The Bird and The Dragon
A Murder for the Past: Part 1

06-343 Parisya

It had been an afternoon with golden sunlight, white clouds, and laughing children, a perfect day for family picnics, lovers strolling the parks hand in hand, a day when the winter had seemed to be an eternity away. Kvenrei had then considered the weather a cruel joke played by the uncaring cosmos. His heart had been crying and the weather should have resembled the grief: cold, heavy rain laden with desert ash, turning both people and the landscape grey.

Watergate had been supposed to cry when Enidtha’s ash was spread to the winds. But the cosmos didn’t care and the suns shone like they shined today, eighty-six days later. Kvenrei was standing on the paved path circulating his father’s garden and watching the riding lesson his three older kids were having.

The decision to take the kids to meet their grandfather had been difficult. Enidtha had avoided politics and Kvenrei had respected her will until the end. The accidental death had changed a lot, including the family’s finances and finally Kvenrei had taken his children to the northern coast his heart heavy.

Parisya was only a village surrounded by the wasteland, the sea, and the hills, but it had been Kvenrei’s childhood home, his father’s estate. The adolescent Ayu and teenagers Tiago and Liida had been skeptical about Kvenrei’s statements regarding his family. But only two weeks after their arrival the kids had conquered their grandfather’s estate: its library, the grand piano, the stables, and in Meina’s case also grandfather’s lap.

The estate had been built on the seashore after the first war. Its northern wall reached the rocky beach and its gardens were oriented to the south, shielded by the hills. The estate was built like the houses in the world where the ainadu had escaped. Ikanji, Kvenrei’s father had been the only noble to survive the rebellion. The building by the sea mirrored the past building traditions; the estate set almost seamlessly to the landscape.

The quiet rooms and the peaceful gardens Kvenrei remembered from his childhood were now full of life as the youngsters had their inevitable adventures. At first, they had not been interested in the maps, paintings, and souvenirs scattered all over the house, but when they realized the items testified to their grandfather’s role in the rebellion, they would not get enough of them.

In the middle of all the fuss the rebel general from history, strategej Ikanji walked calmly with graceful steps. The father and the son shared many facial features, but Ikanji’s skin tone was deeper and his face was framed by long, wheat-colored hair. His age was impossible to guess. Only the coldness of his blue-grey gaze and the sparks of madness sometimes flaring in its deeps hinted at the long, hard years gone by. Ikanji had received his sudden visitors with dignity and openness, concentrating on his grandchildren and letting Kvenrei choose the distance between the two.

Meina’s joyful voice came to Kvenrei’s ears. The girl had just celebrated her first year and spoke only a few words, but it didn’t stop her from babbling. Meina walked awkwardly and loved to be carried and presently she was in Ikanji’s lap, tightly holding a strand of his hair. Ikanji was explaining something softly and smiling gently, an expression Kvenrei couldn’t remember ever being directed to him. Ikanji stopped to stand next to his son. They were of similar height and build. Ayu said that from the back or in a poor light only the hair distinguished them.

“They are fast to learn. Liida has a natural talent with horses,” Ikanji said while detangling Meina’s fingers from his hair.

“She loves riding,” Kvenrei agreed. The life in Sandau had been good and the kids had not missed anything, but Kvenrei was pondering if he had made a mistake when postponing the visit to Ikanji. The old man’s finances easily covered horses, estates, and private teachers. The problem was the man himself, but so far, he had taken no actions toward carving unwanted matrixes into anybody’s bones.

“You too enjoyed riding when you were a kid.” Father’s words reminded Kvenrei of the good parts of his childhood. “Have you been riding?”

“I gave it a go, although your horse master guarded me like a dog. Is he a son to the old man?”

“A nephew. He arrived some years after you left.” The silence grew long and Ikanji cancelled it by lowering Meina to the path. He lured the girl to walk towards some orange flowers. Meina took small steps holding tightly his grandfather’s perfectly manicured finger.

“Have you kept in touch with Jesrade?” Ikanji asked.

“I didn’t want to disturb her.”

“You are her brother. She might have some use for you.”

