Raven wings, shattered feathers
Friendship broken now forever.
The sunset was a beautiful one. All traces of the storm front that had swept the Coastlands the previous week had long since disappeared over the western horizon, leaving a hot, bright sun that sank over the white roofs of the city and dipped into the sea. Directly before the golden orb, like an ember birthed from its brilliance, a smaller patch of brightness floated on the molten waves.
A column of smoke, entwined with the fragrance of eucalyptus leaves, carried the remains of Sergeant Aari'Zan of the Freeroamers skywards for the last time. Seagulls wheeled high above, flashes of white dancing amid the emerging stars. A single large, snowy crane circled with them; flown overland, perhaps, from Barquilla, riding the back of the storm on some unknown migration.
Some, amongst those gazing from below, wondered. Some thought the very tips of the great bird's white wings glimmered like fire, but it was too far away and too lost in the glare to tell.
A small crowd had gathered on the sea wall. Behind them, the city of Sunsee went about its evening business as usual. Few of its citizens had any interest in watching another sad funeral. Soldiers died all the time: the waves of the Cerulean Sea were littered with their ashes. Everyone knew someone who had been killed on the Middle Isle, taken by starving Dragons, forced to die for a decadent King. Only a few were aware that the body that lay consumed on the pyre was that of an Angel, though it might have made interesting gossip if it had been made public. But by now, rumours had spread wings of their own. Some of the fishermen – and in particular, their wives and daughters – were curious at the striking image of a stranger that stood knee-deep in the breakers out on the bay.
One dark eye gazed at the burning pyre, the other was hidden behind a black patch. A loose white shirt rippled in the sea breeze. Glossy black wings arced over his back like twin eclipses against the setting sun.
Mekk'Ayan had arrived in Sunsee with Commander Trice two days previously. From the moment he had learned of Aari's death, the black-winged Angel had – with the Freeroamers' permission – taken over organisation of the funeral. He alone knew the correct ceremonial procedures, the prayers and traditional rites to be performed for one of his kinsmen. He had taken care of everything with efficiency, discreetness and grace. Only now, as was obvious to everyone who watched, had he at last allowed himself freedom to grieve.
Hawk stood a little out from the sea wall and its collection of quietly whispering observers. He felt cold inside, despite the warm sand blowing around his feet and the last kiss of the sun blazing off his polished blood-red breastplate. He was dressed in full ceremonial attire, which included long crimson and gold robes over armour that was much more ornate than he normally wore in battle, and a rather pompous plumed helmet that he hated. Sirannor had assured him that such formalities were unnecessary and that, indeed, Hawk was under no obligation to attend the funeral if he had military or other duties to attend to. The young soldier had reminded the veteran that he was on leave and that he wanted to pay his respects, in any case.
And deep inside him, though he wouldn't admit it to Sirannor, he still felt an unshakeable regret that his distraction in the infirmary had been the catalyst for Aari's death.
He turned his eyes sadly to where two battle-worn figures stood side by side on the beach, halfway between the sea wall and where Mekka stood alone, reciting prayers in the foam. Captain Sirannor was as tall, straight-backed and implacable as ever. For the first time that Hawk could remember, he was not wearing his favourite long dusty coat, but a brand new black and blue Freeroamer uniform, tailored in very short time by the local seamstresses. He presented a proud and peaceful image.
It would have been prouder, were it not for the shackles clamped about his wrists.
Hawk sighed. The Watch had been waiting for them when he, Sirannor, Cimmeran and Ardance had emerged from the Old Quarter. Half a dozen of them in their shiny armour and blue cloaks, loitering around like stupid sheep unwilling to enter the slaughterhouse. There was undisguised relief and surprise on their faces when the exhausted fugitives marched out of the haunted ruins straight into their midst.
Hawk would have laughed, if he hadn't been ready to collapse and fall into a coma on the pavement. Sirannor had had an explanation prepared, but before he could open his mouth Cimmeran stepped forward and confessed, took responsibility for everything.
The Watch had taken the servant into custody and Sirannor as well: the latter under the pretence of accessory to murder. They hadn't a shred of evidence against the Captain – indeed, Hawk was a credible witness to testify against it – but facts didn't matter to them. They despised the Freeroamers and would have made up any ridiculous excuse to arrest him. After many hours of intense and unnecessary questioning, they had decided instead on a charge of trespassing in a forbidden zone.
But it was still enough to have Sirannor thrown back into the Royal Dungeons.
They had questioned Hawk as well, though mostly as a formality. He was with the Darorian Army, and no one wanted to get on the wrong side of General Dreikan. So they had cleared him of any wrongdoing and set him free.
