Songbird's Cage

Chapter 22

Bastion traced the scratch along the crossguard of his sword. The man he was soon to execute had put it there nearly six years ago. Rory had tried to disarm him after his attempt to assassinate the ambassador of Hidel – killing her and framing the Esarians would have meant a war between the two kingdoms, a war that would have weakened the Esarian hold over the Sylvans. He had drugged the wine store of the soldiers' barracks, and while half of the king's men were unconscious, he had cut into the tendons at each man's heels, crippling them. But when he had gotten to Rory, a man who understood him, shared his same beliefs, worshipped the true gods, had kept him sane in the eight months he had been surrounded by insolent Esarians, he couldn't do it, couldn't damage a warrior as skilled as him. And when he had tried to complete the task he had been sent to the castle to do, Rory had been there to protect the ambassador, the first to recover from the drug. Bastion had attempted to convince the man he had called his friend for the past half-year to join him, to return to the Wilds where his ancestors' spirits were. Rory had refused, and in their struggle, the deep scratch on Bastion's sword had been created. With a well-practiced flick of the wrist, he had turned Rory's strength against him, forcing the weapon from his hands. He could have ended the younger man then, but once more, he couldn't displease Korzag, the god of war, by ending one of his most talented fighters. Even after everything, Bastion had still spared Rory's life.

And now he was going to end it.

"Bastion, just kill him and be done with it."

Bastion looked up at Arodal. The night before, he had given him the command to execute Rory at first light. But he knew it was a mistake.

"I'll do it," Bastion said. "It's my responsibility. You've already done enough harm. This mission would have been easier if the princess trusted us, however slightly."

Arodal's jaw tightened. Bastion sighed. Despite being one of his best men, the large soldier before him was hot-tempered beyond belief, and sometimes nearly impossible to control.

"Bring him to me." Bastion shook his hair out of his eyes, breathing in the crisp morning air. The first inklings of fall were starting to show, though it was early yet for the season. The sky above was cloudless, the wind only a whisper. It seemed too beautiful a day to kill a man he had once shared drink and laughter with.

He looked up as a stillness moved through the camp. Arodal's dirk was in his hand, directed at the princess, who was practically carrying Rory.

Bastion released another breath that signaled his flagging patience. There had been too much violence already. He could feel the restlessness it created within his company, something that was occurring too often now. He had done his best to keep his soldiers' moral at an even level, but it was dangerously fitful. It was the same not just among his ranks, but among every Weald soldier there was. He had deceived Rory when he had talked of his soldiers' skill and endurance. It was true that they could travel quickly through the dense forests, but that was because the men and women around him were true Sylvans, had spent their lives among the trees. In truth, his authority was in shambles, his troops largely untrained for the war that they were facing.

He drew his sword, wanting to end this as quickly as he could. Arodal seized the princess, and Rory sank to his knees before Bastion, grimacing. The deep wound in his leg was still bleeding.

"You understand why I have no choice in this, don't you?" Bastion said. Rory nodded, grunting as he shifted his weight off of his right leg, though he made no move to rise. Bastion wasn't sure if he even could – the younger man looked pallid and feverish.

"Of course."

Rory's resigned response almost sickened Bastion. He had killed countless times before, but this was different. He knew that the man before him wouldn't bargain or argue, wouldn't even beg for his life.

"Taliwe guide you," Bastion murmured to him, invoking the goddess of fate. Rory looked up at him.

"May she have mercy on you," his old friend said quietly. Bastion gripped his sword tighter. Rory strained against his bindings for a moment, rolling his shoulders back. His gaze moved to the princess before he lowered his head.

"She doesn't need to watch this," Rory breathed. "Don't force her to watch me die."

Bastion raised his hand, gesturing to Arodal to take her back to her tent, but the princess shoved him away, swearing. It was clear that she wouldn't leave her guard alone. A tiny, sorrowful smile met Rory's lips, but Bastion could see a tear running down his cheek. Despite it, he found no weakness in the man keeling before him, prepared to face his death. His head was bowed, his neck bared for the blade.

"Do it," Rory said, closing his eyes.

Bastion raised his sword, his heart beating faster. He felt the weight of the weapon and then the pull of the earth as the steel dropped.

***

Silas absently turned the piece of paper in his hands over, smoothing out the creases while he watched the soldiers before him spar. The field seemed empty without Rory. He hadn't known the young man well, but he knew that Aspen had grown up learning to fight with him, and as the head of palace security, he had been aware of him, but hadn't realized how powerful a warrior he had been until there was no longer someone of his skill on the practice field.

But the whole castle felt empty without Princess Lark. He missed her sharp tongue and the way she kept Aspen in line, and was sick of his bother sulking around the halls.

He folded the letter he was holding, running his finger over the seal. It was from one of the officers at the western border post. There had been no sightings, no word of Lark from the Wilds.

Silas sighed, closing his eyes. He prayed to the gods that she was alright.