Page 12 of From the Mouths of Sirens

ROOK

Rook squinted in the morning sun, tossing an arm over his throbbing head. He twisted onto his stomach, shielding his eyes from the bright window above. He couldn’t remember how much he’d drank at the celebration last night, but judging on how much his head hurt, it had been too much. He groaned, remembering the jugs of ale that had been pressed into his hands over and over again, seeming to be refilled at every possible opportunity. Following the evening tributary parade through the city, the nighttime celebrations had been filled with dancing, laughter, and drinking.

Cracking his eyes open, Rook blinked in the hazy morning light. Still draped across his shoulders, a crushed sash of ceremonial greenery remained, looking as haggard as he felt. Fortunately, he was still fully clothed. He took that as a sign that things hadn’t gotten too out of hand the night before.

He rose from the bed, pulling off his ceremonial tunic and sash with a sigh. He tossed his wrinkled clothing in the corner, striding to a bowl filled with fresh water. A muffled groan sounded from behind him, making Rook nearly jump out of his skin. He turned around, grinning as he found Eros’s crumpled form in the corner of his room. His friend was laying on the stone floor in a heap, his head buried in a pillow.

“What time is it?” the muffled voice hissed, barely discernible through the pillow.

“Why, it's the first day of the Revelore Tournament,” Rook replied with a grin.

“What?” Eros yelled in a daze, shoving himself up from the ground in a clumsy jump. Rook laughed and then immediately regretted it as he clutched his pounding head.

“Relax,” he assured Eros with a wince. “We’re still three days away.” Eros threw the pillow at him, scowling.

“Why’d you let me pass out on the floor?” Eros demanded, stretching his back as he stood. “My neck isn’t going to recover for months.”

“I didn’t even know you were in here,” Rook replied, tossing water over his face. “I don’t know when we got back from the parties last night,” he added, running a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t tell you a thing about what went on after the parade, to be honest.”

He tried to remember what had happened, but the fragments of hazy memory evaded him. Bright colors and music. Laughter and stale ale. The breathy whispers and silken kisses of Flora Tasos. He smiled to himself, tossing another handful of water over his head. Flora. She had given him a night to remember, that much he was sure of. He could vaguely remember whirling her around in a wild dance, her red curls flying behind her as she threw her head back in laughter. Rook smiled again, still tasting her kisses on his lips.

“What are you grinning about over there?” Eros called as he limped across the room to the balcony. “I don’t trust the look on your face.”

Eros threw open the long, gauzy curtains that draped across the balcony, sunlight pooling into the room. Rook grimaced as the sun lit up the darkened room, shutting his eyes against the blinding rays. He cracked his eyes open again, watching as Eros leaned against the smooth balcony railing and squinted at the palace grounds that unfurled beneath.

“Hel’s teeth, it has to be noon already,” Eros called out, scanning the bustle of activity in the courtyard. “Aren’t the Tellusun tributes arriving today?” he asked, running a hand through his dark hair. “Shouldn’t you be down to greet them or something? Performing your princeling duties and the like?”

“Yes,” Rook grumbled, pulling on a fresh tunic over his aching shoulders. He thought of the ancient ruler of Tellusun, King Ohan Yerimya. The last time he had seen the old man was on a tour of the Shujaa Desert and the Clay City five years ago, when he was on assignment to inspect the Auran occupation there. The sand-dwellers of the south were a hearty people, finding ways to thrive in a sea of endless sand despite the intense heat of the sun burning down on them. The desert kingdom relied heavily on maritime trade through the Maeral Sea as they had little access to agriculture in the endless expanse of dunes. To reach Coarinth, the Tellusun tributes had to travel through the Shujaa Desert and across the Isles of Mythos, a collection of heavily-jungled islands that connected them to Aurandel.

An abrupt pounding on the door scattered Rook’s thoughts. He looked over at Eros with a smirk, knowing exactly who it was.

“I’m coming in!” a muffled voice yelled from the other side. “You’ve been warned.”

Veila strode in, throwing open the bedroom door without hesitation. She placed her hands on her hips, glaring at Rook and Eros. She surveyed them, her bright green eyes flashing. “All finished with your beauty sleep, I gather?” she asked in a dull tone. She prowled over to Rook, her short stature surprisingly intimidating as she crossed the room. Veila looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. “You look awful,” she said bluntly.

“I guess the beauty sleep didn’t work this time,” he retorted. In sharp contrast to him and Eros, the short woman in front of him was the very image of self-discipline and precision. Her red hair was tied at the nape of her neck, not a single stray hair out of place. She wore a crisp, clean blue uniform that indicated her high rank among the Aerials, swirling patterns of silver embroidery curling around her shoulders. Unlike the dark circles that likely pooled under his own eyes, her face was bright and her eyes were clear with awareness. Veila had always been like this, more self-disciplined and organized than anyone he had ever met in his life.

“When will you both learn to hold your ale?” Veila tisked, brushing past him into the room. “If it wasn’t for me, you two would be passed out in some alleyway covered in your own spilled drink. You don’t know how hard it was to corral two drunken men up three flights of stairs.” She picked up the crushed ceremonial garland from where it lay crumpled on the ground, raising an eyebrow. “So, this is how our honored tribute treats his sacred garments?”

“We could die in that Tournament, you know,” Eros called from the balcony. “We honored tributes have to enjoy our lives while we still can. Who knows when the next time we’ll be able to celebrate will be.”

“At the end of the Tournament,” Rook answered, folding his arms across his chest. “We’ll celebrate when we stand victorious before all of Revelore, the Crown in our hands.”

“Aye,” Eros replied, his face growing somber as he swept aside the curtains and strode into the bedchamber again. “With any luck, no one will die,” he said softly, half to himself and half to his fellow tributes. Veila placed a hand on both of their shoulders, looking up at them.

“With the two of you by my side, I have no doubt that victory and glory shall be ours,” Veila said softly. They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of what they were about to do feeling heavy in the air. Although the aim of the trials was not to battle to the death, casualties happened in the Tournament. Yet for those competing as tributes, the risk was worth the prize.

Rook met the eyes of his companions, taking in their determined expressions and allowing himself to fill with pride. Veila and Eros had served with him long before they became guardians of Aurandel. They had learned to fly together as children, their wings still downy and new.

“Rook,” Veila finally said, breaking the silence. “You’re to greet the Tellusun king in an hour.” she looked him up and down, cocking an eyebrow. “Though you’re going to need much more than an hour to get ready.”

* * *

An hour later, Rook climbed down the great staircase that connected the Citadel to the open-aired courtyard below. The afternoon was beautiful, with the warm wind of the south rippling across the city of Coarinth and whispering through the arched openings and floating buildings that hovered in the clouds. Scents of jasmine and fresh herbs hung in the air, the smells of the city wafting on the breeze. He straightened his back as he hit the last step, smoothing out the wrinkles of his tunic one last time before bowing before the newcomers.

The Tellusun entourage spread out across the sandstone courtyard, clad in robes of bright reds, oranges, and yellows. A flag pole jutted out from somewhere within the crowd, displaying a huge banner that unfurled in the hot breeze. The beautiful red sun depicted on the flag seemed to brighten the courtyard, swirling rays of sunbeams spiraling across the fabric. Rook stopped before Sahl Tariq, Tournament Ambassador of the Tellusun people. He bowed in respect, keeping his wings tight against his back as he lowered his head. When he rose again, he smiled at Sahl.

“My how you’ve grown,” the man said, his eyes sparkling. “Five years ago, your head only reached my shoulder,” Sahl continued with approval. “How old are you now, Prince?”

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