the one she loves. Kariayla paused when she heard Melgora’s voice in the background. Soon the clerks and the cooks would be preparing for the afternoon meal, and she did not want to be in the way when the kitchen grew busy. She tried to work faster, scrubbing harder at the stone so she would not be flogged with the broom. She hardly noticed that her fingers were bleeding again, swirls of red mixing with the soapy water as she pushed the brush back and forth with maddened vigor.
There was an awkward clearing of the throat from someone behind her, but she did not stop until she heard a voice. “Your pardon, my dear, but I…I was hoping to speak with you.”
Kariayla turned on her knees to stare up at the Blood Mage. He did not look happy or comfortable to be there. She glanced around nervously, afraid that he would get her in trouble for being distracted.
“If you have a moment….”
She gave a quick nod and made the effort to stand. Her knees buckled, but before she could fall, she felt thick fingers snare her arm to steady her. Embarrassed, she thanked him and looked away.
“I wanted to apologize for my rambling after dinner. I expect I made you uncomfortable, and it was not my intention at all. I, too, am rather passionate about history.”
“There was no harm done, Medoriate, sir,” Kariayla said quietly.
“Arcturus,” the Blood Mage said. “I am not a medoriate, despite my appearance.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I…also came to wish you well,” Arcturus said. “I will be leaving Belorn with a caravan headed for Valesage. It is rather a strange turn of events, and I…” He chuckled. “I have no reason to be telling you all this. As you can see, I do not need wine to ramble.”
Kariayla looked up at him, knowing how awkward he must feel. “A good journey to you, sir. May the Spirits protect you.”
“The spirits…” he mused. “Yes. Thank you. It was a pleasure to have met you, Kariayla.”
She gave a slight bow to him and watched as he walked away. Only a stranger remembers my name, she thought, miserable. He can go where he pleases. Eleana took her freedom to leave. How I envy them. Their lives are their own. Lost in thought, she did not hear the appro
ach of her overseer.
“You lazy girl!”
Kariayla winced and backed against the wall as Clerk Melgora bore down upon her. Her back seared with pain, but the greater threat was before her. The broad-shouldered kitchen clerk was nearly as red as the Blood Mage, her eyes bulging from her face. In her hand was a menacingly poised flesh hook. “I won’t have no lazy rats in my kitchen! Worthless girl!”
“I’m sorry,” Kariayla squeaked. “I’m sorry. I’ll finish the floor.”
“I’ll finish you! Think you’re better than us? Well, the missy isn’t here to protect you now!” Melgora swatted at her with the hook, and Kariayla moved aside a little too slowly. She felt the sharp points bite into her arm, tearing through her clothes as Melgora retracted the weapon. She watched, stunned, as the warm blood welled and dripped to the ground.
She means to kill me!
Recovering her senses, Kariayla scrambled along the wall to get away from her attacker. “You’re mad!” she cried, keeping her eyes on the pursuing clerk.
“What did you say? What did you say to me?” Melgora screeched. “I’ll teach you! You’ll learn your place!”
Kariayla slammed against a table, trapped in a corner. She glimpsed other servants who had come at the sound of the commotion. They would not help her—not unless they wanted the clerk’s wrath turned upon them.
Melgora swung at her again, and Kariayla dropped to the ground, crawling beneath the table. The clerk’s foot grazed her shoulder, and she skittered to the opposite side. Melgora rounded the corner after her like a hungry bear.
“Stop!” Kariayla cried, ducking back beneath the table.
The clerk growled and crouched low, swiping frantically with the flesh hook. There was the sharp sound of a tear, Kariayla’s yelp of pain, and then an eruption. A pair of black, leathery wings flung wide with a spattering of blood from where they had been struck. “Get away from me!” she shrieked, her voice grating with the force.
Melgora dropped the hook, and Kariayla rushed at her. She toppled the clerk and leapt to her feet, her heart coursing with unbridled rage. She raced through the kitchen, past the terrified faces that eagerly moved aside or fled from her intended path. Her legs carried her through the darkened storage rooms, then up the stairs, and out the doors into the bright afternoon sun. She ran across the courtyard, oblivious to the shouts and cries that followed her.
The castle gate was open, carts and wagons filing through. Kariayla did not stop. Past the people and their loads, past the guards, past the gate. No one tried to stop her. She could not stop herself. Down the road, through the fields, and into a patchy forest she ran until, amidst the roots, leaf litter, and moss, she finally collapsed.
*
Arcturus was determined to enjoy the peace of his carriage ride into Belorn’s royal city. He knew that his emergence from the cab would award him with many stares and unflattering comments. The Southern Kingdoms were said to be more tolerant of foreigners than most territories in Northern Secramore, but he was a Markanturian surrounded by Humans, and there was no hiding amongst them. He puffed on his pipe and gazed out the window at the tired greens and golds of summer’s end. With any fortune, the weather would hold for his journey east. He was unaccustomed to travel, and he hated to admit that this mysterious journey stirred some reservations.
Who has a name like “Hawkwing?” Names were important—especially at an introduction. How was he supposed to receive a man named after a bird’s appendage? Arcturus shook his head and exhaled a ring of smoke. As he watched it drift out the window and into the open air, he glimpsed a flash of white. He craned to catch a better view and saw that it was a large, white hawk, soaring and dipping against the azure sky. “Quite the coincidence,” he murmured and sat back against the seat. He had almost turned away from the window when something else caught his attention.
