Such a Clever Deception: A Stolen Tears Prequel

by Cortney Pearson

  Adam’s brow furrows. “The color of your hands?”

  “The claw, dolt,” Miles says, whacking Adam across the back of his head. The two scuffle for a minute, and Talon wraps a protective arm around his plate, watching warily as the two of them tousle across the floor. He’s not about to lose his breakfast to these two buffoons. Finally, they break apart and go back to talking as if nothing happened.

  “I don’t know what’s the holdup anyway, Haraway. What’s the big deal?” Miles flips a pancake into his mouth as he speaks. “Most of us are pretty psyched when we get the chance to purple, and here you’re acting like it’s a death sentence.”

  Talon opens his mouth to argue, but Miles cuts him off. “Yeah, yeah. You have magic. But this is different. It’s not just about the magic. It’s about the prestige. The purple, the claw on your belt—it makes you someone, you know? Without it, you’re going to have to be proving yourself every step of the way around here.”

  Miles doesn’t know about Ripkin’s outburst yesterday—he’s just speaking generally. Frustration gathers between Talon’s shoulder blades, and he stands abruptly. “I feel like I have proven myself. Vreck, I’ve done everything they’ve asked of me, haven’t I? The claw shouldn’t make a difference.”

  “Tyrus wants to give you the promotion, though, doesn’t he?” Miles asks, characteristically blunt.

  There was a time when Talon would have had complete confidence in that. Tyrus is like a father to him. He’s groomed him from the beginning. Talon believed he supported him completely. But after what happened with the claw yesterday…

  Talon chooses not to answer. “It’s stupid. Everyone who knows me knows I can fight better than anyone in the army.”

  “Aw, listen to him. So modest.” Adam clucks in a fine imitation of a doting mother. His friend’s joking takes some of the steam out of him, and Talon settles back down to finish his breakfast.

  “Well, it’s true,” he grumbles around a mouthful of blueberry pancake.

  “It’s not just about fighting, though,” Adam says. “It’s about leadership.”

  “And what do you know about that?” Miles laughs, punching the redhead in the shoulder. “Half of your recruits are sleeping through your trainings. You gotta whip those noobs into shape.”

  “Mind your own business,” says Adam, rubbing his shoulder though the punch couldn’t possibly have hurt. “Weren’t we talking about girls, anyhow? I gotta tell you about Felicia. I think I’m going to take her out again tonight…”

  The two continue talking, and Adam saunters to the bathroom, running water over his hair before slicking it back. He nabs one of Aria’s pancakes and leads the way out the door.

  You going out there like that?” Talon asks, gesturing to Adam’s sloppy attire.

  Adam glances down with a grimace, raking a hand through his red hair, which then sticks out in every direction once more. “Ah, vreck,” he grumbles as if just realizing the way he looks. He holds up a finger. “Two minutes,” he says before jogging in the direction of his chambers.

  Miles shakes his head, and together he and Talon make their way down the main, carpeted stairs to the extravagant entry below. The ceiling arches upward, wooden beams collecting to a point. Several suits of armor hold their own against different points of the wall, along with floral arrangements on the two decorative tables lining either side.

  A tall girl with dishwater-blonde hair stands at the base of the stairs, her arms folded. She wears a talisman like Aria’s, and a scowl mashes up her features. A nymph with black hair tied away from her face passes through the expansive room, offering Talon a nod. Her footsteps hardly make a sound as the wings fluttering at her back lighten them. Talon returns the acknowledgment with a token of his own. That's about the extent of his interaction with nymphs, really. Nods here and there.

  “Hey, Kiara,” says Miles.

  “Sir?” she says. “I wondered if I could—”

  “Can you come supervise the recruits?” Miles says, not letting her finish. “I may need you if there’s a demonstration.” He gestures to his hand.

  “I’m not suited up, sir,” she says, pulling at her brown trousers and pink shirt.

  “I can wait.”

  Talon watches in consternation. He’s been friends with Miles and Adam for years now. How has he never noticed who their subjugates are? Come to think of it, he does recognize Kiara. He’s seen her dozens of times before. But this is the first time he’s really noticed her.

