Shamil duly pressed a finger to the curved piece of iron on the side of the helmet and found himself confronted by the irregular and colourful mass of an old burn mark on Ehlias’s forehead.

  “Fine-ground curved glass,” he said. “Gives you about three times the sight you’d normally have. Can’t match the birds, of course, but it might let you see a Maw beast before it gets close enough to sink its teeth into your throat. Good for spotting vehlgard on the ground too.”

  The third set of lenses rendered the smith’s workshop a shadowy alcove of deep shadows, transforming the glimmer of his oil lamp into a faint pinprick of light. “Powdered obsidian mixed into standard glass when it’s melted,” Ehlias said. “Protects the eyes from blinding light, and it can get awful bright when the crystal-heads start flying.”

  They had only an hour to accustom themselves to the helms before Tihla came to ask them a question that had become a daily ritual after their fourth visit to the nest. Shamil had expected some measure of satisfaction, perhaps even a small glimmer of pride, when he gave his answer only to receive a frown of deep skepticism in response.

  “You ready?” the Second Wing asked. “There’s no doubt?”

  Shamil didn’t allow his gaze to linger on Tihla’s frown, replying with a firm nod and as much certainty as he could muster. “Kaitlahr now accepts food from my hand and has allowed me to touch him. I feel the bond.”

  “Enough to name him, apparently.”

  “Yes. It means ‘golden storm’ in the ancient tongue of my homeland . . .”

  “I don’t care what it means, fledgling. Neither does your bird. Naming them is our custom, one we adopted long ago, but only when we’re sure they’ve accepted us as riders.” She stepped closer, brow creasing further. “There’s no shame in waiting,” she told him, voice pitched far below her usual stridency. “Build the bond over weeks, months if that’s what it takes, if it’s truly there. The leap is not to be taken lightly. If you fall, you fall, and you’ve seen the bones of those that judged this wrong.”

  Shamil’s hesitation was brief, but he knew she saw it. The bird he had named Kaitlahr was the same huge but youthful fire wing that had consented to accept his offered meat during his first foray into the nest. In truth, it was the only bird that continued to do so, and despite his claims, Shamil felt no real connection to the creature. He saw occasional glimmers of scrutiny in Kaitlahr’s eyes, and he hadn’t lied when he said the bird had allowed him a touch, but only once and for no more than a second before flaring its wings and launching itself into the gloomy recesses of the nest. Nevertheless, he clung to the notion that the fire wing had accepted him and would do what was required when he leapt. Rignar’s words had left little doubt in his mind that his chance to win his disc would shortly arrive, and the prospect of failing to grasp it held more terrors even than the leap.

  “He accepts me,” Shamil insisted. “It’s time.”

  He felt Lyvia shift at his side, a brief fidget of discomfort he assumed came from biting down contradictory words. She had been with him during every visit to the nest, the blue falcon she had befriended perched close to the entrance in eager anticipation of her arrival, whilst Shamil considered himself fortunate if Kaitlahr deigned to snatch meat from his hand.

  “And you?” Tihla turned to Lyvia. “Named your falcon yet?”

  “Vintress,” Lyvia replied promptly. “‘North wind’ in the elder script.” She paused to shoot an uncertain glance at Shamil, which he ignored. “We are also ready,” Lyvia said, straightening.

  “All right, then. I’ll tell the mage and the First Wing.” Tihla swept a hand through her tight braids, a rare expression of uncertainty that did much to stir the roiling in Shamil’s stomach.

  “Be there at noon.” Both he and Lyvia were unable to contain a flinch of surprise as the Second Wing forced a smiled onto her lips. “Give you time to settle anything that needs settling.”

  She turned and strode off without another word, leaving a thick silence in her wake, which Lyvia eventually broke in a careful, hesitant tone.

  “Shamil . . .”

  “No!” he said, voice flat and hard as he walked away. “I’m ready. It’s time.”

