Page 5

5

Walking often felt foolish when one could fly, but Zolya supposed that was rather the point in being forced to traverse their current tight, dark tunnel. Your wings are useless here, the thick tangle of vines seemed to taunt as he and Osko followed a wall of Süra guards.

They were being led through a maze of sorts, a private corridor that fed from the forest’s edge into the center of Ordyn, the capital city of Zomyad. Though Zolya could see no great buildings or dwellings or hear the bustle of citizens from within their covered passageway. There was only the scent of damp dirt and the surrounding thick woven branches and vines that made up the tunnel, lit every few paces by hanging jarred glow beetles.

Their visit was evidently meant to be kept a secret.

Understandably so.

It would not make for a calm clan, the witnessing of two kidars of the royal palace striding through town, let alone if he was recognized as the prince.

Still, Zolya wished there had been another way to meet with the nyddoth than walking endlessly through such a constraining space. His wings bumped and brushed and grazed his surroundings, an ever-growing irritant that forced him to tuck his plumage in tight despite his heightening desire to stretch it wide.

The claws of claustrophobia were threatening to pierce through Zolya’s composure by the time they finally made it out of their covered lane to enter a large reception room.

It was empty save for four new guards who stood beneath blazing torches on either side of tall, ornately carved wooden doors. They were the last barrier to an audience with the western clan leader. And though their group was expected, it did not keep hands from grasping swords’ hilts as they approached.

Distrust was thick in the Süra soldiers’ gazes as they raked over Zolya, narrowed as they caught the taunting grin from Osko, and sharpened further on the tucked-in wings at both their backs. But after showing that no weapons graced his or Osko’s person, despite their held sky magic, they were waved through.

The air was warm and perfumed within the domed hall, a pleasant wafting of cedar that lifted from blazing bowls. More displays of Süra artistry spiraled along the wide columns that drew them forward. Intricate depictions of the Low Gods and their myths, the most prominent that of Ré’s betrayal of his sister, Maryth, when he severed her wings and banished her from the heavens to live on the soil of Cādra. Her tears of rage and mourning had become the Eternal River, where she collected souls to fill her lonely existence. Zolya had always despised that story, not understanding how the Volari could praise the father of the High Gods for such deception. Though it did illuminate the temperament of the two races, each dedicating their lives to a different pantheon of gods, both opposing.

With unease settling in his chest, Zolya tore his gaze from the carving toward the throne they approached.

At the back of the room rose a manicured canopy tree, its leaves feathering out to become one with the ceiling’s decor. At its base sat Nyddoth Marwth; his wife, Nydda Clyfra; and three of his elder councilmen, who flanked his sides.

Upon their approach, the clan leader rose, along with his entourage of advisers.

Once they reached the base of the platform, their Süra guides dropped to their knees, heads bent in reverence before their leader.

Zolya and Osko remained standing.

“Your Royal Highness,” said the steady voice of Nyddoth Marwth as he stepped forward, his dark complexion warmed by the nearby torchlight. He gave a slight bow, one that was not as low as customary before a Volari royal but respectful nonetheless. A reminder to Zolya that, yes, he might be a child of the High Gods and the prince of Cādra, but he currently stood in another’s domain. “It has been many seasons since this forest has been honored by the presence of those of the Diusé bloodline,” exclaimed the nyddoth. “In fact, if our history books are written true, the last your family visited here was during the signing of the peace agreement of our two races.”

Words that meant more than what was spoken.

Remember what has been sworn by centuries of blood.

“Yes,” replied Zolya. “It was a day that has benefited both Süra and Volari since.”

We are not here to undo progress.

“Indeed,” mused the clan leader, eyeing Osko at his side before returning his gaze to Zolya’s. “I hope today can also be such a day. Please, let us sit so we may talk easier.”

With a wave of the clan leader’s hand, the guides in front of Zolya rose, then shuffled out of the way for new attendants to arrive. They settled plush benches behind Zolya and Osko, room for their wings to skim the floor as they sat.

“Now,” began Nyddoth Marwth, sinking into his throne. “Let us hear what has brought His Royal Highness and his company of soldiers so far west.”

Zolya held the clan leader’s steady gaze. He was not a large man. In fact, Zolya found him to be quite small. Minuscule, even, with how his thick wrapped green tunic and decorative beading seemed to weigh on his thin frame. How heavy his tall curling horns appeared to sit atop his gaunt features. But while his outward appearance might lack gravitas, what spun within his eyes held his strength. Here was his cleverness, his power, his lived wisdom, and it was all hooked on to Zolya, waiting.

“We come seeking a man,” Zolya began. “Said to be living within your forest. A Volari that is of great importance to King Réol. One who I am charged to return to Galia.”

“A Volari, you say?” Nyddoth Marwth steepled his fingers, brows raised. “Living in our woods?”

“That seems highly unlikely,” chimed in one of the eldoths, who sat like a slice of old bark to the nyddoth’s right, a face full of grooves. “I do not wish to offend, sire, but all Volari stationed here live in their allotted territory outside the forest. If one had made home within our trees, it would not go without notice or debate amongst our people.”

