A Flight of Broken Wings, page 32
part #1 of The Aeriel Chronicles Series
As he had expected, Tauheen didn’t move to avoid the shell. She didn’t even notice it coming. She was herself drained from the constant attacks, not even half as alert as she normally would have been. But more importantly, she was too engrossed in her task, too high on the pleasure of the kill to pay attention to her surroundings.
Not that the shell was worth paying attention to. By itself, it wouldn’t even have bruised the queen, much less kill her. It was weaker than the weakest shell he had formed as a tottering babe on his sister’s knee. But that was okay. Because its purpose wasn’t to kill or injure anyway. Its only purpose was transportation.
The shell detonated on contact with Tauheen’s skin. A weak blast, but sufficient, nonetheless, to bury the little rocks of enhanced sif into his mother’s already injured back.
For a moment, nothing happened. As if his mother had the power to stop time itself in order to stay the inevitable.
Then she screamed, glowing feathers scattering all around her like leaves falling off a dead tree. Shwaan wanted to scream too, but he didn’t have the energy. He had given everything he had into that last attack. He felt like he had drained his very life into it.
Tauheen’s fingers slackened around Ruban’s spasming throat. For a moment, she swayed on her knees like one of the drunk tourists they had passed on their way to the villa. Then she collapsed, dead.
Something in Shwaan had been keeping him upright. Most likely a repressed, lifelong urge to witness this glorious moment. As Tauheen collapsed, it was like somebody had cut his strings along with hers. An era had ended. And he had wiped the slate clean. Repaid the debt to the universe that he had inherited from his mother.
Whoever was going to write the new story didn’t need him for an epilogue to the last one. They could write their own bloody prologue.
With that comforting thought, Shwaan closed his eyes and slept.
“I thought you were dead,” said Ruban, trying – with dubious success – to force his voice into some semblance of nonchalance. To dislodge the knot that had formed at the base of his throat.
Ashwin blinked, rubbed at his eyes. Then he blinked again, looking up at the Hunter in confusion as, with some difficulty, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His braid had come undone sometime during the past hour and a cascade of messy black hair now framed his dirt-smudged face, their ends brushing the floor around his butt. He looked like he had just woken up from an unusually long nap. Ruban didn’t think most humans had ever looked more human.
And then, of course, there were the wings.
“Mighty stupid thing you did back there,” Ruban continued, gathering his supplies. There was the can of kerosene he had scavenged from the kitchen as well as a half-empty matchbox and some rags he had found lying around in various rooms of the house, concluding his morbid treasure hunt. “It’s a miracle you didn’t end up as dead as your mother.”
Ashwin grinned, then swayed momentarily on his ass, looking ready to keel over at the brush of a feather. “So, she really is dead, huh? Unbelievable, isn’t it? For a moment there, I almost doubted if she was capable of it. Dying, I mean.”
“I was rather sure she wasn’t. But then, I suppose a back-full of enhanced sif is enough to try anybody’s stamina. Even hers. Which brings us back to the fact that that was an incredibly stupid thing to do, what you did there.”
Ashwin shrugged. “Oh, I’d say I have some tough competition on that front.”
Ruban frowned. “You could be dead. Hell, for a few minutes I thought you actually were.”
“There are worse things in the universe than death, you know.”
“I have a feeling your sister would see things differently.”
“Oh, so that’s what had you worried, is it? You wound me, my friend.”
“Not half so much as she’d have wounded me when I told her I got you killed,” Ruban grunted, spreading an old, tattered rug over Tauheen’s corpse. “That is not a conversation I want to have. Ever.”
Ashwin scowled. “My demise in the process of offing my own mother – while infinitely awkward – would in no way have been your fault. But never mind that for now,” he cocked his head to the side. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Preparing a funeral pyre,” Ruban informed him tersely, setting the matchbox and the can of kerosene on the floor next to the rug.
Ashwin’s eyes widened. “A what?”
