Airlean Tales

The roads were beaten and empty where Azalea walked. Trade had temporarily ceased and travelers were scarce, leading to a very quiet journey up the northern path. Echo had been trailing behind for some time, uncharacteristically silent. Azalea didn’t know why, but she would count her blessings. The encounter with her parents had left her feeling sore, and she was not in the mood to entertain witty repartee.

She tipped her head up and breathed in the damp air. Being like this—alone, in a quiet place where the world ignored her—reminded her of the beginning, when the Knight’s Academy of Mythaven had seemed so fresh, so new, and so very, very big.

In those days, she’d been alone. None of the other students wanted anything to do with her. When she smiled and greeted them, they ducked their heads, or turned away, or in rare cases, met her with a sneer. She tried sitting with others at mealtime, but whenever she set her plate on a table, the others would make themselves scarce. Or kick her from the table.

“I’m sorry,” a pretty student said once, tossing her head so her golden curls bounced on her shoulders. “We don’t allow animals at this table, forest girl.”

Azalea hadn’t understood at first. “That’s alright,” she said, moving to sit. “I don’t have one.”

“I’m talking about you, uncultured swine. Now get your filthy mitts off this table!” And she kicked Azalea hard in the shin. Azalea stumbled, spilled her beef roast and baked potato all over the floor, and learned her lesson.

It was because, she learned later, she was poor and lacked influence. Of the Academy’s many students, only three were commoners who lacked any tie to the noble houses. The Academy was not merely a battle school, after all, but a prestigious institute that primed its pupils to become officers, captains, and Hunters through a myriad of illustrious connections. Admission was not limited to the aristocracy on paper, but the astronomical tuition practically made it so. Commoners would find better luck enlisting in the National Garrison and attempting to climb the ranks there.

But because Azalea had been sponsored by not just her da, but all of Maple Point—the town-reeve who liked the cookies she baked, the militia captain who taught her bladework, the carpenter who bought lumber from her da, the teacher who loved the fresh fruit from her ma’s garden—she had just narrowly been able to afford enrollment. It had demanded a price from her, too; she’d trained with the militia day and night to win the Academy’s Grant for Promising Youth, which would quarter her tuition.

Of course, none of her efforts would change the fact that she was poor as dirt and lacked any noble backing. So long as that was true, the other students would have nothing to do with her.

It was a few weeks into the academic year when Azalea walked into the dining hall and saw a group of students crowding around a table, deep in discussion. She recognized one of them as the boy who had given the perfect windsole demonstration, the one who everybody was always whispering about—chestnut hair, downy brows, and a pleasant face.

He spoke heatedly until his cheeks flushed. The other students yelled back at him, then turned away and left him sitting alone at the table. He slumped back in his chair, looking so tired and dejected that Azalea’s heart ached for him.

She glanced around the dining room. All the other students had formed their own little circles, chatting and laughing and having a lovely luncheon. Only the windsole boy was sitting alone.

But if I sit with him, he might kick my shins, Azalea thought. Or take up his plate. Or say something dreadful.

The boy ran a hand through his hair, pushing up the neatly combed locks into fluffy, unruly spikes. The shape softened his face and made him look somewhat endearing.

Azalea made her decision.

Silently, she approached the windsole boy’s table. Her grip tightened on her plate of boiled chicken until her knuckles turned white. She found herself desperately hoping that his kind face would not twist in scorn at the sight of her.

She needn’t have worried. The boy didn’t even look up as she stepped up to his table.

“Look,” he said tiredly, “if your parents put you up to this, then don’t bother. My father ignores me anyway. Go find my brothers or something, if you’re that wanting of connections.”

Azalea paused, her plate suspended over the table. What strange words. She took a moment to turn them over in her mind, to try to understand them.

“My parents haven’t put me up to anything,” she eventually said. “I haven’t spoken with them in weeks.”

The boy wearily looked at her. Then he suddenly jumped in his seat, banging his leg against the table in the process. He hissed through his teeth and sank back down.

