The One Who Could Not Fly

by E G Stone

  Desarra strode to a graceful stop just outside the doors to the Chosen Queen’s private quarters. A guard, her own golden skin seeming somehow less radiant than Desarra’s, nodded at the two. “We’re here for luncheon,” Desarra said.

  “Of course, milady,” the guard swept a wing back in an indication for them to enter. “The Queen is expecting you.”

  Desarra nodded her head regally. Ravenna tried to copy her sister’s motion, but the distaste the guard displayed was enough to be certain it did not work. Ravenna fought the urge to pull her wings in against her body, instead making sure her shoulders were square. They entered the chambers and Ravenna almost let out a sigh of relief.

  The Chosen Queen was Ravenna’s grandmother, Mariala, and she was one of the few sylphs that Ravenna had never felt at odds with. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that she was happy to be herself, that she never let the High Council bully her into a decision that she did not fully back, or perhaps it was the fact that her personality was as colourful as the tapestries and rugs that bedecked every surface of the stone chambers. Ravenna rather thought it had something to do with the fact that her grandmother had never seen fit to look down on Ravenna for something beyond her control.

  “Ah, there are my beautiful granddaughters today.” Mariala’s voice was pure honey, rich and deep. Ravenna smiled at the figure already seated at the low table. She was dressed in similar court finery to Desarra, with a flowing red and gold billowy tunic and trousers that were cut tight at the ankles. Her skin was mostly dusty charcoal, but there were a few splotches of gold where her skin tone had never been even. Ravenna thought it made her look fascinating, while Desarra had often praised her own perfectly smooth colouring. Mariala’s wings were the standard gold with a few feathers showing their age with a flash of white. Her skin was wrinkled and her face kind. Her amber eyes, though, were as strong as the West Wind.

  “Grandmother,” Desarra curtsied gracefully, her wings sweeping the floor with a pleasant whisper. Ravenna did not bother with such formalities here, instead bounding forwards and touching wings with the bent figure.

  “Hello, Grandmother,” Ravenna whispered. Mariala smiled and patted Ravenna’s shoulders, their feathers mingling together in a wing-touch.

  Desarra shot Ravenna a furious look as admonishment for her affectionate behaviour.

  “Look at you both,” Mariala said, pulling back and gesturing for Ravenna and Desarra to sit. They did, letting their wings relax into the notches carved into the chairs.

  “Thank you for having us to luncheon,” Desarra said demurely.

  Mariala flapped a dismissive hand.

  “If I am not allowed to have my granddaughters for lunch, then I would have stepped down from my position!”

  “You tease us,” Desarra said, though the flush in her cheeks betrayed her alarm.

  “Bah,” Mariala said. A couple of sylphs brought in the dishes of roasted vegetables and the braised sea bird. Ravenna found her mouth watering. “You are too important to ignore,” Mariala said firmly.

  “Thank you,” Ravenna murmured.

  Mariala grinned and Desarra’s flush deepened.

  “Go ahead, eat! Eat! And then I will tell you why I called you here,” Mariala said.

  Desarra, in the middle of serving herself vegetables and a sliver of sea bird, nearly dropped the utensils.

  The old Queen laughed, the sound rough and cheerful. “Oh, that caught your attention, did it, my dear? Yes, I called you here for a reason, though I am always glad to see you.”

  “Grandmother…” Desarra began, before clamping her mouth shut over her curiosity.

  Ravenna just kept silent, serving herself a larger portion of food than her sister would ever have taken.

  “I suppose you may as well know. Don’t blame me if it throws off your appetite!” Mariala pointed her knife at Desarra. The golden sylph’s feathers rustled, the only sign betraying her discomfort.

  “I’m sure we can handle whatever news you have to give,” Ravenna said.

  Desarra glared at her sister, eyes flashing dangerously.

  “Hmph. We’ll see about that. Though it doesn’t affect you so much, Ravenna,” Mariala stabbed a piece of sea bird with her knife and brought it to her mouth. She took her time chewing and Ravenna imagined she could hear Desarra’s heart beat faster as the moments passed. Finally, Mariala swallowed and nodded firmly. “In half a cycle’s time, I will be stepping down as Queen and call a Choosing.”

