I’m like someone who has just been sent on a treasure hunt. We all are. Aislinn, Jarod and I immediately begin rummaging around, pulling old canvas sheets off sculptures and paintings, each new discovery bringing forth delighted gasps.
“Oh, look at the tapestries!” Aislinn’s voice rings out as she lifts some canvas to expose four loosely rolled works. She turns to Wynter. “Did you weave these?”
Wynter nods as Jarod and I join Aislinn. The intricacy of what Wynter has done is evident even from a quick glimpse of the fabric’s edging.
Wynter watches us modestly from where she sits, now perched on the base of her statue of her brother, her hand resting on the horse’s smooth leg.
Aislinn pulls at one of the tapestries unsuccessfully. “They’re terribly heavy...”
Jarod reaches around her with long, sinewy arms and effortlessly pulls one out.
Aislinn turns to him, amazed.
“Pretty handy to have a Lupine around,” I observe, beaming at him, and he shoots me a small smile.
Jarod lowers the tapestry down on the floor and carefully unrolls it. It’s large, able to cover a sizable wall, and pictures ethereal white birds flying across a summer field. I move my head and am fascinated to find the birds move as I do so, their wings flapping gracefully up and down.
Watchers.
Aislinn and Jarod enthusiastically move on to unfurling more tapestries as I stare at the ivory birds.
Wynter quietly approaches my side.
“I’ve seen them,” I tell her, my voice low.
“I know this,” she says. She looks to me with concern. “It is not good to see them, Elloren Gardner.”
“Why?”
“The Shining Ones of the Inner Sanctum have deemed it so. They are messengers of the Shining Ones. Only the most holy may look upon them. For the impure to gaze upon them is blasphemy.”
I’m thrown by how foreign her faith is to me, and how odd it all sounds. “And they think you impure?”
Wynter hangs her head, sorrowful. “All Icarals are impure. Cast out for their evil.”
A spark of outrage rises deep inside me. “But how did all of this start? Why are Icarals viewed as evil?” I’m dismayed that her religion echoes this prejudice of ours.
Wynter is staring at me evenly, as if the truth of this is written in stone. “Because they seek to fly away from the Inner Sanctum into the realm of the Dark Ones. It is written in our sacred texts.” Wynter’s shoulders drop, and she looks to the birds in the tapestry with open longing. “I know that I should not sculpt these messengers, or paint them...but I find them to be so beautiful. I know it is blasphemy to say it, but they call to me.” Wynter’s voice grows stifled and faint. “They are my muse.” She says it as if she’s confessing some heinous, unforgivable crime.
I glance around at the unrolled tapestries, suddenly filled with stubborn purpose. “We should hang these up.”
Wynter gives a start. She shakes her head in shocked disagreement. “No, Elloren Gardner. My work can never be hung in the gallery.”
“Not in the gallery. In the North Tower.”
She peers at me with deep concern. “My work would pollute any dwelling. Curse it—”
“No, Wynter.” I cut her off gently. “This artwork was not meant to be thrown in the corner of some storeroom. Besides, we need the tapestries to keep out the drafts. I’ve noticed the cold doesn’t seem to affect you and Ariel, but it sure affects me.”
“You can hang the paintings all along the staircase,” Jarod amiably suggests.
“And the flower series in the upstairs hallway,” Aislinn chimes in.
“Surely some of the smaller sculptures could be brought up,” Jarod adds.
We all turn to look at Wynter.
“Very well,” she quietly agrees, a small smile lighting her face.
*
We make our way back to the North Tower, Jarod effortlessly carrying several tapestries. Aislinn, Wynter and I lug paintings.
“So, Black Witch, collecting freaks, are we?” Ariel asks as we walk in, her words slurred. She’s lying on her bed, slumped down against the wall behind her, her eyes hooded, her lips stained black.
By now I recognize this state of hers. She’s been eating those berries.
“You’re the biggest freak of us all, you know,” she goes on, attempting a look of hatred. “And you better keep the wild dog away from my chickens.”
“He’s Lupine,” I clarify, irritated by her continual insistence on using racist language when talking to anyone but Wynter. But then I remember—it wasn’t too long ago that I harbored quite a few prejudices of my own.
Jarod sets the four tapestries down on the floor and glances at Ariel.
“I mean it, wolf-boy,” she snarls. “Touch my chickens, and I’ll singe your mangy hide.”
“Jarod’s not interested in your chickens, Ariel,” I tell her as I prop paintings up against the walls.
“It has a name?”
“It’s best to just ignore her when she gets like this,” I tell Jarod.
Jarod nods, seeming to understand.
Ariel sinks down against the wall, apathy finally settling in, her eyes going blank.
Aislinn and Jarod stand over the tapestries, discussing the best way to hang them. Aislinn fishes the hooks she’s collected from the gallery out of her tunic pockets and holds them up for Jarod’s perusal.
I sit down on my bed next to Wynter. “What are the berries that Ariel chews on?” I ask her, my voice low. I’ve been meaning to research them, but have had so little free time.
Wynter glances over at Ariel, who’s now passed out on her bed. She sighs deeply. “They are nilantyr, a very powerful sedative,” she says.
I inhale sharply, hearing this. “Ancient One, Wynter. It’s illegal to possess. How on Erthia did she get it?”
Wynter shakes her head sadly. “I do not know. All I know is that when she was thrown in the Valgard asylum, they had a hard time controlling her. So they fed her the nilantyr to keep her calm.”
I look to Ariel, sober understanding washing over me. “And she’ll get the craving sickness if she stops taking it. They turned her into a craven.”
Wynter nods.
“She told you all this? About being forced to take nilantyr?”
“Oh, no. She never speaks of it. When I touch her, I am shown these memories.” Wynter hesitates before continuing. “When she takes the nilantyr, the memories disappear. It all goes blank and empty. It is a cold peace, but peace nonetheless.”
“It must be hard for you to see all this.”
“It is very painful,” she agrees, pulling her wings more tightly around herself.
I think of how often Ariel lies wrapped in Wynter’s arms. All of those times, Ariel’s memories were flooding into Wynter, and yet I’ve never seen Wynter pull away.
“You’re a good friend to her,” I say, moved.
“I love her,” Wynter says softly. “She has become a sister to me. I want her to be at peace. But I fear that the nilantyr is a dark path. It is like a parasite, slowly breaking her. It has brought her to a point where she cannot fly, although she could when she was younger, and it robs her of her fire. She could once summon a large flame, but every day it grows smaller and smaller. And the drug, it has an odor that seeps through her skin. Even when she does not take it for a time, it lingers.”
I think of the Icarals in Valgard, of their foul smell.
Were they fed this drug? Thrown in a cage when they were small children? Were they truly demons, or slowly driven mad from the cruelty inflicted on them?
“Can you fly?” I ask Wynter. I’ve never seen her use her wings for anything other than a flimsy shawl. I wonder if she’s partaken of this nilantyr, as well—though I doubt it as she doesn’t have Ariel’s rancid smell.
Wynter shakes her head resignedly and lifts her wings. “My wings, they are too thin.”
I turn back to glance at Aislinn and Jarod. They’ve finished organizing the hardware Aislinn pilfered and look about ready to start hanging the tapestries.
“We don’t have any tools,” Aislinn laments, looking around.
“I have tools,” Jarod informs her.
“You do?” she asks, looking confused.
Jarod hesitates. “I...don’t want to shock you.”
“What do you mean?” Aislinn inquires.
“My claws. They’re...useful.”