The doors had lovely sigils emblazoned on them.
Eagles’ wings, the crest of Lordach, with five stars arched above them.
She was first hit with the smell inside – not cold and crisp, like theCitadel’s courtyard, but the earthy scent that reminded her, undeniably, ofhome.
It was one of shavings and grains, of flickering torches and millet, crushed corn and seeds that she herself had grown so used to scattering across a cold tower floor to feed her own ravens.
The space still held the air of an ancient temple, with beautiful vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows. But there were no pews. Instead, the stone floors were full of supplies: saddle racks and barrels, wheelbarrows and mucking forks and bags of pine shavings. Torches flickered on the walls, casting everything in a soft, warm glow.
There were countless people in white, grey, and brown cloaks milling about, Sacred Knights and Scribes and servants readying for a night of battle.
Ezer paused, watching a Scribe in grey seated on a work bench, a book laid out before her.
And a dagger in one hand, which she used to prick the tip of her finger.
A drop of blood welled out, and she used it to paint runes upon the enormous broadsword laid before her. The blood sank into the metal like magic, and glowing gold runes took its place. The Scribe smiled and held it out to a Knight who marched over, gave her an approving nod, and sheathed the blade before heading away, fully dressed for battle.
‘Come on,’ Arawn grunted, and led her on past rows of iron racks upon the walls. And on those racks rested enormoussaddles. Not for horses or bears, for they were fartoo large in the girth. Beside them, golden bridles hung on hooks, the chain-link reins so long they were coiled up like ropes so as not to touch the dusty floor.
Ezer’s heart skipped a beat.
‘This is …’
‘The Aviary,’ Arawn said. ‘Home of the War Eagles.’
Suddenly she didn’t give a damn if it ached her scars, or if she didn’t even want to be here, in the north.
She grinned.
And then she drank it all in like water to a worn and weary soul.
Some of the saddles were new and shining, freshly oiled. Others were stamped with curling runes that had faded, no longer glowing but still a part of the leather, nonetheless. Like fossils, their magic always to be remembered. They were all created by careful hands, each one unique enough that she knew the Scribes had taken great care to customize the runes to their Knight’s liking.
If one was to ride in a saddle,diein a saddle … it might as well be a well-equipped one.
The smell of leather filled her senses, and it reminded her of her Minder’s apron, the one that used to belong to Ervos as a young boy, left hanging alone on a hook inside her tower in the south. She’d have a new one here.
And suddenly, she didn’t hate the idea of it.
At least here, there were things to see, stories to uncover.
At least here, she would not be so alone.
‘You won’t see the mounts here,’ Arawn said as he walked. ‘They live through those runed doors.’
He pointed to the end of the rounded space, where a set of two golden double doors led into the war eagle’s area. Softly glowing runes marked them, no doubt to keep intruders out. It had been blocked from her view when they’d stood on the cliffside before.
Gods, she wanted to see the war eagles up close.
Catching a glance of them in the forest wasn’t near enough.
She glanced up at Arawn. ‘Can I?—’
‘Off limits,’ he said, ‘to all who have not been chosen.’
Ezer blew out a breath and followed him along.
‘Kitchen, bathing chambers, gear room.’ Arawn ticked off doors as they walked. She noticed he did not mention the purpose of the black rounded door with bars for a window – not unlike the prison cells in Rendegard.
