One of the dead.
She dropped down to a long tree limb some distance behind Gregory and Pigeon, and saw that she was wrong.
A rider and her gelding moved as a shadow in the brackish water. A simple rope bridle quivered on the gelding's snout, and the rider rose from his bare back, darkness melding with darkness. A bloody sword hung at her waist, opposite a quiver of feathered arrows. She held a curved bow in one hand, and sat with loose shoulders as her body swayed in the moonlight.
She twitched her head when Ember landed, exposing a long scar that twisted over cheekbone and curled into her upper lip. Obsidian eyes hammered into her.
Ember jolted off the tree before the woman could lift her bow.
The archer neared Gregory, and soon the dark wouldn't hide him anymore. Already it seemed to Ember that his white mare might be visible to the archer. She merely needed to wait until he was within bow range before picking him off, just as she had likely picked off others before him. They were in the last leg of the race, and it wasn't unheard of for there to only be a few riders left at this point. Usually there was only one.
A few moments more, and there may be.
Ember landed on the ground in a flurry of leaves, between Gregory and the archer. The still air would allow her scent to go unnoticed by the horses, at least for a short time.
Queasiness gripped her as she shifted, forcing her bones and muscles to grow into a wolf. The tiredness in her limbs carried over into her new form. She shook herself, allowing the thick black coat to ripple over her, and sniffed.
Scents flushed into her. Decaying leaves and wood, the wet smell of frog, the heavy stench of carcass some ways behind her. She followed the sweet smell of horse dung, skirting the deeper waters and keeping her distance from the horses.
Pigeon whickered ahead as Ember rounded a stump. Barely audible, a feathery noise that the archer might not have heard—
A soft rasp of wood against wood resounded behind her.
Ember lunged toward the noise, leaping over water as if her wolf-body could fly. The ground and water became the same dark fluid mass.
She reached the gelding as the archer released the bowstring. A scream erupted in the swamp.
Ember grasped one of the gelding's legs in her mouth, digging her teeth until she tasted blood.
The horse reared, screaming, and punched the air with his hooves, but the archer clung to him. Her hard eyes bored into Ember and the scar on her lip deepened as she smiled.
Somewhere nearby, hooves thudded the ground, growing louder—
The archer’s sword slithered out of its scabbard and slashed toward Ember as the gelding came down.
Silver flashed by out of the corner of her eye. The archer cried out and dropped the sword mid-swing. Blood pulsed from where a knife hilt now grew out of her shoulder.
Gregory’s throwing knife. Already Pigeon’s hooves careened away from them, but Ember didn’t waste time looking back. He had come to save her from the archer’s sword. He had shortened the distance between him and his enemy. And the archer saw that, too.
Twisting her lips, the woman grabbed the hilt, tugged it out, and flung it at Ember.
Ember flinched. The weapon sailed harmlessly to the side.
The rider dug her heels into the gelding's flanks as Ember nipped at another leg, but the archer gripped the reins tight and shouted at the horse to prevent him from rearing again.
With a strangled sound, the gelding shook his head and stomped his front hooves, his injured leg bloody and trembling. He wouldn't tolerate putting his weight on it much longer. The archer pressed him forward.
Ember leapt in front of him, snarling and snapping.
I must give Gregory more time.
Again the archer thrust her heels into the gelding's flanks, but each time Ember pushed him back with teeth and her most vicious growls.
The archer picked up her bow and notched an arrow, but she couldn't hold it up while grasping the reins. Cursing, she dropped the reins and jerked the bow toward Ember. Her wound wept blood as she pulled back on the string.
The gelding reared again, and the archer cried out, letting loose the arrow even as she dropped the bow to cling to her horse. The arrow disappeared into the canopy, and the gelding took off with his rider, splashing wildly through the muck.
The archer craned her head back, the scar on her lip stretching into a smile that didn't reach her cold stone eyes.
She knows. She knows what I am.
