by JMD Reid
Ary laughed. “Not sure what character you’re going to get. All the marines I’ve met are far rougher men than you.”
“As I deduced when I introduced myself to those charming fellows.” He glanced at the Grabin and Vay pestering the new female recruits. Despite Grabin’s brush with death, he still rooted in the flower garden.
Ary ground his teeth. Control. Fists relaxed.
“Is that why you’re bothering me?” Ary asked.
He noticed Chaylene emerge from the hold, hugging herself. He flushed, remembering his harsh, dismissive tone that had sent her away. Her sympathy and understanding only made him feel worse. She should castigate him for what he had done, not strive to understand.
Ary didn’t understand where his anger came from. Not fully. It seethed in him, lurking, a storm on the horizon.
Estan asked a question, but the words were lost to Ary’s muddled thoughts.
“Huh?” Ary asked. “What did you say?”
“Am I bothering you?” Estan repeated with a friendly grin.
Ary almost said yes, but then realized he was smiling. It felt good to, the simple earnestness of his wordy companion lifting him out of the anger. Like it couldn’t touch him when such sun shone warm upon his soul. “No. I guess not. I’m Ary.”
“Just Ary?”
“Briaris Jayne.”
“So I’m in the presence of royalty?”
“I think half of Vesche is descended from the Kings of Vesche-Arxo. I know us Jaynes are as thick as minnows on the skyland.”
Chaylene let out a little giggle. She stood nearby, watching the pair. Shame flushed Ary.
“But still, the blood of kings flows through you,” Estan pointed out.
“Me and half of Vesche,” Ary shrugged. “Besides, the Autonomy elects our president. Who cares what my ancestors were? My blood’s as red as yours.”
“Sage words. You are, despite your rude education, a man of deep thoughts. I am honored to be your friend.”
“So we’re friends?”
“Of course,” Estan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I have declared it to be so. I may not be descended from kings, but I am descended from the last Governor of Elemy when it was a province of the Vaarckthian Empire.” Ary scowled, and Estan hurried to add, “But my family sided with the rebellion against the Empire’s brutal hand.”
“I guess that’s why they didn’t throw your family off the skyland.”
Estan nodded. “A wise decision made by my great-grandfather. For surely he lacked the Major Blessing of Wind and would have plummeted into the Storm Below. If that tragedy had occurred, causality suggests I would not be standing here today.”
Ary nodded, not understanding half of what the man said. “Very wise.”
Estan turned around and noticed Chaylene watching them. “Ah, there is the lass that stalked away. I hope you have forgiven my friend for whatever offense he so carelessly imparted to you.”
Chaylene blinked as she moved to join them. “Who is this?”
“My new friend,” Ary answered, putting his arm around her shoulders.
“I see your mood has improved.” She rubbed his lower back.
“Yeah,” Ary nodded. “Estan, this is my wife, Chaylene.”
Estan bowed. “My pleasure, madam.”
“Er, hi.”
“I am glad you have chosen to forgive him.”
Ary flushed. “I am sorry.” He spoke low. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Not when you were just trying to comfort me.”
Her smile grew. “You were being a downyheaded fool, Briaris.”
How monstrous can I really be if she loves me? Maybe I’m not even tainted by Theisseg. The prickling of his scar did little to dampen Ary’s mood. He would be better, not letting his anger run rampant, but controlled, harnessed to his will.
“But you are forgiven.” She placed a brief, but burning, kiss on his lips, banishing the last lingering traces of stormy clouds in his soul. When she broke the kiss, a smile played on her lips. “It was such a pleasure meeting you, Estan.”
“Indeed.” He gave a nod of his head.
“But I have to . . . discuss something with my husband.” Her words came out breathy and light. Too light. Her hips shifted, rubbing against his side. “I found a . . . quiet place for us to spend time. Alone.”
Estan’s grin broadened—he’d clearly heard what she’d whispered. “I suspect we will have more time to converse on this voyage, Ary.”
“Yeah,” Ary smiled and let his wife lead him away.
