The Raven and the Dove

by Kaitlyn Davis

  Then she waited, arms steady, fingers itching to release, ready for the first raven who might pop into view.

  16

  Lyana

  This is not going according to plan, Lyana thought as she held her dagger against the raven’s throat, grip firm and steady, even as guilt coursed through her. He’ll forgive me. Right?

  The whistle came again, high and sharp, undeniably a call for someone. And as the prince tensed beneath her, Lyana had no doubt for whom it was meant.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  She winced. This was not how the afternoon was supposed to go. Lyana was supposed to charm him with her feminine wiles, seduce him with the unnecessary skin-to-skin contact she’d been enjoying immensely, mesmerize him with her magic and her gaze, and be generally enchanting. She was supposed to learn about her new home and his whole life. She was supposed to talk herself up in preparation for the big reveal.

  She was not supposed to hold a knife to his throat.

  She was not supposed to threaten her future mate’s life.

  Lyana leaned close, pressing her lips to his ear. “I can’t be seen.”

  He flinched.

  “I can’t be seen,” she repeated. He swallowed, slowly enough that she felt the blade sway over his neck. “If you promise to be silent, I’ll remove the knife. And then I’ll finish healing you so you can be on your way. But you have to promise you’ll be quiet. You have to promise I won’t be seen.”

  “I promise,” he swore, his tone rich and deep and earnest. “I promise, you won’t be seen.”

  Lyana hesitated for a moment before she pulled the blade away, unsure of him in a way she hadn’t been before, waiting for him to betray his word. For the first time since they’d met, he had the power—and she was trusting him not to abuse it.

  The raven turned slowly, finding her eyes.

  His own brimmed with understanding.

  He recognized the panic in hers, the uncertainty, the hope. The clear blue of his eyes was like a mirror for her emotions, a sympathy born from shared experiences, shared fears even though they were little more than strangers. There was a connection there, born from their magic, bred from mutual secrets, solidified by a terror they both knew—the terror of persecution.

  “No one will see you,” he repeated. “No one will learn your secrets from me. You have my word. I swear it on the gods.”

  “Then turn around and let me finish,” she replied, keeping her voice strong because he’d seen too many of her insecurities already, without even trying. And though he was the one without a shirt, Lyana felt exposed, seen in a way she wasn’t used to. Not as a princess, or a friend, or a sister, but as a woman.

  He heeded her command and presented her with his back once more. This time, Lyana didn’t linger on his flesh. She pressed her palms to his wings, basking for one moment in the silken smoothness of his obsidian feathers, somehow made darker by the fire, before closing her eyes to focus on nothing but the magic. Glittering golden sparks spread through his bones and muscles as her power sank into his skin, healing where it found pain, sealing what it found broken, closing tears and mending wounds, working with her and apart from her, as though it had a life of its own and she were just the conduit it had chosen.

  A gift, she thought as she worked. It’s a gift from the gods, not a curse.

  His magic rose to meet hers, coursing beneath his skin, a force of raw and potent might. Silver threads intertwined with gold, helping her work faster as his magic funneled strength and vigor into his newly mended bones, fortifying his body.

  They worked well together—not speaking, but communicating in a much deeper way. A way she was positive neither of them had ever experienced before, because when he was healed, when his wings stretched to their full glory, like black ink rippling in the reflection of the flames, they both paused.

  Neither of them moved for a breath. Her magic remained wrapped up in his and they held on to each other in that secret place.

  The call came again, slicing through the moment, sharper than a newly forged sword. Her raven prince stepped out of reach as he spun, wings shifting with new life.

  “Ana,” she said quickly, not really sure why. It just seemed unfair that she should know exactly who he was—Lysander Taetanus, born of the god Taetanos, Crown Prince of the House of Whispers—and he should have nothing of hers to remember.

  Lyana Aethionus.

  Born of the god Aethios.

  Princess of the House of Peace.

