Uniting the Heavens

by Emily English

  Out of habit, Aren traced the Guardian constellation with a finger, then closed his eyes and hoped his dreams would be free of the Wood’s visions. He could feel the Wood-folk watching, and goosebumps broke out over his arms. He felt for the staff and gripped the gnarled wood until his hand pulsed from the pressure of it.

  Come and get me, he dared them.

  ELEVEN

  Not bad for a couple of mortals, Kaila thought. She watched the young man from behind one of the scarred ghostwood trees. She had seen everything: the unicorn, the mage, the way the young man had held the crying girl. Kaila watched him care for Selina with the tenderness of a father, and she studied his green eyes as he read over a piece of beat-up parchment.

  His name was Aren. Kaila had learned that from sifting through Selina’s memories. She had also learned that he was everything to the little girl. He wasn’t her father—though Kaila had already assumed he wasn’t, since he seemed so young himself—so perhaps he was her brother?

  Kaila had been able to glean very little else from Selina’s memories. There was no birthmark, so the girl’s family hadn’t cared to present her to a Priestess before the end of her first year. This wasn’t completely uncommon; many, like the mages, had lost faith, while others had become orphaned from the faith. What had surprised Kaila was that all of Selina’s memories were disjointed. Never, since the beginning of Alaric’s rule on this planet, had Kaila encountered a mortal with such memories. Mortals were supposed to be coded with a fate line that recorded their life story from beginning to end so that it could be read like a book with moving pictures during the final judgment. This little girl was broken. There was no record of her birth, no beginning. In fact, the oldest images Kaila could find were incomplete and in eerie shades of gray: torrents of rain, streaks of lightning, darkness. There were pictures of a very small girl running, stumbling, and crying; a woman pleading on her hands and knees, her face shadowed by trees; a great beast; a magnificent sword; cobblestone streets and a skinny, stray cat. So much rain.

  The most powerful picture Kaila found was of Aren rushing towards Selina, his green eyes the only color in all the visions, concern etched all over his boyish face. Kaila had been so heartbroken by it all that on impulse she placed a blessing on Selina. Alaric would be angry about it, but Kaila would deal with him later; besides, what he didn’t know couldn’t upset him.

  Right now, there was Aren to deal with. She had to learn more about Aren so she could use him to find out what trouble was heading for Tiede and try to stop it. She also hoped that his memories would provide more insight into what had happened to Selina.

  Aren had finally fallen asleep, but Kaila waited a while longer. He had surpassed the age of reason, so she couldn’t reveal herself to him the way she had with Selina. Kaila closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Alaric would be furious if he ever discovered that she had approached a mortal. He would question her judgment, tuck her away, and remind her of all the other times she had done something reckless.

  Kaila shook off her doubt. She wasn’t some weak little spirit who was going to swim home to tell her lord that the scary mages might rise again so that he could send Tanghi and his armies to take care of it. She didn’t need Alaric to keep her safe, to coddle and baby her like he always did. She was going to keep this uprising contained, to eliminate the threat on her own because she was an Elemental Knight, just as powerful as Tanghi and the others. She would prove it to them.

  Kaila looked up to the stars and spotted Tanghi’s Guardian, the twisting Isle of Night, Sabana’s Harvest, and the bright tip of Geir’s scythe, the weapon marking the point where the skies were rent to delineate Night and Light. The constellations glittered as bands of thin clouds swept past.

  When her thoughts returned to earth, Kaila shuddered, causing silky black feathers to drift from her body as she transformed back into a swan. It would be the safest way to approach the mortals. She shook out her webbed feet and stretched her long neck. She had nothing to worry about; everything she had seen so far showed that Aren was a kind person. Kaila had also watched him trace the Guardian constellation in the sky; only those who worshipped Fire or Night did that. It was a good omen.

  Kaila watched for the rhythmic rise and fall of Aren’s chest and listened for the steady breathing. The moon was high now, distant and pale, a silver nick in the dark, pinpricked sky. She craned her neck as if to touch it, closing her eyes and inhaling the sweet air. Then, steeling her resolve, she waddled towards her mortals, thankful for the soft grasses that made no sound beneath her webbed feet.

