Chapter 22 | The Swans

      Awe gripped Aire's very soul.

The city lay before them, carved out of the dark walls of the mountain. There were great towering buildings, carved in pillars with arching windows that looked like they should have collapsed with the weight of the walls around them.  Like the monumental Crown of the World, Aire struggled to grasp everything that she could see.

Small town houses, exposed only by colourful doors and tiny balconies that teetered over enormous streets of glossy stone. Those streets, like dark rippling mirrors, were so wide that they could have fit a marching battalion.

If the doorway had been a mouth, the Hoist a throat, then this was the ribcage. The houses in the walls were the ribs, holding strong to contain what lived within.  Aire drifted forward, enchanted.  In these moments of beauty and wonder, it was easy to forget the bitterness that hollowed her insides. In these moments, she could imagine herself as a different person. Someone soft and kind and good.

There were flowers here, rich and vibrant and packed into the flowerbeds that lined the massive, glass-like streets.  There were tiles inlayed in the walls, like the smattering of colourful scales on the great beasts she had seen in the books Aevran had read to her. The houses stacked up on top of each other but as Aire breathed the air of the mountain, she felt emptiness echoing for miles.

The city was massive, and yet, it was no where near full.

The feel of the mountain, the stone, the earth all seemed to press in on her bones. She felt it, like an ancient slumbering beast and in kind, her Wield flared.  It was a lot – it was almost too much. Her attention was drawn to the great gaping hole in the wall, what seemed like miles in the distance. The great hole itself must have been at least three miles wide – a great gaping eye that overlooked the city and gave it's inhabitants a look at the grey, turbulent skies beyond.

The air was strange – it smelled and tasted of sea-salt. Of home. Which shouldn't have been possible this high in the sky.

"This is..." There must have been a hundred people living here. She could almost feel them, footsteps on the stone, like footsteps whispering along her skin. A hundred people living in this bright, free place.  The flowers shouldn't have been blooming. She shouldn't have been able to hear laughter, spilling like water through the streets.  Even now, standing there and gaping, Aire spotted a group of children racing each other through the streets, their shrieks sounding like hungry gulls.

She couldn't remember seeing that in years. Not since she had been a girl, sneaking out from her home to play in the streets.  In Lower Irial, children had kept to the walls, to the shadows to escape the Crimson's boredom, fearful of snatchers or the roaming gangs who were far less gracious than Junhyn. 

The final tether of Aire's composure nearly snapped at the sound wafting through the streets, far off in the distance. Plucking strings that swelled into soft, wistful music. Sad music played so beautifully by a stranger. A song Aire had heard a hundred times during her childhood, for her people were always good at crafting sad songs. Hearing it now, only made Aire wish to be home.

The thought had been shoved down for so long. "I want to go home," she thought. Even if this place was beautiful, it only reminded her of home.  I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go ....

She sucked in a breath, too full of longing to be truly angry with herself. She wanted to go home, but home did not exist. The walls stood, but the people who made it so were long dead. Bones and dust. She hoped their spirits had not lingered, even if she wished to see their faces, hear their voices again.

"I feel your sadness," Brice whispered, her shoulder knocking Aire's gently.

"I thought you could only feel wounds?"

"Sadness can be a sickness." Brice reached down, squeezing Aire's hand. "Sadness comes as readily as happiness, but sometimes it will not leave. It can become a sickness not one so easily cured, even by a Wield. Why does this place make you sad, Aire?"

"I -," Saying the words aloud felt silly, but she knew Brice was compelled to help. Aire could give her that. "It reminds me of home, but not enough to comfort me."

Brice squeezed her hand once. "Oh, Aire. Your home must have been beautiful."

"To me, at least."  Aire reached down, closing her hand over Brice's. She returned the squeeze and pulled back her hands. "Do not worry about me, Brice. This sadness will pass."

It always had.

"Welcome to Valherin," Laochra's voice hummed with pride. "The last free city in Kaelara."

"There is a surprising lack of soldiers here," Nyeth commented. The beauty of Valherin was not lost on her, lost to marvel.

"That you can see," Zehla responded. "They knew we were coming."

The Bloodbound was eerily still. His arms were locked behind him, pulling maddeningly tight.  Aire wondered what he would have thought about all of this – did he imagine this was where he would have followed her?

A deep bellowing horn swept through the streets. It rang low and long, swelling for a moment before fading to silence. Noise, chatter, erupted in the streets. The horn rang again, and Aire recognised it as a rallying call.  A notice.