The fur on Ember's scruff stood on end, and she bared her teeth in a growl until the woman and her horse disappeared into the trees.
chapter seven
Pigeon's tail rippled with speed as she ran to the northern gates of Kingsbury.
Thousands of people pressed together there, cheering as the dawn sun cleared the horizon. Golden light spilled over the gates, gilding fruit stands and shops and colorful garments.
Ember flew too high to see faces, but the only one who mattered was the man who rode the white horse below. She dropped out of her warm air current and circled down, checking behind one last time for the archer. Still no sign of her or her gelding. Ember’s talons tightened around the hilt of Gregory’s throwing knife.
Pigeon and Gregory burst from the edge of the forest, and for a moment horse and rider blazed in the dawn light. A roar rose from the gates and the people pushed forward with welcoming arms. With her hawk eyes, Ember saw that Gregory grinned, and that a long gash reddened his left sleeve.
The arrow got him after all.
They came up the road at a canter and broke through a long scarlet ribbon, the fabric streaking over Pigeon's chest before fluttering to the ground. In a moment, they were swallowed by the crowd.
Ember didn't dare drop any lower. Doing so would only draw notice and an artful attempt at killing. She had seen it before, and with so many people there were bound to be a few who hated shifters, who would try to kill a hawk just on the fact that it might be a shifter.
With Gregory safe, the weight of tiredness she had been keeping at bay pulled her down, and each beat of wings took almost too much effort. She flew north to Silverglen castle, nestled so deeply in the Merewood Forest that she couldn't see it from her height. With her hawk's sense of direction, Ember knew that if she flew straight north toward the endless Orion Mountains, she would find Silverglen.
And the deliciousness of expanding back to her human form, of crawling under the sheets, and slipping into slumber...
And perhaps I will seek Gregory when I wake.
chapter eight
Finn's voice rose above the explosive hammering of the Iron Fist. Their father must have dragged him to the smelter again, to learn about the family business he would inherit. Ember didn’t blame Finn for hating it. She spread her leathery wings and fluttered toward his voice as the hot, rank stench of iron clawed into her belly.
She found them by a huge stone furnace, two silhouettes against the blinding white of molten slag. Clinging to a rafter, she strained to hear beneath the roar of the furnaces and bellows and the banging of the Iron Fist. Finn hunched and clutched his violin to his chest while their father towered over him, a straight pillar of dark. His stillness made Ember forget the noise and tremor of the smelter.
The pillar snapped, and in the breath of a moment their father ripped the violin from Finn's arms and tossed it into the furnace.
Finn's wail tore through her.
"You will not be a useless musician!" their father's voice boomed. "You are a Thackeray. This will all belong to you," he gestured around the smelter. "In addition to the mines. You are too smart and highborn to be a musician. Do you understand?"
Ember wanted to scream at Finn to answer, because again a breath of stillness solidified their father, and it was the same stillness he held before hitting the dogs.
But Finn cradled himself with lanky arms and cried as the violin smoldered and shrank in the vast furnace.
Their father grabbed Finn by the arm and dra
gged him to the Iron Fist.
The great iron hammer, like a giant's fist, pounded a bloom of iron the size of a piglet. Sparks sprayed over Finn as their father gripped him by the wrist.
Cold dread seized her.
"Perhaps I should take off your hand?" their father shouted above the hammer. The sparks flashed orange in his gaze. "Would you like that? You would no longer have the option to be a musician. Do you want me to take away your choice?"
Finn struggled to pull away as their father forced his hand close to the Iron Fist, strong and unheeding of Finn's resistance.
Ember dropped from the rafter and dove at her father’s head.
He shouted, and his huge blacksmith's hands pummeled the air to try to hit her. With a bat's wings and high-pitched chatter, Ember darted between his flailing arms like a needle through fishnet.
Livid, he reached for an iron bar, half-hammered into a sword and hot enough to turn his hand red as he swung it. A familiar fury colored his face; he knew she wasn’t really a bat, and he would kill her for it.