They passed Vel emerging from the hold, his face sweaty. He gave them a nod, Chaylene’s handkerchief bandaged about his face. Ary nodded back, not hiding the eagerness of his grin as his wife led him down into the hold.
Chaylene loved him. What did he have to brood on really in the light of that truth?
Chapter Sixteen
The Skyland of Ulanii – Yruoujoa 11th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Uarioa stood before her alabaster mirror, staring with disgust at the new patch of bare flesh exposed by the down that had molted while she’d slept. Her once sleek coat of tan dwindled as she lost more to the mottlings. There was no cure. The loss would continue to spread, working out from her belly and chest, eventually reaching the most important—her distal feathers.
“Then I’ll be a completely useless old hen,” she clucked. “Instead of only half-useless.”
A patient tap pecked her door; that would be her acolyte, Aiobrii. With a trilling sigh, Uarioa walked with stiff legs to the robe of white silk hanging on the side of her wardrobe. She grasped her vestment with her distal feathers and pulled on the robe. She fumbled to knot the silken ties. Nothing worked right at her age. Her distal feathers had lost much of her youth’s dexterity. Clucking her beak, she grasped her yellow cedar crown, adorned with five feather-like rays of light, and placed it on her head. The crown—carved after the lost Crown of the Dawn—and the robes were the symbol of her office: Archbishopress of the Canton of Arthu. She administered the churches’ presences in the skies of the southeastern Autonomy. This put her in charge of one of the most backward cantons of the Theocracy. Only Hyaiuni, Archbishopress of Zzuk, oversaw a less important part of Riasruo’s church.
“Enter,” Uarioa clucked after ensuring the robe hid her disease. Vanity never aged.
Aiobrii entered, dressed in orange acolyte robes, stepping with all the grace and poise of youth. She bowed, sweeping her right wing before her, then straightened and chirped, “A courier awaits in your office.”
“I have a meeting with Iaiprii, Xwiicrao, and Saiuvii,” Uarioa answered, not looking forward to clucking at the other hens who administered the Church in the Autonomy. “Collect the letter, pay the courier, and send her on her way.”
“The courier insists that he hand his letter to you immediately. He’s a ship captain who has sailed night and day for almost two weeks, taking the most direct route and skirting the Agerzaks skylands to arrive so swiftly.” Aiobrii’s chirps grew rushed and song-like. The messenger must possess radiant plumage. “It is from Bishopress Traouhwiai. It must be so important for him to bravely take such risks.”
Traouhwiai had vied with Uarioa for the Canton of Arthu, but after she’d won the election, Traouhwiai had become an obedient servant. And she was not one prone to spitting out her gizzard stone without cause. Something must have spooked the old hen if she’d urged a captain to travel with such haste. No captain liked risking a ship by sailing at night. Skyreefs wandered through even the most open of skies. Striking a floating rock the size of a house could send any ship plummeting into the Storm Below.
“Lead on, hatchling,” Uarioa clucked.
“Yes, Archbishopress.”
Uarioa labored to keep up with the young Luastria, whose strut betrayed her eagerness to see this captain again. Aiobrii had a weakness for pretty drakes, often sneaking off to bars to watch them serve in scandalous robes. She needed to take a mate and build a nest. A nice, calm male to raise her hatchl
ings while she rose through the Church’s ranks.
They walked through the Grand Temple of Riasruo, the seat of the Theocracy’s power. The walls, floors, and ceilings were made of red sandstone, polished to a sheen and inlaid with sweeping, geometric designs of yellow, white, and orange. Pillars carved and tapered like dancing flames lined the open hallways. Uarioa often imagined striding through an inferno, Riasruo’s paradise dancing on the surface of the sun.
Not that she believed in those fairy tales any longer.
Red-scaled Gezitziz, dressed in white loincloths, stood guard, backs rigid, their tongues flicking out every few seconds. The Tezlian Guard drew only from the small community of Ethinski Gezitziz who’d dwelt on Ulanii since the fall of the Dawn Empire. Each warrior, raised from hatching to guard the temple, descended from the Dawn Empress’s bodyguard.
