NightWind

by Sara Kincaid

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Malik assured her.

  Rina took his hand from her shoulder and clutched it tightly. “It changes everything.” She’d seen the way people shied away from injured warriors. She remembered the stories of soldiers returning from the battle that children used to tell to frighten each other. They were only stories told out of earshot of their parents. But, Rina knew that people would avert their eyes and shush their children when she walked down the street. Warrior or not.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Malik

  SEVEN YEARS AGO

  Darkness crept over the grounds of Eagle Palace. Malik had already washed the ruby red streaks of Rina’s blood from his skin and changed out of his soiled clothes. Before Josef had lost himself, first in the memories of his comrade’s slaughter and then in the depths of the bottle, he’d told his lanky younger brother to never get involved in the politics of the military.

  Malik could remember, as if it were just yesterday, the way his brother had leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on two legs as if his cares were so slight they didn’t need a solid foundation to sit upon. “If I teach you anything, Malik, remember this.” He took a swig of his mulled wine as a wayward strand of hair fell roguishly over his right eye. “Don’t get in the middle of anything. Not a ruffled recruit and his superior or two fellow recruits.” He took another swig and grinned, gesturing at a wide-eyed Malik who sat cross-legged on the ground. “Oh and especially not between lovers. That most of all.”

  But Rina had told him in her quiet way, finally, after he’d cajoled her, about what happened. She’d spoken softly in monotone, equally fearful of the consequences of her being out of the barracks after hours as she was of the commander who had disfigured her. She begged him to do nothing. But, armed with the truth, Malik knew that doing nothing wasn’t an option. What would Josef think of him striding full-force into what could be construed as a lover’s spat?

  Malik thought of Josef now, how his slack-jawed face contrasted with the animated man he’d once been. He pitied his brother, but he knew that Raze Uxton despised him. Instead of moving past the memories, Josef had succumbed to them, thereby showing that Niko’s sacrifice for his comrade had been in vain, in Raze’s estimation.

  He slowed to a walk. He couldn’t go to Raze. His relation to Josef would do nothing to help Rina’s situation. The night was still and silent and the humid air hung like a thick blanket all around him. But Raze was her commander. It had to be him.

  Raze Uxton was a complicated soldier. Fiercely opinionated. Protective of his brothers. There was a reason SquallTamer had made him third in command. SquallTamer’s gentle disposition lent him to the role of commander. But, Raze Uxton was hot-headed and took too much pleasure on the battlefield. Many remarked on his sudden and unexpected rise to battalion leader following the death of Rina’s brother. Rumor suggested that even Khalid Shin, General of the Burgan military forces, couldn’t stand him. But Malik knew something that others didn’t. Vane Archer was distantly related to the regency. He was their eyes and ears within the battalion. It would be much harder to slide beneath the radar if he were in charge. But, as second in command, he was privy to all the right information. Thus, Raze Uxton ascended to the position of commander.

  The commanders’ quarters were separate from the recruit barracks, across the expansive palace grounds in the shadow of the western parapet. FireStorm’s door was closed, but spark light filtered between the cracks and illuminated the drawn shades. Malik’s boots crunched audibly on the pebbled walkway and he stopped, uncertain, before the commander’s door. He fumbled with his uniform, wondering if Josef’s advice was right.

  But then thoughts of Rina’s bloodied face came to mind and he recalled how she’d recoiled from her own reflection in the healers’ ward. Malik sighed, threw back his shoulders and knocked lightly on the door. He heard rustling within and then the door cracked open revealing the leader of the Aviators.

  Tall and lean, square-jawed, the commander was dressed in his crisp uniform, hair gelled flat. “Yes?” His voice was soft, but his eyes glimmered with fire at being disturbed.

  Malik took a slow breath and then cleared his throat. “Who’s out there?” a voice called from within. FireStorm opened the door further revealing General Khalid Shin.

  Khalid Shin was a simple military man. He’d been connected to the Burgan infantry since his teens. Josef and Khalid had gone through training together and where Josef had stumbled, Khalid had soared.

