Veldyn
| traci (at) orossy.com |
Bryn’a’matyr, my beloved city, burns as the humans come. The tapestries woven countless years ago
blacken and curl until nothing but ash remains. Smoke chokes the hallway, transforming the screams of
my brethren into hacking, painful coughs. Footsteps too heavy for a Seraph echo in the hallways,
harmonizing with the deadly hiss of metal in a duet of pain and death. My people are dying. Seraphs
have betrayed their own to the humans.
Arwyn is dead. I know this, and have expected it. He lies in his hammock, blood pooling from the
red fountain in his chest. Two consorts lay below him on the ground, violated and drowned by their
own entrails.
In the hallway, worn smooth by years of use, the humans capture more fledglings alive and use
strong, rough hands to force their mouths open to drug them with a white powder. They fall limp in
their captor’s arms and are placed in wooden, hay-lined boxes to take away, to sell them as captives in a
land across the sea.
I am not supposed to be here. I know this with the same surety that this vision will come to pass,
and I can do nothing to prevent it. I don’t know why Lord Ivarya has chosen to force this latest vision
upon me, but it must stop—I want it to stop. Lord of the Wind, make this end. Why must the only
way out of these horrifying visions be with my own blood and pain?
Keening is the ultimate sound of despair for my people. I sound it now, when I am physically bound
and incapable of yielding by blood. I would gladly give it all, every drop to make these visions end. I’m
terrified of being trapped here, forever, watching my brother die over and over, watching his fledglings
crated up and carried away to be sold as slaves and pets.
Lord of the Wind, why won’t you let me do this? Pain is the only way to stop, to make the visions
end. Lord Ivarya, help me end this now—
“No, Prince Veldyn, that is not the way.”
Somewhere amidst the blood and smoke a human emerges. One of the invaders. He has the same
long hair, the same olive skin . . . but his eyes are familiar, cool and gray as a stone, as worthy of
respect and obedience as the blade of a sword.
He extends a hand, not in violence like the human invaders, but in friendship. I trust him. His voice
is too soothing for me to do otherwise. “You can make this vision end, but you must end it by force of
will instead of by use of pain. Follow my voice. Listen to me, and I will guide you back, this time.
Listen to me, and this vision will cease.”
I reach for his hand as he fades. The smoky, misty, bloody world around me follows him into
darkness, but I can still feel his presence, his voice as clean and strong as a coil of rope I can use to
climb out of this nightmare and back toward my body—
With a jolt, I am recovered of my senses, surprised and ashamed to feel the softness of human arms
around me, grasping my wrists to prevent me from tearing into my own flesh.
The calm gray eyes are staring at me now. I remember the name that belongs to them. Lord
Governor Maddren. He smiles as he sees my recognition. “Welcome back, Prince Veldyn.”
It is his son’s arms, the Healer’s, that hold me close. Lord of the Wind, it may be a shameful thing
to wish for comfort from a human, but I do not want Feisal to let me go. I need his warmth and vitality
after being surrounded by death in my visions. Feisal is a Healer, a mender of wounds and illness, and I
can find safety in his embrace.
All the same, I am no better off than a wild creature gnawing its leg off to free itself from a trap.
For all the intelligence we Seraphs believe we have, there are still base instincts to be ashamed of,
something in our avian ancestry that makes us act no better than a falcon in a blood-rage. They must
think me and my kind vile creatures, unworthy of their company. I turn my head away from the
Maddren Lord’s eyes, overcome with shame at my actions.
With a gentle hand, Maddren turned my unwilling eyes to his. “No, Prince Veldyn. We would not
judge you so harshly, nor judge your people on the actions of one or two. Please be at ease; there is no
shame in fearing such a strong mind-gift, nor is using the only resources you know to defend yourself
against it.”
“I shouldn’t be using it at all—“ I moan, knowing how I have betrayed the doctrines as well as my
brother’s trust. I didn’t ask to come here, to be at the mercy of the humans, or to be such a burden to
them.