Hawk was furious. It wasn't justice. The Watch didn't know the meaning of the word. They locked up whomever they damn well didn't like, and there was nothing that could be done about it.
At least, Hawk thought, they allowed him to attend Aari's funeral. Probably their way of pretending to show compassion.
Not so Cimmeran, however, who was locked up at this moment in a very dark cell.
Hawk gave the Watch officers on the wall a black look and trudged through the sand to stand next to the Captain. He did not speak. There was nothing left to say. Instead he simply watched the fire flickering on the water and the sun bleed into a golden line along the edge of the world. Out in the gently receding tide, Mekka suddenly sank to his knees, putting his face in his hands.
Tossing aside his petty quibbles with the Angel, Hawk started forward, but Sirannor held him back.
"Leave him be," the Captain said. "For now."
Hawk stared at Mekka. The Angel he knew was always so cool and composed, so in control of himself. To witness such unrestrained emotion from him was unsettling: the young Freeroamer Angel's death had affected him more deeply than Hawk had imagined. "They knew each other well, then?" he said. "He and Aari?"
Sirannor nodded. "They were childhood friends. I believe it was Mekka who inspired Aari to leave Arkana."
"That guy is full of mysteries," Hawk said. "He's never spoken about Aari, never mentioned him once. At least, not to me. He might've told Car." He shook his head. "Then again, Mekka doesn't talk much at the best of times."
"They weren't on speaking terms." It was Commander Trice who had spoken. Both Hawk and Sirannor turned to look at him. It was the first coherent thing he had said since Sirannor had broken the news.
For the past two days, Grisket had rooted himself in one of the taverns, refusing to eat, speak, sleep, or do anything except attempt to drown his sadness. Since Sirannor and Cimmeran were locked away in the Watch House and Mekka was busy making funerary arrangements, it had been up to Hawk to keep an eye on the Freeroamer Commander.
He had not responded well to companionship and even worse to sympathy. Eventually, he had become so violent that Hawk was forced to remove him from the establishment at swordpoint, at the angry request of the tavernkeeper. A fight in the middle of the main street had ensued, ending abruptly when the Watch materialised. Blind drunk and heartbroken as he was, Grisket would have turned on them as well, had Hawk not ushered him away from the scene with great rapidity, calling back assurances to the Watch. His military status ensured they kept their distance.
But one more step out of line and Grisket was going to find himself sharing a cell with Sirannor.
He'd told the older man as much, but the Commander didn't seem interested in listening. He had instead fallen asleep on a bunk in the barracks, where Hawk left him.
Grisket had turned up to the funeral late, a little more sober but no less haggard. He was slumped now on the crutch supporting his broken leg, looking utterly defeated. He was staring not at the pyre, but at a round glinting object in his hand: Aari's badge.
"They had a falling out some years back," Grisket continued quietly. "Aari confessed about it, once. Told me that Mekka left Arkana for his own reasons, but Aari missed him too much and took it upon himself to follow.
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"He tracked Mekka all the way to Trystania, where he'd taken up residence. The Sirinese are more amicable towards Angels than most Darorians are. Indeed, in Siriaza they are revered as a superior race. Eventually, Mekka found the attention a little too much to bear and moved back to Sel Varence to be closer to his homeland. But for a few years, he lived in the great eastern city with Aari."
Grisket shook his head. "The two of them couldn't have been more unalike. Mekka was the quiet and reclusive sort, tried to keep himself inconspicuous. Aari was brash and outgoing and talked to anyone he met on the street. He was also restless and adventurous, constantly seeking new thrills and mischief to keep himself occupied. He was barely a teenager at the time, younger than Ferrian, and Mekka only a few years older. Aari always had something of a temper, as well.
"Hardly a surprise, then, that even Mekka's ineffable patience grew gradually thinner and thinner. One night, after he was forced to bail Aari out of Trystania's imperial gaol due to yet another misdemeanour, it snapped.
"They had a terrible row, in the middle of a public square as it happened. In the heat of the moment, Mekka accused Aari of dishonouring his family and his country by abandoning them. Mekka himself was an orphan. Apparently, that was his own justification for leaving Arkana.
"Aari was shocked enough by that statement, but his older friend added insult to injury by declaring he didn't want anything more to do with him.
"He told Aari that he was ashamed of him."
Grisket paused, his eyes flickering with tears. "Of course, young Aari was wounded by his best friend's words. He left Mekka that night, fled west with no supplies and no idea where he was going. He lived on charity for months until he finally wandered over the border into Daroria. Didn't take him long to learn of the Freeroamers.
