Chapter 4
Ihave never left the city alone. The rolling lands beyond our walled fortress hide far too many rebels these days.
Order members and soldiers patrol the nearby hills and valleys from here to the borderlands, but they can’t cover the entire area, leaving patches of unprotected road. No one ever leaves without support.
Until last night, of course. Osian went rogue to track that fugitive. He didn’t even tell me he was doing it. And despite how he feels about my magic, he’s never kept something that important from me.
For the hundredth time, I can’t help but wonder what he was up to out there. And unless I succeed on this mad assignment, I might never get the chance to ask him.
Sighing, I tug my pack higher onto my shoulder and trudge along the damp cobblestone road to the city gates.
I asked the High Swynwragedd if a Rhyfelwr or two could accompany me as far as the coastal wards, but they refused.
I must keep the nature of my assignment to myself. No one else can know our plans.
Unease rattles through me, like a snake’s warning before it strikes. Nothing about this feels right.
The market streets are quiet, empty stalls outnumbering those still in use.
A butcher wipes his blade clean with no one waiting, the scrape of metal too loud in the stillness, while across the lane a woman counts out coins, then closes her hand around them and walks away.
The longer this war drags on, the poorer our people become.
It’s a harsh reminder that I’m doing this for more than just Osian’s freedom.
Beyond the market, the city climbs toward the Order’s central castle, orange-tiled rooftops rising one after another. Whole stretches of homes sit dark now, their doors barred, their Kingdom of Gwalia banners long since taken down.
If I can do the impossible, maybe the war will end and Caer Draen will come alive again.
Drab stone buildings crowd the narrow street as I make my way toward the looming wall.
A few window boxes hold the withered remains of flowers, their glass fogged by the cold.
Thin chimneys puff smoke into the air, one of the few signs of life in this part of the city.
Two seagulls watch from a crooked rooftop as I pass beneath them, their claws hooked around the tiles.
No one wants to live this close to the wall.
If rebels break through, these people die first.
A guard waits at the gates, his slender hands wrapped around the reins of a gray mare. He nods as I approach, but his expression gives nothing away. If the High Swynwragedd have confided in him, I will hear nothing from his lips.
“This is Mari Lwyd. She’ll be your companion for the journey.
” Reverently, he hands me the reins, as if he’s entrusting me with his own child.
To him, it likely feels that way. I’ve heard stories about this guard.
He takes great pride in tending to the horses, even when it has nothing to do with his assigned tasks.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll take good care of her.”
“See that you do.” He nods, gives the horse an affectionate pat on the rump, and then walks off.
The gate groans as its raised, and wind rushes in from world beyond, ruffling my hair.
Rolling fields spread out before me, practically glowing beneath the rising sun.
My heart lifts. There it is. The great expanse.
I’ve always preferred it to the endless gray of our drab city, where rats and rot creep through every street. Despite its danger, it calls to me.
Inhaling deeply, I mount the horse and ride onward.
As we canter across the fields, I tip back my head to gaze at the clear sky. Only a few wisps of cloud mottle the blue, a welcome contrast to last night’s impenetrable darkness. I want to take it as a sign of good things to come. Our ancestors would have.
Before our gods died, we looked to the skies for answers.
The elves charted the constellations from their Observatory, gleaning wisdom and knowledge from them—or so they thought.
In truth, the stars were the source of all magic.
The gods could access that power, and they gifted it to those they trained and deemed worthy of carrying it.
Then came the Culling. The stars abandoned us, along with our gods. Hundreds of elves died with them.
No one could use magic for months afterward. With both the stars and gods gone, we thought all was lost.
But then the king discovered a new source of power.
He went to the Order and offered to share it with them in exchange for their assistance with the rebels and the war.
Through our talismans, a Swynwraig—only those elves chosen by the Order—can temporarily imbue additional strength, precision, hearing and eyesight, and speed in our fighters, the Rhyfelwyr.
We can help our warriors and the king’s army, but we can do little more than that.
It’s such a vague echo of the rich magic we wielded in ages past.
But if this plan works, perhaps it’s a start to making Gwalia whole again.
Lost to my thoughts, the day passes slowly, the sun climbing higher into the sky.
Eventually, I reach a high ridge, and a stunned stillness grips me.
I’ve been travelling along a plateau, the edge of which drops steeply along into a valley teeming with flowers.
A rushing river cuts through its heart, sparkling beneath the midday sun. Beautiful.
Osian and I never venture north. There’s nothing here. Nothing except abandoned towers, endless fields, and the remote coastline of our kingdom, where the exiled threat lives.
My heartbeat thrums in my neck.
Tomorrow, I will come face to face with Taliesin Wynn, the most infamous man alive.
Impossible to kill, the Order was forced to exile him, hiding him away on the northernmost tip of the continent, on cliffs too dangerous for civilization, where the poisonous sea churns. Not even the rebels venture there.
They trapped him behind wards that mute his power, but they don’t dampen them completely. And they can’t stop him from using brute force against anyone who comes near.
He will not hesitate to kill me if he believes I’m a threat.
And I am a threat.
I urge the horse onward, heading further north. Soon, an icy wind whips at my face and darkness creeps into the sky.
When I round the base of a hill, the Twin Talons finally break the monotony of the fields.
I’ve never seen an image of them before, but there’s no mistaking them for anything else.
Two jagged rocks rise from the ground at the edge of a ridge, their tipped points scraping the lower edge of the clouds.
Menacing shadows slant in our direction, devouring the light.
At their base sits a singular tower, dwarfed by the enormity of the rocks.
The Twin Talons Inn.
It’s the only building for miles. Smoke rises from a side chimney, and the scent of cooked meat drifts toward me. My stomach twists with hunger. The High Swynwragedd suggested I camp out on the hills, but a fire there could draw rebels, even this far north. It’s still another day’s ride to the sea.
