A pair of young Scribes scurried past them, hauling enormous worn bags over their shoulders, positively full to the brim with leatherbound books.
They paused, glancing up at Ezer for a moment – the scars on herface, the blackened part of her right eye – before Arawn barked, ‘You’ll respect your new Ravenminder, or you’ll find yourself working forherinstead of your Knight.’
They squeaked and rushed away.
‘I don’t know if that’s supposed to make the woman feel better or worse, being used as a scare tactic for poor Scribes in training,’ a voice across from them said.
Arawn grunted. ‘Hello to you too, Indriya.’
Ezer recognized the Sacred woman from the woods outside the Gates, for she was unforgettable with her pale white braids that accented her beautiful black skin, and a smile that reached her eyes. She sat on top of what looked like an old worn treasure chest – there was one beneath each saddle rack, with initials carved into them – eating a stick of dried meat.
She looked as calm as a cat lazing in the afternoon sun.
‘Welcome back.’ She winked at him. An atypical response for a prince, until she added, ‘First Rider, Sir.’
It hit Ezer, then, what she’d meant.
Her head snapped up to Arawn, then back toward the saddles, as if she would find evidence of what she suddenly knew was true.
Arawn wasn’t just a Sacred Knight, nor the Crown Prince of Lordach.
He was arider.
And not just any rider.
He was a First Rider, in command of a war eagle aerie.
All this time they’d traveled together, and he hadn’t once mentioned a thing about being a rider. Not that they’d spoken much, but … it wasn’t the sort of thing she thought she’d be able to overlook. War Eagle riders were supposed to be the best of the best.
The chosen ones, even out of the Sacred. Even for royalty, a war eagle wasn’t guaranteed. It was a fated thing, the kind of position you were either born to handle or not.
But Arawn …
Well, so far, he had shit magic, from what she could tell.
She stared up at him as if she could see it on him. As if she could see the mark of the famed bond he’d made with a mighty war eagle.
She suddenly felt like she was meeting him for the very first time.
Several other riders had taken notice of Arawn now. They all marched over, eyes bright, speaking to him like he was …
Like he was loved here. Cherished, just as any prince would be. But it was more a true comradery than forced respect.
They adored him.
‘So, you’ll pick back up where we left off, then?’ a male rider asked Arawn. ‘A few flight drills should do to shake the dust off, for a record-breaking rider such as yourself. I think that’s what Soraya would have?—’
‘No,’ Arawn said suddenly.
Several others gasped as the rider’s smile fell.
He took a tentative step back, like he’d stepped on a snake about to strike.
‘I … oh gods, Sir, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to …’ he muttered and ran a hand across his shorn hair. ‘I was just trying to?—’
‘It’s all right, Riven,’ Arawn said. ‘It’s already forgiven.’
The excitement, the warmth, the comradery they’d shared just moments before had faded in an instant when that name was uttered.
