Ilyria and the Lightning Bird

Ilyria leaned back against the cool stone wall as she looked through the open window of her chambers up at the night sky. The moon shimmered silver-gold in the warm air, so fragrant with the scent of magnolias and jasmine her mother had ordered delivered by the thousand. The moon didn’t care about the bustle that had begun in the early hours of that morning in her mother’s mansion and had only now quietened down. The moon was oblivious to the water fountains pumped with cool water, to the conjured lights that floated like fireflies above the gardens, to the rows and rows of banquet tables, heavy with rare Deluvian silver.

Tomorrow she would be married. The moon would not care about that either. She had not imagined this should be her fate. She had only that year completed her studies and she dreamed still of joining her mother’s traders in journeying across the desert, buying dripping moonfruit from Isfap or intricately wrought jewels from Itoulp or visiting the miraculous water caves of Oren. Instead, a day after her graduation feast, her mother had called her into her chambers.

She had not been surprised to see Merchant Dirk there. He and her mother kept hours both early and late. He had watched her carefully as she entered the chamber, his eyes narrowing, chin tilted upward as if assessing her worth. He had thick dark hair that fell across his cobalt-blue eyes in a way she found contrived but that had made her classmates swoon whenever he passed. His face was angular, his body that of a fighter rather than a merchant. His clothes seemed always a little tight for his muscular body—something else that had made her classmates swoon. But Ilyria saw the calculation in his eyes and the meanness of his mouth and had always tried to keep as far out of his way as possible. Which was not very easy given how closely he and her mother worked together.

“Child,” began her mother, “Master Dirk has seen fit to show some interest in you in spite of your dullness.”

“Oh,” said Ilyria, accustomed to her mother’s view of her. Yet still it stung. She smoothed her dress down and regarded the woman who was only technically her mother. Daria Agrio had the same wild curls as Ilyria, her hair of a deep black that fanned out from her smooth pale skin. They had the same large dark eyes, with thick lashes, the same generous mouth. But where her mother’s body was luscious, curvy and soft, Ilyria was tall and strong, her limbs long and lean, which is how she imagined her father must have been.

In spite of their similarities, next to her mother, Ilyria felt plain and ugly. She had never mastered the art of the make-up that her mother wore to accent her eyes and mouth. She disliked the tedium of attaching jewels to her hair. She smoothed down her simple blue silk dress again. And she would have vastly preferred wearing trousers like Dirk’s so that she could ride her stallion away, across the yellow sands.

“Ilyria,” snapped her mother, “Honestly, she is simple as well as dull,” she said to Dirk, “You will have to train her.”

Ilyria did not like the smirk that spread across Dirk’s face at her mother’s words. Not at all. “Daria,” he said to her mother with a slight bow, “As you know it is a—shall we say—specialty of mine.” His eyes returned to Ilyria, slowly travelling the length of her body.

“I am to be trained as a merchant?” Ilyria said hopefully. Perhaps all was not lost.

Her mother scoffed. “You? A merchant? That could never happen. No, child, you are to be married to Dirk.”

Ilyria felt her face redden even as she felt faint. Married? To Dirk? Unwilling to look at him, she dropped her gaze to the kid leather boots of which he was inordinately proud. He was the only merchant she knew who wore boots. They were impractical in the shifting deserts the merchants crossed.

Unless, like Dirk, you had others do your work. This was the man with whom she would have to spend her days. And nights.

Since that day, little had changed between them except that now his hands would brush over her as they passed each other. Once, he had been coming out of her mother’s chambers adjusting his clothes as she had been about to enter. Looking up, his eyes had darkened when he saw her, and he gave her a small, predatory smile that made her want to turn and run. She held her breath and tried to keep very still, a warning sounding somewhere deep inside of her. He stepped close to her, his hands roaming over her shoulders, cupping her breasts. She froze, and this seemed to give him pleasure for he pulled her toward him, his tongue flicking out, leaving a glistening trail across her cheek.

“Ilyria,” he whispered in her ear, and she hated even the sound of her name on his lips “I will teach you many, many things. It is right you should be afraid.”

