Such a Clever Deception: A Stolen Tears Prequel

by Cortney Pearson

“You need to get used to the idea of the claw, son,” Tyrus continues. “It’s a vital weapon in our fight to bring equality to the races.”

  Talon shakes his head. “It seems wrong to use it on our own recruits. These men haven’t even been here for a full day.”

  “We’ll use it on them if necessary,” says Tyrus. “The recruits have to know we mean business. The world has to know what’s coming, and how can it if our recruits are defiant?”

  Confusion ripples through Talon in an instant. “Itharian recruits are never the defiant ones, Tyrus.”

  “Subjugating recruits from the start will make things easier. I can’t take the chance of any of them touching the base of who they really are and potentially acting out against us, the way Ripkin did.”

  “Ripkin acted out because he’s a spoiled brat who’s had everything handed to him his whole life. I contained that situation, Tyrus, and we can do that without clawing everyone just because they’re in the compound.”

  “The best way to contain any situation is to keep it from getting out of hand in the first place. Extracting magic, no questions asked.”

  “But that won’t ensure the loyalty we need to win a war!”

  “Do you think any of these raided Itharians are loyal to me?” Tyrus says, pointing a finger vehemently to the side. “Once we have their magic, that sense of equality will be enough to bend them to my will.”

  Talon has heard it for years. Every time he’s questioned things, Tyrus has pronounced the same goal, evoked the idea of equality and fairness among the races. But this conversation twists in Talon’s gut, giving him the same suspicions and doubts he’s tried to override so many times he can’t keep track.

  “I don’t care if they’re loyal to me. If they’re subjugated, the outcome is the same—they can’t act otherwise,” Tyrus says.

  You should care, Talon wants to say, but instead he clamps his jaw. Whether Itharians can feel or not, they’re people, just like anyone else, and who knows but someday they might find the ability to act like it. But Tyrus doesn’t see them that way.

  “As for my army, however,” Tyrus says, narrowing his eyes. His tone takes on a blacker quality than before, like the shadowed underside of a knife point. “I mean to discern my men’s loyalty. To learn where their hearts truly lie.”

  The mood in the room shifts. Tyrus’s words hold a threat that now tilts in his direction, and Talon’s shoulders clench.

  “We aren’t talking about Ripkin anymore, are we?” It’s more of a statement than anything else.

  “I promised you could lead by my side. This latest brigade was to be your final test before ranking up to commanding officer, but that’s not going to happen if you’re too soft.”

  Too soft. Did Tyrus even see the way he’d handled things with Ripkin, or is he saying this out of pure conjecture?

  Or perhaps this isn’t about Ripkin at all.

  Before Talon can speak, Tyrus adds, “I handpicked you, Talon, just for this. To help me win this war.”

  The reminder festers, as Tyrus no doubt meant for it to. Talon’s heard it so many times; how much Tyrus needs him, how, despite his surrogate father’s praise, he is never quite as good as he needs to be.

  “I believe in you, Talon,” he says. “But the other generals…They see you as an outsider. They don’t know you like I do, and they’re challenging my recommendation for your promotion.”

  Talon’s throat constricts, and cold fury rushes through his veins.

  “But you said—”

  Tyrus holds up a hand. “I’m only saying they have their doubts. I’m doing everything I can to convince them they’re wrong. But your attitude is not helping me, son. Your resistance to the claw—it makes them uncomfortable.”

  Talon’s eyes stray to the polished silver claw with its thick handle and smooth, angled prongs curving off the grip’s end. It sits in its box on the lowest of a set of shelves in the corner. Tyrus gave it to him as a birthday gift a few years ago, after they’d first arrived back in Itharia. Talon hasn’t touched it since then; a section of the package’s paper wrapping peers over the side as though it was opened only a day before.

  Talon speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully. “My magic sprang the minute I learned how to walk, and you know it’s given me the skills and art of fighting no other human possesses. Even after you took me from my home, away from the motions and training most other young Feihrian warriors get, I still managed to beat your fully grown soldiers by the time I was six.