  Selina lay on her back with her arms and legs splayed out in all directions. Aren slept on his side, facing the Wood with his back to the road. Kaila moved in closer so she could study the soft yet defined angles of his face. His dark-brown hair was unkempt and fell past his eyes, and she resisted the urge to brush it away from his face, rough from not having shaven. He was tall and lean-muscled; his skin was tawny, and hints of long faded scars crisscrossed here and there. She examined his long fingers and strong arms.

  From his actions and because he lived in Tiede, Kaila had taken him for a Night worshipper, but now that she saw him up close, he looked like he had been blessed by one in the Light Realm—perhaps her sister Sabana or her brother Geir. She blushed as it occurred to her that he was so handsome, maybe the goddess of Light had blessed him herself. Kaila brought her head close to his chest to hear and feel the steady life flow there. She kept very still, waiting to connect with his circadian rhythm, waiting to fall into the story recorded on his fate line.

  She found no birthmark or blessing on him either. It saddened her that he was Unblessed, just as Selina was, and she lowered herself to the ground beside him. She closed her eyes, wondering if the images he carried with him were just as broken as Selina’s. When his story played into Kaila’s mind, she was relieved to see that his memories were mostly intact, his fate line a little stronger.

  Aren’s memories hadn’t begun at birth. The imagery was there, but it was clouded and unreadable. Kaila pressed on, knowing that she had little time. His infancy wasn’t important anyway. She scanned past his childhood, learned that he read a lot of books and earned the mark of the Fighter Initiate. He had been chosen a few years ago to live and serve in the House of Tiede as an Apprentice to the Elder in the House Library. He kept the company of the legendary Blacksmiths of Tiede, abundantly blessed by her brother Tanghi. That would explain why he had traced the Guardian constellation.

  Kaila gasped, and her eyes opened wide when she felt the hand wrapped around her slender neck. She fought the urge to struggle as she cursed her stupidity. She hadn’t felt or heard him move. He was still lying on his side, and she dared to meet his gaze.

  “Either you’re fae or you’re the strangest swan I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” he said, his quiet voice laden with sleep. “Or you’re a very silly dream. We’ve met before, haven’t we? We had a lovely afternoon together, and later you warned us of the mage.” Aside from the knife at his boot and the staff—which would be too clumsy to use in the position he was in—he didn’t have a weapon in hand. Of course, he didn’t need a weapon to break her neck. Kaila waited, her heart racing. “From my recent experience”—he stifled a yawn—“the fae can’t break the outer tree line.” She watched a sleepy smile light up his face as he loosened his hold on her. She forced herself to be still, but remained alert, realizing now that he was trickier than he looked. She let out a soft honk, and he chuckled. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to hurt us. You must be used to having people about.” He let go, and she took a few steps back. His laughter was soft. “If you were looking for company, you’re more than welcome to stay.”

  They stared at each other—he with his disheveled hair; she with her black, ruffled feathers—and Kaila couldn’t force herself to run or fly away. Never had a mortal made her feel this confused. He broke the silence. “Stay out of trouble, all right?” He gave h
er one last smile, then closed his eyes, rolling onto his back before returning to sleep. She remained frozen, wondering what had just happened, catching the familiar rise and fall of his chest as he returned to Alaric’s Dream Realm.

  When the spell lifted, Kaila stretched out her wings, testing the northern winds. She stumbled a few steps, then took flight, circling once before heading southwest towards Tiede Falls. She could work with this. Aren would help her save Tiede, and she would keep him a secret. He had spared her life, after all.

  TWELVE

  He was the Catar and wore the guise of an Apprentice: black robes over black linen trousers and a plain, collared top; a drawing compass and thin sticks of smooth metal as long as his middle finger peeked out of his breast pocket. He kept his hood drawn and obscured his eyes with the goggles common to alchemists. No one looked twice at him as he walked through Tiede, his arms laden with books and scrolls, his hand stuffed with graphite and a chunk of obsidian.

