Breath of Winter, A (21 page)

I blanched at the mental image of Farrow’s cub used as kindling, then shoved that retched thought aside. Only fools showed weakness around predators, and our arrival had caught our ward’s eye.

Or perhaps it was the scent of fresh meat drawing her closer to the bars.

“She’s coming down,” I said to Henri.

Without paying her any obvious attention, he said, “Pretend you haven’t noticed.”

None of the others spared her a glance. They must be used to the rules of engagement I was learning. From the edge of my vision, I saw her hands wrap around the bars and her head bobble. He stopped outside her grasp, near enough to give her hope she might skewer a steak with her claws.

Still avoiding eye contact, Henri addressed her. “I brought something for you.”

“Food. Yes,” she chirruped. “I smell meat. Give it to me.”

He teased her by lifting the corner of the topmost steak. “I want to ask you a question first.”

“Told you. This. What I know.
On gilded wings, she comes.
”

“Who comes?” he asked. “Who is she?”

Our ward shook her head. “Told you.”

“You don’t know who she is, do you?”

Her talons clacked. “Give me meat.”

“Not until you tell me what I want to know.” He exposed a second steak. “Who is she?”

“On gilded wings—” she tugged her wing out beside her, “—she comes.”

Pity I had long denied bubbled to the surface. “She doesn’t know, Henri. Let her be.”

“You don’t. I know.” She hissed at me. “She comes. You will be sorry. When she comes.”

“Get on with it, Henri,” Braden urged. “You’ll just piss her off poking at her.”

A glance from Henri quieted the male, but Braden wasn’t happy to have been hushed.

Henri spoke to our ward again. “Will you tell me when she comes?”

“Food now.” She reached through the bars. “Talk later.”

“Once your stomach is full, you will go to sleep,” Henri chastised her. “I know better now.”

Girlish laughter frothed from her lips. “Smart boy.”

“I try.” Henri smiled for her. “Will you tell me?”

“Like you.” She clutched the bars. “Think I will tell you.”

“I would appreciate that very much.” From the plate, he lifted a raw hunk of meat.

Our ward’s mouth watered. “Hungry.”

“I know.” He tossed the treat to her, and her pointed, yellow teeth shredded it with relish.

“Glad I haven’t eaten,” Braden muttered.

“Quiet,” I warned him, though I had thought the same. At least I had the sense not to say it.

“Want more.” Our ward licked down her palm then sucked her fingers. “
More.
”

“There are risers in Erania.” He waited for her to respond. She didn’t. She began chewing on her nails. “Do you know what those are? The bodies your kind brings back to life with your song?”

Our ward shoved her arms through the bars.

“Have you heard of the yellow death?” he continued. “The southland scourge?”

She alternated whimpering and hissing at him. “Can’t reach.”

“Tell me something new.” Henri stepped back. “Then you can have another treat.”

I sniffed the plate. “Put a little flame on that, and I wouldn’t mind having one myself.”

Behind Henri, I heard the rustle of wings. Bare feet slapped on the floor of our ward’s cell. She kept on pacing until, with a snarl, she threw herself at the bars. The profanity she spewed was nothing in my vocabulary, except
Zuri
. It figured she would put in the effort of learning my name.

Giving up on her doing more than pitching yet another tantrum, I shrugged at Henri. “We tried.”

“Listen.” He cocked his head. “Do you hear that?”

It started with a low hum, a steady note held in the back of our ward’s throat that chilled me.

The longer she held the note, the more impossible it became to ignore. The sound compelled me to grasp my wheels and venture closer. I licked my lips and tasted her hungers on my tongue.

It repelled me, shocked and paralyzed me. It startled me from a daze and left me sickened.

“What’s wrong?” Henri’s voice was low, his gaze sliding to our ward as he spoke.

“Do you feel it?” I swiped my hands down my arms. “Her song is—it’s sticky on my skin.”

He eased closer to me. “It’s all in your mind.”

There for a moment, he looked as worried for me as I felt. “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know.” He shifted so his foot blocked the nearest wheel to prevent me from rolling.

A quick glimpse at my brothers proved they were also affected. Both males stared openly at our ward. I glanced back at her and saw the wicked glint in her eyes when she curled her fingers for her captive audience. Braden leaned against the hatch as he had the entire time. He kept his eyes shut tight, his chin tucked to his chest and his hands stuck beneath his arms.

I couldn’t tell if his reaction was that strong or if his preparation to resist was that thorough.

If it was preparation, had this happened before? What did it mean? What was she trying to do?

Henri set the plate on a low table, ending their session. “You need to stop now.”

Furious at his dismissal of her performance, our ward screeched until we covered our ears.

When I snarled at her, she preened. No. It was Henri she was looking at. It was him she meant to impress with her tantrum. Mercy be. She was infatuated. Did she honestly believe that deafening him was flirtatious?

Given our full attention, our ward began her song again. Her soft hum transformed into high notes that swelled to fill the bastille. My ears vibrated with music until my bones ached from her keening crescendo. Her voice was not Araneaean, her words as alien as her wings and claws, but the heartbreaking loss concealed in her tune shredded my soul, exposing my every sorrow to her whims.

This was it. This was how the harbingers lured souls from the brink. By promising them the respite found only in death. It was a cruel lie, a vicious betrayal to summon a soul and tether it in a body that was rotting. No peace was found there. No rest awarded to the dead. No. She sung her lies, and all those plague-riddled corpses bought into the integrity in her words and they rose to serve her.

Years from now, I would recall this day as the moment I recognized the power of the Necrita.

