Page 6

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W ITH A TIRED sigh, Daal climbed from the ship’s lower decks to its midlevel.

He had shed his wet riding leathers and changed into a dry pair of breeches and a loose shirt. While warmer, he found the clothing uncomfortable; the fabric was far rougher than the smooth sealskin he wore at the Crèche. Worst of all were the stiff leather boots. The pair were well fitted, but they still chafed with every step. Back home, he went barefoot, only occasionally wearing sandals. The bulky boots weighted down each leg, making every stride leaden.

Still, what truly burdened him was his heart. He could not shake the sight of Nyx dashing into the ship’s hold with Bashaliia. She must have spotted his descent atop Pyllar. Even this small rejection stabbed at him.

“What do you think this summons is about?” Tamryn asked, scaling a step behind Daal on the stairs.

Daal glanced back. “I spotted Jace and Krysh when we were descending through the storm. They likely come with news from Bhestya.”

Tamryn simply shrugged. She was two years older than Daal and had quickly risen to be his team’s second rider, straddling atop a raash’ke named Heffik. Her mount was a smaller doe, but the bat made up for her size with a speed and agility that confounded the other bucks. As such, Tamryn had quickly earned her position, a ranking she took great pride in.

And not just that.

Tamryn hailed from a pure Panthean bloodline. Even now, she walked stiff-backed with a fixed look of disdain. Her green hair was shorn short, making her pointed ears stand tall. In the shadowy well of the stairs, her eyes shone a hard emerald, reflecting the scant lamplight.

“Maybe this summoning means we’ll be leaving soon,” she said.

“We can only hope so.”

Half a bell ago, Captain Darant had dispatched a crewman down to the lower deck, ordering Daal to come up for a meeting. Upon hearing this, Tamryn had insisted on accompanying him: More than one Panthean should attend such a gathering.

At the time, Daal had scowled, noting the insinuation behind her words.

Especially not someone of only Noorish blood.

It seemed some prejudices had survived both the battle at the Crèche and the long journey here. For ages, those of Noorish descent had always been looked down upon, their mixed blood considered tainted. Daal had no doubt Tamryn vied for more than just the second saddle. She surely wanted his position. He had not discouraged this aspiration. It had lit a fire under her to train harder, driving her to hone her skills to a finer edge.

So be it.

Such talent would no doubt be tested before long.

Upon reaching the level of the middeck, they heard voices echoing out to them. Daal could not make out the words, but he recognized Nyx’s tone. Though she was not casting out any strands of bridle-song, his blood still stirred. His breath caught in his throat. His heart thudded harder as his body responded to the fear tracing through her voice.

He froze at the threshold to the middeck.

“Why have you stopped?” Tamryn scolded.

He held up a clenched fist, a signal among riders to hold fast. He pushed off the stairs and stared toward the trio gathered halfway down the passageway. He recognized Jace and Fenn, both guarding Nyx, but he spotted no threat in the shadowy hall.

“What’s wrong?” he called over.

Fenn backed a step and warned hotly, “Don’t get any closer!”

Only then did Daal spot a shift in those shadows. Something glided toward the others, carried on thin wings, fading in and out of view. It spun a wary circle at his sudden arrival.

He had no idea what it was, but from the trio’s reactions, it was a threat.

His gaze caught on Nyx’s.

She shook her head, her eyes huge, warning him back. But he refused to shy from her, not any longer, not with her in danger.

He took a step forward—which proved a mistake.

The winged beast cartwheeled, then lunged toward him, vanishing as it did.

He stumbled back, colliding into Tamryn, who blocked his retreat.

N YX SHOVED PAST Fenn.

No…

Her throat clenched, then burst forth with a chorus of bridle-song. Golden strands shot through the darkness, cast forth from her lips and her upraised fingers. They wove into a net, one meant to capture the beast—or, failing that, to draw its attention her way.

“You fool,” Fenn groaned, shouldering Nyx aside.

He stepped forward, and a knife appeared at his fingertips. He slashed his palm. Blood flowed in a wash, running down his wrist.

Nyx understood. Fenn intended to sacrifice himself, to use the scent of his blood to attract the kezmek.