Maddren’s kindly meant words do little to placate me. “I think, cousin-of-the-wind, that your denial
of your mind-gift makes it all the more fearsome. I am aware that your brother ordered you not to use
it, but you have asylum among us and your brother is not here. We would help you control your mind-
gift, Prince Veldyn, if you would allow us.”
I feel a chill when Feisal releases me, but when I see blood drip onto my breeches I understand why
he had to let me go. He hadn’t been fast enough to catch me before I did myself harm, and now he
must tend to me like a little fledgling to young to know better. Despite my best efforts, I let out a hiss
of pain as he pours a disinfectant over my cuts, but the burning dulls to a throb as his mind-gift flows
through me to mend my wounds.
“Will you let us help you?” Maddren asks as his son works. Of course, he knows with me in such a
vulnerable position I will have little choice but to accept. Still, I balk. How can I trust humans to help
me? What reason do they have, especially since I appeared with no invitation and unannounced?
“Cousin-of-the-wind, you asked for asylum, and I assure you we give it freely and will ask nothing
in return. I know you are afraid of your mind-gift and what it can do. I cannot make it go away for
you but I can help you control it.” His gray eyes still bore into mine. Too intense; I wrench my head
out of his grasp and turn back toward his son, who has finished tending my arms.
Lord of the Wind, if only he could. . . . Some part of me trusts him, but I still find it hard to believe
that these humans are willing to help me because I am a wounded creature in need and not because they
wish to exploit me in some way. I wanted this first meeting with the humans to be on my own terms,
with some amount of control involved, but now they see me as a helpless novelty, a legend made into
flesh and something to be studied.
“Leave him be, Patra,” Feisal says in Asteri. He wraps his soft arms protectively around my
shoulders much like Arwyn was wont to do when we were fledglings. Through the contact, I can hear
a conversation continued between father and son as though they were whispering in the next room, but
their mouths don’t move. They’re not speaking aloud. He is still a child, Father, far away and isolated
from his own kind.
Maddren’s face is stern, thoughtful. He is here for a reason. We must find out who—or what—has
been controlling him. It is not evil, or hurtful for the sake of being so, but it is a concern all the same.
Then we will find out, but not before he trusts us. Let me be a comfort to him. Look how he
shivers—these visions have been terrifying to him, with no one to understand—
You cannot save every hurt and wounded animal, nor can you treat Prince Veldyn as one. Forgive
me. Perhaps I should not have brought you into this after all. Your blind dedication will be your
downfall one day.
I cringe, remembering the brief vision I’d had of Feisal’s fate. He squeezes my shoulder, somehow
sensitive to my thoughts, and I do my best to send that memory too far away for Maddren to pick up.
He worries enough about his son; there is no reason to make him even more overprotective by showing
him the future.
Feisal smiles; he has heard this argument before. But you raised me on their tales, and there was no
one else you even considered. He needs our help, but the help he needs from me is . . . different from
yours. I am the Healer, Father. Let me give him what he needs.
You and your new ideas for how to treat patients. No wonder Healer Rewenna has called on me
numerous times, nearly pulling her hair out in frustration over all of your radical schemes. I trust you
my son, I trust in the generosity of your heart, but there is more at stake here than the opportunity to
prove that your methods work over those of the traditional Healers.
He is not a traditional patient. A good Healer adapts to his charges. Forgive me Father, but the
Healers at the Infirmary are set in their ways, spending too much time gloating over their mind-gifts
and expecting every student their to follow a predetermined plan. I bore my apprenticeship as well as I
could, but now, that I have the power and ability, there are a few changes I want to make, most
especially in treating a patient for more than his injuries!
Maddren sighs, half in regret, half in pride that his son refuses to follow his peers without question.
