Luke reminded Deen of himself. His younger self, during the days of the war. That snarky attitude all teenagers have, but the willingness to act on what was right. He’d lost the first when his father died and he was forced to provide for his family in the hardest of times.
He thought, perhaps, he’d already lost the second somewhere along the way from all the years of bowing and scraping to the Second Regiment elitists every time one of them criticized a member of the Fourth— the South Wall. He’d never spoken up about the slights. Why bother? They were correct. It was an open secret that the worst recruits went to the least strategically important side of Ulciscor’s defenses. The South Wall practically touched the Crack. An advancing army wouldn’t be able to squeeze a sizable force through without crossing paths with the bulk of the Guard’s finest, the Second Regiment of the Southwest Wall. They were correct, but were they right? Army divisions shouldn’t squabble the way the Guard’s always do. And yet he never had the nerve to speak up about it to a superior.
Did that make him a coward? Maybe.
Stop distracting yourself with politics. You let a child under your protection die. You’re worse than a coward. You’re a DISGRACE.
The image of Luke’s blood spraying everywhere drilled itself into his mind. It made him nauseous. He should have never driven Luke to Cherima. His confidence poisoned Lyla. It always had with her, from the very beginning. He should have come alone. Why did he never think of that? He felt sick— about Luke, about himself, about Ulciscor.
Everything was all so horribly wrong.
“There’s nothing you could have done,” a voice said quietly.
Deen started, blinking but unseeing at first. It was nighttime. The shining orb overhead was that of a gibbous, nearly full moon. They were still riding, his backside sore, horse trotting dutifully along the Pines. He’d fallen asleep, fitful as it was. That wasn’t good— he could have slipped off and broken his neck.
“How long have I been out?” he asked, feeling groggy.
“Not long,” Cyrus answered.
“Did I say something?”
“Yes,” Cyrus said. “Sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for.” He let out a long sigh. Get yourself together, Deen Daniels. You are a captain of the Ulciscor Guard. Were, at least. “Neither of us do.”
They were traveling along the road, but weren’t in direct sight of it. Levian Vega’s ostentatious automobile passed them hours ago, but better to stay alert in case they found a way to make the second automobile— the one Deen had stolen from the assassins— work without a key. He’d heard rumors in the Guard that that kind of thing was possible.
Ahead, he could see the electrical lights of Gilos. He was impressed that Cyrus had managed to keep them on course with no trail, even in the dark. They had no choice but to try their luck there, soldiers on watch for them or not. They could very well starve all the way out here. All they had to work with was a meager amount of cash in Deen’s pocket. He felt naked without a spear strapped to his back. He had a feeling no one was looking for them, though. From Vega’s perspective, it must have looked like the bandaged person was protecting them and would handle things from there. In reality, the two of them hadn’t seen their mysterious savior since that moment. Who even was it? Why did they swoop in when they did? Why not sooner? Thinking about that moment was painful and left him feeling bitter, so he pushed it aside for now.
“Where did you learn to ride?” he asked instead.
“My father taught me,” Cyrus said. “My village always needs riders to head into Ulciscor to fetch goods we can’t produce ourselves.”
That made sense. Deen would have known that if he worked the Southwest Wall. It was the entrance almost all visitors used.
The horse whinnied. Cyrus stroked her with a gentle hand.
“Nice to hear you talking too, Chessie,” he said softly.
“You named it?”
“She was already named. By Luke’s brother.”
“Ah. So she belongs to James.” So that was how he traveled to Cherima. If only they knew that when they first saw Vega’s automobile. If only… He shook his head. “Well, you’re phenomenal at riding. Thank you.”
“Sure thing.” For a time, the only sounds that could be heard were the chirping of insects and Chessie’s hooves clopping and brushing past undergrowth, until Cyrus took a deep breath and changed the subject. “Captain Fauke and Lieutenant Korsak didn’t make it.”
“I thought so,” he said sadly.
“They were brave to the end. I thought someone should know.”
“I’ll pass it on. If nothing else, I’ll make sure the Guard knows that.”
“Thanks.” After another drawn-out moment of silence, he asked, “His name is James?”
“Yes,” Deen said. “James Nixus.”
“What do you think will happen to him?” Cyrus swallowed. “I suppose I shouldn’t care, after what he did to Fauke and Korsak.”
“They won’t kill him,” he said. “At least I don’t think so. To me, it looked like they were trying to stuff some sick lesson into his head.”
I thought we’d settled this, Ty? Cathartes is your family. No other.