Still, Nyx refused to relent. She wove her song into a wall between them, ready to capture the creature when it raced back this direction, drawn by her bridling and his blood.

During the journey here, she had practiced her craft, training with Shiya. Taking a deep breath, Nyx lowered her chin. She girded herself to stop the attack, but her target had vanished into the shadows again, camouflaging itself fully.

Where are—

Then the kezmek struck her shielding. It burst back into sight, emblazoned by golden fire, thrashing in her net. She tightened her palate, finessing her control of the song’s weave.

I’ve got you.

In that moment, she also caught a glimpse of its master, the one who wielded the reins of this beast. She followed those enslaving strands to a hooded figure, hidden among the moored ships, maybe a league away. The man shared the senses of his kezmek, not perfectly, but enough to guide it.

The assassin must have sensed her, too, in that moment. There was no panic, no fear, not even surprise, only a pall of amused satisfaction—and with good reason.

In the hallway, the kezmek faded from view, going ghostly again, shedding her fire as it did. It appeared the beast’s talent at camouflaging extended to an ability to avoid any touch of bridle-song. She fleetingly wondered how such a slippery creature had ever been bound to a master.

Still, the damage was done.

The kezmek escaped her net and sped toward them. Nyx struggled to recapture it. She retracted her golden strands, but she knew it would be of no avail.

Fenn must have recognized this, too. He stepped forward and lifted his bloody hand higher. “To me, you bastard,” he muttered.

Then another figure appeared ahead of them, emerging out of nothingness as readily as the kezmek had. Jace moved with a swiftness that belied understanding. His arm lunged out. Fingers clamped at the air—and captured the kezmek by its neck.

The beast writhed in Jace’s strangling grip.

Fenn gasped out, stumbling back, “How…?”

By now, Nyx’s net had reached Jace and the kezmek, draping over them both. Her bridled senses took in everything at once. The beast’s heart fluttered in a panic—then froze cold. She felt the life drawn from it in one beat—not by her bridle-song, but by another power. It ripped away not only the creature’s life, but all tracery of the bridling that had snared the beast ages ago.

Still, that hunger didn’t stop with the kezmek. It trailed down the reins of control to the creature’s wielder. The man hidden out in the moorings collapsed to his knees. He clutched a hand to his throat, as if trying to throttle the song being stolen from him. But the hunger was too great. It snuffed away his breath, his bridling, his life.

The assassin fell dead into the wet grass.

With the threat ended, Nyx turned her attention to the source of this ravening hunger. Her strands delved deeper into Jace, drifting past cloth and skin—where again she found nothing, only an endless cold void that craved all fire.

Even her own.

She gasped as that emptiness sucked at her power. She tried to escape, letting her golden strands waft to nothingness. Her feet scrabbled backward, but there was no escape. Her fire spilled out of her, feeding that insatiable void.

Jace dropped the limp kezmek and faced her. His eyes appeared as empty as his expression.

“Jace, no,” she moaned.

He ignored her. As more of her golden song was ripped from her, ice raced toward her heart. Though panicked, she understood what was happening. It was not unlike when she drew on Daal’s well of strength.

As the cold spread toward her core, she fell to her knees, too weak to stand.

But another sensed the danger.

Daal appeared behind Jace with a dagger raised.

“Don’t…” Nyx croaked out.

Again, she was ignored. Daal’s arm slashed down—but at the last moment, he turned the blade and struck the hilt into the back of Jace’s skull with a loud crack. Jace stumbled forward. His eyes rolled back, then with a confused expression, he toppled toward the deck.

Daal caught Jace as he fell and cradled him to the floor. Daal looked across at Nyx. He extended his arm, offering what he could: his warmth to refill what had been stolen from her.

She took a stuttering breath, then shook her head. Her fires would restoke on their own. She could not do to Daal what had been done to her, not to simply speed her recovery.

She meant this gesture as a kindness, but given Daal’s wounded expression, he did not take it as such.

Fenn interrupted, a bloody fist at his chest, fingers clenched to stanch the flow. He looked from Jace and Daal over to Nyx.

“By all the gods below, what just happened?”