“A funeral pyre. If anything on earth can bring itself back to life after you’ve killed it, it’d be your mother. I’m just making sure that doesn’t happen.”
After a moment of stunned silence, Ashwin laughed. “You’re not serious.”
Ruban shrugged. “I’m a superstitious man. Besides, I’d rather not start an international incident over her feathers. I’m sure every government has some claim to them. And all of them would overestimate their own while downplaying everyone else’s. I’d say the world has bigger things to worry about right now than who gets the shiniest plume.” He snorted, “Like the fact that all of Tauheen’s followers are now adrift, leaderless. With both Reivaa and your mother dead, they’d either scatter and go into hiding, which would make them that much harder to apprehend; or, worse still, find themselves a new boss. The last thing we need to add to this tinderbox of a situation is a bunch of politicians squabbling on primetime TV about which country’s freedom fighters had fought the most bravely six hundred years ago.”
Ashwin nodded, grave. “Humans are odd creatures.”
That got him a smirk. “Says the guy who just tried a kamikaze attack on his own mother.”
“Point taken. Want some help?” Ashwin had pushed himself to his feet, teetering momentarily on unsteady legs before bracing himself against a sofa.
“Want to do the honours?” Ruban asked, holding out the matchbox to the Aeriel. Tauheen’s rug-wrapped body lay temptingly in the middle of the decimated entrance hall, doused in kerosene.
Ashwin looked at the proffered item for a second, then shook his head, smiling wryly. “Nah. Your claim clearly outweighs mine in this particular matter.”
The flames were yet to die down completely. The feathers, when they caught fire, had been a sight to behold – throwing multicoloured sparks of gold, silver and scarlet in all directions. The most exquisite fireworks Ruban had ever seen could not so much as begin to compare.
The distinctive sound of police sirens filled the air as Ashwin threw the windows open to let the smoke out – the ones which hadn’t been shattered during the fight, anyway.
At Ruban’s questioning glance, the Aeriel shrugged. “I texted Simani when we found the stolen ores in the safe. Guess she sent backup.”
The Hunter snorted. “You’re getting a hang of this, aren’t you? Won’t be long before you’re a full-fledged Hunter.”
“Zeifaa preserve me from such a fate,” Ashwin shuddered, even as his wings dissolved like smoke behind him. “What are you going to tell them?”
“The truth.” Ruban sighed, shook his head. Reaching behind a scorched couch, he dragged the bedsheet into which they had stashed the contents of the safe out into the room. Rifling through the documents, he finally found what he was looking for: the letter from his father to his uncle, dated a week before the former’s death. Mouth set in a grim line, he slipped it into his pocket. “Well, most of it anyway.”
Simani and the others arrived a couple of hours after the police, accompanied by the local Hunters, had reached the villa, which had now been put under lockdown by the authorities. It was almost dawn by the time his partner burst through the door, looking as if she hadn’t slept in a few decades. Apparently, after receiving Ashwin’s text, she had commandeered the private jet of some hapless businessman for ‘service to the nation’ and flown out to Ibanborah at supersonic speeds that still hadn’t been enough to quell her fretting – not until she actually saw Ruban alive and kicking with her own eyes.
The local authorities were just wrapping up their search of the house when the team from Ragah arrived. Not that they had found much, apart from what he and Ashwin had already discovered. Trying to explain the half-melted safe in the storeroom had given Ruban something of a headache, but he had finally managed it with some half-assed story about sensitive documents the Aeriels had tried to steal from his uncle.
His uncle. Ruban sighed, feeling his headache return with a vengeance.
They had taken the body to the nearest Hunter Quarters for a basic forensic run-through before it was to be flown to Ragah. Not that there was much doubt in anybody’s mind about how he had died. Anyone with eyes could see he had been killed by an energy blast. Killed in action. He would be put to rest with full state honours.
“What happened?” Simani had asked, putting an arm around Ruban as they carried Subhas’s body out of the house.
