The rebels on the other side of the Shadowpass are massing, and refugees are flooding in to the city. Scared, penniless and not exactly welcome, they are desperate for the protection of the Nest, and the powerful mages who live there. But there is dissension in the Nest’s ranks, and there is always someone willing to make money from the fearful.

The mages believe they have a secret weapon – a captured lightborn, kept prisoner by a magical slave collar and forced to do their bidding. But Tatters and Isha, tentative friends despite their suspicion of each other’s motives, know something the mages do not.

The rebels are aware of the lightborn. They know how to deal with it. And they are ready for war…

The Hawkling is available now. You can order your copy on Bookshop.org

Chapter One 

As with most trouble, it was unexpected. The evening began, as  usual, when Isha went downtown, headed for the Coop. 

She had grown to love the roaring fire of the tavern, the broth  boiling in the fireplace, the apprentices clapping after a duel,  slapping each other’s backs, encouraging the shyest member of  the group to mindbrawl. She was used to the smell of cheap  meat and stale beer. Although every surface was tacky, as if  the tavern itself were sweating, there was comfort in the poor  ramshackle building. It invited everyone in. When she was at the  counter, watching Kilian’s impersonations of Lady Siobhan, Isha  laughed and forgot that nowhere was safe, not even the tavern. When she arrived that evening, Tatters was already mentoring  apprentices. He acknowledged her with a nod from the back  of his booth, but he didn’t have time to spare. With the threat  of war on the horizon, even people who didn’t usually visit the  tavern wanted some extra training. When it came to her day to-day life, Isha had found that war involved a lot of paperwork. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Calls to arms,  maybe. Drills in the Nest’s courtyard. The bell ringing with news  from the Sunrisers every morning. As it was, apprentices were  drafted to copy letters and maps, again and again, until their  fingers cramped. The Duskdweller Edge and the Sunriser Edge  were separated by the Ridge, after all, two countries split apart  by a border of stone, so any war between them would be a slow  one. An army had to cross the Ridge, through the Shadowpass  weaving its way below the mountains, braving the soul-sucking  shadows within. Peace had been maintained for centuries because the border was so hard to cross. The sun itself found it  hard, rising on the Sunriser Edge, to drag the light-tide across  the border to the Duskdweller side. 

To prepare against the Renegades, the lawmages enlisted the  ungifted’s help. There was always a huddle of ten or so ungifted  in the courtyard these days, struggling to spell out their names  and holding spears awkwardly against their chests. Sometimes  an apprentice was required to help copy out name, age, family  members, occupation, while the ungifted stood in front of them,  stammering the answers and asking whether they thought there  was much danger. It was a duty Isha tried to avoid. She didn’t  know what to say to them, to the fear in their eyes. 

The threat of the Renegades aside, life went on. Isha trained  with Passerine at the Nest, with Tatters at the tavern. She  enjoyed the variety. The Nest was beautiful, but cold. It wasn’t  made for humans. Its only scents were dust and mites. At the  Coop, she felt at home. Maybe it was, as its name suggested, a  grimier, smaller, yet more welcoming version of the Nest. 

At the counter, she chatted with the innkeeper. He wasn’t one  to discourage a good drinker. 

‘Sometimes I fancy I just need you and Tatters to keep this  whole place afloat,’ he joked. 

‘He’s busy at the moment, isn’t he?’ Isha said, indicating  Tatters. He’d flung his cloak against the back of the bench and  rolled up his sleeves. From here, she could only see the back of  his head, a dash of red-brown hair, freckled skin. And the collar,  of course. 

She licked the foam off the top of her cup. The innkeeper had  opened a new keg for her, which meant her drink was as much  foam as beer. 

‘He’ll only get busier,’ said the innkeeper, shaking his head.  

He turned to serve another apprentice, grabbing several tumblers  in one hand, expertly unblocking the wooden tap with the other  one. He tugged the tap closed with a grunt before turning to her.  ‘No offence, kid, but everyone needs people to work their fields  and serve their drinks. But if there’s one thing the Renegades  don’t need, it’s a bunch of mages sitting on their arses collecting  tax. When they get here, it’ll not be the city they’re after.’ 

Reading between the lines, that sort of talk could be seen as  disloyal. Isha was rather flattered the innkeeper spoke so openly:  it meant he trusted her. 

‘Do you think you’d have a better time with the Renegades?  Rather than the Nest? Maybe they’ll make you pay less tax.’ She  drank to give him time to answer, and to hide her amusement  at his shocked face. The innkeeper rested his forearms on the counter. His fingers  were glistening with spilt beer. As he pushed his weight into his  arms, the fat and muscle swelled between the lines of his horn  bracelet. He thought about what she’d said, then shook his head. ‘Nah. Forget it. It’s be ruled by the mages or be ruled by the khers. Bloodcows think they own the place already.’ He smiled.  It wasn’t often that his grim face broke upwards, or that his lips  showed his yellow teeth. ‘Not that I like you crazy bunch, but  you do keep them off our backs, I’ll give you that.’ 

Isha was too stunned to answer. The innkeeper patted her  hand, as if congratulating her on centuries of oppressing khers  and ripping horns from their dead. His fingers were sticky. 

‘Last thing I want is cattle pushing me around,’ he concluded. It seemed like a good time to end the conversation. 

