The Winged Assassin

by Gwynn White

  Wiping his hands on his new leggings, Klaus shambled over and joined them. He scowled. “The Mikahara is the highest mountain range in Atria. How will reaching it help us?”

  Trystaen looked around with sharp green eyes before whispering, “There’s an entrance into the catacombs we can take. If we move quietly, we can use the tunnels to travel all the way across Atria to the Zephyr border. It’ll still take us a week or so, but at least we’ll be out of the cold and away from the Pyreack.”

  Her jaw dropped. It couldn’t be that easy. “What’s the catch?”

  Trystaen’s expression hardened. “If we’re caught, I’ll be executed as a traitor.”

  “Which is exactly why we aren’t doing it.” Averin turned away as if the discussion was closed.

  Trystaen grabbed Averin’s bicep. “Can you guarantee everyone’s safety?” Face challenging, he gestured at the battalion. It was the first time she’d ever seen Trystaen question Averin. It made her stand straighter.

  “No, I can’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m risking you.” Averin pulled his arm away and shouted, “Boa! Let’s get this show moving.”

  “Three minutes, and I’m with you,” Boa called back from the woods.

  Trystaen stepped in front of Averin. The big fae towered over the leaner, lither Averin. “What if I say that I can guarantee everyone’s safety?”

  Averin stared at his first for a long moment, then sighed. “I’m listening.”

  “Eat, drink, and be merry. For a thousand years that’s been the Atrian royal court’s mantra. I can’t see that changing just because they had to take the party underground. Queen Calarel and her nobles undoubtedly believe themselves safe in their stone tomb. I’ll stake my life and say that with my earth magic, your ears, and Stasha’s nose, we’ll pass through undetected.”

  Averin’s dark expression revealed nothing.

  Stasha folded her arms. “Surely they’ll have guards at the entrance?”

  Trystaen shook his head. “I doubt it. There’s no need. Historically, all exterior doors were spelled to open only to Atrian noble fae. I’m an Atrian of noble birth. If the spell hasn’t changed, I’ll get us in.”

  “Even if Calarel hasn’t changed the spells, you’re also an Atrian traitor,” Averin said stiffly. “Or have you forgotten that? Why would the doors open to you?”

  “Have I forgotten what Calarel did? Never in a million lifetimes.” From hard fury, Trystaen’s face split into a triumphant smile. “But, Averin my friend, you forget that I speak the old tongue. Conveniently, I think. I will open those doors.”

  Adrift in the sudden twist in the discussion, Stasha glanced at Klaus to see if he knew what they were talking about. His face was bright, and his eyes sparkled. She knew that expression. He was absorbing new knowledge, not basking in the satisfaction of things already known.

  Averin winced. “I was dreading you bringing that up.”

  “There are pitifully few spells that can withstand the old tongue.” Stasha spun to see Boa standing behind her.

  Averin grunted, like Boa’s arrival was no surprise. His stupidly good hearing meant no secrets were completely safe. “Trys is suggesting the route through the Mikahara.”

  “Risky.” Boa’s eyes flickered with something akin to fear. The weakness was gone in a flash, and she set a hostile mask firmly in place. “Averin, as you know from last night, by now, the forest is crawling with Pyreack.”

  Stasha eyebrows shot up. “There was fighting?” Her nose scrunched. “Impossible. I would have heard it.”

  “No attacks but lots of troop movement,” Boa said, looking sour. “They’re bringing in reinforcements.” Wonderful.

  She glanced warily at the closest trees, almost expecting to see a fire-throwing army marching through the undergrowth.

  Boa cleared her throat sharply. “Averin, I don’t have all day. The sooner we get out of Ocea, the sooner we get our magic back. Speak up now with your decision.”

  Eyes fixed on Feral Fox, Vlad, and Ivan, who were stripping the last of the meat off the roast, Averin ran his hands through his hair. He turned to Trystaen. “The route? How well do you know it? Or will we be stumbling around in the dark?”

  Trystaen shrugged. “The last time I visited the catacombs, I was thirteen.” His green eyes turned flinty. “I can take you straight to my family crypt, no problem. And probably to the throne room without too much difficulty. For the rest, I suspect there will be some stumbling. But if we keep going in a south-easterly direction, we’ll find our way.” He gave a wan smile. “And we’ll be out of Ocea. Plus, our humans will be protected from the cold.”

