Partings
The long banners of the Kyree Orders rustled in the morning winds, forming brilliant silky waves over the courtyard of Kien Werren. These forty great pennants had each been carefully worked with an intricate design symbolizing the virtues of the founding Articles of the Kyree; the code of laws by which their entire society had been governed for nearly a thousand years. Above this vibrant, shifting canopy of color, the tower of Kien Werren—an ancient keep of the faeries that was the original southeasternmost outpost of House Qestardis—rose into the brightening sky, its delicate features cast into sharp relief in the slanting light of dawn.
Below, lining the sides of the great courtyard itself, stood the Kyree in carefully ordered ranks. Each stood tall, their posture achingly straight and their great feathered wings tightly folded against their backs, the tips of their long primary feathers crossed with precision behind them. Their arms were each held crossed in front of them, the right arm resting crisply atop the left, the fingers of both hands held knife-flat and as rigid as iron. The stoic looks on their faces belied the energy that seemed to charge the air like lightning.
Atop the walls surrounding the courtyard, a series of long trumpets were separated by ornately painted drums. The finely crafted instruments were ordered by lengths and breadths, from small to massive. The drums beat a constant rhythm like the slow beating of wings while the horns sounded precisely in their turn, weaving chords and patterns of sound that rebounded against the walls of the courtyard with their power and majesty.
Aislynn’s wing motions fell into step with the cadence of the march without her thinking about it. There was something about the pageantry, the barbaric music pulsing through her flesh that called to her. Raised as the Princess of Qestardis, she had been at court all her life and had participated in every kind of ceremonial event known to the Five Kingdoms. Yet never had she been as profoundly moved as she was this morning.
Aislynn was among the faery delegation entering the courtyard right behind Djukan and his two lieutenants. Djukan was arrayed in his father’s polished black battle armor. His father’s helmet—symbol of the honors accorded his family in life—rested firmly beneath Djukan’s tightly squared arm. His lieutenants wore their own armor, polished leather that glinted in the morning light. All three flew at a stately pace into the courtyard, their wings catching great scoops of air as though controlled by a single mind. They, like Aislynn, beat their wings to the tempo of the drums and the fanfares overhead. Behind the faeries were two ranks of ten Kyree, each holding a golden rope that supported the ornate black, polished chest, inscribed with gold symbols of the Kyree. Herein lay the ashes of Xian, the late, almost religiously revered leader of the Kyree. Though Aislynn could not see them, she was equally sure from the rumble of feathers behind her that the honor guard bringing the ashes into the courtyard was beating the air in meticulous synchronization with their masters at the head of the procession.
Behind them all was a single, aged Kyree. He did not fly, but purposefully walked behind the procession, one hand on the polished chest, his feet bound in sandals as he trudged the ground, his wings hung outward, and both tips pointing toward the ground.
“Such a wonderful beginning,” Aislynn gushed, barely able to contain herself. “I can’t think of anything more thrilling.”
Shaeonyn held her silence for a time before she spoke. “It will be a long and arduous journey, my Oraclyn-loi, on a road known only by the Kyree through lands we know to be infested with our enemies. What is more, not all our enemies may come from beyond the circle of our traveling companions. It would be to your credit to remember that truth.”
Aislynn glanced past Shaeonyn down the single line of faery delegates nervously awaiting their prescribed moment to enter the courtyard as part of the procession. Beyond Shaeonyn to Aislynn’s right, the four delegates from the remaining kingdoms struggled to maintain the exacting line dictated to them by Djukan. Of course, Sharajentei—the Kingdom of the Dead—was technically a sixth kingdom, but thus far the original five had not managed a consensus on approving that particularly thorny change in the language of the Fae. Indeed, if the current delegation was any indication, that would be a long time in coming.
Next to Shaeonyn floated Obadon, a tall, broad-faced faery from the court of Lord Phaeon. His head was completely bald—a startlingly unique trait for a faery—and his eyes were a disturbingly intense shade of blue so pale as to seem almost radiant. Though still slighter than the Kyree, Obadon had obviously been an accomplished warrior in the service of House Argentei. Even at a casual glance, it was obvious that so far as Obadon and Shaeonyn were concerned, no known measure of distance would be too great between them.
Next to, and constantly being crowded by, Obadon drifted a female faery of the Second Estate from House Vargonis, a distant kingdom that rested on the southern shores of Mistral Bay on the far side of Mnemnoris. Aislynn knew little about this woman beyond her name—Valthesh—and the fact that she was originally of the Fourth Caste and therefore an artisan. Her appearance, however, was intriguing; she wore her long dark hair in a loose cascade down her shoulders and back, her bangs partially obscuring her eyes. While combed with great care, her hair was nevertheless left unbraided and natural, completely contrary to the elaborate and controlled styles almost universally found among faeries at all levels of caste. Her dark wings, despite the overwhelming pulse of the drums and the horns overhead, continued to beat at their own pace, almost in defiance. A slight smile played at the edge of her lips as her sleepy green eyes moved easily from side to side, surveying the ranks of Kyree around her.