  Most subjugates end up working in the palace. When soldiers are sent off, their subjugates are suited up in similar fashion so they can always be near for magic access. Of course Miles wouldn’t take Kiara everywhere—Talon wouldn’t either, if he had one.

  Angels, what a thing to think.

  “I’m tired, sir. I waited all night for you to come back, just like you asked.”

  She does look tired, Talon thinks. Her hair hangs on either side of her face, and she has more cheeks than jaw. Large circles bite beneath her eyes, which sag with a sadness Talon isn’t sure he can fathom.

  A guilty look settles over Miles’s face. “That’s right, I did ask you to do that.” He glances down at his purpled hand. “I’m sorry, Kiara. Go get some rest.”

  She bobs into a curtsy before tramping back up the stairs.

  Talon turns to his friend. “You forgot about her?” She can’t sleep unless he says so?

  Miles pumps his hand. “That old guy Tyrus had me take for demonstration makes four now. I guess I got preoccupied.”

  Four. Four people have lost their freedom to Miles.

  Talon knows it happens. He’s been surrounded by it for years. But for some reason the thought aggravates him as though it’s the first time he’s ever heard of such a thing. He thinks of Aria, wondering if she’s been given freedom to sleep or go to the kitchens whenever she likes. If so, she’d used part of that freedom to visit him this morning.

  “Hold up, fools,” Adam calls, scampering down the stairs behind them. He looks much better now, in a fresh-pressed uniform. A comb leaves its traces in his now-tamed, orangey-red locks.

  Adam tugs on his collar, a big smirk on his face making his cheekbones pucker out as the three young men step out into the blinding sunlight. Talon blinks several times, the sun such a contrast to last night’s storm. Puddles scatter their way along the pavement here and there, but most are drying up in the day’s heat. Humidity hits Talon straight in the chest. He figures he should be used to it by now, but apparently not.

  Talon’s thoughts are preoccupied. He doesn’t hear Miles’s question.

  “Hmm?”

  “What about her?” Miles prods again as they cross into the courtyard. Three brigades—groups of about forty men each—gather in the three-hundred-foot-wide grounds within the chain links. The ocean is calm at their backs, stirring slowly, teasing the sand.

  “What about who?” Talon asks.

  “Aria.”

  Talon squints. “She’s cute. Too nice,” he hedges, knowing he can’t tell them the real reason he’s planning on avoiding the girl.

  “Too nice?” Adam laughs. “Oh, that’s right. The born fighter needs a girl with some bite.”

  Talon shrugs. Shasa has plenty of bite. She’s beautiful, that’s for sure, but she’s too vain, too critical of everything she sees—especially him.

  The recruits dither, some in small groups talking, laughing. Others acting like nothing more than an addition to the landscape—they have about as much expression as a tree or a rock.

  “Rally up,” Talon says under his breath, giving the okay for Miles to call them in.

  “Attention!” Miles sounds out in reaction to the order.

  The recruits snap to, quickly gathering into their specified order, arranging themselves in rows one after the other, each in their own separate section. Right hands flock to foreheads, palms outfaced in the salute they’d been taught the day before. Talon ignores the stifled morning air matting along his arms and pa
ces in front of his men. They look tidy in what must be their second set of new training garb—dull brown shirts tucked into pants, tucked into boots that lace up past their ankles.

  “At ease,” Talon orders, and in response each relaxes his posture, hands at his sides. Some ball theirs into fists. Talon even notices one teenage boy tapping his hip as though in time to music.

  “Odis, Nels, and I will be leading your strength training this morning,” Talon says, hands at the small of his back as he makes his way to where Miles and Adam stand, just off from the gate leading to the street opposite from the ocean. “Gentlemen, let’s take a run.”

  Talon breaks into a steady stride toward the open gate on the northeast end of the training grounds. Footsteps pound in his wake, thundering on the pavement. He crosses the few remaining feet of paved asphalt outside the high chain links until his boots hit the sand.

