Summary: Gwyn's first successful spying mission reveals more than she bargained for...
An oppressive weight hung in the air in the library that had not been present since Bryaxis. A beast who once inhabited the dark heart of the catacombs, a creature still very much at large. The stillness upon the priestesses was smothering as if the shroud that once covered Shelah draped them all. Even Azriel's shadows, those misbehaving entities who followed her during her shift, seemed to notice, sticking close, the invisible shades whipping around her back.
Deep in her bones, Gwyn expected...something was going to happen, and she'd felt this way before, she realized. Before the gathering of dark-cloaked figures. Before the library came crashing on their feet.
She must remain alert.
One arm wrapped around the bundle of books; volumes Merrill insisted she pull. More tales of sea and water creatures, akin to the texts she carried when they were attacked. The other hand, her dagger hand, she kept close to her thigh, her blade well concealed under the robe in a thigh sheath. Just in case.
Head cast downward, eyes lowered, Gwyn walked hushed steps to the office she dreaded to approach daily. As far as Gwyn was concerned, Merrill wasn't merely upset with her, per se, but with everyone and everything. The young priestess could not help but take Merrill's criticism harshly, even if the verbal dressing-down may have only been a mere case of kicking the proverbial dog. There must be an unfortunate reason Merrill sought refuge in this library with the High Lord's blessing; something awful must have happened.
While a few priestesses were milling about, Gwyn crept past them undetected, ascending several flights before she arrived at her destination.
Merrill's office often made her want to visit The Prison just to determine if the fabled rock was as intimidating as Merrill's domain. Nesta often joked she'd sooner stick herself back in the Cauldron than deal with Merrill, "the insipid cunt," at least once every practice. Which, of course, made Gwyn snort with laughter.
This office was the final to be searched. Though, in her gut, Gwyn believed the office should have been her first check. Delivering the books was a valid excuse to enter. Merrill had just departed for a meeting in the temple, selecting music for the Autumn Solstice ceremony. The young priestess knew the House would unlock the entry if she asked. So that's exactly what she did.
The door sealed behind her in a hushed breeze, the lock virtually inaudible. Gwyn let out the gasp she'd been holding for three floors. Doing as Azriel instructed, she applied her mind-stilling techniques, regulating her breathing, keeping her heart rate under control. Calm. Collected. Clear. Focused. Be the rock.
She set the books on the deep burgundy leather armchair by the small woodstove. Only a ray of afternoon sunlight illuminated the somber granite suite as Gwyn studied the heaps of papers and notebooks, making note of their precise positions.
Transparent shadows curled around her as Gwyn thumbed through the documents and ledgers on Merrill's desk, finding only tally sheets and notes. Hurriedly she scanned for keywords, finding page after page of nothing but random numbers and dates, until near the bottom of the stack.
Valkyrie.
When she read the number below the title, her eyes narrowed—36 total. Which so happened to be exactly their present numbers. But how the hell would Merrill know their total? The cadets didn't chat about their practices when in the library area and Merrill never set foot outside the archives beyond the dorm rooms. How did she even have their figures? And, more importantly, why?
Gwyn flipped to the next page, her eyes finding a single title at the very top: Illyrian.
More amounts accompanied familial surnames and specified Illyrian settlements. Immediately, Gwyn withdrew a piece of scrap cotton and felt-tip pen from her robe pocket, flattening the fabric against the desk as she quickly copied the page.
She combed through strewn tomes spread out on the desk, hunting for bookmarked sections. Passages marked included ones on the Prison. The history of the Night Court. Sirens. The Cauldron. Nymphs. The Dead Trove. The High King. The Great War.
The priestess found Merrill's research, contrary to her nature, to be highly disorganized. Gwyn advanced toward the glass-front bookcase on the left of the wooden desk. Carefully opening the cabinet, she pulled a book she'd never seen before.
The Walking Dead?
Opening the text, Gwyn discovered pages of ancient markings she not only could not translate but had never seen. All things considered, it was surprising, with all the languages she'd happened across over her years as Merrill's apprentice.
