A Bond Forged in Stories

Wells found himself recounting his life story, surprised by how easily the words flowed to this creature he had just met. She listened with an intense, quiet curiosity, never interrupting. He told her of being an only child, of the eager anticipation he felt for Uncle Jonas’s visits, and of the night he’d met Cirus after his uncle vanished. He spoke of the hollow ache left by his friends in Tor Alian—Aidan, Alexa, Vance, Juliana, and Nikolai.

“I feel like I abandoned them,” he confessed, his voice low. “There’s a massive gap inside me where they should be. Do you know what I mean? It’s like when you get so close to someone that they become a part of you, and then they’re suddenly gone, leaving a hole that eats you from the inside.”

Aria tilted her head. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said softly.

“You do?”

With a sigh that made her small chest heave, she whispered, “Yes. Except I always knew I would have to leave my friends behind.”

“What do you mean by that?” Wells asked, confused.

“I’m from another world,” she began.

His eyebrows rose. “That’s something I can relate to.”

Aria gave a soft chuckle. Yes, I’m starting to see that. In my world, we are born with the knowledge that we may one day serve a magician. A being known only as the Creator fashioned our realm. He took creatures from this one, granting them sapience and the ability to understand any language. But He also told us of Remira and our purpose here. To be a kithara is the highest calling one can have.

Lately, though, the summons have become rare. Warlocks see us as a sign of weakness, and prophets have no need for us. I believe I am the first to be called from my home in sixty years. She gave a dry laugh. It's a rather bleak existence, isn't it? We kithara spend our lives waiting for something that may never happen.

“Wait, I pulled you from your home?” Wells asked. “I just felt a surge of myran and sort of… tugged.”

I was flying near some cliffs, feeling a warm, pleasant sensation. The next thing I knew, I was on your arm, Aria admitted. Even though I was always told what would happen if I were chosen, I was still not quite prepared.

“Does your kind have a name for yourselves?” Wells inquired. “Calling everyone a ‘kithara’ all the time seems a bit formal.”

We do, Aria confirmed. In our tongue, we are the Vaenyari.

“Vaenyari?”

I understood the word the moment you spoke it, Aria explained. I can speak any language you introduce me to. A practical skill, we were always taught.

A smirk touched Wells’s lips. “It is. My friend Vance would love you. He’s obsessed with languages—already fluent in Latin and Spanish and trying to learn Japanese.”

For a heartbeat, Aria’s eyes went unfocused, as if she were scanning an entire library in a second. Then they snapped back into focus. Don’t do that! she chirped, shaking her head. I know them now. It gives me a headache, learning everything so quickly.

“Sorry,” Wells said. “But that’s incredible.”

Thank you, she replied.

“So how old are you?” Wells asked. “I hope that’s not too personal, but I did just share my life story.”

Aria snorted. You’re remarkably non-confrontational, you know that?

“And you have no filter,” Wells shot back.

Touché.

“You know French now?” he asked wryly, then caught himself. “Oh, sorry.”

It’s fine, Aria said with a little shake. I’ll get my revenge someday. But my age? I’m nearly thirty.

Wells’s eyebrows shot up. “Thirty? That’s ancient for a sparrowhawk.”

Aria gave an indignant harrumph. I am not old! In kithara years, I’m not even considered an adult, she retorted sharply. Besides, you’re not even a man yet!

Wells flushed. “I’ll be a man in two years,” he said, a hint of hurt in his voice. He was certain Aria would be grinning if she could; he could see the smile in the glint of her eyes.

Still a baby compared to me, Aria said breezily.

“But you’re not an adult yet, either?” Wells pressed.

No, Aria conceded, her turn to sound slightly wounded.

“Thought so,” Wells declared triumphantly. “Now, tell me your story.”

Aria sighed. Fine, if you insist. Settle in. This is a long tale.

Wells nodded, pulling his legs to his chest and leaning against the stump for warmth as the evening chill deepened. He shivered once, and Aria began.

A kithara’s birth is a momentous event. My father was a tiger, my mother a bear. For me to be born a bird was a sign of tremendous luck—a one-in-a-thousand chance. After my parents raised me for ten years, I was sent to The Crags, the home of all avian kithara. They were proud I was born a sparrowhawk but sad to see me go. The journey was long and exhausting, but after three years of flying, I arrived.

I introduced myself to the eagle who greeted me as Aria Ashwing, daughter of the bear and the tiger, and declared I had come seeking sanctuary to learn the ways of the kithara. He led me to the Lord of the Crags—an ancient, tattered owl named Hethrin. Though over a thousand years old, he had chosen to remain in our world to train the avian-born. He was the most revered kithara on our planet. He looked me over and pronounced that I was not worthy to train under him.

“That’s a bit harsh,” Wells remarked.

You think? Aria agreed. He told me I must first climb the highest mountain and ‘see the world from a cloud’s point of view.’ She noticed Wells’s odd look. His exact words. I had no idea how it was supposed to help, but I had to obey, didn’t I?

“I guess,” Wells said. “If you wanted to be a kithara.”

Exactly. The eagle, Swiftwing, told me not to take it personally. Lord Hethrin gave such impossible tasks to all prospective guardians. Still, I had to try. I took off and flew north for two weeks. Winter was coming, so I began to build a nest. And that’s when things got interesting.

“They weren’t interesting before?” Wells asked, playing along.

Shhh, let me finish! Aria chirped, and Wells grinned. As I was building my nest, I was discovered by a wolf pack. Their leader held an old grudge against Lord Hethrin, and by extension, all birds. It just so happened that the Wolf Prince himself decided he wanted to sleep under my particular tree that night. One of his grimy henchmen spotted me. Here, Aria cleared her throat, deepening her voice into a comical growl. “Sire! There’s a bird up in that tree!”