Chapter 59
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
LEINA
The flight to Aish takes two days, with a short break for the beasts to rest their wings before we reach the Valespire Peaks.
Vaeloria and I could have made it in a fraction of that time.
The other beasts in the cast fly at a snail’s pace compared to her, but the Elder would not hear of the two of us splitting off to fly ahead.
And I really, really wanted to fly ahead.
Not because Faelon’s beast, Theryn, is as mischievous and irritating as Faelon. Not because flying in a cast for this long is mind-numbing and incredibly, annoyingly loud. Not even because I believe time is of the essence to reach Aish to warn them of an imminent invasion of soul-stealing demons.
No, I so desperately wanted to fly ahead because watching Ryot with Princess Rissa hurts.
There’s an obvious history there. It’s evident in the casual way they use each other’s names—the syllables are imprinted on their tongues, waiting to slide off.
It’s clear in all the little touches—in the way Ryot gently squeezes her hand when she goes to mount Einarr, and the way she rests her hand on his shoulder when she wants his attention.
They share little smiles when they think no one is looking, smiles that speak of secrets and private things. They’re comfortable together.
I’ve not seen Ryot like this with anyone, not even with me. And that burns.
I’m not sure if it’s Vaeloria’s impatience or mine that’s swirling in my blood, but either way, it’s making me testy.
I was withdrawn and, according to Faelon, sulky when we stopped to rest. I blamed it on exhaustion and led Vaeloria off to our own little section of the clearing, where I curled up under her downy wings and slept.
I was that much more pissy when I woke a few hours later—still sluggish from fatigue—to find Ryot and Einarr within arm’s reach, Ryot sleeping with one hand curled on the hilt of his sword and the other reaching for me, his fingers on my wrist.
And then I went from pissy to bitchy when I rose from the shelter of Vaeloria’s wings to find Princess Rissa’s gaze on me, her expression tight.
I stomped around the camp, eating my rations in sulky silence, annoyed as all hells that she didn’t even look windswept after a full day on Einarr.
The sun hadn’t even risen, and she was already perfectly attired, not a hair out of place from her elaborate crown braid.
But me? I could feel the grainy sweat in my curls and the dark circles under my eyes.
Then we were off again, all of us, with the Elder positioning Vaeloria and me at the back of the formation, where I can’t help but constantly look at the way Ryot holds Rissa close to his chest, and the way she smiles up at him when he talks to her.
So, when Aish finally comes into view after passing over the last of the Valespire Peaks, I almost wilt from the relief. Finally, I have something else to look at besides Ryot’s muscled back and Rissa’s perfect braid—and Aish does not disappoint.
It is like nothing I could have imagined.
It’s endlessly brown. And not like the brown of grass before the snow falls.
No, this is a golden brown, like the sun baked the ground too long and turned it into a treasure.
Waves and waves of that gold, stretching further than the eye can see.
At first, I think it’s hills. But no hills move like this as the wind glides across them.
Sand, I realize on a breathless laugh. It’s endless sand, rolling mounds of it, though it looks very different from the sand at a river’s edge or even the sand along some of the stretches of Faraengard’s coastline.
This sand isn’t gritty. It’s fine and beautiful.
The air here is dry, sharper than anything I’ve ever breathed before.
It’s also warm and getting warmer the further we fly from the peaks.
The sun beats down on my skin in an unrelenting presence.
The heat clings to you. It’s pleasant at first, after the frosted, cold air of flying over the mountain range.
But then it starts to sting. Eventually, the air itself seems to bend, like the heat is warping the wind.
And there, far in the distance, is Amarune.
The capital city of Aish sits at the crest of a waterfall that seems to appear from nowhere.
No mighty river feeds it, but nevertheless, the water roars down in a thundering cascade before flowing into the Ebonmere Sea.
Amarune itself staggers down with it, the city lining the edges of both sides of the waterfall on a steep incline, with elaborate bridges connecting one side with the other.
Around the water, there’s lush greenery that stands in contrast to the beiges, browns, and shimmering golds of the desert.
Impossibly tall trees tower above the city, their fronds fanning out like emerald canopies, creating shade and dappling the sunlight.
They are unlike anything I’ve seen before, rising from the ground on exposed roots that twist around and around, until the trunk of the tree is formed and then grows up and up and up, creating living towers.