But it was the next text that had her mouth slowly falling open and her eyes doing a double-take.
The Book of Breathings.
No way. How?! The Book of Breathings cannot conceivably be in the library. According to Azriel, the High Lady and Amren had propelled the book into the Cauldron during the war with Hybern, the book ending up wherever the Cauldron sent items—to parts unknown. The book was notorious; one side demure, the other cruel. Legend said to encounter the cover would drive you delirious with power. Like called to like. So why did Merrill possess such a book? Unless…
Heart thumping beneath her rib cage, Gwyn stroked the leathery spine with a single finger. Squeezing her eyes shut, Gwyn held her breath and waited.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing occurred. She blew out a breath. Praise the Mother.
Unless the myths were untrue—or the one sitting on the shelf was a replicate. An unknown copy of The Book of Breathings in Merrill's hands? Gwyn didn't like this one bit.
'Priestess,' she overheard in the barest whisper.
Gwyn lifted her head at the sound of voices outside the door. Her eyes went wide.
Shit. Shit.
Instantly, she turned her head, seeking a place to hide. Under the desk wasn't an option. Gwyn spun in a circle, searching until her eyes fell upon a medium-sized trunk in the far corner. Praying to all the gods above the chest was empty, she hurried over. Only a few soft, squishy items of clothing lay at the bottom. The door handle jiggled but stopped as the voices persisted.
As she slipped inside the trunk, she realized she'd forgotten the books on the chair.
Shit.
Gwyn hopped out, hastily swiping the stack. Clutching them to her chest, she slid fully into the trunk. Again thankful for her pliant bones as she pinched and crowded into the compact space. Before the lid was secured, Gwyn felt the shadows propping the top just enough to prevent it from latching.
Merrill entered the space, dismissing whoever she was originally speaking to in her typical blunt fashion. A cloyingly sweet fragrance permeated the room, floral. No doubt the essence of burning incense from the temple sanctum.
"I can't understand these females," the elder priestess muttered to herself. "Caught up in trivial notions such as song choice. Ridiculous." A thump echoed over the surge of blood in her ears. As if she'd leaped off a lofty cliff into the sea, Gwyn held her breath. "Ah, yes, come in."
Gwyn barely detected steps as someone joined the chamber, the antique door making no noise.
"As you know, things haven't progressed according to design," Merrill said, her tone low yet strong.
No answer.
Gwyn craned her neck to peek out of the narrow rift, providing light and air into the furniture. When they shuffled forward, the edges of a navy cloak brushed over top a pair of delicate satin slippers. All Gwyn could see before Az's shadows overpowered her. She recalled then; stay still and the shadows could help keep her.
"So, what is the next step?"
The distinct swish of fabric and creasing parchment. Then a slide of something across wood. More crinkling paper.
"So, this is the new information? And the next step?" No reaction once again. As if someone moved, fabric scraped together. "If I'm being honest, I'm not sure this is the best—" Energy crackled, charging the air, causing tiny hard bumps to rise on Gwyn's flesh. "Alright. Alright!" A pause and heavy breathing. "I'll do it. I will say, if you needed a push, this would certainly do just that."
Nothing more except near soundless footfalls followed by the heavy plod of Merrill before the clicking and thump of a solid door. Then the jangling of keys and click of the bolt. Still, Gwyn remained as silent as death inside the small trunk, her limbs cramping. Cauldron, how did Azriel sit and remain in one position for a long span, she thought, cricking her neck.
'All clear,' she overheard in a low trill sent in a gust. With stealth, she emerged from the trunk with a whine from the rusted hinge.
Go. Get out of the office. Her eyes spotted the bronze clock resting on the shallow windowsill behind the desk. Three o'clock. Merrill would meet with Clotho before evening services to go over more research projects. Or to bemoan Gwyn. Or both. With Merrill, one could never be sure.
Gwyn secured the texts in her arms and started toward the exit, glancing behind one more time just to be sure. Immediately, her attention snagged on two papers that had never been on the desk before. She rushed over, investigating. The gold one she recognized but had yet to examine since it had been at the bottom of the pile. A title and a list of names—five, to be exact. The cream paper was an apparent addendum to the gold. One name. Gwyn's blood ran cold, and she was shuddering so hard the bundle nearly tumbled from her grip.
