I watch their silent volley of curious gestures. The few times I’ve seen them in flight, I’ve noticed them communicating with similar hand signals from their saddles. I imagine it is the only way to pass messages in the sky, for even a shout likely could not be heard over the roar of the wind while on the back of a soaring Paexyri steed.
Yara glances back at me. “Don’t let the deaths of a few scavengers spoil your evening.”
My brows lift.A few?I singlehandedly took out half the fleet. Some two hundred souls.
“Okay. More than a few.” Yara grins. “My point stands. Getting blasted out of the water was no more than they deserved. They should’ve known better than to attack us so brazenly. Taking an anchorage a stone’s throw from the capital…” She shakes her head. “I knew they lacked all morals; I didn’t think they lacked all logic.”
“Have they tried to attack Hylios before?”
“Why do you think we have so many cannons?” She chuckles softly. “The raids were more frequent when I was a girl. In recent years, they have not been so bold. Not until today, in any case.” Yara leans back against the bench and takes a sip from her mug. “I have to say, when Bretiax and I were flying back earlier, we had no idea what we were seeing at first. Took a few low loops over the surface before we realized where all that driftwood had come from. Isn’t that right, Bre?”
The other rider nods.
“Could hardly believe my eyes when I looked up and sawyouwere the one responsible for such carnage.” Yara’s distinctive almond-shaped eyes are tinkling at the memory.
I swallow hard, not sharing her amusement. It is a memory I am working to forget, not reminisce over.
Yara and Bretiax returned to Hylios on the heels of the battle, their winged mounts descending on the ramparts before we’d even had a chance to disperse. I was emotionally numb, still processing my own actions, when they clattered to a halt beside Atyr.
Arwen’s large white beast may dwarf every other Paexyri in size, but certainly not in beauty. Yara rides a chestnut bay withred-tipped wing feathers the same scarlet hue as her own hair; Bretiax favors a piebald mount with feathered white hooves. Had I not been so caught up in my own inner turmoil at the time, I would not have squandered the rare opportunity to get a look at them up close.
Their arrival was quickly overshadowed by that of Alaric’s fleet. The crowd, still buzzing from the aftermath of the battle, pitched up to a dizzying decibel of excitement as five double-masted brigs made their approach, traversing waters that only moments before had been filled with our enemies. Cheers went up as Daggerpoint horns blew from the bows.
The wedding party had arrived.
Double the reason for celebration, as far as the Hylians saw it. Soldiers streamed from the battlements, headed down into the city in search of libations. Soren ferried me along with them, his hand firm on mine to keep me from getting lost in the crush. We did not wait for Arwen. She remained pressed against the balustrade, fighting a smile as she watched her fiancé drop anchor and row ashore. It was strange to see her like that, her rough edges softened by anticipation, her sharp features almost…sweet.
Even now, after several hours of watching them from the corner of my eye across the bar, I have not quite grown accustomed to the sight of her standing close to the tall blond man’s side as they converse with Soren and several of the broad-shouldered men from Hollywell. Every few minutes, my gaze moves that way of its own accord, noting the way Alaric’s hand skims over her hip, the way Arwen’s head falls onto his shoulder when she forgets to act indifferent, the wordless looks they trade when they think no one is watching.
He is not what I’d pictured for Arwen. She is such a natural warrior, so fearsome and bold. I’d expected the man she loves to be similar in both stature and disposition. But with his neatlytrimmed facial hair, light coloring, and refined features, Alaric reminds me a bit of Cadogan—albeit, much less somber. He smiles often, laughs frequently, and moves with a refined elegance totally opposite Arwen’s volatile energy.
“Attached at the hip, those two,” Yara remarks, noticing the direction of my gaze. “Wasn’t always the case. When they first met and Alaric proposed marriage, I thought Arwen would gut him for daring to ask.”
Bretiax signs something that makes Yara giggle. Kicking her feet up to rest on the railing, she drains her mug in one long sip. Her boots, like the rest of her uniform, are designed with flight in mind. The soles are tapered to fit seamlessly into stirrups. When she crosses her legs, I see padding runs up the inside of her thighs where the saddle chafes. Her abdomen is cinched tight with an armored corset.
Bretiax is in a near identical uniform, though the glyphs stitched at her collar are slightly different. I want to ask about the mysterious symbols, but Yara is stuck on the topic of their ornery flight leader.
“The two of them are about as different in temperament as they are in looks,” she tells me, staring unabashedly at the lovesick couple. “Thankfully, that means he’s got all the patience in the world. He waited almost a decade for her to finally look his way. The moment she did, that was it. She fell head over heels. Surprised the hell out of all of us. Though, I suspect, not as much as it surprised her.”
“When she moves to Hollywell, what will happen to the Paexyrian? Will you all go with her?”
“We riders would follow Arwen anywhere in this world. But it’s not only our decision. Our mounts have minds of their own, and tenets of steel. If Umyr will not stay in Daggerpoint, I cannot force her. She goes where she will, when she will.”
Umyr is her chestnut bay Paexyri.
“But they stay here,” I point out, brow furrowing. “In Hylios.”
I have seen the stables myself, several times now. They encompass a large section of the royal grounds not far from Arwen’s villa. I sometimes wander there in the evenings, eager to steal a glimpse of the winged horses who graze on the lush seagrass, wings tucked in close to their bodies, manes blowing in the breeze. No saddles to diminish their magnificence. Something about them captivates me in a way I cannot quite explain.
“The Paexyri stay here by their own leave,” Yara tells me. “They are not captives, nor pets. The moment I lost her respect, Umyr would fly back to the highest reaches of the mountains she calls home and never return.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Is she not yours? Could you not stop her?”
“The Paexyri do not belong to us. We belong to them.” Yara taps the unique glyph stitched at her collar. “This sigil means I was chosen to ride her. To do so is the greatest privilege of my life. A life, I might add, that will end long before hers ever does. She will have another rider someday when I am a shriveled old crone and my hands are too arthritic to grip the reins.”
I contemplate that for a time, somewhat stunned by the deep reverence with which she speaks of her winged companion. It is hardly uncommon for soldiers to feel a kinship with the horses that carry them into battle, but this is something else. Something beyond simple loyalty or affection.
“It is difficult to explain with words alone. Next time you come to the stables, don’t spy from the shadows of the lemon grove. I will introduce you to Umyr.” Yara quirks a brow at my surprised jolt. “What? Shocked to learn your furtive surveillance was not as discreet as you believed?”