Isha went to Tatters and pulled over a stool from a nearby  table. She waited, watching the duels that were open to the  public, downing the bitter beer. Kilian joined her two hours  in. Now that she trained with Passerine, she didn’t see him as  often – as one of Sir Daegan’s followers, he couldn’t mingle with  her at the Nest. But the tavern was different. It was a neutral  ground. She couldn’t help but smile at the familiar sight of his  rumpled outfit, down to his green shoes, which clashed terribly  with the gold of his belt and the grey of his robes. The green  dye, though faded, had held up better than expected. 

‘You’ve become worse than me,’ he said by way of greeting. 

‘Shut up and get me another drink,’ she said. ‘Put it on my  tab.’ 

‘You’ve even got a tab!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘What have I done?  

You were an innocent apprentice when you got here.’ 

I’ve got a tab because I win enough duels to wipe it, she thought.  

She was proud of her achievements in mindbrawl. 

Tatters waved them both forward. He freed places on the  bench next to him, pulling a platter of bread and cheese close.  He invited them to eat and tell him the latest news. Isha took  her knife out of the small sheath on her belt, cut a slice of  cheese, and handed it to Kilian. 

‘Look at what you’ve done to her,’ Kilian said, taking the  cheese. ‘It’s terrible. She’s always mindbrawling and drinking  now.’ 

‘The best way to live a life.’ Tatters smiled. 

The cheese was hard and sour. This was a good trading period  for Tatters; Isha hoped he wasn’t inviting too many apprentices  out, but instead hoarding the money for later, the time that was  bound to come when business would be slower. 

‘How is Arushi?’ she asked. 

‘Sulking, I think,’ Tatters said. His own knife, bone-handled  and worn, lay on the table between them. ‘I don’t see much of  her at the moment.’ 

‘But you’re not thinking of horn-humping, are you?’ asked  Kilian. 

Tatters and Isha exchanged a glance. 

‘If you think I’m the first man to have the idea,’ Tatters said,  ‘or the first kher, for that matter, you lack imagination.’ 

Tatters broke off a chunk of bread with dirty hands. Since she  had been living at the Nest, Isha’s skin had lost the roughness  she’d gained through farm work. Tatters’ hands reminded her of  her foster father, and what her own hands would have looked  like, had she stayed at home. 

‘I always tell him he lacks imagination,’ she said. ‘That’s why  his mindbrawl’s so poor.’ 

‘You’re one to brag!’ Kilian threw back his head, pretending  to be offended. He flung his blond hair dangerously close to  the torches. 

‘She is, actually.’ 

Tatters turned to Isha, and her heartbeat picked up as she  realised he was about to ask her to duel. But before he could,  the door of the tavern was slammed open. Conversations across  the room died down to a hush, as if words were candles that the  cold wind blowing from the door had extinguished. 

Isha spotted blue robes. Two ordained mages. 

The innkeeper rushed to greet them. The men were draped  in the night-sky blue of recently ordained mages – not high  mages in control of the Nest, but not apprentices, either.  Tatters’ mind shut down, although he sat poised, with the  alertness of a dog sniffing the air. He pushed himself behind  Isha and, intuitively, she sat on the edge of the bench, so she  would be hiding him. 

The innkeeper freed a table for the mages, chasing off a  group of apprentices, who were then left stranded, holding their  beers, scratching their noses, watching their feet. They looked  uncomfortable but unwilling to run for it just yet. The mages  talked to the innkeeper, who shook his head and spread out his  hands. Unsatisfied, one of the men stood up. 

‘I know you’re here, Tatters.’ 

The silence thickened. A few apprentices cleared their throats.  

A few others, conveniently placed close to the door, made a  swift exit. Kilian seemed to long to be part of them, but he was  wedged against the bench by the heavy table and the cheese  platter. The mage spoke again: 

‘I am not here to close this place down, but I could. Make  yourself known.’ 

Isha’s heart was beating hard. She didn’t turn to Tatters, but  she sensed that other apprentices were, or were about to. Tatters  sighed, his shoulders sagging under his mismatched rags. He  got up. 

‘Long time no see, Ninian. It is Ninian, right?’ 

The mage turned to him. ‘Give the man some space,’ he  ordered. As Tatters squeezed past Isha, he picked up his knife.  She let him pass and didn’t follow. It wasn’t as if she could help. The crowd cleared a way for Tatters, who took his time to  reach the mage, making a show of sheathing his knife. The gold  of his collar glowed. 

‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’ Tatters asked in a per former’s voice, so everyone could hear. ‘You were an apprentice  yourself, Ninian. I hope you haven’t forgotten.’ 

‘We are all friends here,’ said Ninian. ‘I didn’t come to cause  trouble.’ 

Tatters touched wrists with both mages. He stood in sharp  contrast: he was smaller, lankier, less well groomed, with messy  hair, a messier beard, traces of age and wear across his features.  They had chubby cheeks where he had only lines of hunger. 

The innkeeper brought them three tumblers of amber coloured mead, not the dregs of beer he sold the apprentices.  Kilian would have used the opportunity to make himself scarce,  Isha supposed, if she hadn’t picked up the cheese and changed  tables. 

‘What are you doing?’ Kilian hissed. 

She didn’t answer. She placed herself behind Ninian and his  friend, so that Tatters could see her but it would be more diffi cult for the two men to spot her. Kilian hesitated, then sat down  next to her; they had to squeeze in, as the table was already full  of apprentices. 

‘You’re going to get in trouble,’ he whispered. 

‘Or maybe I’ll get Tatters out of trouble,’ she answered. 

She tugged her stool sideways, trying to find an angle from  which she could study the ordained mages. When Ninian drank,  he scrunched his nose and made a disparaging comment on the  quality of the brew. Tatters didn’t drink. Sitting before the two  intruders, he crossed his hands on the table. 