She had to go. Had to speak to Azriel. To Rhysand.
'Calm down,' the seemed to say. Crisp air caressed over her cheeks, her neck. 'You are the rock on with the surf crashes, Priestess.'
Nothing could break her. Though what she just read?
Unnerved, Gwyn fixed the books in one arm, making for the door, pressing her ear against it to listen for any sounds of movement. A cursory glance at the clock showed it was ten minutes after three. Merrill had to be at that meeting. After unlocking the door, she pushed it open with care. When all was clear, she walked out, casual in her movements, closing the door gingerly behind her. Glancing up to the ceiling, to the House, Gwyn mouthed, "Please."
The locking mechanism snicked as she strolled to the stairs leading to where Merrill should be present. No—that route was too obvious. Gwyn needed to arrive from another way. A floor above, Gwyn circled the rotunda, coming to another staircase leading from a section about water folk, helping to support the illusion she was doing her research.
Roslin sat at a table she passed and they nodded to one another in hello. Good. Gwyn had a witness if they ever called her location into question. Before long, Clotho's desk was in view, as was the domineering priestess whose office she'd just invaded.
Gwyn willed her heart and feet to slow as she approached. Calm. She had to be relaxed; she reminded herself with every nervous step forward. Every step towards the hideously gorgeous Merrill a burial procession.
"Good afternoon," Gwyn said, smooth and concise. As cheerful as ever, even though her stomach was roiling. "Clotho." She sketched a bow, daubing a fake smile on her face. "Merrill."
"Gwyneth," Merrill replied, piercing blue eyes focused on the books in Gwyn's possession. "I'm assuming those are the records I requested?"
Gwyn stayed her fist from shaking and bobbed her head in answer. "Yes, I wanted to get these to you before I took my leave for the day."
Merrill stood, snatching the books from her as Gwyn turned to flee. "Not staying for evening service, Gwyneth?"
Gwyn glanced over her shoulder. "No, I have a previous engagement."
The elder priestess sneered. "Ah yes. You have it in with the Inner Circle of the Night Court, is it?" Gwyn spun fully to her, finding Clotho's eyes wide, darting between them. "Guess that's what happens when you became Shadowsinger's whore?"
The words struck her like a slap.
Whore?
She was no whore. And Merrill knew Gwyn's history. Her story. Yet, still, Merrill used that term as a weapon?
Gwyn dug down deep, dragging out her inner Nesta, and stalked forward until they were face-to-face.
"I don't know what happened to you, Merrill. But, whatever it is, I'm sorry. I'm sorry it turned you into such a wretched bitch." She paused. "And an insipid cunt."
Gwyn left with a smirk, sauntering off while Merrill stood with her jaw on the ground and Clotho hid her face in her hands. Even though deep within, she knew her words were going to come back to haunt her.
He'd just gotten home from a week away on the periphery of Winter and Autumn. Rhysand had gained approval from Kallias for impromptu surveillance at the border. Azriel just had a hunch, an itch, under his skin. A constant twitch in his wings. Beron was still plotting something. He felt it in his bones—even if he couldn't fucking prove his theory. And wasn't that a blow to his spymaster pride?
Seated at the desk in the private library, still in his Illyrian leathers, his eyes found the navy velvet in the corner as he sipped a whiskey. One side of his lips kicked up. Had it only been one week since Gwyn was writhing against him in that same chair? Gods, he missed her. His priestess was the only thing Azriel thought about the entire time he holed up in the darkness.
But Cauldron, he couldn't wait for Gwyn to be relieved from her shift. She didn't know he was coming home tonight. If he wasn't so exhausted, he would take her to dinner and lavish her with pastries. But he'd settle for her embraces. Her kisses. Having her in his bed. Despite their more intimate relationship, Gwyn hadn't stayed overnight since the morning she woke up panicked. But tonight? He'd ask. He wanted her to.
