Beneath Stained Glass Wings

by K Kazul Wolf

  “Then, Maur, grab some food for the journey; I’m sure you two haven’t eaten in a while.” She pauses, really looks at me. “You can always rest here, first, if you like. When was the last time you slept?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She’s right—I need to keep moving. Vito’s out there. My heart thumps unevenly every time his name pops into my head. I might be able to see him again.

  He might hate me.

  She nods. “Then go. I’ll see you two soon.” She kisses my forehead, my eyes.

  I give her a hug, wishing that she was coming with me instead of Maur, wanting more than anything to have her with me again. But once she lets go, she turns away and goes down her own path. So Maur and I turn to follow ours.

  30

  The Return

  While we gather our supplies, Maur insists we use his method of traveling back to Mercatus. I argue, but half-heartedly. It’s so much faster than flying, even if it hurts. I’m so tired that my body rebels at the idea at first: the lack of control, the draining effort it takes, my legs straining against the sand…

  I shake my head, pushing through the tent flap. Vito’s out there. He’s alive, and he’s in pain. Nothing else matters.

  The people watch us as we go, standing between the tents or walking the same path as us. Some are hostile, but it’s amazing how many of them look toward us with curiosity, how many children peek around their parents’ legs instead of hiding. Back in Mercatus, the only glances I got were of contempt. Glares at my wings, mutterings behind my back. I didn’t care then, I understood. I hated my kind—and maybe even myself—as much as they did.

  But somehow, these people have changed since they first attacked me. It’s not like they didn’t have a reason, what with me sneaking in and my wings. Maybe Hamahl’s right. Maybe these are good people.

  Maybe the rest of the world could be like this, dragon-kind and humankind and all the in-between without all this strife.

  I shake my head again, trying to get rid of the thoughts. That’s not something for me to worry about; that’s for people like Carita to consider. I have to get to Vito.

  And then we’re at the edge of the camp. I look back, seeing a small row of people watching us. Only one face is familiar among them. Hamahl runs out from the crowd, pushing a bundle into my chest.

  “Forgot your sword.” He grins, giving me a one-armed hug. “Take care out there.”

  “Y-you too,” I manage past my half-shock as he walks back, waving. No matter how many times it happens, it’s still weird that a stranger could care about me.

  The sand swirls around my feet. Panic flutters in my chest. I’m going to leave. My mom’s back there and I’m leaving her right as I’ve found her. And I know there’s no other option, the sand sliding and slipping under my feet. Vito, I have to get to Vito. My mom will be coming to me soon. She’s alive. It’ll be okay.

  Clenching my jaw, I face the tide of the sand. It rises, lifting me above the watching nomads. So I take a stride, riding forward next to Maur.

  It’s strange to think how brief it’s been I made this same journey alone. It’s even stranger to think of how I was then, compared to now. The riverbed comes into view sooner than I’d think, and even being closer to the ground, I can recognize the bends and curves and landmarks.

  I’ll see Carita and Bricius soon. The Story Collectors, and that tiny little workshop with all those wings. And…I’m not looking forward to it.

  I want to get their help, I want to find Vito, but there’s a sense of dread that I can’t shake going back. My stomach curls at the idea of working on those wings while everything and everyone moves around me, doesn’t give a damn about me. The fact that they want to destroy all of Caelum, all the dragons and illusionists that haven’t seen the truth, just like I hadn’t. And I know that it’s not what I should be focusing on, but my mind keeps jumping back to that hollowness in my stomach that going back gives me. Why?

  It feels like it’s going by too quickly. The ground it took me days to cover flies by underneath my feet. It makes this all seem useless, like I’m simply backtracking.

  Maur finally stops for a break, at least halfway back from Azelain to Mercatus as far as I can tell. I collapse to the ground. No one should ever have to be put through that. How on earth he’s still standing, I’ll never know.

  He walks toward me. I glare at him, panting.

