Such a Clever Deception: A Stolen Tears Prequel

by Cortney Pearson

  A call breaks the tension surrounding the brigade of men and boys, wafting beneath the swirl of heavy clouds and the chill circling through the air. “Haraway!”

  Talon and the others glance over to find Miles Odis, a dark-skinned soldier to Talon’s right. Miles wears a khaki uniform similar to Talon’s and stands at the opening of a set of stone archways marking the training ground’s entrance. He shields his eyes from the downpour. “Fall in! Blinnsdale’s orders!”

  The group looks to their leader. Talon gestures toward the entrance. “You heard him. Fall in.” Whatever Tyrus wants, Talon is glad for the interruption. He crooks his head from one side to the other before calling out, “Ripkin!”

  The men and boys relax, clumping together and trudging their way toward the stone archways. Ripkin bares his throat, planting his glare on Talon, his chest rising rapidly.

  “These weapons belong in the shed, lackey.” Talon offers him his scythe. He doesn’t miss the thought that traces itself across the recruit’s eyes as he takes the long handle and directs the silver, curved blade away. Talon can see it—the calculating idea tapping its fingers together in Ripkin’s mind. But the cadet still wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Ripkin traipses to retrieve the briefsword and heads back toward the shed. Talon turns his back to call to the others, whose boots shuffle on the wet asphalt. “The rest of you, report here at sunrise.”

  None of them respond as they head toward the peninsula of stone surrounding the east doors of the Triad Palace. It’s set off by columns wide enough to allow vehicles to enter. A van pulls in, its wheels glittering with the stolen purple magic used to power it. A group of soldiers unloads a large wooden crate from the van’s cargo hatch and carries it into the palace.

  Several nymphs flock to the van from below the palace eaves. Their features are small, making them appear like humans in miniature. Though full-grown, they reach no taller than the height of a soldier's hip. One nymph with brown hair to her shoulders flicks the tiny wings sprouting at her back. She shakes off the rain enough for her to flutter up, reach the open hatch, and pull it shut. Another climbs into the driver's side of the van. Talon’s brows gather, and he follows the recruits inside.

  Conditioned air instantly dampens the heat on his skin and in his rain-soaked clothes. The coolness touches the rain and sweat collected at his temples and pooling down his back. His shirt sticks to him, and he runs a hand through his hair to slick it away from his face.

  A pair of thrones stands at the head of the expansive room. Large tapestries hang down on either side, their points kissing the stone floor. Back when wizards ruled here this entrance was used for diplomats and other high-class citizens who would attend gatherings, but Tyrus doesn’t see the point of sitting around and dictating. Talon knows he views it as a proverbial slap in the face of the wizards Tyrus’s father deposed fifty years before. It’s a matter of pride, for Tyrus, like walking all over a freshly cleaned floor with muddy boots, just because he can.

  Instead, Tyrus stands in the center of the room, surrounded by Talon’s group of recruits. While one of Tyrus’s hands is flesh-colored at his side, his other, vibrant purple hand rests on the crate’s closed lid. The Arcaian leader is tall and bald, and a large black mustache dominates his upper lip. He wears the traditional khaki orderlies, similar to Talon’s uniform though with badges indicating their differences in rank.

  “What’s this?” Talon asks.

  A gleam crosses over Tyrus’s eyes at Talon’s approach, his lips pressing together, warding off a smile. Talon straightens at the expression from his surrogate father. That look spells trust; not only an inherent belief in Talon’s abilities, but also a dignified ownership of sorts. Tyrus is the one who found Talon, after all.

  “Special shipment,” says Tyrus, handing Talon the crowbar. A few more soldiers gather around the crate, along with the rest of the troops Talon just dismissed. Several others in civilian clothing—trousers and shirts—loiter a few feet behind. Subjugates, probably; nearby should their leaders have need of the magic they’ve taken from them.

  “You sure you want to trust Talon with this?” says Miles Odis, the dark-skinned soldier who summoned Talon’s brigade in. Miles’s badges indicate his lower rank as well. He’s a toothpick away from being lanky, and his full lips twitch with the hint of a smile. Like Tyrus’s, one of Miles’s hands is a rich purple. “He might break whatever is in there.”