“This is not a Volari who is tending to the harvest,” explained Zolya. “This is one who no longer has his wings. He will appear middle aged by your standards, dark curly hair, and I suspect has been passing as a Süra.”

“Passing as a Süra?” questioned the eldoth, incredulous. “Our horns are not accessories or a disguise easily worn.”

“He is very clever. He would have found a way.”

“And what of his name?” asked Nydda Clyfra. While the clan leader was made up of night and shadow, his wife glowed like one of the twin moons. Her pale skin seeped effortlessly into her graying hair and white-painted horns. Yet despite her contrast with her husband, her gaze was just as direct.

“The man we seek is Gabreel Heiro,” answered Zolya. “But I suspect he has not used that name for a long while.”

“The king’s inventor?” Nydda Clyfra’s brows rose.

“You have heard of him?” inquired Zolya.

“Who has not heard of the man who fathered the Dryfs Mine? Remind me again, husband”—she turned toward Nyddoth Marwth—“how many Süra die each year working within that labyrinth? Has it accumulated to the number of the Great Collapse yet?”

“You forget who is in your presence,” warned Osko, a tense boulder at Zolya’s side.

“On the contrary, Kidar,” countered the nydda, her eyes narrowing on the two of them. “It is near impossible for us to forget when wings are present.”

Zolya sensed Osko’s desire to stand, but the shifting forward of the Süra guards who flanked them and his own hand to his friend’s shoulder kept him seated. Stand down, Zolya’s tight grip said. Osko sucked in the side of his cheek, his agitation palpable, but he settled back into his bench.

“You will allow your woman to address His Royal Highness in such a way?” Osko challenged Nyddoth Marwth, to which he received a laugh.

“She may be my wife,” said the clan leader, mirth still a glimmer in his brown gaze. “But you must remember she is also the nydda to this clan. Is Queen Habelle so easy to command?”

Zolya was now the one to grow tense at the mention of his mother, though not as rigid as Nydda Clyfra. He noted how her folded hands curled tightly within her lap, her shoulders drawing back. Evidently, she did not enjoy mention of her demeanor needing taming. A trait she indeed shared with his mother.

“We have not come here to discuss the queen or the mines,” Zolya explained, attempting to loosen the tension in the room while regaining control of the conversation. “We have come because information has been gathered that Gabreel lives within this forest. Enough to warrant us seeking an audience with you and your council.”

Nyddoth Marwth studied Zolya for a beat. “And if this ... information was to be true, what exactly is it you wish of me, Your Royal Highness? As I recall, your inventor was banished from Galia by the very king who desires him now returned. Süra forests are sanctuaries. If this man has been living here, it is not my place to force him out.”

“Süra forests are sanctuaries to Süra,” Zolya corrected as his pulse skipped with renewed assurance.

Gabreel is here. Gabreel is here. Gabreel is here.

“Even so,” said Nyddoth Marwth, “in accordance with our peace agreement, Volari are prohibited from hunting within our forest.”

“It would not be a hunt if we were to know exactly where to find him,” clarified Zolya. “King Réol is prepared to offer a handsome trade for any leniency shown by the western clan to aid us in returning his inventor.”

One of the eldoths harrumphed. “It would not be considered lenient—”

“A trade?” interrupted the nyddoth, hand raised to silence his council. “That King Réol has allowed you to bless in his name?”

Zolya nodded. “A generous one if it leads us to directly obtaining the inventor.”

“And this will be upheld with a contract?”

“If one is desired, of course,” said Zolya, heartbeat racing with anticipation. “We will have it drawn and signed before any party leaves here tonight.”

The silence that followed was a physical apparition. A stretching assessment of what little trust might lie between a Volari prince and a Süra clan leader. Meeting the scrutinizing gaze of Nyddoth Marwth, Zolya dared breathe as his heartbeat kicked into a sprint. He sent a silent prayer to Udasha, a plea for her fortune in this moment.

“I dismiss my council and my guards,” announced the nyddoth.

Zolya barely held back his grin, a burst of gratitude soaring toward the High Goddess for answering his prayer.

“But, my nyddoth,” began the same overopinionated eldoth, “I do not advise you to be alone, unprotected with—”

“You are quite right, eldoth Yffant,” agreed Nyddoth Marwth, cutting him off. “My wife shall stay. As we’ve seen, she is quite equipped at diverting danger from myself.”

As Nydda Clyfra remained seated, her expression pinched, there was a great show of disapproval from the elder council as they groaned and griped with their shuffling from the great hall. The guards were the last to leave. With the shutting of the door, the room now vibrated with promise.

What is spoken, none but us shall hear.

“You have known that Gabreel Heiro lives in your forest,” stated Zolya. As the words left his lips, they were heavy and light all at once, a reweaving of his desperation with certainty.

He is here. He is here. The inventor is here.

“A clan leader always knows who enters his territory,” answered the nyddoth. “Just as we know when others go sniffing around our brethren’s.”

“Our search for the inventor has never been a secret,” explained Osko defensively.

“Then your search has been successful in that regard,” replied the nyddoth.