  “I’m in this all the way, Tyrus. You can convince the others of that. I don’t need to take magic. Mine is enough. Always has been, always will be.”

  Tyrus’s mouth bends into a frown, concern adding years to his face. “That remains to be seen.”

  Talon slams his lids closed. A dull throbbing builds behind his eyes and at the base of his skull. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “I’m going to get in the shower,” he says, the sweat and grime of the day leeching into him. He needs to clean these new cuts as well. To clear his mind.

  Tyrus nods, making for the door. “Aria has some dinner for you below, if you’re hungry. I think she likes you, soldier.”

  Aria’s pretty face and sweet smile flash through Talon’s mind. He’s suspected something like that with the way she stares at him when he’s near the kitchen, or how she loiters by his table longer than others as though hoping to capture him in conversation.

  But Tyrus’s words still hang over him. He can’t think about anything else right now.

  “I’m not eating tonight,” Talon says.

  “Suit yourself.” Tyrus closes the door behind him.

  ***

  The hot water spills down Talon’s back. His muscles loosen beneath the spray, and he inhales, steam filling his lungs and removing some of the pressure of his building headache.

  Despite his attempts to block her out, Aria keeps peeking through the curtains of his brain. She’s very sweet, and of course he wouldn’t mind the game, the taunt of pursuit to determine her true feelings. He slaps the metal pad into the wall at the thought. The water shuts off instantly.

  “I can’t,” he whispers to himself as the water drips from his hair. He stands there, bracing against the tiles, defeat sinking in the way it always does any time he thinks of home, of the girl he’s meant to be with. The one he can’t stand.

  He really ought to go visit her.

  With a sigh he towels off, dressing in trousers, a loose shirt, and a leather vest. Though his bed beckons, he heads down the main stairs.

  The air is thick and tacks moisture onto his arms almost the moment he steps out into the warm night. Shouts come from the training grounds to his left joined by the sound of traffic sloshing through the streets, still wet from the evening’s storm. Talon ducks his head into his jacket, nodding at a pair of passing soldiers who wave in greeting.

  He routes past the enclosed parking ground. He could veer in and use one of the many vehicles provided for higher-ranking officers, but he can’t risk being tracked. Instead, he approaches a parked car a few streets down.

  Glancing both ways, Talon closes his eyes, inhaling the humid air. He searches within, feeling his pulse, and then…there. It sparks to life. His magic buzzes, flickering heat along his bonestream, sparking every inch of him. With careful acuity he guides it, luring it upward until it collects and swarms to his senses.

  Instantly he smells faded hints of exhaust, leftover remnants from a discarded cigar butt and the traces of perfume left by a woman who passed by long before now. The vehicle’s exterior pulses as if it’s grown in size, and he detects the curved steel of the doors and hood, the adhesive used to piece the dashboard together.

  Talon follows the trail of the vehicle’s wires from the dash alongside the windows and through the mechanisms in the doors. He senses the approach of a man carrying a briefcase. From the discordant shuffle of footsteps, he detects the man’s slight limp, the congestion in his lungs from a rece
nt cold. Talon waits, back turned, until the man takes the corner.

  He reaches out and touches the car door. His magic zings at the contact, fizzling down through the pieces of the door until it reaches the lock and Talon steps away after a satisfying click.

  Without so much as a glance behind him, Talon sinks onto the vehicle’s leather seat.

  Not many other humans can use their magic to sense their surroundings. Talon suspects it’s a Feihrian thing, but a few Itharians have managed to do it as well when he’s explained it to them. He’s not sure how he learned to do it. The ability has just always been there.

  Talon injects his magic into the steering wheel. Streaks of silver coil along the wheel, and the vehicle chugs to life. With a final glance at his side mirror, he charges down the street.

  It’s been months since he’s visited her. He’s not sure what makes tonight different. Maybe it’s the Xian claw, the defiant recruits, the pressure he’s feeling from Tyrus. Whatever the reason, the prospect of seeing her tonight promises to be therapeutic. Whether he likes it or not, she’s his connection to who he really is.

