by J M D Reid
Once, Chaylene believed their words. But, thanks to Zori and Ailsuimnae’s friendship, she realized that all women had these desires. She was using her blood as an excuse to act on her attraction to Vel when things grew difficult in her marriage. He offered the illusion of a safe port to dock at, feeding her lies to bed her.
Chaylene pushed that out of her mind. She didn’t want to focus on Vel. He wasn’t here. Yet. Chaylene dreaded serving on the same ship as him.
The crews were each holding their own funeral pyres. Smoke rose to the north. The spirits of the dead of the Spirituous and Adventurous crews, cleansed by Riasruo’s fire, soared up towards Her sun.
Captain Dhar and her officers strode out of their mess in their dark-blue jackets, tricorne hats perched on their heads. Captain Dhar stopped before the assembled crew, the marines saluting in unison, the sailors attempting the same precision and failing. The three Zzuki auxiliaries loomed like pillars. Chaylene straightened her back and wished, for a moment, that she’d buttoned up her jacket. But Breston never did.
The chief of the boat stepped up beside the captain, his back straight, his beard bushy, and gazed out at the crew. “Fall in for parade march!” he bellowed. “At the slow step! March!”
The captain and her officers led the column. They had a sloppy cadence, particularly the young ensigns fresh from one of the Naval academies. Each bought their commissions and studied advanced navigation, mathematics, and tactical theory for two years. Only a few officers, like the captain, instead earned their commissions through war promotions. After the officers, the marines, led by Ary, stepped in smart unison. The Sergeant-Major had beaten discipline into them. Next, the three lizardmen strode at a relaxed lumber, their disgusting tongues flicking out to taste the air. The sailors tramped in their wake, their petty officers and chiefs hustling them into a semblance of order. Chaylene and her scouts didn’t march with any dignity as they helped Zori, Velegrin holding her right side, Chaylene her left.
Zori only grunted against the pain.
The column passed the camp’s warehouses to reach a gate in the outer perimeter near the pottery. It led to the grass fields, used for training exercises, surrounding the camp. Chaylene spent days crawling through the plain, practicing scouting on the ground, and learning to use terrain to hide her movements.
A massive pyre was erected in the flat field the scouts used to take-off and land with their pegasi. The twenty-four casualties of the Dauntless were laid upon it, wrapped in oil-soaked linen. The heady aromatics burned by Luastrian acolytes when they visited Isfe spiced the air. The parade assembled before their deceased comrades.
Emotion burned her eyes and tightened her throat as she wondered which were Breston and Ailsuimnae. She blinked back her tears, her chest growing tight, a weight pressing down on her. Ailsuimnae’s smiling face blazed in Chaylene’s memory, round and dark, eyes sparking with vitality. Chaylene’s right hand clenched and relaxed as she fought against her grief, straining for naval discipline.
A group of civilians stood nearby, mostly women, the sweethearts and spouses of the dead. A few young children stood before their mothers, their brown faces stained with tears, the boys trying to be as stoic as the assembled sailors, the girls rubbing at their eyes. A smaller party approached from the direction where the pyres already burned. Admiral Dhamen, superintendent of Camp Chubris, led his staff of officers and clerks along with Admiral Grelen and a Luastria acolyte.
At their approach, the chief of the boat bellowed in his commanding voice: “Parade, attention!”
Chaylene’s back snapped straight. Even Velegrin went rigid. Zori tried to as she leaned on her crutch, her face pale, jaw clenched, sweat glistening on her feverish brow.
The pair of admirals and the acolyte—a slim Luastria draped in bright, orange robes, her brown-feathered neck bobbing with her every delicate step—moved before the assembled crew. She fluttered her wings as she stopped, her green eyes wide and watery.
Admiral Dhamen stared out at the crew in silence for several moments, his normally jovial, brown face twisted with grief. His gray, balding hair appeared to have retreated farther back while his shoulders sagged. “Last week, our camp and Southern Les itself faced grave peril. Though you were all still only recruits, you stood firm as Stormwalls against the Cyclone, protecting our fellow citizens against the ravages of Theisseg’s foul servants.”
Chaylene shifted. Ary’s words filled her mind. Is Theisseg foul? She’s trapped. She’s suffering.
