Every minute that passed, Ezer felt more tension building in her shoulders and chest, like she was a coiled wire about to snap.
She wondered if this was how prisoners felt before their march to the gallows.
If this was how Ervos had felt when he climbed aboard the recruiting wagon and faded into the mist.
She read for a while, discovering the book Kinlear had left on the table was an old Realmist’s account of training war bears. There was more on war eagles, from basic ground motions to the most intricate commands in the saddle.
All things she’d never learned, for she hadn’t even ridden a godsdamnedhorse.
How was she to get close enough to touch the raphon, let alone get a halter over its beak – then asaddle? Did they even have saddles and bridles, strong enough tack, to fit the raphon?
Of course there was nothing on training them.
Probably because such training had never existed, and if anyonehad ever tried, they hadn’t lived to tell the tale, let alone write a book about it.
‘Death,’ Ezer said aloud, and blew out a long, slow breath. ‘The only end to this is death.’
At some point, Izill came by to check on her, the only truly friendly face she’d met in the Citadel thus far.
‘Thereyou are,’ Izill said when she arrived, pushing an empty kitchen cart. Apparently, she worked most of her time in the Citadel’s kitchens. ‘Oh, Dhysis bless you. You look faint.’
So Ezer shut the book and told her of her fate, in part because speaking it aloud helped the reality of it settle in a bit more. And also because if she was to go back to her bed settled right beside Zey’s, she wanted at least one person she could turn to.
It felt like walking into a den of hungry wolves.
‘I’m going to die,’ Ezer said.
Izill simply waved a hand and said, ‘How do you feel about tea?’
The Citadel, it seemed, had the best food Ezer had ever tasted, for Izill then scurried away, returning half an hour later with so much food it could have fed an army.
It consisted of a delicious creamed lentil soup, a croissant piled high with roasted meats and melted cheeses, and when they were done with that, Izill introduced Ezer to the sweet cinnamon rolls that she claimed were the King’s favorite, so there was a fresh batch every day.
And after that, a mug of steaming mint tea.
They talked and ate, and talked some more, and when Izill left to see to her own duties, Ezer buried her nose in a book again, hoping her mind would settle.
It never did.
‘What are you reading?’
Ezer glanced up from her book at the sound of Arawn’s voice. The moment she saw him emerging up the stairs, the spell of the library seemed to break.
‘A study on death,’ she said. ‘And how, exactly, the raphon chooses to kill its prey. It stalks them, in case you’re wondering. And then it tears them apart, limb by limb, and eats its fill. It leaves the rest of the body behind, but the biggest, most marrow-filled bones, it carries back to its nest. Like a dragon hoarding treasure.’
He looked at her like she’d just sprouted three heads.
‘Thanks for the warning,’ she grumbled at him.
He paused by the hearth.
‘It isn’t my job, Minder, to warn you of what’s to come,’ he said. ‘My loyalty is to my family first. Kinlear is my blood. And with his work, he has tamed many war eagles. My own mount he trained so well that she’s saved me countless times in battle.’
It was the first time he’d spoken of his war eagle.
She wondered which one it was, if she’d passed it in the rows of stalls.
‘Then why do you seem to hate him so much?’ Ezer asked.
