Rhone

by Kelly St Clare

  “There are plenty of other women,” he told himself.

  She’d never given him any encouragement. He was certain—or maybe desperately hopeful—she was still oblivious to his feelings. His mind had carried and amplified the smiles she’d sent his way, the hugs, and the kind words, but Olina was the same with everyone; that was what had attracted him at first. She treated everyone the same, no matter where they were from. He knew firsthand how rare that quality was. People were far more likely to stick in their groups and be assholes to outsiders.

  “Rhone, you’re pathetic. Get over it.” He puffed, bringing his foot up to the next hold.

  But he couldn’t. He was sick of being alone, sick of the world being full of bastards, and sick of not knowing where his life was going.

  “That’s the spirit,” a voice said.

  Rhone’s foot slipped and the reflexive tightening of his hands overhead wasn’t enough to prevent his face from smacking on the solid rock. He dragged in a ragged breath, and stared at the cliff face as the rapid beat of his heart turned to hot anger. Don’t take it out on the woman, Rhone—she’s not right in the head.

  “Oops, watch yourself. You do not want to fall here.”

  Rhone counted to three and resumed climbing, urged on by the growing cramp in his fingers, though whether they cramped due to the need to strangle the nearest person was yet unclear. “Why are you back?” he asked.

  The woman flew in wide arcs behind him, appearing in his peripheral vision at intervals.

  The woman sighed heavily. “I thought you might be bored.”

  Judging by her tone it was the other way around. He didn’t reply, still climbing up the sheer cliff face. Blood dripped from a cut on his bottom lip, the red droplets rolling over his chin.

  “I also came to apologize,” she said as he neared the top. “I hurt your feelings.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Rhone replied.

  “Of course, I did. You got angry and upset.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  There was a pause behind him.

  The woman ascended in a beat of her Soar, and brought herself down gracefully upon the top of the long, thin island. She scrutinized him through her ridiculous eye contraption. “You’re one of those males who don’t like emotion,” she said eventually.

  She held out her hand to help him over the edge. Rhone ignored it and pushed himself up, hooking a foot over the top.

  “My grandfather was like that,” she said again.

  So was mine. Rhone pushed past her. “All right, you’ve made your apology. Now go.”

  “But you haven’t accepted it.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t realize that was a necessity.”

  The woman trailed after him in silence.

  What had he ever done to deserve this? Actually, there had been a lot. . . . “You are forgiven,” he said with a wave of his hand, adding gruffly, “I overreacted a bit.”

  “Just a bit?”

  He glared at her and she squeaked in fear, though a closer look told him the urchin was bloody mocking him. Rhone jerked a thumb at the weird object on her head. “Why do you wear those ridiculous things?”

  “What?” the woman said. “My goggles?”

  Goggles. A ridiculous name for a ridiculous object.

  “They’re to stop the wind making my eyes water when I’m flying. I hate that gritty, dry feeling after traveling all day. They also come in handy when peeling onions.”

  Rhone grunted, surprised there was a logical reason behind them.

  “Would you like some?” she asked.

  If they didn’t look so stupid, he’d be half tempted to use them when mushing his dogs. “No.”

  “No one ever wants my inventions.”

  He glanced back and caught her ruby-red pout. He shook his head, not indulging her by asking more. Rhone dropped his pack and wiped away the blood on his chin with his sleeve, catching his breath after the climb.

  “Hey, Rhone, do you have any food?” the woman asked.

  She’d unstrapped her Soar and removed her goggles.

  Rhone scanned her unobstructed face for the first time. Her hair was brown and streaked with all number of golden hues. The strands looked soft, like the hair of a toddler. Her eyes were sparkling green, which he’d already known, and even without the goggles, her eyes were large, forcing him to look into the bright orbs. Her nose was small, and her smile wide, her front teeth overlapping very slightly.

  He snorted. “You realize I’m on an indefinite journey and have limited food, while you can just fly and get more?”

