Such a Clever Deception: A Stolen Tears Prequel

by Cortney Pearson

  “We move as one,” he continues as he paces through, inspecting. “As a brigade follows the motions in training, they will also be able to move as a team on the battlefield.”

  The recruits now lower themselves to the ground and rise, jumping into the air and shouting with each rep. Sweat drips from Talon in the heat of the day, but it’s nothing compared to the drenched features of the men and boys doing the training cycle. Miles and Adam are off, shouting commands to their own men.

  Talon stares at the sun, now much higher in the sky than it was when they started. Two boys have collapsed and been dragged off, back to the training ground—including little Kade—but Tyrus wants them trained hard and fast. Talon’s instinct, the very magic pulsing alongside his blood, tells him this is the way to do it.

  “Enough!” he barks. The men wobble and waiver. Only one manages to remain fully upright, though his arms quake and he chugs heavier than an engine.

  Three more men crumple to the sand with exhaustion and several guards rally in to drag them away.

  “Call it in!” Talon orders. “Single file!”

  Miles and Adam give off similar calls to their brigades. The groups struggle but manage to move, teetering into a sloppy line.

  Talon jogs forward and then leads out, back to the Triad. He runs them. Not as far as he would go were it just himself—even the Itharians don’t have the added magical capability to compensate as he does—but he wants to push them, to see how pliant they are. They struggle with their footing on the loose sand, but still Talon pushes them.

  “You’re dismissed for the day,” Talon says when they’ve run the length of the beach back to the Triad. Sweat drips from their faces. “Stretch and rest. Drink plenty of water and report back the same time tomorrow morning.”

  The men drag their feet across the training grounds, and Talon follows. Wind cools the sweat circling down his back. He half expects to find Ripkin clinging to the fence’s chain links. Something tells him the cadet won’t let a mere dismissal stand in his way.

  He takes a different entrance from the one near the kitchens. It’s best to avoid Aria if he can, especially because throughout the day he’s wondered just how soft she’d feel in his arms. He doesn’t know this route quite as well as the others, so he treads slowly, winding through the corridor.

  Shouts come from within one of the doors. A small voice.

  “Get that away from me.” The fact that there’s no passion behind it throws Talon more than if it was a shriek.

  Talon pushes through the thick door to find Ripkin and a few of the other boys ganging around little Kade. Traces of dried blood mark his upper lip. The small boy has no emotions, it’s true; he stands there while one of the boys slaps him upside the head, and he shows no kind of reaction to it. But he still glances at the claw in Ripkin’s hand as though it’s a dangerous animal.

  “What’s going on?”

  Ripkin smirks back at Talon through the dim light. “Just following through on today’s training.”

  “What training? You were dismissed, cadet, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Your own words, sir,” Ripkin says, turning his back on him and twirling the Xian claw. For the life of him Talon can’t fathom how he managed to get hold of one. “Magic forms muscle faster than anything else. I told you I intend to be the best. This kid barely lasted through the first hour. Clearly, Shrimp here can’t hack it. If he’s not going to use his magic, I will.”

  Talon stalks forward across the bare stone and tears the claw from Ripkin’s hand. The other older boys back off, guilty looks on their faces. “That’s not your call.”

  “No, but it’s mine,” a low voice rumbles.

  The group turns and goes rigid. Tyrus steps in, now wearing the Arcaian brown orderlies. A strange smirk rests on his face beneath the mustache.

  “Haraway,” says Tyrus, crossing his arms across his chest, “give the claw back to Ripkin.”

  Talon lifts his chin, forcing confusion away from his gaze. Tyrus was just out there, Talon thinks. He saw how this recruit acts. “I think it’s unwise, sir.”

  Perhaps Tyrus hasn’t seen Ripkin’s behavior to the extent that Talon has. Then again, he saw the recruit’s defiant—and violent—outburst on the sand earlier. Tyrus cuts further into the room, directly under the dim light. A few inches taller than Talon, he glowers down at the younger man.

  “Ripkin has shown great strength. And he’s right—it’s time we begin exacting more from those who fail.” Exacting more from those who fail. If anything, Tyrus should be threatening Ripkin for bullying the smaller boy. That to Talon is more of a failure than Kade’s inability to remain upright when hit from behind.

