A Flight of Broken Wings, page 4
part #1 of The Aeriel Chronicles Series
“What do you need me to do then?”
Circling like a rather lethargic bird of prey over the dilapidated mansion under the starry Zainian sky, Shwaan cursed himself for agreeing to his sister’s ludicrous scheme. The darkness of the earthly night made him twitchy and uncomfortable. He knew that it was psychological, at least to an extent. Aeriels were perfectly capable of surviving – hell, thriving – on earth. He himself had lived there for a substantial chunk of his childhood before the Rebellion, had in fact never laid eyes on Vaan for the first two centuries of his life. He could still remember a time when the perpetual sunshine of the Luminous Realms had seemed strange and alien to him. But that theoretical knowledge of his body’s resilience didn’t stop him from feeling the off-kilter jitteriness that the now unfamiliar darkness brought with it.
It was more than just the instinctive aversion to darkness natural to his kind, though. For Shwaan, the gloom brought back memories. Memories of earth, memories of the Rebellion. Of his home burning as hundreds of screaming, bellowing attackers set the trees and the gardens on fire, hacked at the walls with swords and spears, axes and sifblades. Of the walls crumbling against the onslaught and the barricades on the doorways giving way. Of his mother, fierce and snarling, glowing silver with unadulterated fury even as the last of her strongholds collapsed around her, sending blinding white flashes of pure energy flying in all directions, killing humans and Aeriels indiscriminately; her dark eyes – so much like Safaa’s – alight with a mad frenzy. And of Maya, holding him, cradling him in her arms, whispering comforting nonsense in his ear with tears in her eyes even as she locked him in the little dark cellar before running up to the upper levels to join her husband – one of the attacking soldiers – in the fray. He had never seen her again after that night.
Shaking his head to clear it of his wandering thoughts, Shwaan adjusted his wings slightly, folding them closer to his body as he dove down towards the mansion. He had cased the place to the best of his ability, given the darkness of the surroundings, and near as he could tell the building was empty. He swooped in through an open window on one of the upper floors, left discreetly unlatched by one of the servants when the place had been locked up a few weeks ago at Safaa’s request. The request was delivered through Wakeen along with a substantial amount of gold and three sterling, full Aeriel feathers, priceless in their radiant beauty, undiminished by the damage usually inflicted during Hunts. His Lordship Ashwin Kwan, 27th in the line of succession to the Zainian throne, was going to be a very rich man once all of this was over, as were some members of his household staff. Shwaan landed smoothly in what appeared to be the master bedroom.
He took a moment to regain his bearings. He was standing near a humongous old mahogany bed covered in velvet and silk sheets that had seen better days. The walls that surrounded him were covered in bright yellow wallpaper that looked like it could do with a change and the soft-wool carpet under his feet was frayed, yet by no means unpleasant. Slowly, he walked to the front of the massive chamber and stood before the full length mirror attached to the oversized dressing table, gazing at the incongruous sight of silver hair and pearly eyes that stared back at him through the glass. With one quick flap he made his wings disappear; they looked oddly jarring within the restrictive confines of an earthly dwelling.
With a final sigh of resignation, Shwaan reached into the inner pocket of his loose feather-cloak. If he was going to do this, he figured he might as well do it right. Safaa might be paranoid but she was a capable strategist. And if she was so convinced that Vaan faced an imminent threat, well, it couldn’t hurt to check it out. Besides, Shwaan hadn’t been to earth in over six hundred years, and if he was being completely honest with himself, the thought of exploring this new version of his old home was profoundly exciting to him, vexing as it was to have to do it in this ridiculous disguise.
