His cloak was white like the others, but he had an interesting gold thread woven on the fringes, and gold silk on the inside of his hood.
Her heart skipped a beat.
An Eagleminder.
The Lordachian army had several different wings, all of them trained in specific areas since they were children.
There were Knights, like Arawn, and Scribes, who trained in the true art of war by inscribing runes upon objects – beautiful, curling script in the Godstongue. It was so vast a language, the runic dictionary took up an entire floor of the Citadel’s library. If it weren’t for the Scribes, the Minder towers across Lordach would have been leveled long ago.
Like the Knights and Scribes, Eagleminders were born in the Citadel, but there was little known about them. As a child, Ezer often pretended she was one. That her ravens were just tiny fledglings, readying themselves to go into war someday.
But seeing an Eagleminder in real life …
‘Kinlear!’ Arawn called to the kneeling Eagleminder, and he stood, swept the snow from his cloak and trousers, and turned to face them.
It was an effort not to let her jaw drop.
It was like staring at a different version of Arawn.
His hair was dark, where Arawn’s strands were white. Tall and lean, where Arawn was all bulk of brutish muscle.
But the face.
The face was the same.
Kinlear Laroux.Arawn’s twin brother.
The other prince.
He had a walking cane in one gloved hand, an eagle’s head as the handle, which he used to push himself up to full standing. He was undeniably handsome, a softer version of Arawn, with a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He had dark, messy curls that looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Even the white tunic under his cloak was rumpled, the top three buttons undone to reveal pale skin beneath, as if he were dressed for spring instead of an Augaurdian winter.
Not as massive as his brother, but still chiseled enough to prove he’d had his fair share of combat training, as any prince would.
He was a curious, wild sort of being.
The kind that people probably whispered about in the Citadel’s halls, for where Arawn was exactly as he seemed … Kinlear Laroux felt like a walking mystery.
The kind she’d love to unravel.
She could only imagine what he knew of the War Eagles. What he’d done, and what he’d seen. His cane only served to the mystery surrounding him, as did the small, corked vial he wore on a necklace around his throat.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Kinlear,’ Arawn said. ‘It’s cold.’
Kinlear shrugged. ‘This is Augaurde, brother. Everywhere is cold. And besides, I’m as warm as a furnace, with the runes on my cloak.’
He stopped before them, digging the tip of his cane into the snow. It was a lovely thing, finely carved to look like the long feathers of the eagle’s tail swirled all the way down to the ground. ‘You were due back yesterday. What happened?’
Ezer found herself glancing back and forth between Kinlear and Arawn.
They were polar opposites.
One, rigid and untouchable, the other, as wild as the wind.
‘The journey was slow,’ Arawn said. ‘Plenty of stops along the way, to visit with the garrisons across the south. They’re not faring well.’
She must have slept through each one of them.
‘If they’re faring at all.’ Kinlear sighed and blew a curl from his face. ‘Well. It’s been terribly boring without you here. No one to tell me to keep my cloak pressed, or to polish my boots.’ He inclined his head towards the other two Sacred. ‘No one to stop me from paying penance for going abittoo overboard on Absolution.’ The one night a month that the Sacred were permitted a single release from their rigid, law-abiding life, allowed to imbibe upon winterwine – a northern delicacy – until sunrise. Kinlear chuckled. ‘A few Riders were more than happy to allow me a chance to join the thrill of saving you. It’s a wonderful thing, being the hero. Not that you’d know.’
