Much humbug was in circulation over the matter of which port we would next tie anchor. By the popular estimation of the star readers among us, we had long left behind the Absalomi’s airspace, but as to which of its neighbor skies we now sail in, none could tell for certain. For our course hugged close to a crossroad where met the border of two neighbors of the Princedom, each one on a different spectrum of diplomatic relations with the Absalomi Prince. Do our course lay towards Amonia, then hostility we might face for our transaction with their sworn enemy, while in Ithrean we would see a more hospitable landing.
Regardless of our destination, the trip to the surface altitude would take a week or so.
After passing the skybed, our ascent was blessed with smooth and white weather. Now released from the chilling cold and malice of Underland, it was a pleasant time for the mind and body. Often, when without duty, Litzia, Thea and I would take some stools to the gangway leading to the quarter gallery, which hung on the ship’s side where the sky was most open but not so exposed to wandering eyes. Litzia especially liked the secluded spot, for she preferred the vast sky to stuffy cabins, while the Hall of Wreaths was not fit for relaxation, so she said, for the faces of no few she dreaded beholding.
Out there, we would have some light refreshments and idle away our days, making foolish talk and silly yarns, without much care for the world. The ears fed and the breezes upon the skin, flavored by strawberry cake sweetness never lacking. They were Thea’s speciality and joy to make, now that she had abundant access to the galley, and with it came a pure pleasure. It was nice, it was easy. But most importantly, it was simple. I wondered at humans’ endless desires, when such fancy subjects seemed pale in comparison to such cakes and breezes.
Perhaps that is but one proof I still had much to learn about the mortal ways.
On one of these easy afternoons, I brought an ongoing project of mine to our little teatime. A piece of arm-long aspen heartwood, smoothly sanded, rounded and coated. Gladiola was of the mind that I should have a custom weapon of my own, and the material was swiftly provided by the carpenters when I lay out my needs, as runestaff making is a common business. ‘Twas the easy part, then came the runes.
I sat with the staff balanced on my lap, Lex’s wooden rosa graver in one hand, complaining, “They are all of the mind that I could work runes. Well, I don’t know the first thing about it.”
“You crafted a hierogram, something not many alive may claim for their legacy,” Litzia said, musing over her cup. The warm aroma of chamomile had allayed even her wonted dark mood, and now she sat with her back against the quarterdeck, in almost contentment.
“With your help, and yet for all its grandeur, that rune is useless. Here I have need of practical ones, for a weapon for killing.”
“All weapons are for killing,” Thea muttered a correction as she flipped the page of the tome on her lap. By her advice, I had borrowed a collection of runes from the library, another place privileged for the Anemone alares. The captain considered knowledge worthy treasures for her hoard, while did not see the need to keep them overguarded as with the rest of her material wealth. “I must admit, the choices are ample, and I am not so versed in the art of warfare to pick out only the suitable ones. You though?” She lifted her considering gaze to look at Litzia.
The wyverness shrugged, “Fire and Gale and Will, I know are the staples, but of the more sophisticated patterns the alares employ, I have little knowledge. If need be, we could inquire Valerian or Acis. Gladiola does not wield one herself, but the Vandals have a reputation for runes of war, mayhap she is wise to some.”
While Thea perused the runes Litzia mentioned, I sent my gaze lazily to the clouds moving parallel to us. I would leave the thinking to these two. I could not read, nor had I the mind and life to supplant it. The hierogram of Lost Azure had been a stroke of luck and fate, which for all likelihood should not happen again, and so there was little reason to grope in the dark for another outburst like last time.
And it was then that I descried the first sign of the surface. Not any strip of land, for still too far below that level we still were, but close. A sight for which, they say, among land-dwelling men, the rich would pay good money to catch a glimpse, even as one for prized courtesans and coronation of queens.
