7 | A Great Too Many Wings

In the past, Eli used to call upon the Order and transport himself through the ripples in space and air, depositing himself where he wished. It was a trait gifted to Abner by the Order as well, as it was to many others.

When last he saw his son, Eli told him to find him if ever he wanted Eli near again. Abner could find him—he could track down anything. And besides, there still sits a necklace in Eli’s old trunk beneath his bed that once let him know where his son was at any time and place. He wonders absently, as he sits in the wooden chair beside the fire, if Abner still has his. Or did he cast it aside in his anger as he cast aside all offers of help from his father?

Magic was eating away at the word then, back in the days Eli fled to this place. It had yet to so thoroughly corrupt the magic. Eli didn’t realize until many years later that perhaps Abner could no longer find him even if he wished.

Still, Eli could muster enough magic to send small things every so often. Letters, mostly. Grown men were too much to send across space and air, but little slips of paper were not so difficult. Eli has not attempted such in years. The last letter he received from Abner made it rather clear he wasn’t enjoying Eli’s scribbles. He burned the particular missive years ago. Pulling it out and looking at his son’s disdain would have been too much. Perhaps he is a coward for it, but perhaps he is also a coward for fleeing to this place, trying to save his own life, nursing his own grief.

Never before has he considered himself such. When he realized he could no longer travel by way of air, he should’ve made his way back to the city. It was only a few years ago now, at least, he believes it only such a short amount of time. He is not a young man and is unwanted among the others who tried with such great sacrifice to create for themselves more power. Leaving here would likely mean death, and without proof he is needed or wanted, he was hesitant to do so.

He is long out of any paper, but rising carefully, Eli finds a shard of one of the broken pots smashed by the rampaging cat. Turning it over in his fingers, he picks up a sliver of charcoal and scratches out a few letters along the pale, ancient clay.

Abner, they found me.

If his son sent his children here on purpose, he will likely be worried whether or not they made it to Eli’s doorstep safely.

Attempting magic isn’t something Eli’s given much effort to these past years. Even trying to form the thoughts feels strange and foreign, an itch in the back of his mind.

Holding the image of his son in his mind, he orders: Transport.

The clay crumbles between his fingers, falling to the floor in a wave of dust. Eli didn’t believe it would work. At least it wasn’t a violent reaction. So many things touched by the magic are these days. He sits back against the seat with a huff.

Focusing on Thistle asleep on the stones near the fire, then on Klia curled on the blankets of Eli’s bed, he tries to call any information about them from the magic into his mind. Perhaps it knows nothing of those born after the mutations began. Perhaps, as always, it has little interest in helping him. It gives him nothing at all, not even gibberish.

Eli closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the chair. It is late, and he is tired, his arm still throbbing pulses of pain just faint enough to be distracting. He wishes to keep a better eye on the children, to ensure they won’t wander off, but made sure they understood the dangers of the night while they were eating.

At least, while Klia was eating. Thistle, not to Eli’s surprise, turned his nose up at Eli’s food as if it held poison. Little matter, he will grow hungry eventually.

By the wideness in Klia’s eyes when he warned of the creatures that lurk at night, Eli believes he made his point quite clear. He can take a little bit of sleep—he’s never been a heavy sleeper, always waking up at the slightest noise. Lyra used to call him crazy for waking each time she rolled over in bed.

He hasn’t thought of her name religiously in so long. In those first years after she was taken from him, he used to speak to her as if she could still listen. He does so, still, but less often. It isn’t as if she no longer hides in the shadows of every one of his thoughts, but that he simply no longer mutters to himself as he once did. Such loneliness as this place steals even the breath from his lungs.

Lyra would know what to do about these kids, about Abner’s strange behavior. He supposes if she were still alive, Abner would not hate him quite so much.

If she were still alive, Eli knows he would not be so hateful, himself.

Much as with his son, Eli falls asleep trying to picture her face and failing.

* * *

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A cry of an early-morning bird wakes him. Eli starts, then rubs his face. His arm is heavy—not infected, he knows such pain—but angry at being raised. If he was half as smart as he believes himself to be, he would’ve moved Klia over to the side of his bed and laid down. Sleeping in a wooden chair with this many decades in his bones is something he knows better than to do.

Grumbling, he squints into the gray light of the sunrise not yet cresting the horizon. His room is still mostly dark and so very silent. Klia eventually wrapped herself up in his blanket, and the fire is out. Eli shivers, but his coat—nearly as old as he is and lined with dragon-dog scales—is rather warm.

Thistle is not beside the fire.

Raising his head, Eli glares at the cold hearth. He would’ve heard the front door opening, it is not even remotely quiet. The trap door above is mostly shattered and splintered with dangerous scraps of old wood. Kid must’ve snuck out the tunnel in the back. Eli waits a few seconds, in case he’s planning on returning on his own, before heaving himself out of his chair, wobbling and still half asleep. His fingers find the handle of his sickle.

Klia sits upright, hair plastered every which way, blinking blearily. She spots Eli and stares, wide-eyed, scooting away.

“Where is your brother?” Eli asks gently, aware she likely slept through his movement as well but hoping she woke and saw him leave.