“The Stormriders are merciless. That is why the Autonomy needs you. You are her Stormwall. The Cyclone broke against your unflinching courage. The cost was high. Twenty-four on the Dauntless, thirteen on the Adventurous, and forty-six on the Spirituous . . . But their sacrifices were not in vain. Les was not pulled down into the Storm Below. A million grateful citizens all sing praises for your sacrifices. All of you standing before me and lying upon the pyre are heroes.”
The tears crested Chaylene’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She fought the shuddering gulps, grief shaking her limbs. Heroes? All I did was fire my gun. I didn’t fight the Stormriders in hand-to-hand combat. I wasn’t on the deck facing their metal armor and swords. I wasn’t butchered like Ailsuimnae. Her friend fell defending the Windwarden. I was safe in the crow’s nest. How am I a hero?
Admiral Grelen stepped forward, his hideous face, pockmarked by boil-like scars, scanned the crew of the Dauntless. “Such bravery was shown by all of you. The exploits of the Dauntless and her crew will be remembered. For the bravery and sacrifice of facing a Cyclone, the entire crew of the Dauntless is awarded the Merit of Courageous Duty.”
Once, Chaylene didn’t understand the meaning of the medals dangling from various colored ribbons on the uniforms of sailors. Now she did. The Merit of Courageous Duty was awarded to all who had faced a Cyclone. The Navy had different awards for different conflicts, like fighting in the Zzuk Aggression War or the Neta Skywars. Other awards were given for serving above and beyond a sailor’s expected duty. The admiral started with the Merit of Distinguished Service, the lowest such award, but no less an achievement to earn.
“Warrant Officer Chaylene Jayne,” Admiral Dhamen said.
Chaylene blinked in surprise to hear her name called. She stepped forward, shame flushing through her as she glanced at the pyre. What about Ailsuimnae? Doesn’t she deserve this? All I did was kill a few Stormriders.
She stepped before the superintendent, saluted, tears drying on her cheeks.
He nodded to her, his eyes soft, blunting the harshness of his disfigured face. “Warrant Officer,” he muttered as he pinned the medal—a white porcelain feather hanging from a blue ribbon—to her coat. “Thank you for your service.”
He saluted her.
Emotion squeezed her throat. “Thank you, sir.”
She returned to the crew as the rest of the medals were awarded. Then he moved onto the Merit of Dauntless Poise, the second highest and awarded for extreme commitment to duty. “Sergeant Briaris Jayne,” Admiral Dhamen called out, “for leading the surviving marines of the Dauntless against the Stormriders on the foredeck, for facing two Stormriders without fear, and for defending the Windwarden, you are awarded the Merit of Dauntless Poise.”
Joy swallowed Chaylene’s grief as her husband marched forward. Despite the solemnness of the occasion, she smiled at the handsome, imposing figure he cut in his red jacket as he stood before the admiral and had the blue porcelain star, hanging from a purple ribbon, pinned on his coat. Ary saluted Admiral Dhamen and strode back to his men.
More were awarded the Merit of Dauntless Poise, many posthumously.
“Able Sailor Ailsuimnae Myis,” Admiral Dhamen said, “for leading the starboard ballistae crew against the five Stormriders threatening the Windwarden without fear, and for laying down your life so the Dauntless would not be swept aside by the violence of the Cyclone, you are posthumously awarded the Merit of Gallant Bravery.”
A sob ripped from Chaylene’s
lips. She drew in a snuffling inhalation through stuffed-up nostrils. The highest award possible! Only the most exceptional feats could earn it. Chaylene pictured Ailsuimnae, her ebony face fearless, as she charged the Stormriders with nothing more than a bone knife. If the Windwardens died, the Cyclone’s powerful winds would have ripped apart the Dauntless. Ailsuimnae showed the same courage the day Chaylene met her, jumping into the brawl to protect her from Zeirie.
I was so focused on protecting my husband, I didn’t even think about you. I’m sorry. Chaylene’s knees buckled as the tears poured down her cheeks. Her chest heaved as she took shuddering breathes.
Zori grabbed her hand, squeezing. “I know. I miss her.”
Chaylene fought to control her emotions as the admiral laid the medal on the body in the center of the pyre. She lost it. Her entire body shook, sobs rasping her throat raw. He saluted Ailsuimnae before turning back to face the crew.