  That was what she wanted to say, to admit, but the titles stuck to her tongue, awkward and tentative. That wasn’t how she thought of herself, not really. To those who knew her well, she was Ana. Just Ana. And she wanted him to see her that way too.

  “Huh?” he asked, brows drawing together.

  “Ana. You asked before, and my name is Ana.”

  “Ana,” he repeated, as though testing how the syllables felt on his tongue. A smile widened his lips, making his cheekbones seem more defined and the edge of his jaw more chiseled. “Ana.”

  She held his gaze.

  Then she turned, lifted the jug by her feet, and poured the remainder of the water over the fire. The flames came to a sizzling end. In the darkness, the barest hint of light glowed at the other end of the tunnel. Lyana took off, leading the way for her prince to follow. At the mouth of the cave, she crashed silently into her friend, placing her hand against the bow pulled tight, ready to be released. Cassi didn’t break her focus for a moment. The arrow tip remained pointed at the unknown intruder.

  “Trust me,” Lyana whispered.

  Cassi's impolite growl let her know exactly how the owl felt about her latest plan. She squeezed her friend’s hand until she felt her body relax a smidge.

  “Trust me.”

  The raven prince charged past them both, sparing a single glance back. His eyes met hers for too brief a moment, then dropped to the arrow in Cassi’s hand. Without pausing, he dove through the tight opening just as the tips of another set of onyx wings slipped into view, hovering a few feet above the entrance to the cave.

  17

  Xander

  He couldn’t get the image of the white feather cascading over the edge of the sky bridge out of his mind, a bright spot in the midst of shadow. The picture kept playing over and over, leading Xander back to the channel, back to the cliffs, back to this spot. Rafe was here, somewhere, hidden in the rocks, waiting for his brother to find him.

  Xander took a deep breath.

  Before he could release another call, he was startled by motion at the edge of his vision, as though his shadow had grown and solidified by his feet. He looked down. It wasn’t his shadow, he realized as ebony wings tumbled into existence out of nowhere.

  It was Rafe.

  “Help,” he sputtered, gasping for air.

  Xander arched his wings to drop straight down and grab his brother by the shoulders, almost incredulous. “You’re alive! You’re all right. Where the gods did you come from?”

  Rafe shook his head, his gaze shifting back to the cliff face before continuing to the open sky overhead. “My wings, they can’t hold me. I need the ground. I need to land.”

  Xander squinted, searching for pain on his brother’s face or for hitching in the movement of his wings. “What—”

  “Now.”

  Those blue eyes seemed unusually harsh and demanding. That alone would have been enough to stop Xander's questioning, but the tone of his Rafe’s voice was also laced with a panic that sounded unnatural.

  “All right,” he said, nodding as he shifted his hold, placing his forearms beneath Rafe’s armpits to support some of his weight. “The others are waiting at the top. They won’t believe— They thought I was mad to even— Well, they’ll be surprised, to say the least.”

  His brother snorted, and they beat their wings, fighting the current of air as they made their way back up the channel and over the edge. They landed in a heap on the flatness of the isle as Rafe’s remaining str
ength gave out.

  “My prince,” Helen began, stepping forward.

  She stopped, gasping as Xander and Rafe rolled onto their backs, separating their tangled limbs. The other nine soldiers in their party took even sharper breaths, which didn’t go unnoticed by their prince as he glanced around, noting the shocked, wary faces of his men.

  “You…” Helen paused, frowning as she scrutinized Rafe’s uninjured body. “You’re alive.”

  But that wasn’t what she meant, and Xander knew it.

  You’re healed.

  That’s what she was thinking. That’s what they were all thinking. That yet again, Rafe had miraculously escaped a dragon and lived to tell the tale. And Xander could see the question in each of their gazes—could miracles really happen to the same person twice, or was something much darker was at play?

