Page 55

But It Doesn’t Work

T he threat from the dragons keeps us trapped indoors for days.

No training. No running. No company. I sit on Acranta’s bed, idly pulling at the frayed edges of the blanket.

She’s upstairs, cooking, leaving the room in silence.

Still. Quiet. No voices to distract me. No one to interrupt my thoughts.

Midday light streams through the grimy window, harsh and bright.

Inside, it’s dim enough that Acranta had to take a candle upstairs with her.

I stand, reach for a book on the nearest shelf, and open it.

A thick cloud of dust bursts into the air.

I blink and shake my head. I cough. It tastes dry and stale, like moldy bread left to bake in the sun for endless lunar cycles.

I swallow the bitter taste with a grimace and flip through the pages.

Dull. I need to get out. I need air. I need to move.

Baalvon stands by the window, watching a bush troupial perched on the sill. The bird ruffles its dry black feathers, pecking and preening, only to thud against the glass. Again. And again. Each time, it flutters back, blinking in confusion as if the window wasn’t there a moment ago.

One wing is streaked with a flare as red as an ember.

Baalvon murmurs, “Se beg rehn hel sege bay.”

The red vanishes. In its place, a stark white cross appears on the wing.

The bird hesitates, then flaps hard, launching into the air and disappearing to the right.

I press a hand to my lips, fingers trembling. The book slips from my grasp, and I fling it toward the bed. I miss. It hits the floor with a loud thud, pages bending, edges crumpling.

I brace against the wall, staring at Baalvon’s back. “Baalvon?”

He turns, fingers idly twisting the ocher-brown curtain.

“Can dragons…” I laugh because even saying it aloud feels ridiculous. “Can dragons speak Demonish?”

Baalvon scratches at his horn, gaze unreadable. “They sure can,” he says.

I stare at the floor. Splinters jut from the rough, earth-colored planks beneath my feet.

I close my eyes, try to think and dig through the memories.

They surface in fragments, slow and unsteady.

I was very young when I learned. My wings were still covered in downy feathers, not yet shed.

My mother was patient until I was too slow.

Then she bit. Her teeth were sharp. Long.

It hurt when she punished me. Once, Father said?—

I snap my eyes open, cutting off the thought.

My gaze drifts to the window. Clouds gather, pressing in thick and heavy, preparing for eredusk.

Beyond the glass, tall grass, the shadowed tree line, the weathered hut next door.

My nails press into my palms. I stare hard, unblinking, until the view distorts into a blur of jungle green, seaweed green, khaki green, and amber gold.

Does Umbra’s knowledge still linger inside me? Or have I absorbed parts of it?

Un dej eh shje. I don’t know.

Oh.

A slow, breathless smile tugs at my lips.

“What is it?” Baalvon asks, his voice drawling and unhurried.

I glance up at him and grin wider. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Just an entire world of possibilities.

“Oh, Zel! Should we play a game before bed? We have a deck of cards, a wooden board game, and this new one?—”

“Not at dusk,” I mumble.

“Baalvon, what about you?” Acranta asks. “You’ll play with me, won’t you?”

“Wait.” Baalvon stands at the window, gazing out into the inky blackness beyond. The sharp scent of the evening meal lingers. Ape meat and cheap rice from Kaspien. Candle flames dance along the shelves, flickering in uneven rhythm. One is already burned out.

Strings of necklaces and charms drape across the room, looped over bedposts, books, candle holders, and drawer knobs. Some are threaded with dried flowers, others with horns and bone shards. The walls bear hand-painted depictions of Karatha, the goddess of strength.

Apparently, Baalvon paints.

After two days in this hut, the dragons haven’t been seen once. By dawn, hopefully, life will return to normal.

Baalvon’s broad shoulders form a stark silhouette against the deeper dark beyond the window. His gaze is quick yet unfocused, searching and scanning for something that’s not yet here.

And I know what.

Now.

The bush troupial lands with a faint flutter, magpie-like in form.

I’m ready. Prepared. I close my eyes.

“Oh, Zel, you’re so dull!” Acranta huffs. “You’re not going to sleep already, are you? Remember, you promised that we would talk, play, go out, and?—”

I shut her out. I open myself, stretching my consciousness outward.

My temples throb, and my hands tremble as I clutch the bed frame. I reach. I search. My eyes are closed, but I’m still looking, scanning. It resists. And part of me doesn’t want to do this again, not after Umbra.

Not after the crash, when I lost control and couldn’t fly.