  The silence that filled the room was palpable. It snaked its way down Ravenna’s spine and settled in the spot where she had fallen earlier. Shock.

  Desarra’s spine snapped straight and her eyes widened.

  Ravenna saw a flash of desire there, as well as a good deal of fear.

  The monarchy of the sylphs was unlike that of other species that Ravenna had studied in the tomes of the Intellecti. Those, she knew, were often hereditary. Sylphs, she thought, were far cleverer and chose their monarchs from amongst the best in their society. Once the position was granted, it was life-long and only death or a unanimous vote by the members of the High Council and the Intellecti could remove the monarch, unless they stepped down and called a Choosing.

  The Choosing was a series of tests, both intellectual and physical, that would serve to weed out the best of the sylphs from others until only one remained. The next monarch. Theoretically, anyone could participate, but Ravenna knew she would never be allowed to even try. Many of the tasks involved flying.

  Ravenna wondered if she would have even tried for the monarchy had she been able to participate in the Choosing. It startled her to realise that she did not know.

  “Grandmother,” Desarra whispered.

  Ravenna flicked her blue eyes up to her sister. Desarra would definitely want to participate in the Choosing. As would her mate, Crispin. Ravenna felt a knot forming in her chest. She looked at her grandmother, trying to sort out what was happening.

  “Yes, Desarra, a Choosing. And you will be a viable candidate. Very viable,” Mariala said.

  Desarra’s mouth opened and closed like a gull, though no sound came out.

  Ravenna nodded.

  The older sylph turned to Ravenna, frowning.

  “I am well aware of my position in the matter, Grandmother,” Ravenna murmured.

  Desarra jerked and turned towards her sister, a suppressed grin curling the corners of her mouth. “Yes, I suppose you won’t be participating,” she said casually. “You wouldn’t be qualified.”

  “Desarra!” Mariala snapped. It was half-hearted, though. The Queen knew her granddaughters, and she knew the truth that would never change. Ravenna would never fly. Desarra, for all that she could be kinder to her sister, was not wrong.

  “Don’t worry, Grandmother,” Ravenna said, expression perfectly calm as she carved into a piece of her sea bird. “Desarra is right. I am not qualified. And besides, I have my own work to attend to. Tacitus has assigned me the task of mapping early sylph settlements on Shinalea.”

  “You are well suited for the role of Intellecti,” Mariala said, not unkindly. Ravenna felt the sting anyway. “Though I fear that Tacitus wronged you when he took you in as a child. Concessions might have been made for your flightless state, but not, I fear, for the fact that you are an Intellecti.”

  Ravenna’s feathers fluttered quietly. She made certain it did not show on her face. She was far from stupid and knew, precisely, what her grandmother referred to. The Intellecti were an organization that focused on learning as much as possible in order to apply their knowledge and improve the lives of all the sylphs. Though they were isolated, they had as much influence as the High Council. Only, most sylphs feared the Intellecti. Perhaps because they were the closest thing to a religion in a society that scorned such things. Flightless and an Intellecti, Ravenna was, indeed, alone. She focused on her food and on quietly murmuring assent at Desarra’s discussion of the Choosing for the rest of the luncheon.

  Ravenna s
howed no emotion during her long descent of the stair, nor when she walked—sans acrobatics—through the forest back to the Tower. She did no more than smile softly at Tacitus when he acknowledged her return and handed her an unmarked map of the island for her to fill out on her cartographic journey. Ravenna kept perfectly calm until she made it to her own quarters, small and stone and perfectly isolated at the top of the Tower. There, she allowed her wings to flare in anger and punched the pillow on her bed into submission.

  Ravenna left early the next morning to map the settlements on Shinalea. She had packed a spare set of clothes, a parcel of dried fish, some apples from the small orchard next to the Tower and hoped she would not have to go back to the Tower anytime soon. Tacitus had given her an all-too-knowing look that morning when she had relayed the general details of her lunch with Mariala and Desarra. He had probably seen right through her, but she did not want to burden him with any of her own problems. He was busy enough as it was.