First, there was an arm rising from a cloud afar, at first easily mistaken for trails left by some exiting bird’s wake. Then the body attached to it sprouted from the clump of cloud, white and almost blending into its misty origin, resembling that of an unclothed woman. Fair and smooth-skinned, the limbs flung as though guided by the gentle turns of the wind. Then came a song. Or was it a melody of breezes? Of rattling winds on the worn hull? A merry song not of human playing or singing. Rising with a clarion call, dozens of other cloud women joined the first. An ethereal dance commenced in mist and air.
“Look there! There the cloud nymphs dance!” I said.
“Nephelea!” Thea slapped shut the tome.
It is for this exceedingly rare sight that many humans of much money but a dull life lavish numerous contractors to track and predict their appearance, the ephemeral beauty perilously found just at the edge of their dwelling altitude.
The contagious excitement spreading across the deck assured my eyes made no mistake. So that all over the decks, women rushed to gunwale lest they missed a sight to remember, a privilege to boast later at port.
“How queer, some bear arms at the back!” In the distance, a voice pointed out.
Strange indeed were the dances of the Nephelea band upon dense clumps of clouds. Their dainty limbs carried blades and spears brandished, tearing through the air at invisible enemies as they moved. Floating, spinning half-bodies moving and swaying as though lightly quivered by the wind that propelled our mighty sails. Whiteness of theirs weaved at each other, parted bodies joined, being one before separating again into distinct shapes. Tips of hands merged with edges of hair as those whirled on and on, like fair-weathered cyclones or the mesmerizing rotation of a spinning wheel. At times, among them a cloud maiden would leap high, dragging with her trailing streaks of clouds that scattered precipitation, making glitters and arching rainbows over the frantic yet elegant dance.
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And as the songs of winds rang and reverberated in the air, more of the crew poured out of companionways and hatch doors, and beheld with wonder the Nephelea’s dance. Each formation of clouds about us now bore a set of beautiful dancers, whose enthralling moves stirred the hearts and raised crude cheers.
An invariable sensation of delight brought a smile to our faces, regardless of what business the event had caught us in the midst of. Litzia was in awe and Thea wore a charmed beam. As for me, I suppose I was simply staring dumbly at everything.
It was then that an unexpected person came to our side. But who could blame her? Not even immortals could scorn ephemeral beauty. Without a sound to announce her appearance, the next I glanced back to the little table upon which Thea had set her tea, Rosa Alba was there. As did the crew, the Ala Vernal’s leader was fixing her gaze upon the nymphs. Here was another lofty and otherworldly being. And she appeared no less a delicate, almost transparent phantom. Yet she stood so close and uncelebrated, indulging like just another common soul in this festive hour. In her hand, she held a soft cake. Long, desirous fingers pluck a piece and put it to her mouth, graceful as could be, all while consuming such a simple dish bare-handed.
Having done tasting, she muttered, starting Litzia and Thea both, “The nymphs come heralding war, methinks.”
As she spoke the dance of spears and swords grew prominent. Upon the flat of an anvil cloud, the nymphs became divided into two sides, arrayed orderly like two facing warbands. The songs died briefly. And silence held as the strange phenomenon mimicked the onset of a human war. Then all of a sudden, with a clarion whistle for war trumpeting, drumming thunders from unseen storm clouds, the sides shook off all serenity. They charged, raising and springing droplets of rain. Upon clashing all but merged into one giant indiscernible mist. Howls of war rang out, and much louder the drums and trumpet echoed. The quality of a crazed combat lacking, yet grace elevated the seeming play pretend to a thing of wonder. Because it was simply a play, a dance, no real fight. A bloodless, meaningless war they waged among themselves, so that only the beauty of combat remained. As if to plant a seed of love for the blade in the hearts of women; to cloak illusions of elegance on the lunging of spears, the arching of blades, while obscuring the deadly truth of steel. And indeed no steel was raised that day, only whirling mist born from the war dance. None of it seemed real.
“War!” a sudden twang of malice rang in Litzia’s exclamation. She spoke to the Rosa with the distaste oft reserved for the captain, doubtless because of the close association she assigned to the being. “War, you say, Rosa Alba chief! But I wonder what war could befall one so mighty and lovely as our captain! Do you say of a war elsewhere?”