  Tyrus narrows his eyes, piercing them straight into Talon. “I handpicked him for this.”

  The phrase stings like the snap of a rubber band, straight to Talon’s heart. Handpicked. Those words are about him, Talon, words used to convince him time and time again. They mean something. A promise, a secret, a fact, a compass. And Tyrus can say them about Ripkin?

  Talon remembers the way Ripkin strayed to Tyrus, demanding justice from the leader. Is Tyrus the reason the boy is here, and not in the kitchens as Talon ordered?

  Tyrus still hasn’t taken those power-glossed eyes from his face. He lets the look descend, knowing Talon is taking the phrase exactly as he’d meant for him to.

  Talon leans in. “Can I speak with you privately?”

  “Speak here, soldier. We’re all friends.”

  The other boys puff their chests at this. Ripkin jeers, looking smug. How can Tyrus do this? How can he not see Ripkin for what he is?

  Talon straightens, showing them how a soldier should behave. “Ripkin is a hothead, sir, and giving him more power will only exaggerate that. He still has much more to learn, not the least of which is his place here.”

  Tyrus’s lids lower, his jaw angling. “Give him the claw, Haraway. You’re dismissed.”

  The boys smirk at one another. One of them pats a hand to the other’s stomach. Kade only stands there, and Ripkin downright gloats in Talon’s direction.

  The dismissal is so much more than a slap on the hand with a proverbial ruler. It’s an underscore, the trapdoor of the gallows being slid from beneath Talon’s feet, hanging him and everything he’s been convinced to stand for in seconds.

  “Just like that?” Talon asks. His thoughts whir, memories cave, promises shrivel to nothing but dust.

  Let it go, Talon thinks. But he can’t. It’s more than this one instance. It’s so much more, more than he could ever say. Expecting Talon to demonstrate the use of a Xian claw in front of new recruits, when Tyrus knows how he feels about that wretched thing? Standing in on training sessions as though Talon himself were new at this? If it was for someone worthy, someone who’s proven himself to be up to the task, who’s proven his character and his skill and that he’s earned the pride of their general, that would be one thing. But Cordell Ripkin?

  “Just like that,” comes the reply, full of satisfaction.

  Talon knows he can’t argue. He can’t stay to protect Kade, he can do nothing at this point. A surge of anger courses through him, and he slams the claw to Ripkin’s chest, giving Kade one last fleeting look. Then he glares at Tyrus, but the Arc has already turned his back on him, gathering the recruits in like a mother hen.

  Though Talon closes the door behind him, the small boy’s shrieks follow him all the way down the hall.

  Talon pounds his fists into the bag dangling from its chain in his room. Pound, pound, over and over, letting anger simmer over him in hot white streaks. Magic spills from his pores, building the longer he goes, but where training and the exertion would ordinarily fuel him, it drains him instead until his fists slow. Until he can no longer lift his arms.

  Talon stands there before his black punching bag, which sways slightly from the last hit. A sense of utter defeat ripples over him, and the silver sparks fizzling along his arms die away.

  He should have
stayed. He should have defied Tyrus and stood up for the boy. But Tyrus won’t be able to defend him for his promotion then, not if that defiance is witnessed by Ripkin and the others. Especially not if Ripkin blabs to his father or the other generals about the outright insubordination.

  His body trembles, and confusion racks through him, barring every direction his mind tries to turn. His way has been clear for so long. He’s always known what he wanted—to lead by Tyrus’s side, to rank up to commander, to be at the forefront of this war and the victory he’s sure will follow. But the road no longer leads forward. It branches off, pitting him at a crossroads.

  “Angels,” Talon says, his knees giving out beneath him. Realization seeps in—not like the dawn, but like a dying flame, leaving a residual wedge in his chest. Like a buoy he attempts to shove underwater, only to have it float back to the surface every time. This is real, harsher than a blow, stabbing him straight in the chest.

  He grips the black punching bag. “I’ll have to do it,” he whispers, his body quivering. He can no longer fight against the idea of stealing magic. It’s futile. “There is no other way for me to stay in the army.”