The voices, babbling together, began to rise. People spilled out into the streets, dressed in bright clothes. Briste of dyed green that were tucked into the top of their long leather butaisí. Some wore thickly woven, saffron léinte that swept down to their knees; some wore braits hanging over their shoulders to protect them from the cold. Proper braits as far as Aire could tell, large and encompassing with thick fringes to protect them from the bite of the wind.

Cearnain people.

Some wore their hair in great braids, three strips across with feathers and ribbons woven amongst the strands. Where Aire could spot younger men and women, bearing weapons at their waists, they wore their hair shorn at the sides with a thick braid running down the centre of their skull or cut tight to their heads with a fringe tickling their eyebrows.

Words of welcome began to spill from them, though they kept their distance. Words of warmth for the haggard, road-filthy group that sullied their mirrored path.

The feeling that their long journey was coming to an end suddenly crashed over Aire, coupled with the sight of these people. Her legs turned leaden, her back aching and the soles of her feet blistered and sore. There would be time to rest, time to think properly. She rubbed her wrists, even though the marks from the shackles were long since healed.

The peoples' words of welcome began to choke and wither. The Bloodbound walked, flanked by Levrna and Zehla. His advance was fluid, though he could not see where he walked.

"Why would they bring that creature here?"

Different questions singing the same note. All in voices distantly familiar, an echo of home.

Aire forced herself to walk. The twins were wide-eyed, clustered together as they look in the world around him. The babble was getting to Anluan, who dug the heels of his hands into his ears. They walked on that mirrored road for a while before a figure of stone rose ahead of them. It was a small square of mirrored stone and set in the middle, a fountain.

A stone woman stood at the centre of the fountain, her face victorious and proud. A hand was rising to the sky, a flame dancing at her finger tips.  She rose high, stretching over eight feet. Circling her at her feet, were swans with wings extended as if just about to take flight.  Water leaked from the stone at her feet, trickling into the fountain of crystal clear water.

Ah.

Aire should have expected it. After all that she had just seen, she should have expected this. Her heart squeezed as she approached the fountain, staring upwards.

Laochra stepped beside her. "Former regent Éalaire Aryshalin of Cearna. A Queen who fought to preserve Cearna's freedom. I got a chance to meet her when I was just a boy, beginning my vocation as an Aether soldier."

"What was she like?" Aire breathed. That was what people asked – wasn't it? People asked about the towering statue of the former regent and wondered what she was like with air in her lungs and life brightening her eyes.

The former Queen was glorious. She was marked in her middling years, with lines of laughter and warmth around her eyes and mouth. Whoever had carved her, had seen her likeness before. From the proud jut of her chin, her strong nose and the intricate rings of her armour. The mark of Cearna branded over her heart, her first love.  Aire had heard the stories of Éalaire Aryshalin, who had met her enemies bold and bright on the battlefield, vicious and skilled even as age crept up on her.

"Strict, but kind."  Laochra looked up at her with reverence. "A legend contained by mortal flesh."

Tears slipped down Aire's cheeks. "She sounded wonderful."

"Age caught up with her before the fall of Cearna." Laochra touched the rim of the fountain, staring upwards. "She never saw what became of her kingdom, or what they did to her children and her grandchildren."

"That would have destroyed her," Aire couldn't look at her now, feeling as if those stone eyes were boring into her. To see the fall of magic after she felt her life fighting to preserve her home and protect her people.

"Or perhaps she could have stopped the invasion," Sloane flamed. "Her lifetime of knowledge could have given Cearna the edge it needed to stem the invasion. Something her son did not know."

"Do not speak of the King that way." Laochra's voice heated, his defence instant.

"I would not disrespect him like that, but perhaps she would have seen the army on the horizon, the traitors hiding in the Aryshalin court. Perhaps she would have and the Aryshalin family, the bastion of strength and magic in Cearna, wouldn't have been slaughtered in their home, behead and mounted on the walls of that home as a symbol of celebration for the family."  Sloane took a breath, her voice tight with vehemence. "They wouldn't have paraded the bodies of the youngest children through the streets of Cearna's capitol as trophies, breaking the peoples' spirits and beginning to extermination of thousands of Wielders."

"You should be silent, Sloane." Venom coated the words that slid between Aire's clenched teeth. Rage swept through her blood, so potent that she could have drowned in it. Rot stirred in her gut.