  For a moment, he almost looks like he’s going to offer a hand to help me up. But he crosses his arms and looks at me. It’s hard to see him, what with the sun right behind his head, his face a dark smudge on my vision.

  “What’s wrong, serpent?” He quirks his head to the side.

  I glare at him. “Wha’?” is all I can manage between pants.

  “Something’s on your mind. You haven’t complained or asked a question once this whole trip.”

  “Kinda hard to do,” I gasp for air, “when running across sand dunes.”

  He waves a hand. “Sure, by this point, you’d be out of breath. But the sun’s set and it’s getting cooler out. You would have asked to stop sooner, or asked why I was coming with you, or how I was doing this. There’s something on your mind.”

  I let out a long breath, finally having enough air in my lungs to do so without passing out. “Fine. I’m…not looking forward to being back.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you come to me singing this rebellion’s praises, telling me to join them in their cause?”

  “I know.” The words come out snappier than I mean them, and Maur’s lips press together. “They aren’t bad people. I just…” I search for the right words, but they feel out of reach, past the tip of my tongue.

  “Hmm.” He turns away, the sudden sunlight burning my eyes. “Are you sure this is where we should be headed, then?”

  “Do you have any better ideas?” I push myself up, wincing as I sit. “We can’t exactly waltz across the desert, asking which towns house rebellions. Like I said, these are good people.”

  “Sometimes it’s better to go with what you have than settle for more.”

  With a sigh, I say, “I’m not settling. I’m doing what I have to do to get what needs to be done, done. They’re different from the kind of people I grew up around, they’re different from you, different from the Azelain.”

  “Ah.” He drops his pack, making me jump a little. “Well, maybe you need to eat something, get your mind straight.” He rummages, pulling out more food than I could even think to eat, my stomach queasier than I realized.

  “Is there anything you can do without eating?” I take a swig of my water, reluctantly following his example to get some dried fruit from my pack.

  His eyes squint like he’s actually giving it thought. “No, honestly. I think that food is always appropriate.”

  Shaking my head, I nibble on the fruit. I’m being silly. Carita’s taken care of me ever since I fell, and even more so the second time. They care about me there. Even if they don’t trust my kind, and who can blame them?

  Then why can’t I let go of this feeling that sours all the food I put in my mouth?

  Maur’s ready to go before I am. I complain, but he asks if I want to take any longer to get to that dragon of mine, and I answer honestly. It’s not exactly a choice.

  So we keep trudging on. My legs cry out at every movement, and I realize I haven’t really slept in days. If I fall asleep now, now that I know Vito isn’t dead, will I have nightmares? Probably. But part of me wants to take the chance, collapse into the wave of sand and let it wrap me tighter than a blanket ever could. My eyes are so heavy and I can feel the effort of every breath. But…Vito. I’ll sleep when I see Vito again. I have to keep fighting.

  A speck grows in the distance, illuminated by stars and a full moon. As it sinks, the speck grows, jutting around in roofs and houses. Finally, it consumes our horizon.

  Maur stops the mound of rising sand and waits patiently for me to recover. Well, there’s a first time for everything.

  “A
va?” I jump at the use of my name. He’s never said it before, and the last time I heard a man say it was…well, when my father died.

  I clear my throat. “What?”

  “Is…” He shrugs his shoulders repeatedly, fiddling uncomfortably with his hands. “Will Dantea be here? In this town?”

  My eyebrows raise. “Well, yes. All the Storytellers are here. Why? Would you rather not see her? I can go ahead and—”

  “No! No. I just— Well—”

  I take a step forward, a smile creeping onto my lips as I put things together. “You liked her, didn’t you?”

  “Well, of course I liked her. I worked with her for many years.” He tries to look like the question doesn’t faze him, jutting out his chin. But his fingers still fidget.

  “You know what I mean,” I accuse. But he won’t elaborate, his mouth pressed shut. “Fine, fine, keep your secrets, even if they’re more than obvious. Let’s go.”

