Page 10

Chapter 10

A Faint Hope

Evrard

S olvantis sprawled out beneath him just as dawn leaked into the edges of the sky.

He only had time to check in at the tower and find his roost in the watchcote before the sun rose and turned his hide to stone.

He had all day to observe the humans crawling about in the streets of the great walled city.

They rarely lifted their faces to acknowledge the frozen figures looking down at them.

For so long, he’d assumed that the lack of recognition was due to his station.

He was no one special.

Cliffborn. Barely worthy of the village post. Maggie was one of the few who ever glanced up in Brinehelm.

The rest ignored him like he was a mere fixture.

Gate, pillar, gargoyle, wall.

But even here, where the most elite towerborn made their eyries and the Zenith ruled alongside the human king, the gargoyles might as well have been gutter spouts as far as the humans were concerned.

Gutter spouts who battled goblins for them.

Maggie wasn’t like that.

She understood his devotion.

She saw him. He hoped she wouldn’t forget him while he was gone, but it was a faint hope.

She said she wouldn’t, but humans weren’t as patient as his kind.

She might remember him for six moons, but ten?

Twenty? It was asking a lot of her to wait for him so long.

And she said she’d soon be married.

That’s why he’d seized her womb-charm, for the chance that his seed would take.

Then she’d have a part of him with her, always.

It wouldn’t be possible for her to forget him if he sired her child.

It was selfish, and he didn’t care.

That’s how much he wanted to keep her.

That’s how much he wanted her to wait for him.

Even if she had a human mate when he returned, she’d be his.

As the day progressed to afternoon, his dread rose in anticipation of the reprimand he was sure to receive from his watch leader for being so late.

He would be disciplined.

But there was no point in putting off the inevitable, so when his skin finally cracked enough to allow movement, he shook off the fine layer of grit that had formed and grimly reported for duty.

“You’re the last to arrive. Slow flyer?” The watchminder, a female gargoyle with delicate, pointed horns and a beak that betrayed some dragon ancestry, eyed him with skepticism, but he didn’t stretch his wings for her.

She looked faintly disappointed as she checked her scroll.

“They’ve put the Sixth Watch under Brandt, winds aid you.”

That was bait, but he took it.

“What’s wrong with Brandt?”

She clicked her beak, tail flicking.

“Rough. Cliffborn. But I guess that might suit you.”

“It does.” He shrugged off her intended barb.

An unmannered, low leader was fine with him.

Cliffborn knew how to survive, and that was Evrard’s primary aim now, to survive.

It should have been to gain the satisfaction of fighting well if he lived—or the glory of devoted death if he didn’t.

But now he didn’t care about any of that, only returning to Maggie.

And for that, he had to make it through the war, not just fight it.

He followed the watchminder’s instructions to locate his assigned perch on one of the lower-level trusses that crisscrossed the hollow center of the tower.

To his relief—and contrary to his expectations—his watchmates seemed strong, serious, and well-armored.

They would fight well if they worked together.

The perch to his left was occupied by an obvious towerborn, who wore finely engraved pauldrons and gold caps on his horns, inexperienced enough that he didn’t have a single scar.

Evrard was suddenly self-conscious.

His plain leather bracers and eroded hide looked shabby in comparison.

Even his broad back stood out among the leaner, younger gargoyles.

He felt his chewed-up ears heat with shame.

They muttered terse greetings to one another, then crouched to wait for their leader.

They didn’t have to wait long.

Brandt must have been watching from above, because as soon as Evrard settled, he swooped down from an upper level, passing their ranks twice before settling on a perch that faced them.

The watchminder hadn’t lied.

Though his armor looked new and he was young enough that the moss hadn’t eaten his hair, Brandt himself was rough—horns chipped and his body covered in dozens of deep, deliberate grooves to mark his lost watchmates.

He’d seen plenty of battles and he hadn’t won all of them.

Evrard had instant respect for him.

As Brandt traveled the rows of stoic gargoyles under his command, greeting each in turn, it was clear from his exchanges that he had respect for them, too.

“You’re from the south cliffs or the north?” he asked when he reached Evrard.

Evrard tensed, knowing his answer would only lower his watchmates’ opinions of him.

“South.”

“My mother’s family is from the south.” Brandt’s granite gaze dared anyone to make a snide remark.

“She lives in the tower now. Your family will do the same when you return victorious.”

Evrard had no family left, but Brandt’s assumption was a compliment.

Evrard felt a surge of gratitude for Maggie’s patient grooming.

He might be a relic, but at least he looked loved.

He looked like he had someone to return to.

He fingered the small charm in his pocket.

Perhaps he had two someones.

The thought strengthened him and straightened his back.

Brandt led them in some simple grappling exercises before taking them out to practice formations.

He demonstrated a maneuver and then roosted on the tower to watch them drill together in swarms of six.

He called out occasional instructions or corrections, but for the most part, he just observed them working together.

Evrard was in his element when it came to the physical tasks.

He even was able to help some of the younger ones with less flying experience master the complicated banks required to keep their spacing in the formation.

They were a friendly enough group, even the one with the fancy pauldrons, and by the end of the flying session, they were joking and smacking each other’s legs with their tails.

It felt a little like they were hatchmates, even if he was the much, much older brother.

He noticed Brandt didn’t join in the more lighthearted banter, instead watching from the periphery with an inscrutable expression.

