“It was a human, not a goblin, although Rikard could be forgiven for thinking so, because she wore war bat leather.”
“What?!” the Nadir burst in before the Zenith could respond. He turned on his nephew, who shrank back. “You attacked ahuman?”
“The human in question is a servant, a cleaner who works the Tower. Apparently, she’d found a piece of leather in the Tower rubbish heap and took it to patch her boot. She had no idea it was from a war bat.” The lie rolled off his tongue with surprising ease. “When she entered the training halls to finish her duties, the smell triggered Rikard’s instincts to attack. Completely understandable, given that he was still in battle bliss.”
The Nadir seemed mollified by his explanation. “You spoke with this human?”
“I did. She was terrified, naturally, but cooperative. She does not blame Rikard. She will not file a complaint against him.”
“Will you still accept him in your wing?” the Zenith asked perceptively.
“Of course,” Brandt said firmly, meeting the younger gargoyle’s startled gaze. “His instincts were exactly what I want to see in combat. Better to investigate a false alarm than miss a real threat. He should be commended, not punished.”
The Zenith looked between them, clearly sensing undercurrents he didn’t fully understand. But after a moment, he nodded. “Very well. I will issue a commendation. Bardoux, see that the keepers are educated about bringing goblin-scented materials into the Tower. We can’t afford this kind of confusion when tensions are already running high.”
The Nadir put a fist to his horns. “It will be done.”
“Dismissed. Both of you,” the Zenith ordered. “Bardoux and I have other matters to discuss.”
They left the chamber in silence, but once they were alone in the outer passageway, Rikard caught Brandt’s arm. “Why?” he murmured in a low voice. “Why protect me? I nearly killed an innocent human.”
Brandt recognized the desperate need for approval on Rikard’s proud face. It was all too familiar. “Because you’re going to war in a week, and the last thing you need is doubt clouding your judgment. What happened last night was instinct, not malice. Learn from it and move on.”
“A commendation, though?” Rikard’s voice cracked slightly. “After I lost control like that?”
“You reacted to a perceived threat. That’s exactly what a warrior should do.” Brandt clapped him on the shoulder. “Your uncle should be proud.”
Something shifted in Rikard’s expression at the mention of Bardoux. The desperate gratitude faded, replaced by a familiar weight of expectation. “He needs me to survive this deployment. To carry on the family line.” He laughed bitterly. “No pressure at all.”
“The family line survives because you’re strong enough to carry it, not the other way around. Don’t let anyone’s expectations make you reckless out there.”
“Even yours?”
“Especially mine. I need my wing leaders thinking clearly, not trying to prove themselves to their superiors. I already trust you. I don’t need proof that you’re a good warrior. I know you are.”
Rikard nodded slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Thank you for the second chance.”
“Don’t waste it.”
The rest of the night was consumed with deployment preparations. He received word that the deployment date had been moved up. Goblin hordes were amassing faster than expected, and the Sixth Watch would fly to Meravenna to meet them before they advanced further into human territory.
Brandt drilled the watch in defensive flying formations, reviewed supply manifests, and coordinated with the other wing commanders. But through it all, that damned female’s scent lingered in his awareness like a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch. He caught wafts of Idabel everywhere. They turned his head and destroyed his focus.
He couldn’t help tracking down the source of the scent, hoping to find her, but he hit dead ends every time. He’d round a corner expecting to find her there, only to discover an empty corridor or a locked door. It was so bad that the moths began following him on his wild-goose-chases, whispering their theories on his odd behavior.
“Do you think he’s lost?”
“The commander drank too much mead at the feast tonight. I saw him refill his tankard at least six times.”
“Besotted, he is. Absolutely skunked.”
“He’d better hope word doesn’t reach the higher tiers. It wouldn’t look good for him to be in his cups.”
The fourth time he scented her, he wouldn’t have followed it, but this time he was certain she had to be nearby. The citrus smell was so intense, it couldn’t be his imagination. His mouth watered, and his pulse quickened as he followed it down a narrow side passage.
Her scent led him straight to a garderobe.
Brandt stopped short, staring at the heavy wooden door that was marked with a gold crescent moon. Inside, he could hear the soft sounds of someone working: the splash of water, the scrub of brush against stone. Was she here, now, somehow? Was fate drawing them together, yet again?