  Despite my aching legs and my eyelids feeling like they weigh more than the rest of my body, I get up, and I walk toward the town.

  The guards outside Mercatus stop us, stammering as they try to ask where we’re going, who we’re seeing, what we’re doing. They aren’t illusionists anymore, though both as easily persuaded. Not that I’d go so far as to use Carita’s techniques, but food and threats tend to persuade the weaker of minds.

  People stare, steering children away from where I walk. It takes me a moment to remember why they look at me oddly. I glance at Maur and understand; tattoos are looked down on as the work of the savages living in the desert. It’s taught and scared into children. I never knew what they meant before, though I read about them enough to find them more fascinating than something to fear—now even more so.

  But…my markings only cover my arm, compared to his whole body. That can’t be what they’re staring at me for.

  Oh. I’m not normal. My wings and my horns represent something to hate. Even the Azelain were able to accept me, despite hating my kind, and these people don’t even give me a chance. Despite the fact that their leader is one in disguise, despite the fact that I equipped their small army.

  A slow fire kindles in me.

  How many other illusionists have been discriminated against after falling from the city, though they want the same thing as the ground dwellers? How many hunters were cast out because they were protecting these people, only to be killed by them? How many caretakers were sacrificed before their time because they had the nerve to think? How many dragons like Vito have ended up with his fate because they dared to care for what wasn’t deemed as worthy by that bastard king of ours?

  And why does this all make me blame these people less for their hate? How can I change it? How do I turn an entire nation against this ever-growing tide?

  We make it to the market without incident. It’s quieter than the last time I was here, the majority of the stands and stalls abandoned. Maur hasn’t said a word this whole time. I pause and nearly pester him about it, but his eyes are too wide, his face too nostalgic.

  With a sigh, I take a step forward.

  And nearly skewer myself on a spear tip.

  31

  The Reunions

  “Who are you?” a man growls, jabbing the head closer, forcing me back and into Maur. Two more men flank his sides with their own array of weapons.

  I haven’t been gone for that long. They can’t have forgotten me. Can they?

  “I have business to settle with Carita,” I say placing a hand on my sabre. Memories of training flash through my mind, and I realize I could take them.

  “Carita?” The man to his right laughs. “She doesn’t work with your type.”

  “‘My type?’” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Illusionists.” He spits the word.

  The man on his right snorts, “The only illusionist I ever seen ‘round here is on Carita’s watch all day n’ all night. Never leaves the place without Carita on her.”

  I bristle, the feathers of my wings ruffling. I never had reason to leave the workshop unless Carita came to get me. Never did I need her permission to do anything. Who has been spreading these lies? And how would these idiots like to know that their own mistress is one of those very illusionists they despise? I can’t understand how or why Carita lets this hatred spread.

  “Enough, boys.”

  They jump at the sound of that voice. I turn, see the parting of the small crowd that had formed around us while my eyes were on the men with their blades.

  Carita walks forward, her hair still as short as mine was when I first fell, scar creased in irritation. She’s dressed in clothes of a deep, emerald green—odd, I thought she hated the colors of the city above. No one down here would wear colors that vibrant. Bricius towers next to her, but he looks the same as ever, everything about him blending in with the sand and clay.

  Carita’s eyes stick to Maur for a second, lips twitching down as she takes in the dragon. Then her eyes flick to me. “Ah, birdie. Finally decided to fly home? Took you long enough—I started to think you had died.”

  Home? Do I have one anymore? “Not excited to see me? I brought back a surprise.”

  “Oh?” She looks at Maur again. “What exactly did you bring?”

  “Who,” I correct, feeling a little protective of my brilliantly idiotic grandfather. “Carita, this is Maur. I believe you might know him as Dantea’s friend, if she ever told you the story.”

