Wings of Tavea (25 page)

Her stomach was in knots, sick with worry for Drustan. “No.”

“You are a horrible liar.”

“I haven’t had a lot of practice.”

Alcander led Kiora up the slanted path to the dreaded bridge. But mercifully he led her past it and around a loop on the cliff face.

“Where are we going?” she finally asked.

“Almost there.”

They followed the loop around the backside of the valley wall. The ledge grew thinner until she was forced to place one foot carefully in front of the other. She ran her hand along the rock wall until they reached a lookout hidden at the very back. Alcander sat down, his legs hanging over the side, and motioned for her to join him.

Sitting down next to him, she followed his gaze. The valley stretched out before them, the bridge looking more quaint than scary. The river ran its way through the middle as the people milled about, getting ready for the night. Lamps were being lit by the winged people. They flew from torch to torch, their giant, white wings magnificent in the low light. The strange mix of people was somehow less strange from up here. Instead, it was a beautiful tapestry of shapes, colors, skin, scales, and feathers. Glancing sideways, she watched Alcander’s relaxed face as his hair blew in the breeze, fluttering off his shoulders. She wished Emane could see this softer side of Alcander.

But then Alcander spoke. “Tell me of your home.”

It wasn’t a request, but a sharp, cold demand. She snorted, shaking her head. “Welcome back.”

“What?”

Leaning back on her elbows, she swung her feet. “I was thinking how I wished Emane could get to know you—the you I’ve seen lately—but then you lash out with ‘tell me of your home,’” Kiora said, imitating him as best she could.

His lips twisted. “You are infuriating.”

“I could say the same about you. I never know what to expect. At least I’m consistent,” she added, struggling not to laugh. He apparently did not find it as funny as she did. “What happened?” she said, sitting up. “You have been almost normal, and now—”

“I am curious about your home, that is all,” he interrupted. “But if you don’t want to tell me, we can go.” He stood abruptly, brushing off his pants and staring into the valley.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t tell you, but you could ask nicer.”

He swallowed before he sat back down. The silence was awkward. “It has been a long time since anyone demanded kindness from me.”

“Kindness should always be demanded,” she said softly. “It is deserved.” Glancing over at him, she asked, “What would you like to know?”

“This Meros—is it really a valley of humans?”

She nodded. They both settled against the wall, looking over a valley now alight with the blaze of fires.

“There are a few thousand of us,” she said.

“And they can’t do magic?”

“Not very many, no.”

He wiped some pebbles from his palms. “Isn’t that hard?”

“We didn’t know any better,” she laughed. “So, no.”

A soft smile ghosted over his features before it was gone. “Emane is the Prince then?”

“Yes. Does that bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“I don’t know, but something is bothering you.”

He finally cracked a smile.

“So what is the problem? That he is a Witow? He already saved your life,” she felt obligated to point out.

“I have not forgotten.”

“Then what is it?”

He gazed at the valley in silence. His long hair fell to the side of his face, framing it in white. “It used to be that he was a Witow,” he ventured. “Now I think it is something else.”

“Okay . . . what?”

Alcander chuckled, shaking his head. “I hope Drustan is making progress.”

She rolled her eyes at the change of topic. “I hope so too.” Crossing her arms, she asked, “You didn’t hit him hard, did you?”

Alcander shifted uncomfortably. “I am sure he will bruise. It had to be convincing.”

Her head dropped.

“I do not envy your feelings,” he said abruptly. “Your pain.”

“That is very wise of you,” she said tiredly. “I wouldn’t envy them either.” She tried to peek at Alcander without him noticing. The chill in the breeze had turned his cheeks a little pink, and fine pieces of his hair fluttered. His eyes moved to meet hers and she quickly looked away, rubbing her arms. “What happened after your family died?”

Alcander stopped breathing. His eyes grew glassy, and for a minute she thought he wouldn’t answer. He finally let out the air he had been holding and said, “After the Taveans murdered my family, Lomay came and took me to the camps.”