Pain shot up his fingers, radiating from his knuckles followed by numbness which almost had him dropping the glass. Trying to recover sensation in his right hand, he rubbed the side against his left, opened and closed his fist, even if the unfeelingness was just brief freedom from the pain. Pain which was only getting worse as he got older.
His thoughts meandered to the guitar he used to love to play as a teenager up until a few years ago. Gwyn mentioned the instrument the last time she was curled up reading on his settee in his room, noticing one hanging on his wall as decoration.
"A guitar," she said, running her fingers along the neck and fretboard. "I didn't realize you played, Shadowsinger."
"Do you play?" He wondered aloud.
"No, but Catrin did. Even with webbed fingers, she was amazing." With a giggle, she added, "You know, this is basically every female's fantasy. So many of those romance novels star musicians."
He'd grinned, running a hand through his hair as he sat in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs. "I don't play anymore, Priestess."
"And why not?" She asked as she shifted to him. "I bet you sang when you played, didn't you?"
His half-grin told her all she required. She rolled her eyes. "And I bet if I asked you to play, you'd tell me no?"
"Let's put it this way; you have a greater chance of me telling you what Gerona means in Illyrian than you do me playing guitar."
Fists propped on her hips, she sighed. "Okay, so are you going to tell me what Gerona means in Illyria?"
"No," he chuckled as she threw a throw pillow off another chair at his head. Dodging another soft projectile, he said. "Priestess, I promise to tell you one day."
"And sing?"
"Only if you sing with me."
"Be careful what you wish for, Azriel."
A spasm in his hand yanked him out of his thoughts. Opening and closing his hand repeatedly, he turned when the entrance to the stairwell opened and shut.
'It's the priestess,' his shadows told him.
His heart skipped. Drink and discomfort forgotten, he rushed to meet Gwyn in the corridor, anticipating she'd be as ecstatic by him being home safe as he was being here. Instead, she stopped in the hallway, the portrait of a warrior even in her robes, hands fisted at her sides. Those striking features flickering between unreadable and falling apart. He swallowed thickly as she kept a fair distance when he had expected her to run into his arms.
A few rogue shadows whipped from around her, getting back into line with his other brood.
'What's wrong?' He asked his shadows.
They didn't answer. He frowned.
Gwyn cleared her throat, straightening her shoulders. "I have a report, Spymaster."
He blinked several times, angling his head in concern. "Alright. Do you want to give me the information or—"
"Both you and the High Lord need to be present for my statement."
He took three tentative steps towards her, watching her chest rise and drop. His own chest ached as he watched her struggling not to shatter.
"Okay, Gwyn. Here or—"
"The River House. I don't want to tear Rhysand from his son and mate. If you'd be so kind as to bring me?"
He offered her a tense smile. "Of course. Fly or—"
"Winnow... please."
Now he knew something was awry. She hadn't chosen to winnow over flying since that first trip into Velaris. Since then, she adored the wind on her face and her hair blowing in the breeze. And he loved her in her arms, the trust to let him carry her.
He nodded, following as she made her way to the training ring. Thank the Cauldron Cassian and his mate were nowhere in sight or earshot. Once on the roof, it was a quick shot into the sky before they dissolved into his shadows, reforming on the massive front lawn.
Gwyn shrugged out of his grasp and started for the house without turning back to him.
'What is going on with her,' he asked his shadows again.
'She had a rather horrible day, shadowsinger,' was all they said. Well, fuck.
Rhys answered the door looking every bit the relaxed High Lord in a dark suit and unbuttoned white shirt, ushering them to the office. Lounging back in his chair, he gestured for them to sit. Azriel took a chair, but Gwyn—
"I'd rather stand if you don't mind."
Rhysand cut Azriel a questioning gaze, undoubtedly sensing the heavy tension.
"So, what do you have to tell us, Gwyn?"
She recounted her day at the library and infiltrating Merrill's. Pride raced through him at Gwyn's sharp thinking to evade detection. Did she really shove herself in a storage trunk? Dangerous if you're unable to winnow, but even still... damn. And his mind reeled as she described the paperwork on Merrill's desk.
