The One Who Could Not Fly Read online

  The One Who Could Not Fly

  E.G. Stone

  Copyright © 2020 by E.G. Stone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a Tarney Brae Creative Endeavours production.

  Edited by Vanessa Anderson

  Cover design by Fay Lane Graphic Design

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7347965-0-6

  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-7347965-1-3

  Created with Vellum

  Dedicated to Kendra,

  who is still in my contacts as

  The Coolest Person on the Planet…

  for obvious reasons

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  If there was one thing that Dagan, Firstborn Son of the Salusian Emperor, Heir Apparent to the throne and the Scourge of the Unconquered, revelled in, it was bloodshed. He had been trained from childhood to wield a blade for the honour of the Empire. But, over the years, he found he preferred to wield it for pure pleasure. If the honour of the Empire and his own pleasure happened to coincide? Well, then, that was something to behold.

  That day, Dagan led his armies to conquer a tiny nation hardly worth noticing. Their defences were weak. Those who fought against him were hardly capable enough to bother with. They probably could have been annexed with nothing more than a piece of paper and Dagan’s army standing on the border. Certainly, it would be easier and less costly for the Empire to pursue a diplomatic alternative. But Dagan still raised his sword and led his people to their victory. And he fought for blood.

  The ground was slick with the mud from blood and churned gore. The defending armies stumbled and baulked, flailing in failed attempts to fight back. They had not had time to prepare against the onslaught, nor enough time to prepare a surrender before the armies of the Empire had descended on them, eager for a fight. Dagan’s armies had fought in worse battles and were simply having sport now. Dagan was in the thick of things. He roared with pleasure as his muscles swelled at the activity. His skin, normally a golden-brown glowing with health and vigour, was smeared with dirt and blood and who knows what else. Sweat dripped into his dark brown hair making it lank. And his eyes, fierce, dark, glistened with passion.

  Dagan carelessly swung his sword in a needless arc, leaving his chest open for a counterstrike should his enemy chose. He supposed he should be wearing armour, but what was the fun in that? Oh, if these people had put up a fight with more than pickaxes and pole arms—that they hardly knew how to use—well, maybe he would have bothered. In the meantime, perhaps he could gather another scar to tell his father about when he returned from the campaign.

  His sword bit through the soft tissues his opponents left exposed as they tried to regain balance long lost. One soldier’s head severed cleanly from his shoulders and Dagan let out a bellow of victory. A quick glance around told him that his fellow soldiers were faring equally well. The defending army was all but obliterated.

  Dagan leaned over and scooped up the severed head by its hair, lifting it into the air and letting out another roar.

  “Victory to the Empire!” one of Dagan’s soldiers cried at the sight, hefting his battle axe into the air. The cry was picked up and echoed around the battlefield.

  “Victory! Victory! Victory!”

  Dagan looked a dead soldier in the eyes and laughed before tossing the head aside.

  The few left alive in the defending army slowly sank to their knees. Surrender. Unconditional.

  Dagan’s men walked up to them and raised their weapons.

  “Well, my lord?” Dagan’s Captain asked, a ruthless woman who wore her hair cropped to her skull and had kept up with Dagan since childhood.

  One day, he thought, he was going to tempt her into his bed and then they’d see who could keep up. For now, though, she was a valued asset and kept his armies going. Dagan considered the small, squirrelly man at her feet, eyes wide and pleading.

  “You!” Dagan pointed his sword at the man and grinned when he received a tremble in return. Dagan took a few squelching steps towards the kneeling man. Blood dripped down his face into his mouth and Dagan spit it out, the globule landing on the soldier’s armour.

  The man closed his eyes and gulped.

  Dagan levelled his sword, resting the tip at the spot where neck met open air.

  “You,” Dagan repeated, lower now. A demand.

  “Yes, m-my liege?” the soldier said, the words falling from his tongue like lead.

  Dagan smiled. Another nation conquered. Another people to bring into the fold of the Salusian Empire. It would be beautiful when Dagan returned to his father with the map of the Emperor’s new territories. He would be forever remembered as the Conqueror of the World. He would be legendary. And, one day, he would gain enough power to be a god.

  “Where is the nearest village?” Dagan asked, his sword point digging into the fragile skin of the fallen soldier’s neck.

  The soldier’s trembling increased.

  Dagan’s Captain held him still, as did all of the other soldiers with their captives. It was up to Dagan to decide what to do with them.

  “O…o-ver the hill,” the soldier flashed his eyes to a hill some short distance from the churned battlefield.

  Dagan turned and considered.

  “About half-an-hour’s march,” the soldier continued.

  Dagan raised his eyebrows. “Good. We won’t have to make camp here.”

  “N-no,” the soldier said.