Sloane startled at Aire's tone. "I am only speaking my mind, Aire."

Aire faced her, the murmur of voices around her dinning as anger rushed through her. "You have no right to speak of the King like that or speak of their deaths so callously."

"And who are you to tell me that?" Sloane recognised the challenge in Aire's voice, the command. The dislike was stark on Sloane's face – Aire would only imagine what the young warrior thought of her. A rat hiding in the dirty streets? A honourless criminal?  Perhaps a rat, definitely a criminal, but Aire's honour was something she had strived to protect as much as she could. 

"It does not matter who I am," Aire stared her down, "A soldier of the Aether should know better than to speak ill of their regent. Even if he is dead. He was a good King, a good man. It is not honourable."

Anger sparked in Sloane's eyes and she took a step towards Aire.  "And what do you know about honour?"

"Ask me that question again Sloane," Aire's voice quietened. "Ask me again and watch how I defend it."

"Enough," Laochra boomed, landing a hand on Aire's shoulder. "You both know better than to question that."

Sloane's lip curled as she eyed Aire, but Laochra was already turning to whisper in Aire's ear. "You need to calm yourself, Aire Thielan. The soil is rotting."

Indeed, they were. Around the fountain, the flowers lain in honour of the dead Queen were beginning to wilt.  Ah. She sucked in a shaking breath, feeling the rage burning inside her throat. Under that rage, a far more painful feeling. Grief.

The place cracked her open, exposed raw wounds that not even Brice's Wield could heal.  Again, she thought 'I want to go home.'

"Laochra!"

The others jolted at the rough call of a man, but Aire could only focus on the flowers around the fountain. With every exhale, they brightened and with every ragged breath inwards, they began to wilt around.

A lean, slender man approached. Long dark, red hair was slicked back and braided like the others, thumping on his back as he woven through the crowd. His cheeks were freshly shaven, leaving a beard growing in a soft point from his chin. A pair of seeing glasses perched on the edge of his long nose.

His eyes were as dark as the moss in Dearmain, fringed with thick lashes.  He stared at Laochra, reaching to clasp his hands. "You did not die on your journey. How lucky for me – I would have been terribly lonely if you died."

Laochra pulled the stranger's hands up, kissing them. "You would have enjoyed another bonding ceremony. The food, the dancing, the music. Do not even try and deny that Ferdia."

Ferdia just smiled, bold and roguish. Joy settled into the lines around his mouth, his eyes, as if it had spent years resting there and slipped back into it easily. He surveyed the group. "Zehla, Levrna, Sloane... oh where is Fianla? Eileen? Or..."

His smile died. "Oh."

"I must tell their loved ones," Laochra's voice dipped. "If they have not heard through gossip by now."

"I will organise the pyres." Ferdia clasped Laochra's shoulder. He smiled at the other three Aether, but it did not quite reach his eyes this time. "I am relieved to see you three, unharmed and well. And, to see new faces. Jwylin Doreng had been right. Wielders. I imagine Jwylin has slipped back into a hidey hole now that he has been proven right?"

The other Wielders were just silent, but Aire felt dread creep up her throat. "Jwylin Doreng was executed in Irial."

Ferdia blinked. "Oh."

Brice lay a hand on her arm. "He was sick. I felt a worm of wrongness growing across his stomach, a dark shadow that kept growing with viciousness even as I tried to break it down. It was eating into his other organs, consuming them. Death was coming for him."

"And the one he got was the better of the two?" Ferdia murmured.

"It was quick."  Aire replied swiftly.

Ferdia was silent for a long moment, stewing in the news. Finally, he managed a weak smile. "I hope there is peace in his after-life."

"And that the fields are bathed in golden light, and there are trees to shelter him from wind." Laochra whispered.

With that, Ferdia focused anew. "With that sadness spoken aloud, let me finally introduce myself. My name is Ferdia, son of Diarmuid. I am a poet, a storyteller and a historian."

"Thank you for your welcome, Ferdia." Brice smiled politely. "I am Brice, daughter of ice-plains of Carantool. This is Nyeth, a daughter of Knechru. Twins Anluan and Siseal, sons of Cearna..."

"Twin Wielders?" Ferdia breathed.  "Are your Wields joined? Paired? Do they pick up the weakness of the other and compensate? I have heard stories; I have remembered stories of babies whose Wield was woven into their souls as they grew into their mother's stomach.  Rare stories. I know only of five in total, but even I cannot know every story."

