CHAPTER 19 JAX
JAX
Earlier, I told Tycho that he’d changed, and I’m seeing the proof right now. As I told him, it’s not confidence. It’s a shift in his bearing. A difference in his composure. An equilibrium where before he always seemed like he couldn’t quite find his footing.
When we first met, I didn’t want to lie to him about Alek and the Truthbringers, but I had no choice.
And even though I didn’t want to do it, a part of me knew I could get away with it.
Tycho has a generosity of spirit that’s easy to exploit— which is probably why so many people have taken advantage of him.
Despite everything he’s been through, he was too earnest, too honest, too trusting.
But there’s an edge to him now. Hard- won, like a blade forged in a fire that’s not quite hot enough. It might not be pretty, but it’s sharp, and that’s all that matters.
Something about that makes me sad.
But it also makes me proud.
Tycho has a firm grip on Bailey’s sleeve, and he jerks him a little closer, keeping his voice low. “The Truthbringers have a scraver ?”
Bailey is staring up at him, his eyes wide and panicked. “I haven’t seen it,” he says, his head shaking vigorously. “But— but—”
“But what?” Tycho demands. “Do they have it in a cage like Nakiis?”
“Like what ?” Bailey frowns, then wets his lips. “What . . . what’s a Nakiis—”
“The other one Journ had,” Tycho says impatiently.
“No. It— it—”
“Hey!” a man from one of the vendor stalls shouts from a ways down. He’s peering through the thinning crowd. “What are you two doing to that boy?”
Tycho straightens, loosening his grip. Bailey immediately jerks free and bolts. He ducks between patrons and slips between planks in the wall.
Coins or not, I don’t think he’ll be reappearing.
“Silver hell,” Tycho mutters. “I think we really scared him off that time.” He looks up toward the man who shouted, and he affects that same terrible Syssal accent he used in the tavern. “He try to pocket my coins,” he calls back.
“Now boy gone,” I call to the vendor. “You pay us what he stole?”
The man’s eyes flare wide in surprise, but then he grunts and turns away, busying himself with his wares.
Tycho snorts, but he runs a hand across the back of his neck. “We should keep moving,” he murmurs in Syssalah.
“Are you worried about the scraver?”
“Yes. If I use any magic, it will sense me.” He hesitates. “It’s possible it already has.”
“Can it recognize you, the way you can recognize them?”
He grimaces. “I’m not sure. But maybe— especially if it’s one of the ones I fought before.”
Another cold breeze swirls through the crowd, and this time it seems to linger. People around us shiver and look around in wonder, because the motionless heat was stifling.
“Is it looking for you?” I say.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I scan the surrounding people, looking for any sign of the other soldiers, but Malin, Sephran, and Leo aren’t anywhere in sight.
I wish I knew if that was good or bad or simply irrelevant.
Could they have been captured by the Truthbringers already?
Or are they just among the crowd somewhere else in the tourney?
But then I realize I might be asking the wrong questions.
“What happens if the scraver finds you?” I say, and my tone is grim.
“They want to kill anyone with magic, so it probably wouldn’t be a joyful interaction. At the Crystal Palace, Grey and I could barely hold them off, even with Malin’s help.”
And right now, he’s only got me by his side. I wonder if he’s regretting that.
“Should we leave?” I say. “Wait for the others and regroup?”
He considers that, then winces. “I don’t want to run when we’re so close. Whatever we find, we can report to Grey . . . or to Lia Mara. If we leave now, we might not get another chance.” He gestures ahead. “There can’t be much tourney left. The crowds are thinner here. We have to be close.”
My pulse skips a little bit, and I nod. But then Tycho looks over sharply. “Jax, if you want to leave, you can—”
“Oh, stop,” I say. “I’m not leaving you.” It’s my turn to wince. “I’m just sorry I’m not one of the soldiers.”
He bumps me with his shoulder. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The warmth in his voice makes me look up, and I’m startled by the sudden glow in my heart. I nudge him back. “Focus,” I say with a grin. “We might be dead in five minutes.”
“That’s the spirit,” he says.
But then we turn a corner and realize we’ve reached the end of the tourney.
There’s nothing here. Just a wide-open door that leads to the grounds behind the massive arena.
We’re greeted by nothing more than starlight and tree trunks.
Over in the shadows, a man is urinating against the side of the building.
