by Tammy Salyer
“I’ve never been caught before. I swear, I’ll only go as far as the Aktoktos Gate, then come back. Wait for me here until midday? I’ll be fine.”
The woman fell into a disagreeable silence, clearly seeing no point in arguing further.
“Take me with you,” Isemay pleaded through her nerveless lips. “I need to look for Mum.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. It will endanger us both. If I’m going to help your mum, I have to do this alone.”
He bent his knees, and with a single flap of wings, he rose. Mura called after him, “Midday, Salukis! See you’re not late.” Then she turned back to Isemay, seemed to want to say something, but merely gave her a look of pity that did nothing to soothe her fears.
Chapter Three
Symvalline smelled the crispness of fresh mountain air along with dry stones mixed with hints of unidentifiable herbs or plants. Underneath these were notes of unwashed garments or people, not overpowering but still detectable, as if the scents had settled into the space around her long ago and fallen dormant. Her temple throbbed, but she didn’t yet reach for her head to see if blood had been drawn.
Consciousness had come abruptly moments earlier, but she kept still. She needed to listen before acting, try to learn what she could about her captors before they turned their own questions on her, and try to discover Isemay’s fate.
She heard breathing, two people. Likely whoever was guarding her. Cold stone beneath her told her she was indoors, so they’d left the meadow. Though she could not see it, she sensed light, perhaps from a window. Was it daytime? How long had she been unconscious? Distantly, she heard the sound of boots on stone, coming from somewhere below her.
One of the guards whispered, “Straighten up. It’ll be the Archon.”
Risking it, she opened her eyes but only to slits. She could see two sets of booted feet. Their footwear was not leather, but some kind of rigid and unusual fiber. Her guards were on the far side of the room near a doorway, as far from her as they could get. In the corner of the room sat a small wooden table, no chair. She could also make out a door near the guards, which swung outward as she watched. Someone with large booted feet entered.
“Is she awake?” the now familiar voice of the Rheunosian Archon asked.
“Not yet, Archon. She hasn’t moved at all.”
Another set of feet entered behind him, and the Archon turned. “On the table.”
The person, not a soldier but someone dressed in what seemed to be common clothes, hurriedly set a tray containing a pitcher and four goblets atop it, then turned and left quickly, almost scurrying.
“She’s slept enough. Get her up.”
“But, Archon, if she carries the plague—”
“She is not a plague-bringer,” he said shortly. “Get her up.”
The guards approached her reluctantly, and while their backs were to the Archon, she saw him pull a flask from a pouch at his waist and quickly let a drop of its contents fall into the pitcher. Her gaze was blocked as one guard knelt and poked her in the chest with the tip of a wooden bludgeon. “Wake up,” he commanded.
To avoid any unpleasantries, she immediately opened her eyes, startling the guard. He stood again as if on a spring, and they both took a step back. Symvalline pushed herself to a seated position and finally reached for her bruised head. It was tender, with a thumb-sized goose egg, but no blood. With her Verity spark, she would be healed within the day. She had already sensed that her wrist crossbows had been removed. Next, she reached for her Mentalios.
Gone.
Along with her medicine bag of herbs and concoctions, a small kit she went nowhere without.
Her eyes darted back to Tuzhazu. He smirked knowingly. “You two, wait outside while I speak with our guest.” The two guards began to exit, but diverted first to the table and goblets when he said, “Take some mead with you. For your diligence.”
The Archon regarded her closely as the guards grabbed their drinks, and Symvalline was afforded a view of their extraordinary wings. They were membranous and covered with a felt-like down, two or three heads higher than the crowns of the guards’ heads, and sweeping down just short of reaching the floor. The guards wore a kind of armor made from some dense material over their chests that were designed to fit around their wings, and buckled at their waists, and shirts and trousers similar to clothes of Vinnr beneath. When the door was closed behind them, the Archon stepped forward and she rose to her feet, taking a preparatory stance.