The last awards issued were the Merits of Steadfast Commitment, given to all—Chaylene included—who had suffered a wound. The red porcelain arrowhead joined the two other ribbons she wore pinned to her coat.
The acolyte stepped forward, graceful and lovely. She spread her wings wide, her thin legs lifting her slender form to her full height, and stared up at Riasruo’s sun. “It is only right that you grieve for your friends and loved ones,” the Luastria sang. “Each touched your heart, warming you the same way Riasruo warms us all. You will miss their light shining around you, but find comfort in our loving Goddess’s promise:
“All those who love my fire shall find eternity in my warmth. The fire cleanses us all.”
“The fire cleanses us all.” Chaylene and the rest repeated the catechism with a sing-song rote.
Zori’s hand squeezed hers. A tremble rocked Chaylene’s body. She glanced up at the sun, hoping Ailsuimnae and Breston would be happy there, bathed in Riasruo’s love.
“Every time you step outside and feel the Sun Above’s feathery rays caressing your shoulders, know that a part of the light is your loved ones shining bright, sharing the warmth of their hearts with you.” The acolyte nimbly grasped a burning brand with the brown distal feathers of her left wing, the yellow flame dancing in the breeze. “Fire is life, and now your friends and loved ones return to its purest form, cleansed of their sins. For the fire cleanses us all!”
“The fire cleanses us all!”
She flung the brand onto the massive pyre. The wood, soaked in oil, caught fire in a burst of vibrant orange. Crackling, the flames spread like a swarm of fish, gobbling up the wood and red-linen wrapped bodies of the dead. Black smoke billowed thick, a column of souls rising towards the sun.
The names of the dead were called out as the acolyte sang a mournful, wordless dirge, her voice pure as water from the well and as suffocating as fog rising from the fields. Every name Chaylene knew pricked her heart. Even Ahneil and Xoshia’s names added another wound. Xoshia had been a jealous, vindictive, annoying guppy nibbling at Chaylene’s ear, but she hadn’t deserved death.
And all Ahneil did wrong was love my husband. She died saving his life. Chaylene watched the smoke. Thank you for that sacrifice. Thank you for saving Ary.
Chaylene yearned for Ary’s arms to hold her as silent grief wracked her body.
Chapter Five
Ary peered over the counter of the stall, his eyes flicking around for any sign of the Luastria merchant. After the funeral, they’d broken away from the crew to search Shon. He hoped to find Wriavia, to confront the feathered sow, and strangle his scrawny throat. The shelves looked bare, dust lurking in the back corners. Beneath the main counter, he spotted only scraps of broken wax.
“The merchants pack up their belongings every night,” Chaylene said. She hurried to Ary from the direction of a cloth merchant’s stall. “Master Ardem says Wriavia uses the same warehouse around the corner to secure his goods. All his stuff is in there. Locked up.”
Heat rippled through Ary. “And we can’t get in?”
“Nope.” A loud gust of wind roared through the stalls. Chaylene’s head whipped around, and her blonde hair, gathered in a tail behind her, danced around her shoulders.
“Did you see something?” Ary asked, craning his head, searching for the graceful movement of a Luastria.
“No, no,” she said, her voice tight. “Just the . . . the wind. Thought someone, uh, grabbed my hair.”
He took her hand, giving her a squeeze. He understood. He’d jumped at the sounds of loud winds for months after the Cyclone ravished Vesche seven years ago. Her eyes turned back to his, soft, gray. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, savoring holding it and feeling close to her again. After the last week, the last month, of their marriage . . . He didn’t dread her questions or fear her presence. He could relax around her.
He’d never realized how much a secret could weigh until he tried to support it all on his own.
“Maybe there’s a way into the warehouse,” Ary said, not wanting to give up the chase. “He could have left a clue behind.”
“He fled.” Chaylene pulled her hand away, folding it beneath her breasts. “When his . . . cloak or whatever failed, he retreated.”
Ary let out an angry snort, remembering the dancing shadows trying to kill his wife. The Luastria possessed an engine which wrapped him in mist, a device unknown to Ary. Not even Chaylene knew of it.
I bet Estan knows.
That cut through his growing storm. Estan . . . A powerful part of Ary ached, deep in his bones, to broach the subject with his friend, to ask him about Cyclones, Theisseg, and the poem he’d recited. Chaylene accepted me, Ary thought. She believes Theisseg didn’t taint me.