"He was a scrawny little thing when he showed up at the door of the Guard House. Nothing to his name but the clothes on his back: not even a weapon. He was angry and half-starved, but determined. He had a fire about him, and his wings offered an invaluable advantage against the Bladeshifters. We knew nothing of his history or why he had left Arkana, but that was of no consequence. The Freeroamers are about second chances, and this kid looked like he needed one. We inducted him at once.
"About six months later, a black-winged Angel blew in in the midst of a storm, sodden and dishevelled and looking for Aari. He was an ominous looking figure, brooding and dark, but there was worry in his one good eye.
"But mysteriously, Aari had disappeared. No one could find him anywhere, and he wasn't scheduled for any missions. We thought the worst. We were about to launch a full-scale search, when, several days later after the storm had abated, he returned safe and well. Apparently, he hadn't been lost at all: he'd simply been avoiding Mekka. The look of resentment and surprise on his face said quite obviously that he'd expected the other Angel to be gone by then.
"Aari refused to speak to Mekka or even look at him. Mekka attempted to apologise for what had happened between them, only to receive doors slammed in his face.
"At last, Mekka gave up. He was becoming angry himself. But before he left, he met with me in private. He begged me to look after Aari, to protect him, guide him and see that he did not wander astray. He told me that Aari needed a father, and discipline that he himself did not have the skills to give. He also asked that I never reveal this conversation to his young friend.
"I gave him my word."
His voice quietened to a whisper and trailed off into silence. His expression was pained as he looked at Mekka kneeling in the surf.
Hawk thought how strange it was that everyone who had known Aari – even those who hadn't –all felt in some way partly responsible for his death. He wondered if the Angel ever knew how many lives he had touched. That he was now gone was so tragic, so pointless. But then, he brooded, there's nothing written on life that says it's supposed to make any sense. Death comes with no assurances.
Sirannor picked up the conversation. "I do not think that Aari was truly angry with Mekka," he said. "I think perhaps he was more angry with himself. Angry that his friend had been so honest. Ashamed that he had left Arkana without thought to the consequences.
"He sat on the roof of the Guard House for days after Mekka had departed, staring to the north as though wishing to fly after him. I eventually managed to persuade him to come down."
"By insulting him," Grisket said, and there was the barest flicker of a sad smile on his lips.
Sirannor nodded. "I riled him into such a fury that he leapt off the roof and attempted to punch my lights out."
Hawk raised his eyebrows. "I bet that went well."
Sirannor coughed. "Well, once I had him pinned nicely in the dirt, I forced him to admit that he was being a fool, and would not let him go until he promised to apologise to his friend." He snorted. "The stubborn little seagull conceded that he would apologise only if Mekka came back first."
He fell silent and the three of them stood in the growing darkness, watching the black-winged Angel rise from the water and turn away from the embers of the pyre, his head lowered disconsolately.
"But he never did," Hawk finished in a murmur.
Sirannor shook his head.
"Pride kept them apart…"
"Pride," the Captain sighed, "will be the downfall of us all."
"Sirannor told me about that kid you've been trying to help," Hawk said into the darkness. "The one who brings winter wherever he goes…"
He and Grisket were seated on chairs outside Hawk's dorm in the barracks, beneath a silver blaze of stars. Neither of them had been able to sleep. Hawk had shed his cumbersome armour, stripped off everything except his pants. He swilled a cup of tea absently in one hand.
Grisket's tea sat cold and untouched on the ground beside him. His splinted leg was propped out before him, his head bandaged beneath his featherless hat. His arms rested on the sides of the chair and his eyes stared directly ahead at nothing. "What of him?"
"Well, you're gonna need someone to go–"
"No."
Hawk's tea stilled. "What?"
Grisket was silent.
Hawk stared at him. "You've given up on him?"
Grisket said nothing.
"You're just gonna leave him to the Murons, or some crazy sorcerer?" Hawk went on incredulously.
The Freeroamer waved a hand at his crippled leg, as though that answered everything. "There's no one left, Hawk," he muttered bitterly. "No one left to get him back. Sirannor's in prison. Aari's dead. Forthwhite's a good fortnight's ride away. By the time I get back to the Guard House to arrange a search party… who knows what that bloody sorcerer will have done to him!"
He glared at the younger soldier through the shadows angling over them. "He's just a kid! Just a frightened kid! He doesn't know how to fight! He just wanted some answers, wanted to know what the hell was wrong with him! I promised I'd help him…" He looked away, shaking his head. "Another promise I shouldn't have made…"
He sagged back in his chair. "We don't even know where the damned valley is."