Something about that name…
“Flocks Above,” Deen cursed in a whisper. “I should have realized it sooner. Why would they let him get away with outright betrayal? Vega kept calling him that odd nickname. Ty. Short for Typhos. It all fits.”
“I had a feeling he was someone like that,” Cyrus said. “Luke didn’t know. That’s why he collapsed back then. I’m sure of it.”
“He came all the way from Aetas Origo,” Deen said, “looking for an Elite with blue eyes.”
“And he found him,” Cyrus said softly.
Deen would be a flightless fool if he said he never thought about seeking revenge against his father’s killer. But he hadn’t seen the moment. He didn’t know who it was. Just some nameless, faceless Daevan grunt who scored a lucky blow in the war. What would it do to a person— a child— that was forced to watch a tragedy unfold on their own family?
Deen channeled that pain he felt and used the spearmanship his father taught him to join the Guard and score some lucky blows of his own against the Daevans. But he was already of age at that time. Luke couldn’t have even done that. He would have only been seven years old.
“There will be more children like Luke,” he said, head bowed. “On the twenty-second, Vega said.”
“James told me the same.”
“He has pretty loose lips for one of the Elites,” Deen said with a mirthless chuckle. “They expected us to die.”
“We would have, if someone didn’t literally swoop down from the sky and save us.”
Deen nodded at that. But was it true? The bandaged person was there to save them? Somehow, he doubted it. He had a feeling it had nothing to do with them and everything to do with Luke and his strange abilities.
Cyrus hadn’t asked about how Luke was able to shatter a man’s arm with the punching force of an ordinary teenager, which was fine. Deen wasn’t inclined to answer that kind of question. Not only did he have no idea what it really was, but Luke had confided in him alone. The Walls do not spread secrets, as they say. If it helped in some way, maybe he’d reconsider, but there was no point in confusing this battered boy with unnecessary— unbelievable— details.
“There’s nothing we can do to help, is there?” Cyrus asked, the dejection plain on his tongue. “It’s just a date.”
It was useless knowledge. The Guard would have no trouble responding to an attack in a timely manner whether or not they knew the exact day Terra Daeva was planning to invade. Was anything that they discussed actually of consequence? He pushed through the pain of reliving the moment and tried to think of something. Anything…
And he remembered.
Mammon and his sycophants are already inside the city. Vega’s smug explanation of current events to James echoed in his mind. I was surprised to finally hear where they’ve been holed up all this time.
“Mammon,” Deen said. He sat up, feeling as though a flash of lightning just lit up the space inside his head. Flocks, his backside ached. “Vega said Mammon Rigel is inside Ulciscor.”
Cyrus’s breath caught.
“He’s hiding there. Right now. And nobody knows. Nobody but our enemies and the two of us.” Deen reached for the spear at his back, but only found empty air. He made a fist instead, and swore a prayer on it.
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“There is something we can do,” Deen said.
They put the matter aside as they crossed the boundary of Gilos. The Ursan town was much the same as Deen last saw it, only emptier. The roaming packs of drunken soldiers had been swept away like dust by a broom. Only a few of those remained, marching the streets straight-backed in twos or threes. Were they on the lookout after all?
His heart leapt into his throat when a set of patrols passed by and glanced up at Chessie, but nothing happened. Just peacekeepers, then. A necessary bunch, since Ursa would be staging the bulk of the Daevan invaders. Order needed to be maintained in the towns.
He chatted up a few soldiers and townsfolk as they picked their way through the streets, never for more than a minute at a time. They were mostly fresh recruits, he learned. All of the soldiers had the Shield embroidered into their brown-and-yellow uniforms, identifying their allegiance to Asmari Capella. All of the Elites had raised the pay for joining the Daevan reserves substantially, so a whole flock of them signed up recently. The entire town— soldiers and civilians alike— had become well aware of the coming war. The civilians called it a shame; the recruits called it their job. Some of the soldiers acted proud, others he could tell deeply regretted signing up for a little extra cash. The difference between the two amounted to little, if anything. They were all cogs of the same machine of conquest and ruin now.
“You’re taking your break already?” one gruff soldier asked her partner, the pair of them standing nearby. “We’ve barely been out here an hour, Grasi. Forget to piss?”
“Something like that,” her partner said, waving her off. The second soldier began walking right toward Chessie with a sense of purpose.
“Stay quiet,” Deen whispered. “Something’s off about this guy. Don’t bolt unless I say so. If I fall off, that’s on me.”
Cyrus nodded.
