Once again Amyu found herself pressed against a wall within the Council Chamber of Water’s Fall. This time she stood behind Archpriest Iian’s chair, her arms filled with his books and scrolls. She’d offered to aid him, and the Warprize had smiled and nodded. But Amyu had another purpose for this morning meeting and she quivered to tell it. But not now. Not yet.

The room was stifling with clusters of candles burning on the table and mantle. The large tapestry of the winged horse-eagle hung heavy against the wall, still and silent. As if waiting.

Amyu forced herself to look away, and still herself to patience.

Warlord Keir stood at the head of the table, never content to just sit. The Warprize sat beside him, her face tight and anxious. The Lords of the realm, and those that served, were crammed in tight, some seated, others standing along the walls.

“What do you mean, gone?” Keir asked.

Lord Marshal Warren answered. “The reports are coming in, the last from scouts well outside the walls. Over the last few days the wyverns had been gathering on the mountainsides, clinging to the rocks and hissing. Then they launched, all of them, and flew south.”

“All of them?”

“Like a cloud,” Warren confirmed. “I’ve had watchers on the Castle walls, and have sent scouts as far and wide as I dared. There are no sightings of the monsters, and no attacks.”

“Then perhaps we could open the shutters,” Lord Korvis said, mopping at his sweaty face with a cloth.

No one moved to do so.

“Let’s not take the risk just yet,” Keir said dryly. “How certain can we be?”

Warren shrugged. “It’s possible that they’ve hidden themselves in the wooded areas or caves. Only time will tell. But those that saw the flight said it was dark clouds of the beasts rolling down the valley.”

The Warprize caught her lip with her teeth, and made a soft noise of distress. When Keir glanced at her she looked at him with her fey blue eyes. “The Plains,” she said.

Keir jerked his head in a nod, but turned back to the table to scan those gathered. “We cannot be certain that they are gone, nor can we assume that they are gone forever.”

“I am fairly certain they are not,” Archpriest Iian spoke up, which caused a stir.

Amyu smiled slightly as he spoke. She could barely see his head over the back of the chair. But his words carried weight.

Iian stood and started to unroll a thick scroll of soft leather such as Amyu had never seen.

“Have a care with this,” he demanded. “It’s already split in places.”

“What’s this?” The Warprize craned her neck for a better look.

“The Sun’s Book of Days,” Iian said absently, gesturing for the Lord next to him to hold one end as he unrolled the other. “An ancient copy. The part I want you to see is—”

Everyone shifted slightly in order to see. Amyu pressed back against the wall. She had already seen. She’d already been convinced.

The Warlord was asking something of the Warprize and she was smiling at him as she answered. “A very old book of the Church of the God of the Sun, that sets out all the days of the year. It tells when to plant, when to harvest, sets out the holy days and festivals.”

“You track your days with words?” The Warlord shook his head in disbelief.

Amyu agreed, it was odd.

“Here,” Iian said finally. “Look. Each month begins with a picture.” His finger jabbed down but never touched the scroll. “Here, you see wyverns. In all other months, you see wyverns. But for the spring months, the months of late spring, early summer? No wyverns.”

“You think they will return, then?” Warren asked.

“Yes.” Iian was confident. “What’s worse,” he said as he rolled the scroll open further, “I think they return with their young.” Now he pointed down again, and necks craned, but Amyu had already seen the pictures of wyverns, large and small.

The Warprize frowned. “Iian, for such an event, wouldn’t the litany have been more specific? There is no mention of the wyverns in the words, is there? Certainly none in the versions I have read.”

“There’s no mention of the dawn or dusk either,” Iian said. “Why repeat what all know? That the sun will come up and set again. That the wyverns will leave and return. The lack of words does not trouble me. The fact that they pictured the event? That does.”

“So you think they are gone?” Warren leaned forward. “And will return?”

Iian shrugged. “There may be stragglers. But yes, I think the wyverns have left, and will return.” He touched the symbol of his office. “With the Grace of the Sun Lord, after the harvest.”

“Amen,” was the whisper from many of the Xyians.

“We will not lower our guard,” Keir commanded. “Heath, what of the search for ballistas?”

“We found parts hidden in various tunnels,” Heath said. “But the leather and gut that held them together has dried and cracked. I have craftsmen working to reconstruct, but they need time.”