  Powder snatches at his feet, causing him to push that much harder to maintain his pace despite the sinking surface. Several frustrated grunts resound behind him, coaxing a smile from his lips. His limbs bend and pull his body past the back of the Triad’s monumental spires. Magic mimics the movement, spidering along his arms, powering his legs, fueling him.

  Sweat gathers at his temples, trailing down his back, but still he runs them. Past the weapons sheds, past the glistening ocean and the gulls coasting near the clouds above. The sand stretches on for several hundred more feet. Citizens have gathered, standing at a decent distance to watch the Arcaian army train. Children play and fidget; some howl and cling to parents who stand as if comatose.

  A dog barks near a small food shack, fighting its leash while the owner attempts to order some type of sustenance. To Talon’s surprise, Tyrus sits at one of the tables, dressed down in casual trousers and a shirt and vest. Talon’s brow furrows. He hadn’t realized he’d be under scrutiny. Then again, considering their last conversation, Tyrus must be analyzing Talon for his upcoming promotion.

  Talon veers toward another shed, not unlike those housing the weapons he’d sent Ripkin after yesterday.

  The shed’s white paint is peeling and weathered from countless years of bombardment from sea spray and wind, but the structure is sound. The shed is two-tiered, and a rectangular, covered balcony bulges over the south side of the building and weaves to the front. A pair of guards patrol the entrance. They give Talon a salute.

  Talon comes to a stop, thrilling at the adrenaline coursing through him. His body is heated, agile and ready to spring into motion this morning. Miles and Adam slow, sweat beading around each of their foreheads, and the three wait for the remaining men and boys to gather.

  Ripkin runs much too close to Kade, and Talon can’t help but remember the innocent response the young boy had given the day before regarding Ripkin’s failure. When Kade continues pacing past Ripkin, the older boy’s eyes trail the younger one’s back with a firm, threatening glare.

  “We train for strength,” says Talon as they catch their breath, “for mobility. All of you, go inside and retrieve a bulkbell. They’re all the same weight—get the first one you can find and come straight back.”

  The men stagger forward, some talking under their breath and passing the two guards on their way into the shed. Talon can’t help but notice Ripkin knock into Kade’s shoulder as he passes the smaller boy.

  When the group returns and spreads wide enough, bulkbells at their feet, Talon, Miles, and Adam filter through, giving instruction.

  “And again!” Talon calls. “Squat to retrieve the bell. Backs straight, gentlemen. Those of you with magic, light up!”

  Silver flashes through the group, pockets of stars here and there from fewer of them than Talon had expected. He takes careful note of exactly who lights up and who doesn’t. Sparks dance in small, collected bundles along a few of their arms as they squat to grapple the bulkbells on the sand before them, and Talon can sense the change in the air. It’s thicker, viscous and electrified, teasing the hair on his arms.

  Miles and Adam light up as well, purple lightning spiraling along their arms. Even Kade’s magic sizzles, a silver-laced electricity along his fingertips. An uncomfortable feeling tacks its way up Talon’s spine, drawing his attention a few feet to the boy’s side. Ripkin’s lip is curled; he glares daggers at the stoic Itharians sizzling around him.

  He’s jealous, Talon thinks with satisfaction, not missing the way the boy’s look of hatred lands on Kade once more. Slowly, the satisfaction fades to concern, and Talon’s brows draw together. Ripkin is much too close.

  “Again!” Talon calls, patrolling through, knowing he can’t move the two boys without being obvious. “We go for rounds of sixty seconds, gentlemen. Keep your backs straight, the support is in your knees. Magic enhances the movement and builds muscle that much faster. Any time you can channel while training, do so.”

  Miles and Adam give out their own calls of instruction. The men grunt and bend, grunt and bend, squatting over and over to retrieve the bulkbells, lift them to their chests, and lower them to the sand once more. Some faces flush with red as the men move slowly, while others move at more of a marathon pace, achieving double the reps.

  Kade hunches over. His back is curved in a jerky motion, and he’s clearly struggling to establish any kind of pace at all. Talon makes his way toward him. Not fast enough, though. Ripkin drops his own bulkbell.

  “Didn’t you hear? Back straight,” he says, and he punches the small boy directly in the spine.

