Airlean Tales

Wes stood before stately double doors of oak and gilded gold. They were remarkable works of art in their own right, as were most of the fixtures within the Geppett manor. Engraved by a master craftsman, the doors depicted a frame of flowering trees and twisting vines, and at the center, a luminous sword embedded in a great stone.

Every child of Airlea was familiar with the legend of this sword. Excalibur, it was called: a mythic weapon forged at the beginning of the world, appearing only to the worthiest of heroes in the hour of greatest need. But with its location and capabilities lost to time, Excalibur was treated as little more than a tavern yarn, idly thrown about to pass a long evening.

Wes raised his hand and knocked on the door, prompt and firm. Barely one second passed before he was answered.

“Enter,” said a low voice from within the room.

Wes pulled at the ornate handles and stepped inside.

Lord Roland Geppett in all his stately robes and lapel pins was an imposing man, and his study an equally imposing room. Suspended on pedestals of dark, luscious wood was a grand assortment of wartime memorabilia: battle standards, historic helms, and swords polished to perfection, all engraved with the Geppett leaf crest—an overwhelming display of their family’s warmongering legacy.

Wes drew up in an attentive military stance, spine straight and shoulders even. “You summoned, Lord Father?” he said.

Lord Geppett did not look up from whatever he was writing, nor did he bid Wes to sit. He let Wes stand there for a long moment without acknowledgment. A devastating insult, had Wes been a guest from another house. But he knew it to be an unspoken message: I own you, boy. You are below me, and there is nothing you can do to change it.

Eventually, Lord Geppett appeared to tire of his papers. He set aside his quill and regarded Wes with a cold look beneath thick brows.

“You were short with the young lady last evening,” he said.

Wes’s jaw twitched. He wanted to lash out—to demand why his father had summoned him in the dead of night, just to stuff him like a turkey and send him off to a frivolous birthday gala. But he already knew the answer. The gala had been hosted by the beautiful, eligible Lady Alison Hart, whose father monopolized the printing presses and, accordingly, held significant sway with the mercantile guild. A worthy connection for House Geppett, who boasted military power and weapon trade.

“My apologies,” Wes said smoothly. “I did not intend to appear unsociable.”

“Then you did a poor job of it,” Lord Geppett said.

“As always, it would seem,” Wes muttered.

“Do not be clever with me, boy,” Lord Geppett snapped. “A bedpost would have provided more invigorating conversation. Must you always insist on disrespecting your company?”

Wes couldn’t hold back a bitter chuckle. “Disrespecting my company?”

“What else would you label such an absurd violation of civility?”

Wes straightened, a burning feeling trickling down his spine. “This was no simple exchange of pleasantries, Lord Father. Arranging dinner so we sat across each other? Orchestrating me to be her first dance? Your intentions were made quite clear.”

“And you saw fit to spit upon them.”

“Unfortunately, I am one of those sentimental fools who wishes to marry someone whose company I enjoy.” Wes’s voice dropped to a mutter. “A notion foreign to you, perhaps.”

Lord Geppett pretended he had not heard. Of course he would—just like he pretended his wife did not exist, shutting herself in her room, sickly and morose and descending into histrionics.

“Your selection is rapidly shrinking, boy,” Lord Geppett said, his voice hard. “You have met with nothing but the finest women, well-mannered and intelligent with extensive education. What fool fancy are you waiting for, a princess? A Mythic Star? One of the king’s lapdogs, a Royal Hunter?”

Wes could not rise to the goad. He could not risk Azalea’s identity. He bit the soft flesh of his inner cheek until it bled.

“The truth is that you are a coward,” Lord Geppett said, “and all your protestations for love are a frail excuse. You are only delaying the inevitable, boy. Sooner or later, you must select a wife.”

My condolences to the lady, Wes thought. But he said nothing.

“This is beyond matrimony, even beyond forming alliances.” Lord Geppett stood, looming over Wes, and turned to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “The time is coming for you to assume control of the estate. You must be prepared.”

“Surely one of my brothers would better suit—”

“Do not speak of those fools,” Lord Geppett said sharply. “They cannot steward their personal chambers, much less an estate. Or are you so eager to watch your bloodline fall into ruin?”

Wes cared nothing for his bloodline. It had never cared much for him. But on this count, he could understand his father. His brothers were brutes who reveled in power and violence, and he hated the thought of them controlling an estate and private army almost as much as he hated the thought of controlling it himself.

