Chapter 7
An ancient black stone temple sat atop the highest cliff.
It was lovely in its old age, the stones worn and uneven as if it had withstood the test of time.
And so mighty, it could have housed hundreds of soldiers with room to spare.
Her eyes followed it skyward, where she caught the tallest tower.
It was covered in shimmering golden runes, with arched windows perfect for birds to soar to and from.
Home, sweet home, Ezer thought, and sighed aloud.
‘Am I to go up there and begin my work at once?’
‘It’s not a prison, Ezer,’ Arawn said, and she did not miss the way he said her name with far more ease than he had last time. ‘It’s a station, like for all soldiers in the north. You’re free to come and go as you please.’ He looked down at her ankles, her worn boots. ‘And no chains.’
A bit of relief flooded her at that.
The doors had lovely sigils emblazoned on them.
Eagles’ wings, the crest of Lordach, with five stars arched above them.
She was first hit with the smell inside – not cold and crisp, like the Citadel’s courtyard, but the earthy scent that reminded her, undeniably, of home.
It was one of shavings and grains, of flickering torches and millet, crushed corn and seeds that she herself had grown so used to scattering across a cold tower floor to feed her own ravens.
The space still held the air of an ancient temple, with beautiful vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows.
But there were no pews. Instead, the stone floors were full of supplies: saddle racks and barrels, wheelbarrows and mucking forks and bags of pine shavings.
Torches flickered on the walls, casting everything in a soft, warm glow.
There were countless people in white, grey, and brown cloaks milling about, Sacred Knights and Scribes and servants readying for a night of battle.
Ezer paused, watching a Scribe in grey seated on a work bench, a book laid out before her.
And a dagger in one hand, which she used to prick the tip of her finger.
A drop of blood welled out, and she used it to paint runes upon the enormous broadsword laid before her.
The blood sank into the metal like magic, and glowing gold runes took its place.
The Scribe smiled and held it out to a Knight who marched over, gave her an approving nod, and sheathed the blade before heading away, fully dressed for battle.
‘Come on,’ Arawn grunted, and led her on past rows of iron racks upon the walls.
And on those racks rested enormous saddles.
Not for horses or bears, for they were far too large in the girth.
Beside them, golden bridles hung on hooks, the chain-link reins so long they were coiled up like ropes so as not to touch the dusty floor.
Ezer’s heart skipped a beat.
‘This is …’
‘The Aviary,’ Arawn said. ‘Home of the War Eagles.’
Suddenly she didn’t give a damn if it ached her scars, or if she didn’t even want to be here, in the north.
She grinned.
And then she drank it all in like water to a worn and weary soul.
Some of the saddles were new and shining, freshly oiled.
Others were stamped with curling runes that had faded, no longer glowing but still a part of the leather, nonetheless.
Like fossils, their magic always to be remembered.
They were all created by careful hands, each one unique enough that she knew the Scribes had taken great care to customize the runes to their Knight’s liking.
If one was to ride in a saddle, die in a saddle … it might as well be a well-equipped one.
The smell of leather filled her senses, and it reminded her of her Minder’s apron, the one that used to belong to Ervos as a young boy, left hanging alone on a hook inside her tower in the south. She’d have a new one here.
And suddenly, she didn’t hate the idea of it.
At least here, there were things to see, stories to uncover.
At least here, she would not be so alone.
‘You won’t see the mounts here,’ Arawn said as he walked. ‘They live through those runed doors.’
He pointed to the end of the rounded space, where a set of two golden double doors led into the war eagle’s area. Softly glowing runes marked them, no doubt to keep intruders out. It had been blocked from her view when they’d stood on the cliffside before.
Gods, she wanted to see the war eagles up close.
Catching a glance of them in the forest wasn’t near enough.
She glanced up at Arawn. ‘Can I—’
‘Off limits,’ he said, ‘to all who have not been chosen.’
Ezer blew out a breath and followed him along.
‘Kitchen, bathing chambers, gear room.’ Arawn ticked off doors as they walked. She noticed he did not mention the purpose of the black rounded door with bars for a window – not unlike the prison cells in Rendegard.
A pair of young Scribes scurried past them, hauling enormous worn bags over their shoulders, positively full to the brim with leatherbound books.
They paused, glancing up at Ezer for a moment – the scars on her face, the blackened part of her right eye – before Arawn barked, ‘You’ll respect your new Ravenminder, or you’ll find yourself working for her instead of your Knight.’
They squeaked and rushed away.
‘I don’t know if that’s supposed to make the woman feel better or worse, being used as a scare tactic for poor Scribes in training,’ a voice across from them said.
Arawn grunted. ‘Hello to you too, Indriya.’
Ezer recognized the Sacred woman from the woods outside the Gates, for she was unforgettable with her pale white braids that accented her beautiful black skin, and a smile that reached her eyes.