  The punch lands hard, knocking the scrawny kid down in an instant. Kade crumples to the sand, bashing his nose against the metal bulkbell. The other recruits’ exertion stops, their attention diverted. Kade lets out a small noise, cupping his nose and catching the blood spilling down his mouth. No tears fall on the vacant young face. Those were stolen along with his emotions.

  Talon places a hand over Kade’s face, sending a streak of magic in. It sparks like a charged wire, spearing heat straight to Talon’s bones. With a low crunch, the boy’s nose heals.

  Ripkin’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

  “Who’s stronger now?” he says, baring teeth in his square smile. A few Arcs snigger, and a protective impulse streaks through Talon like an arrow.

  “Ripkin, you’re dismissed,” Talon says at full volume. “You are now demoted to dish duty—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Until you can display the respect a commanding officer—and your comrades—deserve, you are no part of this army.”

  Ripkin stands in shock. “Are you serious?”

  Talon doesn’t say a word, and neither does anyone else. Even the waves are silent at their backs. Ripkin’s eyes slowly drift beyond him, toward the collection of onlookers near the hot dog stand. Several cars slow beyond the stand. Tyrus is no longer sitting, but standing with his arms folded, glowering at the entourage of training recruits.

  “You’re really going to let him do this?” Ripkin shouts at Tyrus, as though he has some kind of standing with the Arcaian general.

  “On that thought, Ripkin,” Talon goes on, torqued at the blowhard’s continued backtalk. “You could do with a little loss of free time. Confinement, maybe… Court-martialed and sent to the dungeons would be preferable.”

  Ripkin snarls, charging forward in Talon’s direction. “You can guarantee my father will hear about this.”

  “Guess you’d better work hard in the kitchens then. Make him proud.” Talon gives him a derisive smile.

  Blood is smeared along Kade’s chin and mouth, and the lanky boy’s arms hang at his sides. Talon can’t help wondering, if Kade had a talisman like Aria’s, what he would be doing right now. Would he stand there, unmoving, unspeaking after just getting knocked to the ground?

  Ripkin sniffs, towering over the smaller boy as though he’d like to hit him again. Instead, he swallows and raises his chin, garnering what’s left of his pride before tromping off across the sand.

  Talon’s gaze sweeps across the recruits. Bulkbells rest in the
sand or are frozen in their grips. No one moves; they barely blink, let alone breathe.

  In that moment it’s as though everything about them gets stripped away. The hair, the set of their brows, the lifting of the center of their throats when they swallow. Talon can see these men and boys. Really see them.

  And he knows why Arcaians don’t award Itharian recruits with talismans. The truth crashes in, stronger and more unstoppable than the waves curling toward the shore. If they could feel—truly feel—they would fight back. They would run, they would hide—more than that, they would be competition.

  His eyes trail back to Tyrus. This training is more than promoting the equality his surrogate father claims they’re after. It’s about maintaining the upper hand. They’re easier to control when they’re emotionally comatose.

  The others watch him, including Tyrus, including Miles and Adam. Waiting. It’s time to continue the demonstration, but Talon suddenly has no desire to share the secrets of his race with these people. Ripkin might be gone, but the same wedge from the night before cottons up his throat.

  Miles and Adam hand him looks of confusion. He’s hesitating. He never hesitates.

  “Break into twos!” Talon calls, the nauseating feeling rising up to his jawline. Every step he takes is a betrayal in and of itself. But this is what he does, he tells himself. This is who he is.

  A chill crawls its way up Talon’s spine like an insect, leg over scuttling leg. He forces his shoulders down, prying his posture into place. He’s not sure if the reaction is from Ripkin’s defiance, or from the cold stare being handed him by his surrogate father making his way toward him across the sand.

  Calculating, dark, and displeased, Tyrus glowers at Talon before gesturing a hand. “Proceed, soldier,” he says as though he doesn’t understand the holdup.

  Talon goes through the remainder of training in a fury of empty, disconnected commands. Once they’re through with bulkbells and squats, they move on to forward lunges.

  “You with magic will channel and hold the stream just under the surface. Now lunge forward. Again!