‘What are you here for?’ asked Tatters. 

‘You’re in a hurry,’ said Ninian. 

Tatters shrugged. ‘I don’t know if you can feel it, but you’ve  rather spoilt the mood.’ 

From where she was eavesdropping, Isha didn’t have a good  view of Ninian, but she did have a good view of Kilian, who  pulled a face to express how inappropriate Tatters’ behaviour  was. There was a brief conversation between Tatters and Ninian,  which Isha missed – they were speaking too low, and the  apprentices, gathering courage, were talking again. 

After downing his tumbler, Ninian handed it without a word  to the innkeeper, who went to fill it again. The other mage, Ninian’s companion, was playing at running a finger along the  wooden rim, staring across the room. Both mages were closely  shaved, their hair washed and oiled, their clothes uncreased and  cleaned. 

‘I want to duel you,’ said Ninian, loud enough for the room  to hear. 

Someone gasped, earning themselves a glare from Ninian’s  friend. This wasn’t what Isha had been expecting, but it didn’t  mean it was better. 

Even Tatters seemed taken aback. He picked up his tumbler and gulped down its contents. When he put it down, he  smacked his lips before answering. ‘Are you sure about this? I’m  always happy to mindbrawl apprentices, but an ordained mage  is a different business.’ 

Ninian leant across the table. Isha didn’t hear the full sentence,  but she thought he might have said: ‘I’ve always wanted to be  you.’ Or maybe it was: ‘I’ve always wanted to beat you.’ Ninian  lifted the rim of his blue robe, squeezing it between finger and  thumb, and whispered something else, but she missed the words  that matched the gesture. 

The friend turned around to scan the room, so she pretended  to be engrossed in her cheese. Beside her, Kilian was nervously  tapping his fingers against the table. 

‘Who’s the settler?’ Tatters asked. He caught Isha’s eye, as  she’d placed herself in his line of sight, but didn’t smile. Caitlin,  his usual settler, wasn’t in the tavern tonight. 

Ninian pointed to his friend. ‘But you can pick a second  settler, if you wish.’ Two settlers, one for each duellist, helped  prevent cheating. 

Again, Tatters’ gaze drifted to where Isha was sitting. Even  though she might have misread his intention, even though her throat was knotted, she nodded. He hesitated, but in the end he  said, ‘I’m fine with just the one.’ 

‘It will be an open duel.’ Ninian addressed the whole tavern.  

‘You are welcome to place bets as you always do.’ 

Tatters crossed his hands behind his neck, stretching back wards. 

‘All right.’ 

The bustle of the tavern picked up again as apprentices  crowded around the counter. Tatters set up two chairs face-to face, in the centre of the room. Isha pushed through the throng  of people to join him, Kilian trailing behind. She helped prepare  the reduced stage where they would battle. 

‘I’ve never seen you lose,’ she said quietly. He had been beaten  before, or so she’d heard, but she had yet to see it happen. Tatters  kicked a tumbler aside, and it rolled under a bench. 

‘Will you lose this one?’ asked Kilian. 

Tatters smiled. ‘Of course. I’m not an ordained mage.’ 

Isha glanced at him. There was something about his cheeky,  confident smile. 

You think you can win, don’t you? she mindlinked. 

I don’t think. It’s overrated. 

Kilian must have sensed they were excluding him from their  conversation. ‘Come on guys, it’s just insulting,’ he complained. ‘Get used to it, Isha’s too smart for the both of us,’ said Tatters.  

‘She’ll always be hiding stuff from you.’ 

Isha would have echoed Tatters’ smile, if he hadn’t been so  close to the truth. She felt uneasy knowing that, even when  bantering, he always hit his mark. She followed the two men  to the counter. Kilian placed bets on Ninian; she refused to bet. ‘Mindscrew the arrogant bastard,’ growled the innkeeper, as  he took Kilian’s bet and jotted it down, scratching the numbers  in his wax tablet. 

‘You do realise it’s a crime if I attack a mage?’ asked Tatters. 

The innkeeper mumbled something unintelligible, then said,  

‘Yes. Right. But mindscrew his ass.’ 

‘That’s not how mindscrewing works,’ laughed Tatters. ‘But  I’ll do my best.’ 

‘You’d better.’ 

The innkeeper dipped a glass in a bucket of soiled water with  a layer of grease shining across its surface. He rubbed it with a  soaked rag in an attempt to wash it. Isha tried to ignore the fact  that this had probably already happened to the tumbler she’d  been drinking out of. 

‘Don’t bet any silver on me,’ Tatters warned. 

The tavern was hot and packed with bodies, a slit of night  visible through the half-open door. Ninian’s friend seated himself  a few minutes before the duel was supposed to start. Isha spotted  him squeezing Ninian’s fingers, planting a quick kiss on his lips.  Because of the trust it required, it wasn’t uncommon for lovers  to work as settlers for each other. The Nest didn’t much care  who slept with whom, as long as it didn’t prevent people from  serving the high mages. 

The Temple had taught her, at the farm, that Raudaz, the  lightborn of war, and Byluk, the lightborn of death, were two  male lightborns who lived a married couple’s life. Unfortunately,  their union was sterile, breeding only battlefields. 

Eyes closed, Ninian’s lover was preparing the arena. His  breathing slowed, until he could be dozing or dying. 

Ninian and Tatters positioned themselves face-to-face. Tatters  let himself drop back into his chair, but Ninian didn’t. 

‘Ordained mages fight standing,’ said Ninian. 

