Page 8 of Down Comes the Night

Hal Cavendish.The Reaper of Vesria.

His name alone sent a shiver up Wren’s spine. In the silence of the room, she could hear Una pop her knuckles, her one nervous tell.

Every few generations, Vesria put forth a soldier more monster than human, and Hal Cavendish was the worst of them all. Wren had seen him only once, when she was fifteen and newly deployed. Her memories of the war often crumbled into fragments when she reached for them: the clash of metal and the burst of gunfire; the sickening pull of her magic to everyone, everything; the way the river swelled in the rain and spat bloated, muddy corpses onto its banks.

But she remembered the Reaper perfectly.

It was the Battle of the River Muri, and Wren had hidden herself in a thicket to tend a woman too wounded to leave the battlefield. And there, through a tangle of yarrow and birch, she saw him. Just as she snuffed out her magic, a man lunged at the Reaper, his blade wet with blood and sluggish sunlight. Then, as if every muscle in his body seized, he froze with his knife barely an inch from Hal’sthroat. Convulsions wracked his body, and he dropped in a heap, dead before he crumpled to the earth. Hal hadn’t even flinched; his gaze killed anyone who met it.

Wren wasn’t sure if she made a sound. Wasn’t sure if she even moved. But the next moment, Hal turned his chin toward her. Hisfolastill glowed silver at his temples, but his eyes consumed all the light, as black as the ravens who glided hungrily above him. Worse still, they wereempty.Remorseless.

Most nights, Wren still jerked awake drenched in sweat and gasping. Her dreams were lit by raging fire, the stench of burning flesh coating her skin and screams ringing in her ears. But did someone steeped in so much death even feel the weight of it anymore?

She wasn’t sure what possessed him to spare her that day. Maybe she’d only imagined his attention. Maybe someone had called out to him. All she knew for certain was that she never wanted to see him again.

“Hal Cavendish is as good as dead if I encounter him,” Una said. “I fully intend to bring you his head on a silver platter.”

“No.” Isabel lifted her chin, obscuring half her face in shadow. Although she wore no crown today, it was impossible to mistake her for anything but what she was. A warrior queen, cold and calculating. “The day we march on Vesria, you will bring him to me alive. His life is mine to dispose of, and I intend to make a show of it.”

“All the more reason why I need Wren to—”

“Enough.” The clockstick, tick, ticked until Isabel broke the silence again. “You will leave tomorrow to pursue the boy. Without Wren. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Una said bitterly. “I understand.”

“And you, Wren, will return to the abbey until I decide what to do with you.”

“No.”Wren squeezed her hands into fists.

How could she sit back and watch another friend walk headfirst into danger? If Una disappeared, too, then Wren would truly be alone. Locked away in the abbey, she’d become that scared little girlagain: unwanted and forgotten. Denied the chance to have some small say in how she lived her life. A failure.

“Please,” Wren rasped. “I can’t go back.”

“Wren,” Una whispered sharply, almost pleading.

“Since you’ve been relieved of your post, I’m afraid you don’t have much choice in the matter.”

All mages served the Goddess in one way or another. As her earthly representative, Isabel headed both the state and the church and could dispose of her subjects as she willed. With all mages subject to mandatory enlistment—a precautionary measure in this war-torn queendom—she’d be forced into contempt of the law. As a retired combat medic, Wren would live out her days in devotion to the Goddess, performing healing acts for the common people. To refuse was to surrender her magic.

Wren said nothing. She had forgotten how to speak.

Anger roiled in her stomach like a ship tossed on the sea. With the blood thrumming in her ears, she could think of nothing to do but turn on her heel and run for the door. Her vision swam, and she dragged the heels of her palms underneath her eyes to catch any tears that dared fall. She hated that she cried when she was angry. It was another weakness, another reason why she wasn’t cut out to be a combat medic, another reason she was suspended. Her emotions, too uncontrollable to manage, would doom her every time.

CHAPTER THREE

It was several hours after their meeting with Isabel that a knock sounded on her door.

“Are you home?” Una pressed her face to the window, squinting into the darkness.

Wren’s heart leapt into her throat. Una hadn’t come to her flat since… No, she wouldn’t think about it. They had agreed never to discuss it ever again.

Drawing in her breath, Wren rose and let her inside. As Una drank in the room, Wren collapsed onto her chaise and drew the blanket over her head. Almost immediately, she felt a tug—then cringed as the light flooded back in. Una had peeled back the edge of her makeshift cocoon and curled her lip, as if she had found something half-formed inside.

“Please don’t cry,” Una said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“I’m not going to cry.”

Una unstrapped the saber from her hip and gingerly perched beside Wren on the chaise. Comforting others was never exactlyher strong suit, but Wren would credit her for trying. “Then would you turn a light on or something? This is depressing.”