“I really hope you find her. She’s a good one,” he says.
“We’ll do our best,” says Ronan.
I wonder what the boy would think if he realized he’d just spoken to his king.
“To the alley?” I ask Ronan once we’re outside.
He nods. “The guards have already checked it out, but I figure another pair of eyes can’t hurt.” He checks his weapons, which the woman returned to us, and I do the same.
But we had no need to be concerned. The alley is as empty as the boy described. Ronan carefully shines a light in the dark corners, but I grab his hand and stop him. It’s too risky to be seen doing light magic around here. “I can see in the shadows just fine. What are you looking for?”
“Blood, hair, a scrap of fabric. I don’t know.”
“It’s a city alleyway. Even if we find something, it could be from anyone. What about the alchemist angle?”
“I’d be surprised if it’s someone there. Zara runs a tight ship. I don’t want to ask them directly or to even let them know we’re looking, but it would be good to find out which alchemists match the description. Tall and heavyset, male.”
“I can think of one alchemist that matches that description.” Our own alchemist, Hermes Magnus. And, come to think of it, I haven’t seen much of him since we arrived. He’s been spending a lot of time down at the Guild.
“Yours?”
I nod. “I could try to see if he’s up to anything. Tell him I need more silphium elixir or something.”
Not that I was looking for an opportunity to mention an elixir known for its contraceptive properties or anything.
Ronan-as-Soren looks reasonably shocked to hear me mention it. “Do you? Need more of it?”
“No, we brought plenty,” I say matter-of-factly. Not that he should remember that fact later. It’s just information that happens to be true. “But it makes him uncomfortable to hear me speak of it, so I could take advantage of that to poke around a bit.”
“Devious,” says Ronan with admiration. “I’ll see if Quinn can think of any other alchemists that fit the description. She has a better memory for names and faces than I do.”
“What about the priests of Kerensa—”
He holds up a finger to silence me—there’s a noise down the alley.
My hand reaches for my sword, and I lower the shadow we’re in just a bit. It’s not perfect cover, but it should do well enough without being too obvious.
We wait together for a long moment, dangerously close to touching. I shouldn’t have mentioned the silphium. Now it’s all I can think about.
There’s another rustling sound a few doors down from where we stand. Ronan tenses at my side, his hands up and ready to strike.
Then, there’s a commotion: a flurry of wings and a cacophony of terrified screeches and squawks. From the eaves, a black bird with subtly iridescent feathers swoops and dives at a smaller grey bird with long wings. They appear to be fighting over a small, shadowed hole beneath a window ledge.
It’s a vicious fight. The smaller bird can’t untangle itself from the black bird’s talons, can’t escape the relentless pecking of its yellow beak. Feathers fly in unnatural whorls, drifting to the ground as the smaller bird twists and turns, its efforts only tightening the black bird’s grip.
Ronan races towards the battling birds, caution be damned. He shouts, arms raised, and the black bird shrieks in protest but finally flutters off. The grey bird lies awkwardly on the window ledge, its breathing shallow and labored, too hurt to even attempt to escape.
I approach Ronan slowly, on the lookout for any more surprises hiding in the shadows. When I reach him, his handsare cradling the injured bird, his fingertips bathing it in soft, golden light.
He’s healing it.
I watch in amazement as the beak wounds on its back, its neck, its eyes close in only moments. The bird, now whole again, pauses for a moment in confusion, unsure what to make of being helped rather than hurt.
I understand its feeling. It has no context for its situation. There’s nothing in nature that can do what Ronan did for it, nothing in nature but violence and survival. It doesn’t know to be grateful. It flits away, frightened, but it doesn’t go far. It perches near the roofline as Ronan approaches the gap in the wall they fought over.
A little woolen nest woven with bits of straw, leaves, and lint is hanging from the cavity, half broken. There are two cracked white eggs inside, each about the size of a gold coin.
“Damn,” says Ronan as he sees them, shaking his head. They’re beyond saving. Then he leans forward and picks up something from the ground beneath the nest.