  He can’t stop others from using the claw on Itharians any more than he was able to stop Miles from subjugating that old man, or Ripkin with Kade. Miles said it—it’s about the prestige. And no matter how good Talon is otherwise, he still doesn’t have the purple feather in his cap.

  He slumps forward, resting his forehead on the punching bag, his feverish skin sticking to the vinyl. The bag sways away from the pressure, and he sinks onto his backside, hanging his head. He’s worn out. And tired. So tired of it all.

  “Talon.”

  Talon’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t have to look up to know who it is.

  “Get out of here, Tyrus.”

  Tyrus’s boots make very little sound as they cross the red carpet decorated with curved golden designs. Defeat jells just below the surface, and though he knows it’s stupid, raising his head to meet his surrogate father’s gaze will also mean Tyrus can see him. Can see the defeat hanging over him like a snare.

  Tyrus crouches before him, saying nothing. Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

  “I know why you’re here,” Talon finally says.

  “I can tell you’re upset. But you have an opportunity here, Talon. The generals want someone who supports our cause. These recruits need to be pushed. We’re not playing games here, we’re in a war—or have you forgotten?”

  Though the words are harsh, the tone is gentle.

  Talon swallows at the reminder. He knows. He knows without Tyrus needing to say another word. But he’s never once thought that being in a war included bullying small children in the process.

  “For some time now I’ve noticed you softening, soldier. Ripkin notices it too—it’s why he pushes so much.”

  “I’m not softening,” Talon says, his tone dead.

  Tyrus rises, stroking the punching bag’s black vinyl. “Are you above us, then, Haraway? No matter how much magic you have, you can always have more. That’s the beauty of who and what we are. If anyone is going to put stock in your authority, they need to know you’re a force to be reckoned with.”

  “They already did,” Talon says, his voice sounding much calmer than he feels. “If you had backed me up in that room—”

  “How can I back you up when you don’t back me up, Talon? Ripkin is displaying exactly what I want to see from you. I need you to step it up. To prove you’re still who I need.” Tyrus leans in, lowering his voice. “It’s the key to the equality we’ve been seeking, son.”

  Talon’s pushes to his feet. His magic perks up, but it clashes with this weight in his chest, as though his own personal punching bag dangles in there, dragging him down. He’s fought for so long, but it’s getting him nowhere. Is it time to be done, to give in? Giving in is easier, and at this point, he doesn’t have the energy to fight it any longer.

  And why should he?

  Resignation settles into his shoulders. Slowly, deliberately, Talon raises his eyes to Tyrus’s.

  “I’m ready to prove I deserve my position, sir.”

  Tyrus crooks his head to one side, his eyes flashing with a dubious expectation. The two linger, facing one another, surrogate father to stolen son, neither taking his eyes from the other.

  Just one subjugate—that’s all it would take. He just needs a purple hand and then his position is solid. Talon’s lower jaw trembles at the thought, but he bites down to steady it.

  He can choose carefully. He can ensure it’s someone who wants to be subjected, or maybe someone who wants to live at the palace.

  When Talon doesn’t back down, Tyrus inclines his head. “Very well.” He walks to the door and opens it, ducking his head out. “Bring her in,” he commands to someone in the hall.

  Talon stiffens, his blood racing in his veins. He hadn’t meant right this second, but backing down now will only seem like cowardice.

  Ripkin enters. And though it hasn’t been more than an hour, he wears a full Arcaian uniform with a claw dangling from his belt. His now-purpled hand grips Aria’s elbow.

  Talon’s blood seethes. His magic feeds on it, compelling him to lash out, to attack Ripkin in any and every way he can and translate that energy into action. What is he doing outside Talon’s door, and with her?

  Aria’s eyes bug wide, pleading in Talon’s direction. She’s still wearing the same black attire and white apron from this morning, though her hair dangles in a strange way, as though her cap holding it had been ripped from her head while it was still tied.