Tatters shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less. ‘Let’s do that,  then.’ He got to his feet, legs apart, arms crossed before him.  He closed his eyes. 

Isha didn’t join the mindbrawl immediately. The background  sound of conversation died down. The apprentices closed their  eyes, grew still. Only the innkeeper stayed wide awake, leaning  on his counter, frowning at the silent figures, trying to second guess what could be happening. It must be alien for the ungifted,  Isha realised. A whole room of people standing eyes closed, doing  nothing, until one of them collapses. 

She tucked her legs under the hewn bench. Resting her head  against a beam, she mindlinked to the arena. 

The mind of Ninian’s lover was crowded, but accommodated  everyone easily by creating a fake amphitheatre in which they  could sit. Isha naturally drifted next to Kilian, known minds  recognising and attracting each other. They were sitting together  at the front of the coliseum. Everyone, Isha suspected, perceived  themselves in the best seats, while perceiving the others around  the top of the arena. 

‘It’s good settler work,’ said Kilian approvingly. 

‘If you could do stuff like this, you could become an official  duel settler,’ she said. 

‘Always better than fighting the damn things.’ 

The warmth of the tavern, the scent of spilt beer faded. The  circle of white sand where Ninian was standing grew more tan gible. His blue robes billowed around him. His pale skin seemed  cut out of the azure background, as if his hands and head were  floating, detached from his body. The long thin fingers were still;  his face was like marble. His hair was a dusty brown, which he  polished in mindlink until it glowed like copper. 

Tatters was still in rags, still collarbound. There was something  humbling about the simplicity of his outfit. 

Isha knew the tricks of the trade. Mindbrawl was a balancing  act between looking shabby and overworked. If you changed  yourself too much, you seemed more fragile, as if you were  overcompensating. What did it reveal of your weakness if you  couldn’t even show yourself as you were? 

‘This is going to be good,’ said Kilian. 

‘It is,’ agreed a young female voice. 

Isha and Kilian both turned. Lal was sitting next to them. 

She was a young girl shaped from mist, with a see-through  quality to her, but dressed like a young man, with a shirt and a  shoulder-cape. Before Isha could say anything, she interrupted,  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t think the settler has noticed me.’ 

Isha opened her mouth and closed it again. In the end she  said: ‘Isn’t it a bit risky talking to us and getting ready to fight  at the same time?’ 

Lal shrugged. ‘Almost makes you think I’m not a projection  but a real person, doesn’t it?’ Her tone wasn’t entirely friendly.  Isha was surprised by Lal’s admission. She knew Lal was Tatters’  younger sister but, as far as she was aware, Kilian simply thought  she was a mental double created by Tatters. It was risky to be  so open in his presence. Or maybe Lal didn’t think enough of  Kilian to care. 

Kilian focused his attention on Tatters and Ninian – because  of how mindlink worked, although he didn’t move, he dis appeared from their conversation. Isha supposed he was trying  to understand what Lal was for; he would return soon. 

Lal was on the cusp of outgrowing childhood, with long  limbs, an easy smile. Tatters’ red hair, dishevelled but longer.  His sister. Isha had to force herself to remember it. The ghost  of his sister. Was this what she looked like when she died? Or  what she would have looked like, had she lived? 

‘We need to talk,’ said Lal. ‘You’ve been keeping secrets from  us.’ 

Isha wondered if Tatters could hear this conversation or if he  was too focused. 

‘You’ve been keeping secrets from me,’ Isha answered. She  thought she was only being fair, but Lal had a wicked little leer  on her wicked little features. The worst was her voice, soft and  childlike and threatening. 

‘I’ll get the truth out of you,’ said Lal. 

Isha gritted her teeth. She had been training hard for a  reason – she had been preparing so that, when her enemies made  themselves known, she wouldn’t back down. She would fight. 

She glared at Lal’s hazel eyes. 

‘You can try,’ she said. 

To her surprise, Lal smiled. ‘Tatters and I are always here.  The invitation to duel is always here. What are you waiting for?’ Kilian reappeared beside them, brimming with excitement.  

‘It’s starting!’ 

Ninian’s first attack hit before anyone noticed he had crafted it. Suddenly Tatters’ collar grew to encompass his shoulders, then  shrank slowly. Isha watched, a sickly feeling in the pit of her  stomach; Ninian must have prepared for this fight by studying  exactly how collars manifested during their first use. The circle  grew smaller and smaller, but when it reached Tatters’ neck, he  didn’t seem worried. He let the crushing reality of becoming a  collarbound encircle his throat and settle there. 

‘Seen it all before,’ he joked. 

Ninian reacted with a wealth of images which, even from  

her distance as a witness, burnt across Isha’s retina. They were  discordant, incoherent, as effective as a nightmare. Someone’s  wet kiss crushing your lips, and the lick of blood as their mouth was  shattered by a bolt fired from a crossbow, and gore and teeth and  skin splashed your face, and the only person you ever loved died. The  realisation that the crossbow was in your hands. 

The searing pain as you planted the knife through your hand and  then, methodically, carved out the ligaments. Moving the torn hand towards your eye, pushing the fingers underneath the eyelid. The rubbery texture of the eyeball as you tugged it out of its socket. The blurred vision as you ripped it out of your face. The touch of clear,  cold goo running down your cheek. 

Next to her, Kilian made a sound as if the air had been  knocked out of his lungs. 

‘This is good,’ he whispered. 

Lal was gone. Maybe she had decided the fight was worthy  of her attention after all. 