  Averin huffed out a breath. It hung like a cloud before his face.

  Klaus lifted a finger tentatively. “Forgive me asking, but I must know. What is the old tongue?”

  “Yatresian,” Trystaen and Boa said together.

  “Your plan. Your story.” Boa waved for Trystaen to continue.

  “It was the language the first fae spoke. Long, long before our time. These days, few outside Atria have even heard of it, let alone speak it.” Eyes fixed on Averin, Trystaen spoke dismissively. For once, he seemed more interested in present events than in history.

  And still Averin looked mulishly against what seemed like a reasonable plan to Stasha. She stepped forward into his personal space. “Darien promised to kill all of you and capture me. He’s already killed one of our own. Let’s not risk any more pointless deaths. Please, let’s trust Trystaen to see us safely through.”

  Averin’s deep-blue eyes bored into her for what seemed like forever. Refusing to get lost in their enchanting depths, she cocked her head. “Well?”

  Another long, drawn-out breath, and then Averin said, “Okay, pit princess. But no more trades or bargains. Promise me that.”

  She waved her arms. “But I’m so good at them.”

  Averin grunted. “I choose to differ. Those are my terms. Accept them, or we go the long way around.”

  She burst into laughter. “That sounds like a trade, right there.”

  Even Eliezar grinned. “I think she’s got you, Av.”

  Averin buried his fingers in his eye sockets and growled.

  Trystaen leaned into Averin. “It’s the best plan we have.” His voice was so low that, even standing next to them, Stasha struggled to hear him. No one else in the camp would have heard it.

  Averin shook his head despairingly. “Okay. The Mikahara it is.” He glowered at her. “Keep your magic close. I fear we might need it.”

  “And my friends even closer.” That sounded bleak in the face of Goul’s glaring absence.

  Averin dipped his head at Boa. “If you can keep the Pyreack off our backs, once we’re safely into the Mikahara, I’ll consider your Angharad debt finally settled.”

  Boa’s mauve eyes swirled. “My debt? What about yours? What will you do to repay your failure, Averin?”

  Averin’s lips thinned. “I never failed you. More than that, I warned you and your father about—”

  Stasha slipped in between Boa and Averin and shoved both of their chests. “Enough! Averin, there are no debts. We settled everything in Angharad. Boa, the Battle of the Blue Desert isn’t over. Both of you, the next time we take on Darien, we do it on our terms, and with a united fae and human army at our backs. Then we’ll end this war for good.” Both Averin and Boa’s faces twisted with such incredulity, she was almost convinced she’d grown a second nose.

  “Early days for that,” Eliezar whispered to her. “Come, let’s get packed up and

  head to the longboat. Hopefully, everyone will follow. We still have a treacherous journey ahead of us.”

  She wanted to shout at Averin and Boa, but Eliezar was right. What was the point? She’d need another Angharad to bring the two warring allies together for long enough to end the war.

  Where was such a disaster to be found?

  Brave face in place to hide her trembling, Stasha adjusted the backpack she’d filched from the dead Pyreack
—it was stuffed with food—as she trudged to the darkness-cursed longboat. Not to mention the hateful river that had taken Goul only the day before.

  Also weighed down with backpacks, Klaus and the battalion lagged behind her. It seemed no one’s heart was into getting back on the water.

  Boa sidled up to Stasha. “At least the hail has stopped.” She scowled at the darkly winking flow. “It’s as calm as a summer’s day.”

  Stasha grimaced. “I’m not buying that. It can change in a heartbeat.”

  “Pity there’s no wind. On the water, at least.”

  As it had yesterday, a frigid wind whipped around them on the riverbank, while not a breath stirred the water. Darien hadn’t forgotten that they were in Ocea.

  Boa lifted her fingers to her lips and kissed the tips. “May Jahena, goddess of rivers, look with favor on your voyage.”

  “Voyage?” Ivan stopped next to Stasha and folded his arms. His hands hugged his sides. “How far do we have to go to find this mountain?”

