Then Sev had simply made sure he was nearby when the first of the guards—the unfortunate Mal—came hurtling up the stairs to use the bathroom facilities. Sev offered to cover for him, and the man nodded vigorously before slamming the door and throwing up with a violent retch.
Sev felt bad about it… but not bad enough. He might not enjoy spy work, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at it. He’d done worse things, after all, and could deal with the comparatively moderate guilt of giving a couple of hardened empire soldiers diarrhea.
Sev would do what he had to do for as long as he had to do it, but it did not define who he was. He was a spy for now, and knowing it was temporary—a means to an end and not the end itself—made things easier.
The soldiers would recover, and in the meantime, Sev had taken advantage of the opportunity to talk to Tristan.
It was the first time Sev had gotten a good look at the commander’s son since his imprisonment.
Tristan looked acutely out of place inside the dank, musty cell—his dirty, unevenly cut hair and lack of sleep failing to diminish him as he stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, his Rider leathers torn and sweaty but impressive nonetheless. He looked unbendable and intimidating and very like his father, and yet, after speaking to him, Sev realized he wasn’t much like the commander at all. Yes, their looks were similar, their presence palpable—but Tristan wore his emotions plain on his face, his wariness and hesitation, his fear and vulnerability there for anyone to see. It had been there the night Sev had shown up at the Eyrie bringing news of impending death and destruction to the people under Tristan’s care, and it had been there when Rolan had taken Tristan as hostage and Sev had shown him he was not alone.
It was a strange mix. It made Sev want to help him, but it also made Sev recognize quite plainly that Tristan was more than capable of helping himself. There was a rawness in him, an honesty that everything inside Sev rebelled against, and yet he admired it too. It seemed to speak of a different kind of life than the one Sev had led—even though Sev knew that the commander would be no easy father. Tristan had probably paid for his forthrightness and would have had to cultivate other forms of protection. But it was very easy to see him commanding forces and leading with confidence.
And Sev would get him there.
He would be the hand that tipped the poison, the keen eyes in the darkness. He would use every dirty trick he had—every self-preserving skill he’d ever honed—if it meant helping the Phoenix Riders. If it meant helping Kade.
There was still more work to do, but all in all, Sev was quite pleased with himself and the night’s events.
So pleased, in fact, that he didn’t see the newly minted Captain Yara dogging his steps until she wrapped iron fingers around his arm and yanked him into a darkened chamber.
An empty bathroom.
Gods, this is how it ends, Sev thought, looking around in panic. Teyke was getting him back for the diarrhea thing. Or maybe it was Axura, righting the scales of justice. That was far more likely. Sev rather thought Teyke would enjoy a good shit joke.
“Captain,” Sev began in his best slow, nonthreatening voice. “What can I—”
“Enough with the dimwit act,” Yara barked, turning from Sev to throw the latch and lock them inside. The only source of illumination was a small window where milky dawn light filtered into the room. Water dripped from a rusted hand pump used for quick washing, the sound echoing in the tiled space.
Sev stared at it, slotting the pieces of his story into place as Yara checked every corner of the room to make sure there were no servants or occupants or other eavesdroppers. At last she faced Sev again.
“Captain Yara, I’m not sure—”
“I told you to cut it out. I know where you were, just now, and I know where Mal and Ian were as well—not on duty, but making rather a mess of the bathroom on the first floor.”
“The fish—” Sev tried again, but Yara held up a hand, silencing him. Sev’s stomach convulsed painfully. He may not have eaten the fish, but it suddenly felt like he had.
“Do you know what it reminds me of?” she asked, almost conversationally. Sev shook his head. “It reminds me of Pyra. Of the Vesperaean caves. The sounds. The smells. It reminds me of that old woman Thya.”
“W-who?” Sev managed meekly.