  The beam they would leap from was twelve feet long and aligned so that it pointed directly at Sharrow-Met’s statue. Shamil found himself grateful for this as it gave his eyes something to fix on instead of straying continually to the ground far below. It was a clear day, and the space between summit and earth was for once free of clouds, allowing an uninterrupted view of what awaited him. He had heard that it was common for those who found themselves falling from great heights to expire out of fright before ever hitting the bottom and harboured a fervent if doubtful hope that it might be true.

  Before addressing the gathered sentinels, Morgath Durnholm walked to the end of the beam with as confident a stride as if he were mere inches from the ground. When he spoke, it was in a booming voice full of grave authority, the kind of voice Shamil knew had once commanded ships to terrible deeds in distant seas.

  “Four centuries ago,” the First Wing called out, “this band was founded by the redeemed Wraith Queen herself. Here she ordained a place of service where even the most wretched and disgraced could come to regain their honour. And what honour we have won, my friends. What battles we have fought. None of us came here with clean hands, certainly not I, but never did I witness the face of true evil until I came to the Eyrie. For there,” his finger lanced out to stab at the Maw, “lurks the purest malice, the greatest threat to all that is good in this world. Our duty is a sacred one that requires the utmost commitment, for we do not serve here alone. Our service requires alliance with the greatwings, for without them our sacred duty cannot be fulfilled. Their trust was won long ago and must be maintained by every soul who seeks restored honour in our ranks. Today, three new fledglings come to win that trust, and I, as First Wing of the Sentinel Eyrie, profess myself humbled by their act.”

  He fell silent to an appreciative murmur from the other sentinels. Shamil had noted during the nightly gatherings that they were not a group given to overt displays of emotion or acclaim, but still, he took comfort from the many encouraging and approving glances turned his way.

  “Tihla,” Morgath said, extending a hand to the Second Wing. “Sound the horn!”

  Tihla duly raised a large, curved horn derived from some huge beast beyond Shamil’s experience. Putting it to her lips, she blew a long, grinding note that echoed around the Eyrie until an answering chorus came from the nest. The greatwings emerged from the many portals in a rush, screeching out their response to the summons as they swooped down. Shamil felt a fresh lurch in his gut at seeing Kaitlahr amongst them, flying alongside Vintress.

  The birds angled their wings to form a circling flock a dozen yards above the beam, their cries dying away to herald the descent of a palpable hush. Shamil saw the encouragement fade from the faces of the sentinels as the silence persisted, replaced by the closed tension of those who had seen death many times and expected to see it again shortly.

  “Rignar Banlufsson!” Morgath called out, striding from the beam to the cliff top. “Come forward!”

  Rignar stirred at Shamil’s side, pausing to grasp his shoulder, a frown of resigned determination on his brow, before making his way to the beam. Morgath held up a hand when Rignar placed his foot on the timber, speaking in a quieter but no less purposeful tone.

  “Know that even now you may choose to step away. Your service will still be welcome here, bird or no.”

  Rignar nodded with a grimace of thanks, then buckled on his helm and took a deliberate step onto the beam. His progress along its length was far less confident than Morgath’s, moving with his arms outstretched to maintain his balance and eyes locked firmly ahead. Reaching the end, the mage straightened, raising his face to the sky, chest swelling as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Then he leapt.

  The owl that caught him moved so fast Rignar’s salvation had been secured before he fell more than a few feet. The bird he had named Kritzlasch folded its wings to plummet down, voicing a screech as its talons enfolded the mage. It bore him up with a few beats of its wings, depositing him none too gently on one of the tiered rises before coming to rest on the tall perch sprouting from its summit. Rignar got unsteadily to his feet, raising a hand in a tremulous wave that drew a short-lived laugh from the sentinels.

  “We welcome Rignar Banlufsson, Master Mage, to the ranks of the Sentinel Eyrie!” Morgath called out before turning to the two younger fledglings. “Lyvia Gondarik, come forward!”

  Lyvia hesitated before walking to the beam, but Shamil saw no fear in her, only concern. “Please,” she whispered, leaning close to him. “Don’t do this.”

  Turning away she strode to the beam and nodded her way impatiently through Morgath’s final warning before making smooth, unfaltering progress from the cliff to the beam’s tip. Her face was a picture of serenity as she donned her helm, spread her arms, and toppled into the void.

