Page 106 of Court of Talons

Nazar casts his staff down, and together we crouch toward Caleb, shoulder to shoulder as we peel the boy away from the wall. Caleb is curled tight, protecting his stumped arm, his body still awash in violent tremors. I exchange a glance with Nazar and lay a hand first on Caleb’s foot, then his leg, talking the whole while.

“Caleb,” I soothe, and Nazar adds a low murmur to my words, speaking in a language I don’t know as I babble, “Caleb. It’s all right, you’re all right. I’m here, Caleb. It’s okay.”

I make it all the way up to the boy’s shoulder, and with Nazar’s help turn him over to face me. He goes willingly, burying his face against my shoulder as he convulses again.

Then I realize that these aren’t the pain-scorched throes of a broken boy.

Caleb…iscrying.

I jerk my gaze to Nazar, and the priest settles back on his heels. There’s no longer a look of worry on his face, though. In its place is an expression of fierce pride.

“It is good,” Nazar declares, his face creasing into a tired smile. “It is of the Light.”

In my arms, Caleb merely sobs harder.

“Mistake,” he manages, his entire body shaking. “There’s been a—a terrible mistake.”

I gape at him but cannot yet break in past the wracking agony of his cries. Finally, Caleb hiccups a shuddering breath and seems to collapse in on himself. I set him back from me, searching his face, as he shivers with silent sobs. “What mistake, Caleb? What happened? Are you injured? Are you?—”

“This!” With his mouth contorted in a wash of pain, he reaches with his right hand and lifts the torn and tattered cloth of his left tunic sleeve, pulling the material up and over his shoulder to reveal the most slender of warrior bands, clamped tightly into his skin.

“It slid onto me from your—from your band,” he manages, his breath coming too quick, too harsh. “And then…and then that Divh…that hodgepodge, mashed-up, incredible Divh…” He shakes his head and turns to Nazar, then back to me, his eyes wide and shining with disbelief.

I know that disbelief. It wasn’t so long ago that I suspect I wore that same stunned, confused, and deliriously bleary look. I smile, a smile so wide it makes all my bruises ache. “What’s his name, Caleb? What’s the name of your Divh?”

“Marsh. His name is Marsh,” he says, the words barely a whisper. “He choseme, Talia, to be his warrior.Me.”

“And he chose well.” Nazar places a hand on Caleb’s shoulder, and in the priest’s worn and dust-streaked face, I see the resolve of decades of truth and training, hear it in his voice. “There is no one who fights so long and so well as you, warrior Caleb, and no one who?—”

But Nazar’s words are cut off by the sound of the crunching earth, a steady, rhythmic thudding and heavy woosh of wings that could only be a Divh—or two of them. Gent and his fellows have already left, and Nazar’s and my gazes lock, knowing this as the sudden threat it must be. The ear-shattering pounding reaches a crescendo as I pull Caleb to the side. Nazar grabs up his staff, whirling around with a shout?—

And freezes.

I can only stare as the old man’s face slackens in shock, his eyes fixed up, up on the enormous beast who even now leans down toward him, our great height at the top of the coliseum rendering us nearly even with the Divh’s bulky form. Its sharp, golden beak glints in the light, its snowy white plumage bursting around it to cover its head. Its piercing black eyes, cunning and intelligent, stare at Nazar with an unyielding gaze, while its powerful lion’s body, coated in midnight blue fur in stunning contrast to its mighty spread of snow-white feathers, practically vibrates with excitement. The quietest, questioning trill escapes from its beak as it tilts its head to lean down more closely to us.

A clatter makes me blink, and I realize that Nazar has dropped his staff. The priest steps forward once, twice, then lifts his ruined left arm free of his cloak, reaching high. The scrap of what is left of his warrior band, buried in his wrist, flashes in the bright sun, while the mighty creature dips its beak toward him, exhaling another soft, chittering trill.

Nazar’s eyes are mirror bright, but his face is calm, and his voice, when it comes, is resolute. The single word he speakscarries on the breeze, rich with power, purpose, and a warrior coming home.

“Wrath.”

Chapter 44

There is no victory celebration this night.

Too many warriors have died; too much has changed. Too much and not enough.

Under Fortiss’s order, Caleb and I are carried back to the First House on litters, taken to dignitaries’ rooms.

My father remains at the First House, closeted with most of Rihad’s advisors. He has done nothing wrong, after all. He is no prisoner here. Somehow, I know, he will turn this to his advantage. Tonight, I’m too exhausted to care.

Rihad hasn’t awoken, but he also hasn’t died; he remains under heavy guard. He’s still a first line warrior knight, still part of the sacred trust of the Protectorate. And, until the Imperium hands down official rule, still safe.

For now, however, Fortiss is the Lord Protector of the First House, by full agreement of the council and the remaining House warriors, few though there are. The lords of all the houses will be summoned, but, again for now—it is enough. Fortiss will pass temporary judgment on Rihad, and that judgment will be harsh. It’s plain to all that the master of the First House has broken the first law of this land, which is never to turn warrior on warrior in true battle.

That isn’t the way to ensure the Protectorate stays strong. It’s the way to ensure it would be broken. And broken it is now.

Broken is apparently what Rihad wanted.