“What would you have me do?” he said resignedly.

Lord Geppett straightened. It seemed that they had, at last, reached the heart of the matter. Wes braced himself.

“The Thorn Company has been developing steadily,” Lord Geppett said. “Take command of it.”

Wes exhaled. Military command. It could have been worse, much worse.

“The Thorn Company,” he said carefully. “A unit that you’ve personally trained, I presume?”

“Hardly,” Lord Geppett said. “They have just concluded basic conditioning and require further instruction. I thought it would be appealing for you to have the opportunity to shape a company from its inception.”

Appealing for his father, maybe, who enjoyed such activities. For Wes, the thought of carrying the fates of a hundred men was nothing short of terrifying.

“I don’t suppose I could decline?” Wes said flatly.

Lord Geppett’s eyes narrowed. “On what grounds?”

“I’m no captain, Lord Father. The company would be handled poorly.”

“Your Academy scores in military strategy and subunit tactics would say otherwise, boy.”

Wes held back a curse. Of course that was the one thing his father would pay attention to. “Scores distributed by your staff, Lord Father. Surely you’ve considered that there might be some, shall we say, bias—”

“Enough.” Lord Geppett fixed Wes with a steely gaze that squeezed his lungs. “I tire of your excuses.”

Wes fell silent.

“Allow me to elucidate,” said Lord Geppett. “You will assume command of the company, or you will find your license to the Board revoked.”

There it was, the ultimatum. Wes had walked into the room expecting it, waiting for it—but hearing it as cold, sharp syllables from the mouth of his father still stabbed him in the gut. He would never be anything more than a puppet, dancing by his father’s strings.

He struggled to keep his tone even. “Then what might my duties entail?” he managed.

“Return to the estate for drills and tactics, two days per week. And tonight, you shall muster them at the town of Grimwall for the next surge.”

Wes barked out a sharp laugh. “Grimwall.”

“Save any impudent words, boy—”

“Grimwall is so deep within the Airlean borders and so insulated, you might as well send me out as a nanny.” Wes shook his head. “Very well. I’ll lead your guard there and oversee their vacation. Maybe we’ll bond out of boredom.”

Lord Geppett’s face darkened. “Then would you prefer to see the frontlines, boy? Do you thirst for blood and flesh on your hands?”

The acrid taste of his words surprised Wes, who paused for a moment to find his reply. “I simply would prefer to be stationed somewhere useful, if I must be stationed at all.”

“Or you feel the call in you to fight and win, and you cannot ignore it.” Lord Geppett’s eyes were burning. “You are my son. It will always be in you.”

No. He couldn’t be further from the truth. Nothing about Wes could bear the violence and cruelty of the battlefield, and that would never change. He wouldn’t let it change him.

But Wes’s gaze fell to his hands, and for a moment, he swore he saw blood caked into the grooves of his skin.

Stop it—stop it, Wes, he’s learned his lesson—

He swallowed past a rush of ice in his veins and spoke.

“Very well,” he said, his every syllable on a leash so tight that it nearly strangled him. “Send me to Grimwall. I’ll enjoy the very peaceful, idyllic surroundings.”

“I am certain you will.” Lord Geppett was not angry. He was smiling as if he knew something special.

Wes didn’t give him the pleasure of a dismissal. He turned and left the study, heading back to Mythaven with an angry ache pounding in his skull.

The air was beginning to smell of rain, but more was changing than just the weather.

As Wes strode through Gallows Square, he took note of how the windows were shuttered, how the merchants’ wagon-stalls had dwindled to a scant few, how the parents ushered their children indoors before the sun had even set. He dropped by Granny Mabel’s stand—of course she would remain with her baked goods, rain or shine, war or peace, to the very end of the world—and purchased two milk buns. He must have looked disastrous after arguing with his father, because she slid him an extra mint and patted him sympathetically on the shoulder before sending him on his way.

Wes slid into the workshop. The fragrant wood creaked under his shoes in greeting, and a few strands of golden sunbeams drifted through the window. He shrugged off his traveling cloak and tossed it carelessly over a stool, then stopped short when a glimmer caught the corner of his eye.

Azalea was curled up on the plush chair beneath the window, sleeping quietly and haloed by warm sunlight.

Wes’s breath caught and his heart pinched. She looked so peaceful, bundled comfortably in her favorite corner of his workshop. He sighed and pulled a light blanket dotted with patterned wildflowers from his shelves. As he tucked it around her, a lock of golden hair spilled over the curve of her cheek. He instinctively reached out and brushed it behind her ear. Her skin was soft, aglow with sunshine, a lingering warmth on his finger.