  Khalid was tall with powerful arms. His face was scruffy, though he wore his golden-brown hair oiled back. He looked down at the recruit over a pointy nose.

  At the sight of the general, Malik came to a salute so quickly, he nearly jammed his fingers against his chest. He stood silent, waiting to be addressed and for a moment, general, commander and recruit stood blinking at each other. Khalid stood and walked to the door. “At ease, recruit. Can I help you?”

  Malik’s hands returned to his sides, his eye drawn to the golden threads that curled down the front of the general’s jacket and also at the cuffs of his sleeves. “Yes, General.” Then he nodded at FireStorm. “Commander. I’m Malik Regis. My apologies for seeking you out at such a late hour. But I come as a matter of some urgency.” He stared straight ahead without seeing, determined to say his piece.

  “Regis. I know that name,” Khalid interjected.

  Malik stumbled over his tongue and then eyed the general warily. “Aye, sir. My brother served with you. Josef.”

  Khalid gestured for Malik to enter and FireStorm stepped back to allow him room. “Ah yes. Your brother was a good soldier and comrade. I was sorry to hear of his suffering.”

  Malik hid his surprise and stepped inside, refusing to glance at FireStorm, knowing the ire he would see there. “Thank you, sir.”

  While the commander’s quarters were private, they were remarkably simple. No family heirlooms or personal effects cluttered the shelf or any of the tables. A worn red and gold rug lay beneath two soft chairs. Sitting in a pool of spark light on a table, was a pile of a paperwork, worn pen nibs and empty ink wells. Khalid and FireStorm returned to their seat at the table and Malik stood before them. “Now, what can I do for you, Malik?” FireStorm asked.

  “Well, sir, there’s been an incident.” He licked his lips. “With Commander Dax.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rina

  SEVEN YEARS AGO

  In their final two weeks of training, the recruits were given leave and Rina found herself alone in the barracks with little desire to visit her sister or Master Miyabi. She cringed thinking of the comments, the looks of pity. In spite of her ministrations, the redness didn’t dissipate and the scar grew ugly against her smooth, porcelain skin. Rina ran her fingers across the closed wound, marking each section of raised skin, hoping to somehow quell the persistent redness.

  As she returned from a walk around the deserted recruit grounds, Rina found a notice posted on their door containing details about their upcoming celebration. She remembered her brother’s class of recruits being presented by the Regent to the people and how he had stood proudly in his new uniform, beaming down at them. Rina stopped cold, her body numbing as she realized that her scarred face would be on display for everyone in Burga to see. Dax had received swift punishment carried out by both General Shin and Raze. But still, she couldn’t face it. She couldn’t face them.

  The leaflet fluttered to the ground and Rina turned on her heels and ran out the door. She stumbled down the hill from the recruit barracks to the barrier that divided the outside world from Eagle Palace and its expansive grounds. Rina ducked her head as the guards on duty watched her run past. Luckily, the gates were open so she didn’t have to stop and speak to anyone.

  Free of the palace grounds for the first time in nearly three months, Rina took off down the hill, her feet pounding faster and faster as gravity t
ugged her. An eager wind whistled in her ears, flowing through her tunic and tangling in her hair like Dax’s fingers. The months of training had worked their way into her muscles and she ran with barely a thought.

  The tops of the skinny trees were in full leaf. The mossy ground was green and vibrant in an early summer thrall. The well-manicured pools shone and the gardens were in full bloom. While Rina got to see the beautiful inner gardens in the palace grounds, she’d almost forgotten about the beauty of Burga in bloom. In the markets, summer’s bounty would be evident in the large fruits and vegetables grown in gardens and in farms outside of the city.

  As she descended into the city, buildings rose up on all sides and the bustle of horse and buggy traffic filled her ears. The sidewalks brimmed with Burgan locals. Rina paid them no heed as she hurtled on, eager to be away from them and their prying eyes.