  She shrugged, sitting down on a rock in front of him. “I could also fly and get you more.”

  Rhone conceded the point and loosened the drawstring of his pack to extract two pears. He passed her one, but she didn’t take it.

  “I like to eat slices—have you got a knife?” Monikah asked.

  He stared at her. “You’re kidding?”

  “It tastes better that way.”

  “It doesn’t change the taste.”

  She waited patiently.

  Muttering, Rhone dug in his pack and drew out a knife. Monikah thanked him and reached forward to take his food, and his weapon.

  She lay the pear down and stabbed the knife into the soft flesh.

  Rhone watched her for a few seconds and then groaned inwardly. Uncrossing his legs, he leaned over to take the fruit and knife back. He cut the pear into quarters and held them out. She smiled as she took them, and he glanced away, wiping his hands on his trousers.

  “Mmm, this is good,” she hummed a moment later. Juice dribbled over her chin to the base of her slender throat, and she caught the drops with a finger, wiping up the spill and sucking the liquid off her fingertips.

  The Ire woman’s frame was typical of her kind, lithe and somewhere between the height of a female from Glacium and a female from Osolis. The Ire were a mixed race, most of them part Solati and part Bruma. They’d been forced here when outcast and exiled by full-blooded Bruma and Solatis. Their sanctuary had existed in secret for three generations before Olina had—

  Rhone veered away from that last line of thought. Even the damn Ire led back to her.

  “Thinking of your lover?” Monikah asked.

  Rhone threw her a look. “Not my lover.”

  “Oh, that’s even worse. She straight rejected you?”

  He swallowed more pear. “She never knew.”

  “Well, that was your first mistake,” Monikah said. “You should always tell people how you feel,” she advised with her mouth full. “That way, if nothing happens, you know it wasn’t because you were too scared.”

  He ignored her bait. “Wouldn’t have mattered. She was in love with another.”

  Monikah’s eyes widened. “Your story gets juicier. Do tell.”

  “You really have nothing better to do than bother me?” he asked, resigned.

  Her face dropped. “Truthfully, I was sent out here as a punishment when one of my inventions went haywire.”

  Rhone glanced at her discarded goggles. He shouldn’t be surprised there were more. Or that she’d been kicked out of the Ire. He’d kick her out, too.

  She was eyeing him expectantly. “Aren’t you going to ask about my invention?”

  There it was again, the urge to do something other than frown. He rubbed at his mouth. “I guess you’re going to tell me, regardless.”

  Monikah mimicked his tone. “I guess I am. I’d invented a new and lighter Soar model. By changing the wing shape, I found I could take out the middle support on both sides. I tested it myself and everything worked; my model was faster, easier to fold, more maneuverable in the air.”

  “Who died?”

  “How did you—?” Her eyes narrowed. She finished her last piece of pear. “I didn’t kill anyone, for your information. Hamish just broke his leg.”

  Rhone laughed. “Hamish who loved Olina, Hamish?”

  Monikah studied him. “You know Hamish?”
/>   “Only through passing.” There should be a club for people Olina had rejected.

  “That’s who you loved? Olina? Queen Lina.”

  Rhone stilled and then lifted his head.

  Monikah clapped her hands over her mouth. “Rhone, no wonder she rejected you. I’ve seen the king and queen together; they are totally, totally in love. You never had a chance.”

  Her words stabbed at the area under his ribs. Rhone turned away and used a few drops of precious water to clean the pear juice off his knife. Monikah babbled behind him and Rhone gritted his teeth, closing the pack as she went on.

  “And I mean, she was a princess, too—not that you’re not a catch and all, all tall and strong and silent, but Rhone, Rhone, what were you thinking?”

  “A great deal more than you seem to.”

  “. . . I’ve gone and done it again, haven’t I?” she said in a small voice. “Hurt your feelings.”