He pulled back. There was no point in pining. He had no freedom and she had no interest. To wish for anything more would just invite pain. Easier said than done, given that he’d been smitten with her for years. But he would manage. He had thus far.

Wes turned back to his workbench, but he’d barely taken a single step when a hand gripped his sleeve.

“You’re back,” said Azalea sleepily. She sat up and rubbed at her eyes.

Wes crouched down. He was hovering close, too close. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She shook her head, her lashes filtering the light. “I’m glad you’re safe. How was it?”

Wes’s mind ran blank, and he stared at her, tongue-tied. He tried to pull up a reassuring smile, but his lips refused to listen.

“You’re upset,” Azalea said softly.

Her eyes were wide and liquid green, pulling him in, coaxing the words from his mouth. Here in the safety of his workshop, huddled close to her, warm and whispering, Wes felt shielded from the outside world.

“I’m to assume command of a company that Father has trained.” The voice in his ears was calm and measured—nothing like the simmering frustration, the boiling rage in his gut.

Azalea’s lips parted. “Are you going to accept it?” she asked quietly.

Wes’s gaze dropped. “He’d have my license revoked otherwise. Probably would blacklist me from the Board.”

“He can’t do that.”

“He’s Lord Geppett. He can do whatever he damn well pleases.”

Azalea slid off her chair and settled on the patch of floor next to him. Her hand reached up, and Wes felt her small, gentle fingers press at his temple, guiding his head to lie on her shoulder. He had no strength to resist; he sat there, cheek pressed to her cloak, quietly breathing in the sweet scent of wildflowers and strawberry fields from her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He closed his eyes as she combed her fingers through his hair. Her velvet touch was a balm, and he let himself indulge. “’S not your fault.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

He shook his head slightly. He wanted nothing more than what she was already doing. He shifted to nuzzle into her shoulder, but as he did, he felt something squeeze in his pocket.

“Ah,” he said, remembering. “There is something.”

“Tell me.”

“You could…eat this lonely milk bun.” He grinned and retrieved the squashy wrapper, waving it tantalizingly before her face.

He was rewarded with a smile that lit up like a firework. “Oh, Wes, you shouldn’t have.”

“Yes, I should have. So I did.”

She giggled and eagerly popped open the wrapper. There was something satisfying about the way she ate. She treated every bite like a favorite song, or a brand new color. It was one of Wes’s favorite things about her; she was always so observant to the beauty around her, from the flavor of a pastry to a well-executed windsole maneuver.

It was almost enough to make the sour encounter with his father fade completely. Almost.

“What are you going to do?” Azalea asked softly, eyes trained on him as she munched on her milk bun.

Wes’s smile faded. “Comply, I guess. I have to set out tonight, muster the company at Grimwall for the next surge. He didn’t leave me much choice. If I don’t, then I lose…all this.” He waved a hand vaguely around the workshop.

“It sounds like he wants you to lose it anyway.”

Wes blinked. That was true enough. If he fought his father, he would find himself disgraced, jobless, and homeless. But if he acquiesced, he would only continue down the path of his father; heirdom, a loveless marriage, and a lifetime of nothing but paperwork and politics. Either way, he would lose his workshop and his freedom. And he would lose Azalea.

“Do you think,” he said softly, “that I should try to fight back?”

He never would have considered the option before. His father had seemed so powerful, so invincible. A festering anchor that would never change. But the Royal Hunters defied their limits every day. Maybe Wes had just been deluding himself with excuses, and now was the time to—

“Oh, no,” Azalea said, paling. “Don’t fight him. He’s too scary. He’d definitely win.”

Wes blinked, then laughed. “If it were you, you would fight.”

“That’s what gets me in trouble,” she mumbled.

Wes watched her face. Her eyes darted to him, then away. She coughed lightly.

“’Zalie,” Wes said. “What happened?”

Her gaze shifted. “Hm? What happened to what?”

“’Zalie.”

Her shoulders slumped. “You always know. I don’t know how.”

Maybe because every thought was scrawled across her face, plain as day. Wes sat up straight, eager for a good story.

“Did you get into a fistfight?” he asked. “Blow up a town? Trash the whole guild?”

Azalea visibly flinched. Wes gawked.