He withdrew the glossy bit of paper Safaa had handed him as she all but threw him out of Vaan and towards earth, squinting at it curiously. It appeared to be a portrait – extraordinarily lifelike – of a young man with long, jet black hair and onyx eyes, his locks braided to one side with a long purple ribbon running through the intricate weaves. His pale skin was flushed with what Shwaan presumed was recent exertion, even as he smiled widely at someone not in the frame of the portrait. The picture was nothing like the ones he’d seen on earth as a child. Humans had always had a fascination for having their likenesses preserved on paper – or on any available surface, really. But this particular portrait looked considerably clearer and more realistic than anything he remembered seeing in his time on the Mortal Realms. He supposed it was another one of the humans’ many formulas, vaguely impressed despite himself. Their psychotic bloodlust aside, mortals could be rather cute when you least expected it.
Putting the picture down on the dressing table, Shwaan took a seat on the plush – if slightly frayed, like everything else in this house – cushioned chair in front of the mirror. It was time to become the man whose identity his sister had paid handsomely to borrow. Opening one of the two drawers in the dressing table, he could see that his absent hosts had kept their end of the bargain and made all the necessary arrangements for his arrival. Flipping the picture over, he scrutinised the instructions – written in a clear, flowing script – on the rough, plain side of the glossy paper. It took a moment for him to get used to the unfamiliar mortal script – humans had so many of them, like they invented them for the kicks. As if calling the same thing by a million different names brought them some kind of inexplicable joy. Once his brain had adjusted to the intricacies of this particular language – Zainian, his sister had said – he began preparations for his transformation in earnest.
He withdrew a little black bottle from the assortment of what looked like make-up items in one of the drawers. Following the instructions on the paper carefully, he uncapped the bottle and poured some of its contents onto the palm of his hand, sniffing delicately at the faint scent of lavender the pitch black stuff emitted. Slowly, with not a little trepidation, he rubbed the dark liquid into his hair, applying it in long, light strokes as the instructions on the picture mandated. To his astonishment, after just a few seconds of running his stained fingers through his formerly silver locks, his hair had turned pitch black, nearly indistinguishable from the natural colouring of the Honourable Ashwin Kwan. Humans never ceased to amaze. Shwaan chuckled as he wiped his fingers on a towel hanging from a hook near the dressing table.
Flipping his newly darkened locks back over his shoulder, he hunched down over the drawer to look for the next item on the painstakingly detailed list. He found the little blue box with the two tiny red circles on it in one corner of the overstuffed drawer. Flipping the cover open, he found inside it two identical dark ovals of what appeared to be really fragile glass. Reading over the instructions once again, Shwaan shrugged. Carefully, he raised one of the tiny dark lenses to his eye, placing it as delicately as possible over his own iris. He repeated the process with the other lens, more confident with every step he completed, then blinked owlishly at the reflection in the mirror. He laughed. He was not even halfway done and he barely recognised his own image.
Finally leaving his seat, Shwaan stood in front of the mirror, scrutinising his own image for any imperfections. His long hair, now black as the night, was braided to one side in an intricate array of weaves and twists (each apparently signifying some variety of rank or lineage). A single broad purple ribbon – one of the many accessories he had found within the treasure trove of the drawers – was woven through its length, distinguishing him as a member of the Zainian aristocracy (a custom he still remembered from some of his grandmother’s dinner parties during the days of his early childhood, long before the Rebellion). His skin was still pale, as befitting a northerner, though slightly more tanned than his original complexion. Aeriels did not tan naturally, but a little lotion went a long way in creating a believable illusion. Wide dark eyes, framed by long, inky lashes stared back at him through the glass.
Moving towards the closet near the back of the room, Shwaan shed his white feather-cloak, tossing the garment to the bed to be dealt with later. From the closet he withdrew a simple, loose white tunic and black trousers. The more elaborate Zainian costumes would not mix well with the warmer – and more humid – climes of his ultimate destination. Finally he threw on a light, grey frock-coat with dark velvet cuffs, buttoning it a few inches below his throat. It would probably make him stand out somewhat in the middle of the monsoon in Vandram, but then, that was rather his intention – to be foreign enough to be remarkable, yet familiar enough to be utterly non-threatening.
