“Then what the fuck was the variable?”
The bells ring out, the sound faint from here.
“Check Tairn. It’s midnight. You should get going,” Bodhi says. “Every minute you stay is one fewer that Tairn gets with Sgaeyl.”
“Agreed.”
“Stop using me like I’m some kind of game piece, Bodhi.” Each word is sharper than the last. “You two want my help? Ask for it. And don’t fucking start on me about my shielding abilities. That’s no excuse to send me into something unprepared.”
He looks abashed. “Fair point.”
I nod, then mount the ramp Tairn creates by dropping a shoulder. Moonlight and what little mage light reaches this height is more than sufficient for me to find the saddle. I could navigate the spikes of Tairn’s back in the darkest night. I proved that in Resson.
There are already two packs twice the size of mine secured behind the saddle.
“Good thing they didn’t search me,” Tairn says.
“Are we carrying…” I blink twice.
“We are,” he confirms. “Now get in the saddle before they change their minds and I’m forced to incinerate your leadership. Later I’ll have more than a few words for the wingleader about not preparing you, trust me.”
Taking a second to secure my pack, too, I settle in for the flight, dragging the leather across my thighs and strapping in.
“Let’s get to them,” I say once I’m buckled.
Tairn backs up a few steps, no doubt to keep Bodhi clear, and then launches into the night, every wingbeat taking us closer to the front lines…and Xaden.
Sgaeyl watched me kill another cadet for bullying Garrick during Threshing. She says she chose me for my ruthlessness, but I think I just reminded her of my grandfather.
—RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF LIEUTENANT XADEN RIORSON TO CADET VIOLET SORRENGAIL
CHAPTER TWELVE
The landscape around the Samara outpost is as severe as the command that runs it.
We’re high in the Esben Mountains, a mile or two from the eastern border with Poromiel, and surrounded by peaks that are still tipped with snow in the height of summer. The nearest village is a half-hour flight. There’s not even a trading post within walking distance. This is as cut off from society as it gets.
“Be careful,” Tairn orders me, waiting behind me in the field where he landed. “It’s known to be…brutal as a first assignment.”
So naturally, they’d send Xaden here.
“I’ll be all right,” I promise. “And my shields are up.”
To be sure, I check the walls of my mental Archives, where I ground in my power, and can’t help the little bounce in my step when I see only a hint of light from my bonds coming from the doorways. I am definitely getting better at this.
I head for the entrance to the mammoth fortress that rises before me, its dark-red stone cutting into the crisp blue sky. It’s probably laid out like Athebyne and Montserrat, but it’s easily twice as big as either. Two companies of infantry and eighteen dragons and their riders are stationed here.
Something sways up high on the wall, and I look to see a man in infantry colors sitting in a cage about four stories above me.
Well, all right then. It’s a little after eight in the morning, so I can’t help but wonder if he’s been up there all night.
There’s a hum in my veins that only grows stronger as I walk up the ramp that leads to the portcullis, where two guards are stationed. A platoon passes by, headed out for a morning run.
“It’s the wards,” Tairn says.
“They didn’t feel like this at Montserrat,” I tell him.
“They’re stronger here, and since your signet has manifested, you’re more sensitive to them now.” His tone is tight, and when I glance back over my shoulder, I note that all the soldiers give him a wide berth, taking a path off to the side of the field.
“You don’t have to watch my back,” I say, reaching the top of the ramp. “This is an outpost. I’m safe here.”
“There’s a drift on the other side of the mountains, a mile beyond the border. Sgaeyl just told me. You’re not safe until you’re behind the walls or with the wingleader.”
I don’t bother reminding him that Xaden isn’t a wingleader anymore as my stomach jumps into my throat. “A friendly drift?”
“Define friendly.”
Great. We’re not on the front; we are the front.
The guards at the gate stand taller when they take in my flight leathers but remain silent as I pass by. “They’re not acting like there’s a drift across the ridgeline.”
“Apparently it’s commonplace.”
Even better.
“There, I’m all safe behind the walls,” I tell Tairn, walking into the bailey of the fortress. At least it’s cooler here than at Basgiath, but I’m not sure I’d like to experience winter at this altitude.