“Excuse me,” the soldier— Grasi— called, eyes on Deen. The man was of middling height, skin the dark tan of a southern Asundrian, wearing spectacles, a brown-and-yellow uniform, and a golden armband. Deen had seen others this night wearing the armband, but hadn’t managed to get a proper answer on what it was. Some kind of internal politics, he guessed.
As the soldier drew closer, he glanced around furtively. He squinted and gasped. “I thought I recognized you,” he said in a hushed tone. “You’re the man from the Pale Bill the other day, right?”
Of all the wing-clipped people in town to run into. Someone from the tavern where he and Luke had been openly attacked by Cathartes assassins. They’d been labeled agents of Mirastelle then. Enemies of Terra Daeva.
He eyed Grasi. The soldier pushed his spectacles up with a fingertip. This man could have easily made a report to his superior and they’d have been none the wiser. What was his game, confronting them directly like this? Blackmail?
“I am,” Deen said. If he already knew, might as well get on with it. A grim part of his mind registered that Grasi’s only observable weapon was a tiny belt knife. Flocks know if his legs will cooperate after dismounting, they felt so sore.
“Are you really what that woman from Cathartes called you?” Grasi spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, glancing side to side to ensure he still wasn’t being overheard. “Mirastelle?”
Deen swallowed hard. He dug deep and found his courage, closing his eyes. When next he opened them, he was stone, an impenetrable wall.
“I am,” he said, locking eyes with the soldier. “What of it?”
He watched that belt knife expectantly, ready to throw himself off Chessie into a brawl to the death. He imagined throwing his coin pouch to Cyrus and giving one last order for the boy to flee. He would not let him fall into Daevan hands again.
“Lady Rhea sends her regards,” Grasi said softly. “How can I help?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You don’t need to,” Grasi said, raising a hand and turning it over to show the palm. The motion drew Deen’s attention to that golden armband. Was that on purpose?
“Why offer to help us?”
“The Lady is on your side this day.” He adjusted his spectacles and bowed his head. “Fortune favors you. That’s all you need to know.”
“And how can I trust you?”
“Do you have another choice? I watched you leave this town in an automobile. You’ve returned on horseback without a saddle or that spear of yours, stained with dust. Things don’t seem to be going well for you.”
Deen winced at that.
“I apologize.” Grasi wrung his hands. The soldier glanced at Cyrus. If he noticed Deen was traveling with a different boy since last time, he made no comment on the matter. “Perhaps I’ve said too much.”
Deen sighed. “We’re just trying to get home. Whatever this is about, we’re not keen on getting involved.”
“Do you still have access to an automobile?”
“No.”
“Would you like one?”
Cyrus and Deen shared a look.
———
Cyrus had killed Luke as surely as if he’d been the one holding the thunderflute. He knew it wasn’t true. He knew it. But that was what the loudest piece of his mind kept saying, over and over.
How could you survive when the one who came to save you died? None of this would have happened if you’d held your tongue and died with Korsak.
Such thoughts haunted him as he dismounted Chessie and tied her to a pole using a headstall and lead Deen had purchased a few streets back. He stroked her muzzle and gave her some gentle words of encouragement to help her relax. She was calm enough without it, a sign of good training. He did it anyway, if only for himself.
They were on the other end of Gilos from where they’d met Grasi, just outside a diner he’d directed them to. As for the man himself, he’d left them behind. He’d used a short break for his patrol to speak with them and wouldn’t have had enough time to accompany them all the way.
He pushed open the door to Handa’s Heaven and held it for Deen. The captain entered cautiously, footsteps slow, head swiveling to take in the whole diner. A few seconds later, Deen motioned for Cyrus to enter.
The diner was one wide room with four labeled doors at the furthest ends of the back wall, one side leading to restrooms, the other to an employee break room and the kitchen. Ceiling fans decorated with electrical lights spun slowly above tables— only a few occupied— that smelled strongly of cooked venison. The low hum of chatter at the tables was undisturbed by their presence.
The centerpiece of the room was a wide counter with stools placed in one long row the outside, manned by a blonde woman wearing a golden necklace over utilitarian work clothes, standing at attention with arms folded, surveying the diner like a general on a battlefield. She made eye contact with Cyrus and flashed a smile. Then she saw Deen and scowled.
“She knows me,” Deen said softly. “She looks familiar.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” the captain said, taking an uncertain step back. “Like I said on the way, this could still be some sort of trap.”
A second chance…
“Let’s find out.” Cyrus started forward past him. “Come on.”
The woman smoothed her face as they sat down. They picked a pair of stools quite far from the nearest patron.