She sat on top of what looked like an old worn treasure chest – there was one beneath each saddle rack, with initials carved into them – eating a stick of dried meat.
She looked as calm as a cat lazing in the afternoon sun.
‘Welcome back.’ She winked at him. An atypical response for a prince, until she added, ‘First Rider, Sir.’
It hit Ezer, then, what she’d meant.
Her head snapped up to Arawn, then back toward the saddles, as if she would find evidence of what she suddenly knew was true.
Arawn wasn’t just a Sacred Knight, nor the Crown Prince of Lordach.
He was a rider.
And not just any rider.
He was a First Rider, in command of a war eagle aerie.
All this time they’d traveled together, and he hadn’t once mentioned a thing about being a rider. Not that they’d spoken much, but … it wasn’t the sort of thing she thought she’d be able to overlook. War Eagle riders were supposed to be the best of the best.
The chosen ones, even out of the Sacred. Even for royalty, a war eagle wasn’t guaranteed. It was a fated thing, the kind of position you were either born to handle or not.
But Arawn …
Well, so far, he had shit magic, from what she could tell.
She stared up at him as if she could see it on him. As if she could see the mark of the famed bond he’d made with a mighty war eagle.
She suddenly felt like she was meeting him for the very first time.
Several other riders had taken notice of Arawn now. They all marched over, eyes bright, speaking to him like he was …
Like he was loved here. Cherished, just as any prince would be. But it was more a true comradery than forced respect.
They adored him.
‘So, you’ll pick back up where we left off, then?’ a male rider asked Arawn. ‘A few flight drills should do to shake the dust off, for a record-breaking rider such as yourself. I think that’s what Soraya would have—’
‘No,’ Arawn said suddenly.
Several others gasped as the rider’s smile fell.
He took a tentative step back, like he’d stepped on a snake about to strike.
‘I … oh gods, Sir, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to …’ he muttered and ran a hand across his shorn hair. ‘I was just trying to—’
‘It’s all right, Riven,’ Arawn said. ‘It’s already forgiven.’
The excitement, the warmth, the comradery they’d shared just moments before had faded in an instant when that name was uttered.
Soraya.
A death that they all knew, then.
And for Arawn …
Definitely closest to him, Ezer thought. Perhaps his matched lover.
She couldn’t imagine anyone choosing him.
But then again, she certainly couldn’t imagine anyone choosing her.
Ezer busied herself with watching the flow of people moving about the Aviary as Arawn spoke with the riders.
A large spiral staircase stood at the end of the hall, to the left. The way to the Ravenminder’s tower. She imagined Ervos walking up those steps, his enormous footfalls echoing down the tunnel. Her heart ached.
Suddenly she didn’t want to go up there. To feel the same emptiness she’d often felt, alone in her tower in Rendegard. Because everywhere she looked, she could feel his absence. It was a living, breathing thing, always just there at her side.
The golden doors caught her glance again, the runes shining as if they’d been freshly inscribed.
War Eagles.
She’d longed to see them her entire life.
Ezer’s feet itched to move towards those doors, to press her eye to the keyhole and take a single peek inside. To see the mighty birds up close, just once. A dream, if she’d ever had any to claim as her own.
‘Ezer.’
She flinched.
The voice of the wind was so loud, she swore it was right beside her. It had never been so close in her waking moments.
She looked at Arawn and the others, but no one had seemed to take any notice.
So she glanced to the left, where the whisper had come from.
Sure enough, there was a small arched window in the stones, an old thing with cracked and ancient stained-glass flowers: blue ice lilies that could only survive in the north.
She could feel the draft coming through the cracks at the edges.
For a moment, she thought it was only her exhaustion. She hadn’t slept in ages.
‘Ezer.’
The wind was louder this time.
She glanced around.
Arawn and the others were deep in conversation. He’d forgotten she was there at all, a circumstance she’d grown used to.
She was always a small, forgettable thing.
So perhaps she could use that to her advantage. No one took any notice when she walked deeper into the Aviary, her footsteps light as she followed the whispering wind down the hall.
‘Ezer. Go inside.’
It had never been quite so clear.
She stopped, releasing a breath.
It was coming from beneath the golden doors.
Off limits, certainly.
But like her birds, she’d always been curious.
Perhaps just one look inside, she told herself.
She deserved something good. She’d gone through hell and back, and it wasn’t even her choice to make the journey.
So, with a breath, Ezer steeled herself, rolled back her shoulders, and waited until a few brown-robed servants reached the doors, which opened for them with ease. They each hauled a wheelbarrow … and there were a few extras parked nearby, left unattended.
Before she could stop herself, she slipped away, grabbed an empty wheelbarrow, and ignored the feeling in her chest to turn back.
Just before the doors slammed shut, Ezer swallowed her nerves and disappeared inside.