But she knew him better than anyone. How many nights did they spend talking on hills staring up at the stars? How often had he unburdened his soul to her about his ma? How well did he know Estan?
I thought I knew Vel . . . I thought he was my friend. And he . . . It stung learning that the one person besides Chaylene he’d thought he truly knew actually detested him. Despised him. I never saw his infatuation with Chaylene. I missed it. What if I’ve missed something with Estan?
He hated it, this fear. It pulled at his heart, dragging it back into the recesses of his chest. But . . . Chaylene’s enough.
“Well, we can’t get into the warehouse,” Chaylene said. “I know you want to find him. I want to find him. Kill him.” Fierce words gusted from her lips, her face hard. “But he’s gone.”
Her words became a wind, a torrent of hot air swirling through Ary, restarting the howling tempest. Wriavia tried to murder his wife. He’d lain there helpless, his legs ripped to bloody shreds, as he’d watched the dark shadow duel her, coming closer and closer to gutting her open. The tempest demanded to be unleashed.
His fists balled tight, knuckles popping. He ached to wrap his fingers about the Luastria’s ostrich-thin neck and squeeze. To feel the esophagus crush beneath his fingers, the spasming pulse of life struggling to pump blood up into the Theisseg-cursed bastard’s brain. To hear the desperate, croaking chirps as his hands clenched tighter and tighter and tighter. His skin crackled. His charge danced around his body.
“Ary,” Chaylene hissed, backing away from him.
His fist slammed into the counter. Lightning arced from his blow. Wood snapped, smoked. Curls of wispy gray rose around Ary’s hand. He sucked in a deep breath, battling the storm within, trying to drive back the dark rage to where it belonged.
Buried deep in him.
“Do you feel better?” Chaylene asked him, her voice cool.
“Yes,” he grunted, pulling his hand away. Scorch marks outlined the impression of his knuckles. His static charge diminished. It would build again.
“Does that even hurt?” she asked.
Ary frowned. He glanced down at his torn knuckles. A splinter worked out of his flesh. The heat flowed through him the same way his charge did, only he didn’t control the healing fire. It moved on its own, diffused, mending the damage his anger inflicted
. He concentrated, focusing on it, directing more of it to the wound like he would his Lightning. The sliver popped out of his skin, rolled across the back of his hand, and fell away.
“No,” he answered. “It doesn’t.”
She took his hand and kissed his mending knuckles. The softness of her lips did more to drive back the dark winds inside him than his soul’s battering fists. When her lips pulled away, the skin over his knuckles was smooth, brown flesh. Not even swelling redness remained. He flexed his hand. The healing Blessing Theisseg had given him had saved his life more times than he’d realized. His ma was certain the Dark Goddess had cursed him, that he only survived the choking plague because of her touch.
Now he knew it was true. But I’m not cursed. Believing Chaylene’s words brought a smile to his lips. “Thank you.”
Chaylene cocked her head, brow creasing tight. “For what?”
“For just being you.” He put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her tight. He wanted to say more, but emotion gripped the back of his throat.
So he cleared it with a grunt. “We should meet the chiefs.”
Chaylene grimaced. “I really, really don’t want to go to the Friendly Maid and watch you ogle the fruit.”
“I’ll do my best not to be so obvious about it.”
Her elbow nudged his ribs. “Definitely something for you to practice.” She straightened, the motion pulling taut her linen blouse over her own curves. “It’s so embarrassing when you drool.”
“I don’t drool,” Ary objected as he stared down at her swells. “I promise only to stare at yours.”
“Ary . . .” she said, sounding so girlish. A smile graced her lips. Her arm slipped around his waist as they walked away from Wriavia’s stall.
Ary held back a sigh. He hoped Wriavia kept running. If he ever encountered that bird again . . .
*
Vel swirled his frothy beer, studying the foaming suds as he lounged at the Friendly Maid. Sailors crowded the tavern to toast their fallen comrades or to find “solace” in the arms of an amenable whore. He felt no grief for the deaths of his crew. He’d stood stoically with the others as the medals were handed out and the fire lit. He hardly knew any of them. Chaylene had consumed his focus the last three months. He’d bent every iota of thought into winning her from Ary.
