Page 62 of The War of Wings
Cal and I halted immediately. Even Miles slowed, coming to a hesitant stop and turning back toward the merchant.
“The Lost Heir?” I asked, my eyes narrowed.
As if he thought our attention was confirmation, he pulled three stems from the bunch, using a blade to carefully cut away the thorns on the first stem. “Take it you’re not from Nesan. The Lost Heir, Saints rest his soul,” he said quietly before moving on to the next stem. All three of us were silent, unsure of this man’s intentions. “You’re here on a very special day. The Lost Heir was a man of the people. When he died, the city mourned. But when his next birthday rolled around, people celebrated his life rather than mourned his death again. Became a tradition. Queen Irli had a statue erected in the square just down the way.”
Cal and I exchanged a glance. “Did the Lost Heir have a name?” I asked.
His head shook quickly. “We don’t speak the names of those who meet untimely deaths here in Nesan. Keeps their spirits restless. Here,” the merchant said, thrusting the flowers in ourdirection. “A gift. Pay him a visit. Some say he grants good fortune from beyond the grave to those who give their respects.”
The Lost Heir. King Laion and Queen Irli’s son. Is this who they’d been talking about when I overheard them in the corridor?
“Hmm,” Cal hummed beside me, his eyes glued to the merchant’s face as he took the flowers. “Thank you, sir.”
Not one of us said a word as we walked in the direction he’d nodded, turning a corner and finding a small square, just like he’d said. It was surrounded by quaint row homes with small fenced courtyards, many of which were occupied with people drinking and smoking and laughing. And in the middle of it all stood a bronze statue of a man. He pointed a bow and arrow to the sky, the bowstring pulled taut beneath his finger, as if he were guarding the city from some invisible, skyborne enemy. The contours of the statue flickered and glowed in the light of dozens of candles that surrounded its base. And sure enough, flowers were piled right alongside those candles, hundreds upon hundreds of moboqini blooms.
I squinted at the face on the statue, but it was obscured by his hand and the bowstring. “Have you ever heard of Nesan’s Lost Heir?” I asked, leaning in to Cal.
“Yes,” he answered, his eyes still on the statue. “But he died long before I came into power. I don’t know much about him.”
We made our way through the few people milling in the square, to the plaque at the base of the statue. I was happy to see the engraved words were large enough to read from where we stood, because the amount of moboqini blooms left at the statue prevented us from getting within six feet of it.
The Lost Heir of Nesan, Eternally Remembered by the Country Who Loved Him Dearly.
In all honesty, I’d assumed Miles would be hanging back, impatiently waiting for us to finish gawking, so I was surprised when I heard him murmuring beside me. “The Lost Heir.”
I glanced at him, the look on his face unreadable. “What’s wrong, Miles?” I asked cautiously.
He shook his head, his lips pursing as he turned away. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
???
The temple soared above the city, just as imposing as the other dedicated temples we passed as we trudged through the streets. Even cloaked beneath the shadow of night, I could tell how beautiful the structure was. Massive pillars jutted out of perfectly manicured grounds. Vines heavy with deep red blooms snaked their way up each pillar. From afar, it looked like dripping blood, as if the building itself was a beast that had been slashed open. Despite the crowded city streets, the grounds of Noros’ temple were empty.
“Okay,” I breathed as we ascended the staircase to the doors. “Let’s see what we can find.”
Torchlight sent shadows dancing over the cavernous hall. I squinted at the artwork and carvings that covered every square inch of wallspace, but they weren’t what grabbed my attention. No, my eyes were pulled to the massive altar at the front of the temple, an inscription carved into the marble above it. We walked between rows of benches, the three of us silent as we read.
The broken may weep
At Aegrabane’s sweep
Humanity bears its stain
It cannot be evaded
Only worsened or aided
For to know love is to know pain
They do not stand apart
Two halves of one heart
Love and pain always call again
Love and pain. There was no Saint that presided over love. I narrowed my eyes, trying to dissect each line, trying to understand anything I could within its cryptic words. “Aegrabane’s sweep,” I murmured to myself before I stole a glance at Miles. His eyes wandered, moving over the artwork that lined the walls like it held the answers we were looking for.
I read through the inscription again, squeezing my eyes shut as if that would extract meaning from the words before me. They wouldn’t be carved into the wall of the temple if they didn’t mean something. “Please,” I whispered. “Just show me something. Give me a hint. A sign. Anything.”