Ember zipped out of reach and squeezed through a smoky opening in the ceiling. Outside, Finn hunched low on a galloping horse as he drove home to Silverglen.
Good. He is safe now.
Her father rushed out the door of the smelter with the iron bar still gripped in hand. He stared after Finn, fury and madness darkening his expression. A moment later, his quick gaze darted around the sky.
Ember veered east, away from Silverglen, speeding over the hills of mangled stumps toward the dense forest edge. Her father would be more interested in the shifter attack now, not his son's disobedience. Once hidden in the oak leaves, she would shift to a falcon and make haste to Silverglen before anyone noticed her absence.
No one must know. Her father must never suspect.
chapter nine
Ember's chamber door crashed open, jerking her out of the darkness beneath her pillow and into the bright afternoon light swelling into her room.
"Ember! What are you doing in bed?"
Dreaming memories. Her stomach clenched as she wiped the sweat from her face, feeling as hot as if she had just stepped out of the smelter. Finn’s scream echoed in her heart, and she took a breath to loosen the sudden tightness of her throat.
Devondra swept into the room wearing a loose chemise, followed closely by her handmaid, whose arms brimmed with garments, and went straight to the small room that held Ember's tub and wardrobe.
"I presume you heard about the race? The Red Morning? Your little man won, and now father is holding a feast in his honor." Ember heard water splashing into the tub, and the creak of her wardrobe door opening. "So of course Mother sent me to get you ready. Always babysitting. Really, Ember, I don't understand why you refuse to have servants. Holly, bring her here."
Devondra's handmaid dropped her load of garments on the end of the bed, yanked off Ember's covers and grabbed her wrist.
"Don't—"
"Come here, Ember. No excuses now," Devondra said.
"You sound like Mother," Ember replied, pulling her wrist away from the handmaid, who only smiled and held tighter, her eyes skimming over Ember's nudity with mirth.
Horrified, Ember jerked out of the handmaid's grasp and hurriedly pulled on a chemise.
"What do you think of this?"
From the wardrobe, Devondra flourished a bell-shaped mound of taffeta with deep cuts in front and back and stays pulled tight at the waist. The explosion of material looked ridiculous, like a child's cake with too much frosting, layer upon layer of silkiness the color of dried blood.
Devondra pushed it against Ember, assessing. "Yes, this will do quite well."
Ember shuddered. "I'm not wearing that thing."
"You will. Mother ordered the fabric from Zari, you know. It's been sitting in your wardrobe for ages, and we've never seen you wear it."
Ember had left the dress behind when she went to the Academy. She hadn't opened her wardrobe since she'd been back, and likely wouldn't ever have opened it. The trousers and cotton shirt were enough for her.
Devondra sighed and glided past Ember, pecking her handmaid on the cheek and whispering something in her ear. The handmaid let Ember go and followed Devondra out, closing the door behind her.
Alone in her bathing room, Ember peeked into the wardrobe. Ruffles, sashes, and silks of all colors bulged against the doors, straining to get out of the musty, dark air—
Ember rammed the doors closed and sagged against them. She was still exhausted from her night out, and the idea of wearing a frilly expensive dress and acting as a demure lady for the rest of the evening made her head ache. She went to the tub and sank into the hot water, rubbing the heat into her temples to assuage the throbbing pain.
A feast for Gregory, she mused. It didn't surprise her; many of Arundel's best horses were bought from Gregory's father, but Gregory and Arundel were by no means friends. Still, Gregory would accept the invitation to his own feast and would politely pretend to enjoy it, if only for the benefit of his family's business, which he would inherit once his father died.
She glided a hand down the wall next to the tub and felt for the gap in the stone.
There. A slit of the perfect width, hidden from view by the massive tub. The dagger was still there. Not Gregory's knife, but one of her own.
She pulled it out. The skinny blade tapered to a hand-span's length. A heavy columnar handle wound in leather formed the simple hilt, worn from her years of practice fending off the worst of enemies. Zealous squelkins, mostly, with the occasional, equally zealous street-cat. She had never had to use it on a person, but there had been a few times she had brandished it to ward off men with too much curiosity.