I admire Feisal’s strength. Lord Ivarya may wish me to break tradition and contact the humans in spite
of my brother’s refusal, but I do not have the heart or the will for rebellion. My apparent weakness
only makes Feisal seem like a martyr, yet someone safe and protective to cling to. It is the first time I
can recall wanting to be near someone and not being afraid of them. Arwyn is overprotective to the
point of creating rules to govern my actions, Navyn is kind but judgmental of the actions of those
around him, but Feisal—Feisal is a Healer, and I trust him to do nothing to harm me even though he is a
human.
“Don’t leave me,” I whisper. My head is still against Feisal’s chest and I can hear the strength of
his heartbeat. My next words are stilted from shame. “They’ll come back.”
Feisal throws his father one fierce look of triumph, and the Maddren Lord concedes. He shakes his
head a little, disappointment in his eyes. “He is not a pet for you to keep.” I raise my head at this
indignity. Maddren meets my gaze and sends a thought for me alone. He is exquisitely careful this time,
so the pain is minimal. <He is as young and rash as you are, cousin-of-the-wind. I ask you not to take
advantage of his good intentions. Rest well; I will speak with you soon.>
Maddren says farewell to his son and leaves us alone.
“Prince Veldyn,” Feisal asks quietly in my ear, “there is something I must ask you.”
I shiver. I know what he needs to know. “My visions are true, Feisal Healer. I am sorry for what
you had to see. Perhaps—perhaps you should leave so you won’t risk seeing anything else . . .
unfavorable.”
“Don’t be foolish. I’m not going to leave you for something so minor as that. If you say it’s true,
then you’ve given me fair warning to watch out for a golden-eyed, red haired woman.” He tries to
speak with a light heart, but I know he is worried. “No one here has that sort of prescience. Not even
my father.” His arms tighten a little around my shoulders. “You should rest, cousin-of-the-wind. No,
no, easy now,” he says when he feels me flinch. “I will stay with you. Any signs of a nightmare, and I’
ll pull you out, or my father will.”
I trust him. The gods know why, but I do. Within Feisal’s arms I may sleep, free from Lord
Ivarya’s visions.
Back to my books
blacken and curl until nothing but ash remains. Smoke chokes the hallway, transforming the screams of
my brethren into hacking, painful coughs. Footsteps too heavy for a Seraph echo in the hallways,
harmonizing with the deadly hiss of metal in a duet of pain and death. My people are dying. Seraphs
have betrayed their own to the humans.
Arwyn is dead. I know this, and have expected it. He lies in his hammock, blood pooling from the
red fountain in his chest. Two consorts lay below him on the ground, violated and drowned by their
own entrails.
In the hallway, worn smooth by years of use, the humans capture more fledglings alive and use
strong, rough hands to force their mouths open to drug them with a white powder. They fall limp in
their captor’s arms and are placed in wooden, hay-lined boxes to take away, to sell them as captives in a
land across the sea.
I am not supposed to be here. I know this with the same surety that this vision will come to pass,
and I can do nothing to prevent it. I don’t know why Lord Ivarya has chosen to force this latest vision
upon me, but it must stop—I want it to stop. Lord of the Wind, make this end. Why must the only
way out of these horrifying visions be with my own blood and pain?
Keening is the ultimate sound of despair for my people. I sound it now, when I am physically bound
and incapable of yielding by blood. I would gladly give it all, every drop to make these visions end. I’m
terrified of being trapped here, forever, watching my brother die over and over, watching his fledglings
crated up and carried away to be sold as slaves and pets.
Lord of the Wind, why won’t you let me do this? Pain is the only way to stop, to make the visions
end. Lord Ivarya, help me end this now—
“No, Prince Veldyn, that is not the way.”
Somewhere amidst the blood and smoke a human emerges. One of the invaders. He has the same
long hair, the same olive skin . . . but his eyes are familiar, cool and gray as a stone, as worthy of
respect and obedience as the blade of a sword.
