A Song of Faithless Shadows

11. The Days Start Here

Gwyneth

I spent most of last night drunkenly tossing in bed, asking myself why the hell I'd volunteer for this, and the longer I thought on it, the more hidden reasons I came up with.

At first, the appeal had been evading being alone at the house of wind, helpless and idle in my bedroom. I'm sure I could get a lot of reading done with that kind of free time, but I knew every day Azriel spent in the in the mountainside is a day I'd feel useless. Rhys and Feyre gave me title for a reason: to make a difference.

And reflecting on it, I realized that my lack of survival skills nearly killed me in the rite. I had been so focused on the combat aspect of it all. It disturbs me to think that I could've died at the hands of the elements- a slow and meaningless death no doubt.

It all ended with being Carynthian. I have no knowledge of the land that I hold sacred title in. I mean, I know how to fight like an Illyrian, but what do I know about the people, about the culture?

"Will we be tracking through any more towns?" I ask Azriel as we walk, me following the path of his footsteps in the fresh snow.

"Not if we can help it."

I squint at the backside of his tucked wings, unable to understand it. "Wouldn't we want to sniff out the patterns of migration within the towns so we aren't just walking blindly through the mountains?" I didn't know much about tracking or hunting, but I was here to learn. This went against my understanding of it all.

"Normally, we would," he says, tightening the siphons to his hands, fingers twitching. He didn't sound particularly enthused to be chatting with me, but what's new? "The trouble with that is we need to keep a low profile, and you don't look Illyrian."

It's true. I was fair-skinned, freckled, copper-haired, and flightless. "Why didn't you tell me I was going to make it harder on you to blend in?" I hadn't even thought about it yet, how I'd stick out in the town.

He shrugs as I catch up, keeping pace at his side. He had long strides, but my legs certainly weren't short. He couldn't leave me behind so easily. "Transparently, I don't blend into town either," he admits, glancing over at me, then at the shadows swirling around his feet. "They all know me as Rhysand's lackey." Lackey isn't exactly the descriptor I'd use for him.

"Well, I'm sure those shadows have to be good for something other than intimidation," I nod to the rising tendrils, swirling and tucking like smoke.

"I'm sure," he replies flatly.

"Well, what exactly is the nature of your shadows?" I ask. "What do they do for you?"

"We don't have to talk, you know?"

I don't give him the satisfaction of being fazed by his tone. "From what I can tell, your shadows can conceal you, key you into conversations you're not supposed to hear," I admire the icy tree-line. "I say we just blanket them over ourselves in the night, and check for suspicious runaways in the darkness at the edge of town."

"Be assured, Gwyneth, I know how to do my job," he says, glancing over at me. "I have a plan of attack."

"Fantastic!" I say enthusiastically, knowing my eyes are likely murderous. He seems to delight in it. "Care to clue me in on this plan of attack? I know you like to maintain this whole air of mystery around yourself and all, but I'd really appreciate being looped in, all-knowing spymaster."

He does that downward smile thing that he's always doing, when the corners of his mouth capture what he suppresses of a grin, leaving no trace behind save for the slight of dimples on his cheeks. The expression was infuriating to say the least. "You know, usually Cassian is my partner on jobs like these, and he is significantly less curious."

"I find that hard to believe."

"The plan is to use the cover of night to our advantage, to camp at the town's edge and fish for suspicious activity," he at last admits.

"So, exactly what I said?"

He doesn't respond, so clearly, I must be right. "When we get closer to town, I'll have to start stepping on your tracks," he says instead. "It would rouse suspicion for the tracks of a woman to be active that far from the camp. Usually, the women would be home working on chores by the hour we'll arrive."

"Delightful."

"I never claimed Illyrians were a people I was particularly fond of," he replies defensively.

I shrug. "It's like Emerie said: not every Illyrian delights in oppression, not every Illyrian is male," I glance at his wings. "No offense."

"None taken."

"I'm sure I'll come to know what there is to love about Illyria in our travels. I hope I do."

"Don't get your hopes up," he replies. "Illyria is as cold as her winters."

I squint up at him. "How do you mean?"

He shrugs. "There's a spirit of cruelty in my people. I've known it since I was young. It's a culture of crushing all that is hopeful and different in favor of tradition and duty," he says, shadows spreading across the snow. "We are a warrior people. We are bred to fight, not to make beautiful, make better. There likely won't be much for you to love there, Gwyneth."

I look over the mountain-scape, taking in the beauty of it all. Illyria was certainly beautiful physically. Her people were beautiful as well. Look at Emerie, Cassian and Rhysand. Azriel. And within each of them there was fight, but there was also something brighter, more potent. "I don't think the opposite of love is the fight," I reply. "I think we fight when there is something worth protecting. Maybe we'll both find something to love in Illyria." I'm nothing if not optimistic. It took a long time for me to find it within myself, yet so quickly, I had lost it.

He looks over at me. "We were sent here to snuff out rogues, men who abandoned their own families in favor of radical idealism about the oppression and possession of women," he reminds me. "If there is beauty to be found in Illyria, it won't be found in the weeks to come. All we have await us is the ugly."

I scrunch my nose, looking up at the falling snow. It collects in pearly spots on my copper hair, flakes settling on my leather clad shoulders. It was different than the lands where I was raised, all rivers and grassy fields and sunshine. It was all cliffside and mountains here, powdered sugar snow and evergreen trees. "Come on, Azriel," I grin up at him. He's watching me. "What's ugly about that view?"

He doesn't refute me, but he also doesn't look at the view. He just stares at me until I have to look away, feeling foolish.