She brushed her thumb over the blade's edge, hoping for the hundredth time that she would never be forced to use it for its real purpose. Had Gregory thought the same about his daggers before the race?
A sigh of pleasure filtered under her door.
"Dev?" Ember nearly shouted her name.
No response.
Ember scrubbed her skin with haste and stepped out, wrapping the blade and strapping it to her lower leg, trying not to think about what Devondra could possibly be doing with her handmaid... In my room, on my bed...!?
Wearing a clean chemise and smelling of rose and elderflower, she rushed out of the bathing room. Her headache radiated to her forehead.
Devondra lay languidly across the stuffed armchair while she peered into a hand-mirror, watching herself as she combed her copper hair. The handmaid stood at the bed, complacently folding garments. Ember didn't miss the flush on Devondra's face or the way she breathed with lips partly open.
"What were you doing?"
Surprised, Devondra looked up and gave an innocent shrug. "I've been sitting here, what do you think?"
"I heard a sigh."
"I was getting bored. Don't you ever get bored, Ember?"
Disgusted, Ember sat at her vanity table, glaring as the handmaid tugged her hair into submission. I am doing this for Gregory, she told herself stubbornly. Only for him.
After a few moments of silence, Devondra's silk-covered foot bobbed into view as she crossed her legs.
"Honestly, Ember, I don't understand what your issue is with the dress. It's perfectly exquisite Zarian material."
Ember didn't give two silvers where the material was from, or what her sister had to say about anything.
"Why are you here, Dev?" In my bedchamber rather than your own lair?
"You know why, silly. You're completely useless at Glamour spells."
"I can do them well enough," Ember said, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.
Devondra pursed her lips and said nothing.
The handmaid finished Ember's simple plait, which gleamed black in the dim light. Bangs swooped down to her eyes like the wings of a starling, the dark contrasting her pale skin and brightening blue eyes. They were pretty eyes, with dark lashes and healthy brows, but today there were bags beneath them. Beyond
that stood a plain nose and a plain set of lips, surrounded by slender cheekbones splashed with pink blemishes.
She focused on the signs for the Glamour spell, motioning with her fingers in places around her face where she knew Devondra would be the most critical. As she finished, Devondra rose from her chair, resplendent in a sleek silk gown that reminded Ember of spruce, the deep green accentuating the red tones of Devondra's loose hair. Copper bangles clinked as she stalked to the mirror, looking like a goddess in commoner's jewelry. A copper circlet sat like a crown on her head, and from it hung a small coppery pendant, resting naturally between two doe-like eyes.
"Let me see what you've done," Devondra said. As she came up behind Ember, smelling of heavy Ekesian spices, the Glamours around her became apparent. She had one accentuating her hair, another accentuating her eyes, and a third disguising her crooked teeth.
They'll know the truth once their tongue is in your mouth, Ember thought with distaste.
"Oh, Ember... Let me see. You do look so tired. Those dark circles don't help your looks much. Do you mind?"
Without waiting for an answer, Devondra's fingers flicked before Ember's face, quick and light as though playing an invisible instrument. A moment later she finished, and gazed at her handiwork.
With layers of Glamour, Ember's skin glowed with a healthy blush and her lashes stood out darker than before. The effect, as it always did, stunned Ember to silence.
She was saved from showing her gratitude when the chamber door opened.
"Mother!" Devondra sang. "Isn't Ember pretty?"
Ember jerked to her feet.
"Congratulations, my dear," Salena purred, coming up to kiss each of Ember's cheeks. The heady scent of rosewater floated over her. "Your man has earned the admiration of the Council, and especially your father."
Your father. Ember met her mother's blue, perceptive gaze and kept her face still. It helped that she felt a bit consoled by the fact that she had gone to the race despite Salena's orders.
Silverglen: A Young Adult Epic Fantasy Novel Page 5