  She blinks. And then she blinks again. “This man is a—” She shoots a look around at the surrounding people. “We’re going to talk about this somewhere else. Go on, everyone,” she calls to the crowd. “Go about your business. There’s nothing to be seen here.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right with these two?” one of the men behind me asks.

  I turn to glare.

  Carita snaps, “Go,” one more time, Bricius growing a half-sneer as he reaches for his weapon. Without another protest, they turn away, tails practically between their legs.

  “You’ll have to forgive them.” She eyes the retreating forms. “Keeping Mercatus under our control has been harder than we originally planned, even with last time under our belts. People are quick to jump. Now, come along.”

  She and Bricius walk away, simply expecting me to follow, like before. Like nothing’s changed, even though so much has. Ask me what exactly, though, and I wouldn’t be able to tell.

  I look to Maur. He squints after her. Surely he can see that she has on an illusion, that she’s obviously an illusionist. That can’t really take him off guard, right?

  Then his eyes snap to me. “This is the Carita you were talking about before?”

  I nod. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure I like her.”

  Again, I want to push, but his long strides catch up to Carita in no time, leaving me in the dust.

  Carita’s a little harsh, but she isn’t a bad person. She took care of me when I fell, she knew how it felt. Yes, it fit her agenda, but she could have been a lot worse about the whole situation. And not to mention how she cared for me after the second time I fell, with Vito…

  Shaking my head, I run to catch up with them.

  Silence presses into my ears as we wander through the market at night, too thick to ignore but too large to break. Fires and colors splash across the quiet market, but it’s not the same as the Azelain. Those colors were warm in the desert chill, colorful and inviting in a strange way. These are more mysterious, foreign. Scents and spices of exotic perfumes are sharp in my nose, the few fires sending curls of smoke that remind me of Maur’s tattoos, forming words that the world has yet to learn in their tendrils.

  We leave the market and wander down a familiar alleyway, a shock to be back to the dry, drab normalcy.

  Nothing’s changed. It still takes the same knock for someone to open the door to the Story Collector’s base. Everyone inside is still entirely the same, only a few faces I don’t recognize among the group—but that in itself is normal, too.

 
“M-Maur?” Dantea rises to her feet, far too fast for someone her age.

  “You really never did forget,” Maur murmurs.

  She strolls through the crowd of people, all bustling over me, my return. Her shaky hands take his. “You’re really here. I thought…I thought you might tell us off and be on your way, like you tend to be.”

  “Well,” Maur glances at me. “It turns out I have more obligations to this little project of yours than I initially thought.”

  She grins like she’s decades younger. “Oh.” The smile fades. “I…I’m sorry. Walking up and treating you like nothing’s happened, after all that I said to you, before you left…” She shakes her head and backs away, though not far enough that her hands slip from his. “You don’t have to be kind to me.”

  One of Maur’s eyebrows quirks. “It’s my honor to be in your presence.” He raises one of her hands to his lips.

  “Ava!” Carita’s voice snaps my attention from the strangely adorable pair. “Were you paying any attention?”

  “I…uh…no.” I shake my head, trying to focus. My eyes are so heavy, like I could close them and fall asleep standing up. “I’m sorry.”

  “You finally come back and don’t even care how the lot of us have been faring while you were off on your adventures? We’ve been sitting here worried over you, you know.” She puts a hand on her hip, giving me that look of hers. Oh, I did not miss that look.

  But her heartbeat contradicts her words. She’s lying.

  I take a breath. “Worried about me? While you’re raising a rebellion?”

  She tuts her tongue. “Forgive me for having an honest concern about your livelihood.” Her mouth twists down and she looks…honestly upset.

  But again, there’s a lie there. “I’m sorry,” I try to hide the shock. Well…she has done so much for me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she cares. “Really, I am.”

  She waves her hand. “Regardless, what I was telling you was all the progress we’ve made with those wings you worked so hard on. They’re very easy for most to grasp, though...” She looks away. “A few may need more repairs.”