  Rhone stood, keeping his voice steady with the tips of his control. “Monikah. Go away. Do not come back. I mean it. Don’t come back today, tomorrow, or any of the days after that. I do not need or desire your company, and I’m not here to alleviate your boredom. I am here to. . . .” Escape. Find my way. “Be alone.”

  “I’m sorry, Rhone,” she said quietly, stooping to pick up her goggles. She pulled them over her head and walked to her Soar.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked.

  Rhone’s control snapped. Was she serious?

  He rounded on her. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t want you here. Take a bloody hint! No wonder they kicked you out of the Ire; I’ve never met a more irritating person in my life.”

  A gasp left Monikah’s ruby lips, and Rhone slowed his approach as her nonsensically enlarged, goggled eyes shone with tears.

  The knot of anger under his ribs didn’t loosen. He stayed where he was, crossing his arms and planting his feet as the woman spun away and strapped herself into the Soar.

  She launched over the side of the island, and Rhone watched her go, calling loudly, “Just stay away, Monikah.”

  Chapter Four

  Rhone ignored the sweat pouring off his forehead from the furious pace he’d kept up for the last few hours.

  Did she have no tact whatsoever? Did she think he didn’t know Olina was so far above him? He’d climbed from the gutter to the castle, and then fallen in love with a princess, but he’d never acted on his feelings because he’d realized a princess loving him back was impossible. Rhone had more than most, and he knew he should be happy with what he had: a roof and food. He was whining about not understanding what to do with himself, when he should just be thankful to have anything.

  A week ago, he would’ve listened to reason. Today, a life spent being complacent with his lot seemed unbearably lonely.

  The weak glow of firelight shining across the divide from Osolis was fading fast as night fell. Rhone crossed to the next island and deposited his pack in the middle. He scouted the circular rock, rolling his shoulders to relieve the ache there as he went. This island would do fine for the night.

  He dropped to one knee to extract his water, but stopped, wrist dangling over his knee as his fingers brushed a pear inside. He cursed under his breath as he remembered Monikah’s tear-filled eyes. She’d looked so stricken by his outburst. He’d touched on a sore point, and while the irony of her crying over something he’d said when she couldn’t keep her trap shut wasn’t lost on him, Rhone also couldn’t get rid of the guilt pinching him at the memory of her sagging shoulders as she’d flown away. Was she crying somewhere, her tears filling up the inside of those stupid goggles?

  Rhone yanked out his sleeping blankets. She was probably fine, maybe even pestering someone else walking the pathway, though Rhone knew exactly how unlikely that would be. No one took the pathway now that they knew about Soars. Why would anyone, unless they were on a misery walk?

  Great. Now I’m calling it a misery walk, too.

  Rhone chewed some dried beef and then took off his boots and tunic, laying on top of his blankets with a soft moan. This journey was not what he’d expected. However, he’d barely thought about Olina all day, so maybe Monikah’s chatter wasn’t completely without its perks.

  He placed a hand under his head, peering around the islands and listening for any sign of her. There was nothing, but she could be there watching him; the urchin had proved damn quiet when she wanted to be.

  Rhone finally closed his eyes, but his sleep was fitful. He tossed and turned all night, dreaming of tear-filled goggles, overlapping teeth, and broken Soars. He gave up on sleep before the firelight had begun to stream through, and re-packed his bag still half-asleep, keeping his last two pears out for breakfast.

  He bit into one of the pears as he walked down the steps to the next island. He ate what he could of the soft white flesh and then tossed the core over the side. Rhone glanced around the islands again, and with a sigh, set the remaining pear at the outer edge of a step.

  If she flew past, Monikah wouldn’t be able to miss the pear, and hopefully she’d know he meant the fruit as an apology.

  He glared at the pear once more and resumed his walk, blinking to keep his eyes open.

  There, he’d made a nice gesture, and now he was done feeling guilty about an argument she started. He couldn’t believe he’d lost sleep over it.