“Maybe we have that time now,” Keir said. “Still, have the warriors remain alert.” He glanced around. “Unless there are other matters, this Council is at an end.”

The members rose from their chairs as they started to file from the room. Iian took his time rolling his precious scroll, delaying until the room emptied and the door closed.

Warlord Keir seated himself next to the Warprize. “You wished to speak to us, Amyu.”

“Aye, Warlord.” Amyu stepped away from the comforting wall, and placed her burdens on the table, hoping that no one could see the trembling in her hands. “Warlord, Warprize.” She drew a breath to slow her words. She felt the urge to kneel, but forced her knees to stiffen. Children knelt when asking; warriors stood. “I ask to be released from the service of your tent to pursue another path.”

Warlord Keir studied her, his bright blue eyes piercing her intently. The Warprize leaned forward. “What do you mean, Amyu?”

“They are traditional words,” Keir rumbled. “For a warrior who wishes to take on other responsibilities under a Warlord’s service.”

The Warprize tilted her head, and gave Amyu a puzzled look. “I do not understand.”

“I wish to seek out these creatures.” Amyu glanced at the tapestry. The horse-eagle’s eyes glittered back.

“Airions?” the Warprize asked. “But, Amyu, they are little more than legends. The stuff of story and myths.”

“So were wyverns,” Iian noted quietly, placing his scroll in its case. “But mere days ago.”

“How can we know?” Amyu asked. “Unless someone goes looking for them?” It burst from her now, her ideas. “I would learn with Iian, seek out the eldest Xyians, listen to their tales and glean their truths. And then I would climb, for the mountains hold the answers, I am sure of it.” She forced herself to stop, and breathe. “And show myself worthy to my Tribe and my Warlord.”

“Amyu,” the Warprize said, frowning. “You have nothing to prove.”

“To us,” the Warlord murmured. “But to herself?” He looked at her again, and once again his blue eyes regarded her closely.

And here it was, the moment of all her truths. Child or not in the eyes of the Plains, Amyu had to take this chance. “Yes, Warlord.”

Keir looked at the Warprize. “You are her thea—”

“She is not a child,” the Warprize said, frowning.

Iian spoked up. “It’s worth trying, to seek out the older parishioners and ask for the old tales.”

“The oldest person in Xy that I know of is Kalisa the cheesemaker,” the Warprize said. “It’s not a bad idea to seek out the old stories, but to go into the mountains? They are dangerous enough to Xyians. Especially to one who has only ever lived on the Plains.”

“Find out what you can,” Keir said. “Any knowledge aids us.”

“But no more than that,” the Warprize said, gentling her words with a smile. “And no more talk of release from my service.” She glanced at the tapestry. “There are others with far better skills for searching the mountains. You are of the Plains, Amyu, you do not know the risks.”

Amyu stood, crushed. Denied. Her glance went to the tapestry, but the airion no longer met her eyes.

“But she can help me,” Iian said. “Seek out knowledge?” He glanced at Amyu, clearly trying to soften the blow.

“Yes, of course,” the Warprize said. She put a hand on Amyu’s arm. “Even if we found creatures like that, I don’t like the idea that you may be killed trying to find and ride those things,” she said.

“Oh, I can ride,” Amyu said, trying to hide the defiance in her truth. “I want to fly.”

 

 

Simus laughed at himself, as Snowfall’s mouth dropped open; as the horses, gurtles, and children all continued to stare. He laughed until he couldn’t breathe, and then tried desperately to suck in air even as he wanted to shout out his stupidity and his joy.

Snowfall’s mouth snapped shut, her lips a thin line, and those blank eyes, those lovely blank eyes he’d longed to see sparkle with joy, with laughter, were filled with anger. “You mock me,” she snarled. But it wasn’t enough to cover the pain in her voice.

“No,” Simus denied. “I do not.” Sudden deep fear coursed through him, like a cold wind. That sobered him, looking into her grey and hostile eyes. He dropped to his knees before her.

“I would speak my truth to you, here, under the open skies for all the elements to witness,” Simus said, trying to slow his breath, trying to put his heart in his words. “I do not understand how it happened, but I do understand this. I love you.”

“We have not even shared—” Snowfall protested, but Simus shook his head and held up his hands to stop her.

