Page 12

12

Songbird

Idris

T wo years ago, while Idris was tracking an abomination through the snowy wilds of the Bone Mountains, he happened upon a brown-speckled thrush. Idris hadn’t recognized the small songbird at first, two months past time for its southern migration. It had seemed so out of place in the barren, icy peaks.

Anya was similarly out of place among the wreckage of the prisoner caravan, her pretty green dress streaked with mud and gore. Like the bird, she did not appear particularly delicate—just lost, as if she’d found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. And like with the bird, Idris felt an odd twist of protectiveness in his sternum.

How in the Fates did she end up here?

She’d seen too much. Far too much. But he’d address that later.

Idris sheathed Halgren—flameless—at his hip and went to Anya, heart racing anew, questions on the tip of his tongue. But as he neared, she backed away from his advance, as if they were in some sort of anxious waltz, matching each other step for step.

Halting, he asked again, “Are you harmed?”

Wide-eyed, Anya merely stared at him, as if she were trying to come to some sort of conclusion but didn’t have all the facts.

Perhaps she was in shock. It was a natural civilian response. While it was startling for Idris to see the monsters encroaching on civilization like this—despite the efforts of his Order to track and kill them without witnesses—he sometimes forgot how commonplace their existence was to him. How hardened he was to them.

“You’re safe now,” Idris said, but she didn’t seem comforted. Idris glanced behind him, wondering if another abomination lurked—but, no, just the dead heap of the one he’d already slain. “You’re safe,” he repeated. He gestured back at the monster. “I assure you, it’s dead.”

Anya hobbled backward further—only to stumble and fall on her rump. “Don’t come near me.”

“You fear… me ?” Idris realized aloud. Perhaps it was Halgren; after fifteen years with the Order of the Valiant, he’d grown accustomed to the sword’s magic, powered by his Oath—but to the average townsperson, his flaming sword was quite threatening. “I promise I won’t harm you. I’m here to help.”

She crab-walked backward on the ground—dragging her right leg, Idris noted. “Please—just leave me alone.”

The ferocity in her tone didn’t sound like that of a woman overcome with shock—to Idris, she sounded fierce.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, gesturing at the wrecked wagons. “How did you end up in a prisoner caravan ?”

She narrowed suspicious eyes on him—fierce, even from her place on the ground.

Two nights ago, she’d been running an inn in Waldron-on-Wend. What had changed in that time? Idris wracked his brain for clues, recalling their conversation and her offer for him to stay.

“The Mirrors,” he stated.

She flinched.

Ah , so he’d guessed correctly. Which meant: “You were implicated in a crime.”

“It’s none of your concern,” she bit out.

He huffed a silent laugh. He might’ve spent most of his time in the woods, but human nature remained consistent: it tended to face the exact thing it wanted to avoid.

“Seems like it is my concern,” Idris replied. “Why else would you be wary of my mere presence, after a perfectly amicable interaction at your inn?” Those light brown eyes widened again, and he stalked forward, solving the mystery aloud. “You saw me in a Mirror,” he said. “Was I the victim of your crime, and that’s why they imprisoned you?”

“Would you fear me if I said yes?”

“Not necessarily,” he answered honestly—not because he doubted her viciousness, but because his duty warped Fate in ways that could make it unpredictable.

“Do you not think me a formidable foe?” She almost sounded insulted.

He raised a brow. “Is that a warning not to underestimate you?”

“You should never underestimate me.”

He rested a palm on Halgren’s hilt, amused. “And where do I fall in your estimation?”

Their stares entered a standoff. Anya’s was the first to run, her pretty brown irises darting off in the direction of the dark underbrush of the looming wood. She’s afraid of me , he reminded himself, turning that nugget of truth over in his mind like a stone.

Realization cracked through his veins like breaking ice; for a moment, his blood turned cold. “You fear me because you saw me in your Mirror of Death,” he whispered.

Though the work of his Oath rendered his Mirror visions unreliable, Idris gazed upon his Fortune and Death every year. It was a compulsion, an obsession, a fascination with the strange lies they told, of many deaths and one terrible Fortune. As long as he bore his Oath tattoo, he need not fear the Mirrors’ visions, only take a disturbed sort of curiosity in them.

And disturbed, he was.

But even so, Idris could reliably guarantee: he killed monsters, not innocent women.

Her eyes cut to his again, blazing with inner fire. “Impressive deduction skills,” Anya said bitterly. “I’m glad to know my killer isn’t stupid.”

He thought of the bird again. He’d kept it in his pocket for three months, feeding it small bugs and frozen berries until spring broke and its flock returned.

“I would never harm you,” he swore.

“The Mirror said otherwise.”

“Seems like it said otherwise about you, too,” Idris retorted. “What sort of crime were you implicated in? One of Fortune? Or one of Death?”

