A Flight of Broken Wings: Aeriel Trilogy #1

Chapter 106

When the dizzying array of lights and colours that constituted the journey to Vaan dissipated from his vision, Ruban blinked his eyes open to behold the Vaan Court, the original seat of the Aeriels' power in the universe.

If Ruban had ever tried to imagine what Vaan would look like – and he had not – this is not what he would have pictured. They stood in an enormous auditorium decorated in themes of white and silver – okay so maybe that part was expected. The hall wasn't built on any architectural model Ruban was familiar with, however. It stood supported by a series of pillars adorned with ephemeral motifs woven from what looked to be threads of argent light, which kept moving and rearranging themselves into ever-changing new patterns. The structure had no roof, the pillars attached to the edges of the walls by horizontal beams. Unhindered sunlight – brighter than the brightest summer day on earth – flooded the room with the dazzling radiance of a solar flare. Contrarily, the temperature reminded Ruban of a cool winter morning in Surai. A light jacket would not have gone amiss.

Clouds floated freely all around them, seeming to dance and twirl in orchestrated chaos. The floor he stood on was obscured by a translucent mist that hovered serenely over his boots, sprinkling them with condensed moisture like dewdrops. The walls on either side were decorated with the same evanescent murals that adorned the pillars, arranged in even more intricate patterns. A large, arching doorway occupied a significant portion of the wall in front of him.

"You can let go of my hand now, you know. We're not flying anymore," Ashwin prompted, his voice tinged with amusement. Ruban jerked, letting go of the Aeriel's hand as though it were on fire. He had apparently been too engrossed in the sights to pay much attention to the company.

He tried to tell himself he was only casing the place for possible dangers. The assertion rang hollow even in his own mind.

As he turned to face his companion, he realised that Ashwin had let go – even if temporarily – of his simulated humanity. His wings spread out vast and resplendent behind him, the feathers glistening in the sunlight, and his eyes were once again the colour of freshwater pearls.

"By Zeifaa, it's good to have some sun again," the Aeriel said, his wings arching upwards and back, reminding Ruban of a cat stretching herself after a long and satisfying nap. "No offence to your country, Ruban, but damn Vandran monsoons to the darkest pits of hell. I thought I was going to die of depression."

"By all means, stay home and spare us the dubious pleasure of your company," the Hunter shot back, though it came out rather half-hearted. "Where do we go from here?"

A melodious screech – the sound was indeed as contradictory as that description would indicate – pierced Ruban's ears even as a fireball with wings shot towards them over the walls of the auditorium. It landed with an awkward flop on Ashwin's shoulder, and Ruban had to blink a few times to accustom his eyes to the brightness of the creature before him.

It was a bird. A bird on fire. Or a bird made of fire. Ruban blinked again. The thing was what would happen if you set a particularly large falcon aflame without actually burning it. Red-and-yellow flames danced around the bird's folded wings and over its head. Its beak looked like something forged from molten metal. It screeched again, the strange sound giving Ruban the simultaneous urge to flinch back and lean forward, both at the same time.

"This is Miranki," said Ashwin, petting the fiery creature like it was a new-born kitten. "Say hi to Ruban, Mir."

The bird squawked, glaring at the human.

"Your pet?" Ruban asked drily. He had heard the usual children's stories about the firebirds of Vaan, of course. Fairy-tales about the ferocious creatures that had rained fire and fury upon the revolutionary forces centuries ago. And like every other kid over the age of five, he had dismissed them as baseless old-wives' tales.

Ashwinshook his head, still petting the bird. "My sister's."