Without magic to fuel such a massive spell, the entire ship would collapse and we’d all end up in the ocean. I was glad for the gods’ aid, since swimming wasn’t something I was good at. Wings made it difficult to move through deep water.
The ocean was no place for an amüli, but my aunt Nymdre used to pace the beach every morning and evening. When I was younger, she had an accident while on one of her walks and was lost at sea. But she didn’t actually die. Thanks to her Soulbound human keeping her soul safe, she stayed alive but drowned over and over again. I recalled her sunken cheeks and the lines of black veins that webbed her pale skin when Father pulled her from the waves. After she came to, all she did was scream over and over again, until Father forced her into a Soulless silence to end her suffering.
It was not a pleasant memory.
Soulless amüli lost their souls, and in a sense, their lives. They survived in a state of nonbeing, and though their bodies never truly decayed, their veins would congeal, their eyes would become blind, and their wings molted. Some scholars claimed Soulless amüli were still somehow alive, though I doubted it.
I pushed the thought away and urged Mizen to keep going. The sooner I met with Uncle Melroc, the better. I had vague memories of him from childhood, but I hadn’t seen him since my fifth birthday. Father and King Urudel always seemed to find a use for him, and that use rarely kept Melroc in the city.
As we walked across the deck, I realized the floor of the ship glowed with every step we took. Most of the time, the clouds pulsed with blue, but occasionally, red would crack across the surface.
I knew about the gods, of course, but not much. Matrisk fueled the red magic, since she was often associated with anger and offensive spells, and was warmer than the other gods—almost searing hot, according to my texts. Batrisk was the bluish-green magic, colder than the wintery wilds to the far north; he was used for defensive spells, and I figured he also fueled whatever spell these casters used. There was a third god, one I understood little about.
I hurried after Mizen through a doorway into another room formed from clouds, and from there, we flew up to another clam-shaped level. Some of the lower levels had stairs between them, for amüli who were injured or too young to fly. After we touched down, Mizen indicated an enormous door, which was wide enough for us both to pass side by side without complaint. The character for captain was emblazoned above it. The word glowed in the clouds, a cool, inviting blue-green.
“Should I go in with you?” he asked.
“I hoped you might. Uncle Melroc hasn’t seen us since we were children.”
A fond smile crossed his lips. “All right.”
He approached and knocked, which surprised me. Part of me had expected the door, also made of the strange clouds, to merely vanish beneath his touch. Instead, it sounded like a solid surface to my ears.
“Enter,” a heavy voice called out from the other side.
The door vanished, and we slipped inside. Within was a wide open chamber, and in the center stood a massive table made from the same clouds as the rest of the vessel.
Uncle Melroc shut a massive tome as we walked in. His periwinkle eyes glinted when he noticed us, and he stood, opening his mammoth arms. Unlike Father and my other uncles, who were tall and thin like Mizen, Melroc was stout and strong, like a moving mountain. He ran fat fingers through his thick, wild beard. Beads of jade and polished wood and some tiger’s eye gems glinted in the light that seeped through the cloudy walls.
I recalled Melroc striding into our feast hall years ago—wide, tall, grinning, his hair less peppered with gray back then, his face painted in bold hues of green and copper. Whenever he turned, his hen wings had almost always hit someone. When Father called him up to stand beside him on a raised dais of rock, Melroc had jumped into the air. The second his wings snapped open, I thought he’d fall, but somehow his girth glided safely to the dais. Though Uncle Melroc was enormous, he wasn’t fat—not even back then. Every ounce of him was muscle.
“Lads, lads, to what do I owe the visit? Come now, a hug.”
Mizen hugged him, though quickly, as if someone might see. He pulled away and motioned to me. “Uncle, you remember Frendyl.”
“Ah, Ilbondre’s youngest.”
I smiled but shook my head. “No longer, sir. I have two younger brothers now.”
“No need to be so formal.”
“Lord Ilbondre has requested you take Frendyl on as an apprentice and that he assist in....” Mizen paused. “In seeking what you’re after,” he finally allowed, though only in a low voice.
“Ah. Let me see, then.” Melroc held out a beefy hand, as if expecting a letter.
Mizen nodded at me, and I pulled the vellum page from my soft leather vest. A spurt of fear raced through me. The letter was forged, of course, Mizen using his far neater handwriting to pen the message within. The green wax seal, which Mizen had stolen from Father, had the two mallards of our House pressed into it. The wax popped when Melroc thumbed the letter open.
His eyes narrowed as he read the message, and his lips drew into a tight frown beneath his beard. For a few terrifying heartbeats, I worried he wouldn’t accept the letter—or me.
Then he motioned to Mizen and said, “Lad, tell the high lord thank you for his generous donation, and I’ll take good care of Frendyl here.” Still, as he spoke, his gaze, which had gone steely, remained locked on me.
I tried to stand tall, as if I were supposed to be there.
Mizen rested a hand on Melroc’s arm. “Thank you, Uncle.”
“Sure, sure.” Melroc pulled him in for a second tight hug. “Now, I haven’t seen you both in far too long. Would you care for some spiced mead? Or some schlava?”
“I appreciate your generous offer,” Mizen said with a laugh, “but I must return to Drüssyevoi.”
“Much to accomplish today, eh?”
“More than I’d like,” my cousin said with a warm smile.
“Well, get used to it, lad. You’ll be ruling the city before you know it, then the work will never end.”
Mizen likely wouldn’t gain control of the city for another couple hundred years. I might even become a knight before he took his spot as high lord of Drüssyevoi. Still, he smiled at Melroc’s comment.
Before he left us, Mizen gave me a fond squeeze on the shoulder. “See you soon,” he mouthed.
And then I was alone with Uncle Melroc in the room, the clouds in the walls swirling lazily and closing the doorway, as if guided by some wind I couldn’t feel.
Melroc sank into his large chair and exhaled before running his hand over his face. “Now, Frendyl, explain to me why you two lied.”
My jaw dropped open. The way he’d handled Mizen, I was sure we’d gotten away with it and that Melroc believed the letter was from my father.
“Look, I know my brother’s handwriting and the scent of his blood well enough to tell the difference between this”—Melroc tossed the letter onto the table—”and the real thing. Now....” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the edge of the table top, and pressed his lips against his clasped hands. “Explain to me why the two of you would lie.”
I sucked in a deep breath and let it out in shaky bits. Not how I thought this would go. Melroc was my favorite adult relative—and I have a lot of them, so that was saying something—and the disappointment radiating from him made me want to curl into a tiny ball and fall through the floor.