He extends a hand, not in violence like the human invaders, but in friendship. I trust him. His voice
is too soothing for me to do otherwise. “You can make this vision end, but you must end it by force of
will instead of by use of pain. Follow my voice. Listen to me, and I will guide you back, this time.
Listen to me, and this vision will cease.”
I reach for his hand as he fades. The smoky, misty, bloody world around me follows him into
darkness, but I can still feel his presence, his voice as clean and strong as a coil of rope I can use to
climb out of this nightmare and back toward my body—
With a jolt, I am recovered of my senses, surprised and ashamed to feel the softness of human arms
around me, grasping my wrists to prevent me from tearing into my own flesh.
The calm gray eyes are staring at me now. I remember the name that belongs to them. Lord
Governor Maddren. He smiles as he sees my recognition. “Welcome back, Prince Veldyn.”
It is his son’s arms, the Healer’s, that hold me close. Lord of the Wind, it may be a shameful thing
to wish for comfort from a human, but I do not want Feisal to let me go. I need his warmth and vitality
after being surrounded by death in my visions. Feisal is a Healer, a mender of wounds and illness, and I
can find safety in his embrace.
All the same, I am no better off than a wild creature gnawing its leg off to free itself from a trap.
For all the intelligence we Seraphs believe we have, there are still base instincts to be ashamed of,
something in our avian ancestry that makes us act no better than a falcon in a blood-rage. They must
think me and my kind vile creatures, unworthy of their company. I turn my head away from the
Maddren Lord’s eyes, overcome with shame at my actions.
With a gentle hand, Maddren turned my unwilling eyes to his. “No, Prince Veldyn. We would not
judge you so harshly, nor judge your people on the actions of one or two. Please be at ease; there is no
shame in fearing such a strong mind-gift, nor is using the only resources you know to defend yourself
against it.”
“I shouldn’t be using it at all—“ I moan, knowing how I have betrayed the doctrines as well as my
brother’s trust. I didn’t ask to come here, to be at the mercy of the humans, or to be such a burden to
them.
Maddren’s kindly meant words do little to placate me. “I think, cousin-of-the-wind, that your denial
of your mind-gift makes it all the more fearsome. I am aware that your brother ordered you not to use
it, but you have asylum among us and your brother is not here. We would help you control your mind-
gift, Prince Veldyn, if you would allow us.”
I feel a chill when Feisal releases me, but when I see blood drip onto my breeches I understand why
he had to let me go. He hadn’t been fast enough to catch me before I did myself harm, and now he
must tend to me like a little fledgling to young to know better. Despite my best efforts, I let out a hiss
of pain as he pours a disinfectant over my cuts, but the burning dulls to a throb as his mind-gift flows
through me to mend my wounds.
“Will you let us help you?” Maddren asks as his son works. Of course, he knows with me in such a
vulnerable position I will have little choice but to accept. Still, I balk. How can I trust humans to help
me? What reason do they have, especially since I appeared with no invitation and unannounced?
“Cousin-of-the-wind, you asked for asylum, and I assure you we give it freely and will ask nothing
in return. I know you are afraid of your mind-gift and what it can do. I cannot make it go away for
you but I can help you control it.” His gray eyes still bore into mine. Too intense; I wrench my head
out of his grasp and turn back toward his son, who has finished tending my arms.
Lord of the Wind, if only he could. . . . Some part of me trusts him, but I still find it hard to believe
that these humans are willing to help me because I am a wounded creature in need and not because they
wish to exploit me in some way. I wanted this first meeting with the humans to be on my own terms,
with some amount of control involved, but now they see me as a helpless novelty, a legend made into
flesh and something to be studied.
“Leave him be, Patra,” Feisal says in Asteri. He wraps his soft arms protectively around my
shoulders much like Arwyn was wont to do when we were fledglings. Through the contact, I can hear
a conversation continued between father and son as though they were whispering in the next room, but
their mouths don’t move. They’re not speaking aloud. He is still a child, Father, far away and isolated
from his own kind.