“So, it seems my guess was right,” he began. He produced her Mentalios lens from the same pouch. “This is more than just a pretty pendant. Why are you here, fellow Archon?” He tucked the lens away as he waited for her reply.
The Vinnr Scrylle had sparse details of this realm, but enough that she knew it had three moons, which she’d recognized upon arrival. Archons were its name for an order like the Knights Corporealis. “In my realm, servants of the Verity are called the Knights Corporealis. And if you guessed I am one, perhaps you can guess why I came, as well.” She spoke slowly, drawing out her answer as much as she could in order to take in her situation.
The chamber was modest, no larger than the main room of a small house. In a corner lay a heap of old textiles, the source of the unwashed smell. High atop two of the walls were open frames that let in outside air. Too high to see through, but wide enough to fill the interior with daylight. The air was cool, but not cold.
“A lack of cooperation will not go well for you,” Tuzhazu said evenly.
“An expectation of cooperation from someone you attacked without provocation and nearly killed is foolish for anyone who likes to think of themselves as an Archon.” She looked at him squarely for the first time, the challenge in her eyes equal to her tone.
Not as tall as Ulfric, but stout like him, his beige skin was striated with a web of darker lines along his face, arms, and what she could see of his chest. The lines looked natural, not decorative, like the Dyrraks’ skin adornments. Symvalline couldn’t quite ignore her curiosity. He was the first being of another realm she’d had time to truly observe—if you didn’t count the gangling people of Battgjald she’d encountered on Mount Omina. And Vaka Aster, of course. Besides these markings, the wings, and the ears, which were longer than Vinnrics’ ears, he appeared much the same as her own people.
Her tone provoked him, and he took a menacing step forward, spreading his wings halfway. She gasped, unable to hold it in. Unlike the guards’ membranous wings, his were ragged and skeletal, with bits of dried flesh attached to them in places that looked like the skin of a desiccated carcass. The wings rose over his head and curled forward, the visible bones tipped with gleaming metal hooks that looked like a hornet’s stinger, but hundreds of times bigger. The man’s wings were incapable of flight and horrid to look at, reduced to remnants by either accident or battle. And he now brandished them as weapons.
“I can hurt you, Archon, despite your Verity’s gifts.”
She pulled her gaze from the appendages, suppressing a shudder. “Try it, if you dare. We’ll see which of us suffers more.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Consider it a test of endurance.”
He stared at her silently for a moment, then his face broke into a wide, though not friendly, grin. “You’re a fierce one! If I only had five soldiers with your verve, I’d have enough to finish the Zhallahs for good!”
She let him enjoy the moment, then continued with a slight blunting of the edge in her tone. “You used a Fenestros to disarm me, thus showing me you are a servant of the Verities too. Why, then, are you threatening me? We are in the same service, with the same purpose. You should be coming to my aid.”
His smile dissipated and he blinked, revealing another difference from her own people. His eyes had two sets of lids, the inner set closing from side to side, like a bird’s, before the outer set. At the speed at which the Rheunosians had shown they could fly, she could see the need for the protective layer.
Her mouth was dry
and made dryer by the anxiety the Rheunosian was no doubt pleased to be causing her. But she’d seen his suspicious vial and wondered what he’d put in the pitcher. She looked to it, noting he had not drunk any either. But, she reasoned, if he’d offered it to his own guards, it must be harmless.
“Thirsty?” he said, catching her glance.
She pulled her eyes from the tray. “The only thing I would request from you, my fellow oath-taker, is to be set free.” She paused, remembering the meadow. Had they caught others? “Both myself and the other Rheunosians I was with. If you’ll grant me use of your Scrylle and a Fenestros so that I may take safe passage back to my own realm, I will be gone and trouble you no more. Will you?”
“Other Rheunosians? You mean the Zhallahs”—he spat a word in a language Symvalline didn’t know, and not a kind word—“you were protecting?”
She eyed him, giving no hint of her thoughts.
