by K Kazul Wolf
I can almost feel him nudging me forward, almost feel the ghost of a snort brushing the back of my head.
With a hollow acceptance, I nod. “All right. Even if you decide not to come with me in the end, even if you don’t teach me any of your illusions, I…I want to meet my mom.”
He jumps to his feet, clapping his hands together. The table and floors crumble as he does, leaving me to fall and hit the floor hard. Again. “Wonderful. Splendid. Come on, get up, we’re leaving.”
“W-wait, right now?” Will it be a journey? Will I see her in a matter of minutes, hours, or days? My breath comes in small gasps, tendrils of emotions curling and tightening around my heart. I’m going to see her. My mother.
“Yes, right now.” He turns, heading for a far door, one that we didn’t come through.
I scramble after him, suddenly claustrophobic of getting caught in a room without him to get me out.
The fear digs deeper into my joints as I catch up, making each movement strained. Am I really ready for this? Can I handle meeting my mom? Does she want to meet me?
Does it matter? The choice has already been made. Pressing my mouth shut, I follow Maur through the maze of the old building.
The rooms shrink and swell in size as we move through them. Some are full of rubble, some of them empty. Roofs have caved in, all the windows stuffed with sand. Unless there are open cracks in the ceiling, the only illumination is the strange light that Maur seems to give off, coloring the walls. Not that they aren’t colored enough already. Wherever I can see past the debris, the walls are covered and coated in pictures and words. Sometimes the floors are carved, too, designs that twirl and circle around the room.
“What is this place?” I whisper as we walk down a long hall, sprinkled with sunlight and sand and color. For being ruins, it’s gorgeous.
“This is a building where the people of many generations before us used to store their stories and their knowledge.” He keeps a pace too fast to stop and examine some of the words and painting closer. I nearly urge him to stop, but don’t think I could focus if we did.
“They stored it on the walls?” I glance around, like this new information makes the glyphs any easier to understand. It doesn’t. “Can you read any of it?”
“Not all of it; there were scrolls, books, and maps. And I understand some of it. Far too little of it, honestly. A lot of these languages are from dead towns and cities, buried for hundreds of years under the sand by greedy dragons. Someday, maybe, someone will find the opportunity to unearth them all, read stories no one has seen in over a thousand years. Hopefully.”
We reach the end of the hall. There’s a doorway consumed by sand, but Maur makes short work of it, creating a ramp that reaches into the sunlight.
I moan, covering my eyes. When did the sun get so bright?
Maur hisses. I grin. Looks like even the great and powerful dragon feels it, too.
“I much prefer going out at night,” he grumbles, then strides forward again, among the rocks and dead plants. “Keep moving. And don’t stop.”
Following his orders and about to make a remark on how I have no choice but to follow him, the ground below me stirs. So does the ground below Maur. Sand consumes my feet and I almost stop and scream at the dragon.
But he yells, “Keep moving!”
The sand rises in a wave, pushing me forward.
It’s like running along the tide, like I’m standing on the sea. I’m moving so fast I can barely see straight. My legs struggle to keep moving with the sand around them, burning more and more with every step, every second, every minute. Sand burns my eyes, tearing into my nostrils, and I can’t keep my hands up long enough. All I want to do is stop, but I’m afraid. What would happen if I did?
We travel faster than birds, faster than the air itself. I try to look behind me, see the ruins before we leave them too far behind. But they’re already gone.
The wave falls. Maur skids to a perfect stop, but I don’t expect it, and I stumble until I finally trip over myself and land on my face.
“Why couldn’t we have flown?” I gasp, attempting to get up onto shaking legs.
“You love these conventional thoughts of yours far too much.” He reaches out a hand, helping me to my feet.
I’m not sure whether I’m more offended by his remark or awed by his kind gesture. Didn’t know he was capable of the latter.
“Where are we?” It looks the same as any other part of the desert. Dead, dry, and rocky.
“Here.” He says simply. “We are here. And, apparently, so are they.” He lets go of my arm, taking a step back. “Good luck, serpent. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“Wait, what?”
I reach toward him. My fingers brush his arm as the ground under him shifts, and he falls through the sand as if it wasn’t even there.
And I’m alone.
In the middle of a desert.
Wonderful.
20
The Nomads
A dry wind howls past my ears, ruffling my too-long hair. It’s open landscape as far as I can see; no matter how many times I spin around, nothing changes. “We’re here” apparently meant that “here” was the middle of nowhere. The sand burns my feet through my sandals, the midday sun beating and searing my skin. If I don’t find shelter soon, the heat will kill me.
The sun tells me which way is which, but where do I go? Where’s Mercatus from here? Would I make it there before the desert kills me? I don’t see a sign of those ruins we came from. Are they that buried? Did we travel that far?
I jump into the air, flying higher and higher until my breath becomes thin. I can’t see anything. It’s just endless stones and sand and dead vegetation.
The wind whips from behind me, harder than before. It rips at my feathers, throwing me forward and backward again. I can’t stay airborne. I try to dip to the ground, but it keeps knocking me off course, throwing me around like a doll. I collapse once my sandals hit the sand, the wind gusting hard against my back. The sand rises around me, swirling, clouding the air until I can barely see. It stings my eyes, grits through my mouth, fills my lungs.