Her eyes had been so full of compassion and sadness that Ruban had almost blurted out the whole truth right then and there, had almost sobbed his confession into his partner’s comforting shoulder. The only thing that had held him back was Hiya. There was not much he could do for her. But this was something he could give her. She deserved an untainted memory of her father, of her childhood. And he wouldn’t take that away from her just to unburden his own conscience.
Bracing himself, forcing his voice to be steady, he told her the story he would tell a million other people a million more times over the course of the next few months – from reporters to biographers to the Director of the IAW himself. By the end of it, he half believed it himself.
“We had planned to lure Tauheen to the villa, Uncle Subhas and I.” He was surprised by how little his voice quivered as he said it. And any hesitance he had could easily be attributed to the lingering shock of the battle, the sorrow of his loss. “It’s away from the main town, so we had hoped we could deal with her here without endangering any civilians. He suspected there was a mole within the IAW, so we decided to do this on our own, without involving any outsiders who might compromise the mission and allow her to flee justice once again.”
He continued the story, the words falling from his lips almost of their own accord, once he had begun. Even as his mind wandered, he kept talking, almost in a trance. This was exactly how it had happened – in another world, in another life.
Their plan had worked. Tauheen had fallen for the trap, entered the house where they lay waiting for her. They had attacked her. But she was powerful, far stronger than even they had expected her to be. She had fought back, had almost killed them both. Working together, they had barely managed to contain her. Then, just as they thought they had won, she had attacked Ruban. He had been sure he was going to die. But at the last moment, Uncle Subhas had pushed him out of the way, sacrificing his own life for his nephew’s. Well, that part – at least – was the absolute truth, Ruban thought, swallowing a bitterness he could not explain.
Subhas Kinoh had died a hero, in the service of his country, his family. Enraged and grief-stricken, Ruban had killed Tauheen, he could barely remember how. Everything after his uncle’s death was something of a blur.
A spark from one of Tauheen’s energy shells had set fire to a rug, which in turn had incinerated half the furniture and Tauheen’s body with it.
It wasn’t a perfect story. But then, he didn’t need a perfect story. He had neutralised one of the greatest terrorist threats of all time, had brought the true extent of her atrocities to light. He was a hero, his legend surpassed only by that of his uncle. Death always seemed to enhance one’s deeds in life, good or bad. Nobody would think to doubt them. And if someone did, they would keep it to themselves. No one wanted to be seen as casting aspersions on the motives of national heroes. Being the media darling of the moment had to have some advantages after all, he thought sardonically.
And by the time the adulation was over, this would be an old story. And nobody cared what anybody else thought about an old story.
“It’s time to go, Ruban,” Simani murmured, touching him gently on the shoulder and snapping him out of his reverie. The house was empty, and he could hear the sounds of revving engines just outside the door. Ashwin stood at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe as he waited for them to join the others.
Ruban nodded, silently pushing himself off the step he had been sitting on. It was time to go home. Time to face the music. Time to face Hiya. He closed his eyes, wondering what he would say to her. What could you say to someone to make the destruction of their life seem bearable? Ruban certainly didn’t know. Nobody had said very much to him. He hadn’t given them the chance.
“Come on, let’s go,” Ashwin called, waving them out the door. “I have to report to my own superiors, you know.”
Despite himself, Ruban felt a smirk lift the corners of his mouth. His superiors, indeed. If only they could know.
Flanked by his partner and his friend, Ruban walked out into the sunrise and towards the waiting police jeeps.
Chapter 15: The Funeral
Reporters and cameramen flooded the venue of the funeral, broadcasting the premises, interviewing dignitaries and, as was their wont, making a general nuisance of themselves with exceeding relish. The gate, Ruban saw as their cab drove through it, was flanked by uniformed soldiers, who also brought up the rear of the venue, looking impressive in full military gear, like marble sculptures brought to life.