Isha nodded. Almost everything was contained in the sense  of touch, and the deep, gut-wrenching dread Ninian threaded  inside his visions. It was powerful enough that people observing  the duel could taste blood in their mouths. 

Ninian stopped. Tatters was still standing, head cocked to  one side. 

‘To be fair, I never did any of that before,’ he admitted. ‘Now  I know what it would feel like.’ 

Ninian waited, on the defensive, but nothing happened. As  far as Isha could tell, Tatters wasn’t doing anything. Tapping his  toes against the settler’s floor, he gave the crowd a derisive smile. ‘Why won’t you fight?’ snarled Ninian. 

‘Oh, I wouldn’t dare,’ said Tatters. 

The ripple of the blow went through Isha. Figures huddled  below the gates of the Nest. The empty glaze across their eyes. And  there, amongst the wan faces, someone you recognised, someone lost  but loved. You knelt before them before realising who they were. It was you. You were the lacunant begging before the gates. 

This was the fate all mages feared – this was what they would  all become, from the bushy-tailed apprentices to the hardened  mindbrawlers. They would die empty husks. 

Yet Tatters remained unfazed. Maybe because Isha was focusing on the duel once more, maybe because he had been searching for her, Kilian manifested beside her. Isha knew spacing was an  illusion when they were in someone’s mind, but she had never  met a settler who could accommodate this illusion like Ninian’s  lover – sense of perspective and the layout of the arena remained,  but people’s places inside it shifted at will. 

‘You’re very good,’ said Tatters, in his tutoring voice. 

When he took a step forwards, Ninian raised his mental  defences immediately. Tatters drew a flower on the floor, imagin ing precise veins down the leaves, pistils within the centre. 

‘You think like a swordsman. When you’re fighting, get your  hardest hit out there first. You want to kill the opponent as fast  as possible, not make a good show.’ 

‘Why aren’t you following your own advice, then?’ Ninian  sounded more startled than angry; more exhausted than chal lenging. Even from her removed position, Isha could tell how  trying his visions had been both to make and maintain. 

Tatters went on, ignoring Ninian’s intervention, ‘But if you  notice you’re tiring yourself and your hits are more effort to  you than pain to the other guy, then maybe you should change  tactics.’ 

They waited in silence. Isha could taste the strain on Ninian’s  mind in the air. If Tatters was tired, he was concealing it well. Now that the intensity of the fight had dulled somewhat, Lal  returned. Kilian nudged her with his elbow. 

‘Are you the big finale?’ he asked. 

Lal shook her head. ‘I’m not getting involved.’ 

Ninian pounced on Tatters again. The imaginings were achingly precise, with the patterned details of a spiderweb. Isha  could taste and breathe and touch them. But Tatters didn’t seem  affected. It wasn’t like anything she had seen him do before –  rather than try to avoid or deflect what was thrown at him, he  allowed it to reach him. It was as if he couldn’t feel what Ninian  had created, like a poorly-made imagining from an apprentice,  badly executed. But the visions were precise enough that they  should hit their mark. 

‘If he did this all the time, no-one would ever touch him.’ She  was thinking out loud, but in mindlink, the difference between  thinking and talking was flimsy at best. 

‘He won’t use it with you,’ said Lal. ‘He shouldn’t use it now. Do it too often, and people will work out what the trick is.’ 

Kilian watched Lal with interest, still expectant. ‘Why do you  talk about yourself using “he”?’ he asked. ‘Does it help?’ 

Lal smiled. ‘Keep telling yourself that.’ 

In the arena, Ninian backed down. He spat on the floor in  rage. His mind was at the end of its tether. It shivered like  a sheet of fabric being pulled at both ends, fraying down the  centre. 

‘What now?’ he shouted, and Isha could hear the fear in his  voice. ‘Shall we get down to punches?’ 

‘How about we call it a draw?’ asked Tatters. Ninian didn’t acknowledge the end of the fight. He left the  arena. 

‘What an idiot.’ The harshness in Lal’s tone surprised Isha. Although she wasn’t on Ninian’s side, Isha felt the need to  say, ‘He was pretty good.’ 

‘I’m talking about Tatters,’ said Lal. ‘Now he’s shown everyone  he’s dangerous.’ 

The child shook her head and vanished. Troubled, Isha left the  settled mind. Inside the tavern, the air felt heavy, as if there were  particles of fat floating around, sticking to her lungs, making it  difficult to breathe. She swallowed stale saliva. 

Ninian was nowhere to be found. He must have gone outside.  

The apprentices, rubbing their swollen eyes, were emerging from  mindlink. She sipped her beer, focusing on its taste to bring  herself back to the present. She had pins and needles down her  arms and legs; she tapped her feet on the ground to bring some  sensation back into them. 

Tatters stepped out from mindlink and went to lounge on  the seat prepared beforehand. He didn’t brag, and his mind was  closed. The audience crowded around the bar area, discussing  the duel which had just taken place, expressing frustration at  the lost bets. Isha waited for Kilian to join her in the real world.  His face was surprisingly serious, a tense expression across his  round features. 

When he opened his eyes, she handed him his beer. 

‘That was… something,’ he said, shaking his head from side  to side. 

At first Isha thought he was shaking it to help himself leave  mindlink; then she realised he was shaking it in disbelief, staring  at Tatters. 

‘By all the underworlds, who is this guy?’ he whispered. 

It’s only now that you think of asking? She’d put the question to Kilian a thousand times, and he’d brushed it away, saying  people came from everywhere, that Tatters could be a Sunriser  despite the pale skin, or maybe a village mage with parlour  tricks. Obviously the parlour trick theory was null. 