"She has updated Valkyrie trainee numbers. Updated as of today. No one talks about training in the library. But she likewise had Illyrian numbers," Gwyn said, handing Azriel a scrap of cotton with figures and what looked to be villages. Shit. These villages corresponded to the noted towns with rebellions.
Azriel handed the fabric to Rhysand.
"I have more to show you, so you can see what I saw...," she spoke directly to Rhys. "If you want to see into my mind."
Azriel twisted toward her as Rhysand asked, "May I show Azriel what I find as well?"
Gwyn's throat bobbed, and she nodded. Familiar talons coated in darkness grazed the walls of his mind and he dropped them, Rhysand projecting what he was viewing Gwyn's memory.
A chill rushed down his spine as he saw the vision and the names of the texts. How in the actual fuck had Merrill gotten a hand on a copy of the godsdamn Book of Breathings? A complete copy, not just a half. The Walking Dead? What the hell was that? He saw all the pages Gwyn had browsed over on the desk, saw her stuffing herself into the chest. And Merrill... meeting with someone... a female.
Suddenly, the vision ceased.
"Gwyn, you closed your shield," Rhysand said, arcing a midnight brow.
"If it's alright with you, I'd only like this part to be shown to you first... Rhysand."
Azriel thought he'd die right there as his temper roiled beneath his quiet surface. There was something she didn't want him to see but didn't mind Rhysand viewing? His fingers clutched the armrest. Rhysand nodded to her and threw his brother a strained reassuring grin.
Gwyn drew a shuddering breath, closing her eyes, and he could see it written on Rhysand's face. Outrage and grief fueled the swirling night around them and Azriel knew at once that, whatever it was? It wasn't fucking good.
As Gwyn's eyes cleared and she blinked, they were glossy. Azriel moved for her, and she stepped away.
"I'll... I'll send for Cassian to pick you up," Rhysand said, and Azriel whirled around to argue. What the hell was Rhys doing? "You need to remain here, Az. We have things to discuss." The High Lord returned his attention to the priestess. "Is it all right if I tell him or show him, Gwyn? Azriel needs to see what you found out. I can understand why you didn't want to while he was here…"
She agreed. "I'll watch for Cassian in the front. And," she loosed a lengthy sigh. "I'm going to sleep in the guest room tonight, Shadowsinger."
Gwyn marched out the office door, her garments a white banner fluttering behind her. The shadowsinger lurched forward, met with a swath of speckled darkness shutting the wooden door in his face.
Az whirled around on his brother. "What the actual fuck, Rhys? I have to get to her."
Rhysand picked an unseen piece of lint from the lapel of his white dress shirt. "Is she your spy today or your love interest, Az? And trust me, I get how complicated that separation can be." Rhys sighed. "She needs space and you have work to do."
Azriel paced, wanting to pull his damn hair out, all hope for a fantastic reunion with Gwyn out the window, literally, as he watched Cassian take off with his girl.
"What the fuck is so urgent besides getting those books from her office?"
Rhysand's fingers drummed a death march on the wooden surface in front of him. "Find Merrill... and bring her to The Court of Nightmares."
"Why?" Azriel asked, muscle rigid with unleashed violence.
"We need answers about how she's getting this information. And—"
Familiar talons scraped against his shield again. But when Azriel lowered them and learned what was on the last two pages, Gwyn read before her escape? He didn't give a flying fuck if Merrill made it to the Court of Nightmares or not. To him, she was a dead female walking.
Not bothering to change out of her robes. Gwyn rested on her side in the cozy bed, her fists tucked under her chin, trying and failing to erase the day. Her first successful spy infiltration. Proud of her triumph, she should have been singing of her success at the top of her lungs. This evening, the priestess should have been celebrating with her shadowsinger. A fancy dinner. Perhaps to the seashore to hear to the surf, watch the swells gleam under the moonlight. Or maybe to their park, listen in to the harmony of the music halls. Hell, even to a music hall itself. And, gorging on favorite pastries, of course.
