Such a Daring Endeavor (13 page)

M
y shoulder throbs, my face stinging from Tyrus’s backhand. And the shackles now around the Prones on my wrists securing me to a metal hook in the wall aren’t exactly light. Tyrus paces, waiting for Odis to complete his set up. Soon the boy’s hand glistens around the black camera, propping the machine on his shoulder. The screen on its podium flicks on.

I can’t fathom why Tyrus needs broadcast equipment, but if we die here it won’t be because I didn’t try. Talon flinches, attempting to rise as an image comes into view on the screen. An army of men and women flock behind three men wearing black armor.

Talon inhales. “No,” escapes his lips.

I’m too busy examining the screen’s occupants to question him. I ignore the mirror image contained in a small square in the screen’s upper left-hand corner that shows Talon and me near Tyrus’s simpering expression and focus on the three in front of the crowd.

Each one’s armor is etched with symbols and swirls of every kind, molding perfectly to fit their contours. The man on the left has curling brown hair shaved on the sides. The one to the right has a pear-shaped face encircled by a well-trimmed beard. The man in the center is older, his hair graying at the temples. The sun has darkened his skin to a tan crisp, and lines define his age to be somewhere around forty, I would guess.

“You have our attention, Blinnsdale,” says the handsome one in the center. His armor is etched like the others’, black and sleek like obsidian. But on the breastplate, three symbols are chiseled in a metallic orange, setting him apart. “Be sure you don’t waste my time.”

Tyrus takes pleasure in this. “Oh, rest assured, Bridar, this will be well worth your time. Are the rest of your people within earshot?”

“As you can see, my army stands behind me at the foot of the Arbor Mountains. We don’t cross until I see this supposed evidence you claim to have that is worthy of leaving our home.”

Bridar turns and spans his camera behind him. Hundreds—thousands—of people wearing black armor and wielding swords, scythes, and spears have collected, streaming beyond the path and filing out as far as I can see from the screen.

“Who are they?” I whisper to Talon.

Talon fights against the chains on his wrists. “Tyrus,” he says. “Don’t do this.”

The Arc turns, facing us. The two match one another’s stares, Tyrus’s with glee, Talon’s with dread and pleading. And it hits me.

They’re Feihrians.

One man wields a flag. Orange, with a single flame in the center, the silhouette of a man inside the flame. Tyrus must have gathered them like this in order to humiliate Talon before his execution.

“You axrat,” I say, struggling against the chains, their weight pulling at my shoulders. Tyrus smiles under his stupid mustache, his black eyes glistening. Wind blows through the cavern in my bones, an empty, pointless stream of nothing. My magic is plugged. I curse the thin wire cutting at my wrists.

“Your turn,” Bridar says from his screen. “Who is at your side, Blinnsdale? I heard a woman.”

“You shall see, Haraway. Soon enough.”

The name stabs like stepping on a nail, sudden, hidden, and surprising. Haraway. Talon locks eyes with me. He gives a subtle blink to my unasked question. Good light, that’s his father.

“I’ve failed,” Talon mutters under his breath.

The meaning of his words strikes me slowly. This is what Talon was trying to prevent. It was why he was there at Black Vault the night we met; it was why he cornered me at the school, why he took me with him when I was the only person who could handle the tears.

He told me it was to make things right with his people. Did he think the tears were his only chance?

“Whatever happened, you don’t need tears to fix it,” I mutter, hoping he hears the urgency in my voice. His face is a mask, but I can tell he’s struggling. Who knows when the last time he saw his father was. Does his father know he’s here beside Tyrus?

Talon shakes his head. “I think it’s clear that I can’t do this alone.”

I work to keep my voice quiet. “Those tears aren’t meant to be drunk, Talon. And in case you didn’t notice, you’re not alone.”

Talon’s eyes flit to mine, a cocktail of confusion, hope, and hurt swimming in his expression. I long to reach out to him, to touch him.
He’s not mine to comfort,
I remind myself. As if sharing the thought, Talon turns his head away.

Tyrus laughs at something Bridar says and then lunges, clawing Talon’s hair. He cranes Talon’s head back, exposing his face to the screen. I see the small square of what the Feihrians are seeing at this moment, and their reaction is one communal gasp. The unison pounding of their spears, the spreading whispers, every sound goes straight to my spine.