Maddren’s face is stern, thoughtful. He is here for a reason. We must find out who—or what—has
been controlling him. It is not evil, or hurtful for the sake of being so, but it is a concern all the same.
Then we will find out, but not before he trusts us. Let me be a comfort to him. Look how he
shivers—these visions have been terrifying to him, with no one to understand—
You cannot save every hurt and wounded animal, nor can you treat Prince Veldyn as one. Forgive
me. Perhaps I should not have brought you into this after all. Your blind dedication will be your
downfall one day.
I cringe, remembering the brief vision I’d had of Feisal’s fate. He squeezes my shoulder, somehow
sensitive to my thoughts, and I do my best to send that memory too far away for Maddren to pick up.
He worries enough about his son; there is no reason to make him even more overprotective by showing
him the future.
Feisal smiles; he has heard this argument before. But you raised me on their tales, and there was no
one else you even considered. He needs our help, but the help he needs from me is . . . different from
yours. I am the Healer, Father. Let me give him what he needs.
You and your new ideas for how to treat patients. No wonder Healer Rewenna has called on me
numerous times, nearly pulling her hair out in frustration over all of your radical schemes. I trust you
my son, I trust in the generosity of your heart, but there is more at stake here than the opportunity to
prove that your methods work over those of the traditional Healers.
He is not a traditional patient. A good Healer adapts to his charges. Forgive me Father, but the
Healers at the Infirmary are set in their ways, spending too much time gloating over their mind-gifts
and expecting every student their to follow a predetermined plan. I bore my apprenticeship as well as I
could, but now, that I have the power and ability, there are a few changes I want to make, most
especially in treating a patient for more than his injuries!
Maddren sighs, half in regret, half in pride that his son refuses to follow his peers without question.
I admire Feisal’s strength. Lord Ivarya may wish me to break tradition and contact the humans in spite
of my brother’s refusal, but I do not have the heart or the will for rebellion. My apparent weakness
only makes Feisal seem like a martyr, yet someone safe and protective to cling to. It is the first time I
can recall wanting to be near someone and not being afraid of them. Arwyn is overprotective to the
point of creating rules to govern my actions, Navyn is kind but judgmental of the actions of those
around him, but Feisal—Feisal is a Healer, and I trust him to do nothing to harm me even though he is a
human.
“Don’t leave me,” I whisper. My head is still against Feisal’s chest and I can hear the strength of
his heartbeat. My next words are stilted from shame. “They’ll come back.”
Feisal throws his father one fierce look of triumph, and the Maddren Lord concedes. He shakes his
head a little, disappointment in his eyes. “He is not a pet for you to keep.” I raise my head at this
indignity. Maddren meets my gaze and sends a thought for me alone. He is exquisitely careful this time,
so the pain is minimal. <He is as young and rash as you are, cousin-of-the-wind. I ask you not to take
advantage of his good intentions. Rest well; I will speak with you soon.>
Maddren says farewell to his son and leaves us alone.
“Prince Veldyn,” Feisal asks quietly in my ear, “there is something I must ask you.”
I shiver. I know what he needs to know. “My visions are true, Feisal Healer. I am sorry for what
you had to see. Perhaps—perhaps you should leave so you won’t risk seeing anything else . . .
unfavorable.”
“Don’t be foolish. I’m not going to leave you for something so minor as that. If you say it’s true,
then you’ve given me fair warning to watch out for a golden-eyed, red haired woman.” He tries to
speak with a light heart, but I know he is worried. “No one here has that sort of prescience. Not even
my father.” His arms tighten a little around my shoulders. “You should rest, cousin-of-the-wind. No,
no, easy now,” he says when he feels me flinch. “I will stay with you. Any signs of a nightmare, and I’
ll pull you out, or my father will.”
I trust him. The gods know why, but I do. Within Feisal’s arms I may sleep, free from Lord
Ivarya’s visions.
Back to my books