“You aren’t nearly so vicious,” Yara continued appraisingly, “or maybe you just aren’t as good at your work, but it’s clear you are doing the same work. I saw you two together more than once. But while she was caught red-handed—literally—you were not. No, you remained in Lord Rolan’s service… and tragedy followed you. At least as far as the empire was concerned. First the caves and the failed attack on Azurec’s Eyrie—I do not recall seeing you during the battle, incidentally—and then you returned to Pyra with the illustrious Captain Dill a few short months later, and once again, things went badly for Lord Rolan’s troops.”
Sev swallowed so thickly he felt the sides of his dry throat stick together.
“Several failed attempts at war with unarmed villagers”—her nostrils flared—“then the governor’s forces were ambushed by Phoenix Riders. Over two-thirds of our number wiped out in a single battle. A battle you were present at, this time. And yet, remarkably, you returned safely. Luck, maybe? Coincidence? I cannot possibly attribute it to your fighting skills—I’ve seen you in the practice ring.”
He was in for it now. She was circling him like a hawk, ready to pick him apart. Forget fighting skills—could Sev catch her off guard and bash her over the head with that bucket, then lock her inside the bathroom? No, if he wanted to be able to stick around and help Tristan… he’d have to kill her.
His heart hammered in his chest, fear and adrenaline spiking his veins, but he didn’t move.
“The old woman is dead, but if her work is now your work…” Yara trailed off, her tone musing again as she took a single step closer. She actually smiled, twisting the burn scars along her jaw and neck. “Make no mistake—while I have no love for the Phoenix Riders, I like Lord Rolan even less.”
Sev’s thundering pulse stuttered, and he couldn’t help the questioning look he knew must be on his face. The disbelief. What was she saying?
“I am no Rider, and I am no animage,” she said in answer to Sev’s skeptical expression, stepping even closer, forcing Sev to lean back slightly. “But I am Pyraean. And Rolan’s plans? To march a thousand soldiers into Pyra again… I will not stand for it.”
She finished on a deadly whisper. Sev’s ears were ringing.
“That botched attempt on Azurec’s Eyrie was one thing—stupid, careless, and ineffective—but his soldiers roaming freely along the border? This Grand Council vote?” she said, eyes fierce. “This will be the end of Pyra. They’ll march in force and leave nothing, no one, behind. My family”—she paused—“what’s left of my family, they’re just now starting to rebuild, seventeen years later. I won’t see Pyra burn to the ground or watch it slowly fall apart from raiders and bandits. Tell me what you need, and we will help you.”
Yara’s face was utterly serious, and she was smart, capable—in a position of power. Sev couldn’t ask for a better ally.
“Wait—we?” he repeated.
Before Yara could answer, there was a soft knock on the door. She moved to open it, and Sev tried to put the scattered pieces of his mind back together.
It was a wasted effort.
When the door opened, Hestia—the resident healer at the governor’s estate in Ferro—walked into the room, and Sev’s brain broke all over again.
Hestia gave Sev an appraising sort of look. “All right, Sevro?”
He shrugged half-heartedly. It was a mistake.
The healer sighed heavily. “I see you haven’t been tending your wound. Stiff as a statue—you can barely lift your arm. I told you to apply the salve every night, did I not?”
Sev opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“No matter. We can resume your treatment for the time being
. We’ll be meeting regularly from here on out?” she asked, turning to Yara, who nodded.
“H-how are you here?” Sev finally spluttered out—the least important of all the questions crowding his mind. At least he’d managed to speak.
Hestia shrugged. “Governor Rolan has been suffering from terrible indigestion these past weeks, and apparently only my tinctures can cure his digestive upset. They also cause it, of course, but he doesn’t know that.” She smiled blandly at Sev; she and Ilithya would have gotten along.
“But why?” he asked faintly. Hestia risked more than her position by tampering with Rolan’s medications and helping Sev. She risked her life.
Hestia’s expression turned dark. “To have Cassian’s own son locked up in a cell beneath my feet… I brought that boy into this world, just as I helped the healer who delivered Cassian. Rolan has gone too far. The last thing this empire needs is another war.”
Sev believed her sincerity and her love for Cassian and Tristan—she had served them for decades. He turned his attention to Yara. She stared steadily back at him.