Then he released her, chuckling at her humiliation, her flushed face, her shaking hands, which she could not hide.

“We will have so much fun,” he finished, “Or at least I will.”

Ilyria covered her face with her hands. She wanted to run away. Oh Moon, she thought, Take me away. Through her fingers, she saw the moon’s light suddenly darken. She looked up and her mouth fell open as a dark shape swooped across the shimmering moonscape. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Then looked again. Once more the shape crossed the moon, and she was certain she saw an enormous wingspan. Surely it was just a legend, she thought. Surely?

As quietly as she could she hurried out of her chambers and down the stairs to the courtyard, stories of the Lightning Bird swirling in her head. Half-man, half-bird, the Lightning Bird was a portent of chaos, of unravelling. It was a myth in a city of a thousand myths. One that old people told to young as a warning or a blessing.

Voices coming from a darkened corner of the courtyard stopped her. They were low but the tension was unmistakable. Ilyria stopped, distracted from her pursuit and pressed back into an alcove near the door she had just exited.

She heard her old friend Haris’ voice. She had looked for him that day, wanting to share a little of her fears, hoping enough of their closeness remained. Everything had changed when Haris had been sent to train as a merchant and she had been left behind.

Haris’ usually calm, mellifluous voice was angry. And then she heard Dirk’s voice. He too was speaking softly but there was a threat wrapped in his words. She strained to hear.

“You were given many opportunities to join us, Merchant Haris,” Dirk was saying, “And still, just this morning, I received another note from you rejecting my generous offer.”

“It is not generous what you propose, Master Dirk,” said Haris, “This is theft. There is no other word for it.”

“You will prosper,” said Dirk.

“At other’s expense. No, Merchant Dirk, I will not be a part of this. And the Mogul shall know of it too.”

Dirk was silent and Ilyria found herself pressing the knuckles of one hand against her mouth. A hot wind began to swirl through the courtyard, carrying the stink of gutters and effluent in spite of the profusion of flowers. As the wind rose, she heard Dirk muttering words in another language. The moonlight-swathed courtyard was pitched into an opaque blackness, and she felt a dark presence crawl from the drains around the courtyard, heard it drag itself with a sickening, slithering sound across the pebbles, toward the men.

“What are you …?” she heard Haris’ voice and he sounded frightened, terrified.

Ilyria opened her mouth to scream but no sound could escape, as if the air around her had disappeared and she was in a vast, gaping vacuum. Her hands flew to her throat, and she began to silently choke, unable even to gasp for breath.

She heard Haris’ high-pitched scream and then silence. Air rushed back into her throat. The moonlight-bathed courtyard reappeared. The dark presence was gone. Ilyria forced herself to take quiet breaths, trying to calm the mad hammering of her heart. When she heard footsteps—just one set—she kept very, very still. Dirk emerged from the shadows, humming a tuneless melody. He looked around and Ilyria felt her heart stop. She could not see his face, but he lifted his head as if sniffing the air. Ilyria closed her eyes, imagined herself as a flickering shadow among shadows. After an interminable moment, she finally heard his footsteps moving off. Only when she heard the courtyard gate slam behind him, did she let out a sigh and slump down against the wall.

Haris.

Knees still trembling, she pulled herself up and forced herself to walk toward the corner where she had heard the two men arguing, afraid of what she would find. Pressing one hand against the stone wall, she leaned into the darkness.

“Hari,” she called softly, “Hari, are you there?”

There was no answer, so she stepped further into the shadows, her hands in front of her, feeling for her friend. Her foot scuffed against fabric, and she knelt down. The soft felt of his coat was still warm. But there was nothing else there. No one else. For a moment she thought she might have dreamt it, that she was in her bed having disturbed dreams ahead of a marriage she dreaded. But something clattered out of the cloak, and she reached to pick it up. It was Haris’ locket. She pressed it open and saw the picture of his wife and little girl. Her fear was replaced with a low, burning anger. This was no dream. This was Dirk’s doing. He had been hiding his black magick all along.

He will not get away with this, she vowed to herself and to her friend as she made her way back into the mansion.