Page 63 of Demon Touched

I look around us, half expecting a battalion of soldiers to jump out of hiding and arrest me. But it seems that we really are alone.

“And the demon lord, Syrus,” she says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to her. “You don’t know anything about the real reasons for his visit to Aradis, do you? The seraphim were caught off guard, and that’s unusual for them. It suggests Infernum’s decision to send an envoy happened at the last minute.”

I brace myself. No matter how much I want to, this is something I really can’t be honest about.

“I don’t know anything,” I lie, then try to sprinkle in what truth I can. “I had no idea the Lord of Malice had come to Aradis until I arrived at the ball. I didn’t even really think demons could come to this realm.”

“Direct rifts between the two realms are notoriously difficult,” she says. “Getting three of them through was a feat. Though we’re still not sure why they didn’t come via Strata, which makes us nervous.”

I nod, searching for a way to change the subject.

“I have to say, I’m a little surprised that the seraphim have you investigating the blight,” I say at last. “My grandfather said that Aphelion has been struggling to get Luminis to take the problem seriously.”

The captain smiles humorlessly. “Of course he would say that.”

I remember the flash in her eyes when I mentioned Garion before. “What do you mean?”

The smile drops. “General Garion is a very gifted soldier who has served this realm bravely. But he’s always enjoyed power. Just be cautious, Leah. His quest for influence has always struck me as being much more about helping himself than seeking to help the people of Aphelion.”

I can’t say this assessment shocks me. But it’s interesting that Pellery judges him for that. Clearly, to some ephilium, ambition is only approved of if it’s done to bring glory to your people, and not just yourself.

“I should get back,” Pellery says, looking back up to the Seraph Seat. “And you should go home to the academy before trouble finds you.”

I blink, bewildered by this unexpected exchange of confidences. “I’ll try to stay out of trouble,” I say. “But some days it’s easier to avoid than others.”

Pellery’s lips twitch, and her eyes go once more to my wings. “Good night, Fledgling Illidore. And please don’t prove my gut wrong about you. It would destroy a great track record.”

“See you’ve finally got your wings, Illidore,” Baxir grunts at training the next morning.

“Yes, sir,” I say, bracing for the inevitable dressing down. Of all the instructors, Baxir is the one most likely to find something to criticize. I don’t think it’s vindictiveness; he just believes it’s character building. And maybe he’s right—if you want the characters you’re building to all be demoralized messes.

“No need to look so smug about it,” he says to my completely neutral expression. “They’re ugly fucking things.”

There we go. I adjust my feathers, still getting used to the way I can shift sections of them independently of the rest. The movement comes more naturally when I’m in the air, but there’s something satisfying about flattening down my primaries or twitching the rows of coverts so they puff up a little. It’s reflexive and soothing, like rolling my shoulders or crossing and uncrossing my legs. But the movement isn’t quite enough to soothe me now. I hear Keros snicker from over by the archery targets. I glance around to see him enjoying the dressing down Baxir’s giving me. In return, I give him a look that says Soon I’ll be making you my archery target, you murderous piece of shit.

I’ve been told I have very expressive eyes.

“But I suppose they’ll do the job,” Baxir continues. “Time to start learning how to use them. Other Illidore, get over here!”

Filippa stiffens, then obediently turns and jogs over to us.

“What a nice little family reunion,” Baxir says humorlessly. “Right, you,” he jabs a finger toward Filippa, “can run flight drills with her.” He jabs his finger at me.

“I can run them by myself, sir,” I say, uncomfortably aware of being a burden to my cousin again. “Filippa doesn’t need to babysit⁠—”

“Quiet,” Baxir barks. “She needs it as much as you do.” He casts a disparaging look over Filippa. “Seventy years with her wings, and she’s almost as crap a flier as you.”

Filippa’s cheeks darken, but otherwise her expression doesn’t change.

“You’ll be thanking me when this flying practice keeps you alive in the next trial,” he says, then strides off to yell at someone else.

“Well, that’s not really fair,” I say lightly when Filippa and I are alone at the edge of the training field. “He hasn’t even seen me fly yet. I could be way more crap than he expects.”

It’s the kind of comment that would usually get a laugh from Filippa, except something’s different today. She shrugs and stretches out her wings.

“Come on, let’s do this.”

We train mostly in silence for a while. Filippa runs through drills to demonstrate them. Even if they’re executed a little clumsily, I’m still able to follow her lead.