“Wait, you actually—”

“Not the whole guild,” she said, lowering her head. “But, um. I’ll…have to face disciplinary action.”

Wes fell into stunned silence.

“I’m not trying to run from it,” Azalea said quickly. “Or, well, um, not for long. See, the guildmaster was out when it happened, so I—I wanted to see you, you know, before I’m detained, or maybe discharged, I don’t really know what the punitive damages might—”

“Before you’re what?” Wes’s blood quickened. “Mythics, ’Zalie, what happened?”

“I broke a table,” Azalea said miserably.

Silence dropped over the workshop. Wes blinked.

“No, I mean, that sounds—it trivializes my transgression. What I meant is, I destroyed guild property. Brandished my weapon in a peaceful environment. And, and I threatened the guild members, Wes, my own associates.”

“Wait,” Wes said. He wet his lips. “Wait.”

Azalea waited.

“How did you…wait, did you shoot the table?”

“Oh no,” Azalea said, wide-eyed. “It wouldn’t do to fire indoors. I swung my sword.”

“Your short sword.”

“Yes.”

“And you broke a hardwood table.”

She wilted. “Yes.”

Wes stared blankly at her. “Wow,” he said.

“I know.” Azalea buried her face in her hands. “I’m awful.”

“Awfully strong,” Wes said bemusedly. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

She flushed. “I was just, I was so angry, because I went to get help and nobody was doing anything—oh, I’ve been on a mission the past few days, where the First Hunter taught me how to kill a Class Four—anyway, the other Hunters were just sitting around, making bets—”

“Wait, wait, the First Hunter? A Class Four? ’Zalie, you killed a Class Four?!”

“Yes, sort of. Anyway, I was trying to get reinforcements from the guild, but they weren’t responding. But how could they not? Lord Halcyon had been ambushed, and it wasn’t by just anybody! It was the Whisperer, and it happened right after fighting the Four—”

“The Dragon Whisperer?!” Wes choked. “You ran into him again?”

Azalea nodded. “He jumped us right after we dispatched the Class Four. It was quite odd, and very rude. I think I would have died if it had just been me.”

Odd. Rude. Dead. Wes felt a tickle in his chest—the bewildered, hysteric kind of chuckle that would be difficult to stop once it started.

“Lord Halcyon distracted him and let me get away,” Azalea continued matter-of-factly, “I was afraid he would die, so I decided to enlist reinforcements from the guild. But nobody responded apart from jokes, so I lost my temper, and, um. That’s when I did something very regrettable, and—why are you grinning, Wes?”

It burst out all at once. Wes laughed, the kind that shook deep out of his chest, honest and unstoppable and a little disturbed. “It’s just, you know. We both go on trips for a few days. One of us prances around in a stuffy suit, and the other apprentices under the First Hunter, slays a Class Four, and goes head-to-head with the Dragon Whisperer. Oh, and breaks a hardwood table with a short sword, can’t forget that.”

Azalea flushed red to the tips of her ears and buried her face in her hands again. “It wasn’t, it really wasn’t all that. The First Hunter did mostly everything. And, and who knows, maybe tomorrow I won’t be a Hunter anymore. I’ll be dishonorably discharged for being harmful and volatile.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“It could happen.”

Wes frowned. Hunters broke tables all the time. Guildmaster Cotton was probably just counting her blessings that it had been a guild table. If Wes recalled correctly, Hunters had previously shattered the priceless stained glass windows of the royal palace. Not even during the Battle of Havenport or anything—just during a silly game of kickball, where both teams had gotten carried away and started terraforming, summoning cyclones, and launching deadly projectiles. Needless to say, it was a miracle that only windows had been shattered that day.

“I’m sure it’s happened before,” Wes said with a shrug. “At the very worst, she’ll give you a stern word and dock your pay.” He nudged her shoulder. “Just go talk to her. It’ll be alright.”

“Okay,” Azalea mumbled. She kicked at the floor.

“Want me to come with?”

“Oh, no, I’d rather be humiliated in private. But thank you.”

Wes held back a smile as she slid to her feet, scarlet cloak rippling like butterfly wings. She nibbled morosely at her milk bun and slipped out the door, cute and funny and beautiful at once. He watched her leave, watched the wind sigh through her golden hair in parting, watched the workshop door sway shut. He felt his pulse throb in his throat, and he knew.

He had asked her whether he should fight against his fate, against his father, but truthfully, he’d never had a choice. He had to fight to keep this. No matter what it demanded of him.