“You’re the—you’re her,” he said quickly. “The girl everyone’s talking about. I didn’t—sorry, I didn’t realize.”

He shoved some of his books back into a bag, clearing some room for her. Azalea took this as assent and set her plate next to him.

“I think you’re mistaken,” she said plainly, swinging her legs over the chair and sitting at the table. “No one’s talking about me.”

“No, it’s definitely you. You’re the no-name from the forest, right?” He flinched. “Sorry, sorry, not a no-name, that’s—that’s rude, sorry. We just don’t hear much about the border villages here in Mythaven.”

“That’s alright,” Azalea said. “There’s not much to hear. Most of us are dead.”

The windsole boy flinched again, looking distinctly apologetic. Azalea couldn’t figure out why. Nothing he said had been inaccurate. Except, she had technically come from Maple Point, which was an inland town and not a border village, but she supposed that it was all the same to the aristocrats.

“What brings you here?” the boy said, sweeping away more of the clutter under an arm. “To this humble table, I mean. Not that the wood is humble, the wood is quite nice. Quality mahogany, surprisingly expensive. The table is humble because—well, I’m sitting here—and all of this is besides the point. What brings you here?”

Azalea tilted her head, then pointed at her plate of boiled chicken and potatoes.

“I need tablespace to eat,” she said.

To her surprise, the boy threw back his head and laughed. It was an earnest laugh, the cozy kind that felt like spiced cider in the winter. Azalea almost smiled.

“Alright then,” he said, still grinning. “Eating. Yup. That’s what mess tables were made for.”

His eyes were the color of amber, she realized, and caught the light in a mesmerizing way, like an earthy chunk of mana quartz. She stared at them curiously as she tried the boiled chicken, which was a bit lemony, with some pepper. She liked it.

“So,” she said, “you’re…Wesley.”

The windsole boy glanced at her. “That’s it?” he said carefully. “You don’t know my family name?”

Azalea shook her head. “It’s already difficult to keep everyone in the school straight. Family names would double the number of words I have to memorize.”

Wesley choked on something and quickly covered his mouth. “That’s—yes, true. You’re not wrong. But just between us”—and he made a vague gesture with his arms—“if you’re talking with anyone else in the school, you might want to memorize their family name instead of their given name. People can get rather…sensitive about it.”

She watched him for any tricks, but he seemed to be genuine. Just a bit nervous.

“Alright,” she said, even though she didn’t understand why. “Then what’s yours?”

Wesley started a little. “My what?”

“Your family name.”

Wesley looked at her for a long moment, his face blanched white. He eventually ducked his head, poking at his potatoes.

“I mean, anyone else but me,” he mumbled. “I’m not very sensitive about it. Call me—I know, call me Wes! How’s that?”

Azalea nodded. “Okay. Wes sounds nice.”

His cheeks colored a bit, and he cleared his throat. “And you’re Azalea, right?”

She blinked. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Oh, well.” Wes waved a hand awkwardly. “I have…a pretty good memory. I mean, we’re in the same class.”

“We are,” Azalea agreed. “I saw your windsole jump.”

Wes blinked. “Windsoles?”

“Oh, it was so beautiful,” said Azalea, beaming. “Smooth as a gazelle. I would love to learn how to jump like that.”

A tinge of nervousness flitted across Wes’s face, which Azalea would later pinpoint as suspicion. He sat back in his chair and regarded her for a moment, the thoughts fluttering too quickly across his face for her to read.

“Alright, yeah,” he finally said. “During the next free practice, I’ll spot you.”

Azalea beamed again in gratitude, and Wes quickly lowered his head and stared at his boiled chicken.

He stayed true to his word. At the next windsole class, he watched over Azalea’s hesitant attempts at springstepping. He encouraged her with you’ve got a great sense of balance and it’s alright, it’s only your third week, and gave helpful pointers like focus on the angle of your sole at liftoff, it determines the entire trajectory. He even caught her during a few disastrous jumps where she flailed head-over-heels.