With Talon’s throat bared, he works to keep his eyes on the screen. “Father,” he says, but Tyrus jostles his head, silencing him. Discord continues to rustle from the onlookers in the screen. A few Feihrians let out angry shouts.

“Ah, you recognize him? This boy forced your secrets on us. He wanted to expose you.” Tyrus thrusts Talon away with the word
expose
.

Several men draw closer. “Lies!” someone cries. Their leader forces his hands out, keeping them at bay.

“I have footage of his training, Bridar. He insisted on being a part of this. We know your ways, because of him.”

“Silence!” Bridar commands to his group before turning back to the screen. “Blinnsdale, let me speak to my son.”

Tyrus shoves Talon forward. Talon stumbles, his legs buckling beneath him. The sight makes me cringe. Of course he hurt him again—Tyrus could never humiliate Talon like this if he were at his peak.

Instead of a look from a loving parent suddenly reunited with his lost son, uncertainty rims Bridar’s eyes, as though he isn’t sure he wants to believe what he’s seeing.

“I thought you were dead, boy.”

Talon blinks. His body trembles. “I’m not.”

Bridar analyzes him for several moments, somehow managing to look down his nose at his son even from within an image on a screen. “Is what he says true? You sold our spirit, the soul of Feihria, for the sake of a war?”

“Shasa warned us, sir. We should have listened to her,” says the man at Bridar’s side. One thumb tucks at his belt where an axe hangs. Streaks of gray line his curling hair.

“Silence!” Bridar orders once more, and the man shuffles back.

A pause stretches, spanning miles and ages and yet seconds all at once while they wait for Talon’s reply.
Don’t say it, don’t say it.

“Yes,” Talon finally says, lifting his eyes to the camera. “It’s true.”

“It’s not like that!” I interject, tugging at the chains behind me, but they hold fast. “Talon, don’t do this.”

“Who are you?” Bridar demands, squinting and searching as though blind. “Whose voice is that, Blinnsdale? I demand to see who is with you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t grant that request just yet, Haraway. What do you say we cut to the chase?”

Feihria stirs, and more muttering breaks out. Several weapons clink, and Bridar silences them. I’m shocked that Bridar didn’t know Talon was here. I thought they knew. Talon told me they were angry, and that was why he couldn’t go home. How could they not know he was here, and alive?

“Very well,” says Bridar. “You have my attention. What do you want from me?”

Tyrus dusts his hands, slanting his head to one side. “Thirteen years ago, your entourage invaded my land. Thirteen years ago, you killed my father to avenge your son’s death.”

“Any decent father would have done the same,” says Bridar. “It was justice.”

“Yet Talon lives,” says Tyrus. “And it’s because of him that my father is dead.”

With a snarl, Tyrus boots Talon’s back as though he’s nothing more than a mongrel begging for scraps. He then unhooks the claw from his belt, and my heart leaps, knocking against my chest. He can’t take Talon’s magic—he can’t.

Instead, Tyrus cradles the clicking tool on his fingertips in the camera’s direction as though offering it as ransom for something. “You see this, Bridar? You know what it does?”

“Magic is our property,” says Bridar. “Our right. Your utter lack of respect for that fact is revolting, and if you lay another hand on my son I will kill you myself.”

Tyrus rumbles a laugh, glancing to Lewis, whose shoulders also shake with laughter.

Talon is shoved forward again. I expect him to wheel around, to take Tyrus down and prove the truth of the situation. Broken legs won’t stop a fighter like him—I’ve seen him go against unbeatable odds and come out on top.

Yet, he kneels there, forehead nearly touching the murky stone as he stares sideways at the camera. Odis narrows his eyes at Talon. His head shakes for the smallest moment as though communicating something. He shifts the device currently being powered by the constant stream of stolen magic frothing at his hand.

Talon
knows
him. If that’s so, why isn’t he helping us?

Tyrus signals Odis to move closer before stalking over and crouching down. “It’s not him I intend to kill, Bridar. It’s you.”

“What?”

“You killed my father. Your sense of
justice
robbed me in the worst possible way, and it’s time I made you answer for it. So here is what I propose. Meet me here in Valadir. Face me. Fight me, answer for your crimes. And in return, I let your son live.”

“Father, don’t listen,” Talon says, raising his head. “Don’t give in!”