“You have lived in camps almost your whole life,” Kiora realized. Almost eighty years.

“One camp or another. A prince to rebel camps,” he said bitterly. “A prince who is helpless to save his people.” His hand flung towards the people below. “A prince that has fled from evil’s attacks and watched thousands die while he still lives.”

“I’m sorry.”

He leaned forward, his elbows digging into his knees. “Don’t be sorry for me.” He punctuated each word roughly.

“Why not?”

He gazed at her, his eyes like flint in the low light. “Because I still live.”

“Sometimes living is harder than dying.”

“You wouldn’t know that, would you?” he said sharply.

“No, but neither would you.”

He didn’t answer. She continued talking, fueled by a desire for them to understand each other better. “I watched my mother die too,” she said, picking up a small rock and tossing it over the edge. She could feel his eyes on her, but she kept her eyes averted. “I had a vision—I saw the whole thing. I begged my parents to stay home that day.” She finally met his gaze. There was a softness in his eyes, and a question. “I just thought you should know.”

* * *

KIORA SAT IN BED for some time. First she learned how to dry her hair. Then she read through as many spells and incantations as she could. Her brain felt foggy and muddled with a combination of too much magic buzzing under her skin and too much information sloshing through her head. Setting the book beside her bed, she finally surrendered to sleep.

The palace of the Creators came into view. In the middle of the room stood six men, each looking as ethereal as she remembered. They varied greatly in size and shape. Some tall and thin, others short. The one standing in the middle was the same one who had spoken last time. He was of medium height with a strong build and brown hair and eyes.

“We must give it up. It is the only way to give the people what they need.”

“If we give it up, who will protect them when we are gone? Without our immortality, there will be no one to watch out for them.”

“They will have to watch out for themselves. We will have time to teach them as we grow old. Come, my brothers. Will you do this for them?”

“What do you propose, Nestor?”

With an almost imperceptible movement of the wrist, a stand appeared before them. A large gemstone was perched on top, held in place by three metal arms.

“We will empty our immortality into this. We will then give it to the people to light their world and give them the peace and comfort they need.” Nestor looked around at the faces. “Are you with me, my brothers?” His eyes traveled around the circle. With every eye he met, he received a small nod of acceptance. “Very good. I have one for each of you.”

“What of our families?” One asked.

“Our wives and children will be fine,” Nestor assured them.

Kiora noticed one of the men did not look convinced at that statement, clasping his hands and looking at his feet.

The first Creator placed his finger on the ball. It began to fill with light, glowing like a fallen star. As the jewel grew brighter he grew dimmer, the light on his face dissipating until his skin looked as normal as Kiora’s. He sighed painfully as the last of his immortality left him.

A scream came from behind one of the drapes as a young girl stumbled out. She was beautiful with almond skin, green eyes, and long black hair. She was staring at her arms and hands as if she had never seen then before. Her eyes flew to Nestor, the Creator who was now just a mortal. “How could you?” she screamed.

“Jasmine?” He sounded confused and shocked.

“This—” she shouted, holding out her arms, “wasn’t yours to give, Father. It was mine.”

“But how?”

“She is mortal now,” another Creator said, the one who had looked unsure in the beginning.

Nestor took a step towards Jasmine, his hands out. “No, that’s not what I wanted, I thought—”

The Creator who had look unsure before ran his fingers over the jewel in front of him. “Did you not think the ultimate sacrifice would require everything?”

Jasmine ran out of the room, her father sinking to the floor. Mortals now among gods, he and his daughter.

The scene panned out, switching to something new. Standing next to Dralazar was Layla. Kiora’s blood ran cold as Dralazar leaned over, whispering in her ear. Layla smiled, holding out her hand as fire spurted forward. Dralazar kissed her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair. The scene panned out further, and she realized they were standing in her room of the cottage in the woods. Layla had lit Kiora’s old bed on fire. She laughed as the fire spread across the room, licking the floors and walls, destroying everything that had ever been hers.

Kiora woke to find Alcander already sitting at the foot of her bed.