“This goes beyond sharing our bodies.” Simus drew a deep breath. “The day is not right without your presence,” he said. “Without drinking your kavage, without hearing your voice. There is no joy in the day if I cannot try to lure out your smile. There is no rest at night if I cannot hear your breathing in my tent.” Simus paused, staring up at her. “I would not lose this. I would not lose you.”

Snowfall’s eyes glistened. Her anger had faded. “Simus,” she breathed, and it seemed to Simus that she breathed out his soul in a single word.

Simus rose to his feet. “Snowfall,” he said as simply as he could. “Without you, my life and breath are empty.”

Snowfall’s anger may have faded from her eyes, but he saw her doubt and uncertainty.

Simus took a slow step forward. “I know we haven’t shared, I know we haven’t so much as really touched—”

“We danced,” she whispered, and hope flared in his heart. Simus moved closer, watching her eyes for any sign of rejection. When she didn’t move, didn’t retreat, he reached out and brushed his thumb along her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm and he leaned in ever so slowly, and she leaned forward, and—

“Ewwwww,” a chorus shrilled.

Simus jerked his head around.

Pive stood there with five other children, all staring at them with their faces screwed up in various expressions of disgust. “Are you gonna kiss?” asked one of the smaller ones.

“Don’t you have duties?” Simus asked.

They all recognized his tone, and scattered, mounting up on their gurtles and charging off into the gurtle herd. Simus watched them flee, afraid that he’d been too harsh, until he heard some of them giggling.

Relieved, he turned back to Snowfall, and his heart sank to see the blankness back in her eyes. “Snowfall—”

 

 

It was too much too fast. She wasn’t sure that she could trust, and yet she wanted to so very much.

Too much.

Simus turned back to her, his face so eager.

And what would that mean, for him, for his people. How would they react, how would Keir react?

She made her face a blank. “Warlord.” She took a step back, away from him into the midst of her baskets, seeking their protection. “You have duties to attend to.”

“Don’t be afraid.” Simus didn’t move closer, his voice a gentle whisper.

Snowfall bristled. “I fear nothing.”

“I do,” Simus said with a wry smile. “I have left myself open to your attack, Snowfall. For a fatal blow from your hand.”

“Warriors do not die from rejection,” Snowfall said sharply. She edged farther back.

“Maybe not die,” Simus said. “But I would break. I would be lost.”

Snowfall looked away, at the grass, at the dung baskets, anywhere but at him.

She heard him sigh, and reach for his belt.

“Here is my dagger.” He pulled it from its sheath. “I offer my surrender to you, Snowfall of the Plains.”

That drew her eyes. Simus took a step closer, keeping his dagger point aimed at his heart.

Horns sounded in the distance, the deep echoing horns of the Singers.

“The Council tent,” Snowfall said. “The raising has begun. You should be there.”

“You are more important,” Simus said.

Snowfall’s eyes went wide. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Snowfall glanced away. “It seems more complicated now,” she whispered.

“No,” Simus said, taking a step toward her, shaking his head in denial. “No, it isn’t.”

“I never thought...” Her voice trailed off. “I did not think...”

Simus shifted the dagger hilt toward her. “Accept my surrender, Snowfall. Accept my heart.”

“I think we should be cautious.” Snowfall didn’t move any closer, but she didn’t back away.

“I think we should be bold,” Simus countered, stepping around the baskets.

“We may end up killing each other,” Snowfall said.

“Or not,” Simus said, and took another step.

“We will hurt each other,” Snowfall murmured, eyeing the dagger hilt.

“Or not,” Simus said. He started to smile.

“We will regret of this haste,” Snowfall said.

“Or not,” Simus said.

Snowfall tilted her head at him. He was so close, she could feel the heat of his body, see the spark in his eyes. “And that would be the arrogance?” she asked dryly.

Simus laughed and then leaned closer. “Kiss me, or kill me, Snowfall.”

Snowfall hesitated, then reached for the dagger hilt.

A child’s horn called out, a rude bleating noise jarring both of them.

“Pive.” Simus swung his head around, growling at the interruption.

The children, scattered through the herd, were all pointing north.

Both she and Simus turned, squinting into the morning sun to see a cloud of black high above, stretching over the horizon to the north.