  Thankfully, her heart-father had not pressed her. Instead, he just handed her a set of charcoal pencils and a copy of the Wing Cycle before telling her to go off and do a proper job, instead of just doing slipshod research—the likes of which she hadn’t done since she could barely write.

  Ravenna stretched her arms in the early morning light. The trees were beginning to buzz and hum with bird and insect life. A few squirrels jumped on the ground, burying and digging up morsels of food they had found and forgotten about. Ravenna thought about practicing her wing-running, as she called it, but the faint ache in her back made her reconsider.

  “Alright, Rav,” she murmured to herself. “Where to first?”

  The answer was obvious. Tacitus would not expect her back for at least a week, and she had no intention of starting on her mapping project until after lunch. Until then, she would go and see the only thing that was her solace when she felt trapped by her differences.

  Ravenna jogged lightly through the woods, her leather slippers making almost no sound on the cushioning undergrowth. She did not stretch her muscles too hard, choosing instead to let her worries fall away with each thump of her foot on the ground. Her black hair had been tied back in a braid and bounced gently against her back.

  So what if she could not participate in the Choosing? She would never have been picked anyway. Who wanted a sylph to rule them who had never lived amongst the others? She had been raised by the Intellecti, and while they were a cornerstone of their society, they were also isolated and preferred facts above any social dance. They were equally admired, feared, and scorned by the sylphs living in the Aerial City. They were healers and thinkers, mappers, studiers of the past. They were all that Ravenna had known, excepting the few visits with her grandmother and the couple days spent doing research in the City. No one wanted an Intellecti as Chosen Queen.

  She would not have been wanted as a ruler, regardless of her flight capabilities.

  Ravenna did not entertain any thoughts of her desires on the matter, as it was completely pointless. Wishes were for dreamers who had a chance. She would only ever run on the ground and amongst the tree branches. She was no fool.

  Ravenna broke through the trees and stopped at the top of a low cliff that marked the edge of the island Shinalea. The sea crashed against the rocks below, unapologetically aggressive. The sound roared and subdued. Sea birds flew above the water, occasionally diving down to catch a morsel of fish or to harry other birds. The smell of salt and brine filled Ravenna’s nose and, if she looked hard enough, she could just make out the shore of the distant mainland through the sun.

  The cliff sloped down to a gentle beach a few hundred metres to either side of where Ravenna stood. She considered going down and testing the warmth of the water. It was still early enough in the growing season that the water might be too cold for swimming. But there might be something interesting that washed up on the beach. Like…what was that?

  Ravenna shielded her eyes against the sun. She gasped and fell to the ground without a second thought, desperate not to be seen. That was a ship. On the beach. She had only ever seen drawings of them in the tomes. They were meant to be used by humans.

  Cruel humans. Dangerous humans. Wingless humans.

  Desire filled Ravenna’s belly and she risked crawling closer to the edge of the cliff so she could see down to the beach. Her wings steadied her on the ground as she peered down. The ship was long and flatter than she would have expected. It did not look much like the drawings she had seen. But what else could it possibly be? Could humans have really come here? Maybe it was a child’s game, putting boards together to play in the water. There was no one on the beach, but the white sand was scuffed up where someone—many someones—had walked. The tracks were larger and heavier than any sylph child’s step. But humans were…well, they were a myth.

  Ravenna got to her feet, looking about. She bit the inside of her lip, wondering. Should she go and tell Tacitus? They would have to know about the ship at some point. It was a potential threat to the safety of the sylphs. All the stories Ravenna had ever heard about humans were stories of blood and death and war. But they were just stories, right? Like dragons?

  “Idiot,” Ravenna muttered, already moving through the trees as silently as she could. She angled not towards the Tower, but the beach. And, once there, she followed the tracks.

