“I know!” Shamil cut in. He spoke in a harsh, defiant growl, anger burning its way through his terror. Anger at Morgath for the effortless authority he commanded, at Tihla for the harsh indifference of her tutelage, at Rignar for his riddles, and shamefully, at Lyvia for the ease with which she had won her bird’s trust. Ever since his disgrace at the Doctrinate, it seemed the world contrived to deny him everything, and now this pirate turned peerless leader would deny him even the chance of a decent end.
“A death suffered in search of honour is itself honourable,” Shamil added, turning away. They were words spoken by Lore Mistress Ishala, a small, stooped old woman with eyes misted into blindness by age. Behind them lay a memory crammed with all the history her long life had allowed her to accrue. It was from her that he had learned of the Eyrie, and it had been her who pointed him on this sojourn. Disgrace such as yours is the worst kind, she had told him, lips formed into a kind but sad smile, for it comes from within, not without, and I know of only one place in this world where such a curse can be lifted . . .
“If I can’t be redeemed in battle,” he said, straightening his back, “I’ll be redeemed in death.”
“No.” Morgath’s features took on a sorrowful cast, as he stepped back and his hand slipped from Shamil’s shoulder. “Death is just death, son. It’s what you leave behind that matters.”
Despite his evident reluctance, the first wing made no effort to stop Shamil as he walked to the end of the beam and raised his eyes to the swirl of birds above. He found Kaitlahr easily, the fire wing’s silhouette was the largest amongst the throng and, Shamil saw in a welter of hope, flying below the others. Many thoughts flickered through his mind as he lowered his gaze to the great statue rising from the smoke in the distance: the faces of the aunt and uncle who had raised him, the stone monuments to the parents slain in the raptor-wars when he was barely out of the cradle, the many hardships and occasional triumphs of life in the Doctrinate, but most of all . . .
. . . it’s eyes stared up at him as he raised his blades, eyes full of knowledge that shouldn’t be there, eyes that dimmed as he brought the daggers down, striking true, striking deep . . .
Shamil leapt, not the arms-wide fall of Rignar or Lyvia, but a true leap. His legs propelled him from the beam, and he turned in the air, gazing up at the circling birds, a circle that shrank far more quickly than he had thought possible, the great wings continuing to whirl in serene disregard of the human plummeting below. Before the circle became just a vague smudge against the pale blue of the sky, he fancied he saw Kaitlahr swoop lower, but it may have been just a final imagined flare of hope from a mind only seconds from death.
All the air rushed from Shamil’s lungs in an instant as something slammed into his side. The world disappeared into a sudden reddish haze as he attempted to breathe, finding his chest too tightly gripped to allow it. He had time to reflect on the oddness of the ground impacting his side rather than his back before full blackness descended.
8. The Voice Awakened
He woke gasping. Sweet, chilly air flooded his throat and lungs, birthing a peculiar kind of ecstasy unique to survival. Tears rendered his vision a liquid blur of blue and black that cleared as he wept, shame and relief rising in equal measure. When the last tear fell, he found himself staring at the pale oval of Lyvia’s face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to.”
She sat close to him on a ledge he recognised from their ascent to the Eyrie, Shamil guessing they were about halfway to the bottom. Vintress was perched on an outcrop some yards away, beak and talons busily rending a goat carcass to pieces. Lyvia coughed when he gave no response, forcing a weak smile as she turned to her bird. “She’s so fast. Hard to believe a living creature could move so swiftly . . .”
“You should have let me fall.” He spoke in a flat tone, lacking accusation or force, but still, he saw how deep the words stung her.
“I couldn’t . . .” She shivered, hugging herself tight, keeping her gaze averted. “I’ve seen too many friends die, Shamil. Stood and watched and did nothing as they were led to the gallows, one by one. All my friends. Girls I laughed with when we played as children, gossiped with as we grew older. Boys I bickered with constantly and, as childhood faded, would sometimes kiss, only to bicker even more.”
A smile of fond recollection passed over her face, but it faded quickly. “They all died,” she went on. “And I watched, standing at my family’s side on the balcony overlooking the great square in Mira-Vielle, even though I was just as guilty as they. I watched them all die the traitor’s death. I told you some of it before, but not all.
“The Revenantist cult rose and fell, as I said, but its fall birthed an idea amongst the nobility’s youth. We were a commendably earnest lot in some respects, filled with righteous anger at our families and their endless hoarding of power and wealth. Of course, some amongst us revelled in their privilege, whilst others hearkened to our expensive lessons and the many books we read. There was a boy . . .” She lowered her face, her expression alternating between the sadness and remembered joy Shamil knew came only from recalling a lost love. “A young man, Crucio. My young man, in fact. He was the only person I met who had read more books than I, and the only one who looked upon this face and saw more than just the image of a vanished legend. He burned with a need for change, a desire to sweep away the corruption and inequality that surrounded us. We would feed the poor, give succour to the sick and the helpless, but to do that we would need to learn from the success and failures of the Revenantists. They had promised salvation in Sharrow-Met’s return, but that had never come. But we, the heralds of a new age, could make it happen, in me.”
Shamil righted himself, feeling the many aches that resulted from having been snatched out of the air by a blue falcon. Groaning, he shifted closer to Lyvia, peering intently at her face and seeing it anew. Suddenly, the reasons for her sharp aversion to comparisons with her forebear became plain.
“You were going to pretend to be her,” he said. “Sharrow-Met reborn.”
“It was Crucio’s idea, of course. I would be the vessel for her returned soul, for who would doubt it when a woman wearing this face spoke her words? We would proclaim the Wraith Queen’s return and raise the people to tear down the decadent shell that Mira-Vielle had become. But first, some hard measures had to be taken. My face and Sharrow-Met’s ancient words would not be enough. The noble houses would not simply stand aside for the new generation, and no coup is ever bloodless.”
Her hand moved to the sling on her belt, both fists grasping the narrow leather strap, pulling it taut. “My mother taught me the sling,” Lyvia said. “As her mother taught her. The lessons began the day I took my first step and never ended. I barely recall a day I wasn’t in my mother’s company. I had nurses, tutors, and maids, but Mother was always there, and I never doubted her love. Crucio told me to poison her at dinner the night before our great rebellion. And my father, and my aunt and uncle who were visiting that week. And our chief retainer, for senior servants of the decadent regime could never be trusted. We had a very long list, you see?”
Her hands bunched together, tight enough for the knuckles to turn bone white. “It was the list that stopped me. There were so many names. So many people I knew and loved. I just . . . couldn’t.” Her hands relaxed as she let out a long, weary sigh. “So, I took my copy of the list to my mother, who took it to my father. By morning they were building the gallows in the great square.