Could he truly trust her? Yara already knew he was up to no good. If she wanted to turn him in, she could do so now. Her word would be enough.
Their involvement complicated matters, but Sev recognized that he alone wasn’t enough anymore. He needed an inside look into Lord Rolan’s plans and better access to Tristan—both of which Yara could offer him. And when it came time to free him, Yara would know every soldier’s schedule and whereabouts—and be able to change them if needed. Furthermore, Hestia’s knowledge of potions and herbs far outstripped Sev’s own. They would both be invaluable allies.
“Tell us what you need,” Yara said again, and Sev made up his mind.
“I need time alone in the dungeons with Tristan—every night, if we can manage it.”
Yara nodded brusquely. “I will add you to the prison guard roster and adjust the schedule. Anything else?”
“I’m sure there will be, but for now? I need access to Lord Rolan’s library.”
A False Sister. A Shadow Twin.
- CHAPTER 5 - ELLIOT
“ELLIOT!” SNAPPED RIELLA, WHIRLING on him for the second—or was it the third?—time that day.
He’d stomped on her foot. Again.
In his defense, she was marching all over the place like a chicken with its head cut off. She was helping Ersken tend one of the young phoenixes who had gotten into it with another, larger phoenix, squabbling over food, and the result was a slash across his face. There would be no lasting damage, but it had been a near thing: The cut ran diagonally across his forehead and cheek, dangerously close to his eye.
The phoenix that had wounded him was appropriately chagrined, crooning morosely and exiling herself to a corner of the courtyard at the bottom of the Eyrie, away from the others.
Elliot was helping Riella carry some healing supplies, but as he passed, he caught sight of Sparrow with hands on hips, chastising the guilty party in blunt, but not unkind, tones.
It made him smirk—and had distracted him just long enough that he’d walked directly into Riella’s back, catching her heel with his boot.
“Elliot,” Riella said again, her tone tight with frayed patience. She snatched the box of supplies from him. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be? Patrols to fly? Errands for Beryk? Something?”
Elliot had been filling in on Tristan’s patrol when he could, though he often shared the responsibilities with Doriyan, another Master Rider without a patrol. He was the newest member of their flock, aside from the apprentices, and had joined them after the events in Ferro with Avalkyra Ashfire and Lord Rolan. Doriyan’s father, who was elderly and sick, remained under the healer’s care—and had been a large part of Doriyan’s decision to join them in the first place.
Since Elliot also worked as Beryk’s assistant, he usually remained at the Eyrie whenever possible. He didn’t mind—it meant staying close to Riella—but apparently she did.
“Excuse me, are you dismissing your big brother?” he asked indignantly.
Her face lit up. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Goodbye.”
Elliot grabbed her arm before she could dart away. He stared down at her with his brows raised, mostly entertained, but also a bit uncomfortable with Riella’s alarming maturity and independence. Where was the girl who used to follow him everywhere?
“I have the afternoon off, and I promised you we could go flying on Jax.”
Riella expelled a great, long-suffering breath. “We can go riding anytime. But Maddox is hurt now.” She pointed over her shoulder, where Ersken was feeding the phoenix candied ginger and pitted dates in an attempt to distract him for treatment.
Ever since they’d arrived at the Eyrie, Riella had been determined to be involved. In fact, her reaction to her trauma had been the exact opposite of Elliot’s. When things went bad for him—by his own actions, of course, but still—Elliot had spent weeks shrinking back and distancing himself from people. Riella, on the other hand, was all the more determined to put herself in the thick of things.
Sparrow had been the one to shake Elliot out of his self-imposed exile and malaise, but it seemed that Riella needed no such push. She had taken to the Eyrie at once, and the first thing she did was find her way to the animals. Healing was her particular interest, so she was learning from Ersken and Jana how to make splints and bind wounds. She’d even taught Elliot—practicing on him and then having him practice on her—but a chance to treat a phoenix was a rare opportunity.
