“Right. Of course.” I nod, thankful for his quick cover.
“At some point, you’re going to have to actually get to know the first-years. They’re people now,” Ridoc teases, his smile tight. He agrees with us about what we’re about to do, but he’s understandably worried about the fliers’ reactions.
“Can’t blame her,” Imogen says, carrying a mug out of the kitchen with Maren following close behind. “We’ve added six first-years and six fliers to the squad in the last six weeks.”
“We’ve been in the squad since July,” Visia argues.
“You didn’t count before Threshing.” Imogen shrugs, glancing across the room. “Guess I’ll go save Quinn from Cat.”
“No blood on my sister’s floor.” Rhiannon shoots her a look that says she means it.
“Yes, Mother.” Imogen mock salutes with her empty hand and then heads toward Quinn.
Maren takes the seat next to me, and Rhiannon lifts her brows at me in subtle question.
My throat tightens. Here we go. This is the whole reason we planned tonight’s get-together, so why am I suddenly anxious?
Because I haven’t discussed my decision with Xaden, not that he’s been around more than one day a week since he and Brennan decided to reorganize how the combat squads operate.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Andarna says.
“The honorable thing,” Tairn chimes in.
“Do it,” I say to Rhiannon, gripping my mug with both hands.
“Listen up!” Rhi calls out as she stands, quieting the house, her gaze touching on every cadet. “For riders, squads are more than a unit. We’re family. In order to survive, we have to trust each other on the battlefield…and off it. And we’re trusting you to do with this information what you will.” She looks to me.
What we’re about to do is borderline treason, but I can’t imagine doing this any other way.
I take a steadying breath. “I’ve been translating Warrick’s journal—one of the First Six, who built Basgiath’s wards,” I clarify just in case they’re not familiar with our history. “In the hopes that we can get the wards up in Aretia before the approaching wyvern decide we’re the next target… And I think I know how to do it. But that’s why we wanted to talk to you, because it will mean you fliers wouldn’t be able to wield.”
The fliers stare, stunned. Even Cat’s eyes flare wide with what almost looks like fear.
“We know two other Poromish towns have fallen in the last two weeks, leaving Draithus vulnerable, and the Assembly wants the wards up and functional now,” Rhiannon continues. “Which we think you deserve to know.”
“Know what?” Cat stands, her chair screeching against the hardwood floor. “That you’re about to kill our ability to channel? Our gryphons are still struggling to adjust to altitude, and now you’re going to make us powerless?”
“Protective wards were our goal long before you came here.” Imogen pushes off the wall and casually sets her hand on her hip, near her favorite dagger, angling her body toward Cat, and Quinn sidesteps to flank the angry flier.
“But we’re here now,” Cat retorts. “If my uncle had known you would tie a hand behind our back, he never would have made that deal!”
“Control yourself, Cat.” Bragen keeps his tone level, but his brown eyes are sharp as he stands, putting his left arm out to block Cat from advancing on us. “How long until they’re up?” he asks me.
“As soon as I tell the Assembly what I’ve found.” As of this morning, the stone has a distinct hum, a vibration in that chamber that reminds me of the way Xaden described the armory at Samara, housing the alloy-hilted daggers.
“And when are you doing that?” Cat snaps.
“If you weren’t here, it would be done already,” I retort in the same tone she’s giving. No doubt the majority of the Assembly will condemn me as a traitor for this, and maybe they’ll be right. “But you are here. You do matter.”
Maren shifts in her seat beside me, and though I refuse to slip my hand toward my daggers, Ridoc doesn’t hesitate, folding his arms to give him quick access to the sheath along his shoulder.
“And how long are you giving us?” Bragen asks me, tilting his chin and exposing the vertical silver scars down his neck that disappear into his collar.
Every gaze shifts in my direction.
“I won’t lie to Xaden. The moment he’s home, I’ll have to tell him,” I admit. Multiple curses ripple through the fliers. “But I’ll also tell him that I think we should hold off as long as possible to give you a chance to decide if you still want to stay, knowing you won’t be able to channel.”
“And you honestly think he’ll listen to you.” Cat’s hands curl at her sides.
“The good, the bad, the unforgivable.” That’s what he said to me when he put my safety above the best interest of the movement. And he may want the wards up because I’m here and he isn’t, but he also has a province to think of.
“No.” I shake my head slowly. “I think he’ll act in the best interest of Tyrrendor”—I leave myself out of the equation—“and want them up as soon as possible, but I can still try.”
“We’re no good to our people if we can’t channel,” Maren says, looking past Aaric to the window and drumming her fingers on the table.
“Yeah, well you’re no good to them if you’re dead, either,” Imogen counters, keeping an eye on Cat. “And by not raising those wards right now, we’re exposing all of Aretia—the riots, the drifts—hell, all of Tyrrendor beyond Navarre’s wards to danger that’s no longer necessary. So you’d better decide if you’re willing to stay, knowing that it can happen at any moment, or if you’re better off taking shelter in Cordyn, where you’ll have power and dark wielders.”
I don’t envy them the choice, but at least we gave it to them.
“And if you stay, we won’t leave you powerless.” I reach under the table and retrieve my pack, then set the black leather bag on the table and unbutton the top. “Turns out alloy isn’t the only thing we can imbue.” I take out the six conduits Felix gave me yesterday after I trusted him with the truth, each containing an arrowhead like the ones I’ve been imbuing for weeks.
“What’s in that?” Bragen asks, two lines etched between his brows.
“The kind of ore we don’t use to make the alloy. It’s not quite as rare as Talladium but it’s about ten times as explosive. Trust me, I’ve seen this stuff blow sky-high raw, let alone imbued.” I glance at Sloane, who slowly smiles before she responds.
“Maorsite.”
