Page 55

“I can order a replacement,” Emerie offered, returning to her ledger. “It wouldn’t arrive until Samhain, though. The vendor I use is skilled, but slow.”

Az didn’t touch the sheath, or the dark-hilted blade within. More than five centuries ago, he’d returned from the Blood Rite to this very village bearing this knife. That day of triumph, when he and his brothers had so stupidly thought they’d proved their worth to the Illyrian assholes who’d tormented them for years, had turned into one of confusion. Shame. But first they’d won, touching the monolith atop Ramiel before sunrise on the final day of the Rite.

When they’d emerged into Windhaven, Az had found the knife, with its strange black hilt and matching blade, in his hand. It hadn’t seemed Made, hadn’t even pulsed with magic, but it was different. He could feel it. The other Illyrians could, too, demanding to know what it was, where he got it, when weapons were banned from the Rite.

He shouldn’t have been surprised by their loathing and fear when he explained that it had appeared in his hand when he touched the monolith, as if Ramiel itself had gifted it to him. And then, later, when it had become clear that both he and Cassian would require Siphons to handle their power, when Az had reached into the vat of sacred flames to draw out his Siphon, and instead had been appointed by the Mother to draw seven blue stones . . . Az blocked out the memory of the Illyrians’ pure hatred for him—he’d already thought of it too much in recent days.

He’d borne several sheaths through the centuries. This one, black leather so worn it had paled in spots, had lasted the longest.

“It’s fine,” he found himself saying. Like hell would he give the knife a new sheath, like a reward for its treachery. “Thank you, though.”

Emerie didn’t respond, and he swiftly exited.

The bitter wind slapped his face as he stepped onto the muddy track. To his left lay the heart of the village, where Cassian was explaining the new patrol routes to Devlon for the tenth time, as the warriors yesterday seemed to have forgotten what east and west meant. And to his right was a pine forest. Empty. Frigid as hell, but no one would be out amongst the trees.

The average Illyrian warrior avoided being under the canopy, as it inhibited flight, but they valued the groves of pines, birches, and aspens in Illyria for firewood and housing. It was as close to true farming as the Illyrians came, beyond the few plots and fields they tended for personal gardens: planting groves to replace ones they’d depleted, carefully selecting where and when to harvest the trees so they didn’t run out.

Even their small Autumn Equinox celebrations centered more on the trees than the bounties of the field. At Equinox sunrise, one great, old tree would be felled, its wood distributed to each family’s hearth for a sacred burning; at sunset, a sapling would be planted nearby, each family now spilling a ladle of water onto it to help it grow—and for luck.

Rhys had always said it was the Illyrians’ way of depicting the balance of life that the Equinox demanded they honor, but Az couldn’t help but note that of course their rituals involved the needless killing of a living thing.

But no matter the holiday tradition, the year-round forestry of the Illyrians at least left Azriel with plenty of quiet, empty places to roam. Even his shadows now gleefully scattered through the trees like hunting dogs bounding off into the wild. A sweet-fresh scent wrapped around him as he navigated the bone-dry carpet of pine needles, scraggly twigs snapping underneath his boots.

He’d walked this path so many times that he couldn’t help but wonder if its slender track was only because of him. Even after finding Cassian and Rhys, he’d needed the space, the time alone. He knew every rock, though the trees had changed quite a bit, and the streams had changed course more than a couple times over the centuries. But the smells, the air . . . they were familiar.

Familiar, but not beloved. This place—these people—would never be beloved by him.

Some days, most days, he loathed the warrior tattoos on him. Rhys and Cassian wore them proudly, but from the moment Azriel had them inked after the Blood Rite, he’d wanted them gone. Cass and Rhys had seen them as a mark of victory, of their triumph over all the shit they’d been put through for being different, for being better than the rest of these assholes—but for Az, they somehow felt like a brand.

He’d tried in battles and brawls to have his skin shredded apart. Had even deliberately taken a lance to the shoulder once, hoping it would destroy the tattoos. But they were inked with magic—that same strange magic that granted the most powerful Illyrians the ability to wield the Siphons, that kept the eternal fire burning atop that brazier year-round. That cut off their powers during the Blood Rite. So every time his skin was ripped apart, the tattoos healed along with the flesh.

He could have found some enchantress or mage to undo the magic, maybe even consulted that swaggering peacock Helion, but explaining to Rhys and Cass why he wanted them gone felt impossible. They’d be wounded by it, he knew.

Not that Rhys had given a shit about wounding him in the kitchens with Elain.

Az rolled his shoulders as the light between the trees brightened and the forest ended.

It might have gone on forever had the cliff not stopped it. The vantage from its edge revealed mountains, valleys, and hills crusted in miles and miles of conifers, interrupted only by gray stones and the occasional splatter of green meadow.

And far off, breaking like a shark’s fin on the horizon . . . Ramiel. Already, its barren gray sides were covered in snow. Even from so far away, the mountain seemed to stare back.

He’d beaten that mountain. Just as he’d beaten all the miserable warrior-assholes in Illyria.

He dragged a scarred hand through his hair, the silken strands catching on some of the rougher patches. As he lowered it back to his side, sunlight touched on his Siphon. He frowned down at the stone. It flickered with blue fire.

If there was any way to get rid of his seven Siphons, to toss them right back into the fire in that sacred vat, he would have trashed them along with his tattoos. Along with his shadows. His wings. And along with any trace of this place and these people lingering on his body and in his blood.

Sometimes he thought the hate might suffocate him. Being here, amongst these warriors, seeing what had been done to Emerie and so many other females . . . he could hardly stand it.

But war was coming—again. And whether he liked it or not, whether he hated these people or not, they’d need the Illyrians to fight. He’d need to work with them. Lead them, albeit under Cassian’s command.

He supposed the only good thing about heading into battle with them was watching so many of them die. Fewer spiteful, backward males to return here to produce more offspring exactly like them.

Azriel had never told Rhys or Cassian that awful thought. That during the Hybern War, he’d sometimes been glad to see the Illyrians piled dead around him, shredded to bits or screaming in pain. He’d disliked the reduction of fighters in their forces, of course, but he’d felt nothing when they lay dead or dying. Only a sort of contentment. Satisfaction.

He was a monster. He held Ramiel’s ancient stare, knowing the mountain believed this of him, too.

But wasn’t dying on the battlefield what these people wanted? Their greatest honor was to fall in combat. To die when they were old and happy and surrounded by loved ones was an affront. What sort of people wished for that? Lived like that?