The One Who Could Not Fly

by E G Stone

  Lenore swallowed again, this time fighting against tears. “If I agree, you will spare my people.”

  “I do not seek slaughter,” Davorin said. “I seek only to bring people to a better life, in the Empire. I take care of my people. But if they fight…If you fight, then I will burn your precious Red Desert to ash until it is a place devoid of life. There will be nothing left to defend. No one left to save.”

  Lenore closed her eyes. A single tear slid down her cheek and she nodded. “Very well,” she said, her voice even. She opened her eyes and fixed Davorin in a look that was pure fire. “I will consent to marry you.”

  “You have made the right choice,” Davorin said. He reached out and ran one of her braids through his fingers, frowning at the texture. She would have to wear her hair loose, instead of this absurd fashion that was neither soft nor inviting.

  He turned away from her to look at Dagan who was waiting patiently in the centre of the room. The creature was covered in blood, none of the liquid belonging to it. It looked no different for all the gore, the blackened veins still protruding and the reddish scales around its eyes glimmering fiercely. A quiet part of Davorin looked at the death that he had caused and quailed at the thought. He sought peace under one banner, a better life for all, not carnage or conquering for the sake of blood. And yet he had waded to his bride’s throne through a stream of red.

  It does not matter, Davorin thought. The song surged through his thoughts and drowned out any doubts. It pounded in his veins, the rhythm beating in time with his heart. It was power and strength and it would make him a god. Dagan had been obsessed with immortality and now Davorin had it in his hands. He would master it. He would control it. And the entire world would be his to shape.

  Davorin turned back to Lenore and saw her expression fall as she took in the carnage fully. She would never love him, he realised, but she would do as he bid. That would have to be enough. “Dagan,” Davorin commanded, his eyes never leaving the face of his queen. “Go and tell the others that Lenore has consented. The Red Desert is mine.”

  Lenore’s mouth opened and mouthed something, though her voice was silent. Her face streamed with tears. Davorin didn’t know what she said and he almost did not care. Almost. This was the best thing for everyone. He would convince Lenore of that. And if she did not comply? Well, then he would crush her people before her very eyes.

  For now, though, he would make the desert his. Then, he would go searching for the army of sylphs to fly at his back. No one would ever doubt him again.

  Davorin settled on the throne, Lenore standing beside him, her limbs trembling. The chair wasn’t comfortable, and it did not display the wealth that the Red Desert could command. But it suited Davorin. Yes, it suited its new king. Davorin, Firstborn of the Salusian Empire, Heir Apparent to the Throne and King of the Red Desert. It suited him very well.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ravenna was not quite certain how she came to be on the island. The rough pebbles beneath her stomach seemed soothing compared to the heat that bore down on her back from an indifferent sun. Her wings were outstretched, the longest primary feathers getting wet in the waves that soaked through her clothes. Her throat was so tight from thirst that it was difficult to breathe and every part of her ached. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that she had made it across the ocean to the home of her childhood. There was something she had to do; she just was not certain what.

  The familiar beating of massive wings stirred some undying instinct in her. Ravenna pushed herself upwards with the last strength into her arms, her wings helping her pull herself into a sitting position. From there, she staggered to her feet. The world spun around her, green trees mixing with a too-blue sky. She spread her wings for balance and reached for the blades on her hips. She was inches from death, yet Ravenna knew she would never flee again. She would fight.

  The sylph landed before her, his charcoal-ash skin dark against the bright orange tunic and flowing breeches he wore. He had a knife strapped to a leather band around his hips, the hilt and belt both finely decorated with gold. His wings were a slightly darker shade than the gild and they were broad enough to black out the sun.

  “May I lose my feathers! Ravenna, is that you?!” The sylph took a step forwards, shock written plainly on his face. Ravenna drew the swords, holding them before her in the Dalketh position that her body knew, even this close to the black.

  “Don’t come closer,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes. “Who are you?!”

