Page 7 of With Wing And Claw

Gods, yes –sleep.

It was almost embarrassing how easily she staggered backwards, away from the gaping crater of the Labyrinth and thisnightmare conversation. But her mind latched on to the image of her bed – her own soft, safe bed – and at once she could no longer think of anything else, scheming and secrets be damned …

‘Thank you,’ she managed, numbly, not sure what she ought to be grateful for.

Then she was stumbling out of this broken hall, away from the former allies she’d doomed to chains, and the crowd of her enemies obediently parted around her.

The castle hadn’t changed since she’d been taken captive, and yet nothing about it still looked the same.

She trudged through the deserted marble corridors, past the splendid halls she knew so well, past the gilded doors and the velvet draperies and the shadowy alcoves, and each and every one of them looked as hollow as a stranger’s face. Behind her, the tumult in the bone hall slowly grew distant, then died away. It left only the quieter sounds of the island, the rushing of the sea and the howling of the hounds down in Faewood – none of them loud enough to drown out the haunted screech of her own unwelcome thoughts.

High Lady of the Crimson Court.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to scrub the sound of those words off her skin, the grimy, sticky feeling of them, the guilt and betrayal that only grew heavier as she staggered through the castle that could now be hers.

It wasn’thertitle – that was the problem. It belonged to the Mother, who’d ruled the empire from this seat as long as almost anyone remembered. It was a fact of life, the High Lady’s presence on this island, no more changeable than the fact that the sun rose in the east. And now the throne was gone, the bone hall had beensmashed to pieces, and what was left was a floundering court, like a ship without its captain … and Thysandra.

Traitor.

Winner.

All these years she’d dreamed someone,anyone, would finally acknowledge the sacrifices she’d made for the empire, that for once no one else would be credited for her own hard work … and now here it was, the recognition she’d sought, and it felt like a kick in the face. Her betrayal stung worse, somehow, now that she was profiting from it. If she’d simply been banished to the dungeons for the rest of her life …

Behind her, a door slammed.

A voice she vaguely recognised but couldn’t identify from this distance shouted, ‘Thysandra!’

Fuck.

Decisions made themselves in a single panicked heartbeat, the impulse of flight the only reflex still alive in her limbs. Without thinking, she lurched into the nearest room and shoved the door shut behind her wings, reflexively scanning her surroundings for threats and dangers. Some imperial archive, it turned out, mahogany filing cabinets rising to the ceiling around her. Not a place where anyone would look for her. Then again, not a place where she could safely take a nap, either.

Outside the room, the same voice shouted her name again. Who was it – Bereas? The volume gave the impression that the male on her trail was used to shouting across the full length of a racing track.

Had the Alliance allowed their other captives out of the bone hall as well?

Cursing under her breath, she made her way to the window on the other side of the room, drawing a smidge of red from her dress to make the glass vanish.Red for destruction.She didn’t have the blue at hand to heal the damage again, and couldn’t care much about it either; for the first time in weeks, she unfolded her wings, unable to suppress a groan at the cramped stiffness of her shoulder muscles.

Best to take the short route, then.

She clambered onto the windowsill as a handful of doors banged open close-by, her pursuer shouting her name once more. Beneathher, the cliff on which the castle was built descended steeply into the dizzying depths. The tangled, gnarled trees of Faewood stretched out beyond, running from the bare rocks all the way down to the southside beach – a sight that hadn’t made her wince for centuries, and yet on this cursed morning, she couldn’t even glance at it without remembering …

Father.

Wings clipped, legs broken, shouting her name again and again as they threw him to the snarling hounds below.

He should have known better than to betray us, Thysandra, the Mother had told her afterwards, so sweet and gentle, stroking her head as she sobbed in the High Lady’s lap.His death could not be avoided. But we won’t let him drag you down with him, sweetheart – we’ll find you something to do around the court …

And then after centuries of loyal servitude, after she’d fought and bled and wept for the empire every single day of her life, that gods-damned letter had arrived, written in the Mother’s hand.

A traitor’s daughter.

She gritted her teeth and jumped.

Her scarred wings were stiff and cramped against the cool morning air, stinging her shoulders as she swept them wide and found her balance on the gentle breeze. But at least she was out of that room, away from Bereas, and—

A cry went up beneath her.

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