  He thinks of her last night in the kitchen, all beaming eyes and bright smiles, so eager and at peace doing what she loved, dancing, connecting with her true self away from everyone else. Now her face is a contortion of fear and confusion. For a moment Talon wishes he could take the talisman from her wrist so she doesn’t have to feel it.

  “Leave us,” says Tyrus.

  Ripkin inclines his head, shoving the girl forward before bowing out. Aria topples to the carpet with a small cry.

  “Let her go,” Talon says. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

  Fear rides in Aria’s eyes. He offers a hand to her, but she shakes her head, not looking at him.

  “Take a seat, Aria,” Tyrus orders. The girl timidly rises and walks to the desk near the window. “She wants you, soldier,” Tyrus adds. Then the Arc tromps over and bends to her level. “I bet you’d do anything to be Captain Haraway’s, wouldn’t you, girl?”

  Aria blinks in confusion, the color blanking from her face. “Talon?”

  Talon steps forward, the pieces suddenly becoming clear. He doesn’t know which subjugates belong to which Arcaians, but the truth about her sits in front of him now. He should have known her magic had no master. Was Tyrus planning this all along?

  “Tyrus, back off. Get out of here, Aria.”

  Tyrus sidesteps, his arms folded across his chest. His voice is heated like water about to boil. “You said you were ready.”

  “We’ll find someone else. Someone I choose.” Talon’s voice rises to match his anger. “Aria, I’m serious. Get out of here.”

  Her chest rises and falls, faster and faster. Steeling herself, she darts for the door. Tyrus yanks the back of her shirt, shoving her into the seat. She lets out a whimper.

  Tyrus’s lips curl into a simpering smile. He crosses the room to where Talon’s claw resides on its shelf. Tyrus removes the polished silver tool from its wrappings and makes his way back to Talon. Sunlight through the window bakes on Talon’s back, adding to the sweat already there from his heated training.

  “You act like one of us.” Tyrus offers the claw to Talon. Rays of fading sunlight ricochet off its gleaming silver chrome, nearly blinding Talon. He blinks and turns away for the briefest moment. “It’s time to truly be one.”

  There’s no way out of this. Ripkin is threatening to outplace him. Word will spread like oil about the encounter. How long will it be until
Talon is cast aside, demoted, humiliated and rejected? His authority hangs in the balance. Everything he’s done, sacrificed, will all be for nothing. He eyes the claw, and in that moment, he grasps a clear picture of everything Tyrus promises.

  His promotion to commander. Ruling by Tyrus’s side. This is what he’s worked toward. This will make him that much more formidable, give him that added edge he knows he deserves. Little snots like Ripkin will never be able to disgrace or contend with him once he does.

  Reasons not to pile in, fighting for attention, but Talon shoves them down. With a fixed hand he wraps his fingers around the claw. The metal is cold, and the tool is lighter than he expected it to be.

  A muscle jumping in his jaw, he kneels at Aria’s side. He’ll explain it to her. He’ll move her closer to his rooms where she can dance at any hour, dance to her heart’s content. Now that it comes down to it, he’d prefer his subjugate to be someone he likes. Someone he can stand to have around—and not just stand, but someone he wants to have around. She’ll understand.

  She’s stiff. Face forward, she slowly allows her eyes to find Talon’s.

  “Talon?” she says again.

  “Don’t be scared,” he tells her. With a tentative motion, he brushes the longer side of her cropped hair behind an ear. “Do you want me?”

  He meant to ask if she wants him to do this, if she wants to belong to him. But now that the words are out, he doesn’t correct them. He can have her this way, without having to break anything with Shasa. Tyrus has a point—he knows Talon’s feelings for the girl and hers for him. He’s just being a caring father. Talon should do this.

  He should.

  He…

  Should…

  “It’s time to advance your training,” Tyrus prods at Talon’s hesitation. “I chose you all those years ago. I want you here, son. Don’t let me down.”

  Talon sniffs, drunk on the visions of what could be. The crowds, the praise. Recruits will no longer talk back to him but accept him as a superpower right from the start. A force to be reckoned with. He can’t walk away from this. He shouldn’t do it. He has to do it. Ignoring the rotting lump in his gut, he grits his teeth, grips the girl’s knee.