Her head whips around to the fireplace, and she looks about upset enough to cry.

“Don’t worry,” Eli puts his hand out comfortingly. “He must’ve gone out back. I’ll get him. You stay right there, ya hear?”

At least, he gets a little nod of a response.

Checking the back door doesn’t lead to much—there are cliffs on this section of the mountain and Eli performs a quick and rather morbid check of the places the kid might’ve fallen before heading around to the courtyard of the monastery.

“Kid!” he calls, not too loud, wary of whatever else might have attempted to follow the children up here.

Darkness is its own enemy with the Order so cursed. Monsters thrive in the night, unburdened by the sun, lurking in the shadows the scant moonlight affords them. Though the sky is graying with dawn, it isn’t much safer than the dead of night.

Pausing in the courtyard, Eli runs his eyes across the shadows, searching for movement. At the edge, where the stones and tight-packed earth meet the rabid trees, he spies the shape of the skinny kid, standing utterly still, head cocked, looking deep into the pitch trunks and cliffsides.

“Thistle,” he says carefully, approaching with a slow step. What is he doing?

At first, Thistle doesn’t appear to hear him, staying so strangely quiet that unease settles across Eli’s shoulders. When he turns his face to Eli, head draped back over his shoulder, his eyes are white as the bright stars and equally as empty. Eli’s heart picks up, as well as his breath, if not for the uncanny nature of it, but the knowledge he hasn’t seen magic function in so long.

These children are born with an Order which works?

Carefully, as if he may startle an animal, he asks, “Thistle, what are you trying to do, boy?”

Neither does he look away or answer. In the dark of the forest beyond, Eli can catch nothing moving among the looming trunks. Ever so faintly, there is a low whistle growing louder, louder, and a sudden rustle of a great too many wings.

Throwing aside his curiosity, Eli grabs Thistle by the arm and yanks him from the edge of the forest.

“Birds,” he hisses, dragging the kid back with effort. “They’ll tear you apart. I told you not to venture out in the dark—”

Light explodes from where Eli’s hand wraps around Thistle's arm, buffeting him back with a sudden gust of wind and Eli’s own shock. Glaring at him, eyes still bright and empty and void-like, Thistle darts into the darkness of the trees, a shimmering beacon of brightness where branches scrape his skin. Eli starts after him before hesitating. He’s never run into the forest before, not at night.

He’s never been foolish enough to try.

“Thistle!” he calls once more, aware it is likely useless and unwilling not to try anyhow.

A bird wing, strange and feathered but pointed with twigs, smacks into his cheek. He can see only outlines of their dark shapes in the faint light of dawn. He has no business running after the child, not with his old legs that likely won’t catch up and into the awaiting death of the trees.

What is the boy doing?

If he imagines him more as Abner’s child, as his own little boy’s son, it is harder to stay rooted in place.

Glancing back at the house to ensure Klia has not wandered after them—what will the girl do if both Eli and Thistle are killed?—he creeps closer to the edge, batting at another bird making a dive for his face. They are not normally so aggressive. As the cat, they seem more violent, brought into a rage by the presence of the children. Which wouldn’t be so much of a problem if Thistle hadn’t wandered off. The boy is old enough to know he is responsible for his sister, and to not make such decisions.

Eli should never have fallen asleep.

Pausing on the edge of the woods, he cocks his head. He will venture a way in, not enough he will get himself killed and leave Klia on this mountaintop all alone.

Besides, as usual, the birds don’t seem so very interested in Eli. The spare one still dives for his face in the dark dawn, but mostly, they have followed Thistle into the trees.

This is not the path down the mountain he would usually take—that one lies a bit into the trees to his right, and farther away in the same direction. Eli has never ventured this direction, not very far. Twisting his sickle in his palm, he steps carefully off the packed dirt and stones and into the dry moss coating this section of the mountain forest.

Nothing in particular comes after him. Night lilies—sickly purple as the cat but not nearly as large as the ones sprouting from its body—open their petals, stamens rattling. They would likely poison him. He’s experimented enough with the plants on the edges of the monastery to know these don’t seem to release any toxic smells. If they do, they are not yet strong enough to topple a human.

For all his bravado, Thistle has no concept of leaving a faint trail through the trees. Touching leaves and broken branches and keeping his sight on the squished moss beneath his feet, Eli follows the path with relative ease.

Until a rocky outcropping pops up through the trees, and the trail is lost.

“Thistle?” he calls, straining to look at the top of the stack of boulders. He has not ventured this far before, but climbs them carefully, cursing his knees but hoping at least this place will provide him with a glimpse of higher ground. If Thistle is not up here himself, if he simply ignores his grandfather as in almost every other interaction, at least Eli may be able to see him. A thick breeze drifts among the trunks, the subtle hiss of something unfamiliar along with it. Eli knows not what causes it, but recognizes predators when he hears them, knows death when it visits. Whatever is out here hunting them now they’ve ventured from the monastery and its path, he doesn’t wish to meet it. If he was still a man in his prime, he would not wish to meet it.

Again, he calls softly, “Thistle?”