Such a Clever Deception: A Stolen Tears Prequel

by Cortney Pearson

  For Elizabeth Briggs, who has been all kinds of awesome, stuck with me, and answered all my questions.

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  It is easy enough to be prudent

  When nothing tempts you to stray,

  When without or within no voice of sin

  Is luring your soul away;

  But it's only a negative virtue

  Until it is tried by fire,

  And the life that is worth the honour on earth

  Is the one that resists desire.

  -from Worth While by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

  Talon Haraway whirls the scythe, spearing lightning with the movement in a small tornado over his head. He lowers the long, curved blade, pacing in front of the recruits, staring at the state of them.

  Shirts and pants the same dull brown, shoes receiving their first scuffs; Talon isn’t sure how many of the forty men and boys were raided and how many are volunteers. Judging by their varying heights and hairlines, the creases in foreheads, squinted eyes contrary to the overcast sky, he can guess which is which. The Itharians are easy enough to pick out. They’re those whose faces are slackened as though dead.

  Walking, living, blinking dead.

  Back in the frigid Arcaian landscape, with its snowy banks and chilled temperatures, it was easy enough to disregard the occasional Itharian—blank-faced men trailing after soldiers like trained dogs. But here in Itharia, Talon doesn’t need frozen temperatures to send chills across his skin.

  The wizard’s spell banished emotions from these people so swiftly and so permanently it’s no longer one or two expressionless people in the rooms of the Arcaian compound, as before. These slack-faced citizens live here. They run the factories in downtown Valadir, they take in shipments of silks from Arcaia, of crops from Jienke in the south; they operate public transportation and serve in restaurants; they stalk the streets with drawn gazes, their moving eyes sometimes the only evidence that they’re actually alive. Talon works to keep the tension from his shoulders. Having so many of these blank stares now in his direction turns him rigid.

  “Gentlemen, you are now the newest members in the exceptional band of brotherhood that is the Arcaian army. Today you join those who stormed Itharia’s shores fifty years ago, who beat incredible odds to defeat the wizards oppressing freedom in Valadir. You join those who continue to subdue and maintain control of cities across the country.

  “Those who hold magic are no longer superior, and you will be vital to bringing about the long-awaited equality among the races of the world. At my instruction.” The scythe cuts through the air inches from the first line of men. A small boy steps back with a gasp, and several others fidget. A few are men old enough to be Talon’s father—though having not seen his own father for twelve and a half years, he wouldn’t rightly know for certain.

  One of the recruits scoffs. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Talon raises his chin, surprised at the interruption. Someone among these new cadets has an opinion—how refreshing. A slight breeze swirls in with the incoming storm, cooling the sweat at his back. The ocean behind him tosses its head like a bull ready to charge.

  Talon’s boots crunch the few bits of scattered rock on the pavement as he stalks along the first row. Many of the men and teenage boys lower their heads, but one boy holds Talon’s gaze until he stands directly before him in his dark brown orderlies. The boy’s thick brows draw together like black toothbrush bristles, his pale skin blotched with red.

  “It seems you have something you’d like to say,” Talon says, halting before him.

  The boy bolsters his chest, anger flaring in his dark eyes, but instead of addressing Talon he turns his attention to the recruits at his sides.

  “This is bull shax,” he says. “I’m Corporal Arvin Ripkin’s son. My father was part of the Decoy Battalion in Feihria, one of the elites, and they put me with this guy? He hasn’t even purpled yet.”

  Ripkin thrusts a hand in Talon’s direction before folding his arms across his chest.

  Talon’s fist clenches around the scythe’s handle at the mention of the Decoy Battalion. He welcomes the hot rush of anger along his bones, spinning along his magic and triggering a flash of adrenaline. He narrows his eyes at the recruit—this buffoon with streaks of blue in his dark hair and a magitat below his ear might as well be spewing flames for as hard as he’s breathing.