Within the trees are the makings of little villages—complete with houses and rope bridges stretching from one to another.
Beneath the trees, bushes and shrubs thrive, their leaves all manner of colors—reds, yellows, greens, pinks, even purples.
The ground is alive with soft grasses, and vines weave their way up the larger trees, with tiny flowers of every color decorating the trunks as they climb.
Thousands of larklings flit amongst it all, their songs achingly beautiful. I’ve never seen so many.
And the people. My eyes are starting to take them in—they’re wearing billowing robes and headscarves of various colors that match the pretty flowers and the pretty birds. When a horn sounds from a high, sandstone watch tower in the background, though, they all run for shelter.
The Elder raises a hand at the head of the formation, bringing us to a slow descent.
We land on the rolling sands, still far from the oasis that is Amarune, the beasts snorting their displeasure as the ground shifts beneath their feet.
Vaeloria flicks her mane back in annoyance as she tries to stand sturdy.
She’s so bright here—the sun is reflecting on her opalescent feathers so strongly she’s almost blinding.
I worry that the sand is too hot, but when I reach my hand for that thread that binds us and follow it back to her, I don’t find pain or pressure.
Just annoyance and displeasure. I lean forward and pat her neck reassuringly.
“I’m annoyed, too.” Not with the sand, but still.
She snorts like she knows exactly what I’m referring to.
I smile quickly, though it fades fast when a horde of faravars launch from a sandstone fortress at the outskirts of Amarune.
The walls of the fortress are curved in a way I haven’t seen, like it was built to bend with the wind, instead of stand against it.
These faravars look like ours—large, black beasts with wide wings and fierce hooves, but the men riding them are subtly different.
Instead of black leather, they wear loose tunics of different shades of brown that cover their entire bodies and wrap around their heads and their faces, shielding them from the sand and the sun.
Eight of them fly straight for us—their numbers directly proportional to ours. Another 12, however, hang back.
They’re all armed to the teeth. The men coming to land in front of us are all holding the hilts of close-range weapons—swords, daggers, spears, whips, and absolutely terrifying-looking nets.
The twelve men that landed further back are all archers.
And they’re all at full draw, bows notched and ready to launch into the air. At us.
This is not a warm welcome. Faelon reaches for the bow he’s slung over his back, but the Elder gives a curt shake of his head.
After they land, an Aishan man nudges his beast forward. He quickly takes in our small cast, but his eyes—the only part of his face that I can see through the scarf that covers most of his face—linger on me before he directs his attention to the Elder. “You’re trespassing, Faraengardians.”
“We don’t seek conflict, Aruveth,” the Elder says. “We come with a warning.”
The man—Aruveth—inclines his head, listening. But his eyes have returned to me and Vaeloria. It’s not a malevolent stare. It’s not even one that makes me uncomfortable, exactly. It’s curious and considering. Even here, we’re unusual.
“The Kher’zenn will attack Aish. Soon,” the Elder announces and the Aishan men—both the men at the foreground and the archers further back—laugh.
I can’t see Aruveth’s mouth, but I can hear the amused disbelief in his voice. “Impossible. We maintain control over all strategic islands to the south. And it’s yet winter to the north.”
“Even so, they come,” the Elder replies. He gestures to me. “Our veilstrider has seen it.”
The tittering among the men stops. There’s a moment of quiet, and then an uneasy murmuring. Aruveth nudges his beast even further still, coming abreast with the Elder, who is at the front of our staggered v-formation.
“If you come only to offer a warning, Elder, why fly with a cast?” He flicks a disdainful glance at Rissa. “And why bring Faraengardian royalty with you?”
Rissa sits straighter, as straight as she can while sitting in Ryot’s lap. “I—” she starts but Aruveth holds up a hand, cutting her off.
“I wasn’t speaking with you.” His tone is sharp. He doesn’t like her. I’ll admit, his reaction soothes my bruised ego and my wounded heart. The petty side of me derives visceral satisfaction from it. But I don’t understand it.
To Rissa’s credit, she snaps her mouth shut and doesn’t interject again.
“We come with the warning, Aruveth, and a desire to share assistance, to share knowledge,” the Elder replies.