  After their private discussion with Trystaen, Averin had briefed everyone on the plan. He’d exuded such confidence that it could have fooled anyone into believing it had been his idea all along.

  “Within the hour, we’ll be there,” Trystaen replied, idiot grin firmly in place. She’d learned to read him. He used that dumb smile to reassure and disarm.

  “If the river doesn’t kill us first,” Ivan muttered.

  Trystaen’s grin wasn’t working today.

  “Let’s hope for better things, Master Ivan.” Glinting with blades stolen from the Pyreack, Averin strode onto the beach. He waved everyone onto the longboat. “Get this done, and we’re that much closer to home.” He offered her his hand. “A leg up, pit princess?”

  “That gallantry again.” Fingers clasping his, she clambered aboard. Her foot hooked on a stray oar. She tripped, landing on the nearest bench with as much grace as a newborn foal. A blush crept over her cheeks, but she ignored it and took up her oar in readiness. Expecting a short journey, she didn’t bother sloughing off her backpack.

  Averin snorted a laugh. “That’s our Stasha.” He adjusted his sword and sat next to her. “As I’ve said countless times before, never change, pit princess.”

  “She takes the pressure off me,” Klaus said with laughter in his voice. It didn’t hide his darting eyes as he scanned the river.

  Trystaen scooped Klaus up and plunked him lightly on the deck. “You’ve got an excuse. She doesn’t.”

  Everyone except Ivan laughed at her expense as they took their places on the longboat. She let it pass because it eased some of the tension, even if it did little to soften the tight lines on Ivan’s pale face or loosen his hunched shoulders. This must have been so hard for him.

  On the riverbank, Boa said something to the two soldiers who’d pulled The Sword to shore the day before. They grabbed the fire-blackened serpent and shoved the longboat back into the water. The current caught the hull. Aided by her and the others’ oars, they eddied around until they faced the river.

  Stasha waved at Boa and called, “Until next time.”

  Boa gave a severe nod. “Next time.”

  Averin spun in his seat to face Boa on the shore. “I didn’t get an answer. Can we rely on you to keep the Pyreack off our backs?”

  “Stupid question,” Boa said stiffly. “You carry a precious cargo, Averin. I will do my part. But when it’s all said and done, I hold you personally responsible for Stasha and the others’ safety. Remember what’s at stake here.”

  Averin rolled his eyes. “I’m on it, Boa.” He dug his oar into the water and pulled hard, as if eager to be away from his sometime friend and most-of-the-time adversary.

  Silent as a schorl box, The Sword slipped into the main channel and glided away from Boa. A knot formed in Stasha’s stomach. When would she see Boa again? And when she did, would the princess be willing to use her power to rally her army for a greater cause than freeing Ocea? Or would Boa’s limited interest in redeeming her own name and throne outweigh the greater good? The knot pulled so tight, her stomach ached.

  Best to concentrate on the present. For now.

  She dipped her oar into the river and pulled. At least fae healing had sorted out her blisters. Her human friends wouldn’t be so lucky.

  “How’re the hands?” she called above the plop and rattle of the oars.

  “Now that you mention it….” Feral Fox lifted a hand for her to see. A bloody lake pooled in his palm.

  She cringed into the shudder that rocked through her. “I can feel your pain deep in my marrow.”

  “Don’t you just hate referred pain?” Klaus joked from his spot at the tiller.

  “I’ll do some healing as soon as we get into Atria,” Trystaen’s deep voice reassured. “By then, my magic should have returned.”

  Averin flexed his fingers, but no magic swirled. “And what a fine thing that will—” His head shot to the riverbank. “Boa’s got trouble,” he hissed. “We should expect to share in it.”

  She twisted to face the riverbank but saw only papery trees interspersed with spindly pines. Behind her, leather strained against wood. Eliezar, Trystaen, and Suren had bows pulled taut, arrows pointed at the bank. Full quivers rattled against their backs.

  And then she heard it.

  Steel clashed. Fae yelled. Feet ran through the forest.

  She rested her hand on the hilt of the dagger at her waist—the dagger Averin had given her. The one Boa had gifted her was stuck into a pocket in her leggings. The cold metal was comforting against her skin.

