Shadowy wings, membranous and leathery, erupted from Alira’s back, incorporeal but impressively large nonetheless. They flapped, creating a strong, icy current in the air, the candles in the chandelier guttering. The frigid power roiling inside her sparked and crackled from her wings, like the popping of ice on a not-quite frozen lake.

The next horrible thing to happen was that dark talons erupted from Alira’s fingertips, curved and wicked looking. In the space of a heartbeat, her hand was wrapped around Mara’s throat, lifting her slightly as she bared growing teeth at the red-clad form. The inquisitor grabbed Alira’s wrist, wriggling away from her tight grasp but her face remained relatively calm. She showed no sign of the terror that she surely must have felt. Behind her, Therin’s eyes were wide, the red line of the burn on his cheek a bright slash across his faint pallor as he watched her cheek mend.

Something inside Alira was screaming, writhing, a voice that was scared, in pain, and fighting the pull of the darkness.

Henry?

No, it was Alira’s own voice she heard screaming inside her head.

Henry, stop! She pleaded. But if the spirit heard her, he did not deign to reply.

Something hit Alira in the back of her head and she threw Mara, spinning to face Noran. He had used the pommel of his dagger to bludgeon her, only to make the icy darkness inside her flare, so cold it was hot, and she felt her eyes go white with rage. The man looked alarmed but he, too, held nowhere near the appropriate amount of terror that she inspired.

His eyes narrowed and he tossed his dagger, his fingertips flicking the point of his blade deftly. He caught the blade and brandished it at her with a steady hand. It reminded Alira of how skilled Therin had been with her own dagger, tossing it just the same, catching it with ease. The memory flashed in her mind, blinding her. It made Henry falter, mentally stumbling over his own confusion and Alira seized back control with a protracted, inhuman scream.

Still sizzling with the power inside her, she shoved Noran aside and wrenched open the door, everything inside her screaming to run, go, get out. She paused long enough to see Therin throwing himself from the chair, jumping over Noran and dashing out the door. She followed, running so hard she didn’t have time to breathe.

They escaped the way they had been brought in, down the corridor, down the long ramp to the smuggler’s cove beneath the monastery. As they ran, the shadow wings evaporated into mist, her talons retracted, her head slowly cleared. Henry’s consciousness seemed cowed as he trembled inside her mind, silent.

They reached the small boat and Therin didn’t hesitate as he grabbed her arm and threw her bodily into the small craft. She landed painfully on the packs they had left in the bottom of the boat. He tossed off the line holding the boat and shoved off, gripping the ores with white knuckles and heaving for all he was worth. Soon, they were bobbing on a silver midnight sea, the dark coast just visible along Alira’s right, the waves jostling them. He slowed his frenetic rowing and breathed heavily.

“Alira,” he said finally as she curled into herself, wrapping her cloak around herself tightly. “I need answers.” He lifted his sweat-darkened curls to her and met her eyes. In the bright moonlight she could see his terror. The angry red line down his cheek looked black in the night.

“I have none,” she whispered. She contemplated throwing herself into the water and swimming for land but he put a hand on her knee and squeezed gently.

“Then I’ll give you mine first.” He picked up the oars again and began to row, slow and even, the boat rocking in a lulling, rhythmic pull. He waited for her questions.

“Who are they?”

“Mara is the High Inquisitor. We have a history that would need a lot longer than we have to explain but suffice to say she isn’t my biggest fan,” he said as he rowed, his voice strained with each pull.

“And Noran? Is he really your brother?”

“You caught that.” He didn’t say anything more and they rowed in silence for a while.

“He’s not my real brother. We were both adopted by Devan as young boys. He’s a year older than me and was always jealous of me.” He rowed again as Alira absorbed the details.

“You and Devan had no…” She couldn’t think of the word she wanted and Therin laughed bitterly.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“No warmth, I know. When the High Lord adopts you, gives you captain with no questions asked, you’d think he’d show some paternal pride. But Devan is not capable of loving in that kind of way.” Therin’s bitterness rolled off him in waves and Alira waited for him to calm down before she spoke again.

“But he does love you? He treated you well growing up?”

“He pitted Noran and I against each other in everything. Not intentionally, maybe, but he constantly pointed out our faults in contrast to one another. I was too unpredictable, I took too many risks, I wasn’t serious enough.” The swell of the water sloshed against the small boat in the following silence.