  Talon smirks at his friend. “Better this than you.”

  Miles laughs, along with a few of the other gathered recruits. Ripkin, however, folds his arms across his chest, his gaze diverting between Talon and their commander-in-chief as though considering a way to discuss his recent mistreatment with the Arcaian general.

  Talon places the forked tip of the crowbar between planks. Even if the lackey were to broach their leader with this, undoubtedly Ripkin would get the same treatment from Tyrus as Talon had given him. A sliver of doubt slips itself in at the thought before he can stop it—bringing with it a sudden sense of unease—but he shakes it off, bracing a boot on the crate’s side.

  The nails creak on their way to breaking free, and he pries the lid open. The crowd around him tiptoes forward, breathing as one, and Talon lifts the heavy wooden lid enough to catch a glint of the silver tools contained within.

  “Don’t you usually have the claws shipped to weaponry?” Talon asks. A few nymphs glance over in passing. They wear uniforms similar to the Arcaian khaki, but cut to accommodate the fluttering wings at their backs. Nymphs aren't so much enlisted in the army as employed, driving soldiers, delivering mail, and overseeing paperwork.

  Tyrus gestures to the onlookers. “I thought we’d offer a presentation to your newest recruits.”

  It takes more effort than he expects to force the dismay from his expression, especially as he again catches Ripkin’s haughty scowl.

  “These recruits only just arrived,” Talon says. He took careful effort to emphasize skill over magic; he’s not so sure this is the best course of action. But he knows he can’t press the issue with Tyrus, not if he wants his upcoming advancement.

  Tyrus smiles and claps Talon on the back before lifting the lid once more. He plunges in a hand and returns with a silver-handled tool resembling a disembodied, metal arm ending with three curved fingers.

  Talon isn’t entirely sure how the Xian claw works—the mechanics of the thing. Somehow, the antennae within can read the magic in a person’s bonestream, and when it breaks through flesh the claw forms a connection between the user and the victim.

  Tyrus begins explaining as much to the crowd.

  “The beauty of the Xian claw is that there’s no learning curve necessary,” he says, brandishing it to the new recruits. Ripkin’s expression is sharp with hunger and that underlying darkness Talon sensed in their earlier training session.

  “All you have to do is stab and hold on. The claw carves its way into the bone of your victim and transfers his or her magic right to you. It gives you total power over that person’s will and full access to his or her magic. You do need to have close proximity to that person in order to use it afterward, but that’s manageable.”

  “What happens if you don’t?” Earring Boy asks.

  “Then it can be very painful,” Tyrus says, pumping his purple hand into a fist several times.

  “For the user or the victim?” another recruit says. He has a buzz cut and a mole near his lip. “And how close is close enough?”

  “It’s painful for the user,” Tyrus says. “Typically within twenty feet, sometimes more. The proximity depends on a case-by-case basis.”

  “When can I get one?” Ripkin asks. A few of the men, including the one with the mole, laugh uneasily while others—the Itharians—are unresponsive.

  Tyrus releases a soft laugh as well, displaying his purpled hand and holding up the bulky claw in the other. “It’s appealing, isn’t it, cadet? That magic gets contained in your hands, to be used at your will and pleasure, lik
e Itharians do, to power devices.”

  Tyrus gestures to the rectangular glass canteen glowing near the door, currently powering the lights above. He pulls a small square of plastic from his pocket and likewise streams magic, sparking like purple voltage in his palm, to power the handheld communication device.

  “Not only devices,” Talon adds. He allows his magic to flow and collect in his hands, his own small storm. Stars of silver frolic across his skin, jumping from fingertip to fingertip, sending energy clear to his elbows. “Magic can help you in a fight as well. It can give you an advantage.”

  Pride is back, swimming in Tyrus’s charcoal eyes as he glances over Talon with approval.

  “Nothing is sweeter,” Tyrus says, raising his chin and offering the claw to Talon. “Would you care to demonstrate?”