  “Step out, soldier,” Talon says through his teeth. Though he’s about the same age as this boy—possibly even younger—Talon is his superior. Looks like it’s time to make that clear. His magic hankers beneath his skin, roiling and fighting its bonds, but he keeps it tethered.

  The boy struts past Talon, head leveled in defiance of the thunder rumbling through the sky. The waves crash beyond the fence and spread salt in the air. He stops a few feet from Talon and rotates to face the recruits.

  “Ripkin. What’s your first name?” Talon shoulders the scythe, draping a wrist on the long handle.

  The boy straightens, staring at a spot above the recruits’ heads. “Cordell,” he says. “And I intend to be the best soldier in this army, like my father. Which means I have to learn from the best, not some washed-out imposter.”

  Talon clenches his jaw. He can’t let his anger show, however. He needs to maintain control, especially over himself.

  “You’re here to unite Itharia to our cause. In order to do that, you’ve got to prove your skills fit the standard. Guess whose standard you’re up against, lackey?”

  Ripkin’s left brow rises, and he gives Talon a bored look.

  A muscle jumps in Talon’s jaw. He’s never been one to puff himself up, but he’s had to deal with a lot to get to where he is—with more loss and hardship than a fool like Ripkin has ever known.

  “I wouldn’t give a damn if your father was the first person to discover magitech electronics—your birth means nothing here, Ripkin, do you understand me? Only your allegiance matters. I am captain of the Arcaian Guard, set to rank to commanding officer before the war against Itharia begins. You are an ant, one of many ants in my infantry and extraction brigade, and you will stay that way until you prove yourself otherwise.”

  “What happened to being part of a unique brotherhood?” says Ripkin with a snarl, glancing pointedly at Talon’s hands and their color—or lack of.

  “I spoke of potential, though it’s now clear yours is questionable.” Talon flicks the scythe just close enough to nip the edge of the boy’s nose. Ripkin inhales through his teeth, and something flashes across his eyes. Realization. Intimidation, as though grasping that he’s been cornered by someone more powerful than he’d assumed. Still, he doesn’t draw back. That’s a good sign—he’s strong. Prideful. Talon can appreciate that. A streak of blood drips from the small cut, but Ripkin doesn’t wipe it away.

  “You see that shed?” Talon whips the scythe around and points it toward the ocean where a group of sheds resides near a long pier. “Go to the east side. Take the door on the right. Return with your weapon of choice.”

  Mild interest flashes across Ripkin’s scowl, along with the smallest smile, and he angles his head. Talon doesn’t break his glance until Ripkin does.

  The boy’s arms move in quick motions, and he jogs the two-hundred-foot distance to the shed. Moments later, Ripkin returns with a briefsword, just longer than a dazeblade, designed to strap on one’s thigh or in a boot.

  Talon addresses the others, raising his voi
ce loud enough to ensure everyone—including Ripkin—will hear.

  “Ripkin believes his skill surpasses the need for my instruction. Such insurmountable talent must be legendary.”

  He expects the men to give out a few chuckles, but no one does. They stare straight ahead, all traces of amusement gone. Good. They need to take him seriously.

  Talon begins his approach, handling the scythe lithely, barely letting it rest on his fingers as he balances it, luring it into a steady sway forward and backward until he tosses it in a circular spin behind his back and catches it once more. Ripkin’s confident defiance wavers.

  “If you think you have nothing to learn from me, let’s see it. Beat me in a fight, and you can take command of this brigade.”

  Ripkin’s brows draw together once more, and his mouth drops in incredulity. “Are you serious?”

  “Let’s see this skill and distinction of yours,” Talon says, hands offered at his sides with the scythe in his left. “But Ripkin? You lose, and you submit to my command. Understood?”

  His eyes shift to the group of men and boys standing behind, still watching. Then Ripkin bares his teeth in what Talon can only assume is a smile, though it looks more menacing than anything. With an all-too-clear sneer, he grips the briefsword’s hilt with two hands.

