Chapter 2
Curled atop my straw-stuffed pallet, I stare out across the filthy ground of my small, compressing cell, through bars barely visible in the dull lantern light.
Watch a puddle of gathered mildew get attacked by the slow drip …
drip … drip loosening off a stalactite, churning over my interaction with the Scavenger King.
What have I done?
I should’ve told him to eat shit and die, rather than race to hide a call to arms amongst the whorls of my signature. If the lark is going where I think it’s going, I’ve implicated someone I love. And for what?
Me?
I wallow in my mistake, suffocated by the immense weight of the mountain above, realizing what I am.
Bait.
Plump prey that found refuge in a trap. There can be no other answer.
Perhaps the lark won’t make it to Kaan? Perhaps it’s going to Pah instead and my uncle won’t be dragged into this?
The thought brings little relief. Certainly not enough to lift me off the ground and reinvigorate my hunger to escape this horrible place.
I tap my foot against the cold stone, jingling my chain, trying to stimulate my mind. Dredge up a single drop of hope or energy to do something. To work this problem over and find a way out.
To fight.
But the silence has never been so loud.
The walls so close.
My shackle so tight.
Maybe Pah’s miskunn has worked out where I am. Maybe an army is coming for me, ready to break me free and drag me back to Arithia.
A bigger, prettier cell to suffocate within.
I groan, then glare at the rusty pan of slop by the bars; the last meal I was dished up. Offal and stale bread garnished with gorging grubs.
Perhaps I’ll get sick and die before anyone gets here at all?
I squeeze my eyes shut, spiraling with the scenario. Picture myself dead in this cell, the diadem cracking free like a tick thirsty for another host strong enough to contain the Aether Stone.
Except there isn’t one.
Without a host to feed the ravenous runes, Caelis will be released. Will be whole again, yes, but upon seeing me dead in this cell, he will rage. In my heart, I know he’ll rip every m—
The faint sound of fluttering wings before something lands in my palm.
I open my eyes.
nee
I frown so deep the skin around my diadem pinches, studying the three scripted letters on the little lark’s abdomen—impeccably joined. The handwriting smooth and delicate.
Perfect.
As it should be, given I took a cane to the knuckles every time my quill slipped even slightly out of line. A royal title stands for naught when your pah condones you to be treated like a coin that’s never polished enough.
Looking at those letters, it’s hard to ignore the heavy lump in my chest. Something that feels a lot like she’s learning she’s dead all over again. That she bled out giving birth to me. That I’ll never know what she smelled like. The tone of her voice.
How it would’ve dipped and peaked when she told me she loved me.
Perhaps I’ve dropped into a state of morbid insanity and I’m simply imagining the lark’s presence?
I latch on to the notion like a bloodthirsty parasite, gorging myself, squeezing my eyes shut so hard they ache. Determined the lark I whispered to Mah phases ago is not currently belly-up in my hand.
I open my eyes—
nee
Damn.
Perhaps I’m dreaming? Perhaps I dreamt the signature, too?
I close my eyes again, murmuring to Caelis. A hollow song that ices my lips until I fall into a half sleep, drifting somewhere cold and high amongst the stars. Somewhere we can hear each other. Sing to each other safely.
Love each other.
Somewhere Caelis is whole and not mulched within the stone embedded on my brow.
Surí’s there, rather than caged in the royal Moonplume burrows hidden beneath Arithia. Something that’s always hindered us from exploring the skies as one and forging a sturdy bond.
For the first time ever, I feel her presence in my chest. Feel her vivid joy for the way her wings cut through the atmosphere, her pearly hide cold as the air kissing my cheeks. No pesky escorts caging her in like they do whenever we fly together.
We roam the endless horizon beneath a glittering carpet of stars, as we were always meant to be.
Free.
Mah’s there too … I think.
Maybe I just wish she was. That she could wrap me in her arms and tell me everything’s going to be okay—
Something nuzzles my neck, nudging me back to my dire, damp, foul-smelling reality. A sour reek that never loses its putrid edge.