Isha observed the settler as he collapsed his mind. He was the  last to do so, as his role required. When he surfaced, he stretched,  ignoring his lover’s absence. Rather formally, he cracked his  wrists, his ankles and his neck. He turned to Tatters and said  something, but Isha couldn’t make out the words. 

‘Let’s talk to him.’ She was about to get up when Kilian  placed a hand on her forearm. 

‘I know you like him, but this isn’t normal.’ Kilian lowered his  voice, as if Tatters could hear him through the din of shouting,  talking, and banging tumblers. ‘This shouldn’t be possible.’ 

The settler got up and left. It was too late to catch his opinion  on what had taken place. 

‘You told me Tatters was good,’ Isha said. ‘You brought me  here the first time.’ 

Kilian rubbed the stubble of his first beard with one hand,  keeping the other on her forearm. ‘This is different. He, you  know, could have wrecked an ordained mage. From the Nest.’ 

‘Only he didn’t,’ she said. So maybe he couldn’t. For the first time, Isha considered the possibility of Tatters  being under a ban from his collar. She was nearly sure, from the  glow of the collar, that it wasn’t active. It reacted erratically, so  it might be broken. But if it wasn’t, there must be orders he had  to submit to, and not attacking a mage seemed like something  a conscientious master would include. 

Despite his concerns, Kilian followed her as she made her way  towards Tatters. The innkeeper brought him a glass to celebrate  his officially-not-a-victory. 

‘A draw? Really?’ The innkeeper asked, handing Tatters his  drink. ‘I mean, it’s still good money. But if you’d won, we could’ve  made a small fortune! Might even have been able to afford a  servant, for a change.’ 

‘I told folks not to bet on me.’ 

The innkeeper scoffed. ‘You don’t want to share your room with someone doing real work around here, that’s all.’ 

Tatters downed the beer. Kilian stood too close to Isha, and she wasn’t sure whether he wanted to protect her, or secretly  hoped she would protect him. 

‘An impressive duel,’ she said. 

Tatters’ smile was sad. He was sitting back to front on the  chair, with his arms and chest pressed against the backrest, his  legs spread out on either side. He held his glass loosely – foam  seeped from the top and ran down his fingers. 

‘What did the settler say?’ she asked. 

‘Ninian is being sent to the Shadowpass. Apparently none of  the refugees are making sense. Nobody can tell the high mages  how they crossed – they’re all too damaged by the crossing. He’s  being sent to investigate.’ 

Tatters drank some more, letting beer run down the corner of  his lips. ‘That’s why he wanted to duel me today. To know if he  was ready for what he might have to face out there.’ He wiped  his mouth on his sleeve before concluding. ‘I’ve failed you all.’ 

There was a silence, for want of something to say. 

‘What?’ Kilian stuttered at last, as if they could have misheard. 

Tatters sighed. 

‘I taught Ninian. And I let him go and be ordained and believe he was good.’ 

He looked at his beer, as if he hoped to find answers there.  He shook his head, not liking what he saw. 

‘As a teacher, I shouldn’t have let him believe that. I shouldn’t let any of you believe that. What are you going to do when your  enemies are fighting back?’ 

Isha watched as he licked the foam off his fingers. 

‘You told me I was good,’ she said. ‘Was that a lie too?’ 

‘No, but you’re really good,’ said Kilian. ‘Right?’ 

Tatters gave her a wary look. ‘You’re special,’ he answered, matter-of-factly. ‘Surely you’ve  noticed by now.’ 

Isha thought about what Lal had said. She thought about  secrets and lies and birds of prey embroidered on red flags. 

‘Do you think we should fight?’ she asked. 

She pretended not to notice Kilian’s horrified look. 

‘Let’s say part of me would like to duel you,’ Tatters said. She  could tell he was picking his words carefully. ‘And part of me  would rather we were friends.’ 

She didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. They  drank together. They ate together at the khers’ house. He walked  her home at night. ‘Aren’t we friends?’ she asked. Is that why you  didn’t want me to be your settler? 

Kilian was glancing from one to the other, the way a child  might between two parents fighting, not sure which side to pick,  smart enough not to intervene. 

‘I don’t know,’ said Tatters. ‘You tell me.’ 

She was standing, arms crossed, and he was crouched around  his chair, hugging his beer. He rested his chin on his forearm,  pushing his head backwards to be able to hold her stare. 

She was alone. 

It was like noticing a wound she hadn’t known she had, and  suddenly realising that she was in pain. There was Kilian, but  there was much he didn’t understand. There was Tatters, but he  followed his own agenda. There was Passerine, but they weren’t  close. 

There was no-one she could tell about a hawk branded on  flags and faces. 

She hadn’t known she was going to say it until she did: ‘I would like to know who my friends and foes are.’ It sounded plaintive, even to her ears. 

Tatters finished his drink, his Adam’s apple moving as he  gulped the dregs of his glass, head thrown back, as if he would  never need to breathe again. When he put his beer down, he  inhaled like a man breaking the surface after a long swim  underwater. 

‘Don’t we all,’ he said. ‘Don’t we all.’ 

‘I don’t get it,’ said Kilian. ‘I thought we were all friends?’ 

*** 

Tatters waited for the Coop to quieten before leaving. After  Ninian’s departure, most apprentices had followed suit, Isha  and Kilian included. When only the heavy drinkers remained  perched at the counter, he grabbed his set of keys, hung it on his  belt, and waved the innkeeper goodbye. Outside it was drizzling;  he pulled his black stana over his head to protect himself. 