  “This is so on,” he says.

  Talon represses a smile and gives a startling lunge forward, whipping the scythe’s curved blade so it sings through the air. His magic releases almost instantly, thrilling at the discharge, answering the call to action and rocketing up the handle to glisten and illuminate the blade.

  Talon closes his eyes, the moves coming to him as gracefully as a choreographed dance, yet all on the spot, nothing preplanned, nothing held back. His lids open, and the two fighters pause for a moment.

  Uncertainty crosses over Ripkin’s face, followed by a determined scowl. He grips his hilt, ducking away, swinging for all he’s worth. Talon continues advancing, his gleaming blade a tiger on the hunt, prowling with exactness of motion, matching blade for blade.

  Finally Talon lets himself go, lets the magic spill up and fill him. He dives forward and in one motion, knocks the pathetic briefsword from Ripkin’s hands, sending the startled boy several steps back so quickly he loses his balance and lands hard on his elbows.

  Several nicks scratch the boy’s arms, along with one long gash along his bicep. Talon has a new wound marking his arm as well, ready to join the map of scars already there.

  He lowers the scythe while the world seems to stop around him. The men stare in utter shock. Ripkin’s chest rises like an ocean tide. He sits rigidly on his elbows on the asphalt.

  “On your feet!” Talon demands.

  Ripkin scrambles to rise, his jaw working. He blinks, staring at his hands as if only now realizing he lost the briefsword.

  “While you were building the fine-motor skills necessary to hold a fork,” Talon says, “I was learning how to grapple an opponent and render him unconscious. While you were being weaned from your mommies, I was learning which pressure points would knock a man off his feet. I’ve been working alongside your Arcaian general for the last twelve years to bring this army to a higher standard. So tell me again where your loyalty lies.”

  Ripkin’s nostrils flare and he grits his teeth. He blinks several times before answering. “With the Arcaian army.”

  “Under whose instruction?”

  Ripkin blinks again, jaw clamping, fighting against the word. “Yours.”

  The clouds rumble once more, and raindrops begin their race to the ground, speckling down faster and faster. Talon wants to keep going, the fight still rampant inside him. He’d like nothing more than to pummel this cocky flap-tongue so hard the asphalt will become a permanent fixture on the idiot’s face, but he reins in his anger, tugging it tight, careful not to let it get the best of him.

  “Back in line, then,” he orders. “And Ripkin—”

  The olive-skinned boy straightens his shoulders. He wipes the blood still trickling from the cut on his nose and glares at the splotch of red on his hand.

  “Choose a better weapon next time.”

  Talon fights the urge to roll his shoulders. A definitive satisfaction settles in, warm despite the rain. It’s a comfortable feeling, like a full belly or a calm place to rest. He’s in his rightful place in the world. Ripkin’s words made him seethe, but putting the recruit in his place had a certain placating effect. In any case, he’s become skilled at tamping down his anger, maintaining a mask of indifference. The less people know of how he feels, the better.

  Ripkin keeps his chin down, and Talon finds he can’t really blame him for his skepticism. All the other officers display their purpled hands prominently, calling attention to them in practically every maneuver. The purple is a quick sign of who’s who in the Arcaian army. Ripkin had no way to know that Talon has refused every offer to purple. Talon is Feihrian; he has his own magic. If any of them only knew what that meant, they’d never think to question him, purple or no. It isn’t magic alone that sets him apart, but skill, born in him and growing as he’s grown. It’s as much a part of him as his kidneys or his heart.

  “Some of you are voluntary recruits,” Talon says, “opting to aid in the much-needed change in Itharia. Others are here by coercion, but whatever your reasons for enlisting, we all have a common goal: equality. Unity. We can’t have that unity with snots like Ripkin questioning my command, can we?”

  “Sir, no sir!” the recruits call out.

