for war.
Doubts filled Wren’s mind as Ball led him down palace halls. He knew Ravien could have good reasons for placating the boy, for drawing close to him. But it was not her way, it had never been her way. Part of Wren questioned her intentions from the start. She had wanted to come to Sunan, and he had funded it.
He assured himself that Ravien would not betray him. Their love was real; it had been too visceral to fade like a mirage in this desert place. But Ball had once been loyal, too.
He followed the waddling boulder and felt trust unraveling all around him. Trust was worth more than gold, and he had always had plenty of both. Now he felt bankrupt.
***
By evening, Wren’s temper had cooled and left a throbbing block of jealousy and hurt. He sat at a table and dipped his pen in ink. A blank note was before him. The night air was cool through the open windows. The lamps gave the whitewashed walls a rich luster. Ball’s estate made for a much finer prison.
Wren had been crafting these words in his mind, seeking the delicate balance of telling his brother all he needed to know while hiding the meaning from those who would inspect it. When Ball had agreed to arrange for its delivery, he had made no promises of keeping it secret. He did, however, consent to a messenger Wren trusted: Cid. He was a Sunan who knew the black market and could make sure the message reached his brother.
Jon,
The dark bird has landed on another’s shoulder.
Wren wrote meticulously on the small paper.
Her song is a spell, convincing when to fly and where to land.
At least, that was Wren’s hope. He restrained his hand from penning his next words: Her song pleases her perch, plays upon his desires. Those words were too revealing, and Wren’s feelings were not relevant. He dipped the pen back in the ink and continued.
The little bird flutters in a cage . He will go about his business with a ball under the sun.
Jon would know the little bird as Wren, the ball as Ball, and the sun as Sunan.
Tell our man the sun is at its zenith and setting soon toward the west. Stay the course, consider the coming dusk, and withhold no gold. Bright metals mean nothing inside the fire.
—her little bird
Wren set down the pen and waited for the ink to dry. Andor had to know that war was coming soon. Judging from the fleet in the harbor, Wren guessed the Sunans would come with forces tripling that of Valemidas. He hoped Ravien knew what she was doing. He had to believe it was all a game, but the throbbing in his head diminished his trust.
He folded the note and stood with it in hand. After stopping to pick up his empty wine glass and the empty bottle beside it, he walked to the door. He tapped the bottle against it, and the door opened a moment later.
The two guards standing in the hall outside pretended to be servants. Their hard faces gave them away almost as clearly as their spears.
“Take this to Ball,” Wren demanded, “and bring me more wine.”
The men looked at him with surprise at his orders. Neither budged.
Wren waved the note in their faces. “Ball said I was his honored guest. Do you always disobey his guests?”
One of the men said something in the Sunan tongue to the other. They rolled their eyes, but the man who spoke took the paper and the glass.
Wren went back into his room and fell onto the bed. It was going to take more than wine and sleep to ease this throbbing.
Chapter 11
THE STRANGER
“I opened myself to the
gentle indifference of the world.
Finding it so much like myself –
so like a brother, really –
I felt that I had been happy
and that I was happy again.”
Mersault and I had talked for hours, days, months. We talked of nothingness in all the ways we could. I had come to accept his company—the fits of laughter and aloof stares. Everything was a grasping after the wind, he would say. In our short lives, he would ask, what was better than to eat, drink, and enjoy our
Doubts filled Wren’s mind as Ball led him down palace halls. He knew Ravien could have good reasons for placating the boy, for drawing close to him. But it was not her way, it had never been her way. Part of Wren questioned her intentions from the start. She had wanted to come to Sunan, and he had funded it.
He assured himself that Ravien would not betray him. Their love was real; it had been too visceral to fade like a mirage in this desert place. But Ball had once been loyal, too.
He followed the waddling boulder and felt trust unraveling all around him. Trust was worth more than gold, and he had always had plenty of both. Now he felt bankrupt.
***
By evening, Wren’s temper had cooled and left a throbbing block of jealousy and hurt. He sat at a table and dipped his pen in ink. A blank note was before him. The night air was cool through the open windows. The lamps gave the whitewashed walls a rich luster. Ball’s estate made for a much finer prison.
Wren had been crafting these words in his mind, seeking the delicate balance of telling his brother all he needed to know while hiding the meaning from those who would inspect it. When Ball had agreed to arrange for its delivery, he had made no promises of keeping it secret. He did, however, consent to a messenger Wren trusted: Cid. He was a Sunan who knew the black market and could make sure the message reached his brother.
Jon,
The dark bird has landed on another’s shoulder.
Wren wrote meticulously on the small paper.
Her song is a spell, convincing when to fly and where to land.
At least, that was Wren’s hope. He restrained his hand from penning his next words: Her song pleases her perch, plays upon his desires. Those words were too revealing, and Wren’s feelings were not relevant. He dipped the pen back in the ink and continued.
The little bird flutters in a cage . He will go about his business with a ball under the sun.
Jon would know the little bird as Wren, the ball as Ball, and the sun as Sunan.
Tell our man the sun is at its zenith and setting soon toward the west. Stay the course, consider the coming dusk, and withhold no gold. Bright metals mean nothing inside the fire.
—her little bird
Wren set down the pen and waited for the ink to dry. Andor had to know that war was coming soon. Judging from the fleet in the harbor, Wren guessed the Sunans would come with forces tripling that of Valemidas. He hoped Ravien knew what she was doing. He had to believe it was all a game, but the throbbing in his head diminished his trust.
He folded the note and stood with it in hand. After stopping to pick up his empty wine glass and the empty bottle beside it, he walked to the door. He tapped the bottle against it, and the door opened a moment later.
The two guards standing in the hall outside pretended to be servants. Their hard faces gave them away almost as clearly as their spears.
“Take this to Ball,” Wren demanded, “and bring me more wine.”
The men looked at him with surprise at his orders. Neither budged.
Wren waved the note in their faces. “Ball said I was his honored guest. Do you always disobey his guests?”
One of the men said something in the Sunan tongue to the other. They rolled their eyes, but the man who spoke took the paper and the glass.
Wren went back into his room and fell onto the bed. It was going to take more than wine and sleep to ease this throbbing.
Chapter 11
THE STRANGER
“I opened myself to the
gentle indifference of the world.
Finding it so much like myself –
so like a brother, really –
I felt that I had been happy
and that I was happy again.”
Mersault and I had talked for hours, days, months. We talked of nothingness in all the ways we could. I had come to accept his company—the fits of laughter and aloof stares. Everything was a grasping after the wind, he would say. In our short lives, he would ask, what was better than to eat, drink, and enjoy our
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