Instead? She was contemplating running, and not merely to the rooftop to work off nervous energy. Running as in disappearing; hiding, though Gwyn knew there were no viable means of escape. They'd find her. They tied her to that invoking stone since birth. No way to…
"I am the rock against which the surf crashes."
Gwyn wouldn't let this break her. She wouldn't surrender her found family.
She couldn't leave Azriel—wouldn't leave him.
And Gwyn realized, with wonder, that even if she fled, her heart would remain with Azriel here in Velaris. Even if she never came back.
"We forge our own path, sister. We follow our own stars."
Catrin was right. Gwyn had to forge on. And with her Valkyrie sisters by her side, and her hand in Azriel's, nothing could break her.
Rage roared in time with his pulse, his shadows spreading, surrounding him.
There was no doubt in his mind. Azriel was getting that information from Merrill. Discover her contacts. Fetter out the informer.
After that? Then she was dead—and he was going to so fucking enjoy every extended second.
Because Merrill knew.
She fucking knew.
Azriel marched right by a startled Clotho, winnowing up as a reticent assassin to Merrill's office.
'She isn't in the dorm or the temple,' his shadows reported.
'What about the rest of the library?'
'Nowhere, shadowsinger.'
The shadowsinger could have winnowed right in, but…
His lips drew up into a snarl as he threw all his weight behind his shoulder like a battering ram. The door snapped off the hinges, banging to the ground as he entered the room. Merrill was not there. Where the fuck was she?
Stepping over the debris, he tasked his shadow soldiers to locate the books while he ran over to the desk. The now bare desk. There were no papers. No ledgers. No books of any kind. Azriel moved to the bookshelf as his shadows scanned the spines.
'The books are not here, shadowsinger.'
And neither was Merrill.
"Fuck!"
He winnowed out of the office and straight to a wide-eyed Clotho.
"Where is she?"
Gwyn? The enchanted pen wrote the name.
"Merrill," he snapped, pressing his lips in a tight line, fighting to curb his rage. "Where is she?"
Merrill said she was off on a research-finding mission for the High Lord to another temple.
Absolute fucking bullshit.
She should return in a few days. Why?
"The second she returns," Azriel said, tapping a finger on Clotho's desk. "You call on Rhysand. As soon as she walks through those doors. Understood?"
Clotho's head nodded frantically under her hood as Azriel took the long way—the stairs instead of winnowing. He needed to do something. To send Nuala or Cerridwen each to a few temples to search for the bitch. Fuck, he was going to head directly to Rhysand to inform him of Merrill up and leaving right after Gwyn searched the office. Not only was Merrill gone but she took the books with her. None of this was normal.
Azriel made it about halfway up the steps before he decided he had to beat the shit out of something. Feel his fists slam into something solid. He threw back his arm and swung, pounding a fist into the granite wall of the staircase, welcoming the way his knuckles cracked and wept, his wings twitching in shock with every hit. Nevertheless, he kept going with the vision in his head.
One piece of paper with five names of priestesses he'd never met from other temples on official High Temple parchment; participants for the forthcoming Calanmai at the very top. How long had they all thought it was a priestesses' choice to attend? To take part? To sleep with the males?
But it wasn't the godsdamn note that had him wanting to break down. To hole up in his apartment and drink until he couldn't think. Had his stomach roiling to the point of vomiting. No, it was the one addition on a smaller cream-colored sheet. A notation in handwriting he did not recognize to add another attendee to the list.
Gwyneth Berdara.
Though the chapter missed the fluff factor, I feel it definitely hit the angst. The next few chapters have a mix of romance and action, but this chapter was sort of the turning point. Gwyn not giving up and truly realizing what Az means to her. Him admitting he misses her when he's away. And now we figure out what the hell is going on and we fight-together. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
Also, I would NEVER actually have Gwyn participate in Calanmai. EVER. Her name was put in to get her to run away from the Night Court. To scare her, which obviously she was. It won't actually happen, but there will be complications for her name being added to the list.
Song listened to when writing the spy part: "A Familiar Taste of Poison" by Halestorm. I needed to find something else other than the theme to Mission Impossible.