  Tiede was swarming with apprentices, fools who prattled on about the city’s great guilds and advances in technology, each of them thinking that they were going to change the world. Self-absorbed idiots, he thought, wishing he could snap their necks. They knew nothing of the world outside of the so-called Blessed Houses, and they knew nothing of change. Real change, the change he was a part of, required years of planning and making sacrifices that weaker persons would regret for the rest of their lives. These fools were limited by the possibilities fated by their gods.

  The streetlamps that lined the main roads were beginning to glow now that the sun had set, but Tiede was busier now than it was in the mornings. The vendor stands that lined the north end of the Harbor District began to light their lamps as they pushed their wares.

  “Last catch of the day! Saltwater trout!”

  “Pies! Fish pies! Meat pies! Vegetable pies! Fruit pies!”

  “Scented soaps! Smell like a summer garden with scented soaps!”

  Why were people so loud here? He couldn’t hear himself think, and twice he got bumped hard enough to drop one of his books. Stopping to pick it up only resulted in getting jostled some more, and it was all he could do to keep his temper in check.

  Then, there were all the conflicting scents: fire-roasted meats, rotting sweet fruits, and the summer salt air. He couldn’t wait to be done with Tiede so he could return to the peacefulness of the woods and the slow-paced town that was his home, with only the scent of wood and dirt and the after-burn of magic.

  A horn sounded, long, low, and lazy, announcing the closing of the docks some thousand feet below the Harbor District. Why did they even bother blowing the horn? The harbor had been closed off to travel for several days. Regardless, it was the signal he had been waiting for. He paused at a vegetable stand, pretending to be interested in artichokes, when he spotted his quarry: an old man he nicknamed Goat for his gray, straggly hair and knobby knees that seemed steady yet unsure.

  Catar had been trailing Goat for five days now, and every day was the same. Goat left his house in the western district in the late morning. He took his own special route to the north, cutting through forgotten alleyways and cursing the worn steps that wound their way throughout Tiede, always heading towards the great House that overlooked the city. Goat carried a rosewood cane, his old fingers tight around the middle, never once using it to assist in his walking. He just pumped it up and down as if he were marching a great army through the streets.

  Goat would stop to pray in the western worship chapel, its imposing black marble walls an eyesore in the dark district, with its cobblestone streets and mismatched buildings built too close together. Then, he would linger around the ridiculous myriad of fountains that littered the ostentatious town center, raking the bottom of his cane over the water here and there as he melted into the pattern of moving people until he finally reached the Mermaid’s Song, the most popular tavern in all of Tiede. There, he would order some charred lump of meat and a stout as black as tar, then sit in a corner to read whatever daily papers were left behind. Later, it was off to the Harbor District markets to check the prices on goods and see if any new vendors had come in. By midafternoon, the old man would make his way down to the docks, stumbling in that lopsided nimble way of his down the precipitous stairs that hugged the sheer cliffs of Tiede.

  Catar had only followed him down to the Harbor once, and once had been enough. The heights were dizzying, and several times he thought he might throw up. Seasoned Tiedans passed him going up and down, a few laughing and pointing out the green apprentice who was obviously new to the city. He should’ve taken the lift, a strange metal contraption comprised of gears, levers, magnets, and other feats of physics and force, but he trusted it less than he did the stairs. At the docks, all Catar had learned was that the Goat checked for shipments and simply enjoyed being close to the water for the remainder of the afternoon. Catar found the strong smell of salt and fish and rust nauseating, and he cursed Tiede all the more, telling himself how glorious it would be once the mighty House on the cliff was destroyed.

  From almost any point in the city, one could see the magnificent House of Tiede sitting in all its moon-bathed majesty, brilliant white stone and marble façade, on the highest point of the cliff. Tonight, as he had done on nights previous, Catar spat in its direction, lowered his head, and continued walking, following the Goat away from the House’s condescending eyes, away from the crowded eastern sector, where Tiede’s people and visitors flocked to the lively markets of the Harbor District and the night life of the town center and Guild Row.