“I don’t want to be used in her and Patrik’s schemes. I want to steer my fate.”

Ikanji plucked a flower for Meina and picked the girl back to his lap. “That is what you keep on telling. But what have you done with your precious freedom? Except this adorable little one. Yes, you are the most adorable little flower in the garden, young lady Meina.”

Kvenrei thought about the drunken nights, the hungover days, his violent service under Viper and Miss Ohanu, the chaotic downward spiral of running away, and how it all had come to a halt the day he had killed the prince. He watched Meina’s bright eyes and the older kids on their horses and felt the responsibility he carried for these precious lives.

“I found love,” Kvenrei said simply feeling the emptiness Enidtha had left. Ikanji raised his eyebrow in a way that called for considering the next words. His history had included only one love, intertwining with the rebellion and the first war and it had ended in tears and madness.

“What did you learn?” Ikanji asked.

“That you are responsible for your actions.”

“I agree on that one.” Ikanji gave Meina to Kvenrei. “I provided you with what I thought you needed, but that route didn’t fit into the landscape your fate had formed.” This was the closest to an apology Kvenrei had ever heard from his father.

“Sorry, I ran away.”

”It was a daring escape. I regret I let you succeed.”

“How far you had me tracked?”

“Only until you had established your apprenticeship. I let you spread your wings.”

“I see, you had Jesrade.”

“Esrae!” Meina piped.

“Yes, auntie Jesrade.” Kvenrei caressed the girl’s hair.

“She was the headstrong one. I never agreed on her diving into Khem politics, but she didn’t care. Now Jessea is insisting me to participate.”

“All the north is yours to take.” Ikanji was a war hero, the last noble, and incredibly skilled in using the resonance: most of the ainadu would have followed his command should he have announced to be alive.

“These wars are none of my business.”

Kvenrei gave an awkward nod. “Isn’t Jesrade trying to build peace in the south?”

“That is what she thinks. But Jessea doesn’t see the whole picture. I believed there would have been more time to educate her.”

“You mean to reveal the ugly truths hiding behind the pretty words and the honorable facades?”

“Yes. Your sister didn’t voluntarily and forcefully make her way to sit by the legs of the said powers. Like her brother did.” Ikanji targeted his smile at Kvenrei.

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“You walked your path and found your way to act. That is a part of the reason why I let Jesrade find her path in the world. But yes, Kvenrei, in some subjects I am content to see what you grew to be. And Meina is proud of her father.”

“Da!” the girl said.

“Thanks for letting us here,” Kvenrei said, thankful for Meina’s attempts to push the flower to his face preventing him from looking at his father.

“I couldn’t refuse when such a charming lady makes a request.” Ikanji’s expression showed rare softness and the shadow of madness in his gaze was covered like a ray of sun may steal the attention when it appears in the middle of the storm clouds.

Kvenrei slept in his old room and woke up without knowing why. He trusted his instincts and opened his eyes. Like he had heard a door closing and someone talking downstairs. The sound was there again, a soft laughter and father’s voice saying something. Kvenrei put on his robe, it was the same greyish blue as his eyes, the color of ice in the sea, and it was embroidered with flowers. The flowers that had never bloomed in this world; their kind existed only in the robe and in a painting on the library wall.

The painting showed a woman seated in a garden. She was Ikanji’s mother, and the garden had been where the ainadu came from, in a gentler world, reigned by dragons more sinister than Agiisha. Kvenrei had spent hours staring at the painting, imagining himself in the garden. The dead grandmother he had never met had felt much closer than the woman who had given birth to him. Kvenrei’s and Jesrade’s mother had been only a part of Ikanji’s plan, only a womb and neither sibling remembered her.

Kvenrei descended downstairs with bare feet, following the voices. He was afraid Ikanji had decided to give lessons to his grandchildren and Kvenrei hurried his steps. The lessons on dragon sight and using the powers it granted had broken the relationship between the father and the son.