Uarioa passed many journeying to her office, located in the College of Cantons, the heart of the temple. There, the Synod of the Faithful met. The fifteen archbishopresses formed the Synod, advising the Holy Bishriarch in her guidance of the church. Passing acolytes and priestesses, scurrying about in orange and red robes, paused to bow to her.
She inclined her head and trilled by rote: “May the Goddess’s love shine bright upon you.”
Foreboding gripped Uarioa’s thoughts. What could have tied Traouhwiai’s tail feathers in a knot?
The Solstice was eight days ago.
Uarioa wanted to spit her gizzard stone out as fear clenched her.
However, she almost forgot her fears when she laid eyes on the ship captain, a striking drake with vivid red feathers sprouting around his eyes and the perfect plumage revealed by his robe’s neckline. He straightened when she entered, puffing up his throat to make sure she appreciated his vibrancy. This drake knew his beauty and flaunted it.
“Captain Nwaionii, at your service, your Radiance,” he bowed with exaggerated grace, his voice a trilling song. “I carry a letter from the Bishopress Traouhwiai for your eyes only.” As he straightened from his bow, he presented a letter from his robe with a flourish.
“I am told you traveled night and day to deliver this,” Uarioa said as she took the letter. “Risking much danger.”
“It was of no matter. I did it for service of our glorious Goddess.”
“Surely such a great deed deserves a reward. Name it.”
“One hundred emeralds, your grace,” he answered. “Though seeing your radiant presence was reward enough.”
She clucked in amusement, partly at his compliment, but mostly at his price. Bishopress Traouhwiai had promised him ten years’ worth of wages, and now he feigned such false piety. “You shall have your reward. Aiobrii will see to your payment.”
“I would be honored,” Aiobrii chirped. “And I would love to hear about the dangers you must have faced to deliver this.”
“I would be delighted,” he trilled, following the acolyte out of the room. “We had to fight off Agerzak pirates as we sailed . . .”
His words faded as the door closed. Uarioa perched at her desk, studying the letter. It weighed at her distal feathers. With a whalebone letter opener, she slit open the wax-sealed envelope and, with some difficulty, removed the letter.
Uarioa almost lost her gizzard stone when she read its contents. She had to cluck three times to capture Aiobrii’s attention, and her acolyte chirped annoyance. Uarioa paid that no mind. “Summon the Synod immediately.”
Aiobrii’s eyes widened. “Yes, your Grace.”
The stupid chick stood there instead of obeying. Irritation flashed through Uarioa. “Fly, hatchling!”
As the acolyte fled, Uarioa read the letter a second time, hoping somehow the ink had changed or her dwindling sight misread the black words staining the yellow parchment.
The dire words remained unchanged.
She perched at her desk, trying to still the rebellion in her gizzard. How long has it been since a Stormtouched was detected by the test? She strained her brain, trying to dislodge it from the terror clutched in her hand. Several decades?
Like every archbishopress, she’d read the terrible truths contained in the Book of Iiwroa and studied the secret records. The most dangerous Stormtouched had tested positive one hundred and thirteen years ago. She was an Ethinski named Nzuuth sze Hyesk, a poet of some renown, famous for a series of poems she wrote two years before she received her Blessings.
“Such dangerous poems,” Uarioa clucked to herself.
The records stated that ninety-three died when the Skein of Adjudication unleashed the choking plague to kill her. The Synod declared Nzuuth’s poems heretical and threatened excommunication to any who possessed them.
One of her poems was forever branded across Uarioa’s mind.
Lightning flashed
Goddess in pain
Betrayed, imprisoned,
Sacrificed to hold aloft
A crime obscured
The sun a lie
Sky Towers, her bonds,
Freedom’s cost,
Sacrifice.
Lightning flashed
Void around me
Empty, alone
Witnessing pain
Truth revealed
The sun a lie
Sky Towers the foci,
Freedom’s cost,
Sacrifice.
Lightning Flashed
Dreams engulfing
Goddess abandoned
Goddess in pain
Shattered world
The sun a lie
Sky Towers shatter,
Freedom’s cost,
Sacrifice.