If I can master Arzakean, I should be able to learn the mechanics of wings. But perhaps muscle memory differs from other types of memory.

Maybe. Either way, I have to go back in. I won’t let fear hold me back. I won’t be weak. That’s not who I am. And I refuse to start now.

It’s new and dangerous, and I know nothing about it. Which means I need to practice.

And more than anything, I need to find Netharu’el. Even if I don’t want to know what he and Jelethia are doing, I find myself unable to stop myself.

Not when I can watch.

There!

I found it.

It takes just a spark, and then I’m behind the bird’s eyes, watching as Baalvon colors its wing green. A strange sensation ripples through the muscles, a tickling, buzzing awareness. I see myself lying in bed.

Still. Resting. Acranta leans over my body, shaking her head, black hair swaying over her shoulders.

I’m fully inside the bush troupial now, entirely severed from myself.

As if I’m the bird. And I see everything. Ahead, behind, to the sides, vision sharp, far better than an elf’s. Without turning my head, I glimpse the shadowy forms of Gorgoroth and the hut behind me.

But my night vision is poor, worse than my own, so I must be careful when I take flight. My sense of smell is also weaker, and there’s almost no perception of taste. But my awareness of touch is heightened.

The windowsill beneath me feels icy and rigid, rough beneath my claws. It is roughness unlike anything I have ever experienced, as though I can feel twice as much as before. Every minuscule detail of the steel.

And the sounds. The chorus of the night. Crickets, larvae, leaf frogs, and sparrow owls, all flooding my ears at once.

The bird’s instincts push against me, eager to fill my mind with knowledge and memories. I resist. I take only one thing—her name. Eístla. That’s all I allow in. The rest, I shove aside. I’m not here for that.

I already have control over her movements. Her mind is trapped within me, subdued beneath my will.

A tap at the window. Baalvon. His brow furrowed, watching.

Stay calm.

I spread my wings slowly and carefully, testing the pull of unfamiliar muscles. The wind catches me, beckoning, urging, and commanding me to leave the windowsill and surrender to the night air.

I must learn. I have to understand flight. So I never kill another creature again. Reluctantly, I loosen my hold, allowing Eístla to take over more of the body. We click our beak, shake our feathers, and spring into the sky. She wants to turn left toward the main building. I refuse.

I pull us right, reclaiming control, forcing my will over hers. At the same time, I memorize the motion, committing every movement to muscle memory. I feel the wind, how it curls beneath our wings, how we glide between currents, slipping from one to the next, letting them carry us forward.

We move as one. I steer. She flies. Seamless.

We glide past the huts, pausing at each window, settling onto the sills without a sound. Only at the fourth hut, our hut, Netharu’el’s and mine, do I finally see him. His back faces the room, light outlining his silhouette.

I exhale. Let my pulse steady.

He’s alive. He made it.

But Jelethia is there. Even through the grimy window, I see her.

Sitting on my bed, wearing my clothes, spending time with my master.

Her eyes, red like wine, are wide, drinking him in as if he were something holy. She lounges against my pillows, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tangled in her twisted braids.

Netharu’el stands with his back to the window, hands moving mid-gesture. Jelethia laughs—too loud, too calculated. Both rows of teeth flash, exaggerated and rehearsed. She flips her braids over her shoulder, stroking them absentmindedly, but she never takes her eyes off him.

We perch on the windowsill, and I push Eístla aside, seizing complete control.

Two quick hops toward the streaked glass.

I strike with my beak. Tap. Tap. Tap. Again and again.

Each sharp impact shudders through me, rattling down to the root of my beak.

At last, Netharu’el turns. His gaze is vacant, lips slightly parted.

His fingers graze his lower lip, a habit he has when thinking.

Jelethia rises. She eyes me, displeased.

Then, slowly, she crosses the room and loops an arm around his waist as if she knows exactly who I am.

As if she wants me to watch, to understand.

That she’s the one in control. Netharu’el glances down at her.

She tilts her face up to his. Her lips move, whispering something I can’t hear. Her fingers trail up to his cheek.

Move, you insufferable witch!

I peck harder. Come on. Look at me. I flap into the air, trying to catch his attention. Land. Flap again. Stumble. Peck, hop, peck, hop. I make noise. See me!

Jelethia lets go of Netharu’el and points at me, gesturing threateningly, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. Netharu’el steps toward the window, his gaze settling on my green-streaked wing.

A crease forms between his brows. Then his eyes lock onto mine. Challenging. Sharp.