She walked out of the class confident in her ability to practice by herself. But to her surprise, Wes didn’t stop talking to her after he fulfilled his promise. He continued to guide her in windsole classes, and during sparring sessions, he stood with her when none of the other students wanted to. He never kicked her out when she sat at his table to dine. Sometimes, he would even join her at the library, where they would study quietly until closing hours.

It was nice. Very nice. It gave Azalea a reason to smile in the days that seemed too long.

The other students still did not talk to her or acknowledge her presence, but that was alright. Azalea had a friend. She passed through the days happily, ignorant of the looks of resentment and envy that were slowly accumulating around her.

“What are you thinking about?” came Echo’s voice suddenly, jerking Azalea out of her thoughts.

Afternoon had become evening, the sun a low golden orb dripping below the horizon. Azalea blew out a breath into the evening cold, watching the vapor curl in a grey vine. “Nothing,” she said. These memories were precious, hers to keep safe. She wouldn’t share them with anybody.

“Seems like some very engrossing nothing,” Echo said, raising a brow. “You haven’t said a word all day.”

“Neither have you.”

“Of course not. I’m very quiet and demure. Would make for a great housewife.”

That wrung a surprised chuckle out of her. But then she remembered that she was supposed to be cross at him, and he’d brought terrible suffering upon her parents. She crossed her arms, turned away, and walked faster.

“Aww, Little Red, don’t be like that,” Echo cajoled. “You’re so cute when you smile.”

“I’m not supposed to be cute,” Azalea said, glaring at him. “I’m supposed to be fierce.”

“Well, that’s never going to happen, so you might as well stick to cute.”

“Eat dirt, Wolf.”

“Ooh, never mind. You might be fierce yet.”

She didn’t respond, and they dropped into silence again. This time, it lasted until Echo called for a stop with a raise of his hand.

“We’d better set up camp,” he said.

Azalea frowned. “So soon?” They could easily walk by moonlight for a few hours. Time was not a generous commodity.

Then a jolt ran through her. Time. She’d been so preoccupied with her own thoughts, she’d forgotten.

“We should have been springstepping,” she said in horror.

Echo waved a hand. “No need. At least for our first destination. Save your mana for the Noadic Range.”

“Our first destination?” Azalea’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where are we going?”

“To see a friend.”

“If you’re leading me in circles—”

“—then you wouldn’t have realized until it was too late,” Echo said dryly. “Come, give me that much credit.”

Azalea sullenly acknowledged this.

“This friend would know more about the Noadic Range than anyone else in the world,” Echo continued. “If you want even a chance at survival, you need to speak with her.”

Azalea considered this for a moment, uncertain. But in the end, what choice did she have? Somewhat mollified, she gave a nod and sat down. Echo sighed as he pulled dried grass and pine needles into a small pile for tinder.

“Look at me,” he muttered. “Providing extra services, free of charge. Next thing you know, I’ll be running the soup kitchen.”

Azalea knew that she should thank him, but whenever she looked at his face, all she could remember was his thin, cold expression as he drove her mother to tears.

She silently passed him a packet of spicy crunchpeas instead.

Echo waved away her offering. “This may qualify as a dinner for tiny rodents like you, Red, but not grown men like me.”

She glared at him, but rose to her feet and unslung her starshooter. “Then I can hunt.”

He raised a brow. “Your firebolts will incinerate half the meat.”

She paused at that, but refused to be shaken. “There’s still the other half.”

“Oh, you small child.” He shook his head and drew his bone knife with a casual flip. “Watch and learn.”

The surrounding fields were hardly ripe with game, as animals tended to withdraw into hiding during Storms. Thankfully, a few hungry animals had braved the risk to nibble on the lush swaths of grass: wild pheasant, rabbits, and a few weasels.

Echo stalked a pheasant with an impressively silent tread, rolling his weight gradually over his feet with each step. With his carefulness, even the dead leaves and grass were quiet beneath him. A quick, clean throw of his bone knife later, and the pheasant fell, the knife cleanly pierced through its head. None of the prized meat was damaged.

Azalea grudgingly admitted: he was good. Very good.