  The sylph paused, feathers trembling at the sight of the swords. But he obviously saw that Ravenna was in no position to defend herself, because he took another step forwards. No matter how much she wanted to fight, Ravenna’s arms were shaking too much. She was too tired, too thirsty, too hungry. She would be bound again, forced to do the bidding of others. She would rather die, but her body demanded that she live.

  Ravenna fell to her knees, unable to stand any longer. “Who are you?” she repeated, rasping out the words in a desperate plea. Her swords were still gripped in her hands as the sylph stepped forwards and knelt before her, his eyes wide as he took her in. She could not let go of the swords. Of the last piece she had of Lenore and Miska.

  “I-It’s me, Crispinus. Wings, Ravenna, you’ve been missing for moons. A whole season. What happened to you?”

  Crispinus. The name was familiar. It struck a chord long buried in Ravenna’s mind. She swayed as she tried to remember, nearly falling once more to her face. Instead, Crispinus caught her in his arms and immediately launched them into the air, his massive wings beating with a strength that Ravenna would never know. She kept hold of her blades even as they flew, her own wings limp with exhaustion. It was only as they passed over the Aerial City that Ravenna remembered.

  Crispinus. Crispin. Strange, that the arms of her former torment should be so gentle.

  “Tacitus! You should not be here; you are too weak.” The speaker’s voice drew Ravenna from the depths of sleep. She tried to open her eyes, but they remained stubbornly closed. Perhaps that was alright. She was still so tired.

  “Kratos, if you try to keep me from her, so help me I will tear pages from your tomes!” The other voice spoke. This one was deeper, sharper, yet touched with a weariness that seemed wing-deep. It was like a favourite song to Ravenna, something that reminded her of everything that was good and welcoming in the world. She longed to see its owner.

  Blinking, Ravenna forced her eyes open. They were crusted over from sleeping too long. She lifted a weak arm and brushed the barrier away. Slowly, her body came to proper wakefulness. She was lying on her back, her wings spread wide beneath her in a bed properly designed for their care. Her throat was still sore, but it no longer felt raw and ruined. Her left shoulder ached slightly, but not as badly as it had done. And the rest of her? Well, it was nothing so bad as what she had known before. She would recover.

  Ravenna pushed against the bed with her wings, forcing herself upwards. She groaned with the effort and was nearly ready for collapse when she found herself in a sitting position. Immediately, the rotund form of Kratos was before her, his wings wide in alarm. “You should not be sitting up! You are injured!”

  “I’m fine,” Ravenna said, trying to push him aside.

  “But you have wounds in so many places and I need to—”

  “I’m fine.” Her words were made of the same steel that she had carried with her.

  Kratos squeaked in alarm and stepped aside. Tacitus—her Tacitus—was revealed. Since she had been gone, Tacitus had grown as weak as Ravenna had strong. His wings were ragged and drooped, their ends brushing the floor. His limbs were too thin, and he looked as though every breath were a struggle. But at seeing Ravenna, his amber-fire eyes brightened and he glided forwards to sit on the end of Ravenna’s bed with ease and eagerness.

  “My child,” Tacitus murmured, extending a hand. It shocked Ravenna to see that tears were forming in the older sylph’s eyes. She never thought he cared that muc
h. “You have returned to me!”

  Ravenna covered his hand with her own, her mind too full to marvel as she used to that their flesh was so differently coloured. What did any of that matter, now? She looked up at Tacitus, unable to smile, even to take joy in being reunited with her heart-father. She felt a slight glimmer, deep inside her, but it was soon overtaken by the void of fear and duty and emptiness.

  “I would not have returned at all, had I a choice,” Ravenna said. She knew the words were harsh. Tacitus flinched away from her as if she had driven a knife through his heart. “No, Tacitus. I love you as much as I can. But you know as well as I the truth.”

  Tacitus bowed his head, tears flowing freely. “I know,” he choked out. “This place was never good for you. If you had stayed, it would have stifled you. But…why did you leave me?”

  Ravenna gave a wing-shrug, her expression as flat and calm as ever. “Had I choice, I would not have.”

  “You speak in riddles.” There was accusation in Tacitus’ gaze. Like Ravenna was still his ward and disobeying him. She blinked, her icy gaze unyielding.

