The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1

by Bryce O'Connor

  Beside her, Reyn’s face contorted for a moment into what looked like the remnants of grief. It shifted back almost immediately.

  “Talo should be the one to tell you,” he said hesitantly, ending the conversation.

  Syrah frowned, feeling a knot form in her gut. Ignoring it, she looked around. She wasn’t familiar with the route they were taking, but it didn’t surprise her. There were a dozen different ways to get to any single place within the temple, and everyone had their preferences. It used to be a child’s game, in fact. Those with the fastest route were the winners, and got to be King of the Citadel for a day.

  But wait… no… She did know this path…

  “Is Talo with Eret?” she asked, suddenly excited. She’d thought she recognized this particular hall. It led almost directly to the High Priest’s quarters, a place she’d been more than a few times during her acolyte years. Eret Ta’hir had been nearly as important in her life as Talo had been before she’d gained her staff.

  The knot in her stomach tightened, though, when she saw Reyn’s face. It was a true mask of grief now, contorted and stricken.

  “No,” he managed to say. “No, Syrah…”

  Syrah stopped dead, realization crashing over her. Her staff dropped from her hands, clanging against the stone floor.

  “No,” she whispered, covering her mouth, taking a step away from the man. “Reyn… no…”

  Reyn’s body shook, but he clamped his jaw shut resolutely. Then he nodded.

  Syrah ran.

  Her feet pounded the ground as she rushed down the hall, turning right, left, and right again. Her body made the decisions automatically, plucking the directions of this familiar route straight from her childhood days.

  The door was there, as she remembered, ordinary as every other wooden door in the Citadel. There was a moment where she saw it and realized that she wanted to stop, wanted to never open it. She wanted to walk away and never find out what news waited for her inside.

  Her hand, though, reached out, lifting the cold iron handle, and the door swung open with a bang.

  Two men were in the room beyond, both jumping when she rushed in, her eyes wet, looking around frantically. Talo was seated behind the High Priest’s desk, a broad L-shaped escritoire set almost directly in the middle of the wide circular chamber. He seemed to have been sitting there with his face in his hands. His eyes were red when he looked up, and Carro, his partner, was standing beside him, one hand on his shoulder as though to comfort him.

  “Sy-Syrah?” Talo blurted, stunned.

  Then he leapt up and hurriedly limped around the table.

  “It is! It is you! Syrah! When did you…? How have you…?”

  But he stopped, standing helplessly when he saw the tears rolling down her colorless cheeks.

  “Talo…?” She hated that she was crying, blinking up at him. “Is Eret…? Did he…?”

  Talo’s face—originally a strangled mixture of surprise, joy, and overbearing sadness—fell just like Reyn’s had. He stepped forward, wrapped her completely in his arms, and pulled her close, hushing her and patting her white hair like he’d done when she’d still been a little girl twenty years ago, newly arrived to Cyurgi’ Di.

  “Shh,” he whispered, rocking her side to side. “Shh, child. Eret is returned to His embrace. This is no time for tears. It is a time to remember him and to realize that he has achieved what he has always wanted to. Shh… shh…”

  Carro came to stand beside them, eyes glistening.

  “Come sit, Syrah,” he told her in his fatherly voice, prying her gently from Talo’s embrace. Carro al’Dor was nearly as big as his lover, his long blonde hair tied in three thin ponytails behind his head, his beard braided with bone beads and narrow iron rings. His mother had survived an invasion on her village as a young woman, but not unscathed. She’d given birth to him that summer, and hadn’t been able to bear the thought of keeping the bastard child of the father that haunted her nightmares. Despite all odds, however, and as much as he looked the part of the mountain tribesman, Carro had grown into a kind and strong man.

  He led Syrah to the room’s single large bed and seated her on the corner so she could lean against one of the thick canopy bedposts. She rested her shoulder and head against it, body shaking under the stress of trying to hold back the waves of nausea that coursed up and through her.

  If Talo was as much a father figure as Syrah could ever remember, so had Eret been her grandfather of sorts. The old man had paid her special attention over the years, personally attending the ceremonies in which she’d been granted her staff and title as a Priestess of Laor. Younger than that, he’d been her confidant, the friend she turned to when she had things she couldn’t tell Talo or her class companions.

  And now he was gone…

  Syrah took a steadying breath. Carro sat down beside her, sinking the bed with his weight.

  “When did he pass?” she asked at last, blinking and looking to Talo, who stood on the other side of her.

  “Eight days ago,” he responded sadly. “He was sick through the better part of the freeze. I tried getting birds to you, but it seems they didn’t make it through the storms.”

  “The last letter I received was over six months ago,” Syrah agreed, shaking her head. “Damn those blizzards. If I’d known—”

  “If you’d known, you would have come running at once,” Carro interrupted with a sad smile. “And as a result you probably wouldn’t have made half the headway you did with the clans over the winter. Oh, we heard,” he said with a proud grin at her surprised face. “We may not have been able to stay in touch with you directly, but your work seems to have found its way back to the Citadel somehow. Laor has his plan for all of us, Syrah. If He’d seen fit to warn you of Eret’s passing, I’m sure He would have done so.”

