A Court of Light and Melody

Chapter 17 - Brighter

Don't lose out on something that could be forever because you think the timing isn't right. Don't let fate decide.

- Nicole Reed

Song: Heather - Conan Gray

While the four Illyrian males and sisters settled into their camp, Azriel took Gwyn in his arms and they were enveloped in shadow once more.

Soon she found herself in another tree, directly above the camp. The rustle of leaves and the scrape of their shoes on the branch were muffled out by the bandits below setting to making a fire and clanging around their pots and cooking materials.

Azriel steadied Gwyn to straddle the branch once more, taking a seat directly behind her. Again, his shadows spun around them like a translucent, black cyclone.

Below Gwyn could make out that Alma and Harper not only had their hands bound but also their wings. They sat side by side under the canvas tent, silent and dirt smeared, while two of the males began skinning what appeared to be rabbits, preparing them for food.

"Keep the fire small," said a tall male with a fine amount of stubble. He stood on the outskirts of the camp, staring out into the darkness, a short-sword in his hand. "It's been two days. Somebody is bound to come looking for them by now."

"And tomorrow will make three," added a male with a voice like a rusty saw. This one sat atop a log, sharpening the blade of his dagger. "Can't we just do this without him? The longer he takes the more likely we are to get caught. It can't be that hard."

The one with the stubble turned to face the other male. "Clipping wings requires precision if you're going to do it right, Iason. You know that," he snarled. "And ever since the High Lord outlawed it, very few know the proper procedure. We wait for Alkis."

The one named Iason lowered his head, resuming the sharpening of his dagger. "Sorry, Grisham."

Gwyn looked over her shoulder at Azriel, to see that he had become the Spymaster once more. His eyes were shrewd as he studied the scene below them circumspectly. Gwyn saw something else there too. It was fury. It was rage. Azriel's scarred knuckles that gripped the branch were white and the set of his jaw was tight.

To be honest, Gwyn found herself rather outraged as well. She knew what wing-clipping meant. The torture it had been for Emerie. The agony her friend had experienced had not only been physical but mental. Clipping wings was a savage and archaic art. Outlawed by Rhysand for a reason.

"What's our move?" she whispered.

Azriel was silent for a moment and she could see the cogs turning in his mind. "We need to wait till they are all asleep. Then I'll use my shadows to take us down to the camp. You can set the sister's free and show them back to Windhaven. Just keep heading south, follow the sound of the river—"

"Wait, what are you gonna do?" Gwyn asked.

If she blinked she would've missed the strained look that had flickered across his face. He didn't take his eyes off the camp. "I'll work on apprehending the males. Bind each of them in their sleep."

"Don't you need my help?"

"I can manage," said Azriel with absolute certainty. "And I want to get Alma and Harper out of the way in case one of the males gets lucky and escapes me."

"Can't we just winnow or use your shadows to—"

Azriel shook his head. "I'm using up a lot of my power cloaking us and I'll bet I'll use up even more before it's time to make our move. It's too risky to rely on my magic for an escape." Finally, the shadowsinger met her eyes. "This is a good plan. And if all goes well, there won't be a fight." A tilt of his head. "And that's good news, right ?"