My heart knots as I recall the lark.
I open my eyes, seeing my palm is empty—
A dream.
My entire body loosens with my shuddered sigh of relief.
Though I think it’s lovely that some folk like to go around gathering ghost larks and pinching their return folds—a quiet way of informing the sender that their message wasn’t delivered—that’s not what I want to believe.
That my message wasn’t received.
Instead, I want to believe that little lark made it to Mah. That she got my note, but hasn’t yet been able to respond.
That she heard me.
My entire body aches with the thought, and I bind my arms around myself, holding tight as I whisper to Caelis. “Hov ahka nuieljuak. Hov-at haquil.”
I love you. I’m here.
No response.
My next words crack. “Nuieljuakui taf maruli …”
You’re not alone …
But I am.
If I had something sharp, I’d cut off my foot and slide the iron shackle free just to hear his voice again. Something I didn’t consider until this very moment.
Guess I’m breaking my promise to myself. Withering into a mindless mess.
I groan, toss my arms across the floor, and bang my shackle against the ground—over and over. A clanging drum that echoes off my tight confines.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
How disappointed Pah would be at my sudden lack of composure. Oh, how he’d scowl. One of those looks that used to make me soil myself before I grew wise enough to keep my mouth shut and behave.
Mostly.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
My stomach grumbles.
Again, I glare at my uneaten meal, trying to mine the will to crawl over there and eat the wretched thing.
I’m not stupid. If I’m to find a way to escape this place, I’ll need strength, no matter where it comes from. But in the wake of my scribbled signature and the hidden message within, it’s hard to look at that rusty pan and the wriggling meal without wanting to projectile vomit across the stones.
I look past the bars instead, into the dark tunnel beyond, wondering how many daes have passed since I walked too willingly into this trap.
Too many.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
I roll onto my side and knot into myself like a calcifying dragon, arms bound around my back like a sweep of wings. Imagine the embrace is not my own, but that of another—tight enough to squeeze the breath from me.
“Nuieljuakui taf maruli …”
Something flutters against my neck again.
I sigh.
Guess another creature made its way in here seeking something warm to nuzzle against. If I have to kill another vuillo moth so it doesn’t lay eggs in my hair, I’ll scream.
I reach up and cup the fluttery thing, pulling it away—
nee
My heart jolts. A pitching ache I try to ignore.
… Not a dream.
The lark wiggles its tail, and I flick it off my hand, scrambling into a sitting position.
They don’t usually do that.
I stare down at the thing lying sideways on the stone … stained, bloody, a little bent out of shape. Last seen when I blew a name upon its wings with all the foolish hope of someone clinging to the belief that true magic exists.
The sort that grants miracles.
That I could simply will Mah back into existence, into my arms, if I only tried hard enough. Now here it is, return fold spent, looking just as beat-up and hopeless as I feel. Like a mirror I don’t want to look at, disappointed in the reflection staring back.
I sigh, set the lark aside, and cover it with a small mountain of straw.
There.
A frosty breeze threads into the cell, sending a chill scuttling over my skin. Like Clode’s taunting me with a breath from the outside world.
Repressing the urge to swear at her, I gather my torn and filthy gown around my legs and grip my diadem, pulling. A familiar nausea churns in my gut as my head splits into a screaming ache, like I’m trying to rip thick roots from my skull.
Swallowing the saliva gathered beneath my tongue, I try wedging my nails around the diadem’s sides, certain there must be a seal I can break … despite not having found one the countless times I’ve tried in the past. And with tools much fiercer than my jagged fingernails.
Warm blood leaks down the side of my nose, dripping into the folds of my dress as I pick, scratch, and gouge, my gaze bouncing from one scribbled letter on the dark-gray wall to another. Letters that appear to have been drawn by a youngling learning to write.
In this place.