And then there were the Hunters. Hundreds of them, from every division in Ragah. And Ruban was sure some had arrived from beyond the capital as well; perhaps for the networking opportunity that such a gathering presented, or maybe just for the spectacle.
The Hunters weren’t in uniform, though. Every one of them was draped in some variant of mourning white. As were the politicians – grief-stricken in fashionably tailored tunics and jackets of the finest material. The who’s who of the IAW as well as the central government populated the venue – ministers, generals, diplomats – giving interviews, rehearsing speeches. Really, the only one missing was the Prime Minister himself, and Ruban had been personally assured by one of his aides that he would be arriving ere the end of the ceremony.
Subhas was to be cremated with full state honours, the media hailing him as a statesman, a hero. Flowers and letters sent from every corner of the country – and beyond – adorned the venue. Over the past few days, his face had dominated the front pages of almost every major newspaper, the story of Tauheen’s extermination aired on news channels around the world.
Had Ruban been of the inclination to be impressed, it was all very impressive.
And yet Hiya clung to him like she was drowning, clutching at his wrist with all her might as if he was all that kept her from the hordes of the underworld. Her eyes were bloodshot, face puffy and swollen from three days of constant, inconsolable tears.
She wasn’t crying now, though. She stood between him and Ashwin under a large tree near the peripheries of the funeral venue, her little body stiff under the numerous folds of her white silk frock. Every time he looked at her, Ruban half expected her to burst into tears. She looked seconds away from breaking, a rock teetering on the precipice. Indeed, Ruban hardly knew what held her back, apart from the sheer Kinoh stubbornness that ran in both their veins.
For all the relentless bawling she had done in the flat, her face buried in Ashwin’s soaked tunic, one of his wings wrapped protectively around her trembling, hiccupping form; she wasn’t going to cry in public, under the blinding flashes of a gazillion cameras.
Not even as complete strangers wept over her father’s body, some from genuine grief, others for the aforementioned cameras.
The sun had almost set by the time Ruban directed a murderous glare at another approaching reporter, sending the young woman scampering off after the Kanbarian ambassador – who happened to have wandered into her vicinity – and away from their little unit. He was too late to pre-empt the flash that went off, almost blinding them, from the other side of the venue, though. Ruban tensed, his mind flying automatically back to the fight, to the flashes of Tauheen’s devastating energy blasts.
Years of training – aside from Ashwin’s vicelike grip on his arm – was the only thing that kept him from reaching for his blade, from physically attacking the cameraman and grinding the offending device into dust.
A whimper, soft and quick, escaped Hiya. Ruban looked down at his cousin – his little sister in all but name – and felt the anger drain from his body, leaving him shaky with the sudden absence of adrenaline. And something like relief. A crying Hiya made his heart ache with helplessness, but a silent one terrified him.
The dam had broken, however, and tears flowed unchecked down her face, turning her nose red and causing damp spots to appear on the collar of her frock. She sobbed, sniffed, hiccupped, then sobbed again, the moans gaining in volume and energy with every passing second.
Standing awkwardly by, a hand pressed to her spasming shoulder, Ruban felt the now familiar dread creep back up his spine. Even after three days, he didn’t really know how to deal with this. What to do when Hiya got like this.
He had never been much of a consoler. And now, with all the secrets, all the lies, he seemed to be even worse at it than he normally was.
Ashwin dropped to his knees, his face level with Hiya’s blotchy, tear-streaked one. Ruban spared a moment to be thankful for immortal Aeriels practiced in the art of consoling distraught little girls.
Carding his fingers through her messy hair, he murmured something into her ear. Almost instantly, Hiya’s sobs quieted, subsiding into tremulous little hiccups. “R-Really?” she sniffled, wide-eyed, wiping snot off her cherry-red nose with a silken sleeve.
“Yep,” said Ashwin, nodding gravely. “Everyone knows it. Didn’t you?”