The wind scrapes the sand against my face, my blood pounding in my ears as I blindly try to stumble out of this hell. I try to cover myself with my wings, creating a tent, but the wind catches in my feathers and tosses me forward. I tumble, my throat scratching as I struggle to suck in breaths, coughing and rolling and praying for it to end. The world spins and panic begins to bubble up my throat.
Is this what Maur ran from? Leaving me to take on the desert on my own?
I slam into something. I cling to it like a rock in an ocean. It’s…furry. And warm.
Scrambling backward, I try to open my eyes and look, but it’s all stinging and sand. The only thing I can make out is a human figure, hooded and dark in the golden swirl. How can they be standing in this?
“An illusionist?” A female voice murmurs as I shut my eyes against the pain. “All the way out here? My dear, you’re far from home.”
No kidding. I cough, trying to get some air, talk, ask for help. Get them to teach me how to breathe in this thing like they are.
“Not very good with sandstorms, either. Probably your first one. A Fallen, is it?”
“Of course she isn’t. She has wings”
If I could breathe, I would explain. If I could get up, I’d beg her to get me out of this place.
“Stop playing with the girl.” A man’s voice sounds from behind me. I don’t bother to look. I’m going to die of breathing in sand. It’s worse than drowning at the edge of a desert would have been. All this work to die on the ground, nothing accomplished, nothing done. Did I choose the wrong offer? “Let’s go.”
“As soon as you stop this silly storm,” she snaps.
“Oh? And let her loose? No. I have a better idea.”
“Stop!” she shouts.
Pain flares on the back of my head. I gasp, more sand searing my throat. Then the world grows quiet, and I
can’t think anymore.
“Hey.” Something pats my cheek. I’m sitting upright, my feet splayed out awkwardly in from of me. My arms and wings are curled behind me. They ache. “Hey, illusionist, wake up.”
“Stop that.” The woman. And the man from the desert, that was him patting me.
My eyes snap open. I try to pull my arms forward, yank out my sabre. But my hands won’t budge. My wrists are tied, sore and rubbed raw against a rough rope.
“See?” A figure moves away from me, blurring as my eyes try to focus. “It worked, so stop complaining.”
The skin around my eyes is crusty, cracking as I open them wider. I take in a breath to find my throat sore.
Four figures stand in a half-ring around me, all of them covered in cloaks patched with the hides of more animals than I knew existed. Tan, brown, yellow, black fur; long, short, or none at all; stripes and spots ranging in a variety too great for me to imagine what they would look like on animals. Large hoods hide their faces from view. I try to press myself backward, get farther away from them, but there’s a pole behind me. Nearby there are sacks of something, fabric bulging with lumps that look something like potatoes. A storeroom?
No, not a room. A tent. The pole I’m attached to is a beam for the pale fabric above, flapping gently in a breeze.
“It was effective, but waiting wouldn’t have taken much longer,” says a new voice to my far left—a man, sounding closer to my age than the others. “Tell me, serpent, what is your name?”
I blink slowly at him, squinting to see if I can make out his face. It’s too dark under that fur. How can he stand all that fur in this heat? I’m sweating in my light clothes.
A sword rings against a scabbard. “You were asked a question, snake.”
I cringe back.
“Oh, stop being so harsh.” The woman from the storm. “She’s obviously terrified, and for good reason with your threats. Her name doesn’t matter anyway. What we would like to know is why were you this far out in the middle of nowhere? Do you know of the Azelain? Did you run from Caelum? Will they be tracking you? Are they nearby?”
I shake my head, croaking, “No.” I sound like a toad with a cold. “I fell a long time ago. The city is more than likely near the border. At the very least, they’re nowhere near here. I didn’t lead anyone to you.” I take a painful breath. “What’s an Azelain?”
“Good,” says the man, sliding his sword back in. “But that brings us back to the question: what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
How much do I tell them? “Well, there was a dragon called Maur, and he—”
The person yet to speak tsks. “Of course. Him.”
“How did you find him?” asks the man, who seems at least a slight bit nicer than the rest. “And what did he tell you about us?”
“We…had a mutual acquaintance.” Something tells me these people don’t have the patience for the story behind this whole situation. I don’t have the patience for it. “But he told me he was going to introduce me to one of the groups of nomads. That was before he disappeared and left me stranded in the middle of the desert.”
One of them cocks their head. The quiet one. “And what do you want with nomads?” Her voice is soft yet heavy at the same time.
“He said…he said that my mom was here.” The words feel silly, awkward in their truth.
“We don’t harbor any illusionists within Azelain.” The angry one grips the handle of his blade again. “None of the other nomads do, either. And don’t you even think a dragon could step foot near here.”
“Oh?” says the kind one. “Then what about Maur himself? What about the years he spent here?”
“Remember that he isn’t here anymore.” The angry one loosens his grip, though. “Regardless, there would be no one here with an illusionist as a child. We should kill her right now, spare ourselves the trouble.”
“Calm down.” The nice one places her hands on her hips. “This is something to be discussed. Tell us, illusionist, what’s your name?”
