Such a Clever Deception: A Stolen Tears Prequel

by Cortney Pearson

  “Talon, please,” she cries.

  “This is how we can be together.” He plunges the claw into her leg through her black pants.

  Aria screams, and the claw comes to life. It’s an extension of him, alive and breathing. Magic cool and clean and more refreshing than water to a parched mouth seeps in, lighting Talon’s hand the way he’s seen it do to others countless times.

  It’s true—everything he’s heard Tyrus describe for years, the connection, the exultant power that swells instantly as the claw connects all on its own, it’s all true.

  But it doesn’t fill him with pride, or with a sense of completion, as Tyrus has claimed. Instead the sensation sickens him.

  He drops the claw instantly, staggering back and knocking into his desk. In his mind’s eye he sees Miles with his four subjugates, Tyrus with his multiples. And Talon knows. This won’t be enough. Nothing he’s done has ever been enough, and this will be no different. Tyrus will always want more.

  Aria doubles over, not crying—no, her tears have been stolen from her along with everyone else’s. But her dry sobs are enough.

  “I can’t do it,” Talon says, gut twisting with the taint. It rides through him, sick like poison, an incessant fever coiling along his bones, marring him every inch of the way. He shakes his hand, wringing it from the elbow down as if that will remove whatever part of her he’s taken into himself.

  “Finish it!” Tyrus belts. “You can’t walk away from this, soldier.”

  No, Talon thinks, staring at his palm. This is the turning point. This is what he’ll never escape from. The purple doesn’t envelop his hand completely, the way it does to Tyrus’s, to Ripkin’s, even Adam’s and Miles’s hands. It already begins to fade. But he’ll never be able to undo this. Never.

  “Aria.” He drops to her side, resting his hands on her knees. Blood pools at the gap he made in her thigh, and he lightly taps it, transferring red onto his fingertips. He stares at it for a few moments. What has he done?

  “Forgive me. I’m so— Angels, I’m sorry.”

  She turns away with a heavy sniff.

  He staggers, gripping his head with his tainted hand. And at once everything becomes clear. The Decoy Battalion twelve and a half years ago. Taking him away to Arcaia, where Tyrus knew he could more easily hide him from Feihrians who might follow; the arguments, the countless hours of persuasion, the cloaked threats and subtle nudges. Everything was leading up to this moment.

  Realization slaps his brain, and of all things he could possibly do, Talon lets off a humorless laugh.

  “I should have seen it,” he says, bending to rest his hands on his knees, gasping for air. “Why did I ever think you cared about me?”

  Tyrus’s brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”

  “You degraded me, Tyrus. Just now, in that room, with Ripkin and Kade, you demeaned my authority before one of the stupidest prideful imbeciles in my whole battalion and then proceeded to promise him a rank he obviously hasn’t earned. No wonder the other generals are questioning my determination—you’re the one who’s been guiding them in that direction, just so you could get me to do this!”

  He thrusts his hand toward Tyrus.

  Tyrus doesn’t deny it. If anything, he looks proud at Talon finally reaching this conclusion. “I was determining whether or not you were still up to the task,” he says instead. “To our goal of equality.”

  “Equality,” Talon scoffs. “How can things be equal when we’re merely transferring magic from one race to another? There’s no way to be equal by putting others below yourself!”

  The words ring with truth, chiseling away at some of the weight that’s lodged itself in Talon’s chest. He breathes easier than he has all afternoon.

  “I thought you saw things differently,” Tyrus says, his voice elevated.

  Talon begins to pace. “Only because you’ve been shoving it down my throat for twelve years.”

  “I consider you my son—”

  “You know, I don’t think that’s true.” The words should hurt, but he feels nothing. Nothing but remorse for what he’s done.

  Talon kneels to Aria’s side once more. He reaches for her chin, hoping to direct her eyes to his. He’ll make her understand, so she can see how sorry he is. He’ll make this right, somehow.

  Tyrus’s chest rises, his chin quivering with anger so much so that he bares his teeth. “This is your life!” he yells, ripping Talon away from Aria’s lap.

  The girl shrieks and Talon jerks to his feet, shoving Tyrus away. “No, this is your life! You keep trying to force it on me. For years you’ve tried to deceive me! You took me from my home, you fed me lies every time I showed any signs of doubt. You guilt-tripped me over and over! Just to get me to go back on my word to my people and train your vrecking army. You made promises you’re refusing to keep. But you forget who I am, Tyrus.”

  Tyrus watches him with a solemn acceptance of every accusation, not once showing the slightest hint of remorse. He plants his eyes firmly on his supposed son.

  No. Tyrus never forgot. It’s why he’s been trying to distract him for so long. Talon reels around once more, carving his hands through his hair.

  All the things he’s done for Tyrus race through his mind. The times he’s been forced to train others, to teach them the precious secrets of his warrior race. He thinks of the life that was taken from him. He should have resented Tyrus for it, but he’s revered him instead, and look where it’s gotten him. He hears Shasa in his head. Where is your allegiance, Talon?

