Wings of Omen

She stopped again, looked up at the sky, and marveled at how brightly the stars shone over this pit of a city. Though she prayed to Savankala and swore in his name, the night fascinated her. It had a taste and a feel like no other time.

She whistled a low note. A fleet shadow glided overhead, eclipsing stars in its path, and plummeted. She extended the arm on which she wore the manica, and Reyk screeched a greeting as he folded his wings and settled on her wrist. She smacked her lips by way of reply and attached a jess from her belt to his leg.

"Do you feel it, too, pet?" she whispered to the falcon. "The city? The dark? It's alive." She smacked her lips again and Reyk fluttered his wings. "Of course you do." She looked around, turning a full circle. "It seethes in a way Ranke never did. We may like it here, pet. Look there!" She pointed to a shadow that slipped furtively by on the opposite side of the street. She hailed it; it paused, regarded her, moved on. Chenaya laughed out loud as it passed into the gloom.

With Reyk to talk to, she wandered down the Processional, amazed how the few strangers she spied crept from doorway to doorway in their efforts to avoid her. She walked in the middle of the paving, letting the moonlight glint on the hilt of her sword, both a temptation and warning to would-be thieves.

A peculiar odor wafted suddenly on a new breeze. She stopped, sniffed, walked on. Salt air. She had never smelled it before; it sent a strange shiver along her spine. The sea was often in her thoughts. She dreamed of it. Her steps faltered, stopped. How far to the wharves, she wondered? She listened for the sound of surf. In the stories and tales, there was always the surf, foaming, crashing on the shore, pounding in her dreams.

She walked on, sniffing, listening.

At last, on the far side of an immense, wide avenue she spied the docks and the darkened silhouettes of ships in port. Bare masts wagged in the sky; guy lines hummed in the mild breeze that blew over the water. No crashing surf, but a gentle lapping and creaking of wooden beams made the only other sounds. New smells mingled in the air with the salt: odors of fish and wet netting, smoke from fishermen's cook fires or from curing, perhaps. She could not spot the fires if they still burned. Only a dim-lighted window here and there perforated the dark.

Chenaya moved quietly, every nerve tingling, over the Wideway and down one of the long piers. There was water beneath her now: the boards rocked ever so slightly under her tread. Above, the moon cast a silvery glaze on the tender wavelets.

She swept back her hood. The breeze, cool and fresh on her skin, caught and billowed her hair. She threw back her cloak and drew breath, filling her lungs with the briny taste.

A shadow rose unexpectedly before her. Her sword flashed out. Screeching, Reyk took to the sky as she released his jess. She fell back into a crouch, straining to see.

But the shadow was more startled than she. "Don't hurt me!" It was the voice of a child, a boy, she thought. "Please!" It raised its hands toward her, palms pressed together.

Chenaya straightened, sheathed her blade. "What the hell are you doing out here?" she demanded in a terse whisper. She had never killed a child, but had come damned close just now. "When so few others have the guts for venturing out at night?"

The little figure seemed to shrug. "Just playing," it answered hesitantly.

She smirked. "Don't lie. You're a boy, by the sound of you. Out thieving?"

The child didn't respond immediately, but turned and faced toward the sea. Chenaya realized she had come to the end of the old wharf; if the boy hadn't sprung up when he did, she might have walked off the edge.

"I sneaked out," he said finally. "I sometimes come here alone so I can look out at my home." He sat down again and dangled his feet over the water.

She sat down next to him, giving a sidelong glance. About ten, she judged. The note of sadness in his voice touched her. "What do you mean, your home."

He pointed a small finger. "Where I come from."

So, he was a Beysib child. She could not have guessed in the absence of light. He did not look so different; he didn't smell different; and he hadn't tried to kill her-not that he'd be much threat at his size.

She followed his gaze over the water, finding once again that strange chill on the nape of her neck. Then came a rare tranquillity as if she had come home somehow.

"What do you Beysib call this sea?" she asked, breaking the shared silence.

The little boy looked up at her, reminding her with a shock of his foreig

She tore her gaze away. "That means nothing to me, but the sound of it is pretty." The whisper barely escaped her lips, so softly did she speak. The moon sparkled on the dancing waves. The dock swayed and moaned beneath her. One hand crept slowly to her breast, and an old dream bubbled unbidden into her unsleeping mind. Savankala's face hovered, floating on the argent ripples; his lips formed the answer to her third wish....

"You are not Beysib," the child beside her spoke. "You are not of the sea. Why do you stare so at it?"

The dream left her, and the chill. She smiled a thin smile. "I've never seen the sea," she answered gently, "but we're old friends. Almost lovers." She sighed. "It's very beautiful, just as all the stories said it was."

"So are you," the child answered surprisingly. "What is that you wear in your hair?"

She touched the circlet on her brow. "An ornament," she said simply. "It bears the sign of my god."

He leaned closer; his hand drifted up toward her face. "May I touch it?" he asked. "My parents are poor. We have nothing so pretty. It shines when it catches the light." She felt his fingers touch the metal above her temple; they slid around softly toward the sunburst.

A brilliant flash of white intensity exploded in her eyes, blinding her. She fell backward, the edge of the pier under her spine, her balance tilting toward the water below. Then a strong hand caught hers, helped her to sit again.

But for a swirling host of afterimages, her vision cleared. The Beysib child sat before her, both his hands on hers. On his brow a tiny blaze of shimmering radiance burned, a small sun that illumined the very air around him.

His mouth moved, but it was not his voice. "Daughter." It was acknowledgment, little more.

Chenaya clapped her hands to her eyes, bowed her head in reverent fear. "Bright Father!" she gasped, and could find no more words. Her throat constricted, breath deserted her.

His hands took hers once more, pulled them away from her face. "Do not fear me, Daughter." His voice rolled, filled her ears and her mind, sent trembling waves all through her. "Have you not called me this night?"

She bit her lip, wanting to be free of his touch, fearing to pull away. "I sought your priests," she answered tremulously, "I sought augurs, portents. I never dreamed..."

"You did once," the god answered. "And I came to you then to reward you."

She stammered, unable to look upon Him. "And I have worshipped you, prayed to you, but not once since then..."

He gently chided. "Have I not favored you more than others of our people? Were my gifts not great enough? Would you have more of me?"

She burst into tears and hung her head. "No, Father. Forgive me, I didn't mean..." Words would not come. She shivered uncontrollably, stared at the ambient glow that bathed her hand in his.