  “I’m here to train you for what awaits in the battlefield. We are approaching a time of war, gentlemen. You there,” Talon calls over his shoulder. He gestures to a shorter lad who can’t be any more than twelve or thirteen. He glares down at the boy, trying to think of where to start.

  The boy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrug or shirk away or show the kind of fear that should be in someone who was recently raided from his home and brought here against his will. For all Talon knows he could be a wax figurine.

  A memory that’s been threatening to burst through since Ripkin’s mention of the Decoy Battalion finally surfaces, but Talon quickly smothers it back down, along with the accompanying despair the flashback always brings.

  Don’t let it get to you, he tells himself. Not now. Not ever.

  “Step forward, boy. What’s your name?”

  “Kade, sir.”

  Three among the lineup stiffen at the attention returning in their direction; the others stand like the boy, unshaken and unresponsive despite the rain matting down their hair or the fact that they’ve now been standing for at least an hour. Kade blinks and walks forward. He’s scrawny and thin, no bigger than a reed.

  “Are you a volunteer?” Talon asks, though he knows the answer.

  “No, sir,” says the boy, staring up at him without fear. Raindrops land on the boy’s cheeks and eyelashes.

  Talon isn’t sure how much each individual knows. That’s always the hardest part when new recruits come in. After a few days, he can gauge their varying levels of skill and can branch them off accordingly. There’s so much to it. Combat moves, takedowns, weapons training, overcoming obstacles as a team; Talon could go on. For now, it’s time to start with the basics.

  “Kade, where did Ripkin go wrong?”

  “Sir?”

  “Ripkin failed to overtake me. Why?” Talon allows his eyes to slide right to the recruit’s. Hatred spills from Ripkin as he glares through the falling rain, his lips pressed in a hard line. Talon continues watching him, waiting, daring him to talk to him like he did before. He’ll be running home to Daddy with his tail between his legs then.

  Kade’s voice is quiet and still high-pitched. “He isn’t as good as you?”

  The innocent answer coaxes a laugh from Talon’s throat, and several in the crowd join in, along with an adamant, amused, “Ouch!” as though the word is a whip itself in Ripkin’s direction.

  Ripkin’s jaw clenches, and his fists pump at his sides, channeling the
energy it’s taking him to remain in place. He directs a menacing glare in the small boy’s direction that sends a chill down Talon’s spine.

  Talon’s boots slap the pavement a few steps over, and he transfers his attention to another teenage boy with a shaved head and an earring in his left ear standing in the back row. He doesn’t bother to ask for names this time.

  “You, in the back,” he says. “What do you think?”

  A smirk rises on Earring Boy’s mouth.

  “He was weak on the left side,” Earring Boy says smugly, angling his head and shaking away the rain.

  Talon’s brows rise with surprise at the astute reply. It’s true—Ripkin was open on the left, allowing Talon to step in and disarm him and knock him back.

  “Ripkin was also extremely weak in upper-body strength. With or without magic, we can’t have weaknesses like this, can we, gentlemen?”

  “Sir, no sir!”

  “For this reason we will begin strength training. Blocking, striking, and grappling are the very backbone of any decent infantry division—short of weaponry. But as Ripkin demonstrated, a weapon isn’t always going to be available to you during a scuffle.”

  A scoff comes from the recruit’s direction.

  Talon smiles.

  “What’s that, Ripkin?” he says, more abrupt than before. He stops directly in front of the recruit, scythe tipped toward the boy so that raindrops drip from its blade like blood. The clouds above rumble with claps of thunder.

  Ripkin swallows. “Nothing, sir.”

  “What?” Talon shouts in his face.

  “Nothing, sir!” Ripkin shouts back.

  Talon retreats, this time not bothering to hide his grin and the satisfaction this submission gives him. Anger curls around the stubborn recruit, reaching from his eyes like coils of smoke.

  Talon goes on, his voice still raised. “As Ripkin stated, we intend to be the best. We can progress as fast as you’re ready and able.”