Page 17 of Wings of Ebony
“Rue?” Bri asks, holding her front door wide open. “You listening? Where’d you go?”
“Me first. Why’s Aasim coming here? Like, how’d he know I would be here?” And what’s he even gonna do?
Bri gestures for me to come inside. I’ve only been to Bri’s once before. She doesn’t like being here, so I don’t get an invite often. The whole house is just like everyone else’s: a concrete box with two small square windows. Near the front door are two other doors, one for the bedroom they all sleep in, and the other for the bathroom. I sit on wide, pillowed cushions on the floor next to a table covered in metal pieces and wires. Bri’s stuff, no doubt.
In the corner, Bri’s mom is folded over a pile of colorful strings that look like yarn but not nearly as fuzzy. Her fingers move a mile a minute like she’s conducting a yarn orchestra and a beautiful tapestry of colors interlace and knot, weaving itself across her lap. She doesn’t say a word to me, but cuts me a look and mutters something to Bri in Ghizonian.
“Ya, Memi.” Bri rolls her eyes but doesn’t explain.
“So, Aasim…” I tap my foot. “I’m listening. How’d he know I’d be here?”
She shrugs. “He just sent a message that said he’d be here. He assumed you were with me, which isn’t that far-fetched.”
He’s literally thelastperson I want to see. “Ugh.”
Bri’s mother glances at me, shifting in her seat. I don’t think she likes the sound of Third in Command coming to her house, and she probably isn’t all that happy about harboring a fugitive, either.
“Na’yoo zechka.” She stares a moment then gets back to her work, looping a purple strand around a line of rainbow-colored ones.
“How did you even get her to agree to let me be here?”
“I sort of told her Aasimaskedthat I bring you here.”
I’ve never heard her mother speak anything but Ghizonian. Bri says she knows English but doesn’t approve of using a western language just because it’s widely popular. The western world is near idolized here. Without contact, it’s like forbidden fruit, making it all the more alluring. Fashion magazines are about all the insight anyone has, and even those are contraband. No idea how they get them, but never fails that at a party, someone’s passing around a very worn, out-of-date copy ofTeen Vogueor something.
“She’s just really old-fashioned,” Bri had explained. “She doesn’t think we need English since we have no contact with any other countries. It feels like treachery a bit to use anything but the native tongue.”
I didn’t say anything else about it, but that didn’t sound like the whole story.
“What took so long to get here?” Bri asks.
“Just got caught up with some Macazi.”
She laughs. I don’t.
“Oh man, you’re serious?”
“Quintomae,” her mother mutters under her breath.
“What she say?”
Bri rolls her eyes. “Quintomae. It’s nothing.” She looks from her mom to my blank stare and back to her mom. “You’veneverheard The Myth of Quintomae? Like, really?”
“Nope,” I say. “Didn’t grow up here, remember?”
Her mother mutters something under her breath again, this time too faint to hear. Maybe hiding here wasn’t the best idea.
Bri pulls a pillow into her lap. “So, legends tell of a man who was half man, half lizard. He thought he was invincible because of his impenetrable scaled skin. So when J’hymus, the Sea Monster, appeared off the northern coast and the king himself couldn’t fend off the beast from terrorizing his people, Quintomae saw a chance to make a name for himself. He—”
“He pleaded with the king to let him fight the beast,” a baritone voice cuts in. Bri’s father is home from the mines. “And the king said no. But he ignored the king’s edict and marched into the sea with only a bewitched javelin to take on the sea creature. Quintomae was never seen again.” Bri’s father loosens the ties on his shoes. “Ya’weshna e verzee. Disobedience is death.”
“Lo viz. Ajebria v’ja, Quol Aasim… emaca,” her mother says, helping him peel off the soiled clothes stuck to his arms. Whatever she said, he doesn’t like, because he gives Bri a look of disapproval. White bandages dotted with red spots wrap around three of his fingers. And what looks like burn marks mar hisforearms. The clothes tug at his skin, but he doesn’t wince.
“Did the monster keep terrorizing the people?” I ask, and he studies me a moment.
“No,” he says, untying the robes cinched at his neck.
Sounds more like victory in sacrifice. He wanted to kill the monster and make a name for himself.… I mean, we still talking about him, ain’t we? I’d say he succeeded on both fronts. But I keep my mouth shut.