  The longer she ran, the harder her breath came and sorrow welled up inside her chest. Rina turned onto a main thoroughfare and then skirted down an alleyway, bursting into the Burgan market scene. Vendors hawking wares filled the streets and Rina’s nose picked up the scent of warm bread, perfumes and leather. Still she didn’t stop.

  The market was a long stretch of road with wide sidewalks and narrow cart paths. The majority of the traffic came from pedestrians, except in the case of deliveries. People milled about and streamed down both sides of the street. Outside of their storefronts, vendors had large tables and shelves set up, bringing their goods out into the sunshine.

  Shoppers glanced up as Rina swept by, some clucking at her rudeness, others wondering about an emergency given her hurried pace. Rina ran without thinking, her consciousness focused inward on the dam that quivered inside of her, barely holding on despite the careful walls she had built over the past weeks.

  As suddenly as the tempo of her feet on the ground began, it stopped. Rina skidded as she arrived in front of Miyabi’s store. Without her apprentice, the master sculptor hadn’t dragged a table out into the walkway, hindered by her ailing limbs and the toll that age was taking on her. The doorway was bright and open and Rina looked up for the first time as she stepped into the shop.

  The familiar scents of clay and glaze and the tang of burnt wood filled her nostrils. She stood numbly there and Master Miyabi looked up from her work, her hands covered in wet clay, a half-formed pot spinning on the foot-powered wheel. Rays of light played with dust particles streaming through the dingy front windows. “Rina.” Master Miyabi’s voice rose with astonishment, but there was warmth there, too, as she registered the arrival of her former apprentice. Her eyes wandered over the young woman. She no longer wore the bright threads of cotton she’d lovingly adopted in her teen years. Her eyes didn’t glow and her face was pale and drawn except for the angry gash along her cheek.

  “Master Miyabi.” Finally, Rina began to cry. Her eyes burned and sobs shook her frame. Master Miyabi rose quickly and wiped her hands clean before grabbing her cane and stalking to her lost pupil. As weak as she appeared, Miyabi’s hands were strong and she gripped Rina’s shoulders tightly, holding the girl up and then drawing her to her shoulder.

  Rina buried her face against Miyabi’s faded green tunic, her tears wetting the fabric and soaking into the patches of dried clay that covered the old garment. She cried until her head began to throb, until the river of sorrow dried up and left her eyes red, her face blotchy.

  “My girl,” Miyabi said after Rina’s tumultuous tears had faded. She held Rina at arm’s length, her eyes roving over her, taking in the mark on her face that was the source of so much of her pain. “You should have come sooner.” She hugged Rina tightly to her once more, holding back the anger that welled within her at the Regent for taking her pupil away, for turning an artist into a warrior, for forcing her into a life she had never sought for herself. “Come, we’ll close the shop and have some tea. We will make it right.”

  Rina clasped Miyabi’s hands with appreciation. Miyabi closed the door to the shop and turned the lock before leading Rina up the stairs to her living quarters where Rina had once resided alongside her teacher.

  Miyabi puttered around the small kitchen, lighting the stove and setting water to boil as Rina sat in a chair at the rickety table. Rina smiled, her tear-stained face dry and cracking with the movement. The teapot was one of Rina’s own designs, a simple vessel with an intricate pattern painted on the handle and spout. The pot itself she’d left bare and in the confines of the rakku kiln, the clay had grown rough and black like volcanic rock.

  Her hands curled around a warm, fragrant cup of orange and mint tea, Rina told her former master of all that had transpired. Miyabi listened silently, sipping her tea and alternately blowing the steam to cool the drink. Her eyes were hard, black with anger.

  When Rina came to the end, her fingers went to the flaming scar on her cheek. “He did this on purpose.” She bowed her head and, somehow, found a fresh bout of tears.

