Ericen grinned. “Deal. In the meantime, let me show you a few moves.”
By the time I returned to my room, I was so exhausted and sore, I nearly missed Kiva at the dining table. She’d fallen asleep there, her head resting on her forearms. Someone had tucked a blanket over her shoulders.
Twenty-Two
Kiva and I trained together and ate breakfast, and then I ordered the carriage to take me to Caylus’s. I took a detour through the kitchens, where Tarel and Lyren already had a bundle of chicken waiting, along with a parcel that smelled of sugar and orange.
When I unwrapped it, I found a batch of freshly baked orange cakes dusted in powdered sugar.
“The prince said you liked those,” Lyren said. “I had an old recipe from a Rhodairen friend.”
I smiled. “You have a Rhodairen friend?”
Tarel snorted at the wordfriend, and Lyren ran a hair through his silver-specked hair with a laugh. “There was a time our people traded in more than blood and steel, you know.”
I knew, and I hoped one day we would again.
* * *
Caylus and I sat shoulder to shoulder before Res, taking turns tossing him pieces of chicken. Caylus had made bergamot tea, and we’d devoured the entire parcel of orange cakes in a matter of minutes.
“Do these have whiskey in them?” Caylus had asked, already covered in powdered sugar.
“They’re soaked in it,” I replied. “But most of the alcohol burns off when they’re set on fire.”
He blinked. “Set on fire?”
I smirked, remembering something Estrel had once said.It’s like you in a dessert. Zesty, sweet, with a dash of flames.My heart panged at the memory. “It caramelizes them,” I replied.
I tossed Res another piece of chicken, which he snapped up eagerly. He’d grown overnight and was already starting to flex his wings and shift rather than just lay about.
“Has he shown any signs of magic?” I asked Caylus. When he shook his head, concern flickered through me. Storm crow chicks often sparked weak lightning or coalesced patches of mist sporadically.
He’s only two days old, I reminded myself. It wasn’t unheard of not to have seen magic at this point. Still, the sense of unease I’d woken with simmered in my gut. A crow without any magic wouldn’t inspire much confidence, and securing the other kingdoms’ aid was Rhodaire’s only hope.
Res struggled to stand, revealing legs lined in glossy black scales. He almost made it before collapsing back into the blankets with an indignant squawk. The cord between us tugged with an indistinct sensation.
I grinned. “We’re going to have to start working on strength exercises,” I told him.
Caylus perked up, eyes bright. “What kind of exercises?”
“Mostly for his wings,” I replied. “We’ll start with basic movements to stretch and strengthen them and then move on to drills that simulate flight.” Had Res been born before Ronoch, his mother would have taught him most of this, though he wasn’t the first orphan crow to be raised by a rider. Hopefully, I wouldn’t make a poor substitute.
Caylus’s curiosity dimmed, his gaze switching from Res to me. “Once he’s strong enough, you’re going to leave,” he said softly.
“Come with me.” The words came out on reflex, and only as the idea settled in my chest like the piece of a puzzle did I realize how much I wanted him to say yes. But I was asking for more than his company. I was asking him to involve himself in something so much larger than us. Something where he’d have to fight again.
One of the things I liked most about Caylus was the open honesty in his face. He never hid his true feelings. That knowledge was little comfort as his expression turned hesitant and uncertain.
Before he could answer, someone knocked. Cursing, I pulled the edge of the blanket over Res, willing him into silence. Frowning, Caylus rose and padded downstairs. Several lock clicks later, I heard the door open, a rushed exchange of whispers, and then two sets of footsteps climbing the stairs.
Diah entered after Caylus, her mask in place. She slipped into the room on steps light as air, then put her back to a wall, facing us both. On her leather belt hung three identical tiny knots of black rope.
She traced my line of sight, and for the first time, I noticed something strange about the eye on the black half of the mask. It looked dull.
She touched a hand to the ropes. “Ambriellan death knots,” she explained. “One for each soul that was lost.”
Ambriellan knots were a superstition, the various colors and knot work designs representing different things, from good luck to safe travels. These looked like wisps of shadow, curled in on themselves like someone protecting their heart.