"Dear..." Laochra sighed.

Ferdia blinked.  "Ah. I am talking, not listening. Again."

Brice dipped her head, accepting the unspoken apology. "And the last of us, is Aire, a daughter of Cearna."

He clasped each of their hands in turn, leaving a smudge of ink against Aire's palm. When he was done that, he turned his attention to the Bloodbound. "Fascinating."

A snarl twisted the Bloodbound's mouth. "Do not touch me, poet."

Ferdia was not frightened. "I have rarely seen one of your kind, Bloodbound. Well, not this close before. I want to remember what I see for the stories I tell."

Bloodbound Roark stiffened as Ferdia circled him. "Am I a prized pig that you are thinking of purchasing, poet?"

"Do not rise to his baiting," Aire answered absently. "He loves to goad, just as much as he loves to terrorize."

"You speak as if you know him," Ferdia peered at the silver marks cut into the Bloodbound's cheeks. "Do you?"

"She knows him well enough to converse with him before the world wakes." Sloane's lips were twisted, her gaze resting wholly on Aire.

Seeds of distrust. If Sloane didn't appear to hate Aire's former career so much, she would have been great amongst their ranks.  She understood Sloane's dislike, even if it rankled her. If their positions were swapped, Aire knew she would have felt the same. That didn't mean she had to like how Sloane scattered the seeds.

Then, Aire thought of the conversation Sloane spoke of. In the quiet hours of the morning – her whispering to the Bloodbound. How she stood over him. How had that looked to another? Her cheeks darkened.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sloane." Brice scoffed.

"We must be moving on," Ferdia cast a long glance over all of them. "She is waiting."

She was said with an air of such importance that Aire was distracted from her anger. Curiosity rose again, an insatiable thing.

"Who is she?" She questioned.

"Our reason for hope." Ferdia's answer was short.

"That is an open-ended answer, scholar." Aire pointed out.

"I agree with Aire," Nyeth said as they began moving again. The crowd had moved back during Aire and Sloane's disagreement and followed them, quieter now.  "What does she give hope for? A good harvest? A gentle winter?"

"Hope that we can return home again and call the land our own." Laochra's voice was wistful. "That we may enjoy our years in Cearna, free and safe."

"Who could give you such a dream?" Aire demanded.

"Just you wait and see," Ferdia sang.

Words Aire didn't like to hear. Even though Irial was a stamp of darkness on her memory, the lessons she learned there would haunt her for life. Would protect her for life. Knowing information just as everyone else was learning it, was dangerous. It had been her job to know things – to be ahead of the crowds. She didn't like the feeling of a surprise, or the excitement she was feeling building up in the crowd.

She had seen how the crowds turned. How curiosity filtered to panic – how people turned to mindless hordes of stamping feet and screaming as fire churned around them.

The hand on her wrist.

A small, determined voice. He was lithe and quick, slinking through the crowd like a serpent. "Keep moving! We don't have far to go now."

There was blood on her skirts. It wasn't hers.  Red dripping everywhere, crimson burnt into her soul before she knew to fear the colour on a soldier.

Aire didn't realise that she had stopped before someone ran into the back of her. She jolted, trying to shake the memory from her mind.

"Be careful." Levrna snarled at the person behind her.

Bloodbound Roark took a swift step back. His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. "How am I supposed to know if the person ahead of me stops suddenly? I am blindfolded."

Aire just kept walking.  It would be fine. The streets were wide, and the crowd was far away. Still, it took all her focus to keep herself walking step by step as she felt the shadow of the memory snake around her skin.

They turned in the great path and Aire found herself facing a castle. Not one of the towering castles she remembered as a girl, or the ones she had seen in the books that Aevran had read to her. No – this one was smaller, inlayed into the wall of the mountain. Only one tower, three stories high stood apart, but an arching bridge slid into the great wall. Windows were carved into the mountain, with the flags of Cearnia hanging from them.  Trellises lined under the them, with small pink, purple flowers crawling upwards.

There was a stone porch protruding from the main doors and a sweeping staircase up to it. A place of importance, set a little higher than the streets.

'Finding a high spot is important,' her father had always said to them. 'When you're playing when you're not. Knowing who's coming, knowing the lay of the land is important."

Perhaps he had only said that to help one of her sisters get over her fear of heights. Aire had been the one to lie on the thick branches and nap, content in the embrace of the great oaks bordering their home.