"We could go see Cimmeran," Hawk suggested. "There's still time to get a map out of him…"
"Cimmeran," Grisket snarled, "can rot in Hell. The sooner he loses his head, the better."
Hawk fell silent, staring morbidly at the opposite side of the compound, where the sounds of a jovial card game were filtering out of one of the other dorms. He wished he were in there, amongst his carefree comrades. The inviting oblong of light spilling from the open door seemed as distant as the sun.
In the Darorian Coastlands, those convicted of murder were normally publicly humiliated and executed. But because Cimmeran had immediately confessed, shown remorse and vindicated the innocence of those who had witnessed the crime (Hawk and Sirannor), the judge had granted him a relatively merciful choice between lifelong imprisonment or a more dignified private execution.
Apparently, Cimmeran felt that he'd already spent most of his miserable life imprisoned, and chosen the latter option.
The sentence was scheduled for five days hence.
Hawk wished it hadn't come to that.
"We'll find it some other way, then," he said determinedly. "And if you need someone to find Ferrian, then… I'll go."
Grisket shook his head. "You have responsibilities here, Hawk."
The young soldier stood up suddenly, flicking the remains of his tea into the sand with an angry gesture. "Screw the army! Look at this–" he indicated the featureless white-domed buildings of the military complex surrounding them. "What's it all for? What am I fighting for? What am I sacrificing my life for? What did I train my arse off for years at the Academy for?" He whirled back on Commander Trice. "Rocks! Flamin' rocks!
"Do you know what I do every day, on the Middle Isle? I stand in a watchtower, hour upon hour, choking on the ashes belching out of those mountains, scanning the sky for Dragons! Dying, starving, pissed-off Dragons who are just trying to scavenge some kind of hopeless existence like the rest of us!"
He gripped his teacup tightly in his hand, wishing he had the nerve to smash it over General Dreikan's head. "I wanna do something useful. Something meaningful. Something that's gonna make a difference!"
Grisket regarded his outburst in silence.
"I wanna…" Hawk took a deep breath. "I wanna do something that'll make Carmine proud of me."
"You don't need to be a hero to make her proud, son."
Hawk shook his head, scowling, his scruffy hair flying around like an irate bird's nest. "This isn't about heroics, or adventure. It's about resolving this magic thing. There are sorcerers out there, and they're screwing around with people, and it's not right! It's not… right…" He couldn't get the image of Cimmeran's back out of his head – the scarred stumps of his wings, the evil tattoos down his spine. He would never forget the way the servant had cried in confusion and despair when Sirannor had confronted him after he'd slashed Aari's throat. The poor guy hadn't even known why he'd done it.
"Commander," Hawk sighed. "Forgive me for speaking frankly, but you need a new sergeant, don't you?" He came forward and dropped to his knees by Grisket's chair. "You want to help Ferrian, right? You need someone you can trust, someone who can fight, someone who won't let you down, yeah?"
The Freeroamer Commander regarded him in silence for an indefinably long moment. Hawk held his gaze unblinkingly, pouring all his fierce determination and belief into his expression. He wanted to join the Freeroamers. He had wanted it for a long time now, only for Carmine's sake had he never enquired. He knew that if he became one of them, she would surely wish to join as well. And that would lead to an inevitable and very awkward clash with her father, something that Hawk had desperately (and so far, successfully, thank Gods) tried to steer her away from.
But since the events in the Old Quarter, things had changed. Despite his enthusiasm, a part of Hawk felt wretched, as though he was deliberately taking advantage of Sirannor's imprisonment, Aari's death and Ferrian's misfortune in order to maintain his own sense of purpose. He hoped Grisket didn't see it that way. He simply wanted to help. He was here, and the Freeroamers needed him: that was all there was to it.
Grisket had taken Aari's badge out of his pocket and was looking at it, tracing its contours with his thumb.
"I'm not… I'm not trying to take Aari's place," Hawk said, feeling more uncertain the longer Grisket remained silent.
But it seemed the Commander was simply measuring the depth of his commitment. At last, he leaned forward, took Hawk's hand and pressed the badge into it. "You are more like Aari than I'd care to admit," he said quietly. His hand tightened over Hawk's. "You carry, with this badge, the memory of someone I cared for deeply. Don't dishonour it."
"I won't, sir," Hawk replied. "I promise you."
Grisket nodded. "Then welcome to the Freeroamers, Sergeant Hawk."