“Why chase frightened mice when you can catch the courageous cat? But”—he turned aside and paced toward the table to pour another gobletful—“you killed one of my soldiers. I think first we shall establish why you’re here, and it seems, unable to leave. I can see you’re not from Battgjald. That leaves Vinnr or Himmingaze.”
He came back and held out the cup. She refused it silently. He began to circle her. She stayed rigid, watching him from the corners of her eyes.
When he again stood before her, he said, “Vinnr, I think, based on the clothing you wear and the fact that you speak the Verity tongue. I’ve heard Himmingaze is a watery world now and has a language of its own.”
“Why would you assume I’m not from Battgjald?”
“Are you?”
“You seem eager to know. I saw your…unusual soldiers, and I know their kind. Raveners from Battgjald. Does that make you a Knight with loyalty to this realm, or are you a puppet of Balavad’s?”
“‘Raveners’? No, we don’t call them that here. And ‘puppet’… interesting term. Am I to understand that your dealings with Balavad have been less beneficial than our own?”
He tried to pass her the cup again, and again she refused, watching his face closely. She sensed something was coming and didn’t like her chances of coming through it unscathed. But whatever happened, she would not drink what was in that goblet.
With a deliberately unchallenging tone, she answered, “Your dealings with Verities are yours, and I don’t seek to interfere. I simply seek aid in returning to Vinnr.”
His patience seemed to have reached an end. “Who sent you here?”
“I cannot say. That’s the truth.”
“Why have you come?”
“I can’t say.”
He stepped close enough that she could feel his breath on her face. “Who follows you?”
Looking into his red-rimmed emerald-gray eyes, a color like tarnished silver, she gave a slight shake of her head. “I don’t know. But if you let me go—”
Abruptly, he hurled the clay goblet into the wall behind her, smashing it to bits. She quelled inwardly but didn’t flinch. He had no visible weapons except the ghastly metal-tipped wings. If he attacked, the only weapons Symvalline had were her own strength and training.
He collected himself, his nostrils still flaring with anger, and stepped back. “I have time to learn your secrets, Knight. The Equifulcrum is still days away. When it comes and I take my place as leader of Arc Rheunos, I promise you’ll no longer need to concern yourself with the Zhallahs we’ve captured. Until then, how would you like to meet a new Verity?”
She said nothing, unable to gauge his intentions. There was a trick in his question, but she would have to play along until she understood it. Something about his eagerness for this Equifulcrum, which she knew from Scrylle archaneology was the syzygy of their three moons, an event that occurred only once every three hundred years, told her it would be better for her and Isemay to be gone from this realm before it happened.
To answer him, she said flatly, “It would be my honor to have an audience with Mithlí, Verity of Arc Rheunos.”
He smirked at her one last time, then spun and paced from the room, giving her a better look at his wasted wings. She could see where they sprouted from his back, their bases made of thick, denuded, yellow-white bone. Where the bones thinned, more shining metal had been wrapped onto the skeletal framework, piercing through the flaps of skin still hanging here and there, creating a frightening armature that epitomized suffering. The healer in her wondered if he still felt the pain of whatever had done this to him. Darkly, she wondered if he enjoyed it.
The door slammed, and Symvalline was left alone. Already, her headache had lessened, and she easily ignored her thirst. Refusing to give in to the frustration at having gotten no useful information from the Rheunosian Archon, she began to pace the chamber rapidly, touching every stone, digging her fingers into every cranny, looking for any hidden asset that would help her either escape or protect herself. He’d said nothing about Isemay, and she was sure her daughter and at least some of the Zhallahs had escaped. This was her only comfort. And with her mind free to focus, several more things surfaced that she desperately wished to know: Where was Ulfric and was he safe? What was happening now in Vinnr?
“Heyo.”
The word was whispered, barely audible, and coming from above her. She wheeled around, looking first to one window, then the next. A face was framed there, looking down at her. Amber-skinned with markings similar to the Archon’s, locks of copper hair dangling beside his cheeks. She recognized him and her heart froze.