  In agreement or defiance, Dagan did not know. He did not really care. Lifting his sword from the man’s neck, he wiped it on his dirty breeches, then sheathed the curved blade into the worn leather at his back and turned to walk away, stepping indiscriminately over bodies and mud puddles as he went.

  The soldier slumped in relief, only the Captain’s strong grip keeping him upright.

  “Kill them all,” Dagan said dismissively. By the time the screaming ended, he was moving towards the top of the hill and his army was following behind him. No one bothered to bury the bodies or set them aflame. That was a task for the villagers…When Dagan was done with them.

  The village had not liked being overrun by a conquering army. After a few complaints from older men and women who hadn’t been on the battlefield—women who had been home tending to the village and the children, and anyone who had not been there to see Dagan’s decisive victory—who were forced to feel the bite of his fists, the protests quieted. They gave him anything—or anyone—he demanded.

  Most of the army was camped around the village in tents set up by haggard servants. Those bold enough took the choicest beds from the villagers. Many were bold enough. Dagan’s tent had been set up in the centre of the town, all of its gild and elaborate hangings
just as bright as the day they had begun their campaign.

  Dagan may have thrived in the gore of the battlefield, but he was not unimpressed by luxury and had no qualms about taking what he wanted. He was Heir Apparent to the most powerful nation anyone had ever known. He was used to having everything he wanted at his fingertips. He spent money indiscriminately. The peoples and nations he conquered were enough for him to justify the pinched expressions of the bureaucrats back home in response to his admittedly high demands. His tent and the belongings his servants were required to drag with him echoed that.

  “To Dagan the Conqueror!” his Captain cheered, raising a flagon of the choicest ale the village could offer. The soldiers gathered around her cheered, some of the precious liquid spilling onto the bonfire. Dagan laughed as one woman hissed and retreated from the surging flames.

  “Is there anything like it?” Dagan asked his captain, liquid gold sliding down his throat.

  Instead of answering him, she drank and grinned wolfishly in the firelight. “What are you going to do when there are no more lands but the vast Wastelands and desert to conquer?” she asked.

  “I’ll search for the dragons and other magical beings rumoured to exist in the north,” Dagan announced. “And when I have taken their magic for my own, I will return to rule the Empire.”

  “You want to be a sorcerer?” she asked incredulously, raising her brow, then dragged her arm across her lips dripping with ale.

  Dagan laughed at the shocked look on her face. “I want to be immortal!” He bared his teeth. There was a pause between the captain and himself and then both burst out laughing, good moods buoyed by the alcohol and the rush of having beaten yet another people into submission.

  Little did she know, Dagan was truly thinking about how it could be done. Magic had supposedly been lost for generations. It was nothing more than a myth to tell hopeful children. But Dagan knew there must be a way. The legends would not exist otherwise. He never wanted to be as frail and old as his father. He wanted to fight and drink and revel forever.

  Dagan finished off his ale and threw the flagon into the bonfire, making the fire crackle and spit. His people let out a raucous cheer. Dagan grinned and stumbled towards his tent, where he knew his servants would have one of the beautiful women of the town waiting for him.

  The heavy drapery closed behind him, dampening the sounds of his people’s celebrations. Dagan did not like the quiet. He had never liked the quiet, even when it was in the form of well-deserved rest. He preferred to go until he dropped into sleep as black as night and just as empty. Or, like tonight, to fight a wildcat in his bed.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Dagan murmured, stumbling towards the enormous bed and its wrought iron frame. He expected to see a woman tied to its posts, eyes blazing with anger or fear. What he saw instead was a body. Dagan paused, his mind spinning as he tried to piece that into his vision of the night.

  Her face was bruised, bloody, as if Dagan himself had beaten her. Had he? Earlier that day, maybe? But, no, he would have remembered her. Underneath the bruises, she was lovely. But she was also dead. Her throat had been cut with one swift slice, just like what he himself would have done. That was silly, though. Why would he do that when he hadn’t even had his pleasure for the night?

  Someone must be playing a joke on him, Dagan decided. Maybe his Captain had gotten tired of the women he took to bed after his days on his campaign. Maybe one of his soldiers. How annoying.

  Well, there was nothing for it. Dagan would have to demand another woman. He would figure out the why and the who later. Right now, he was in the mood for—

  “Hello, Brother.”

  Dagan spun around, shock passing over his features. A figure stepped out from behind the changing screen. Unlike Dagan, he wore padded leather armour over his chest and carried not the single curved sword, but two shorter and thicker blades at either side. His hair was cropped short and would never be a temptation for an enemy in battle, as Dagan’s was. But the man shared the same golden-brown skin, the same dark hair, his eyes just as shadowed. Only, there was a wall of steel that kept his thoughts from showing in those depths.

  “Davorin!” Dagan held out his arms wide, his drink-addled thoughts moving straight into joy at the unexpected surprise. “You must be responsible for ruining my fun.” Dagan pointed to the dead woman on his bed and chuckled.