I dismount at the inn, barely keeping my legs under me. My body aches from the long ride, and cold seems to have permanently seeped into my skin. The towering rocks block the wind here, but the air is still frigid, my breath misting before me.
After I stable the horse, I approach the inn warily.
I’ve always thought it strange that anyone would own a building so far from a town, let alone anything else.
Built from the same flat stone as Caer Draen’s walls, the tower looks so out of place amid the rolling green.
But the sound of laughter and the lilting strain of a lute chases away my unease.
I throw my pack over my shoulder and venture inside.
Candles cast dull light across a large circular room, where a bard perches on a stool near the hearth, plucking his lute and softly humming one of the Order’s approved songs.
The familiar music drifts through the space, weaving between the low murmur of voices and the occasional thunk of mugs on tables.
“Hallo there. How can I help you?”
A brunette elven woman with rosy cheeks greets me in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. She looks me up and down with a furrowed brow. I replaced my cloak’s Order pin with a plain golden latch, but the glint in her eyes suggest she isn’t fooled. I reek of the Order.
“I need a room for the night, if you’ve got any,” I say.
“Hmm.” Her eyes flick down to my waist, where I’ve hidden my blade beneath the folds of my cloak. “We don’t want no trouble here, you see.”
“That makes two of us. I just want somewhere to sleep, though I wouldn’t turn down a hearty meal and mug of ale, too.” Quietly, I add, “I’m not with the Order anymore.”
The lie they ordered me to give the exile, but it appears it’ll come in handy here, too.
“You got coin?”
I nod.
A long pause follows, the murmur of conversation filling the gap between our words. Eventually, she sighs. “Don’t make me regret this. You can have the room on the fourth floor at the very end of the hall. Find a spot at the table, and I’ll bring you a meal. Three golds for your stay.”
That’s more than most Caer Draen inns charge. I suspect my obvious connection to the Order is the cause. Still, I dig into my pack and hand her the coins. She sniffs, satisfied, and bustles away.
I wander over to an open bench. The tables are more packed than I expected, given the inn’s isolation. A dozen patrons cram into the taproom, but none spares me a glance. Perfect. I can observe without drawing attention.
What are they all doing out here?
The couple nearest me sits on opposite sides of a table, heads bent together, whispering conspiratorially over untouched bowls of stew. Their hands are linked, but there is nothing romantic in their hardened expressions. Is their anger aimed at each other…or at something else?
They might be rebels. They both have that hungry look about them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the innkeeper bustling toward me. I quickly scan the other patrons. A group of men takes up most of the table beside mine, and a few solo travellers quietly tend to their meals.
In the back corner, a man sits alone, his hooded cloak obscuring most of his face. A nearby candle wavers, then steadies, as a draft sweeps a chill across the room.
His fingers tap against the table in time with the bard’s tune, while the rest of him remains perfectly still. He sits straight-backed, elbows resting on the table, sipping his ale as his gaze moves over the other patrons.
His eyes land on me. Pale and piercing, they chill me to the bone. He cocks his head, the ends of his silver hair falling from his hood and catching the candlelight in an almost otherworldly way. His brow arches in a silent question—or challenge. My stomach tightens.
Silver hair.
For a heartbeat, something cold slices down my spine. This man could match the description the Order gave me for Taliesin Wynn.
But Taliesin is bound to the coast. The wards make sure of that. He can’t be sitting in a roadside inn, drinking ale like any other man. And there’s no sign of a traitor mark on his neck.
It’s not him. It can’t be.
I know I should look away and focus on the other patrons, tomorrow’s journey, anything else. But I’m frozen in my seat.
“Here you are, love.” The innkeeper shifts in front of me, blocking my view of the stranger. She plops a steaming bowl of stew on the table, along with a mug of ale. “I’d avoid that one if I were you.”
“The man in the back?” I murmur quietly, hoping he can’t hear me. When she nods, I ask, “Why? Who is he?”
“Trouble,” she says before walking off.
I press my lips together. A rebel, then. One who’s managed to avoid the Order’s notice, since he doesn’t have a mark. And judging by the innkeeper’s warning, an important one.
As I sip my ale, I fight the urge to glance back at him. I can feel the weight of his stare. He’s as curious about me as I am about him. Like the innkeeper, he likely senses my connection to the Order.
The door suddenly flies open, slamming into the wall. The stableboy stumbles inside, eyes wild and cheeks reddened by the bitter wind. There’s blood on his hands.
The room falls eerily silent.
“Dylan!” The innkeeper cries, hurrying to him. She grips his shoulders and clutches him to her bosom. A protective edge hardens her voice. “Tell me what’s happened, boy.”
“One of our horses got out,” he mumbles, almost too soft to hear. “I went looking for him. Found him up on the hill. A piece of him, anyway.”
“Rebels.” The angry hiss comes from the couple.
I turn, surprised. They’ve already pushed back their chairs and are halfway across the room. The stranger from the corner follows close behind. As he passes, his cloak swings wide, revealing the hilt of a sword.
They rush into the night. The door slams hard behind them.
The innkeeper’s hands tremble as she wipes them on her apron, her face as white as bones. Gently, she leads the stableboy to the bar, where she pours him a brimming tankard of ale. Everyone else moves to the windows. I follow, peering through the foggy glass, expecting to see nothing but darkness.
And for a long while, I don’t.
Then a plume of fire races across the hill, illuminating three crouched figures taking cover in the long grass.
A screech rips through the night.
And as the flames gutter, their dying light falls upon a creature bearing orange and golden feathers. Talons arc toward the figures. The final flame blinks out, blanketing the hill in heavy darkness once more.
My breath goes still in my lungs.
This is no rebel attack. The firebirds have come.