“You’re the Rheunosian who took Isemay,” she said.
“Yes, I’m Salukis.”
“Where is my daughter?”
“She’s safe in the Churss with the other Zhallahs, my people.”
Her relief was so great, like a weight suddenly ripped from her, that Symvalline nearly staggered. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I overheard most of what Archon Tuzhazu was saying. They’re taking you to Everlight Hall, in the middle of the Tyrn Mountains. That’s where Mithlí is being—”
They both jumped at the sound of something rattling on the other side of the door. Symvalline cut in. “Can you get me free?”
“No, there’s no way. The Minothians have too many guards at the gate to the mountains, and the Deathless prowl the valley. I have to go before they see me. I’ll tell your daughter you’re unharmed. Archon Raamuzi will think of something to help you.”
“Wait, before you go, can you tell me what Tuzhazu meant about the Equifulcrum? What’s happening then?”
“At the Equifulcrum, Tuzhazu will be the next living vessel of Mithlí and ruler of Arc Rheunos. Then—” He glanced away quickly, distracted by something outside.
“What?” she pressed.
“He may come for the Zhallahs. I have to go.”
“Wait. What does he want with your people?”
“To bury the truth of what he and the other Archons did forever. And I think he means to bury all the Zhallahs with it.”
His eyes darted to the side, and in the next breath, he was gone.
Chapter Four
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy, of course. Look at the hair.”
“But he doesn’t have wings. Is he a mutant?”
“Mura said he’s from another realm. Maybe they look different there.”
The whispering from the children trying to decide what she was had been going on for some time, but Isemay had tuned it out. The party had moved inside the rock towers, a feature of their world they called the Churss, to wait for Salukis. The sun had long since risen and begun its arc across the sky, turning the night’s cool air into a comfortable warmth. They seemed to believe the soldiers from across the valley couldn’t reach them here, though Isemay couldn’t see why a bunch of towering rocks were much protection. She sat apart from the six children, sullen and unwilling to speak to them, as close to the edge of the Churss as she could get to watch for Salukis and n
ews of her mum. Never in her life had she been so miserable.
“Hush, Neeka, Ballion,” Mura chided. “She is a girl, obviously, and our guest. Try to be nice.”
“But she’s got hair!” one of the children said, as if Mura might be missing an important factor to the argument. “And her skin is all wrong.”
“Shh!”
Her tone quieted the group, but Isemay hardly noticed. She heard steps behind her, then Mura sat beside her. When Isemay gave no sign of having seen the Rheunosian, Mura sighed.
“Isemay,” she began. “I know what you’re going through. I lost someone to the Minothians too. My brother, and now maybe Onni and Cylli too. But I haven’t given up hope that I’ll see my Dwoon again. You shouldn’t give up hope, either.”
She wanted to seem grateful, though her heart felt dry and withered, and attempted a weak smile that faded quickly. Her thoughts had been bounding between her mother and father since the dawn. Her mum’s nurturing warmth, her da’s adoring praise. Symvalline’s stern but caring lessons, Ulfric’s stoic but devoted indulgences. But despite their love, they had never let her get away with things. She was taught from birth to be a diligent, assiduous, and upright citizen of Vinnr, the kind who might someday become a Knight, a worthy servant of Vaka Aster. Nevertheless, Isemay was naturally stubborn, if precocious. “Impish” was her mother’s word. And the traits of strength and wisdom hadn’t yet developed in her, because, as her parents so often reminded her, she was still a child.
But that time was over. She had to grow up. Right now. It was up to her to be of service to her parents rather than the other way around. Somehow, she swore to herself, before another night passed in this foreign realm, she’d find a way to help her mum.
Mura spoke again. “It’s just past midday. The children are hungry and scared. We need to return to our homes in Maerria and get them to their parents. And we need to meet with Deespora. She’ll be able to help. She’s an Archon and knows more about the Minothians than anyone.”