Tycho lets out a breath. “I don’t understand.”
As soon as he says it, another cold breeze slips through the warm night air, winding around us before whistling along the edge of the building.
I inhale sharply. “The wind. It has to be close—”
Tycho slaps a hand over my mouth, then shakes his head fiercely. He taps his ear, then makes a revolving gesture with his hand, indicating the air around us. Finally, he taps a finger over his lips and mimes, Shh.
For a moment, I don’t understand, but then I remember all the story books I used to read with Callyn when we were children. Every story featuring a scraver talked about their ability to wield the wind and sky with magic— but also their preternatural hearing.
I nod, and he drops his hand, letting me go.
The man finishes his business against the wall, and he yanks at the cord on his trousers. Tycho and I are rigid and silent, and I have no idea what the man thinks, but he barely gives us a passing glance as he heads back into the tourney.
“Windy tonight,” he mutters as he goes by. Tycho just nods.
Once the man is gone, Tycho gestures toward the woods, but before he moves, he reaches out and tugs at the bow strung over my shoulder, then raises his eyebrows.
Oh. Yes. I suppose it would help to remember I’m armed. I grab my bow and yank it over my head, then tuck a few arrows against my palm for good measure. Then we head into the cloaking darkness of the trees.
Tycho is so silent that he could be an assassin.
I don’t know if it’s army training or if it’s just a natural vigilance, but the bare shuffle of my false foot moving through the underbrush seems very loud.
Then again, so does the pounding of my heart.
My brain is all too happy to remind me of the other scraver attacks I’ve survived.
I still have wide scars across my jaw from the last time.
I don’t want any more.
Another cool breeze swirls through the trees, and I shiver.
I can’t sense the magic the way Tycho can, but there’s something so unnatural about it right now, with the heavy heat of summer bearing down on top of us.
My hand has gone a bit slick on the bow, and I adjust my grip.
Beside me, Tycho already has a hand on the hilt of his sword.
Then we hear the voices, and we both slow.
First, it’s a man. “. . . is already here in Emberfall. The magic has left Syhl Shallow, but it could return. I’ve heard rumors that the queen is desperate for him to come back.”
He’s speaking in clear Emberish, with a thick, cultured accent— the way Prince Rhen speaks Syssalah. Like he’s learned from books and a tutor instead of sheer desperation. I’m guessing he’s of the nobility in Syhl Shallow.
A woman responds in kind. “While the queen sits on the throne,” she says, “the risk of magic returning exists.”
Another man cries out, and the lack of an accent says he’s from this side of the border. “Well, we don’t want him here either. We’ve already had enough problems with magic.”
Beside me, Tycho has gone absolutely still.
A second woman speaks, her voice slower, more thoughtful, though there’s an edge to her tone.
“I have heard from my spies that the king’s forces at Ironrose Castle aren’t as fortified as they could be, as the king has been slow and distracted since returning.
Perhaps while the king and queen are separated, we have an opportunity to resolve things in a way that will satisfy everyone. ”
Something about her voice sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it since she’s speaking in Emberish.
“Just how are you going to do that?” another man calls.
In the shadows, I look at Tycho. My heart beats so hard that it’s painful inside my chest.
He lifts a hand and gestures for us to move closer, then taps under his eye and points.
I think I understand. He wants to see who these people are.
Silently, he shifts between the trees, and I do my best to mimic his movements. I can’t move like a ghost the way he can, however, and I wince every time my foot makes a slight drag through the pine needles and dried leaves littering the ground.
Ahead, a few torches are lit, because I spot the glow among the trees. The forest is too dense, so I can’t make out any individual faces from here, but this “meeting” seems to be much more like a crowd. As my eyes scan the shadowed moonlight, I estimate at least thirty people standing in the woods.
A torch shifts, and I change that estimate to forty.
No, fifty. Maybe more. I swallow.
This isn’t a meeting. This is a mob.
Then the woman says, “Xovaar, shall we show them how effectively we can resolve our difficulties?”
Tycho freezes, his hand grabbing my forearm, making us both stop short. That icy breeze whips between the trees again, lifting his hair and making us both shiver. Suddenly the tree trunks around us glisten in the moonlight, ice crawling along the wood before melting in the heat.
Then I hear the scraver’s voice, though it’s not a sound at all. It’s words carried on the air, spoken right to my mind.
— We are not alone.