Rules for Spies

7

A few days pass, and Azriel falls into a rhythm. In the morning, there is breakfast and then training, something slowly brightening in Gwyn's eyes as they review more complicated stealth techniques, more advanced maneuvers with the daggers.They eat lunch together in Emerie's room, usually with Cassian and Nesta and sometimes Mor, who truly does look happier now that she's back from Valhallan, updating her on the morning's events. Cassian has even created a detailed twelve-week regimen for Emerie's recovery, exercises to strengthen her core and back, her legs and of course her wings, and he reviews it with her on the rare occasions where the conversation lags.

In the afternoons, he takes Gwyn to the river estate and while she trains with Rhys and Feyre, trying to figure out the secret to rendering a countermelody, speeding her recall on her power, and learning to fortify her mental shield, he meets with contacts in the other courts of Prythian. Koschei has other captives, and Azriel suspects they are not far from the High Lords. But none of his eyes or ears has caught a hint of anything suspicious, or sensed that magical absence that indicates the death-lord's proximity. He keeps casting his net further and further out, hoping an unlikely ally will have met a woman who was held captive, who sometimes speaks in a voice not her own, but everyone in Prythian seems to hope that the war with Hybern will be the last in anyone's memory, and refuses to acknowledge the threat from the continent.

The stories say he is bound to that lake, his more well-read sources say, again and again, and Azriel tries not to gnash his teeth.

But when those increasingly frustrating hours are through, and he meets Gwyn at the river estate, there is an hour they spend together, speaking about the mission, during which they'll end up close to each other on the sofa, his arm first pressed to hers, then slung over the back of the couch, then finally circling her shoulder as Gwyn talks about her progress and he reports on his failure to garner any new information. She always has a new idea about who he can speak with, the females under Koschei's control.

"Maybe he was bluffing," she says, on the fifth day, lifting her head from where it's been resting on his chest. "What if Koschei doesn't need all of these conduits to gather information? He could have something like your shadows."

"The outlay of power would be too massive," he says, though he's wondered the same thing.

"Does it cost you magic to have a shadow follow me?" From its whisper, he knows she's eyeing the shadow that's settled on her lap.

"My shadows belong to themselves, but it takes power to extend their range beyond a certain point. They could follow you to the Sidra of their own accord, but if you started walking toward the city, every moment would take magic."

"How far could I go before you ran out of power?" The question is indolent, but he can tell she won't forget the answer.

"If you never stopped walking, maybe a year. If you flew to the other side of the world, a few months less." He reaches up to stroke her hair, which is so silken it doesn't catch or pull on his scars.

"And you think Koschei couldn't sustain his operation?" She smirks at him, and he can hear her unspoken question clearly: So you think you're stronger than a death-god?

"I don't have to use magic to animate my shadows. If Koschei had to create the vector, animate it, and sustain its magic, and there were dozens or hundreds or even thousands spread out across the world..." For a moment he lets himself sink into the calculations, letting himself pretend that this is an exercise in logic, a mere game of strategy. "I don't think Rhys himself could sustain that for a week. And that's assuming that he would be stupid enough to use all of his power on surveillance."

"So controlling the women is easier?" Disgust and curiosity intermingle in her voice. He tightens his arm around her, and she places her hand on his knee, each finger a delicate warmth. Every day she gets a little closer to him, and he savors each small advance.