Make sure no-one follows us, Lal said. 

Who do you think I am? 

He was cautious while passing through the city, attentive to  the way the shadows and minds moved around him. The shops  were closed, wooden shutters hiding the wares; the front doors  were locked. Rats were hunting for food in the gutters. The only  humans outside were ungifted, refugees or locals, either sleeping  across porches or building fires on the pavements for warmth,  with the odd scuffle or argument taking place. A merchant even  threw a bucket of water out of their window to shush a group  of noisy beggars, as one did to separate fighting cats. 

Tatters crossed several of the mages’ borders. Each time, he  felt the ripple of past minds, like a splash in a puddle. In the  moonlight, the bowls of mercury glinted on their stands. The  emotions trapped there echoed with lonely calls, reaching out  into the night. The rain rolled off the heavier metal, which shimmered at the touch of water. 

Not only were the city gates closed at night, but the security  had been reinforced since Mezyan’s visit – for all the disdain  the mages showed a half-kher, his message from the Renegades,  his threats and flashy speeches, had not gone unheard. More  patrols, several guards at the door, a metal glint above, where  archers were defending the walls. Big wooden planks which  could be drawn across the gates, to better resist a battering ram.  The miscellanea of a city bracing for a fight. Tatters bribed the guards, under the pretext that he needed to catch up with an  apprentice headed for the Nest. 

Which is nearly true, Lal pointed out. 

The guards waved him through; they’d had drunk apprentices shuffling past all night, and couldn’t care less about Lady  Siobhan’s infamous collarbound. 

The high road linking the city and the Nest was muddy.  

Taking into consideration the low light and the slippery grass,  Tatters walked slowly, concentrating on every step. In the dis tance, the Nest emerged from the ground like a ragged piece of  cliff, its high walls streaked with rain. The giants’ gates, like the  rusted ribs of a long-dead monster, loomed before it. 

It was a long, wet, chilly walk – but Tatters always had  company. 

Why did you go and spook Isha? he asked. 

He felt Lal shrug. We agreed to make a stand. So, we should start  with the easy prey. Isha is the best Renegade for us to target. If we  can break her mind, we can pillage any of the plans they were dumb  enough to let her know about. 

Are we sure she’s on their side? 

We’re sure she’s Hawk’s daughter, Lal said. That’s enough. 

If possible, Tatters would have avoided a direct confrontation,  to spare Isha any violence. He would much rather spy on her  mind, to unearth her secrets, than go digging for them with a  pickaxe. 

We’ve done it your way so far, and where has it got us? Lal wasn’t impressed. 

Tatters continued to pick his path without answering, confident Lal could sense his reservations. There was no point in  arguing: they had other worries for tonight. As he reached the  bridge, the clouds parted enough for the moon to peek out. The  huge chains embedded in the earth, tethering the Edge to the  mainland, glinted in the dull light. 

One day, those rusted chains will give way, said Lal. And every thing we know will be swallowed by the void. 

Tatters gazed at the links, each thicker than a man. But not  in our lifetime. 

After the bridge, he left the main road for the marshier  area south of the Nest. To the north were the Temple, some  woodland, and the higher grounds used for festivals. At the  moment, it served as a place to assemble trebuchets and other  siege weapons, anything to throw at the Renegades from the  other side of the chasm. The wooden machinery lurked like  bulky, sleeping beasts. To the south, where the river curved, was  an area where the horses were brought out to graze, with low  shrubs whose only use was to be eaten by sheep and ponies. 

The stables, which were in the inner courtyard of the Nest, hugging its walls, had an exit on this side of the castle. It was  too narrow to be an entryway for an attack – at least, that was  the reasoning – but was large enough for horses to be led out  in pairs. Horses were rotated in and out of the stables, into  the pastures, during spring and summertime. Now the colder  months had started, they mostly stayed inside. 

A wooden awning jutted out of the walls, protecting a sodden area of beaten earth. The hay thrown upon the ground  did nothing to soak up the puddles, and it was rotting. When  Tatters reached the relative cover of the awning, the side-door  leading to the stables was already open. Caitlin was waiting for  him, her skin golden under the light of her torch. 

‘You took your sweet time,’ she said. 

‘May you grow tall too,’ he answered, pulling down his stana. 

She only frowned. ‘Don’t bother turning on the charm, it doesn’t work on me. And if you try anything shady, you can  walk back to the Coop,’ she warned. 

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ As he counted out the coins, he tried  to see if he could spot a figure behind Caitlin in the warmth of  the stables. He couldn’t see anything. The smell of hay, of the  bodies of horses, drifted through the entrance. As did the flies,  which even in winter never left the stables. 

‘Do you do this often?’ he asked, as he handed over the sum.  

‘I imagine lots of ungifted want the chance to make a wish to  the lightborn. You could line your pockets with gold.’ 

‘That’s none of your business,’ Caitlin said. ‘I’m doing you a  favour here, Tatters.’ 

He’d been keeping a close eye on her thoughts, so he perceived the twinge of guilt. This was a regular hustle, then. Well,  he could understand. Caitlin would be making some money on  the side, milking her master’s assets for her own profit. 

‘You were always ambitious,’ he said noncommittally. Maybe Sir Daegan trusted her with the lightborn because he felt his  collarbound needed a female guardian to help with women’s  troubles. 

Caitlin glared at him. ‘Tatters, you have your favourites and  people you protect. You have your master and people to protect  you.’ 

As if, Lal snorted. 

‘But if I don’t look out for myself, no-one else will,’ Caitlin  concluded, letting the coins slide from her fingers to her leather  purse. 