  Humans were supposed to be flightless. Wingless. They could no more fly than she could. Less, even, because she could use her wings to jump and twist and run through the trees and over boulders. How did they manage? Did they have some sort of magic that made things easier for them? Magic was supposed to be a myth as well. But surely, if the humans existed then magic did, too. None of the stories Ravenna had studied told her of these things.

  Ravenna easily followed the tracks through the trees. There were three or four of them, all blundering and obvious in the trail that they left. Their steps were heavy, heedless of the undergrowth they trampled or the tracks left in their wake. Occasionally, one would break away to go inspect something, or another would double back and make the trail deeper. They were not moving towards the Tower or the Aerial City, but the uninhabited and wild parts of the island. Ravenna’s guilt over not telling Tacitus lessened the farther they went. Maybe they were not humans at all.

  After an hour of tracking them, Ravenna stilled. Voices. She heard voices winding through the trees.

  Carefully, she flapped her wings and jumped into the low branches of a towering oak tree. A sparrow squawked angrily at her and fluttered off. Ravenna froze, listening. No, the voices continued. She let out a low sigh and jumped to the next tree, closer to the voices. Two more trees and Ravenna stopped.

  She was at the edge of their camp, made obvious by the fire that crackled in a ring of stones. Ravenna gaped at the sight that met her. Humans. There were four of them, all male, arrayed about the fire. They were not only human, but their skins were not golden or charcoal coloured. The darkest amongst them was a dark, muddy brown with a shaved head. The lightest had a pale, pinkish colour that was almost as light as Ravenna’s own skin and hair of a yellow-brown. The others were sort of a light tan that could, maybe, have been the colour of stained oak wood. Their hair was a tawny brown. And, best of all, they were wingless, their clothes solid pieces of fabric across their backs instead of laced around wings.

  They did not look like they had magic, like the stories said. In fact, they looked like they were probably quite ordinary. They had tools—daggers and axes such as Ravenna had only ever seen in ancient drawings—hung on their packs. They stoked the fire with long sticks. They had a rabbit turning on a spit that was crudely fashioned out of some broken branches and twigs.

  And their voices! They spoke in the same deep tones that many of the male sylphs did, the dark one having the deepest voice. Their words, though, were like a strange music that Ravenna could not quite decipher. It was almost as if they were speaking her language, her tongue, and every now and again she would catch a familiar word. But it was also
different, foreign.

  Ravenna had seen some old scrolls that the elder Intellecti guarded viciously, with words that were almost like modern Sylph, but not quite. You could figure out what they were saying, but only after a good deal of thought and translation, because the language had evolved since then. This was like that, but with ears not eyes.

  It was beautiful.

  Ravenna was not foolish enough to step into the humans’ camp while they were awake. Shinalea had been an island shrouded in secrecy for so long that she hadn’t even known humans existed. Ravenna doubted the humans knew that sylphs existed, either. Sylphs were expressly forbidden from going to the mainland and there were ancient laws to protect them against sylphs who strayed. But then the sun dropped behind the trees and darkness fell but for the fire in their camp, and the humans slept. Ravenna could conceal her curiosity no longer.

  She jumped lightly down from her tree, wincing as her feet crunched on the pine needles beneath her. One of the humans snorted. Ravenna tensed and he stilled again. She tucked her wings in close and crept forwards, feeling a little like she was a child again, sneaking up on Crispin and Desarra.

  Then, she was amongst them, their faces shrouded by the shadows cast from the fire. Ravenna crouched next to the lightest one’s pack, fingering the dagger with interest. It was a fine blade, the steel shining sharper and brighter than any made by sylph hands. Weapons crafting was a lost art for a people that never fought, except with wings and words, Ravenna thought. This, though, proved that the humans were at least more advanced than the sylphs in that area. This was what they used to hunt. It could also be that they fought, that they drew blood.

  A sliver of unease needled its way into Ravenna’s stomach. Her feathers fluffed up slightly. She shook it off. They had not done anything more dangerous than kill and eat a rabbit so far, and she had done that before. Ravenna put the dagger aside and opened the straps on the pack, eager to see what else the humans brought with them from wherever they came. She wanted to know whether they matched the myths.