The young Ethinski had known the true nature of the Sky Towers. Most thought them ancient, inscrutable relics of the Dawn Empire. They were known as Sky Towers, Dawnspires, Sunrays, Crystal Teeth, and other names. Twelve still existed in the skies, the engines holding the skylands aloft, and the chains that kept Her bound and powering the Storm.
If Nzuuth had interacted with a Sky Tower, she could have sent a twelfth of the skies plummeting into the Storm Below.
“Just like Swuopii and the eastern skylands a thousand years ago,” she whispered to herself. Though founded on lies and deceit, necessary lies, the Church maintained life in the skies.
A soft peck rapped at her door. Her acolyte peeked into the room. “The Synod is gathering now.”
Uarioa nodded, gathered herself, and stood. She only hoped the Synod would have the courage to condemn this young man to death. One man or ninety-three was a small price to pay to save millions. She clutched the letter to her breast as she strode through the beautiful halls.
She barely noticed them.
“What is going on?” Aiobrii whispered.
Uarioa lied, “Bishopress Traouhwiai has raised a question of heresy. She merely requests guidance to address it.”
“I . . . see.”
“Heresy cannot be allowed to flourish. We must maintain the unity and harmony of Riasruo’s gentle sun.”
“Of course, Archbishopress. I hope, one day, I can rise to your august position and help to preserve Riasruo’s harmony.”
No you don’t, hatchling. You’ll be much happier with the lies.
She left Aiobrii behind when she passed through the red sandstone doors into the Synod. The Solar Disk—a circular, yellow table ringed by fifteen perches—dominated the room. The Synod perched around it, each supposedly equal to the others. At the center of the table, beneath a crystal case, rested a faded-red, leather-bound book.
Uarioa did not linger her gaze on the Book of Iiwroa. The truths the book contained had destroyed her faith. But the tome was clear—no Stormtouched could be allowed to interact with a Sky Tower.
The Great Empty, where Swuopii once floated, proved that.
At the far end of the room rose a dais where the Bishriarch nested, presiding over the Synod. The Bishriarch wielded the secular power of their nation and the ecclesiastical power of the Goddess Above.
“What burr is stuck in your gizzard?” deman
ded Archbishopress Rwiistrau, her beak turned high.
“I would prefer to address the entirety of the Synod,” Uarioa said, hunching her neck and inclining her beak. She detested Rwiistrau’s power. She ruled the Canton of Ulanii, the heart of the Theocracy, while Uarioa’s governed the distant and unimportant southern skies.
Rwiistrau’s eyes flicked down to the letter clutched at Uarioa’s breast. “What possible news could have come from Vesche? Not even the Autonomy pays heed to the speck.”
“Stormtouched,” she answered. Rwiistrau’s flinch satisfied Uarioa, her burden shared with another.
More archbishopresses flooded in, chirping like a flock of Luastrian hens at a teahouse. Besides Uarioa, twelve were in attendance in the temple, the other two were visiting their home cantons. But thirteen provided a large enough quorum to decide important matters.
The chirping stopped when the Bishriarch entered.
Uarioa, along with every other archbishopress, sang out wordless praise as they bowed their heads. Bishriarch Swuiuprii, Fourth of her Name, Song of the Sun, Spiritual Empress of the Dawn, tottered into the Synod. The Dawn Empire may have collapsed, but the last Empress, Pwayii III, had entrusted its secrets with the Bishopress of Ulanii, birthing the Theocracy.
Like the Dawn Empresses of old, the Church carried on the mission to keep the skies safe.
Age had infirmed the once forceful Swuiuprii, her wings trembling as she walked, her head bowed by a crown of carved yellow cedar. Her green eyes blinked rheumy, gunk caking the brown feathers of her face. She appeared shrunken, desiccated, leaving her body wizened. For fifty-one years, she’d ruled the Theocracy and, despite looking more a corpse, she still possessed bright intellect.
The Bishriarch mounted her dais, clucking at the exertion, before she sank her weary feathers upon her perch above them. Uarioa had to crane her stiff neck over her shoulder to see the Bishriarch. The weakest cantons perched with their backs to the Bishriarch while the most powerful faced her across the table.
Uarioa hated it.