“Handa’s Heaven. I’m Colette Handa. What can I get you two?” She beckoned Deen closer with a finger and glanced at Cyrus. The captain nodded to her and leaned in. She lowered her voice to a whisper, but kept it loud enough for Cyrus to hear. “If you bring assassins into my diner, I’ll do the job they can’t. Keep your heads down, eat your food, and leave. Now, what do you want?”
“Grasi sent us,” Deen said.
Colette’s expression cycled through several emotions before settling on a scowl again. “Did he, now?” She reached behind and grabbed a menu. She slid it across the counter and folded her arms. Her hands were covered by a pair of durable work gloves.
Deen plucked a note written by Grasi from his pocket and deftly dropped it on the counter as he lifted the menu. She collected it as he handed the menu to Cyrus and told him to pick something out.
He examined the menu half-heartedly, more intent on listening to the conversation. It was mostly various forms of seasoned venison dishes. It didn’t really matter what he picked. He didn’t care. Good as James’s lentil stew was, it was still bland and repetitive. Anything with meat would beat the last few weeks of his life easily.
“Well, aren’t you special,” Colette said, crumpling the note with one eyebrow raised. “My husband doesn’t go lending the family automobile to just anybody. You will return it.”
“Of course,” Deen said, palms up. “All we need to use it for is—”
She held up a hand to forestall him. “Don’t discuss your wetwork in my diner.” She jerked her head toward a blonde-haired girl around Cyrus’s age waiting on a table, a tray full of food in hand. She looked like a miniature version of Colette in that work uniform. “My daughter, Flocks bless her.” She noticed Cyrus watching the Handa girl— and her empty tray— retreat into the kitchen and glared at him. What did he do?
The conversation turned more mundane. Colette was surprisingly chatty for how stern she seemed, all too willing to gush about her children. Her second child was a younger boy sipping juice on the other side of the counter— Cyrus hadn’t noticed him at first— though he wore no work uniform. Supposedly, he swept the floors after hours.
Cyrus pointed to his meal of choice— venison drenched in a spicy sauce and a side salad— and Deen asked for the same. Colette swept her pen across paper with a flourish like a Shinkaian blademaster from the stories. She ducked in and out of the kitchen to deliver the order and Cyrus caught sight of a gray-haired man in a chef’s hat and apron. His name was Wilson, and the reason he hadn’t retired yet is because Colette ‘won’t let him because the food’s too wing-clipping good.’
When Colette’s daughter brought their plates, he quickly found himself agreeing with that sentiment. Deen agreed. It wasn’t just because he hadn’t had properly seasoned food in forever, it was genuinely delicious. It was as good a meal as anything his father ever made. Flocks send the man could still make them.
As interesting as the food was to him, the watergourds were downright fascinating. Grown in Ursa, they were colored by shades of brown light and dark, broken occasionally by lines of stark white curving and branching all around, never the same from gourd to gourd.
“That’s Cygnus?” Deen asked after swallowing a mouthful of venison. He gestured at Colette’s necklace. On closer inspection, there was a small bird-shaped bead at the lowest point. She immediately clutched it in her fingers protectively.
“Eyes to yourself,” she snapped.
He showed his palms. “I have a wife.”
“That’s one of the kinds women are most wary of.” She glared at him. “Yes, it’s the Swan. Tell me about her.”
The captain was more than willing to do that. Cyrus studied his watergourd as the discussion continued, imagining the mixing shades of brown as the pelt of the famous Ursan greatbears.
Colette sent them off with full bellies— and the automobile’s key and garage address— only after getting their forenames. Deen failed to give her a fake name twice. Somehow, she could sniff out lies. Bidding farewell, she said she would burn a prayer to Cygnus on their behalf, for what Emperor Munitio was about to do to Mirastelle.
“Thanks,” Deen said, dropping a few coins on the counter and getting off his stool. “We’re going to need it.”
“Can you do one more thing?” Cyrus asked. Deen halted and Colette looked up from counting the coins. “There’s a horse outside missing most of her gear. Her name is Chessie. Can you make sure she gets back to Cathartes?”
Colette drew her lips to a line at the last word. She scrunched up her face in thought for a moment, but thankfully nodded.
“Grasi will handle that.”
“Thank you.”
And so Cyrus’s first normal meal in what felt like forever came to an end. He would always be grateful to Handa’s Heaven for that alone. He didn’t know if he would ever have another peaceful meal again. All he knew was that Luke had died to grant him this chance. A chance to make a difference. He would not let it go to waste.