  Shasa knew. Angels, he’s hated her harsh words. He hasn’t wanted to process, to think. He hasn’t wanted to try. But he can’t hide from it anymore. Shasa’s words stabbed because they were the truth. And now that truth won’t let him rest.

  He thinks of his father—his real father—his people, Shasa’s already blatant disapproval of him. But his own disappointment in himself trumps everything else.

  “I’ve forgotten who I am. I am a warrior. A fighter, and most of all I am not your son. I swear, Tyrus Blinnsdale, I will make you pay for what you’ve made me do.”

  Tyrus’s nostrils flare. In a fury, he ducks for the claw. Talon staggers his feet, ready for the attack. But Tyrus doesn’t stab it at Talon, as he expects.

  He sinks the claw straight into Aria’s chest.

  “No!” Talon shouts, ramming the Arcaian leader out of the way as Aria tumbles from the chair to the floor, one hand at the claw in her body. Blood seeps from her mouth as she struggles for breath.

  Talon kneels, streaming magic into her—still white and not tainted purple, thank goodness—his anger abating for pure terror. But it’s too late. Only a wizard can restore life that’s been lost. Her blood stains his carpet, and he watches the light drain from her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, pleading with despair, guiding hair away from her lifeless cheek. He shakes her a few times, as though that small gesture will undo all of this.

  An empty canker builds in him. He doesn’t notice Tyrus leaving, or saying anything else. He kneels by Aria’s side long after the sun fades from the windows, long after a chill settles through the room. No servant has come to light a fire. No one has come to check on him—or her for that matter.

  Talon finally releases her cold hand. He swallows against the tightness in his throat, brushing strands of hair away from her mouth.

  “I wanted to know you,” he says to her. “To dance with you. I’m sorry.”

  A lonesome despair leeches through him. It carves through, taking its time like a parasite. Talon eyes the massive bed, the fireplace, his desk and wrecked punching bag, and he stands. It’s all meaningless. Everything he thought he was fighting for, it was always one-sided. Despite all the words, all the empty promises, Tyrus has never backed him.

  The realization that had meant so much to him only minutes before now fades into ash. He stares at the gape in Aria’s chest—made by Tyrus’s claw. He takes in the claw he dropped to the floor. Slowly, his
boots cross their way to it, and he bends to retrieve it.

  The metal is no longer cold, but warm like a sun-cooked rock from its recent use. “Never again,” he vows aloud, choking the claw in his fist. “I will never use one again.”

  And that resolution can mean only one thing: he has to leave the Arcaian army.

  The thought no longer carries the trepidation it would have a day ago, even a few hours ago. He thought he’d changed his fate, that the oaths he’s broken didn’t matter. But they do. And it’s time for him to prove where his true allegiance lies. With his people. And most of all, with himself.

  Talon retrieves his pack from a drawer. He rolls up his Arcaian uniform, several changes of clothes and a few other necessities, along with the claw that he once vowed he’d never use.

  He removes the blanket from his bed and lays it over Aria’s motionless body. It covers the hand still curled to the gaping, bloody wound in her chest. And he kneels once more to close her eyes. She looks calm now, her face a portrait of deep slumber.

  “I will make this right,” he promises her, his throat tight.

  The wizards, he thinks again with regret. If they were still here, they could fix this. They could revive her. But thanks to the Arcaians they’re gone too.

  He pauses, gripping the strap of the pack now slung across his chest as the realization arrives, cool and sure. His gaze strays to Aria once more.

  No. They’re not all gone.

  Jomeini. Urgency flashes through his veins, driving him forward. If he wants any chance of going back to Feihria, he has to know what awaits him for breaking the oaths. He has to have something—or someone—on his side. He grips the handle, thrusting the door open.

  Light blinds him, so opposite from the darkness shrouding his room. Ripkin stands in the hall, still in uniform and perched against the side of a column. The recruit scrambles to straighten his shoulders and adjust his uniform. A stupid simpering smile rests on his face, almost like he’s excited to see Talon.

  For a moment Talon wonders what he’s doing there. Did Tyrus leave him to guard the door?

  Ripkin sniffs, coming to full height and clasping the claw at his belt. His hair is slicked back, revealing its lone blue streak.

  “Looks like I chose my weapon well, wouldn’t you say, Haraway?”

  Talon grits his jaw. Of course, he’s here to gloat. His thoughts veer in the direction of the dead girl in his room, and he stalks past the fool without saying a word.

  “Turning your back on me? I should’ve figured that was your way. I know how you like to throw your weight around.”

  Again, Talon says nothing. He makes his way for the mouth of the stairs. His new direction is enough to keep him going now. He has nothing more to prove here.

  “Yeah, keep walking,” Ripkin taunts over Talon’s shoulder. He’s trailing much too closely. “You may not be the favorite around here for much longer anyway.”

