Page 112 of Feathers of Ash and Hope
I want to know her thoughts on what just happened, but a librarian comes around the corner holding a lamp.
I take another step away from Ara and turn to the grumpy old woman who eyes us suspiciously.
“The lamp slipped from my fingers,” I lie, my steady voice a complete contrast to the turmoil inside me.
“I heard the noise,” the librarian says in a way that tells us that that alone is an offense in her books. “I hope you didn’t spill lamp oil all over the books.” She lifts her lamp and moves to assess the damage with pursed lips. “Seems to be your lucky day. Follow me,” she mutters, keeping the lamp she picked up, clearly not trusting us with it.
Ara doesn’t say a word on the way back and rushes off the minute we step out of the library.
What did I expect? Only four weeks until Picking and she would risk everything if we are discovered. But fuck, it still stings.
The following morning, I’m called into Deputy Commander Foley’s office.
I haven’t slept much and haven’t had breakfast yet, so to say my mood is not great to start with is putting it mildly, and it gets worse.
“Kyronos, change of plans. The eastern division will take over your patrols for the next five days, and we will send your division up Mount Albión.” He looks up from what he’s writing to glance at me. “An increasing supply of eggs is on the black market, and I need you to put a stop to this,” he orders.
“Yes, sir.” I nod. He returns to his writing, and I’m about to head out when he adds. “Oh, and I mean the whole division. Your runners missed out on mountain camp, so it will do them good to make up for it before Picking.”
It takes everything not to outright ask him if he has lost his fucking mind. I know the man is grieving, but this is insanity.
“Or revenge,” Daeva throws in.
I take another look at Foley, and my stomach twists. He has a calculating gleam in his eyes, and if he seeks revenge for his son’s death, Ara is his target.
Discouraging poachers from stealing eggs by spending a few days on Mount Albión or even catching them in the act is something I support wholeheartedly, but taking the runners with us? That is not the normal procedure.
I have a bad feeling about this, and it gets worse the more I think about it on my way to the refectory.
“What crawled up your ass?” Jared asks when he sees my face. I grab the apple next to his plate and sink my teeth into it.
“Hey, get your own food,” Jared protests, but then looks at the big clock on the wall and gets up as well. It’s only five minutes until formation. He sighs and hands me half of his sandwich.
“I’m only doing this because you are unbearable otherwise,” he informs me while we leave the dining hall.
I fill him in on the way. Jared doesn’t see it as bleak as I do, but he hasn’t seen Foley’s look.
“Don’t you think it’s strange to send the runners out with us?” I raise my eyebrows in question while I step aside and hold the door open for a group of runners rushing past us.
He shrugs. “Maybe leadership does try to give them a chance to catch up?”
“By effectively sending them into combat?”
“It doesn’t have to come to that. There is no guarantee we will encounter anyone,” he argues.
I snort. “True, but if we do…” I shake my head. “Do you think fighting an enemy who has nothing left to lose is a good way to ease them into things?”
Jared gives me a knowing look.
“The life of a skyrider is deadly,” he says. “We all know that, and it’s not like we can change anything about the orders. We can only try to make the best of it.”
“That still doesn’t mean I have to like it,” I grumble.
We leftthe academy at first light, and the ledge we picked for our camp on Mount Albión is still cloaked in mist—or rather low-hanging clouds. The sun will burn them away quickly as soon as it rises, but for the moment, it only barely reaches the peaks of the mountains around us, the light still more blue than golden.
Our camp is bordered by a cliff on one side with a steeply inclining path as the only way in or out and the sharp drop of the mountainside on the other. Tall pine trees surround us, keeping us out of sight.
Most runners and riders are occupied with tents while a few key players stand before me.