  Davorin did not smile.

  “No, Dagan, you were,” Davorin said, stepping forwards.

  Dagan frowned. Maybe he’d had more to drink than he should have.

  “I don’t understand.” Dagan drew his brows together.

  “Of course not,” Davorin said with a sigh. “I always have to explain these things to you.”

  “What are you doing here?” Dagan asked, just now realising that perhaps his brother shouldn’t be there.

  “Me?” Davorin took another step forwards. Dagan swayed on his feet. “I’m here to kill you, brother.”

  Before Dagan could laugh at the absurdity, Davorin surged forwards—the final step between the two, plunging a dagger into Dagan’s chest and then twisting. Dagan choked and looked up at his brother for a glimpse of explanation, of anything. Davorin’s features were perfectly impassive, as if he were no more interested in what was happening than if he were listening to a boring speech. Dagan stumbled backward. Davorin pulled the dagger out of his brother. He reached forwards to slip an arm under the staggering warrior.

  “Come on,” Davorin said calmly. “Let’s get you on the bed. I have to make it look like you fought back.”

  Dagan understood, now, why the woman was dead. She was supposed to have fought him. To have gotten his dagger away from him and stabbed him. Dagan would have fought back, might have even killed her with an efficient cut to her throat. And then, choking on his own blood as he was now, he would have bled out.

  Davorin stood over his brother until the last breath fell from Dagan’s throat. He put the dagger on the bed between the two bodies. He wiped his hands of blood on Dagan’s shirt. Then, he slipped out the back of the tent with no one the wiser.

  Dagan the Firstborn was dead.

  Chapter One

  Ravenna was born squalling into the night where no one but her sobbing mother and the scholar, Tacitus, could hear. Her mother’s wings hung limply at her side, their golden feathers matching her sweat-sheened skin. Her amber fire eyes were wide with tears as she stared at her daughter.

  Tacitus, his own golden wings tucked neatly behind him, put out a charcoal-dark hand. “My dear lady, it will be alright.”

  Her mother turned her head away from the baby that was offered her, her jaw flexing with unspoken emotion. Tacitus tried again, nudging her arms with the baby’s flailing fists, but the sylph woman refused to even acknowledge her daughter beyond sobbing harder. The scholar’s heart broke and he pulled Ravenna to his own chest, staring at her mother in pity.

  “So what if she does not look like—”

  “No,” the woman snarled. “Don’t you dare try to tell me about my daughter.”

  “My lady, surely it will be alrigh—”

  “No!” She was screaming now, repeating the word over and over again until Tacitus nodded his assent. She settled back against the low cot, moaning and sobbing. Her dark hair was still damp with sweat and she clutched at the ruined sheets with desperation.

  Tacitus tucked the tiny child to his chest and backed away from the woman, his head bowed. “I will take her, then,” he murmured. The woman jerked her head in a nod. Tacitus sighed and turned to walk away, his own amber eyes fixed on the crying child. She did not look like any sylph he had known, in recent memory or in history. No sylph in the Aerial City had pale-as-moon skin and black wings and hair. No, they were golden skinned like her mother or charcoal-ash skinned like Tacitus, each prized for their beauty. Their eyes were amber or brown and their wings were golden and brown feathers. All strong.

  Tacitus turned back to her mother one last time. “Do you
want to give her a name?” he asked, throat thick.

  She said nothing.

  “Very well.” The scholar turned and left the room. The bent healer was standing outside the room, his own wings nearly white-feathered with age. The healer looked up at Tacitus, eyes questing. “We will raise the child here.”

  “I see,” the healer said in a low voice. He reached out a gnarled hand and stroked the black hair away from her face. She quieted slightly, her tiny black wings folding around her shoulders as much as they could manage, the down feathers hardly enough to warm her. “She will be ostracised, you know, for her looks as much as for the fact that her mother abandoned her. Abandoned her here, no less.”

  “Her family will know her,” Tacitus said. Yes, the older sister to the one he cradled and her grandmother, they would know her even if the mother would not. At least the child was not sisterless or without female relatives. She would know them, if nothing else. That was the way of things. “She will have that.”

  “I wish it would be so simple,” the healer sighed. He gestured with his fingers and Tacitus reluctantly released the child. With expert hands, the old healer examined her from every angle, even grabbing her by her ankles and holding her upside down. Her wings flapped furiously as she squalled louder. The healer shook his head and returned the child to Tacitus.

  “She will have a normal life here,” Tacitus insisted. “It’s not the first time this order has raised a child away from the city. Even if the Intellecti are…separate.”

  “She will never be normal,” the healer said. “Her colouring forbids it. But worse than that, or the burden of the Intellecti, I fear she will never be as other sylphs.”