  Tacitus looked away. He gave a sigh and his wings shook with the effort. “I am dying, Ravenna.”

  “Yes,” she said. It was obvious. That pillar of strength that had made her life worth living was crumbling. But to Ravenna, it had fallen the day she was captured by humans and taken away. There was nothing she could do to regain that state of relative innocence and happiness. Tacitus would never understand to see her take on the role that she must now accept. Perhaps it was better this way.

  “It was my greatest wish that you should find your way home to me, so that I might give you my blessing before I die. And now you have come.”

  “Yes,” Ravenna said again. She could see the confusion plain as day in Tacitus’ eyes. He did not understand why she had not come back the same as before. He had wanted her to return as the separate but happy sylph that she had been, his heart-daughter who needed him. She was not that. Not anymore.

  Tacitus reached once more for her hand. Ravenna took it, squeezing what strength she had into his frail fingers. Tacitus smiled faintly and shook his head, his dark golden hair falling into his eyes and obscuring their pain. “I do not know what tragedy befell you, nor where you went, but no matter what changes may have occurred, you are Ravenna. You are my heart-daughter. No matter what you do now, know that you have my blessing. Anything that is mine, is now yours. All of my personal tomes. All of my legacy. My standing as an Intellecti. It is yours. I love you, Ravenna. I always will.”

  Ravenna bowed her head. “And I love you, Tacitus. May your wings touch the sky.”

  “And your heart soar free.”

  Tacitus rose and walked away, his steps no longer graceful or glad. He looked back at Ravenna from the door to the healer’s wing in the Stone Tower. For a moment, she had expected to see the red stone of a palace in the desert. Instead, she was faced with dark grey blocks that had kept her isolated from the world. A shadow passed over her face. Tacitus nodded at the sight, then turned his back on her. Ravenna knew that it would be the last time she saw him.

  Not two heartbeats passed before Kratos was standing beside Ravenna’s bed, his eyes full of fear and confusion at what had just passed. “Ravenna…what happened to you?”

  She looked down and saw that she wore a simple top tied around her neck, the back open for her wings. Her trousers were ones that she recognised as her own, probably fetched from her old room. They were loose around her waist and showed the brand from Jazer openly. The scratches on her shoulder and across her chest had healed fully, but they were red and ugly scars. The saltwater from her sea passing had probably not helped. Ravenna could see a few more scars and scratches from where she sat, and she knew that there was the long wound on her back between her wings. She looked nothing like the unblemished sylphs that lived in Shinalea. The worst injuries they ever received were from hunting accidents. No wonder Kratos was horrified.

  Ravenna threw her legs over the side of the bed and made to stand. “I need to see Queen Mariala.”

  Kratos was immediately by her side, supporting her with his wing across her back and his bulk under her arm. Ravenna threw him off. She was weak, but she could stand perfectly well. She staggered to the table on the far side of the room while Kratos gaped at her. On the table’s surface, looking salt-worn and a bit grimy, was her sword belt. The blades themselves had been replaced in their sheaths.

  Ravenna picked it up and tightened the belt around her waist, keeping her breeches cinched tight, making her feel slightly more secure. She turned to find Kratos with his wings pressed close to his sides in fear. “I need to see Queen Mariala,” Ravenna said again.

  The other sylph gulped and looked away. “She…she is dead. The Choosing is set for this next week.”

  Ravenna would think about the death of her benevolent grandmother later. “Then I need to speak to the High Council.”

  “Y-you can’t just demand to speak to the High Council!” Kratos squeaked. Ravenna lifted a hand to touch the scratches that ran across her chest. Then she rested her hands on the hilts of her twin blades.

  “Trust me,” she said flatly. “They will want to hear this. It is to do with the Stormbringers.”

  Kratos let out a little laugh, the sound high and nervous. “That’s a myth. A child’s story to keep away nightmares.”

  “Are these myths?” Ravenna growled, pointing to her wounds. She turned around and showed Kratos the very obvious scar down her back. “Is this a myth? Send for someone to take me to the High Council. Now!”