Finally, in a flash of silver, he plucked a single feather out of his wing and lighted it with a small, golden cigarette-lighter he had plucked out of the drawer along with the other knick-knacks. He then tossed it at the cloak lying on the bed. The latter ignited in a shower of technicolour sparks that would have temporarily blinded any man who looked at it directly. As it was, the prismatic fireworks flared, and then died slowly, releasing irregular bursts of colour and light, without attracting any undue mortal attention. Quietly, Shwaan unfurled his wings and swooped out of the mansion through the same window he had entered, gaining momentum and altitude until he was little more than a tiny speck in Zaini’s starry firmament.
There was nothing particularly remarkable about Himli. It was a tiny, dusty old town in northern Vandram, adjacent to the Zainian border. The buildings on either side of the main road showed their age in peeling paint and crumbling facades and the shops lining the streets were warded by superstitious sigils and symbols borrowed from both Vandran and Zainian lore, presumably guarding the businesses against the djinns and demons of both the lands. Being so close to both, Shwaan supposed one couldn’t take a chance.
He walked at a leisurely pace through the dusty lanes of the border town, drawing curious glances and excited murmurs from the locals wherever he went. It wasn’t so much that Zainians were a rarity in this town. Quite the opposite, in fact. Shwaan could have sworn that at least half the citizenry had some Zainian blood in their veins, and he wasn’t even counting the hordes of Zainian merchants and travellers that thronged the streets and the market. Huge, decorated trucks painted with the colourful coats of arms of the different noble houses of Zaini were parked at every street-corner, laden with imported cargo. Their drivers crowded the various pubs near the border to take a break before continuing on their journey to Ragah or one of the other major cities of Vandram.
No, it wasn’t so much his assumed nationality as his (apparent) rank that drew the attention of the townsfolk. For all the Zainians it hosted, Shwaan was pretty sure it wasn’t often that the dilapidated little town received a member of Zaini’s storied aristocracy. The purple ribbon in his hair might as well have been a flashing beacon, turning heads and inspiring enthusiastic speculation wherever he went. Traders and merchants muttered about secret trade pacts between Vandram and Zaini while the labourers and urchins thought up more exciting possibilities, churning out stories ranging from political unrest in Zaini to clandestine love affairs between the rich and the powerful of the two nations. Had he wished to avoid making such a spectacle of himself, Shwaan could just have taken off the ribbon and allowed his hair to rest in a simple braid on his back. But for this particular part of the plan to work, he needed to be remarkable, to stand out and cause a stir. On earth, he had discovered, a little remarkability went a long way in getting people to give you what you wanted, without having to actually ask for it.
In the two weeks he had been on earth, Shwaan had travelled the length and breadth of Vandram, had been many different people in many different places, chasing trails – both Aeriel and mortal – to the elusive formula that had brought him to earth in the first place. He still wasn’t quite sure what it was he was looking for. Any information about the formula itself was buried under piles of secrecy, rumours and speculation, and Shwaan doubted he would be able to get the complete truth unless he walked into the SifCo facility and spoke to the Head Researcher in charge of the project personally. This he would have to do eventually, though how he would do it he couldn’t begin to imagine.
For now, however, Shwaan had more pressing problems to deal with. Aeriel activity had been noticed near the SifCo premises recently. Nothing so conspicuous as a real Aeriel in full public view, but errant Aeriel feathers found around the premises and intermittent reports of minor break-ins and the theft of documents from some of the smaller labs and offices near SifCo.
The few Aeriels that had remained back on earth after the Rebellion – by choice or necessity – rarely appeared in their true forms, unless for an all-out attack on humanity. For all other occasions, they preferred some form of human disguise; as efficient a method as any to avoid a Hunter on your back and a sifblade through your throat when you weren’t in the mood for a fight. From what Shwaan could tell though, his earth-bound brethren weren’t planning to attack SifCo. At least not yet. Instead, they seemed to be casing the place. Which meant that there might be some truth to Safaa’s apprehensions after all, far-fetched as the whole thing was. All Aeriels on earth were controlled by their mother, and if Aeriels had their eye on the formula, Shwaan was sure it was with Tauheen’s knowledge, if not by her orders.