“What do you want to grant us access to the inventor?” inquired Zolya. He no longer held patience for argumentative diversions. Gabreel was here, and his nerves danced with hunger to grasp him.

“Want?” repeated Nyddoth Marwth, his shrewd gaze unyielding. “Or need?”

Zolya remained silent. He would not be the first to show what he had to barter.

“There are needs my clan certainly has,” the nyddoth continued. “But will they truly be met by King Réol?”

“Voice them to find out,” offered Zolya.

The clan leader drummed his fingers on his armrest, pensive silence spreading thick within the domed hall. “The Volari’s take from each season’s harvest has always been disproportionate compared to the Süra’s,” he began. “A detail we were able to abide until recent years. My clan has grown since our last harvest contract. What was sustainable three decades ago to feed families is no longer.”

Zolya almost laughed. How neatly this was all going according to plan. “You wish for a larger percentage of what the western harvest yields.” He quickly got to the point.

“Fifteen percent more,” clarified the nyddoth.

Osko scoffed beside him.

“Ten,” countered Zolya.

“ Sire ,” hissed Osko, snapping his attention to Zolya. “Are you sure King Réol—”

“Ten,” repeated Zolya, his gaze never wavering from the clan leader’s. He and Osko had agreed for him to play the part of a startled and offended companion, causing their offer to shine with advantage. Zolya had to admit, his friend had missed his calling for the stage.

Nyddoth Marwth appeared to chew on the number. “I will agree to ten if we can also agree to a pause in the hunting of Mütra.”

“By the High Gods.” Osko nearly snorted his incredulity, his acting breaking into true emotion. “If we are living in dreams, then forget contracts. Let us leave here now, my prince, and tear through this forest ourselves to find Gabreel.”

“Such words threaten war, Kidar,” said Nydda Clyfra, her tone the steel unsheathing of a blade.

“A war that Süra would lose,” countered Osko. “As your kind have lost before. Or do we need to call an orator to recount the decade-long drought the last Süra uprising brought to Cādra?”

The nydda’s gaze caught fire, untampered animosity flashing in her blue depths.

Zolya fought back a frustrated sigh. “There will be no war,” he appeased. “My companion merely speaks of our surprise with such a request regarding Mütra. What causes this?” he pressed the nyddoth.

“A Mütra was killed today in our harvest fields,” he explained.

“Not a rare occurrence, surely?”

“No, but one that always creates a greater disturbance in my clan than if a Mütra remained living within it. The bounty hunters are growing in number, their tactics more brutal and conniving. There are Mütra sympathizers who have begun to retaliate. By killing one Mütra today, five of my clan are now dead.”

“We cannot be held responsible for Süra who hunt Mütra,” reasoned Zolya. “Or for how those react to the ones who do.”

“No, but it was not Süra who put a bounty on Mütra’s heads.”

“They are abominations,” spit Osko. “Creations neither High nor Low God intended to exist.”

“Perhaps,” mused the nyddoth. “And yet both our kind are responsible for making them.”

“Careful, Nyddoth,” warned Osko. “It sounds as though you might be counted amongst the Mütra sympathizers you speak of.”

“The only ones I sympathize with are my clan people,” he corrected. “I merely point out facts.”

“It is impossible to eradicate this law,” explained Zolya, wanting to return the conversation back to the original request. His father had deemed Mütra treasonous to the crown, and there was very little one could do to reverse the king’s decisions once made.

“I do not ask for its removal, Your Royal Highness,” said Nyddoth Marwth. “Merely a lifting of their bounty and hunting within Zomyad for a time. It does not need apply to the rest of Cādra, but to my forest alone. As I said, this latest killing was done in front of our harvest workers. We need them compliant, not defiant and on edge. I would like tensions to ease so nothing escalates further to disrupt production. May I remind you, it is not only our clan’s food at stake, but all of Cādra’s.”

“You are their nyddoth,” Zolya reminded him. “Do not allow it to escalate within your clan.”

“What do you think I’m attempting to do here tonight?”

Zolya eyed the clan leader. “You ask much.”

“Perhaps,” countered Nyddoth Marwth. “But how much do you need your inventor?”

Zolya narrowed his gaze, a swirl of frustration filling his gut.

He needed Gabreel desperately, and he hated that the nyddoth understood this.

Zolya could not return to Galia, to his father, empty handed.

“One year,” offered Zolya. “That is the most I can offer without our king present. But this will reduce your ten percent to five percent more harvest yield.”

Nyddoth Marwth rubbed his lips together in thought. “I will settle for six months to regain ten percent.”

Zolya let the counter settle within the room, ignoring the waves of tension coming from Osko. He knew his friend was annoyed that they had to barter for what they wanted. But here, in this forest, different rules applied. No longer were they in their skies, free to do as they wished.

“Do we have an agreement?” the nyddoth pressed.

Zolya took a deep breath in. “We do,” he said.

Despite his answer, the nyddoth did not smile. He merely appeared more weighted, as though the burden of sacrifices to keep sanctuaries was growing tiresome. “Very good.” He nodded. “Let us discuss how you are to collect your inventor.”