  “Yes, and I can see you’re all thrilled,” Rafe drawled, his tone casual to the untrained listener but bearing the strain of a grievance familiar to Xander. He could practically see his brother’s guard go up, as though it were a tangible suit of armor being draped over his shoulders to protect his heart. “Notify the queen immediately. I’m sure she’s been waiting with bated breath for my return.”

  Helen wasn’t buying the irony. Her eyes narrowed in a suspicious gleam, a caution Xander normally appreciated in his head advisor but at the moment silently cursed. She was too shrewd by half, and he didn’t know how they’d be able to explain this miracle away.

  “How exactly did you escape the beast?” she asked slowly.

  Rafe opened his lips, but no sound came out.

  Xander jumped in, stalling for time, subtly offering Rafe clues. “When we came back yesterday morning, there was no sign of you. We found your weapons on the ground, a handful of bloodied feathers on the bridge, scorch marks and a pool of blood. We thought the worst had happened.”

  “I did, too, for a second there,” Rafe said, following his brother's cue. “When the dragon got close, I jumped into the channel to fight it, taking advantage of the narrow quarters. I got in one strike but couldn’t pierce its fiery skin, so I released my raven cry and tried to flee. But when I crested the edge of the cliffs, the dragon spewed a wave of fire that singed my feathers, making me drop my weapons to slap away the flames.”

  “And did someone come to help?” Xander asked, offering up a little more missing information. Helen’s expression was inscrutable as she studied his features. “We thought we saw a footstep in the blood.”

  Rafe’s head jerked, his eyes widening with alarm as they found Xander's. A second later, the look was gone, replaced with concentration. But Xander couldn’t unsee the fear on his brother’s face—a fear he believed was for someone else.

  “A dove,” Rafe confessed softly. “A dove with black-and-gray wings came to help. The dragon caught him with its claw—hence all the blood on the bridge. I tried to help him, but the dragon hit me with its tail, square on the forehead. I fell off the side of the bridge before I could do anything. My head was fuzzy, and my burnt wings were barely working. I would have tumbled to my death if I hadn’t seen the entrance to a cave within the rocks. It took everything I had to make my way inside, and then I lost consciousness. I don’t remember anything else until waking up a few minutes ago to the sound of Xander’s call.”

  A moment of silence passed.

  Xander heard nothing but his own heart beating loudly.

  “Hmm,” Helen finally said. “It’s strange the King of the House of Peace never mentioned losing one of his own. They seemed to know nothing of the dragon until we arrived, carrying the news.”

  “That’s very strange indeed,” Rafe allowed. “But they have a large population, and it was only one dove. It could have taken hours for someone to notice he was missing.”

  “I suppose,” Helen mused, her tone completely at odds with the statement.

  The nine soldiers around them shifted from foot to foot, skin itching, feathers writhing, but not because of the breeze—because of how eerily similar this story seemed to the one they’d heard more than a decade ago. That Rafe had been in the right place at the right time. That others had sacrificed their lives to save his. That he had managed to scrape by unscathed while all witnesses perished. That he had woken up with little memory of the event and the hours that followed.

  Xander didn’t need to read their minds to know what all of them were thinking. He remembered how they’d once demanded his brother’s head. How they’d fought to destroy the bastard, the blight. He remembered the cries across the courtyard.

  Fire cursed.

  That’s what they called Rafe under their breath, behind his back—a son of Vesevios, a son of flames, a bad omen, a curse born from the fire god’s own lips. He had to remind them that Rafe was one of them, a raven, his brother and their kin. He was needed by their people.

  “Thank Taetanos you survived,” Xander said, his voice strong with authority—the voice of their future king. “I don’t know what we would have done without you. Are you well enough for the trials? After some food and some rest? Can you compete?”

  The annoyance on Rafe’s face gave way to gratitude as soon as he realized what Xander was doing. “I think I can.”

  Xander stood, shaking his feathers as he reached for Rafe’s hand and pulled his brother to his feet. Their palms remained clasped as he asked, “Can you restore the favor of the gods to the House of Whispers? Can you win us a mate worthy of our home?”