  Vintress shot from the circle of birds in a blur of blue, catching Lyvia just as her feet slipped from the beam. The falcon twisted, depositing Lyvia onto her back and letting out a cry that pained the ears in its joyful triumph. Instead of bearing Lyvia to one of the perches, Vintress swept back up to rejoin the whirling spiral of greatwings.

  “We welcome Lyvia Gondarik to the ranks of the Sentinel Eyrie!” Morgath proclaimed, voice fading and gaze taking on a severe cast as he turned it on the last remaining fledgling. “Shamil L’Estalt, come forward!”

  Shamil had thought this moment would be shorn of terror, his fears quelled by the depth of his determination. However, it was on weak legs and with a thumping heart that he approached the beam. He listened to Morgath’s final warning with sweat beading his brow and soaking his back, the First Wing’s words seemingly spoken from a very great distance; a vague, meaningless echo.

  “Not all are destined to rediscover their honour amongst our ranks . . . There are many troubled corners of the world where so stout and skilled a warrior could redeem himself . . .”

  Shamil stood as still as his traitorous legs would allow, waiting for Morgath to fall silent, his gaze tracking from the beam to the far-off statue and back again.

  “Young man.” Morgath’s grip bit hard into his shoulder, commanding his attention. “This is not a game . . .”

  “I know!” Shamil cut in. He spoke in a harsh, defiant growl, anger burning its way through his terror. Anger at Morgath for the effortless authority he commanded, at Tihla for the harsh indifference of her tutelage, at Rignar for his riddles, and shamefully, at Lyvia for the ease with which she had won her bird’s trust. Ever since his disgrace at the Doctrinate, it seemed the world contrived to deny him everything, and now this pirate turned peerless leader would refuse him even the chance of a decent end.

  “A death suffered in search of honour is itself honourable,” Shamil added, turning away. They were words spoken by Lore Mistress Ishala, a small, stooped old woman with eyes misted into blindness by age. Behind them lay a memory crammed with all the history her long life had allowed her to accrue. It was from her that he had learned of the Eyrie, and it had been her who pointed him on this sojourn. Disgrace such as yours is the worst kind, she had told him, lips formed into a kind but sad smile, for it comes from within, not without, and I know of only one place in this world where such a curse can be lifted . . .

  “If I can’t be redeemed in battle,” he said, straightening his back, “I’ll be redeemed in death.”

  “No.” Morgath’s features took on a sorrowful cast, as he stepped back and his hand slipped from Shamil’s shoulder. “Death is just death, son. It’s what you leave behind that matters.”

  Despite his evident reluctance, the First Wing made no effort to stop Shamil as he walked to the end of the beam and raised his eyes to the swirl of birds above. He found Kaitlahr easily, the fire wing’s silhouette was the largest amongst the throng and, Shamil saw in a welter of hope, flying below the others. Many thoughts flickered through his mind as he lowered his gaze to the great statue rising from the smoke in the distance: the faces of the aunt and uncle who had raised him, the stone monuments to the parents slain in the raptor-wars when he was barely out of the cradle, the many hardships and occasional triumphs of life in the Doctrinate, but most of all . . .

  . . . it’s eyes stared up at him as he raised his blades, eyes full of knowledge that shouldn’t be there, eyes that dimmed as he brought the daggers down, striking true, striking deep . . .

  Shamil leapt, not the arms-wide fall of Rignar or Lyvia, but a true leap. His legs propelled him from the beam, and he turned in the air, gazing up at the circling birds, a circle that shrank far more quickly than he had thought possible, the greatwings continuing to whirl in serene disregard of the human plummeting below. Before the circle became just a vague smudge against the pale blue of the sky, he fancied he saw Kaitlahr swoop lower, but it may have been just a final imagined flare of hope from a mind only seconds from death.

  All the air rushed from Shamil’s lungs in an instant as something slammed into his side. The world disappeared into a sudden reddish haze as he attempted to breathe, finding his chest too tightly gripped to allow it. He had time to reflect on the oddness of the ground impacting his side rather than his back before full blackness descended.