  The words are a shock, straight to his chest. Talon startles for a moment, his magic dousing like a smothered flame. The sour feeling he had earlier builds as though he’s swallowed vinegar. Similarly, the men and boys’ eager gazes wipe clean, their faces blanking out. Some who’ve volunteered for the service stare back in various stages of interest, but most swap uneasy glances. It’s easy to tell those who feel from those who don’t.

  “You mean, on us?” one of them asks.

  Miles cradles the claw dangling from his own belt. His brows twitch, but he forces his head high. Talon’s thoughts race, his blood edging its way to keep pace. What is going on? He had only meant to expound on the benefits of magic for those who don’t have it. Now he realizes it sounded as though he’d been advocating the use of the claw. But Tyrus knows how he feels about the Xian claw.

  “Those of you without magic have nothing to fear, but everything to gain. Those with magic can hardly feel enough to tell the difference.” Tyrus ends this statement with another laugh, joined in by a few others.

  Talon’s unease climbs, especially when his gaze passes to Kade. He’s watched Tyrus do a similar presentation countless times, but never without the victim earning it somehow. These people have done nothing wrong. His eyes flick to his friend—sweat beads around Miles’s hairline as he scans the group as well.

  “Sir,” Talon says, stepping forward and speaking under his breath.

  “Problem, soldier?” Tyrus says too loudly.

  Talon maintains eye contact with his surrogate father, though he can feel the attention of the room at large pinned to him. He hopes he can play it off as being lighthearted, the way Miles had.

  “Using the claw this soon might scare some of them off.”

  A thunderclap crashes outside, rumbling through the stone walls. Tyrus’s eyes blacken, and the temperature in the room drops. He lowers the claw to his side and inches forward.

  “You’re questioning me, Haraway?”

  Talon backs down. He knows that tone, that look. “No, sir.”

  “That’s what I thought. Odis!”

  At the outburst, Miles grasps the arm of the man nearest him, an old man, short and poker-faced, allowing himself to be tugged.

  Ripkin steps forward, neck jutted out in anticipation, displaying the magitat below his ear. Talon turns toward the door hiding behind a particularly long tapestry, ready to leave before the screaming starts.

  “I need you present, soldier,” booms Tyrus, his voice echoing through the room. His disappointment wraps over Talon like a cloak.

  Talon doesn’t understand the trembling taking over his limbs. Shame ripples through him. He works to keep his jaw steady enough to speak. “It’s been a long day, sir.”

  Tyrus raises his chin and steps aside, hands clasped behind his back. He continues his instruction as the recruits clump closer around Miles and the old man who stands apparently oblivious to the fact that he’s about to be painfully subjugated.

  Talon quickens his pace across the floor, but he doesn’t make it out in time. The thwump of the claw hits his ears first, followed by a blood-curdling scream.

  Emotions may have left these people, but the screams never change.

  Talon stalks through the palace, down long hallways decked with red carpets and dangling with tapestries no one ever stops to look at. A pair of servants hurries to drape the curtains closed over the large window at the hall’s end as the sound of rain pounds through.

  He can’t get the old man’s face out of his mind. That man did nothing wrong—if anything, Tyrus should subjugate Ripkin for smart-mouthing. Then again, the idiot recruit doesn’t have magic, so it wouldn’t work anyway.

  Talon has never approved of awarding the claw to soldiers as a designation of rank, and Tyrus knows it. It’s the one thing they continue to argue over after all these years. He should never have expected Talon to use it—especially not in front of the men in his brigade. Why is Tyrus demonstrating it for these new recruits now?

  And not only the old man, but what about that boy, Kade? He may not feel, but no small boy should be forced to witness something so horrible, especially not one who’s just been snatched from his home. Talon wonders what it must have been like when the soldiers barged into Kade’s home. Had his mother been there? Had she felt enough to care that her son was being taken away?

  Talon shudders, shaking off distant memories and long-lost conversations as he turns down another corridor, stopping at the large wooden door to his right and barging through into his quarters. He’s grateful to see a fire has already been lit, blazing heat and light in its corner across from the large bed. Rain smatters against his window, and he shuts the door behind him, kicking off his boots.