Rosa Alba smiled sweetly, “The Nephelea came for us, did they not?”
Presently, she turned to me, “The hierogram making changeling,” she spoke melodically, “’Tis a runestaff you’re making?” And she indicated the rod in my hand with one slender, cake-crumbs-laden finger.
“Aye, ma’am, only I know not where to start,” I answered automatically.
She gave me a warm and gentle smile, one of a mother’s amusement at the exceeding silliness of her child.
“It must begin where it had begun,” she said.
I cocked my head, “You mean the Lost Azure hierogram?”
That useless thing.
Of a surety, I obliged. When Rosa Alba, commandant of the Anemones and the only bearer of the First Rune, bids you to something, you do it.
And so, with Lex’s engraver, I scrawled with little effort the strokes of a crooked polygon near to the rod’s butt. When it was done, a dark and bluish light glimmered within the depressed mark, and then died down. I handed the rod to her.
She gave it a customary look over, and smiled vaguely. “A hierogram to Lost Azure engraved by azure hand – a strange thing for a strange age,” she looked sidelong at me. “Have you come to aught new understandings of Lost Azure of late?”
I shook my head, oblivious to what she really meant.
“There was once a tribe in the south,” she said, returning the rod, “who sail to war only on Lost Azure. Think you it strange? That people were of differed minds, and mayhap with many senses. The winter is not so harsh there, and in Lost Azure, the sky is rid of beasts and the earth’s harvest is done. It is not very strange, methinks, to seek warfare when deprived of all else to do. ‘Tis what idleness invites, eh?”
“Say you war is inevitable then?” Litiza asked, with a hint of provocation in her voice.
“For some,” Rosa Alba said.
Then without a desire to stay for arguments, up she went, her departure as scarce worded as her arrival.
“Watch she flies! Had not the grace to spare us a few more words of wisdom, methinks,” the wyverness sneered.
Thea returned her stool, caring not for further disturbance of her relaxing period. “The wise take joy in our confusion to their vague wisdom, ‘tis nothing new. And she took the one without a cherry. You think she hates sweets?”
“Reckon when you have lived such a long life, taste ceases to matter at all,” I said.
“How sad,” Litzia loosed an exasperated breath, “she could really do with some colors to her being.”
“I think it’s a stylish choice really. White looks good on her,” I said.
“I do not think she means in a physical sense, Star,” Thea said amicably.
At any rate, our idle conversations resumed as the nephelea dissipated into fine mist. I did wonder if they have lives of their own within the clouds, when not out and about heralding wars and whatnot. But often we have too many things to worry about in our own that the society of some other species hardly matters. And it would be a curious thing indeed, had one so strange and foreign alien come to take interest in creatures entirely differently from theirs own. No less in my case: whereas an azure is not so far apart from the wyvern and the human, it is nonetheless a queer thing for one to mingle with her antitheses. Neither had I ever observed among the enslaved azures on the Daybright one who willingly entertains humans, free or otherwise. Nay, to be precise, it is already a bizarre thing to sit here this afternoon, chatting with two of foreign races like so.
Never. Such things simply do not occur in the azure corner of the slave cabin. Changelings are like furniture alone with their likes. They speak, but they do not converse. They subsist and inhabit, but do not know charity and desires. They fear and they cringe at the lash, yet there is naught more unnatural to them than displays of affection. In fact, even now, I could not picture the face of she who lay by my berth for many years, try as I might. Their appearance was a blur, their existence transparent smoke. But that is not to say, however seemingly contrasting to my being they might come off in this monologue, that the common azures are inferior to me. In truth, the few distinctions are but minuscule. And mostly served to mark me out of the rest like a somewhat odd black sheep, that rather for aught features noteworthy, only the surface hue is particular, for all its superficial differences.
But even as they lack human virtues, azures are bereft of the flaws also. I wondered if the skies were only inhabited, then would something like wars and conflicts still exist?