Excerpt
Songbird of the Sorrows
Chapter 1
I was born dead.
Before the gods saw fit to grant me life. Before my mother surrendered her soul to save mine.
Perhaps it was my first dance with death that made me so reckless. Maybe it choreographed my perception of life itself. Propelling me toward choices others—in their sanity—would avoid.
But even I have to admit, this was a terrible idea. It may be the worst idea I’ve ever conjured up.
My arms tremble from the strain of the aether trying to force my body back toward solid ground, and my fingers ache as I dig them deeper into the crevices between the stones and mortar. A trickle of sweat trails down my spine, pooling at the base of my back, another tickling its way down my heated forehead.
I ignore it all, straining as I pull myself higher.
One hand over the other.
One steadying breath after the last.
I am strong enough for this.
The wind caresses my body as I cling to the side of the tower. Not a threat to make me fall, but a promise to catch me if I do. The sensation is reassuring, but as the toe of my sandal slips from my newest foothold, my heart still jumps to my throat.
I draw in a deep breath, tightening my grip on the wall. With every ounce of determination I possess, I bring my body closer, my foot frantically seeking another dent in the surface. The rush of my blood thunders through my ears with each drawn-out moment, until my sandal notches into place. Cautiously, I lean into it, testing the crack with my weight to be sure it will hold. When it does, I breathe a sigh of relief, leaning my forehead against the sun-warmed stone.
It’s not the height that scares me. It’s not even the risk of falling. It’s the fact that I’m running out of time.
Do not be seen.
That was the order.
Scaling one of the tallest towers in the Sorrows may not be the most effective strategy—unless you know its secrets as well as I do.
Every day as the sun sets and the afternoon light hits this same wall, its white-painted bricks light up like a beacon. If you try looking at it too hard—or too long—your eyes water, and your vision will blur. It’s almost impossible to watch, and even more unlikely to spot a lone figure clinging to its side. The white linen clothing I wear only adds to my camouflage.
But neither of those things will prove to be helpful if this takes too long. The sun will soon set, and with it, my opportunity.
With that sobering thought, I turn my gaze up toward the seventh-floor window a short distance above me. The arched shutters are thrown open, inviting the evening breeze inside. I fight the victorious smile attempting to break free and assess the cracks that stand out like blackened scars against stone, mapping the rest of my upward journey.
And then I move.
It takes a few moments to reach the window ledge, and the white glow of the tower fades with each fervent beat of my heart. Still, I pause, closing my eyes and listening for any sounds within.
Beautiful silence.
Exhaling, I clutch the ledge with one hand, then the other. My stomach flutters as my feet come away from the wall, and I hoist myself up to get a visual.
The soft glow of the sun shining over my shoulder bathes the room, causing the sparse furniture within to mask the corners in darkness. Three men in the center cast the longest shadows, their focus on the door in front of them as they wait in silence.
I recognize the man in the middle. With his close-cropped hair, lean form standing tall, and arms clasped behind his back, Master Bittern looks like a soldier standing at attention. I’m unfamiliar with the other two. But the white robes they wear tell me it’s because they spend most of their time hiding away in the archives.
They have laid out an assortment of bags and satchels in front of them, with the contents spilling across the polished surface of a heavy cypress desk. A quick count of the satchels confirms I’m not the last one to arrive.
Thank Notos.
Arms trembling, I haul myself up, biting my lip to suppress a grunt of exertion as it tries to push past my throat. With a quick swipe of my sleeve, I wipe the sweat from my face and settle into position on the windowsill, one leg bent while the other dangles over the edge as I lean my back against the stone wall.
A perfect picture of nonchalance.
It’s not until I untie the bag from my belt, making the items within clink together, that the three men whirl around. I refrain from rolling my eyes at the astonished stares of the two in white robes, keeping them trained on the authority in the room instead.
“Nice of you to join us, Fledgling.” The words rasp from his throat, sending a familiar shiver up my spine, and my eyes dip toward the jagged seam of pale skin around his neck.
Master Bittern is a legend within the order. The story of his near capture in the North is the most popular tale whispered about in the safety of the shadows. Rumors say he faced off against a group of ten Arkhadian soldiers on his own, and during the skirmish, he received his vicious neck wound. While it had failed to take his life, the struggle had damaged his vocal cords beyond repair, and when he finally made it back to the Sorrows, he took up the mantle of training new recruits instead.
The spymaster strolls forward, leaning past me to gaze out the window. His brows rise as he looks down—so subtly I question whether I witnessed it—but his face remains otherwise impassive.
“One might think you have a death wish, Aella.” He says my name so softly, I doubt the others hear it. Still, my eyes flick nervously toward them.
Only a select few individuals within the Aviary know my true name. So few, in fact, I can count the number of people trusted with the truth on one hand.
Once I’m satisfied the other men haven’t overheard, I reply, “It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, Master.”
I doubt it will be the last.
Master Bittern hums under his breath, and I don’t have a chance to consider the dimming glow in my chest before he swipes the pouch from my hand, upending the contents into his waiting palm.
Out falls a gold-tipped black quill, a heavy golden chain with a circular pendant, and a sharp throwing knife. Master Bittern selects the knife first, holding it up for everyone in the room to see. Somewhere behind me, a quill scratches against parchment, but I keep my eyes fixed on the man in front of me.
“One of Master Hawk’s throwing blades,” I say, tilting my head toward the serrated strokes carved into the steel handle.
M. H.
The weapons master values his blades above all else. I’d heard of at least three others who attempted to steal one during their final trials over the past few years. My success today was more thanks to Master Hawk being distracted by preparations for an assignment than a testament to my skill.
Master Bittern inclines his head, passing the knife to the white-robed man hovering behind him. When he turns back, he selects the pendant, letting the thick chain dangle from his fingertips.
The circular amulet twirls, catching the rays of sunlight streaming through the window and casting them around the room. It spins back toward me, revealing the four-pointed star sitting above a downward-pointing triangle etched into its surface.
“The sýmvolo of the High Priest of Notos,” I offer, a hint of smugness staining my words.
I can’t help it. The man rarely takes it off, and it had taken weeks of observation to mark the times he did so. Yet another week to have a perfect replica of the amulet forged to replace it with.
Master Bittern raises a brow at me. The movement on his usually stoic face tells me he also knows the precise moments the High Priest removes his sýmvolo. I wince as images of the temple’s bathhouse crash through my mind—steam curling from the water failing to conceal miles of aging flesh.
My wince morphs into a shudder.
As he did with the throwing knife, the spymaster passes the pendant and chain to his offsider without a word, and then only one object remains.
The quill.
Master Bittern’s expression doesn’t change. His eyes, however, pierce mine with an intensity that makes my heart pound, and my palms grow slick with sweat. But at twenty-three, I’ve learned how to hold my nerve. To keep my hands steady, my voice even, my face unreadable—no matter how hard my heart beats.
“A quill,” I start, steeling myself before I go on, “from the Eagle’s office.”
Parchment tears, the sound stark against the now-thick silence of the room. On the edge of my vision, the other man’s eyes widen, followed by an owlish blink. In the distant recesses of my mind, I note how apt the small motion is.
The gold-tipped black quill gleams in Master Bittern’s hand as he turns it over, inspecting it under the glimmer of light. His face is stoic, but his dark eyes reveal flickers of something deeper—approval, perhaps, or intrigue.
“You made it elegant,” he says at last, his voice rough but contemplative. “Most would have grabbed the nearest artifact and scrambled back like frightened mice. But this”—he holds up the quill again, offering it for all to see—“this is a whisper, subtle and deliberate. It speaks volumes without shouting.”