Despite all the training and the matrixes in his bones, the sight was too overpowering for Kvenrei. He sensed it as nauseous colors and shapes and couldn’t couple with it. Ikanji did not understand his condition and forced him to undergo countless practices until it all became too much to bear. Finally, Kvenrei had just run away, believing he was a disappointment.

The white tile floor downstairs was as spotless as always and the rugs covering it were familiar in their colors. Kvenrei followed the voices to the hall and sneaked closer; first in the cover of a chest of drawers, then in the shadow of a statue of a naked man, covering behind its massive hair and the shovel it was holding. He had always thought the pompous statue ridiculous, but it had been a political gift and it still sported a fracture where Ikanji had once thrown a dessert fork to make a point in an argument.

The discussion was coming from the north side of the house where the windows looked to the sea. The grand piano was there, accompanied only by a set of chairs, a few paintings, and a drawer storing various alcohols. The door was halfway open, and the room was lighted. The other speaker was Ikanji, and the female voice had to be Jesrade.

Kvenrei smiled: he loved his little sister, the intelligent girl who had grown to be a determined woman. A woman, whose lover he had murdered while believing to further the peace. The same peace Jesrade wanted to upkeep.

Kvenrei knew he should have told Jesrade about the game Patrik was playing and about Jenet, but he had avoided the subject and all the people involved. Kvenrei had locked it all inside and pretended nothing had happened. Patrik had believed it was because of his cooperation and sense of responsibility.

Now Jesrade was talking about the horrors of war and the havoc the trade blockage was wrecking and the hungry kids and the meaningless deaths. She was asking her father to do something, to wake up from his slumber to end the war.

Kvenrei felt his throat to tighten. Jesrade was still an idealist. It was no innocence, but strong trust that with hard work the world could be changed to be a better place. Kvenrei rapped the doorframe as he stepped inside.

Ikanji was wearing a pale green velvet robe and trousers, his hair open and some papers in his hand. Jesrade was seated, her golden-brown hair messy from the ride, wearing dark riding clothes, cut in the Khem fashion. Both turned to face the door and the woman’s expression turned to a happy smile when she recognized him.

“Kvenrei, you are here!” she screamed and jumped to hug him.

“Jessea, love to see you. Do you often make surprise visits here?”

The woman let go of the hug and looked his brother in the eye. They used to have the same grey-blue eyes, but Jesrade’s irises were darker now, brown was covering the pale color. She had made changes to integrate into the southern population. “I should do. The old man refuses to use his authority to stop the war.”

Kvenrei wanted to say so much; to talk about his visit to Khem, apologize, warn, and to hug Jesrade more.

“The said old man is familiar with the reality of war,” Ikanji interrupted Kvenrei’s thoughts. “Good to see you together.”

Jesrade faced their father again. “After everything you have done, you have the moral objection to prevent that kind of incident.”

“Jessea, Kven, a forced peace will not hold. The same reasons have ignited the disputes for centuries and they will do that in the future if the root causes are not dealt with.”

“The uneven and unfair distribution of the resources,” Jesrade said.

“Xenophobia masked as the shit talk about the end of the world,” Kvenrei added.

Jesrade punched his shoulder like they were kids. “It is under control. They are just solitary shit-talkers, and the beliefs can be turned into a story that unifies Watergate.”

”Their racism is not without roots,” Ikanji said calmly. “You can write your all-encompassing story based on the common suffering and exile, but the South has not forgiven the hot segment or the end of the world.”

“I have never heard them claim we caused their planetary infrastructure to fall,” Jesrade said sharply.

“You haven’t listened enough. Agiisha brought us here because her dragon body was left in orbit in the war they poetically call the end of the world. Talk to the nocturna, they remember it clearly.”

Kvenrei was staring at his father. Sometimes Ikanji’s reminders about his history were like a hit in the solar plexus. Jesrade seemed to be thinking.

“It would explain a lot. But it just sets us the greater moral obligation to work for the peace,” she said.

“Do not talk to me about morals,” Ikanji said tiredly and moved to sit by his instrument, leaving the papers on the chair. His fingers found their places on the keys.

“Someone must do it. Kven, say something, he is being unreasonable again.”

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