Page 28

CYRUS

General Leuther’s coronation looms. It feels to Cyrus like the point of a long arrow. An ending. But an ending to what— there are too many possibilities.

Then news comes that the tunnel has broken through.

Sabinus arrives at the storeroom a mess, normally tidy hair erupting from its queue, his uniform hanging open. The patch denoting his allegiance to the Grey Company is missing from his jacket.

“We need to move faster,” he opens.

Cyrus frowns. “There’s moving faster and there’s showing your hand.”

“I don’t care about that. It’s time.” Sabinus runs a hand through his hair, face flushed dark with exertion. “We’re getting new recruits every day. Plus, once Leuther starts building in the wilds, he’ll move the storerooms out there and it’ll be too late.”

“If someone sniffs out a traitor?—”

Sabinus narrows his eyes. “There isn’t one traitor. He’d never find all of us. And we’re in this together, aren’t we?”

His hand drifts to his belt. Cyrus grimaces. You’re on our side or you’re dead is the obvious message.

“I guess I’d rather get skewered for helping you than for not,” he mutters. It’s not wholly a lie. “When does the Grey Company leave?”

“After the coronation. We’ll cut his numbers in half with how many are joining us—there won’t be enough soldiers left for him to pursue. You’ll have to speak to Claudius to get assigned to a leaving group.”

Cyrus helps him pull away another two week’s worth of grain from the rest of the store and turns his back as more demons from the Grey Company come to collect it. There are five today, nondescript, all minor demons whose names are probably Marcus or Flavius. It wouldn’t take much to sway them from General Leuther’s cause—like him, they must claw their way up the ranks for the barest dribble of respect. At least by leaving the Court they have other options.

He adjusts the ledger and pulls the old sacks forward to make the shelves look fuller. His stomach rumbles as he works, reminding him he hasn’t eaten in days. For a demon, a few days without food isn’t the end of the world. But to go months with only a dozen bowls of gruel is bound to turn some people desperate. It’s no wonder the Grey Company’s numbers are growing.

As soon as his work is done he heads to the cages. The halls are quiet, but the air is potent with tension. The ground under his feet trembles gently with the force of industry deep below. They’re widening the tunnels now, making room for carts to come through.

When he arrives, the cages aren’t empty. A stench billows up from the room that makes his stomach churn. Cages hang high above the hole, their occupants unmoving, faces hidden. Uniformed arms and legs spill between the bars. The usual groans and cries that accompany a full house are absent. His veins turn to ice.

A cull .

Whose faces would he see, if he could see them?

He turns away quickly and climbs down.

Ekko’s cage is silent, and for a moment Cyrus fears the worst.

“Ekko,” he whispers, tapping on the bars.

To kill Ekko someone would have to go into his cave and drag him out, and that’s more trouble than it’s worth. Still, his mind spins with terrible scenarios. He’s relieved when a familiar shape emerges from the shadows.

Ekko looks worse today. Patches of skin show through on his breast where he’s torn his feathers away, and his head hangs low. He tilts his head to look at Cyrus with one glazed eye, hopeful.

“I have nothing,” Cyrus whispers regretfully. He couldn’t take any meat from the last kill.

Ekko turns his head away.

Cyrus grits his teeth against the guilt. From his boot he pulls out his lock-picks and makes short work of the lock. He’s never tried to get into Ekko’s cage, but it’s surprisingly easy. Of course, who would want inside? Slowly, he pulls open the cage door. The hinges creak angrily and Ekko’s head comes up. Cyrus pulls off his coat and stuffs it against them, trying to muffle the sound.

He squeezes through the door and pulls it shut behind him. His heart hammers. Is he a complete idiot? He’ll find out in the next five minutes. The latch shuts with a snap. He takes a shaky step toward the bird.

Ekko’s shoulders are as broad as Cyrus’s. His massive beak is the length of Cyrus’s hand. And he’s starving—he eats so rarely. Cyrus would be a quick meal. Even weak and unable to hunt from the skies like he was born to do, Cyrus wouldn’t stand a chance against him.

Slowly, he reaches out.

Ekko’s gaze doesn’t waver. Cyrus’s fingers sink into impossibly soft feathers. He scratches gently, a familiar gesture to both of them. A faint trill emerges from Ekko’s throat. The bird steps closer, moving sideways to keep Cyrus in his eye-line. Finally Cyrus remembers how to breathe. Relief comes in a warm rush.

“I’m getting you out soon,” he murmurs. “But you have to trust me, and do as I say when the time comes. You can’t try to hurt anyone.”

Ekko’s eye tilts as his beak drops, an expression of skepticism.

“I might not like them, but the demons with me will be my allies. We need their help.”

He strokes Ekko’s crest as the bird slowly edges into his personal space.

“Trrrr,” Ekko says, ducking his head to bump Cyrus firmly with his beak.

“Soon you’ll be free to fly and hunt.” He scratches the back of Ekko’s head gently. “You’ll meet others like you. There will be wind to soar on, trees to roost in, and a whole world to watch.”

Cyrus aches as Ekko tucks his great head into the crook of his arm. He has no idea if Hell will really be like that for Ekko. But freedom has to be better than this.

It will be, if he succeeds. Otherwise…

Both our ends will be spectacularly brutal .

Then comes the day Cyrus arrives at the third storeroom in the morning to find soldiers at the door.

He turns tail immediately. Shouts follow him up the hall, but no one pursues. Not good. Letting him flee means he’s already in danger.

Even though Magnus never does more than glance at the ledgers, the Grey Company’s scheme was always a risk. It was inevitable that one day, General Leuther would order someone to audit the store rooms. After all, Cyrus is known to have been appointed by the King.

All that’s saved them so far has been the fact that Leuther is occupied with greater things. Now that the tunnels are finished, though, his eye turns to stock-taking.

Cyrus always makes multiple copies of both the real ledgers and the fake ledgers, a spy’s habit. He’s careful to mark them in code so he can give the Quartermaster the fake ones—the real ledgers are stored in his nest.

He flies to the library, terror giving his feet wings. But by the time he gets there it’s too late. A storm of papers greets him, remnants of books and splintered shelves strewn everywhere. They’ve spared no room or corner. Tapestries lie in shreds. Artifacts are scattered and broken. Bootprints stamp across the carpets.

Cyrus goes straight to his nest. A tiny flame of hope lives on, until he reaches the lintel and sees ichor smeared across the stone.

The tapestry hiding his nest is gone. In its place is a body hanging from the rafters. Sabinus’s blank face stares down at him, horrified.

Cyrus’s throat closes over. I told you! Fool! But Sabinus’s empty eyes turn the accusation back at him.

More ichor stains the entrance to his nest, but he forces himself to crawl inside. His hiding places are empty. The papers are gone—the real ledgers, the copies he made, everything. All the damning numbers.

He stumbles out of the hole and falls to his knees, holding back bile. What if he’d never made copies? How long would it have taken General Leuther to figure it out?

How will he get Ekko out now?