Then there was Gosrivar, an aging scholar from House Shivash. His long white hair ran back from the crown of his head, ending in delicate strands at the base of his fading wings. His chin was soft under the curve of his nose, giving him something of the appearance of a wrinkled bird. Aislynn had enjoyed pleasant conversations with him on the occasions that she had visited Shivash on diplomatic business for her mother’s court. But she could not think of why King Sithalian would send such a piece of stiff old leather as his delegate.
Finally, there was the faery delegate of House Mnemnoris, the besieged kingdom whose borders unhappily faced, in one way or another, all of the other Fae kingdoms. His name was Ularis and his skin was far darker than Aislynn’s own dusky tones, almost the color of night itself. His hair, however, was closely cropped and light gold like Shaeonyn’s, while his large eyes were a chestnut color that Aislynn had not seen before. He wore a beautiful tunic of linked silver rings so small that it was hard for her to make out one from the other even at this close range. Beyond his name and what she had observed, however, Aislynn knew nothing of this young dark faery.
Aislynn decided Shaeonyn was right.
At the head of the procession, Djukan and his lieutenants had flown in stately dignity to the top of the stairs. As if by some unspoken command, they then wheeled as one, folded their wings, and dropped the distance of a single hand-width down onto the top step of the keep. In that instant, the tempo horns and drums above them resounded with a thunderous chorus. The honor guard slowly pulled the golden ropes, raising the platform holding the polished chest until it was among them. Then the honor guard took hold of the long handles on either side of the platform, slowly settled to the ground, and folded their wings as they lifted the bier onto their shoulders.
The thunderous chord suddenly ended, dropping a silence over the assembly more profound than the music.
Aislynn waited breathlessly.
The only movement came from the banners overhead; the only sound from their cloth snapping on the wind.
Slowly, Aislynn became aware of a figure making its way around the right side of the formation. It was the old Kyree who had followed at the rear. He was limping slightly as he moved. His mane of hair was an iron gray that still showed signs of the brown that had once dominated its coloring. He came to stand at the base of the stairs, just in front of the faeries, and then slowly, painfully, lowered himself to kneel, bowing deeply.
Djukan’s voice cut through the silence. “Dekacian Sargo, you served our Lord Xian with unreserved honor. Will you now serve his memory in this, the hour of his final struggle?”
The old man tottered gamely to his feet. “I serve Lord Xian to the end of all honor and glory, My Lord.”
“Then, Dekacian Sargo,” Djukan said, his voice quivering with emotion, “you are appointed Guide of our Fathers. May the aeries of our ancestors smile down the paths of Mount Isthalos and guide you in the ways of honor in your endeavor.”
Aislynn caught her breath. Djukan had briefed them all the evening before concerning this part of the ceremony. They were about to take their first step down an irrevocable path.
The old Kyree bowed once more, then slowly stood erect, clasping his hands together near his throat. His voice wavered with age but nevertheless was strong. He turned slowly as he spoke, his words a ceremony called out to all the assembly. “I, Dekacian Sargo, am Guide of our Fathers to Lord Xian of Dunlar! Fear you the honored paths of the dead!”
Djukan stepped forward, descending several steps before raising his fist into the air and calling out, “I beg the honor of following the path!”
“And I,” rang out both of his lieutenants nearly simultaneously as their fists, too, were thrust upward.
“And I,” Aislynn called out as loudly as she could, her own right arm thrusting her fist into the air. Shaeonyn, too, called out in turn, followed by each of their fellow faery.
“And I,” shouted the twenty Kyree behind them, raising their free hands curled into fists.
“To the honor of this house!” shouted Sargo. “To the honor of our fathers! To the blessing of the warrior Xian!” With that, he threw back his weathered head and let out a roaring shout with all the breath in him.
At once, every Kyree present threw back their heads, adding their voices to Sargo’s. The shouting grew to a deafening roar as Sargo stepped to where he had followed the black chest into the area—only now he was facing the great doors of the courtyard. The honor guard simply turned around where they stood, changing the hand that gripped the poles on either side of the bier.
Aislynn turned as well. Clever, she thought, that the last of their number should suddenly be first when the procession reversed itself. She wondered if there was truth or significance in that fact.
There was little time for her to contemplate it, however, as the great gates were opening. The procession, now led by old Sargo, took flight and, with resolute beating of their wings, flew at a stately and grand pace through the main gate to the still deafening cheers of the assembled Kyree.
As they cleared the north-facing main gate, the procession turned slightly toward the northeast. Aislynn had a feeling that she had just passed the portals of the life that she knew. Ahead of her lay a dangerous territory whose landscape was unfamiliar to her. Just beyond the horizon of the gentle grasslands of the Shezron Plain lay a land inhabited by Famadorians, the feared enemy of all the Fae, and a vague notion of a sea to cross and a lost civilization to be rediscovered.
One thing above all troubled her, though, as she looked toward that horizon; she had an image in her mind’s eye of the figure of a handsome faery with a bright white scar on its wing, beckoning her toward that horizon.
And the wind was pushing at her back.