  “Well sometimes I wish He’d bend His rules on occasion,” Syrah grumbled, wiping her eyes but laughing a little. “Eight days… if I’d just left a week earlier—”

  “You’d probably have run into wolves or a flood or something else that would have ended up delaying you anyway,” Talo offered with a chuckle. “Knowing your luck, I’m surprised you managed to get here at all.”

  “One time,” Syrah sighed. “You get ambushed one time in the middle of a strange city in a land you know nothing about, and everyone seems to think you’re accident-prone.”

  Talo and Carro both laughed, and all three of them felt the grief drain away the slightest bit.

  “So,” Syrah started, grinning mischievously, “High Priest, huh? The Council are either daft, or you’re sleeping with someone apart from Carro to make this job, Talo.”

  “You know,” Carro said thoughtfully, playing along, “I never thought of that. You didn’t trade this position for sexual favors, did you? Because if that’s the case…”

  “Neither of you think I might have actually deserved the job?” Talo growled feigningly, eyeing them both. “Well, that certainly makes me feel appreciated. The two dearest people in my life, and they think I had to bed a bunch of old Priests to get the position. Wonderful.”

  “Well we didn’t say you bedded all of them,” Syrah grinned, rubbing her red eyes. “I’m sure some of them would have cast their vote in your favor. What do you say, Carro? Three-fourths? Two-thirds?”

  “Hmm… I don’t think so. Your old Priest-Mentor is more popular than that. I’d say he only had to sleep with half of them at most.”

  “Six old men,” Syrah surmised, whistling. Then she cringed. “Ugh. Those images aren’t going leave me anytime soon.”

  “Serves you right,” Talo said with a snort, turning and returning to the wingback chair behind the High Priest’s desk, favoring his good leg. “Syrah, I’ll have someone prepare quarters for you. Drop off your things and wash up, then meet us in the mess hall for lunch. We have a great deal of catching up to do.”

  Syrah groaned, getting up from the bed. “Does that mean I have to eat with the two of you? What will my friends
think if they see me sitting with a pair of old nags?”

  “I wouldn’t be too concerned with that, darling,” Carro said with a wink from the bed. “For that to be a problem, you’d have to have friends in the first place.”

  Syrah stuck her tongue out at the man, then laughed as she moved to leave.

  “Syrah.”

  She turned again. Talo was watching her with a sad smile, leaning back in his chair.

  “If Eret had known you’d be here so soon, I’m sure he would have prayed for another few days. Welcome home, child.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “The Mahsadën were organized and methodical to a degree beyond anything the South had ever seen. Corrupted governments were falling one after the other in the mid-800s v.S., and out of the wreckage rose the worst kinds of men and women: the careful, intelligent, and cruel. Witnessing an opportunity unlike any before, they worked to set aside their feuds and grudges, banding together until a net of shadows fell over every city in the South. Miropa was the last to give in, but the Mahsadën—as this group had titled themselves—eventually dug their claws into the dying beast that was the city’s spirit.”

  —As Death Rose from the Ashes, by Kohly Grofh

  The grain house was as risky a place to hole up as you could find, even for a few days. It was right on the lip of one of the main market fairways, barely two buildings from the thriving road that signified the end of the slum quarters. Its size and location—taking up a majority of the block on the destitute side of the line—attracted beggars and vagabonds who sought shelter from the Sun during the day and any measure of warmth they could find during the night. Members of Kî’s entourage had come through to clear them out—she’d probably be arriving that evening, after all—but half the homeless who’d been chased away slunk back into the shadows of the building as soon as the men had gone

  Kî must be confident in her secrets if she risks this much attention, Raz thought, huddled in the shade of an alley, watching an old one-legged woman wobble back into the grain house.

  He’d been sitting there since morning, suffering the boredom and stiffness of the dirt ground to gauge what he was dealing with. Curled up, knees to his chest and tail tucked out of sight, he was unrecognizable beneath the dirty old rags he’d piled over himself. Even his hands were wrapped, providing a convincing display when Kî’s men passed him, dodging his outstretched palm as he begged for crowns in a raspy voice.

  They’d probably thought he was a leper, or something worse.

  Still, the trouble was worth the wait. He’d watched the group enter and chase away the building’s occupants, then leave again in the same direction they’d come. He’d been half tempted to follow them just to see if Sass was right about where Kî was now, but resisted. Waiting ten minutes to ensure no one was coming back, Raz pulled off the disguise, unwrapping his hands and standing up. He winced and groaned, joints popping and stiff muscles straining, unhappy with the combination of an uncomfortable position and the relative coolness of the shade that his body never took well to.