Abruptly, her fire extinguished; she hung her head, shoulders trembling with a sob.

Death, then .

Affection twisted in his chest again—sweet and painful and perplexing. In the brief interactions he’d had with the innkeeper, he’d deduced that she was strong-willed and kind—two qualities he admired. If the Mirror of Death was right about her crime, he couldn’t imagine it done in wickedness; she would have a good reason.

And if she had a good reason…

Idris balled his fists. It wasn’t his job to judge her deeds; she needed to appeal to Lord Haron.

Idris glanced around at the gruesome mess in the clearing, feeling a bit like he’d stumbled into a diversion. He was a monster hunter, yet now he had this songbird to look after. But she was more than that, wasn’t she? Not just a lost woman, but a prisoner of his Lord. Which meant her prospects weren’t just a matter of Idris’s morality, but his Oath. By all measures, it was his duty as a knight to escort her to the capital.

Shit .

He turned, making his way toward the abandoned camp. He rifled through saddlebags, packs, and bedrolls, eventually finding the items he sought: a canteen, the prisoner records—which he tucked into his pocket—and a set of keys.

Ignoring Anya’s earlier attempts at evasion, Idris returned to where she sat and sank to his knees on the ground beside her. “Hold still,” he said gruffly, gripping her wrist shackles and trying keys until he found the right fit for the lock. The cuffs squeaked open, falling to the grass with a clatter. She rubbed the reddened skin of her wrists, grimacing.

“Rinse your hands with this,” Idris ordered, handing her the canteen and gesturing at the black abomination blood staining her palms.

She did as she was told, dribbling water onto her hands and rubbing off the grime with her thumbs.

Without delay, Idris got to work on her ankle chains, freeing her of those, too.

“Thank you,” she managed softly.

He grunted, focusing next on her injured leg. He quickly palpated her calf, ankle, and foot, relieved when he found no obvious break. But now that they were face to face, he noticed her scent again: lemon and rose. Like a fresh breeze, it cut through the whiffs of sweat and dirt and the reek of the abomination at his back, clearing his head. The scent made him feel unburdened, in a wistful sort of way.

“Can you stand?” he asked, rising to his feet and offering a hand.

He was surprised when she took it, fitting her clean fingers in his calloused palm. He pulled her up easily, steadying her with his hand on her waist as she found her balance. She felt…soft in his grip—not just the silky texture of her bodice but the give of her body underneath. In a life of armor and steel and hard ground, his hands were unaccustomed to softness.

He let go.

Anya tested her weight on her ankle, wincing. “It hurts, but not terribly.”

Idris stared down at her, imagining the past day through her eyes. A merry festival, worrying visions in the Mirrors, imprisonment, and the abomination’s attack. The grime on her extravagant dress mapped her fraught endeavors. Her braids were in tatters, stray strands poking out of the plaits. But even with dirt smudged on her face, her features were pleasing, from her pert nose to her square jaw to her lips, of which the top was slightly, captivatingly fuller than the bottom—

“Idris?”

He cleared his throat, tearing his gaze away from her mouth and out toward the mess around them, frustrated by his own distractedness. He felt off-balance in her presence—and not just because of the uncommon interruption of company. He thought of the bird again, how it had been essential that he not become too attached.

“I need to tend to this,” he said, his voice as splintered as the wooden beams of the wagons. “Why don’t you get some rest while I clear the wreckage?”

“Don’t we need to…?” She glanced around, giving up on her thought.

He recognized the crumpled posture of someone coming down from adrenaline. “You need not do anything tonight except sleep.”

She stiffened, but before she could object, he walked over to the camp, collected an armful of unused logs scattered around one of the ash circles, and started a fire for her. While he worked, Anya pulled a modest rucksack from the wreckage, then hobbled slowly toward the heat. Gratitude, hesitation, and distrust shifted across her face like clouds across the moon.

“Knights don’t murder innocent women in their sleep,” Idris said, brushing off his hands. “I promise you’ll know it if I’m trying to kill you.” He hoped the joke would land.

Based on the way the left corner of her lip quirked up, he guessed it had. “I’m not innocent, remember?” she quipped, but her tone was tired—flat.

“Get some rest,” he encouraged. “I’ll keep watch.”

Based on the dubiousness of her expression, she didn’t trust him—he couldn’t really blame her for that—but she moved toward the fire with outstretched hands, anyhow, seeking its warmth. No matter how seriously she took the vision in her Mirror of Death, no matter how hard she tried not to rest, Idris was confident that the adrenaline crash would knock her out soon enough.

He left her to her own devices, stalking back into the woods for his own gear, which he’d stashed in a log on his way toward the monster’s commotion. When he returned to the clearing, he allowed himself a single glance in Anya’s direction, pleased to see that she hadn’t run but had curled up by the fire with her head on her pack.

Idris had a long night ahead, but something about the company enlivened him.

He wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or not.