  Talon can’t take it any longer. Magic ignites at his hands and courses its fury along his body as he whips around, swiftly knocks the claw from Ripkin’s hands, and throws the boy through the air to slam against the red rug.

  Ripkin coughs as the air escapes his lungs. Talon kneels down, slapping the floor on either side of Ripkin’s head and speaking right into his face.

  “Don’t think for a second that oppressing another makes you stronger, fool. By taking that boy’s magic you’ve just latched yourself onto a crutch, one you can never be rid of, do you hear me?”

  Ripkin trembles. Talon grabs the idiot’s claw, along with a pair of fingerless gloves hanging out of his pocket, and rounds, charging magic as he slams the thing claws-down into the floor. Ripkin squeals, high-pitched and weak-sounding, bracing his hands over his face as the claw crashes through the floor.

  And Talon walks away, not seeing just how far the metal tool actually embeds into the stone.

  ***

  So many should-haves race through Talon’s mind as he crosses yet another street. He should have walked away. Escorted Aria out himself, pulled Kade out with him when he left that room. But that won’t undo the others he’s just stood by and allowed to be clawed.

  As hard as he tries, he can’t rub the regrets from his mind. Every conversation he’s had with Tyrus, every word that’s come out of his mouth hasn’t been out of a fatherly affection or pride, but a lie, trimmed and tailored to get Talon to abandon everything that was once important. It was all a scheme, each word a pawn to move Talon one square forward, and another, and still another. And the worst part is that he fell for it.

  Talon hunches over against the side of a laundromat. The machines inside swirl and turn with both purple and silver batches of magic, but he closes his eyes, blocking out the image, blocking out the bystanders. He aches for what’s been broken, for the oaths he’s made for his people, for Feihria. It’s not like a vase where he can capture every piece and carefully glue each segment back into place to recreate what once was. He can’t undo the things he’s taught.

  He slips Ripkin’s fingerless gloves on and despite it all, he breathes deeply, basking in the sudden liberation. He has a few stops to make first—he’s got to visit Shasa and Jomeini, to figure out what he can possibly do in order to return home with honor. And from there he’ll do what he can. No force in Itharia can change the past, but he can alter the future. And he’s determined to make things right, come what may.

  Thanks for Reading!

  I hope you enjoyed Such a Clever Deception as much as I do! You may know that reviews on retail sites really help authors, especially indie authors like me. They also draw readers to other books they might like! I appreciate all honest reviews, so please be sure to let others know your thoughts about the story!

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  Thank you. You are why I do this thing called writing. Hugs and high fives!

  -Cortney

  I am incredibly blessed to have such amazing people in my life.

  My husband, Duane, thank you for constant support, for listening to my worries, my excitement, and for helping with the kids so I can get some scribbling done.

  My mother, who has been an unfailing friend and source of encouragement for as long as I can remember.

  My beautiful sons, who brighten my life.

  Angie Cothran, map-artist-extraordinaire, you and your mad drawing skills amaze me.

  Danette Hansen, Rachel Gordon, Morgan Shamy, thank you for reading, for honesty and help and awesome feedback. You all mean more than I can say.

  Rebecca Lamoreaux, it was meant to be that we were paired together last year. I'm so happy we're friends and critique partners!

  Elizabeth Briggs, my constant support and steady friend, thanks for always knowing the answers and being my proverbial writing-guiding light. Your friendship means so much.

  Anne Pfeffer, for your friendship and feedback, for sticking by me.

  Amber Argyle, your friendship means so much to me. When did you get so wise? :-p

  Charity West, the most amazing, kick-booty editor on the face of the planet. This story would never have met its potential without your insights and without pushing me farther than I thought I could go.

  Stephanie Parent, for your amazing eye at catching misplaced words.

  My Heavenly Father. Credit will always go to Him for answering prayers, for helping me write when I get stumped, for providing direction in my life.

  My siblings and friends. There are so many of you who support me, who offer encouragement and listen to me prattle on. My life wouldn't be the same without you.

  And to my readers. We share a love for books, which anyone who reads knows
is a special thing. I wish I could sit down with you and chat about our favorites. Thank you.

  Cortney Pearson is the author of PHOBIC, about doors that shouldn't be opened, and the Stolen Tears series, about an enchanted vial of tears and the girl chosen to wield them. She is a mother, a musician, and a lover of pink and sparkles, and she currently lives with her husband and three sons in a small Idaho farm town.

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  "I read this book fast with a pumping heart. Expect cliffhangers and cold chills. Don't expect to get much sleep! Highly recommended."

  -Anne, a reviewer

  Copyright © 2015 Cortney Pearson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, printing, recording, or otherwise—without the prior permission of the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, incidents, or events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Charity West and Stephanie Parent

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Map Artwork by Angie Cothran

  Author Photo by Clayton Photography + Design

  Find Cortney on the web! http://www.cortneypearson.com