  Master Miyabi sat her cup down on the old wooden table with a clink and shoved her chair back with a screech of untreated wood on solid boards. She walked heavily to her sobbing pupil and cupped her uninjured cheek affectionately in her hand. Rina’s hands dropped and her chin lifted so that she was looking into her master’s eyes. Her voice was low and gravelly. “Rina, what do we do when a pot has been broken?” She pursed her thin lips, waiting for an answer.

  Rina blinked up at her master teacher, startled. Small tears clung to her lashes. “We fill it with gold.”

  “Exactly. And the flaw becomes part of its story and it is more beautiful than when we started.” Miyabi finished the proverb, her voice heavy with conviction. Rina gazed up at her teacher, her brow wrinkled with confusion. “We shall do the same for you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Eli

  THREE YEARS AGO

  Master Moriyo had warned them that the death of the Regent would bring chaos. But Regent Solon’s passing opened up a chasm between the people of Burga as deep as the Habibi Gulf and far greater than Moriyo himself had expected.

  In the confines of the lower palace, Burga’s highest officiants gathered along with Solon’s niece, Arayna, and nephew, Tevin. Select members of the militia and all of the remaining Mystics looked on, including Eli. The old man had insisted that his disciple be at his side for the ritual.

  Arayna and Tevin were both clothed in gold brocade. But, while Tevin wore a simple outfit woven from the expensive fabric, pants that sat below his knee, a white shirt with brocade vest and shiny black boots, Arayna had taken the fabric and had the seamstress fashion it into a voluminous cape. She wore a gold blouse tucked into a black bodice and black pants. Each pant leg was striped with the brocade. Her face was painted with golden kohl around her eyes and thick, gold false lashes. Her lips were colored with a demure mauve. She looked regal, her spine stick straight and her full lips pursed in concentration, but many of the guests murmured about her improper attire, a creative flair that bordered on the eccentricity of Regent Opher of Kaldar.

  While the militia and other high-ranking officials had been arguing day and night since the passing of Regent Solon a month prior, Arayna and Tevin were surprisingly connected and resolute. Standing before the crowd, Arayna reached over and grasped her brother’s hand. Master Moriyo smiled at this gesture of congeniality as he stepped forward, he himself dressed in a tunic etched with golden thread and carrying his black staff. The room was silent as he spoke, his hands fluttering like butterflies, drawing runic patterns in the air. “We call on the goddess Nia, our mother to help guide us at this pivotal time. You drenched the world in golden sunlight and gave Mantinea the silver gift of the spark so that we may never know darkness.” Soon, he lapsed into a tongue meant only for the goddess, his eyes vacant.

  Moriyo’s murmuring carried on for several minutes, filling the room with subtle vibrations that grew upon each other like an echo. Silence, when it came, was sudden, as if the old Mystic had s
topped mid-sentence, halting the echoes with a gesture. His hands hovered in the air over the bowed heads of Solon’s niece and nephew, their golden clothes twinkling in the silver glow of a thousand spark lights. His eyes slowly opened and he stepped back from the siblings.

  First Tevin raised his head, followed by Arayna. When they each opened their eyes, there was a gasp from the crowd. Tevin’s eyes were still a muted black. Arayna’s eyes sparkled like an eagle’s, each pupil surrounded by a thick pool of gold.

  Within weeks of Arayna’s assumption of the regency, the great divide widened and the once beloved Mystics were forced to seek refuge on Mt. Yama. “I fear that our reign is at an end.” Zaid poked at the flames of the cooking fire with a long stick. He wore a loose wrap over his shoulders against the mountain’s chill. Winter was not long behind them.

  Eira’s head poked out of her white, fur-lined coat. “Don’t be ridiculous. We are Mantinea.”

  “I don’t think the people see it that way.” Zaid sat back on his haunches and tossed the flaming stick onto the blaze.

  “Only Raze Uxton thinks that.” Eira snorted rudely and pulled her chair closer to the blaze. She rubbed her hands together, calling forth a spark with little effort. They all watched the little silver flame dance on her fingers before she snuffed it between her palms with an annoyed sigh.