  Talon maneuvers through the traffic, taking side streets here and there to avoid the thruways. He fingers the bracelet in his pocket, allowing it to dip into him and let him sense her. He rubs the familiar symbols etched into the thick leather, waking it until it heats and weaves into him much like his magic had.

  When he first saw her two and a half years ago, he didn’t realize she was Feihrian. She’d appeared just inside the training grounds, watching him. He was so taken with her curvy beauty, her full lips, her jet-black curls and perfect skin. She was so mysterious, so ideal.

  And then he made the mistake of speaking to her.

  Heat singes from the bracelet, cutting into his thoughts. She’s in a different location this time, and he turns off toward a part of the city he’s never been to before. The city gates loom over the tops of restaurants and homes. The street splits in several directions, each guided by a small rotunda skewered by a tall statue of Haron Straylark, the wizard who ruled Itharia before the Arcs invaded.

  The statues were probably majestic once, but now they’re tarnished by age, by spray paint; Straylark’s arms are hacked off in odd places, chunks chipped from his nose and cheeks. He’s hardly recognizable as a person, let alone a once-powerful wizard.

  Talon takes the third rotunda and drives down a barren road. The houses become sparser and sparser, and he pulls off several feet from the final house on the right. It’s squat and square, flat on top; faded shutters cover every window but one. A dark sheet hanging within has been pulled aside. Talon hops the barbed-wire fence and scurries over the dead grass, dodging between abandoned bits of rusted machinery and old doghouses, and slinks just beneath the window.

  Soft voices resonate from the thin walls. Female voices. The girls’ captor must not be here right now. Craven usually leaves in the evenings.

  The clouds rumble, a throaty drumroll in the sky, and a few drops break and land in the space between Talon’s hairline and his shirt. He straightens and chances a peek inside.

  Shasa Elmscar slouches on a filthy couch that looks like it could once have been blue. Her jet-black curls tumble carelessly past her shoulders, and she’s wearing the same shabby shirt and sweatpants she wears every time Talon’s seen her, though he hasn’t come in nearly a year.

  She glances down her arm, at her version of his bracelet. His warms, almost burning his skin as the connection is made. Her glance flicks toward the window, a smile breaking the solemn boredom on her face.

  Seconds later the door to his right flies open.

  “Talon!” Shasa’s accent is like his, long vowels and subtle enunciation. He forgets sometimes that others don’t speak as he does.

  “I thought I’d drop by,” he says, stepping in out of the evening air, but the words are cut off as she presses a kiss hard against his mouth. Always the same, the kiss is forced and unfeeling. A matter of routine more than affection.

  Jomeini, a lovely girl with caramel-colored skin, steps out from the darkened hall, her face a portrait of curiosity. She’s petite and doll-like, and when she sees him she offers a small, friendly smile. Jomeini is one of the only wizards remaining—not only in Itharia, but in all of Ardulmira, which is one reason Craven keeps her and Shasa hidden.

  Talon peels away from Shasa, his heart lightening like it always does just being near the smaller girl. In fact, Jomeini is one of the reasons he keeps coming back to check on them. She’s like a mobile blanket, offering comfort to anyone nearby.

  “Hi, Talon,” says the girl wizard.

  “Jomeini,” he says in acknowledgment.

  Before he can speak another word, Shasa drags him to the couch, plunking him onto the sinking cushions and draping her legs across his lap. She presses herself much too close to him, giving him a whiff of flower petals as she flings her hair back.

  “Broken any more oaths lately?” Shasa asks, twining fingers through his hair. The words come out light and flirtatious, but the insult rings through as blatant as a slap. Most of the time he can forget the oaths he took not to share the secrets of Feihrian martial art. He was so young then; he didn’t know the complexities of the world. And what were oaths made by a child, anyway? But Shasa never misses a chance to remind him. He just didn’t expect her to start in quite so early this time.

  He shoves her from his lap and stands. “Can we ever just have a nice, normal conversation? Hi, Shasa, how are you?”

  “Kept prisoner, how are you?” She pouts her lips into a sassy pucker, her glance daring him to argue.