A beggar at the roadside. That will be my fate should I squander the last of my funds on this journey. Arcturus rubbed his chin. Something about the limping figure caught his eye as they passed it. No. Wait. I would swear that was— He withdrew his pipe. My thoughts keep drifting back to the castle. That poor girl. She will haunt me long after Belorn is a memory.
Unable to resist, he peered back down the road. He tapped the head of his staff against the roof of the cab, and the driver slowed to a stop. “Please, turn back,” Arcturus said.
“Turn back, sir?”
“Yes. I wish to speak to that beggar.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The carriage rounded and rolled back in the direction from which they had come. It slowed and finally stopped, and Arcturus slid across the seat to the opposite window. The figure’s head had been bent, but now it lifted to regard him, and he felt his blood grow cold. “Dear me!” he cried, and quit the carriage.
It was Kariayla. She was covered in dirt, her clothes were tattered, and— Wings? Are those wings? Arcturus pushed the thought aside and knelt beside her. He gently grasped her shoulders and peered into her watering gray eyes. “My dear, what has happened to you?”
Tears cut through the dirt on her face, but tears were all that escaped her.
He pulled her close, and she collapsed against him, her slight form shaking with emotion. And there were her wings. Wings!
“You will be all right,” Arcturus soothed. “I promise I will help you.” He patted her shoulder and felt her tense. Easing away, he saw for the first time the torn fabric, the blood stains. He took a deep breath to control his growing anger. “Who did this to you? I demand to know who is responsible—” The look on her face stopped him short, and he sighed. “Never mind. Come with me.”
He led her to the carriage and helped her inside.
“Are we to return to the castle, sir?” the driver asked.
“If you return to the castle, there will be nothing in this world to prevent me from tearing down the gate myself,” he snapped. “Stop outside the city so that I might tend to her injuries, and I will decide our course from there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Arcturus joined Kariayla in the cab. It hurt him to look at her. I should never have left her. Perhaps it was not for me to interfere, but look what has happened. She was a petite creature with a youthful, innocent face. If not for the way she spoke, he would have mistaken her for a child. Of course, he was far older than everyone he met. He had never, though, in all his 347 years of life, met a person with wings.
“I did not know you were not Human,” he said, hoping to calm her with conversation.
She looked up at him through the fallen locks of her long, black hair, her stormy eyes bright against the deep brown of her skin. “Nemelorean,” she said, in a tone weighted with shame.
“You were afraid what they would think of you,” he said. “It is a fear I understand, but you should never have to hide who you are, my dear.” He could tell she did not believe him; after what she had endured, he doubted he could convince her otherwise. “They are not worth your pain. I learned that much long ago. What they say is said in ignorance, and it takes time before you learn not to believe their words.”
She nodded but said nothing more until they reached a point outside the city walls. Arcturus helped her from the carriage and walked with her to a stream not far from the road. “You have revealed your secret,” he said, “and I would like to reveal mine. I cannot imagine you have encountered one of my race before.”
Kariayla shook her head.
“All I ask is that you trust me. I wish only to help you.” He expected her to protest when he lifted her injured arm and pulled away the soiled material, but she was silent. The cuts were deep, as though she had been raked by the claws of an animal. He dipped his handkerchief in the stream and cleaned around the wound; all the while, she did not utter a sound. “Now,” he said when he had finished, “I am going to heal you with my ability. You have nothing to fear, I promise you, though it may hurt at first.”
Kariayla seemed more curious than wary as he placed his h
and over her slender arm. He watched her large eyes widen even more when his flesh began to move in worm-like tendrils, entering beneath her skin. She drew a sharp breath and then came to relax as he retreated. The cuts were gone, barely a mark to indicate where they had been. She gaped at him. “Can all Blood Mages heal as you do?”
“Indeed, my dear,” he said. “But the term ‘Blood Mage’ is considered crude. We are Markanturians.”
“I’m sorry, si—”
“Arcturus,” he corrected. “And I must insist upon no apologies.”
“But it was you who apologized first.”
“I…” He recalled that his apology was the subject of their last encounter in the castle. “Indeed,” he said, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “I do believe you are right.”
“Arcturus….”
“Yes, my dear.”
“May I come with you to Valesage?”
Arcturus blinked. “I…I cannot fathom a reason to the negative.”
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes welling again.
Those are the tears I can bear, he thought.
4
Journey by Caravan
The tailor seemed most disconcerted. He combed through his thinning hair enough that Arcturus expected it to pull free of his scalp. “This is rather abrupt,” the man said. “What you want cannot be done with such short notice.”
Kariayla stared at her feet. She looked much better after she had the opportunity to clean up, but no amount of scrubbing or grooming could lift her chin or straighten her shoulders. Such a shame for so pretty a young woman to be so downtrodden, Arcturus thought. What weight still rests upon those shoulders, I wonder… He turned to the tailor, growing irritated himself. “I do not expect a ballroom gown. This young lady needs attire that is clean and intact. Surely you can make a simple modification for her wings.”
The tailor snorted and muttered something beneath his breath.
“Your pardon?” Arcturus snapped.
“I will see what I can do, sir,” the man muttered and went to sift through his supply of premade garments.