  The Goat proceeded south towards the Wedge with a hop-step in his gait that made it seem like he would trip into the pile of gree droppings no one had bothered to clean up. Instead, he managed to navigate his way around the fly-infested pile of caramel-colored mess as if it had been there since the dawn of time. The area known as the Wedge verged on neglected, and Regulators rarely bothered patrolling it. The unending sounds of dogs howling and whimpering echoed off the broken buildings, while feral cats screeched and hissed in return. The scuttling of bone-thin rats and the stale stench of decay rounded out the place. It was where desperate apprentices sought out substances to keep themselves alert, and where clandestine affairs could find cover from judging eyes.

  For the Goat, it was just part of his daily circuit.

  Catar didn’t follow him too closely here; there weren’t enough people to make his pursuit look natural. It was easier to watch, slip into an alley, and head in the same general direction. The Goat was still a good way from home, making the Wedge perfect for what Catar had to do, and he had to make his move tonight. If blood wasn’t spilled soon, the spell wouldn’t work, and it would be his head.

  As Catar turned down a wide alley, he reached into his robes, feeling for the knife he had strapped to his belt. The Goat would cross at the end of the alley, and Catar just had to pick up his pace to beat him there. He dropped his fake parcels onto a heap of fermenting trash as his heart hammered, beating in his throat and echoing in his ears. He kept the few books he had, pressing them close against his chest to still his nerves.

  The Goat’s cane came into view, and Catar hurried forward to close the remaining few feet, his hand reaching again for the knife, ready to draw it this time. Sweat coated his skin, and he took a deep breath. It was time for the sacrifice. He could smell the blood filling his nostrils as the Goat came into full view.

  “Halt!” The sound was a word, and it seemed to swim at him. Catar’s body froze as the voice began to break through his focus.

  The Goat paused for a brief moment, his brows furrowed as he spared a moment to look down the alley before continuing on his way. Catar felt time catch up to him and he watched slack-jawed as his quarry moved out of reach.

  “Talking to you, apprentice! Turn around!” another voice said. Catar cursed himself as he complied. Two Regulators stood behind him. Engrossed in his task, he hadn’t heard them approach. “You’re a little far from Guild Row,” the taller Regulator
with the wide shoulders said. She looked like she could wrestle a bull and win.

  The Goat was getting away. Catar cleared his throat and clutched his books tighter against his chest, wondering if he should just kill them. Instead, he lowered his head, thankful for the hood that shadowed his features and the goggles that concealed his eyes. He spoke in a low voice, almost whispering. “I’m not, n-not from here—from Tiede, I mean. Some apprentices said, they said there was a girl could m-maybe help me get through my ana-anatomy class.”

  The shorter Regulator burst out laughing, and even his female counterpart broke out in a grin. She elbowed her partner in the chest, then said, “Your friends were having a go at you. Get out of here. You don’t want to learn about anatomy from anyone in the Wedge.”

  Catar wanted to break their necks, but instead he bowed his head, making sure to add some nervous jitters to the movement. The man smirked, tapped Catar’s arm with his baton, and then the pair left him.

  Catar seethed, then spun around, running back the way he had come, past the parcels he had dropped, and through a different maze of alleyways to put him back on track. He headed towards the rotted red door of a building that looked like it had been licked by fire at one point in its miserable life. He had explored most of the abandoned buildings during his volunteered imprisonment in the city and found he could use them like shortcuts through the Wedge. This particular space was empty, save for a dust-coated glass bottle that had rolled up against a wall. The air was dry and stale, and it stirred to life as his presence disturbed it. He threw his books aside, trying to control his breathing.

  He navigated through the small rooms, intent on coming out through what would have been the main entrance, which opened up onto the street that the Goat was on. There were cracks in the small window, and through the film of dust and dirt he made out the shadow of the Goat down the road hobbling along, pumping his cane.