  “I’ll find a way to get you out.”

  “Oh, is that what you’re doing here tonight? You came to bust us out?” Her eyes flick down to his waistband. “You don’t have a weapon, and you came when Craven is gone—that’s so thoughtful. Just the plan we need for you to kill the man who owns our magic so we can leave.” She practically spits the last word.

  He scoffs, running a hand through his hair. He’s told her before—he’s no murderer, and that’s pretty much the only option for getting magic back once it’s been taken. The reminder of his broken oaths, now this comment. He can understand it bothers her, but to have her bring it up practically every time he’s here?

  “I get it, okay? You’re disappointed in me.” Just like Tyrus is. He sighs, some of the fight going out of him. “What do you want me to do?”

  She fingers the bracelet holding his life-blood around her wrist. “You should go home.”

  He frowns, taking care to grasp the full meaning of her words. She doesn’t want him to leave—he just got here. She wants him to go home—to Feihria. It’s not the first time she’s suggested it, either, though he can’t help his confusion.

  He’s tried explaining before, but no matter how many times he does the truth never seems to matter enough to her.

  “I have a life here, Shasa. It’s not the same for me as it is for you. I’m not a prisoner. I’m here by my own choice.”

  “Of course you are,” she says, her tone caustic. “Little soldier boy just loves the army.”

  “Mock all you like, Shasa. But it’s where I belong.”

  “Even after what they do with their claws? After what Craven did to me?”

  “That’s different,” Talon argues. “The Arcaian army doesn’t use the claw the way Craven does.”

  “It’s no different!”

  He opens his mouth to argue, but the face of that old Itharian man fills his thoughts unbidden.

  Shasa pounces on the momentary silence. “Is that really what you want to be, Talon? Big bad bully with that claw at your belt, snatching magic from anyone who gets in your way?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t claw people, you know that.”

  She gives off a humorless laugh. “You don’t now, but you will. Eventually they’re going to expect it of you, too. Can you do it, Talon? Can you steal what doesn’t rightfully belong to you?”

  “I real
ly don’t need this right now.” First he gets flak from Ripkin without cause, then Tyrus, now Shasa. No matter what he does, it seems he can’t please anyone. And besides, he’s chosen this. Tyrus has promised him things he can never have if he goes home. Freedom, a place at the general’s side doing what he loves best: leading. Fighting.

  “And you’re wrong. The Arcs aren’t bullies. Tyrus has shown me time and again how unfair it is that none of the races are equal,” he recites. “We’re helping bring equality to the world.”

  “That’s not up to you,” she says.

  “Birth doesn’t matter, Shasa. Allegiance matters.”

  She scoffs, jutting out her hip and dropping her bottom lip. “Do you hear yourself? And where is your allegiance, Talon?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  Instead of yelling, she saunters forward, tipping his head down so she can more easily meet his gaze. “I understand you better than they ever will. I know exactly what you’ve broken.”

  “Which you constantly remind me of.”

  “And I know what it means to be who you really are, even if you’ve forgotten.”

  He turns away. “I should never have come here.”

  Jomeini lingers at the dining table, her eyes narrowed like a hawk’s. She’s heard every bit of their argument, and despite the swift comprehension lingering there, pity spills from those dark eyes. Talon gets the sense he always has around the young psychic, that she can see right through his skin and into his soul. She views his side of things when Shasa won’t even try.

  “Then why did you come?” Shasa snaps, charging after him.

  He wheels around, expecting some retort to leak from his lips. But the anger written all over her face softens him for a moment.

  “I don’t know,” he says, resting one hand on the doorknob and fingering the bracelet in his pocket. He curses the small trinket that binds her to him, the bracelet that has betrothed them. Someday he is destined to marry her, whether he likes it or not. Like the oaths he’s broken, this isn’t one he can plead his way out of.

  “Well, I do, Talon.” Color splashes onto her cheeks, though she tries to mask her fury behind a sneer. “I know you better than you know yourself. And you know me—you know what I’ll say. That’s why you come. You want me to tell you what I always tell you. To stop being such a ranxid coward and go home.”