A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 7

He rubbed his temples, the ache forming behind his eyes. Az's hands were full, saddled with both instructor and spymaster duties. Ten new priestesses joined the program the past week, bringing their ranks into the twenties. With Cassian off enjoying mated bliss, Cauldron knew when Azriel played General, making the executive decisions.

He split the trainees into three groups, with the two Valkyries scheduled at dawn. Not that he worried much about Gwyn and Emerie. By the time he made it up to the roof, his girls had already finished warming up. They knew the drill.

After light sparring, the two broke off to work on individual assets and weaknesses. For Emerie, her strength was with daggers. Her weakness the bow. Despite Emerie's limitations, the Illyrian kept pushing beyond her limits. Wearing a specially created brace for balance, which seemed to help. Unlike the other girls, Emerie had the upper body strength required to pull back on the bow. And she was getting more exact with each practice.

Gods, Az wished he had been the one to kill Emerie's butcher of a father who clipped her wings. Sadistic bastard. On that note, he wondered why Illyrian females didn't spirit their daughters away somewhere safe. It might be a risk, but wasn't it worth it? If the Cauldron had ever blessed him with a daughter, she would never step foot in Illyria. Hell, if he had a son, he would never know that shithole. Fuck no. Not that he wanted children. Far too dangerous for too many reasons. Besides, he treasured being an uncle, and that was enough to fill his shadowed heart.

Gwyn's strengths were the sword and hand-to-hand. Quick on her feet, able to pivot like a dream, she effortlessly ducked and blocked. Azriel secretly loved observing her up against Emerie and Nesta. Watching her deadly dance, shifting from frantic reels to quiet waltzes. Perfect choreography. Precise timing. The priestess had a mind for technique. Though Gwyn still had a hard time trusting her gut, which landed her on her ass a handful of times.

After their session, Azriel pulled them aside, asking for help with the new pupils. He assigned the intermediates to Emerie. Gwyn took the novices. Both girls did him proud, but particularly Gwyn. The little priestess was a natural teacher. She'd taken on the greenest and the rawest of the group, and of course, she'd done it like Gwyn approached most jobs. With calming grace and a smile that shone brighter than the sun.

It wasn't anything how Azriel would have handled the lesson. No, not at all. But it worked. She won the timid newbies over with her innate kindness. She was attentive. Polite. Instead of jumping into details at a full gallop, Gwyn slowly led them by the reins like skittish horses. She had them sit in a circle, working on stretches, and talk. The atmosphere was cheery but focused. Letting them settle with each other and become familiar with the environment. While he'd prefer more movement, if anyone knew what those females required, it was Gwyn.

Gwyn explained to her group at the end of practice that tomorrow the actual work would begin with balance and footwork. With a friendly goodbye, Azriel assumed she'd head downstairs to the archives. But this was Gwyn, after all. And one knows what happens when one assumes.

Apparently, the House had discovered a book of sacred techniques Valkyries had once employed, proffering it to Gwyn. The tome spoke of training the mind and the body, controlling your breathing while holding poses that turned Gwyn into a pretzel. There were also maneuvers involving more advanced kicks, along with the flips and twists. Sounded intriguing—so he stayed, as she put it so bluntly days ago—to lurk.

He positioned himself off to the side, scouring over correspondences on the Autumn Court and the continent. Eris had dispatched a letter detailing that nothing was amiss. Most would say no news is good news. Azriel called bullshit. This only meant Beron was getting slicker. Azriel shook his head. Why Rhysand was putting any trust into Eris was beyond him. That Autumn prick was not to be trusted. The sooner they could be done with the heir apparent to that Cauldron-forsaken Seasonal Court, the better.