What was more worrying, however, was the fact that, as far as he could see, the humans seemed to be doing nothing about it. Shwaan found it hard to believe that the Vandran authorities and their much-famed Hunter Corps knew nothing about the Aeriels’ activities, when he had learned so much just by talking to the facility’s cleaning staff and the traders and shopkeepers operating around the area. The situation would have been impossible to ignore, unless someone was trying deliberately to cover it up. Someone with the clout to interfere with a project of this magnitude.
Despite Safaa’s claims, Shwaan still found it hard to believe that a human would deliberately conspire with Aeriels to undermine their own people. Humans were nothing if not bigoted and insular. In the past weeks, he had seen first-hand the prejudice and oftentimes, sheer hatred with which humans regarded Aeriels. He supposed it was natural. After generations of being saddled with nothing but his mother and her coterie, he was quite sure he would have hated Aeriels too – and he was one. But that still didn’t explain how Tauheen and her pack had managed to avoid detection for so long. What could she possibly have had to offer, to make someone powerful enough to influence such an important project, turn on their own?
Shwaan sighed. Well, if he couldn’t have all the answers now, there was only one thing for it: to delay the inevitable until he could understand enough of the situation to turn it in his favour. He came to a stop near the latest street-corner he had strolled into and looked up at the large, garish signboard across the street.
The Red Poppy was one of the better pubs in the locality, frequented more by merchants and travelling businessmen than truckers. He pushed through the heavy glass doors of the establishment and walked hesitantly up to the bar. Eyes wide and hair tousled in the early monsoon winds, Shwaan looked the picture of innocent apprehension as he sat awkwardly down at the bar and waited. If his plan had worked, his quarry should be here any moment.
As the rickshaw bumped along the narrow, uneven lanes of Himli, Casia Washi looked down at her phone and smirked. One of the interns had just sent along a relatively clear – if slightly grainy – picture of the elusive Ashwin Kwan, some distant relation to the king of Zaini and presently, her single greatest lead in the SifCo business. Heads turned in her direction as her rickshaw skidded along the ill-maintained streets of the border town, and she suppressed a groan with some effort. One of the downsides of being on TV every day was that one couldn’t go out chasing a lead like one used to – not without running the risk of becoming the news rather than finding it.
Oh well, at least this Lord Kwan could be trusted not to be too bedazzled by her prime time reputation. While her show was popular, she was quite sure it had a long way to go yet before it could claim any kind of international recognition. And from what she had learned of this Kwan so far from her sources, he certainly didn’t sound like the type to watch foreign news programmes for fun.
Saving the photo to her gallery, Casia grinned. The familiar anticipation of finally getting closer to a good story buzzed under her skin, making her heart beat a little faster. She was profoundly grateful for all that she had been given, by fate and her own dogged refusal to let go when she should. And she would not have traded her prime time slot for the world. Yet, Casia did sometimes heartily miss her days as an anonymous young reporter. You got a lot more actual reporting done when people weren’t gawking at you as you passed by.
She supposed it was her own fault for insisting on doing this personally anyway. She could easily have sent one of the junior reporters along for the first contact and allowed them to lure Kwan to Ragah, where their meeting could have been a lot less conspicuous. But if this lead panned out the way she expected it to, this could turn out to be their biggest story in, well, months. Ever since the Parliament attacks, certainly. And an exclusive too!
Besides, if Casia was absolutely honest with herself, she would have to admit that to an extent, she felt rather territorial about this particular story. She had been chasing clues and rumours about Aeriel activity at the SifCo facility for months now, but none of it ever seemed to lead to anything. Every lead she tried to follow turned out to be a dead end, and if she could get a penny for every time Jiniya had told her to drop the chase and concentrate on something else, something that yielded more tangible results, she could retire comfortably to Ibanborah tomorrow. But something in her gut had told her this was important, that this was the real deal and that the isolated incidents and rumours floating around SifCo added up to something more, and Casia had learned early on in her career to trust her instincts when it came to things like these.