  Rhone pulled out his illegal map and studied the black ink lines. He’d brought provisions for six weeks, most of his pack filled with water skins. Maybe he’d go all the way to Osolis. There was nothing better to do, and he liked Tatum Olandon, who only spoke when something needed saying. He wouldn’t mind sparring with Olina’s brother, either.

  He cursed. Olina’s brother. She was everywhere! He shoved the map inside his tunic, furious his mind couldn’t seem to stay away from her.

  Rhone took another step down the stairs and immediately noted the difference as the rock under his foot crumbled.

  He shouted, arms flailing in an attempt to force his momentum back, but his pack was too heavy. He twisted, torso already over the side of the island in thin air.

  He reached for the edge of the stairs with a single hand, body stretched and straining with the desperate need to survive.

  Rhone snatched at the sharp edges of the island, eyes wide.

  And missed.

  Chapter Five

  “Rhone, dear? Oh, there you are.”

  Rhone gave his grandmother a toothy grin as she wandered into the confines of the lounge and picked him up. He wrapped his arms around her neck, breathing in her familiar smell, the sharp tang of paint mixed with the musk of canvas.

  “He’s too old to be picked up now, Terah,” his grandfather scolded.

  His grandmother responded by pressing her orange-paint-splattered cheek to Rhone’s. “He’ll never be too big.”

  She released him with a kiss on the forehead, and Rhone resumed his seat on the low stool opposite his grandfather, who was making a spear from scratch. Rhone wanted a spear, but he had to wait until he was seven, which seemed an awfully long time away.

  His grandfather grunted. “How goes the painting of the queen?”

  Silence met his question.

  Both males peered at the older woman. Her purple-blue eyes suddenly appeared a million miles away as though staring at a secret only she could see—that was what Grandpa said, anyway. Rhone was glad his grandmother could see secrets, but he’d like to see them, too, once in a while. Still, at least he could see them in the pictures she painted.

  She blinked and rushed back to her small studio, ducking out through the small door.

  His grandfather gave him a look, and Rhone giggled for a moment before his smile faded. He twisted his chubby hands together. “Grandpapa?”

  “Mm?” His grandfather hummed, whittling the end of the long, straight stick.

  He thought. His grandfather preferred when Rhone thought before speaking. He said that Rhone sounded smarter than half of the people in the Outer Rings when he
did. “Granny took me to the market and forgot what she went for.”

  His grandfather snorted, a soft smile on his weathered face. “That sounds about right.”

  “People were laughing at her.”

  The older man tensed and lifted his head to study Rhone with his powder-blue eyes. “Did they now?” He set aside the knife and spear, and patted his knee. “Come here, boy.”

  Rhone climbed up onto his grandfather and waited.

  His grandfather’s arms tightened around him. “You listen closely because you know I ain’t fond of repeating myself.” He waited for Rhone’s nod.

  “You know your granny sees beautiful secrets—your mother did, too.”

  Rhone twisted to look up into his grandfather’s serious face. “Did my mama paint?”

  His grandfather swallowed. “No, but she could sing the flowers into bloom.”

  She could make flowers grow with her voice? Rhone’s blue eyes rounded, but he didn’t ask any questions, seeing the shine in his papa’s face. Rhone couldn’t remember his parents; they’d died when he was a baby. He felt sad for not knowing them sometimes, but not as much as his grandparents when they got stuck in their memories, like Grandfather was now.

  His grandpapa cleared his throat. “The thing is, because most people can’t see secrets, they forget the secrets are even there, and it doesn’t occur to them that’s where your granny is looking. To them, she looks as though she’s staring into nowhere, but you and me know different, don’t we?”

  “Yes, Grandpapa,” Rhone said, his slim shoulders relaxing.

  Walking back to their house beside his grandmother, Rhone waved at a huddled group of his friends who were throwing stones at a crumbling shop front. Well, he hoped to be friends with them soon. At eight years old, the other boys were both older and much bigger than him. Grandmother kept telling him to be patient, that he’d grow one day.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t mind not growing if there were other children his age to play with around here.