“And Noran?”

“He was too ambitious, too cold.” Therin stopped rowing and Alira could see him shivering, his sweat drenched shirt clinging to him in the chilly sea air. He dug in his pack and drew out his cloak. He threw it around his shoulders and lifted the hood. His eyes shone a dull gold in the shade of his cloak and as Alira watched, the black line of his burn faded to a dull purple, already scarred. He clenched his jaw against the pain and the golden stubble along his face glittered in the moonlight.

“Is it bad?” he asked, half-heartedly joking.

“How do you do that?” she breathed in wonder.

“Holy magic. I learned it from Devan. I’ve always been pretty good at it, even when I was little.”

It’s like your healing. Alira said to Henry, nudging him. The spirit ignored her for a moment then scoffed in annoyance.

No, that’s man-made magic. That’s not natural.

“What makes Holy magic man-made?” Alira said aloud. Therin looked at her, narrowing his eyes as he rowed.

“It isn’t. It comes from the Gods. It comes from the Father.”

The Father! Henry said in disdain. Idiot. There’s only the Mother and her other half and they don't care for the so-called god that humans made.

“So what’s Noran’s deal?” She wrapped her spidersilk cloak around her tighter.

“I thought you knew already.”

“Knew what?”

“What kind of witch are you that you don’t recognise your own kind?” The implication of his words fell on her like a weight.

“He’s…a witch? I thought they were all female?” Therin eyed her as he rowed, thinking. Finally he cocked his head and squinted at her.

“How long have you been a witch?”

“Not long,” she said and held up her barely healed palm.

“They did that to you?” he asked as he dropped the oars again, rolling his shoulders.

“Yes, and no.”

“More of that stuff you’re unable to talk about?”

“Something like that.” She gave him an apologetic grin and sighed. The quiet of the night sea stretched all around them. “But keep talking, ask me something. I can’t stand the silence out here on the water.”

“Are you actually a witch?”

“Technically, yes. Do I practice? No. Have I spent time with any witches? No.” She paused and then amended. “My mother was a witch but she left the Morinn before I was born.”

“Impossible,” Therin dismissed her claim and began rowing again. “They don't allow their coven members to leave.”

“Well, she did. She left and met my father. He died shortly after I was born. She wasn’t…who I thought she was, though.” She allowed the tacit admission to sink into her heart before adding. “And it’s her fault I’m a witch now.” Therin watched her as he rowed, waiting. When she didn’t say anything more he spoke.

“Devan agreed to Noran infiltrating the Morinn because he thought he could get an inside view of the enemy. Instead, Mara claimed him as her lackey, binding him to her side with some promise or another. Devan and Noran haven’t spoken in years.”

“But doesn’t she answer to the High Lord?”

“No, they run separate branches of the church. He’s the High Lord of the Paladins, she’s High Inquisitor of the Inquisition. Ideally, they’d rule the church in tandem since the rest of the church hierarchy is a bunch of old, fat men. But they hate each other.”

“How do you fit in?”

“I don’t, not really. I was blessed with the gift of nepotism.” He grunted as he pulled the oars. “I didn’t earn my rank in the guards. I insisted on taking the paladin trials myself, otherwise Devan would have just given me my rank in the order, too. It’s how he shows he cares, really, but it’s exhausting being the bastard that gets what he doesn’t deserve.” Anger heated his cheeks.

Suddenly the two sentries’ hesitation to report him for drunkenness made sense. He was the High Lord’s son, the one who got away with anything and they feared having to take the fall for their captain’s disordered behaviour.

“So you act out in subtle ways to show them you’re no better than they are.” She was hushed but the truth of her words rang true.

“And I’m not any better. Zeke is better read than I am. Andreas is better at martial combat.” He studied his bruised hand and flexed it in the moonlight. He had not used his gifts to heal that particular wound, Alira noted. “I’m just…Therin.”

Alira caught his hand and pressed her palm to his, both calloused and rough, both a little clammy in the cool dark.

“I’m sorry I got you into this mess,” she said and was horrified to hear her voice break.

“Hey,” he said as he lifted his other hand and brushed her recently ruined cheek. “I’m gonna get that book, prove them all wrong, and help you in the process. This is what I wanted.” She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand, the first to touch her with tenderness since her mother had died.