“Fine!” Elliot said, releasing her with a dramatic wave of his hands. In truth, he was proud of her. It felt as though he’d left behind a naive, innocent child, and now she was all grown up. “I guess I’ll fly alone, then. Jax will be disappointed.”
Jax was perched atop the gallery nearby. He tilted his head and chirruped.
“Oh yes, he looks quite devastated.” Riella was clearly about to roll her eyes—they were halfway there—when something over Elliot’s shoulder grabbed her attention. She beamed. “But I know just the thing! You can take Sparrow instead.”
The girl in question had been walking past, her homemade spear in hand. A familiar raven was perched on her shoulder, tangled in her hair, while the rest of the occupants of the Eyrie—phoenixes and apprentices alike—skirted around her in an apparent attempt to avoid her notice. Today wasn’t the only day she’d given a phoenix or their bondmate a stern talking-to.
She came to a stop next to them, her brow furrowed.
“You’d like to go for a fly, wouldn’t you, Sparrow?” Riella asked brightly. While Riella had a knack for healing, Sparrow was talented at drawing all manner of animals to her side—especially the lost or wounded—and the two girls had become co-conspirators and fast friends.
“Me?” repeated Sparrow, her hands stilling on her spear, which she often twisted and twirled as she moved.
“Of course,” Riella said eagerly. She shoved the box of supplies back into Elliot’s chest with force, practically knocking the wind out of him, before sidling up to Sparrow. She touched the back of Sparrow’s hand at first, a simple, relaxed gesture that told him Riella had done this before. Then she moved her arm around Sparrow’s shoulders and squeezed.
Sparrow smiled, the expression soft and transformative on her face. She was usually a bit wild-looking, rough-edged and sharp-tongued, but now she looked… Well, the word that came to mind was pretty, but that didn’t feel right. Sparrow was a lot of things: intelligent and opinionated, curious and compassionate—a force of nature. Calling her pretty was like calling the dawn sun pretty. Accurate, he supposed, but insufficient.
Riella tossed Elliot an appraising sort of look, as if she could read his thoughts, and heat crept up his neck. Sparrow was barely a year younger than Elliot’s sixteen, but it made him feel strange to notice these kinds of things. Awkward.
Not nearly as awkward, however, as it had been when he’d learned Sparrow’s age in the first place.
&nbs
p; He’d been combing the Eyrie a couple of weeks back, looking for Riella, and had eventually found her sitting with Sparrow in his old haunt—the grassy field outside the village—wiling away one of the last truly hot days of autumn. Since he was no longer grounded, Elliot’s time wandering the field himself while Jax flew above was gone, which meant he hadn’t spent much time with Sparrow.
A stab of guilt pierced his stomach whenever he thought about it—about her—but he had more responsibilities now than ever: as a Rider, as Beryk’s assistant, and as a brother. He’d only just gotten Riella back, and after being held prisoner by Lord Rolan for nearly a year, she deserved his whole focus. The commander had informed their father of her safety, but he was apparently being watched closely by his superiors at the Office for Border Control and couldn’t risk a visit or even a decent reply to their letters.
It was all on Elliot, and he’d failed Riella once already, miserably, and he wouldn’t ever let that happen again.
As they sat together for the first time in weeks, Sparrow mentioned she still spent most evenings wandering outside. For a wild moment, Elliot had flattered himself that she might be waiting for him—but then she’d explained that she’d made friends with an old, solitary phoenix the day after Riella’s return, and had been hoping the creature would come back ever since.
It had been good to see her again, to hear her laugh that snorting laugh and sit among the tall grasses while all manner of animals jumped and crawled and ambled around them.
Then Riella had asked something about Sparrow’s birthday, and it hit Elliot square in the chest when she’d admitted she didn’t actually know the date… or her age.
Riella had been determined to do the math.
“Okay, how long have you been, uh, traveling?” she’d asked carefully. Elliot smiled at his sister’s needless tact—Sparrow wasn’t the easily offended sort.
Wings of Shadow Page 4