  Reaching down, Raz pulled Ahna out from behind the heap of refuse he’d been sitting by and stepped across the alley into the sunlight. At once he felt better, rolling his shoulders as the naked skin of his arms and back tingled in the heat. He wore only a loose pair of cotton shorts, having opted to dress lightly in case he had to make a quick escape, and it felt good to spread his wings a little and stretch them unhindered. He’d gotten accustomed to human clothing a long time ago, even liked it at times, but in the end he was always more comfortable either bare chested or in the armor Jerr specially tailored to offer his limbs free movement.

  And, since almost a hundred pounds of steel was less than ideal when it came to quick escapes, bare chested it was.

  Raz moved carefully, scanning the grain house. He was sure all four of the men he’d seen were gone, but he’d made the mistake of trusting only what he saw enough times to know it paid to be alert. There was no harm in being careful, after all, particularly when one had the time for it.

  A band of feral cats yowled and shot away from him when he stepped inside. Raz was pleased with how high the ceiling was. From the outside it looked like the building was two stories, but the end he’d walked into was in fact a vast open space, most likely where they’d kept the grain during years past when there’d been enough to store. The roof was vaulted, and windows pierced the upper part of the high wall, probably to keep the grist dry with fresh air and light.

  If he’d been any good with a bow, they would have offered him any number of clear shots come nightfall…

  Something to bring up with the sarydâ, he thought, moving toward the far end of the building, Ahna resting across both shoulders. The air smelled of unwashed bodies and human waste mixed with stale crust and cheap ale. Raz counted no less than a half-dozen forms cowering against the walls, every single gaze fixed, terrified, on him. He ignored them, chuckling at the thought that, if Kî’s men were all as careless about their duties, he was going to make easy coin tonight.

  He stopped halfway across the floor, just under where the levels split, an open second-story loft extending all the way to the opposite wall. From what he could see, the top level was similar to the space behind him, a flat storage area. Raz ignored it, more interested in what was below, in the area directly before him. Dozens of square-cut timber pillars held up the low ceiling, spaced a body length apart from each other, like a man-made forest. Old crates, broken barrels, and a multitude of different-sized baskets were tucked away against the walls, which had no windows. Cellar storage, he decided, peering into the shadows. The alcohol the owners distilled from the soured grains had to ferment somewhere, after all. Even in the middle of the full day it was gloomy, only partially lit by a single open archway in the left wall.

  At night, that would be dark too…

  Raz smiled again, turning to leave, his mind at work before he’d taken a single step back out into the Sun.

  “I say we let ‘im make the kill, then jump ‘im after all the dust settles. Saves us the trouble of havin’ to get through all of the bitch-woman’s bodyguards.”

  “Yer mad, Davin. ya’ double-cross the lizard and the only thing you’ll end up with is yer guts in yer hands. He’ll tear ya’ apart.”

  “So we gets to ‘im before he knows what’s goin’ on. C’mon Lev, you really think we got a chance at the fifty crowns with him here? That bounty’ll make us rich.”

  “I’d rather be alive and livin’ off nothin’ than dead, mate.”

  Smart boy, Raz thought with a smirk, hidden in the shadows across from where the two men were whispering. The Sun had set an hour ago, and all that was left to do was wait and keep as warm as they could. Davin and Lev, though, apparently didn’t like to wait in silence.

  Nor did the pair seem to realize that Raz could hear every word they were saying.

  They’d all been huddled in the dark of the grain house’s first floor since midafternoon. The vagrants had been chased away hours ago, the crates and baskets and other junk shifted so that the group had adequate places to hide. In short order they’d set up their ambush, then tucked themselves away to wait. Seven in total, they comprised of Raz, four sarydâ who called themselves the Crows, and two brothers with blonde hair, mean eyes, and thick arms that looked good at swinging the matching heavy axes slung over their backs. Raz had taken a liking to the pair. They’d barely spoken a word since meeting up with the rest of the group. The Crows on the other hand—Lev Sayl, Alexy Kone, Basser, and their leader, Davin Goyr—seemed unable to comprehend the concept of silence. Former Cienbal bandits all, they were as boastful and long-winded as every other desert mercenary.

  Still… Goyr could have put a deaf man to sleep with all his stories of conquest and riches.

  “You might be wantin’ to keep yer words down, boss.” Another voice—maybe Alexy’s—joined Lev’s and Goyr’s. “I heard the scaly’s got hawk’s eyes and wolf’s ears. If’n he can hear you’ze two g
oin’ at it he’s likely to—ouch!”

  There was a smack of a hand hitting face, and the man stopped speaking abruptly.

  “You tellin’ me what to do now, Lexy?” Davin hissed, and there was another smack. “What’s it matter if’n i’Syul can hear us? All animal, ain’t he? Too dumb to understand what we sayin’, probably.”

  Not so smart boy.

  Raz could feel his temper flare, his crest twitching reflexively. He was half tempted to sneak across the floor and give Goyr a good scare just to put the man in his place, but he fought off the impulse. Raz had developed a thick skin over the years, and it would take a lot more than ignorant slander to push him over the edge.