They were necromancers, shaping their race from the ashes of ours. In each clan there were those who eschewed the old ways, the old gods, those who spoke of evolution and pondered distant Araneaeans past who might have lacked our silk or our venom. Never had I given those wild notions credence. Even in my anger for my brothers, never had I truly doubted the existence of my gods. But never had I witnessed an act such as this, one that defied all the rules and beliefs I held as absolutes.

If such distant cousins of ours had ever existed, what would they have thought if confronted with an Araneaean? What would those poor creatures have thought if we trapped them in silk bonds and sank fangs deep in their throats? What would their final thoughts be as the venom ate them from the inside out? How could they look upon us and our skills with anything less than abject horror?

Today I knew how they would have felt, if such frail creatures had ever existed. Right now I understood what it was to stand in the presence of a superior being and marvel at its terrifying glory.

I knew now what it was to realize the full scope of what we—as a fractured nation—faced.

As it turned out, I had kept my faith closer to my heart than I realized.

And while the harbinger sang, I prayed the gods granted us mercy.

Eardrums pounding, I met our ward’s eyes. “That’s enough.”

Her eyes narrowed while she sang on, her voice soaring to a deafening pitch.

“Keep this up and Henri will never feed you.” I winced. “Don’t you want to eat?”

She didn’t stop. I hadn’t really expected her to.

Nothing in life was that easy. Not in my life at least.

“Zuri,” Henri said.

Our ward didn’t care for that at all. Her forehead bounced off the bars from the force of her charge. Her arms shot through the gaps, hands raking the air in my direction. Spittle flew past her lips. I eased out of range, careful to avoid any of her saliva touching me where I might have cuts.

If a riser bite caused plague, I had to believe a harbinger’s spit would too.

As her fists clenched over empty air, her roar stunned me until warmth trickled down my throat.

My ears were bleeding, and I wasn’t the only one.

“Stop this,” I demanded.

Her response was to increase her volume until spots swam in my vision.

Giving up on the idea of negotiating with her, I spun silk plugs for my ears and shoved them in hard enough I grimaced, then directed the others to do the same as well. The peace in my head was sublime, but how long we could withstand her tantrum without vacating the bastille remained to be seen. Short of slapping my hand over her mouth, which wasn’t about to happen, I was out of ideas.

I used the one weapon left to me—her name.

“Stop this,” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Lailah, you will stop this now.”

At the sound of her name, Lailah did what I had warned Henri she would do.

She flew into an even greater rage, springing into the air and ramming her head into the rock ceiling of her cage, falling to the ground and thrashing, kicking her legs, scratching at her wings.

While she flailed, she kept right on screaming. The more furious she became, the more her wailing began to press on my head like a grape her horrid voice could smash between its octaves.

As quickly as her fervor began, it ended. Even with the silk in my ears, they rang in the silence of the small room. I shook my head, and I would have sworn my eyes bounced in my skull.

Never in my life had I experienced such stabbing pain in my head, my eyes, my ears.

Shaking my head had been a very bad idea.

A worse idea was Henri’s.

He approached the cage with his arms out and hands held up for her inspection. I hoped he had kept his blowpipe up his sleeve. Since he hadn’t used a dart to quiet her yowling, he must either be reluctant to or had tried before and the poison didn’t work on her.

The way her head cocked right, the pop of her bottom lip, told me he was talking to her. Afraid of what he might do, I pulled the stoppers from my ears and was met with the eerie and absolute silence inside the bastille.

“Shh,” he said softly. “It’s all right. Hush.”

“Lailah,” she repeated.

“That is your name.” He stood dangerously close. “Do you remember that?”

“No.” She shook her head until mine began hurting again. “Not her. Not me.”

“It is a pretty name.” He studied her. “It seems a shame to waste it.”

In a soft voice, she said, “Bad name hurts.” She touched her chest. “Right here.”

“Then we won’t use it again,” he promised. “What do you want to be called?”

Wings aflutter, she crooned, “Zuri.”

“That’s my name.” Sensitive as my ears were, I flinched from my snappish tone.

Lailah pressed her face to the bars and smiled as prettily as she could for me. “Mine.”

“We have had this discussion before.” Henri held firm. “You must pick a different name.”

With a huff, she turned her back on us. “I like Zuri.”

“I’m glad to know you care, but it’s my name and you can’t have it.” I rubbed my forehead. “It would confuse Henri if there were two Zuris running around, not to mention the second world isn’t ready for there to be two of me.” Figuring using Henri was the best ploy, I added, “It would make Henri very sad if he couldn’t tell us apart. You don’t want to make him unhappy, do you?”

Lailah pointed at me. “Change yours.”

While I gritted my teeth until my jaw popped, Henri eased between us, breaking our eye contact long enough for her to scoop something off the floor of her cell. She held it up for my inspection.

It couldn’t be. “How did you…?”

Henri’s spine stiffened. “Who gave that to you?”

The mosaic pitcher, the one so fond of reappearing in my room, the one I had drunk from countless times, was clutched in her hand. My stomach knotted. Coincidence. I didn’t believe in them. I scanned the faces of those who had spent the most time with her, those who might be at risk.

Braden was rubbing his face. Malik was frowning at the pitcher. Fynn, he was smiling.

I choked out his name. “Fynn?”

“She figured it out,” a silky voice cooed. “Finally.”

My head snapped toward our ward, who lounged against the bars.

Gone was her wild-eyed look. Our harbinger’s gaze was—not crazed—but cold and assessing.

The tension in my gut twisted. I approached Lailah. “What have you done to him?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself? Oh, I forgot.” She tittered. “He doesn’t talk.”