“You would think,” Lyvia said, turning the brass disc over to let the moonlight play over the details embossed into its surface, “Ehlias would fashion something more . . . fine.”
“You disapprove?” Shamil asked. The disc he held was mostly identical to hers, though he noted the smith had taken the time to engrave it with the same runes that had adorned his lost sword.
“No.” Lyvia shrugged. “It’s just that an object of such importance could benefit from a little more . . . artistry.”
“Weapons are his art. And I don’t think he makes too many of these, especially all at once.”
They sat together on the walkway outside the nest. Vintress had secluded herself inside its gloomy confines to nurse her wounds, and Lyvia didn’t want to stray too far from her side. Below, the sentinels’ celebration continued despite the lateness of the hour. Wine was usually forbidden in the Eyrie, but Morgath had made an exception this night, ordering barrels of impressive vintage be unearthed from the stores and the contents distributed without ration. The result was a raucous few hours of merriment and a surprising amount of brawling as spirits lubricated tongues sufficiently to voice long-nursed grievances. These scuffles were brief if bruising affairs, quickly quelled and soon transformed into weeping expressions of mutual regard. Tihla had taken on the role of policing the gathering, moving amongst the crowd to calm tempers or commiserate over lost comrades. Morgath, by contrast, sat above it all on the highest rise, cup in hand and a bottle at his side. His once ever-cheerful countenance was now a shadowed, brooding mask concealing thoughts Shamil knew must be grim indeed.
“He asked me to return to Mira-Vielle,” Lyvia said, noting how Shamil’s gaze lingered on the first wing. “To speak to the council on behalf of the Eyrie, beg for more recruits and a new mage. And to warn them that the Voice has returned. We may have contained it, for now, but only a fool would think it won’t try to free itself again.”
Hearing the sour weariness in her tone, Shamil said, “You don’t want to go.”
“Indeed I don’t.” She brightened a little, twirling the disc in her hand. “And now I have this, I can go where I choose. The north perhaps? See the river of emerald light in the sky Tolveg was always talking about. Or to the south, where a friend of mine tells me the raptorile still roam. Perhaps he would care to guide me?”
Shamil turned away, lowering his head, and the humour had faded from Lyvia’s voice when she spoke on. “Except he won’t, for I sense he has determined upon another course. No matter.” She gave a soft sigh, consigning the disc to her pocket. “I’ll do as the first wing has requested, for I am a sentinel, and when I’m done suffering the company of my noble peers, I shall return here, for this is my home.” She glanced back at the opening to the nest. “Besides, Vintress would never leave, and I find I can’t be parted from her. As you can’t be parted from him.”
Shamil saw Stielbek shift a little on his perch at the end of the walkway as if hearing the discomfort in Lyvia’s tone. As before, he still kept vigil on the Maw but with a restless, constant fidgeting that bespoke a desire to be about more pressing business. His impatience was continually emphasised in the baleful glares he shot Shamil’s way throughout the night.
“Rignar said she wasn’t dead,” he told Lyvia. “Sharrow-Met went to find the Voice’s birthplace, presumably to discover a means of destroying it for good. Which begs the question of why she never returned.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s your responsibility to find her.”
“No, it’s his.” He nodded at Stielbek. “That’s what he was waiting for all these years, for the Voice to reemerge. He must be far older than anyone here suspected, for this was a task he was set long ago, I suspect by the Wraith Queen herself. The legends say black wings once carried her into battle. It seems she left one behind when she embarked upon her quest.”
Stielbek turned a glaring eye upon him then, beak parting to emit a low but commanding hiss. “It appears,” Shamil said, stooping to gather up his pack before hefting his bow, “it’s time we were on our way.”
Lyvia followed him and watched as he climbed onto Stielbek’s back, arms crossed as she hugged herself tight. “Where will you look?” she asked.
“Rignar’s visions ended when she reached the limit of the eastern desert. As good a place as any to start.” Shamil settled his bow on his back before fishing inside his shirt to extract the emerald pendant. It was no bigger than a teardrop and weighed almost nothing, but still he found it sat heavy around his neck. “And I have means of finding more clues if any are needed.”
“You will come back.” She spoke in soft but emphatic tones that held a demand but no question.
“I will,” he promised, putting the pendant away. “And when I do, I expect I’ll find you’ve risen at least to second wing.”
“That may require me to kill Tihla, and I find I’ve grown quite fond of her.” The laugh rose and died on her lips before she lowered her gaze. “If you do find the Wraith Queen,” she said. “Tell her she set an impossible example for her descendants to follow.”
“I’ll tell her.” Shamil glanced at the Eyrie below. The celebration had begun to ebb, the sentinels staggering off to their chambers, whilst a few lingered to stare in morose contemplation of their fires, some huddling together in shared grief.
“Tell the people of your city the truth,” he told Lyvia, turning to the distant glow of the Maw. The Voice’s anguished cries had finally subsided along with much of the hateful smoke, only a faint, angry groan issuing from within its depths. Despite this, the absence of Sharrow-Met’s statue made the sight of it more foreboding than ever, a signal that their defences had been sorely tested and forever changed.
“Make them hear you.” He turned back to Lyvia, staring into her eyes with hard insistence. “You may see the face you wear as a curse, but it needn’t be. Bring the Wraith Queen’s crusade back to life, for I’ve a sense it’ll be needed again soon.”
He may have said more, and so might she, but Stielbek launched himself into the air before any other word could be spoken. He kept his wings folded at first, plummeting down to below the edge of the eastward cliff so no eyes except Lyvia’s witnessed their departure. Blinking in the rushing air as Stielbek arced out of the dive, Shamil quickly buckled on his helm. The great bird swept his wings up then down with a slow regular cadence, flying steadily towards the east. Shamil fought down the urge to look back at the Eyrie in the hope of glimpsing Lyvia’s slender form one last time. Instead, he set his gaze on the distant horizon and wondered what he would see when the sun rose to reveal a new landscape come the dawn.
Anthony Ryan
Anthony Ryan is the New York Times best-selling author of the Raven's Shadow epic fantasy novels, The Draconis Memoria trilogy and the Slab City Blues science fiction series. He was born in Scotland in 1970 but spent much of his adult life living and working in London. After a long career in the British Civil Service he took up writing full time after the success of his first novel Blood Song, Book One of the Raven's Shadow trilogy. He has a degree in history, and his interests include art, science and the unending quest for the perfect pint of real ale.
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