Fire Wings

1. Exiles-2

The fire had grown to a tall cone of bright flame, and the sky shifted to a darker hue by the time more exiles arrived—a young woman about Shamil’s own age and a tall, well-built man several years older. Although they shared the pale skin of the central and northern Treaty Realms, the mismatched attire and accents bespoke markedly different origins.

The young man wore his blond hair in thick braids, an iron band engraved with runes encircling his brow and a straight sword at his belt. A leather jerkin studded with flattened copper discs covered his torso, and he wore a bearskin cloak about his broad shoulders. As he introduced himself, he revealed a set of even white teeth in a smile, voice rich in both surety and humour. “Tolveg Clearwater of Wodewehl, good sirs. Well met we are, and friends we’ll stay, I’m sure.”

As he bowed, Shamil noted the scars on his neck. They were an extensive, overlapping matrix of injury that evidently proceeded down his back, also not long healed judging by their colour. Tolveg, however, didn’t appear to feel any pain as he straightened, nodding in appreciation as Shamil and Rignar offered their own names in greeting.

The woman was a stark contrast to her companion, saying nothing as she crouched to extend her hands to the fire. Her hair was jet black, catching a silklike shine from the fire, and her skin even more pale than Tolveg’s. It possessed a near alabaster whiteness that recalled the ancient marble statues of long-forgotten gods Shamil had seen during his journey north. Her cloak was of finely woven wool, and her soft leather trews and jerkin betrayed the hand of a skilled and no doubt expensive tailor. Her weapons consisted of two daggers, one on her belt and another smaller blade tucked into her boot. As she shuffled closer to the warmth, Shamil saw she also had a leather sling and pouch attached to the left side of her belt.

“This is Lyvia,” Tolveg said, taking a seat beside Shamil on the fallen tree limb he and Rignar had harvested from the wooded slope below the ridge. “We met on the trail a few days ago.” He raised an eyebrow at Shamil, his hearty tones subsiding into a sigh. “She doesn’t say much.”

Lyvia’s eyes, as dark as her hair, flicked up at Tolveg, a small crease of irritation marring her smooth brow before she returned her full attention to the fire.

“You’re from the Crucible Kingdom,” Rignar said. His tone was that of a statement rather than a question, and Shamil saw a new depth of interest in the mage’s face. He stared at the woman crouching by the fire with a strange, intense scrutiny that spoke of hard, perhaps unwelcome recognition.

“I am,” she replied, voice quiet and flat in a clear signal that further conversation was not welcome.

“Ah, a Mara-Vielle accent—noble too.” Rignar observed, undaunted. “Which house?” His voice held a depth of interest that failed to stir a response from Lyvia. Her lips remained firmly closed, and she kept her hands outstretched, refusing to turn.

“Gondarik, I’d say,” Rignar said with a note of satisfactio. “So there’s royal blood in your veins.” He angled his head and leaned close. Shamil saw the woman tense, hands withdrawing to her belt. “Her blood. Not that I need a name to tell me that.” His voice grew softer, eyes unblinking as he shifted to gain a better view of her face. “Just an inch or so taller and it would be as if she’s risen to walk amongst us . . .”

“Put your eyes elsewhere, old man!”

Hearing her give full throat to her voice, Shamil found she possessed the oddest accent he had heard in all his travels. The words were spoken with a careful precision despite the rapidity with which she uttered them, the vowels soft and the consonants clearly enunciated. This, he realised, was the voice of ancient nobility. Royal blood indeed.

She rose to face Rignar, her face somehow managing to convey both a snarl and imperious disdain at the same time. “I’ll not be gawped at! Mage or no. And my blood is not your concern.”

Rignar reclined in the face of her anger, a half-smile playing over his lips as he raised his hands. “Spoken like a true queen,” he said, which did little to calm Lyvia’s ire.

“Well, I’m not a queen.” She turned away from him, stalking to the opposite side of the fire to sit down, arms crossed and her back to them all. “I’m just a dishonoured, disgraced outcast, like each of you.”

Silence reigned as her voice faded, although Tolveg apparently found such a thing intolerable. “I prefer ‘honour-seeker’, myself,” he said. “For that is why we came here, is it not? And this is not my first journey to far-off lands, let me tell you. Once, I stood at my uncle’s side when he captained a ship all the way through the ice shards to the lands of ash smoke where the gryphons still soar . . .”

Shamil listened politely as the warrior continued his tale, finding much of it hard to credit, even though it was spoken with an earnest sincerity. The northman’s tale wore on as Rignar unfurled a blanket to settle down to sleep, whilst Lyvia, plainly having already had her fill of Tolveg’s voice, rose and walked off to seek shelter amongst the surrounding rocks. Eventually, once it became apparent this story was unlikely to have an end, Shamil abandoned courtesy and slumped down at the edge of the fire’s glow. Wrapping his cloak around himself, he soon drifted into sleep to the sound of the northman’s unending recitation, seemingly indifferent to the absence of an audience.