  Rafe lifted his other palm and placed it over their joined hands. Xander wasn’t sure if his brother meant for the move to be a reminder that only one of them had the use of two hands—hands that would be essential to compete in the tests of the next few days. If he did, Xander was sure he meant it for the soldiers, whose bodies lost their stiffness as they watched the scene. He was sure Rafe hadn’t meant for the gesture to sting, but he couldn’t stop a little pang from echoing across the hollow cracks in his heart—cracks that acted as reminders that he couldn’t be all he needed to be for his people.

  “I will,” Rafe murmured earnestly.

  Those words, Xander knew, were meant for him. Not as a show for the crowd, but as a promise between brothers. “Then let’s go.”

  If the soldiers wanted to say more, they held their tongues.

  If Helen did, Xander was sure he would hear it soon enough.

  For now, they were satisfied. Rafe was alive, which meant the courtship trials would go on, and every other worry was secondary. Maybe when they returned home, the questions would bubble back to the surface, but he doubted it. His brother’s performance was going to earn them a queen. Xander would have bet his life on that fact—in a way, he was betting his life on that fact. And in the face of such a victory, his people would forget this had ever happened. The dragon would be a thing of the past to a house yearning for nothing more than a brighter future.

  But Xander wanted the truth.

  Because for the first time in his life, he got the sense that Rafe had been lying to him, too. Not when he’d been spinning his story, but there in the channel, when he feigned a weakness that miraculously vanished during the long flight back to Sphaira as he kept pace with the group. There’d been a secret churning in his eyes, a closed door Xander could tell his brother had no intention of opening.

  Yet Rafe’s stubbornness had never stopped him before.

  When they got back to the guest quarters, Xander followed his brother through halls he didn't know, smiling more and more the longer Rafe obstinately refused to turn around or ask for help.

  “Not now, Xander,” Rafe grunted.

  “If you’re trying to find your room,” Xander said lightly, “it’s one floor up and about three doors to your left.”

  Rafe paused, shoulders drooping, but still didn’t turn around.

  “If you’d like, I can look away first so you don’t have to meet my eyes. That way, you can continue to skulk for some unknown reason as you follow me to your door.”

  Rafe released a
sound between a sigh, a groan, and a laugh. Then he finally spun, offering Xander a pointed glare. “Fine. Show me the way.”

  The corner of Xander’s lips twitched as he tried to hide his amusement. But he knew when to press his brother and when not to. Instead of tossing an easy retort, a challenge Rafe would have never ignored, he quietly led Rafe to his room, followed him inside, and shut the door behind them.

  “Tell me what happened. The truth.”

  “I did…” Rafe's gaze roved over the imposing city on the other side of the crystal walls.

  “You expect me to believe an unknown dove jumped between you and a dragon? And that you got away without a mark on you? What do you take me for, Rafe? I assure you, my mind is fully intact even though my body may not be.”

  Rafe threw Xander a pleading look, silently suggesting the dig was unfair. And it was. His brother, of all people, knew how capable Xander was. But something about this secret nagged at him.

  “What happened?” Xander pressed again.

  Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you just listen when I say that this one time it’s better if you don’t know?”

  “No,” Xander said, undeterred. He stepped closer, closing in on his sibling. “Do you have any idea how sick with worry I’ve been? The blood on the bridge, I know it was yours. There was so much of it, Rafe, so much. I really thought that this time you’d died. That you’d left me. There’s no way you healed yourself so fast, not from a wound that large.”

  “Shh.” Rafe covered Xander’s mouth, even as his expression softened. “You have no idea if these walls have eyes and ears. We’re in a foreign land, not home at the castle.”

  Xander bit his tongue, chest ablaze with the sudden fire of fear. Rafe was right. And they both knew what the penalty might be if someone overheard them. Yet, the magic was there, invisible, hanging between them as it always was, unspoken but present.