I veer from the thought, looking at the ceiling covered in moons all etched in coal. Moons that remind me of—
I squeeze my eyes shut and hug my gurgling gut.
There’s the sound of fluttering wings, and I frown at the little lark taking itself skyward, shedding stalks of the straw pile it somehow escaped.
It’s tenacious, I’ll give it that.
It bounces between the sooty moons until it’s directly overhead, tilts forward, and plummets, hitting me right between the eyes before tumbling into my lap.
“Ouch,” I mutter, rubbing my head as I stare at the lark—unmoving, its beak crumpled. Something that bothers me too much.
Taking its little face between my fingers, I press it back into shape, noticing a small rip in its wing. Like it put up a fight to get here.
I wish it hadn’t. That it was still out there, fluttering around aimlessly. Free, not down here in this hopeless, lonely hole with me.
I set it on my knee and lean my head against the wall, watching. Sigh when it flips onto its back and bares its belly again.
nee
My gaze drifts to its tail, the return fold pinched in place so hard there’s the faintest remnant of a bloody fingerprint.
I turn the lark around so it’s facing the other way, breath catching when I notice a scribble of black that disappears beneath the pleats.
Like someone responded before returning it.
I stare, swallowing.
What could a stranger possibly have to say that wasn’t implied by the pinch itself? Something like, “Hey, sorry. This lark has been flying around aimlessly for a while. I’m guessing the receiver has passed. Apologies for your loss.”
Do I want to read that?
Definitely not.
I place the lark on the ground and close my eyes, try to sleep.
Catch a beak to the face three times, perfectly between my eyes.
After the fourth, I bundle into a ball on my side, teeth gritted as I listen to the lark flutter skyward, wondering if I should just whip my arm around and bat it so hard it stops moving forever.
Why is it taunting me? I wish it would stop.
“STOP!”
There’s the soft thud of it hitting the ground at my back.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see it on its side, motionless, its beak so crunched into its face it looks as though it has no beak at all.
A swarm of guilt stings me from all angles.
It just wants to be read, Kyzari. Just read the damn thing and it’ll be content.
“Creators-dammit.”
Slowly, I unravel … roll … push into a sitting position and tuck my bedraggled hair behind my ears. I pluck the little lark up and pinch its crinkled beak until it’s pressed into place again, then unfold it one slow segment at a time until it’s lying flat in my hand.
Wow.
I refold the lark until I’m looking right at its beaked face. “Is this your idea of a pep talk?”
It wiggles, flipping onto its back like it wants to be read again.
I smile for the first time in … a while, shaking my head. “How did you get so much personality, huh?”
Another jiggle.
“Fine,” I murmur, unbinding the lark, reading its message—
Familiarity strikes like a slap to the face.
My gaze travels past the parchment, up the rough cell wall—like looking down on dark, sandy dunes from the sky.
In the smooth dips between veined ridges of stone, I hunt the messy letters scratched deep, bouncing between the lark and the wall, finding undeniable similarities in the y … the d … the t—
My blood chills.
Did a child write this response? The same child who was kept in this cell?
Did they get free?
The backs of my eyes burn, as does the flame of hope reigniting behind my ribs as I read the message again.
No you don’t
This time, it settles in my chest differently. Less like a thorn, more like a gulp of crisp, clean air.
They’re right. I don’t need anyone.
I’ve lived in a cage my entire life. Whenever I hit rock bottom, I always find a way to break free and catch a breath. Desperation forges keys from the most unassuming things.
Yes, I messed up by signing that piece of parchment that’s probably already fluttering toward Uncle Kaan, but nothing bad will come of it should I get free and take charge of my mistakes.
And according to this … it’s possible.
I refold the lark, cup it in both hands, and bring it close to my face. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I whisper, then tuck it in the crook of my neck. I rock, side-eyeing my wriggling meal as a surge of determination sets my heart on fire. “I’ll find a way to get us out of here. I promise.”
Even if it means I have to start stomaching that crap.