Echo selected a stretch of dirt for them to set up camp—no setting any forests on fire under my watch, Little Red; the wind will treat us nicely here—and set to work. While Azalea gathered dead branches and fallen wood for the campfire, Echo cleaned and gutted the animal, plucking the feathers and draining the blood and removing the organs. He took great care to make exaggerated retching noises and dangle any particularly nasty intestines in front of her. He laughed as she turned green and walked away, calling after her, but wouldn’t you like to see the bladder?

Once the game was ready to cook, Azalea struck a flint against the tinder and tended it into a flame. She hung the pheasant to slowly roast golden on a makeshift turnspit. On the other side of the fire, Echo cleaned his knife with a small bottle of oil and a worn rag. The firelight was warm on the angles of his face and made him look softer.

Echo noticed her gaze and looked up with a lifted brow. “What? Never seen a hunter clean his weapon?”

Azalea tilted her head. “When you throw knives, they don’t come back.”

He blinked, then chuckled. “I certainly hope not.”

“So you lose your ammunition. What do you do when you run out?”

Echo gave an odd smile. “You assume that I need knives to kill people.”

He’d killed people. Azalea forgot that, sometimes. Despite his dangerous airs, she had never seen him do anything particularly harmful. But Echo was a mercenary forged in the Mythaven underground; moreover, he was one of the best. One did not ascend that ladder without a steep blood price.

Azalea swallowed. “Who have you killed?” she whispered.

“What, you want a list?”

“Were they all jobs? Or did you…” Azalea stared at her shoes. “Do you…like to kill people?”

“Does murdering for money make it any less distasteful in your eyes?” Echo said dryly. He returned to cleaning his knife. “You’re asking pointless questions, Red.”

Prickly. She’d landed on a soft spot, then. Or something close to it. She could never quite tell with the Wolf.

Azalea reached out and turned the pheasant. “You act terrible, but you’re actually nice,” she said. Slowly, testing each word. “Nicer than you want to be. You’ve been kind to me.”

Echo laughed, but there was an edge to it. “Well now. Somebody’s finally learning gratitude.”

She would not let him turn this on her. “Why do you favor me?” she pushed. “With the tips. The lessons. I turned down your proposition, and you still informed me of Grimwall. You’ve fought me, but you’ve always tried not to hurt me. Why?”

“There’s a saying, you know, to not look a gift horse in the mouth.” Echo looked at her flatly. “It means that when something good happens, you don’t ask questions.”

“That’s not what it means at all,” Azalea said. “It means that you shouldn’t find fault with a charitable gift. Instead, you should be grateful.”

“Yes, which you’re not. You’re being suspicious.”

“I’m being curious.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“No, I just disagree.”

“Oh, look, the pheasant’s done,” Echo said, and he busied himself with removing the pheasant from the rack.

Azalea tried to nudge him into another answer, but he was clearly done with the conversation and could not be budged. Eventually, she gave up. She was rather hungry, and the roast pheasant smelled like a piece of heaven. Even without special herbs or a seasoning rub, it was fresh off the fire, moist and savory with crispy skin, hot enough to burn her fingers.

They ate mostly in silence. Azalea hummed contentedly as she tasted the rich meat of the leg. Echo went for the head and slurped the eyeballs out noisily just to make her wrinkle her nose.

“Right,” Echo said, polishing off his half of the pheasant and licking his fingers. “Now off to bed you trot. It’s quite late.”

Azalea shook her head. “We should keep going while we have the time.”

“You don’t want to go where my friend lives at night.” He lowered his voice ominously. “There might be ghosts.”

She huffed, but her eyes were droopy. The warm fire, the tasty pheasant, and the calm, temperate air were lulling her to sleep despite her best efforts. And her body craved sleep. She could feel it in the dull ache behind her eyes and the sluggishness of her hands. How long had it been since she’d had a full night’s rest?

“Fine,” she mumbled, curling against her roll. “Just until the sun rises.”

The last thing she saw before darkness was the slight turn of Echo’s mouth.

“Until the sun rises,” he agreed. “On some part of the world.”