  Kratos let out a squeak but ran do to as he was told, launching himself out of the window without another word, leaving Ravenna alone in the healer’s chambers, chest heaving. Not three minutes later, a shape darkened the window. Crispinus.

  “Ravenna,” he said, bowing his head in greeting. “Are you recovering wel—”

  “Take me to the High Council,” Ravenna demanded. Crispin raised his eyebrows. For a moment, he looked like the sylph who would gladly torment Ravenna for the enjoyment of Desarra and himself. She was different from him and therefore a worthy target. Then, he faltered. He took in her scars and the way that she stood with her shoulders straight and her gaze firm. Ravenna knew that just as sure as Tacitus had not known who she was anymore, Crispin was losing something similar. He had always seen himself as superior to her. Now, she knew that if he were to demand a fight, she would win, even in her weakened state.

  Crispin bobbed his wings in acknowledgement and approached Ravenna. She allowed him to slip an arm behind her neck and another beneath her knees. He carried her in his arms easily, but now there was a wariness there. Her own wings seemed to fight, battling against the feeling of helplessness as Ravenna was forced to allow Crispin to fly her to the heart of the Aerial City.

  The stonework beneath her had not changed. The city was still beautiful, a work of masters and home to the beautiful sylphs. As Crispin carried her, Ravenna could practically see the stirring of wings. She would not be hard to miss, with her stark black feathers and hair, her skin still moon-white after a season in the desert. And to be flying in Crispin’s arms, too. Briefly, Ravenna wondered where Desarra was, why her own sister had not stopped her mate from coming for her.

  It did not matter. Desarra’s thoughts were immaterial.

  Crispin alighted in a stone courtyard adorned with plants whose bright colours and artistic shapes were carefully cultivated to show control and decadence. Ravenna shook her head as Crispin set her down.

  “What is it?” he asked carefully. He knew better than to ask the reason for her visit to the High Council. But his curiosity fairly burned Ravenna.

  “I wonder who will care about keeping these plants perfect when war reaches us,” Ravenna said. Crispin recoiled, his wings flaring in alarm. Ravenna raised her brow and shook her head again. Everything was going to change.

  She turned away from Crispin and strode into the chamber that housed the High
Council. It was an ornate room. Every piece of possible stone had been carved into feathers and whorls, some pieces holding glittering pieces of crystal, some decorated with pictorials of the sylphs’ proud history. All of it meant to be a symbol of the High Council’s influence. All Ravenna saw when she viewed the sylphs sitting in their half-circle was a bunch of over-preened fools, unable to see past their desire for power.

  It was telling that they waited for her. But the murmurs passed back and forth between the seven members halted as soon as she entered, as if they had not expected that which walked through the doors. Surely, they knew of Ravenna’s return. And that she had been gravely wounded. By her reckoning, she had slept for nearly two days. So why did they eye her like a hawk among sparrows?

  “Ravenna,” the leader of the High Council addressed her. He sat in at the peak of the half-circle, his peers arrayed on either side. She thought his name was Strygis. A sylph of golden skin and golden wings, he was plump and arrayed in the finery that his station afforded. The way that the other sylphs seemed to defer to him in this situation told Ravenna that he ruled by force. Oh, what little he understood.

  “Councillor,” Ravenna nodded. She did not bow, as would be expected of her, but kept her back straight and her wings spread.

  “Why did you seek an audience? We should be discussing whether or not you should even be allowed to return to Shinalea! After all, you have been to the Mainland. You know our laws,” Strygis sniffed.

  Ravenna chuckled.

  “Oh, yes. I have been to the Mainland. And I would still be there if this were not so pressing,” Ravenna scoffed. She placed her hands on the hilts of her swords, the movement already familiar though she had not even fought with the blades. A few of the High Council flinched.

  “What is so pressing that you break one of our most fundamental laws?” Strygis asked. His fingers flexed, as though imagining what he would do to punish Ravenna for her insolence. She ignored the movement, instead addressing the whole Council.