“I’ll polish them out,” she promised, and pushed him out the door.
The open-air corridor ringed the hollow center of the Tower, so he was able to step off the ledge and dive down to the crossbeam below where most of his watch were lined up, waiting for him. Pride swelled in him, seeing their dutiful postures and eager expressions.
He’d been harsh in his description of his wing. There might not be many highborn among them, but they were all capable fighters with guardian hearts. They’d defend the southern settlements well. He was fortunate to be their commander.
That didn’t mean they didn’t have much to learn. He directed them to pair up to spar, taking the odd one out as his own partner. He was a younger gargoyle, newer to the watch, in similar armor to Brandt. The gold wire wrapping his horns marked him as towerborn, which was probably why he hadn’t found a ready sparring partner among his watchmates. The rookery dwellers tended to be clannish, and the cliffborn were too humble to ask.
“Rikard,” he introduced himself, putting a fist to his horns in gesture of respect that Brandt returned. He didn’t give his tier, which only made Brandt like him better.
Conscious of Rikard’s soft upbringing, Brandt went easy on him to start, feeling out his skills without embarrassing him in front of the others. But he needn’t have been so accommodating. Despite his lack of scars, Rikard proved a ruthless fighter and excellent training partner, pushing Brandt to show his best, as well. He might have been stronger and more experienced, but Rikard had talent and tenacity, matching him blow for blow.
“Good,” Brandt would grunt every time he landed one in a soft spot.
“You won’t be saying that soon enough,” Rikard taunted, arrogantly whipping his tail until Brandt landed a few of his own and put him in his place again.
It was a good-natured fight. They drew the attention of the others, who paused their own sparring to perch on the crossbeams nearby and watch. In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a party flying down from the higher tier, the Zenith among them.
Rikard noticed, too, his turns growing reckless and attacks more pointed. Brandt held him off without inflicting any damage in return, but he wasn’t sure they were sparring anymore.
“Enough,” he barked when Rikard’s claw caught him in the corner of an eye. The blood smeared across his vision, blinding that eye until he wiped it away.
“Another round,” Rikard insisted, diving toward Brandt before he agreed.
Brandt kicked out in desperation, fending him off but sending the young towerborn careening toward the floor three tiers below. Thankfully, Rikard recovered before he hit the stones, flying back up to face him again. He bared his teeth, shoulders bunching to prepare for another attack.
“Desist,” Brandt commanded, his chest heaving as they circled each other. A wary eye trained on Rikard in case the wild-eyed male decided to disobey, he settled onto a crossbeam.
To his relief, the group of high-tiers dropped down to join him, including the Zenith himself. He recognized a few of the others, mostly well-connected towerborn and commanders who ranked above him, along with the elderly Nadir, Bardoux, whom Brandt knew well from his time in the guard.
Brandt put a fist to his horns as a show of respect, glad Ghantal had goaded him into wearing his good armor. She would be pleased that her prediction had come true, as much as it chafed him to admit that she’d been right.
“Commander Brandt.” The Zenith took a roost near him, close enough that Brandt could see the faint scars that crisscrossed his forearms. They’d been mended well by the masons, but he’d clearly seen battle. “Impressive display.”
The comment rankled him. It was not meant as a show. In fact, their sparring had been dangerous, something he wouldn’t usually allow. It was only the watchful eyes of the Zenith and thehigher status of his opponent that had made him hesitate to put Rikard in his place.
He knew it, and judging by their dour expressions, the other commanders knew it, too. “Routine training,” he grunted, hoping to move past the topic.
He had only been this close to the Zenith a few times in his career, and he preferred it that way. Unlike his mother, he didn’t have a head for politics, and he wasn’t interested in losing in a few words what status he’d gained through years of hard work and keeping his head down. He had time to teach Rikard more discipline later.
The younger gargoyle settled sulkily next to the Nadir, claws scraping the stone. To Brandt’s surprise, Bardoux stretched a wing over Rikard’s back in a fond, fatherly gesture. “You will look out for my nephew?” he asked, addressing Brandt. “He is my only heir, and I need you to return him in one piece.”
Rikard shifted uncomfortably, and pity surged in Brandt’s chest. So this was the reason for the high-tier visit. Bardoux was tending to his bloodline, and Rikard was the unfortunate gargoyle who’d be Nadir someday. Brandt would rather live in the cliffs than tend to human problems every waking hour.
Improbably, the face of the little human thief from Maiden Hall flashed through his mind.Idabel.The way her lip quivered when he destroyed her garden had pierced him. He knew in that instant that he’d delivered a worse blow than any he’d ever struck on the battlefield. And when she’d appeared like magic in his eyrie with a sad story to tug on his conscience…there was some soft, silly part of his guardian heart that wanted to solve her problems, whatever they were.
He walled off the intrusive thought. He defended the human settlements to the south where she was from with his life, and that was more than enough service to her and her kind. If he drove the goblins back to their mountains, she could return toher home and grow all the gardens she pleased. “As you saw, he can keep his own hide intact. He earned his place in the watch, and he will serve wing-to-wing with them. He has no need of special treatment.”
The Zenith clapped him on the shoulder, nearly jarring him from the perch with his unexpected friendliness. “That’s what I told him, but Bardoux worries, as we all do, about who will occupy his roost when he is gone.”
“I understand,” Brandt said carefully, because he didn’t. He cared very little about who’d live in his eyrie or roost on his perch once he turned to stone for the last time. And the Zenith himself was notoriously mateless even though he was twice Brandt’s age. If he was so concerned about his roost, he’d could take any one of dozen high-tier females as his mate. According to Ghantal, who spoke with something close to jealousy on the topic, they were constantly clamoring around him.
To his relief, the Zenith and his party left soon after. Making good on his word, Brandt ignored Rikard in favor of giving equal time to the other watchmates, drilling them each until their turns were sharp and attacks efficient. Not perfect, but better.
When he finally dismissed them for feasting hours, Rikard stayed behind. Brandt braced himself for the confrontation that had been brewing since their match.
“Too highborn to feast in the third-tier hall?” he joked, though it was a sour one. He was tired of watching his words.
Rikard jerked his head dismissively. “I have no interest in gorging myself to sleep. Show me that defensive kick. It knocked the wind out of me.”
