13. Syrus #3
“It’s awful, not knowing what’s causing it,” he says, and I’m struck by the anguish in his voice.
“Some say it’s the demons—that they’ve somehow smuggled the blight into Aradis.
But even if they have, that doesn’t explain how they made it.
It’s powerful stuff—and the way it spreads from plants to people? I’ve never heard of anything like it.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say. His words have me thinking about when Syrus and I spied on the Stratan trade rift to Aradis all those weeks ago.
I’d thought the ephilium were being weirdly cagey back then—checking and double-checking all the cargo going through the rift.
But it makes sense now. If they were worried that the blight was being transported in, of course they were being cautious.
“I just hope General Illidore manages to get Luminis to open a proper investigation,” Rowan says. “If anyone can do it, it’s him. I mean, after Seraphs Ikcros and Saladine, he’s basically the most respected person in Aphelion.”
The reverence in his tone when he speaks of Garion makes something finally snap into place.
So that’s why Rowan’s been so friendly. Of course he’s a nice guy, but I always knew his interest in me couldn’t purely be about him feeling sorry for—or even attracted to—a wingless nephilim.
My family name is clearly part of the draw, even if it’s hard to judge exactly how much.
After all, I’ve never seen Rowan express any romantic interest in Filippa.
But then she doesn’t have the general’s approval like you do. It’s a mercenary thought, but maybe not totally wrong. Rowan knows Garion gave me Swiftwing, and that must mark me out as Garion’s favored fledgling.
“Come on then,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and casual. “Show me what you’ve really got.”
As I suspected, my challenge works to cheer him up.
Rowan seems to unlock a new plane of determination—or maybe he’s just decided to stop holding back.
Even with Swiftwing, I struggle to keep up, and soon he’s catching my elbows and knees with the flat of his blade, light touches as he toys with me.
I instinctively retreat, trying to get out of reach, and then we’re moving across the field, dancing around each other.
Rowan might be having fun, but he’s awakened my competitive edge too, and I can feel my frustration growing as he dodges every counterstrike I send his way. If he’d just stay still for a second…
An unexpected image comes into my mind of Syrus sticking my feet in place with the force of his magic. It sends a prickling feeling over my skin and then—
Rowan’s whole body jerks, and then he’s tripping backward, falling to the ground.
“Whoa, are you all right?” I ask, feeling almost as shocked as Rowan looks. I offer my hand, but in typical ephilium style, he ignores it in favor of getting to his feet on his own.
“You could’ve taken me then,” he says, the corners of his mouth pulled down, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
“But you tripped,” I point out.
“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, staring down at the patch of earth that felled him. “I don’t know what on, though. Maybe my own feet?”
He can’t quite believe it, and if I wasn’t so shaken myself, I’d have to stifle a laugh. Of course perfect golden boy Rowan can’t imagine getting wrongfooted.
Even though I know he’s not in my head at the moment, the thought sounds like something Syrus might murmur, snarky and seductive. And that in turn makes me face up to a nagging feeling.
I think maybe I tripped Rowan up.
“Hey, if you hadn’t been kind enough to trip, I would’ve been done for,” I say, my voice sounding overly cheerful even to myself. “Honestly, I’m totally exhausted—you would’ve destroyed me.”
Rowan does look a little happier after that, and it means I can use my weariness as an excuse to finish our training for the day. I hurry off to my room in the nest, eager to be alone as I replay that moment in the fight over and over in my mind’s eye.
I stopped him moving. I’m sure of it. It was a tiny, split-second thing, just enough for him to lose his footing, and yet it was like I’d glued his feet to the ground just by willing it.
Like I’d possessed him.
For an instant. That’s all. And it was so fast and instinctive I don’t know if I’d be able to do it again. But still…
The obvious question is how. Unfortunately, I already have a pretty solid theory. As I unbuckle Swiftwing from my belt and settle onto my bed, I turn that theory over to examine it more closely.
I used to not be able to understand Cyrax until being linked to Syrus gave me the power. What if that wasn’t all it gave me? The idea feels right somehow, like that power’s still prickling over my skin—so different to the buzzing of my ephilium magic.
Feeling a little ridiculous, I lift my hand and stretch it open.
After I started growing wings, I didn’t think anything about my changing body and developing magic could surprise me. But as I focus on conjuring up that prickling sensation again, letting my instinct guide me, I’m proven very wrong. Because this time lightning doesn’t crackle across my fingers.
Instead, a thin plume of shadow curls from my palm—black as a demon wing, silent and graceful—without anything from Infernum to channel it through and without even a whisper of Syrus in my head.