“M-my name is Ava.” My voice barely comes out as a whisper.
She nods. “Come, now. It’s gaining on night, we’ll decide this after a good sleep.”
The angry one nearly argues, but gets shot a glance by the quiet one and obeys. They all leave the tent—save for one.
Slowly, tentatively, he lowers his hood. His hair is short, curled tightly around his head. He’s muscular but lean, deep golden skin marked with a half-dozen small scars and birthmark-like words as Maur had, but not as many and a few shades lighter. For a moment he pauses, looking me over. I return his stare head-on, anger pulsing through me. Did Maur lie? Did he want to send me on a wild goose chase, bored of me and wanting to find a quick way to stop me from ever coming back without doing the dirty work himself?
“I’m sorry about your holding conditions.” He’s one of the kind ones. “We aren’t used to having situations like this.”
I shift, curling and uncurling my fists with a tingling feeling. What does he want me to say? “Oh, I’m completely fine being tied up with numb fingers while the lot of you discuss my execution?”
“My name is Hamahl, by the way. You said yours was Ava?”
I eye him, then nod.
He gives a small smile, laugh lines spreading across his face. “Then I think it’s a good thing you’ve come here. Now, those bonds have to be uncomfortable.” He steps around me, loosening the bonds.
I shift. “But…” Now I can get loose. There was barely room for a drop of water to slip between my skin and the ropes, but now there’s a wide gap.
“You want to be tied tighter?” He steps in front of me, an eyebrow raised.
“Well, no. But why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?” I move again, drawing in a sharp breath as my hands start to tingle, painfully.
He gives a short laugh. “You’ve spent a long time in Caelum, haven’t you? Not everyone has to be selfish. I think… Well, like I said, it’s good you’ve come here.” He turns to leave, pausing at the tent flap. “It’s a shame you’re a prisoner on a night like tonight. As an outsider, I would definitely want to see the main fire, in the center of the tents.” He looks at me, dark eyes flashing. “Especially if I were you.”
He pushes through the flap, leaving me.
21
The City in the Sky
For a moment, I stare after him. What a strange, strange man. He’s letting me free? And he wants me to stay in the camp, apparently. Could it be…is my mom…?
I shake my head. They said they don’t have any illusionists here. This must be the wrong place—if Maur wasn’t lying to start with.
With a deep sigh, I bite my cheek and try to stifle the comments about how “crude” it is to do so, driving the water between my skin and the ropes and pushing it against the ropes, stretching it as far as I can before I yank my wrists through. It gets caught around my knuckles, the rough fibers digging into my skin. I clench my teeth tighter together, skin tearing as I rip out of my bindings.
I bring my hands around, my shoulders cracking with sharp pain as I roll them. I rub out the muscle, getting to my feet with a wince.
What now? I’m sure I could mirage myself and leave easily enough, but…I can’t go. The thought seems to click into place in my head, stubborn and immovable. There’s no way I can leave this place and not know for sure.
With a deep breath, I curl and twine the water around me. Just in case, I draw my father’s crystal out of my pocket.
Maybe he knew. Did he ever actually say mom was dead? I can’t remember the words ever leaving his mouth. There were only those stories, only the warnings. And what about those warnings? What did she do?
Pulling my wings tight to me, my mirage shapes and shifts to follow them. Tentatively, I pull the tent flap aside, looking out. No guards? Do they really think that little of me? Maybe Hamahl took care of them. Either way, I don’t trust them. They can’t have just let me go.
A huge camp st
retches before me: tents as far as I can see, lights flickering, voices laughing and singing, and music playing on strange strings carried by the winds. Behind me, the sand rises to create a huge dune that circles the tents, the fading light of the setting sun slowly falling behind it. A wall, a barrier to protect against the outside?
All this has existed for who knows how long in the middle of the desert, completely separate from the towns and the city in the sky. How? The Story Collectors told me that the people who live outside of towns are considered rebels, captured as slaves all the time. How can something so big have existed for so long out here?
And what will they do to me if they find me?
Caution nags at me, tells me how stupid this all is, how it isn’t worth it. I could die, they could find me standing here and kill me. They might not be any better than Caelum. There’s no reason I should go into the fold of those tents. But how can I not know for sure? I stride into the fabric settlement, my heart hammering and adrenaline tingling up and down my arms.
The tents change the farther I navigate through them. They slowly turn from tan and gold and cream to purples and reds and blues, colors as vibrant as dragon scales. How did they get these dyes? I thought only Caelum could make these colors.
Then I find the first fire. I don’t notice the half-dozen people gathered around it until one laughs hysterically, making me nearly jump out of my skin.
“What is it now?” another moans, poking the fire with a spear. They’re all dressed lightly, their plain clothes a contrast from the color around them.
“I was thinking.” The girl can’t stop giggling randomly between words, whatever joke too much to take. “Of Gira tripping into that pile of goat poop. Do you remember that?”
Another girl snorts. “Dragons! How could you forget that?”
“Oh, come on, guys, stop being so mean.”
“Mean?” The laughing girl giggles again. “She fell in poop. There is no way you cannot laugh at that.”