The citizens of Vespith kept far back as the small crowd of travellers waited.  Levrna slipped the blindfold off of Bloodbound Roark's eyes and he blinked at the sharp light, his expression flickering as he beheld the ancient splendour around him. He reigned himself in quickly, shoulders stiffening as he spotted the castle before them and the flags of Cearna stirring in the soft, cold wind.

He was silent, but she could almost sense the words he wanted to spew.

His gaze dropped to hers. "Are you ready, sweet one?"

She bristled. The last thing she wanted was for the others to think that they had some kind of familiarity.  "Do not speak to me."

"You and your orders." His voice dipped. "You were not this bold in Irial."

Incessant creature.  "I was trying to avoid being exposed as a Wielder."

"And how did that go for you?"

"Do not ask stupid questions." Aire faced forward again, aware of him to her side. His amusement seemed to simmer in the air. She would not be rattled. Not by the likes of him.

Only Ferdia was looking at her, his expression open and curious. She forced herself to look at the great wooden doors as they began to open.  The hinges were well oiled and the opening was soundless but still, a great silence fell over the crowd behind them.

Aire could have scoffed. What pomp and ceremony is this?

Laochra sucked in a breath, bowing his head in reverence as a woman appeared above him. She was only a few steps above them and at first, Aire could see nothing of importance about her. Only, how her mere presence caused the people of Vespith to grow silent and dip their chins.  Laochra's hand was fisted over his heart.

Aire scrutinised the woman, lips pursed. Her thick hair, a bright wheat-gold, was bound back by intricate Cearnain braids. A torc sat around her neck, two snarling wolfhounds facing each other as they rested against her collarbone.  Her clothing was simple- a green tunic and simple cotton pants.  

Aire did not bow her head. Neither did Nyeth.

Aire risked a look to the Bloodbound and her blood chilled.  Venom lined his expression, far starker than she had ever seen from him. She had seen him angry, apathetic, and bored – but never this.

Pride welled in Laochra's voice. "Wielders, guests to Vespith, let me introduce you to our regent, Princess Ríona Orlaith Aryshalin. The first daughter of our slain King and Queen and the only survivor of the Crimson Massacre that soaked the crescent bay in blood."

Aire froze. Only a frown cracked her expression, a breath eking out of her parted lips.

Brice sucked in a shocked breath and the twins, the poor twins, were staring up at the woman before them with shining, hopeful eyes.

Aire supposed that some would consider a surviving Aryshalin a hope – a reason to keep fighting.  No wonder the Aether here had endured for so long. The Cearnain people were fond of banding behind a heroic figure, never caring if that figure died on the end of a blade. It only fuelled them, their rage and their need for their own justice.

No wonder Valherin had flourished, fed by a dream of one day reclaiming their home.

No wonder.

And yet, Aire knew it was all a lie.

Ríona Aryshalin was dead.

Aire knew that with unwavering certainty.

She was dead because Aire had seen her die. In the great hall, where they had danced the night prior until their feet ached.

Ríona had seen Aire there, hiding behind the great tapestries that hid the tiny doorway that led to Aire's freedom. She had spotted Aire peeking around the tapestry, witnessing the madness. The screaming. The death of the Aryshalins trapped in the Great Hall, the ring of steel ringing like the final knolls of death.

Ríona had seen her there, forced to her knees with a knife hacking at her long, moon-silver hair.  Ríona mouthed just one word. "Run."

Aire did not run – not then. Not until that knife finished cutting through Ríona's hair and fell to her throat. Not until a shout rang and she had been spotted.

Then she ran.

Because, even as a stubborn child, Aire had always tried to listen to her older sister.

| Welcome back to Aire's world!

Tell me your thoughts, theories and conspiracies.

What do you think of this city in the mountain?

Why do you think Sloane and Aire dislike each other so much?

What do you think of this possibly 'fake' princess and Aire finally beginning to face her past, even in small snippets.

I have left some translations here, because I like to weave at least some gaeilge in my writing when taking inspiration from Irish history and myths. (My pronunciations are based on my own regional gaeilge)

Briste = trousers. (Br - eesh- ta)

Butaisí = Boots. (Boo - tash- ee)

Léinte = Shirts. (Léine - singular) (Lain -tha pl.) ( Lain-a sing.)

Braits are the plural of a brat, which are like cloaks or mantles.

Ríona = Reena.

Orlaith = Orla.

I appreciate all your comments, your votes and well-wishes. Thank you!

Until next time - Saoimarie |