  A plume of orange flame burst into the sky.

  Someone screamed. It was cut short by a squelch. She flinched; not knowing if the fallen were friend or foe was agonizing.

  Feral Fox clamped a bloody hand on her shoulder. He trembled, but she doubted it was from the cold.

  Back in the forest, the flame drew back but left a tree blazing. The stink of smoke and pine and burnt hair twisted her already hollow stomach.

  “Battalion, keep rowing,” Averin commanded. “Archers, watch the riverbank. Anyone who breaks through the trees—”

  Trystaen fired an arrow. It slammed into a red-clad chest before Stasha had framed the words to ask what her job was. The soldier, who’d just moments before burst through the tree line, slumped to the ground without so much as a grunt.

  A deadly shot.

  Trystaen reloaded his bow in a blur and trained it on the riverbank. Keen, unblinking green eyes searched the trees.

  Ivan swore and clamped a hand over his mouth. Feral Fox let go of her shoulder and grabbed Ivan’s other hand. He held it tight enough to turn both their knuckles white.

  Fire prickled under her skin, but at this distance, arrows were a safer bet. She’d never fired an arrow in her life. One more thing to learn.

  More fire lit the forest. Shadows and silhouettes danced and flickered like the Martka did during their nightly, candle-lit salt rituals. Dark smoke drifted over the water.

  “We’re not far from the Mikahara now,” Trystaen whispered. “Just keep rowing.”

  Disbelieving, because no mountains darkened the skyline, she turned to look downstream. She blinked back her surprise at the shadowy peaks rising sheer, bleak, and without warning out of the ragged tree canopy.

  No tunnel or secret passageway into the sawtoothed gray stone beckoned. It was silly to expect it. Secret entrances were just that—secret.

  She kept rowing. Each breath in was sharp and cold, like sucking on peppermint leaves. Her nose twitched at a new fae scent above the acrid smoke.

  Averin loosed an arrow before she could call a warning. He must have heard the soldier before she’d smelt him. The metallic twang of blood mingled with the riot of smells coming off the water and forest. A groan and a thud followed, and then nothing.

  How long could Boa and her small platoon hold off the Pyreack fae? The enemy had access to their fire magic. Boa and her people’s water powers were gone.

  Stas
ha gnawed her lip.

  A twang. Trystaen and Suren had released arrows at the same moment. Two more shadows fell.

  A third Pyreack soldier burst onto the riverbank. Before he could toss the fireball rolling in his hands, an arrow spiked through his throat. Blood spurted. He writhed to his knees and slumped to the ground. Averin reloaded his bow. Rigid, she watched the fae’s blood dye the water red.

  Memories of the magdoole cat flooded back.

  She clenched her eyes shut to blot out the horror of Goul’s passing and the relentless carnage going on around her.

  The Sword sailed a bend, taking them away from the bitter scene. She snuck a peek at Ivan. His face was bleached white and his hands unmoving on his oar. If anyone needed healing, it was him. But could magic fix a broken heart?

  One glance at the darkness shadowing Averin’s blue eyes was all the answer she needed. He’d lost his sister and still bore the scars from her death. Only time healed heartbreak, and, even then, it was a poor remedy.

  “Over there.” Trystaen jerked his chin downstream. “That’s our destination.”

  Heart racing, longing to be safe, she turned to look.

  A gray cliff soared straight out of the river some fifty feet ahead. Curling behind its craggy face, the jagged peaks of the Mikahara rose like spines on the back of a dragon slumbering in its forest lair.

  “Scholar Klaus, take us in.” Arrow knocked in readiness, Trystaen’s gaze didn’t leave the riverside. A problem perhaps? Despite the clamor of battle coming from the forest, there was no obvious target, other than sheer rock, for Klaus to aim The Sword at.

  “Where, exactly?” Klaus’s voice cracked. “Last thing we need is to crash.” His tongue flicked across dry, cracked lips as he glanced between the treacherous water and unyielding stone.

  Trystaen spared the rock wall a quick glance and pointed his bow tip at the edge of the mountain, just above the waterline. “There.” He turned back to scan the riverbank. Another fire flared in the trees.