  Talon flops himself onto the elegant bed—much finer furnishings than his home in Arcaia had. Ripkin’s snide comment edges into his thoughts. He hasn’t even purpled yet. Talon’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t need purple to prove his place in the army. His skill alone already does that.

  These arrogant young people who come in trying to throw their weight around from the get-go usually rile him. Not many suspect Talon’s heritage, and if they did, no one would talk back to him the way Ripkin did. Talon is a Feihrian; his very blood distinguishes him from the others. No matter how many times Tyrus continues to insist he use the claw, it still won’t make him the same as everyone else.

  A knock on the door comes, and Tyrus enters before Talon gets a chance to respond. Tyrus’s gruff features are set with a look of amusement, a smile tweaking beneath the gray-streaked black mustache cloaking his upper lip.

  He stalks to a decorative table and props his weight against it, resting his hands on either side. Talon has always noticed the distinction between flesh color and the purple stain of stolen magic on his surrogate father, but never so much as right now.

  “Feeling okay, son?” Tyrus asks.

  “Well enough,” says Talon, not wanting to talk about it.

  “How’d it go out there? I heard you gave one of my recruits a hard time.”

  So Ripkin had tattled after all. Talon rises from the bed, the direction of conversation putting him at ease. He thought he was going to get the gears for walking out. “When do I give them an easy time?”

  Tyrus laughs. “That’s my boy.”

  “He seemed to think he should get privileges because of who is father is.” He decides not to mention Ripkin’s remark about his hand. No need to add fuel to that fire. “His father was part of the Decoy Battalion.”

  Talon presses his tongue to the top of his mouth, fighting away the words he wants to speak, wondering if Tyrus will bring it up. Talon thought he had moved on, but hearing Ripkin so carelessly mention the battalion that invaded his homeland affects him as much as if it just happened yesterday.

  “Oh? What was his name?”

  “Ripkin—Arvin Ripkin.”

  “Arvin.” Tyrus pauses, raising an eyebrow as the face connects with the name. “Yes, I knew him. Good soldier. That was a tough mission, as you know. Not that that justifies insubordination.” Tyrus looks thoughtful for a moment. “Still, I should look in on the boy. For his father’s sake.”

  He should look in on
the boy. The words incense Talon. But what should he expect, for Tyrus to grovel and apologize? He should be over this—they’ve talked about it for years now. Talon keeps his face impassive and stares at the roaring fire; the bed across from it beckons him back, promising softness and respite.

  “What are you really doing here, Tyrus?” Talon finally asks, breaking the silence between them.

  “You shouldn’t walk away during a presentation. It doesn’t look good.”

  “You had him clawed with no provocation. That man did nothing wrong—what was his crime?”

  “It’s not about punishment, Talon. This is about equality, and the best way to promote that is through subjugation, so the Itharians can see things from our point of view. They need to understand what it means to live without magic.”

  It’s the same discussion they always have, but something about Tyrus’s words tonight brings the low boil of his anger to the surface. “And what about me? What about my magic? Are you planning on taking that, too, when you’re done with me?”

  Tyrus looks stricken. He touches a hand to his chest. “How can you say that? Have I ever treated you as anything but a son?”

  Shame overtakes Talon’s anger, and he bows his head, wishing he could rip away these thoughts. “I’m sorry, Tyrus. I just—I can’t help feeling sometimes that I have more in common with the Itharians than with the Arcaians.”

  Tyrus’s brows knit together. His words shift into a growl. “Never let me hear you say that again. I risked everything to bring you out of Feihria, to raise you here in the midst of the greatest army there is. You were born to lead the Arcaians to victory, to do great things for this world. You are as much a part of the Arcaian cause as anyone.”

  No doubt, the words are meant to reassure him, but the mention of Feihria stirs up dark memories for Talon. He was four years old when the Decoy Battalion snuck into his homeland, raided his village, and stole him from his bed. Tyrus sees it as nothing less than a great honor for Talon, but Talon can’t help feeling the loss.