Page 108

Wonder bounds atop the crenellations alongside Malice.

That’s when the current picks up, swatting the tail of Envy’s mane, affixed at the nape. The ominous breeze ruffles cloaks and fletchings, the mutters and whispers from this assembly petering out.

The hyperawareness of an incoming presence begins to simmer. Hundreds of archers stand vigil at every elevation surrounding the metallic stargazer. After a while, conversation picks up again. Harmony approaches their band at the primary outpost and confers with Wonder.

Andrew stashes his notebook and pen safely within a stone crevice and then rejoins Love, the pair of them murmuring with Anger and Merry. All the while, the former mortal keeps glancing at the sky.

Goosebumps march across Envy’s forearms.

Bowstrings vibrate from various stations as deities including Pity, Confidence, Surprise, Kindness, Courage, Trust, Hope, and Joy nock their arrows. Envy’s class mimics the action, their movements as graceful and slick as a dance.

Iron, frost, neon, quartz, and hickory aim toward the hills.

Envy doesn’t arm himself yet. He inspects the ground, which lacks vibration. Nor does the wind carry the pounding echo of footsteps.

Since they’d aired Sorrow’s dirty laundry to this legion, everyone has been on edge for days, thus depleting their energy in anticipation of a siege. Perhaps that was the Court’s intent. Nevertheless, these troops haven’t let their guard down.

The Fates know where the rebels are, so their arrival is eminent. Moreover, the Court has thousands of allies, so their approach won’t be a quiet one. Right?

With his bow poised, Anger voices everyone’s thought. “Something is off.”

“They can’t be here yet,” Merry insists, her neon arrow set toward the western cliffs. “We would have heard them.”

“The scouts would have returned,” Wonder adds from her vigil beside Malice, the pair kneeling and angling their weapons.

Their voices multiply and overlap in hushed but rapid tones. Are there any routes they haven’t covered? Perhaps the scouts were overrun? Has their band considered every probability?

Envy participates, loathed to be left out. But it’s too much at once, with each of them predicting and speculating.

Just then, a buzzing sound reverberates through the landscape. One might call it a gentle sound. That is, until it covers additional ground, building to a shrill noise reminiscent of an insect hive.

The argument ceases. Throughout the battlements, archers tighten their grips, uncertain where to aim.

Once more, Andrew inspects the sky, his fingers locked on his crossbow. “Motifs.”

Still focusing, the original members of this band follow his lead and appraise the vista. It’s a radiant night. The glowing motes settle like dew upon the grass, the hyacinth stalks oscillate, and the lanterns brim.

“In fiction, there are breadcrumbs, little foreshadowing motifs that might mean nothing or everything,” Andrew says.

“Or something in between,” Love says.

Her soul mate bounces off that. “Like legends or sayings or tokens, or—I don’t know—stuff about the setting, like flowers, or freakish glowing motes, or…”

When he meets Love’s eyes, she finishes, “Dragonflies.”

“Meaning?” Anger queries.

Dragonflies like the ones that hatch in a sacred cove, then eventually grow larger. Dragonflies like the one that a detestable ruler and traitorous goddess sat astride as they left this cliff.

Envy’s head snaps toward the firmament. “Meaning they’re not all coming on foot.”

Heads swerve. Weapons shift.

Both of which land on a cluster of silhouettes getting bigger, buzzing louder.

A throng of silver and pearlescent wings swat the air, reflected in the lake below. Riding atop the dragonflies sit the outlines of five armored sovereigns and a legion of Guides, including the ones who have come before them: century after century’s worth of leaders and mentors.

The moment freezes, depleted of sound. Of all the plots and strategies his friends had anticipated, this hadn’t been one of them. This is the only contingency they’d neglected to see coming.