“My sister,” Kiora gasped, her fingers clawing at the sheets. “Layla is with Dralazar.” She dropped her head, her stomach churning.

“Your sister is not a Witow?”

“Yes. I mean, I thought she was.” Kiora looked at him through her hair. “She
hates
me.”

Alcander sat quietly for a minute, looking like he was trying to make sense of something. “If there was no evil—” he began.

“How could she hate me?” she finished his sentence.

He nodded.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to shut off the hurt. “I told you I saw my parents’ death. That wasn’t the first vision I had.

“Layla used to be the one who would sit with me when I would black out and wait for me to come to. But over time my visions began to scare her. After I saw our parents die, Layla learned to hate what she didn’t understand.” Kiora bit her lip before continuing. “When Dralazar returned, he used her hate to turn Layla to his side. She started going to the villagers at night, home by home, telling them I was the great evil that had been prophesied.” Alcander’s eyebrows furrowed. “When the battle came, I—” Kiora stopped, taking another deep breath. “I took those who followed me out of the village and hid them. When Dralazar arrived, only those who followed him were left. I had hoped he would spare his own but . . .”

“Of course he did not.”

“I don’t know how many survived that day. Layla blames me.”

“Interesting.”

“I don’t know what happened after I left, but he must be training her.” Kiora punched the bed. “How could I not know she had magic?”

“If she had never done magic, it is possible her thread wouldn’t show it.”

Kiora thought out loud, “That would explain why Dralazar didn’t find me before Aleric did.” Relaxing her shoulders, she smiled weakly. “Thank you, Alcander.”

“For what?”

“Talking.”

“You’re welcome.” His hand moved forward—but reluctantly pulled it back to his side. Swallowing, he asked, “Did you see anything else that might help?”

“I did dream about the Creators again.” Kiora frowned. “Nobody told me Nestor had a daughter.”

Alcander started. “What?”

“Her name was Jasmine.”

He looked at her, confused. “Nestor never had a daughter, or any children. The others did—they parented the Ancient Ones.”

“But . . . I saw her after Nestor gave up his immortality. She was angry because it took hers too.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kiora, but he didn’t have any children.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Taken

EMANE HAD MADE ALMOST zero progress the day before and was exhausted. Both from attempted magic and lack of sleep. He found himself tossing and turning, worrying about Kiora. Not to mention the repeating nightmare where his weapons were ripped from him in the midst of battle. It always ended with him lying on the ground, reaching for his sword while a Tavean ripped his heart out. Grunting, he rolled his legs off the lumpy couch to find Drem watching him from the table.

“Rough night?”

Emane scrubbed his hands over his face before pushing his hair back. “Yes.”

“You love her?”

“Who?”

“Kiora. You mumbled her name throughout the night.”

Pushing to his feet Emane made his way to the table, grabbing another one of the strange fruits from yesterday. He turned it over in his hand, then admitted, “I do.”

“Hmmm,” Drem mused.

“What?” Emane demanded, sitting down and propping his feet on one of the extra chairs. “You don’t think I’m good enough for her either?”

“I don’t believe I know either of you well enough to make that judgment.”

“Then what?”

Drem leaned back, looking at him through curious eyes. “How old do I look to you?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Fifty, fifty-five?”

“Sixty-one. How old does Lomay look to you?”

Emane chewed thoughtfully. “Older. Eighty maybe?”

“So I look fifty-five and am sixty. Lomay looks eighty and is a few thousand years old.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you see the problem?”

Emane’s feet dropped to the floor with a bang. “You age normally because . . .” he trailed off, his tongue growing thick with an unwillingness to finish.

“Because I am a Witow. Yes. Kiora, on the other hand, is no doubt very powerful. In which case—”

Emane jerked himself out of the chair, sending it clattering to the floor behind him.

“I am sorry,” Drem said, averting his eyes. “I just—”

“No,” Emane said, leaning down with a grunt to pull his chair upright. “I just . . . I need some fresh air. How far does the magical enclosure extend past the front door?”