Tyrus releases a wicked snarl and kicks Talon hard in the stomach. Talon coughs, gagging, but doesn’t make any effort to defend himself.

I attempt to rise to my feet, to go to Talon, but Tyrus backhands me again, hitting the bruise already forming on my cheek. I fall to the stone, the chains tearing at my shoulder sockets. I crouch there, shaking and digging inwardly—I channeled despite the Prone once. Angels, if only I brought the teardrop with me.

“Your son is already set for execution, Bridar. But if you face me, I will spare him. Bring your entourage again, if you like, so you know you won’t be ambushed. Come fight me. Or your son will pay for your crime.”

Indignant, bitter revulsion flashes in Bridar’s eyes. “You have done so much more than kidnap my son and the heir to the Feihrian Triarch. It is clear that Itharians cannot defend themselves against you. It is clear you will not stop these underhanded attempts for power. You will not stop until a power stronger than you meets you head on.”

“And you think you are stronger than we are?”

“I wouldn’t leave the Arbors otherwise.”

Tyrus’s lip curls. “I think you’ll find us up to the fight.” He doesn’t finish, but instead slides a look so pointed at Talon that the rest is obvious.
Thanks to him.
“In fact, I guarantee it.”

“Your threats don’t scare me, Blinnsdale.”

“But they should.”

“How so?”

“I have in my possession,” Tyrus says toward Odis still holding the camera, “a rare set of tears.”

The last word comes out as if through water. Talon’s head bolts up.

“What?” I demand.

The Feihrians on the large screen give him their attention as well. Bridar’s eyes narrow. The man with the beard and the other with curling hair straighten in disbelief.

I want to smack the smirk off Tyrus’s face. He’s got them right where he wants them, and he knows it. But why tell them this? Why show his hand?

Talon’s eyes narrow. I can tell he’s wondering the same thing.

“Tears can’t give you that much power,” says Bridar, his voice sounding uncertain for the first time since this interlude. “Not against an army the caliber of ours.”

“Oh these can, I assure you,” Tyrus says, stalking around the space between cells as if he has all the time in existence. “These are more powerful than any ever shed. They are wizard’s tears, Bridar. They’re about to give me access to a tactic you Feihrians have never dreamed of. And now that my men are equal to your maneuvers—” He gestures back to Talon. “—nothing can stop us. Not even you. I will get my vengeance,” he adds through gritted teeth.

The men and women in the screen give off indistinct shouts and threats, raising their spears, charging forward as if they can attack Tyrus through some kind of portal from where they stand near a backdrop of trees directly into the Triad’s deepest dungeon.

Talon ducks his head once more. I plaster my eyes to him, to the brush of hair swooping down just enough to hide his face from me.
Look at me,
I plead.
This isn’t your fault.

Bridar quiets his crowd, gesturing with his palms toward the ground. The bearded man beside him breathes heavily through his nostrils.

“I’m done with you, Blinnsdale,” says Bridar. “No amount of training can give you the full flex of what we are capable of, and no amount of stolen magic can match it. I accept your challenge. We are coming, and you’d better pray to whatever gods you worship for mercy before we get there. And Blinnsdale, if you lay another hand on my son before then, I will kill you.”

The screen goes black, leaving an eerie silence behind save for the occasional drip of water. Tyrus crosses his arms over his chest, hugging his biceps. Talon’s father’s threat leaves a chill over me, but a smirk leaks its way out from beneath Tyrus’s mustache.

I look to Talon, waiting for him to try to rise, to fight the chains at his wrists, to be the warrior I know he is. But he kneels there, head drooping and staring at his hands.

“How could you do that?” I say, the anger flowing from me. He made Talon out to look like a criminal.

Tyrus raises an eyebrow at me. For a moment I think he’s going hit me like he did before. I brace myself, willing strength into my back, determined to trip him or take him down if I can.

Tyrus glances to Naylor. “You can kill her now, Adrian,” he says. “She’s seen what I wanted her to see. She knows what I wanted her to know, before she dies.”

My pulse rises and he steps forward, bending to breathe the next words directly into my face. “What a traitor her lover is. What a lost cause she thinks she’s fighting for.”

A traitor. A lost cause.

Talon.

“No,” I say, jaw trembling with the effort of keeping it still. “You’re the traitor.”