  8

  The Voice Awakened

  He woke gasping. Sweet, chilly air flooded his throat and lungs, birthing a peculiar kind of ecstasy unique to survival. Tears rendered his vision a liquid blur of blue and black that cleared as he wept, shame and relief rising in equal measure. When the last tear fell, he found himself staring at the pale oval of Lyvia’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to.”

  She sat close to him on a ledge he recognised from their ascent to the Eyrie, Shamil guessing they were about halfway to the bottom. Vintress was perched on an outcrop some yards away, beak and talons busily rending a goat carcass to pieces. Lyvia coughed when he gave no response, forcing a weak smile as she turned to her bird. “She’s so fast. Hard to believe a living creature could move so swiftly . . .”

  “You should have let me fall.” He spoke in a flat tone, lacking accusation or force, but still, he saw how deep the words stung her.

  “I couldn’t . . .” She shivered, hugging herself tight, keeping her gaze averted. “I’ve seen too many friends die, Shamil. Stood and watched and did nothing as they were led to the gallows, one by one. All my friends. Girls I laughed with when we played as children, gossiped with as we grew older. Boys I bickered with constantly and, as childhood faded, would sometimes kiss, only to bicker even more.”

  A smile of fond recollection passed over her face, but it faded quickly. “They all died,” she went on. “And I watched, standing at my family’s side on the balcony overlooking the great square in Mira-Vielle, even though I was just as guilty as they. I watched them all die the traitor’s death. I told you some of it before, but not all.

  “The Revenantist cult rose and fell, as I said, but its fall birthed an idea amongst the nobility’s youth. We were a commendably earnest lot in some respects, filled with righteous anger at our families and their endless hoarding of power and wealth. Of course, some amongst us revelled in their privilege, whilst others hearkened to our expensive lessons and the many books we read. There was a boy . . .” She lowered her face, her expression alternating between the sadness and remembered joy Shamil knew came only from recalling a lost love. “A young man, Crucio. My young man, in fact. He was the only person I met who had read more books than I, and the only one who looked upon this face and saw more than just the image of a vanished legend. He burned with a need for change, a desire to sweep away the corruption and inequality that surrounded us. We would feed the poor, give succour to the sick and the helpless, but to do that we would need to learn from the success and failures of the Revenantists. They had promised salvation in Sharrow-Met’s return, but that had never come. But we, the heralds of a new age, could make it happen, in me.”

  Shamil righted himself, feeling the many aches that resulted from having been snatched out of the air by a blue falcon. Groaning, he shifted closer to Lyvia, peering intently at her face and seeing it anew. Suddenly, the reasons for her sharp aversion to comparisons with her forebear became plain.

  “You were going to pretend to be her,” he said. “Sharrow-Met reborn.”

  “It was Crucio’s idea, of course. I would be the vessel for her returned soul, for who would doubt it when a woman wearing this face spoke her words? We would proclaim the Wraith Queen’s return and raise the people to tear down the decadent shell that Mara-Vielle had become. But first, some hard measures had to be taken. My face and Sharrow-Met’s ancient words would not be enough. The noble houses would not simply stand aside for the new generation, and no coup is ever bloodless.”

  Her hand moved to the sling on her belt, both fists grasping the narrow leather strap, pulling it taut. “My mother taught me the sling,” Lyvia said. “As her mother taught her. The lessons began the day I took my first step and never ended. I barely recall a day I wasn’t in my mother’s company. I had nurses, tutors, and maids, but Mother was always there, and I never doubted her love. Crucio told me to poison her at dinner the night before our great rebellion. And my father, and my aunt and uncle who were visiting that week. And our chief retainer, for senior servants of the decadent regime could never be trusted. We had a very long list, you see?”

  Her hands bunched together, tight enough for the knuckles to turn bone white. “It was the list that stopped me. There were so many names. So many people I knew and loved. I just . . . couldn’t.” Her hands relaxed as she let out a long, weary sigh. “So, I took my copy of the list to my mother, who took it to my father. By morning they were building the gallows in the great square.