It wasn’t exactly sadness in his posture.

More like…resignation.

Evrard didn’t have time to think about it much until their watch joined with the others in an enormous banquet hall to feast on roast oxen provided by the humans who maintained the tower.

They scurried about, eyes averted, carrying platters of beef and bone and flagons of mead.

He found himself perched on a narrow stone rail next to Brandt.

The younger gargoyles jockeyed for position under chandeliers that dripped wax on their horns and ears.

The light from them attracted swarms of moths, so many that their voices drowned each other out in a single, vivacious hum.

Evrard didn’t mind being pushed to the edges of the group.

He was older and rougher.

At least they hadn’t rejected him outright.

And he was happy to focus on his meat, which was succulent to say the least. In combination with the sweet mead served along with it, it might have been the best meal he’d ever had, other than Maggie’s oysters.

A big step up from the cold fish pies and cloudy ale that the village served him.

“Do they always eat this well in the tower?” he asked Brandt in the dialect of the southern cliffs.

“Yes.”

“Bastards.” Out of the corner of his eye, he was gratified to see Brandt’s mouth twist up.

“Bastards,” Brandt agreed.

Companionably quiet, he still wore that odd look on his face as he tore into the food.

Evrard recognized it now that he could study the male’s face up close.

It was dread.

“Something wrong?” He kept his tone light even as fear gripped him by the tail.

What in Tael-Nost was he flying into?

“I understand if you can’t tell the whole watch, but I’d rather know than not.”

Brandt shook his head, making a dismissive noise.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. I always wonder which ones.”

He didn’t need to say what he meant.

Evrard understood perfectly.

They wouldn’t all return.

Some of these laughing, celebrating gargoyles would meet their end, their lives reduced to grooves on their watchmates’ backs.

He hoped it wouldn’t be him, but that meant hoping it would be one of the others.

No wonder Brandt was discomfited.

Evrard was, too. Here he was hoping Maggie would bear his hatchling, and he might never see them again.

He’d left them both without protection.

Though he knew the watch protected all humans, that did not satisfy his guardian heart.

He tossed back his goblet of mead and held it out to be refilled by one of the tower keepers’ flagons, fingers gripping the short stem too tightly.

As the mead filled the cup, it spilled over the rim, running over his knuckles.

“You have a human mate,” Brandt said accusingly, eyeing the mess.

He inhaled his mead, surprised.

“How did you guess?”

Brandt nodded to Evrard’s hand and held up his own.

His claws were bitten to the quick.

A look of understanding flashed between them.

A mutual worry over the softness of humans.

“It will get easier once we reach Meravenna and build our mind walls for battle,” Brandt said.

It wasn’t clear whether he was reassuring Evrard or himself.

“We won’t be distracted by thoughts of our mates until we take them down again. Our focus will be single-minded.”

A stone hardened in Evrard’s throat.

Somehow, forgetting Maggie seemed worse than worrying, like she’d be more vulnerable if he weren’t thinking of her.

In reality, his protective thoughts would do nothing for her while he was gone.

They would only be a distraction to him.

Potentially his downfall in the midst of battle.

If his goal was to survive, he would have to forget her for a while.

Fallen gods, he did not want to.

Life without Maggie was meaningless.

He’d been willing to die until she kissed him.

“I want to remember her,” he confessed.

“I want a reason to come home.”

“You will, even with your wall up. The mate bond will call you back, even if you can’t recall her face or form. And she’ll be able to sense you through the bite. She’ll know if you’re alive or dead, well or injured. It will be a comfort to her, and your family will keep her safe until you get back.”

Evrard felt like he’d turned to stone even though the night was still velvet-dark.

He and Maggie shared no bite.

They had no bond. Only a mossy-eared promise, one he’d made but couldn’t keep, to return.

But no one would care for her in his absence.

He did not leave her any comforts, not even a nest to sleep in.

The mead soured on his tongue.

He couldn’t swallow another mouthful.

He set down his goblet.

“I didn’t bite her,” he rasped.

“I wanted to, but there was no time. It would have been—”

“Impulsive,” Brandt finished heavily.

His blunt-clawed fingers flexed into a fist, as though it closed on something precious.

“I understand. We are not that.”

Evrard was, though.

The little amulet in his pocket mocked him for pretending otherwise.

How could he claim any high perch when he had forced a connection with Maggie regardless of a bonding bite?

“I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“But you should have. You did her no favors withholding it.”

“I ignored the impulse,” he admitted, feeling very half-wise.

“I didn’t know whether she shared my regard. But I did not ask, and now it’s too late.”

Brandt grunted noncommittally.

“Does she dwell here in Solvantis?”

“Brinehelm. Southeast of here. It’s by the sea.” Meravenna, where the Sixth Watch would join the other five, was inland to the southwest, amid grassy plains dotted with agricultural settlements, within easy flight of the foothills where the goblins made their nests.

The opposite direction.

“Hm.” Brandt’s tail drew designs in the dust. Then he shooed an eavesdropping moth away from the nearest candle and ensured none of the other gargoyles were listening before speaking.

“Our watch deploys tomorrow. I’ll put your swarm on the outer wing. After launch, you can divert from the formation and fly through Brinehelm to bond with her, then meet us in Meravenna. Don’t dally or you’ll be struck from the watch. I can only make excuses for so long.”

Hope spread its wings in Evrard’s chest.