“Mikhael is gone,” he said.
“Ugh, you’re all so melodramatic,” Madhavi sighed. “Fine. At least you’re talking. That should make Daemodan happy. You’re not worth anymore of my time. I’m bored with you. Now, maybe, I can get back to that beautiful secret my sweet lamb is keeping from me.”
“Prizrak,” he said. The dragon-born woman arched a thick brow at him.
“Where?” she said in bored tones, even looking out into the expanse of snow. “There’s nothing there.”
“Because it is here,” he said pointing himself. He was Prizrak; wraith was the word in the Trade Cant.
“Well, aren’t you a ball of joy,” Madhavi intoned. “Daemodan’s going to love you. Try not to burn anything down, little Wraith. I have hunting to do. Be a good boy and see yourself out.”
She touched his brow, making him gasp as his eyes popped open to the white-washed ceiling of the cottage. Madhavi slept beside him, curled up on her side, as peaceful as a babe. He reached a hand out to her, stroking a strand of hair. It turned white, frosting from his touch. He pulled his hand back, staring at it with a frown. He sat up slowly, still studying his hand. A gryphon watched him from the door, the fur blackened like burned ashes and wings tipped in stark white. On the floor at his feet were fat flakes of melting snow that froze as soon as he glanced at them.
A wraith indeed.
Chapter Fifteen
Fruit, Kaleo was learning, looked much different in Mahala than it did in Esbeth or even the Phoenix Empire. There were many things that were bright orange or yellow, even one that was so pink just touching it stained the skin. He held a basket in the crook of his arm with the wild fruits filling it up. Reven wasted no time putting his apprentice to work, sending the young avian out on errands. They’d left the small row home the night of the argument between the thief-taker and the bard, opting to stay inside the city until new arrangements could be made and new contracts worked out that did not involve Liam. The amatti was grateful for the distraction. His thoughts and dreams had been on Aeron too much lately, tugging at his guilt. He refocused on the short but complex list in his hand. It did not help. He did not know what most of the items were. Papayas, for example; Kaleo had no clue what they were so did not know what to look for.
Instead, the young avian watched artisans and shoppers move through the open market, nodding at each of them in turn. He observed what was worn and said, the way vendors interacted with their clients. Women did most of the shopping, carrying baskets similar to the one Kaleo held or round, flat-bottomed baskets with lids that were balanced on their heads. How that feat was accomplished had Kaleo staring for several minutes before he shook himself of his rudeness. Children roamed through the markets begging for work or money - or both. Kaleo paid one child a single round coin to show him which of the vendors acted as a courier. None of the children were educated that he could tell, not like home.
This is home, now, idiot. Get used to it, he chided.
After some more wandering and observation, Kaleo found the courier. It was a clay edifice among the open-air vendors with a large amount of feathers and bird feces used as decor. He made a face, reminded himself again that he was no longer a spoiled prince, and walked in.
“Uh, hello,” he said to a tall man with dark tan skin and black hair. He wore loose pants that hung low on the crotch area like what Reven wore and sandals woven of reeds. He had no shirt, opting for a simple vest in the desert heat. Kaleo looked at his own outfit and frowned. More adaptations would need to be made. Already he’d opted to "shift" away his wings as they produced too many wild stares, stares that he did not want. It was uncomfortable at times, but allowed him to move through the city with a little more freedom.
“Buenos dias. Come te puedo ayudar?” the man said as Kaleo approached.
“Uhm…” Kaleo began. Only part of what the man said made sense to the young avian. Mahalan was similar in syntax to the olven trade cant, but different enough for it to be mostly useless to him. There were very few phrases he knew: "hello", "may I have more", "where are the lavatories?" but, again, none of those were truly helpful. Mahalan was not on his list of known languages. Yet.
“Ah, eres el chico de Senor Reven, no?” the man continued. Kaleo blinked at him, understanding "Senor Reven" and "no". The courier was not the first individual to mention the bard but most of the vendors, at least, spoke the Trade Cant. The courier did not. Kaleo twisted his lips in annoyance. What good was a courier that did not speak multiple tongues?
“Yeah,” Kaleo said with great uncertainty. “Senor Reven. Uhm, look, I’d like to send this letter to Damaskha.”
Kaleo produced a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. The courier looked at it and then at Kaleo expectantly.
“Damaskha? Uhm… send… send to Damaskha. To Grolly,” Kaleo continued, complete with hand gestures of walking fingers. It did not help.
“He can’t understand you.”
Kaleo turned toward the new voice. A girl in a loosely knit cap stood beside him, her hair tucked up into the cap itself. Other women wore a silk head scarf loosely draped over their heads and some of the young boys wore caps like the girl wore. Even Serai had adopted the head scarf trend. The girl’s words had a gentle accent that was not entirely Mahalan. Something else, perhaps. He arched a