She waved to someone in the depths of the stables. The lightborn stepped into the light cast by the torch. The collar  around her neck was a dull shade of gold. Her blonde hair had  been braided, but he could tell it wasn’t a labour of love. It had  been done roughly, for practical purposes only. She was wearing  the blue dress he had seen before: long-sleeved, delicate and  gauze-like, utterly inappropriate for this weather. At least it had  stopped raining. 

‘May you grow tall.’ He gave her a low bow. She didn’t show  any sign of recognition. 

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Caitlin said, in the tone of voice of  someone who knows exactly how an event is going to unfold. 

Tatters moved away from the disciple, leaving her at the  threshold, leading the lightborn outside. As soon as she was  outdoors, she went to the edge of the awning, her eyes searching  upwards to meet the stars, which could barely be seen wrestling  for space with the clouds. It was hard to tell, from her expression, if this was longing, or for want of anything else of interest  to look at. 

‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ he said, ‘even though I wish we’d  met in happier circumstances.’ 

She didn’t answer. Usually, he wasn’t one to stay silent, but  there was nothing he could say to this serious, closed face. He  searched for a suitable topic to share with her, but the only  obvious common ground was servitude. He didn’t want to ask  her how long she’d been a collarbound, how she’d been caught,  what she missed most. He hadn’t wanted people to ask him  those questions. 

He settled for: ‘What’s your name?’ 

Caitlin was alert, leaning on the stables’ doorframe, close enough to study their movements, but too far to hear them. No  doubt people before him had tried to draw the lightborn into  conversation, and failed. 

She will answer us, Lal thought confidently. We’re different. 

And she had perceived that difference, he hoped. Although  for a moment he believed he had failed too, and the lightborn  wouldn’t answer. 

‘My name cannot be translated,’ she said at last. 

Tatters hadn’t even been sure she could speak the Duskdweller tongue until then. Understanding orders coming through the  collar was one thing – the collar had a way of pressing meaning  into your soul – but he was impressed to hear her speak clearly,  albeit hesitantly, with a lilting accent that he couldn’t place. 

Too excited at having received an answer, he spoke fast, his  words rushing out as if there was too little time to say every thing. ‘You can give me a false name, if you want. Or an idea of  what your name sounds like. It would be great to be properly  introduced.’ 

She was staring at him with calm, unreadable features. He  wondered if he’d spooked her. In an attempt to be friendly, he  added, ‘I’m Tatters.’ 

She had golden-hazel eyes, the colour of her light. Again,  she turned them towards the sky. Her voice wasn’t so much  dismissive as neutral. ‘I’ve heard your slave-name before.’ 

So much for killing the conversation, thought Lal. 

He forced himself to think of something to say. She had  no-one else. It didn’t matter whether she made this easy for him  or not – what mattered was that she was alone in this strange  place that wasn’t her home, enslaved to men who weren’t her  people. 

‘Is there anything I can give you, anything you want?’ he asked. 

‘My freedom,’ she said, without hesitation. 

Of course, he thought, cursing himself. Out loud he said, ‘That’s  not something I can do.’ 

‘Then you have nothing I want.’ 

The silence was speckled with sounds, the distant rumble of  the river, the wind through the grass, the horses sighing in their  stalls. Flies crawled on the manure visible in the patch of light. 

You didn’t have a nice word for anyone, when Hawk bound us,  

Lal said. Why would she have a kind word for you? You’re right, he answered. 

From the doorway, Caitlin was gawking. She must have heard  the soft whisper of voices. 

He studied the lightborn’s profile. Her eyes had changed  colour, it seemed, maybe because of the dark hue of the moor land. They were now a deep shade of green, an echo of the  underbrush. 

‘I am sorry,’ he said. 

He was sorry, for the existence of the collars; for the fact that  here they were, miserable, in the cold, huddled under low mists  gorged with rain, beneath fortifications of sandstone; for the fact  that she was bound to tread mud, rather than travel the skies. 

Her tone lost none of its hardness. ‘Your pity will not break  this collar.’ 

You should say to her what you wished Mezyan had said to you. 

Lal’s advice was, for once, unjudgemental, maybe even gentle. 

‘Nothing I can give you now will break it,’ Tatters said. ‘But  I will try. I just wanted you to know that you are not alone. You  have someone on your side.’ 

At first she didn’t say anything. Then she pushed herself away  from the awning. She placed her feet carefully, one in front of  the other, curving her body sideways, keeping her toes pointed  in front of her. She lifted her arms in two graceful arcs. She  stood, poised, holding the pose, and Tatters stared, conscious of  Caitlin behind them. The lightborn looked like a bird prepared  to take flight. 

When she moved, each gesture was as precise as a line of  writing. It was a brief spin, a half-circle, a dip, an arching of arms  and legs. It was the step of a dance, Tatters guessed. It was too  graceful to be anything but movement for the sake of beauty. 

She glanced at him expectantly. 

When he didn’t answer, stumped, she said, ‘My name.’ 

He wasn’t sure he understood. She must have gathered as  much, because after a brief pause, she went through the motions  again, more swiftly this time. 

‘My name.’ Although the way she repeated herself made him  think she must be surprised, her face didn’t show any shock. She  didn’t shake her head, or move her mouth and lips, or narrow  her eyes. 

For the first time, he wondered if maybe facial expressions  were not something she understood. That might explain why she  seemed so aloof – maybe she didn’t know how to use nonverbal  cues. And why should she? She had only been in human shape  for a couple of weeks. Maybe she didn’t have the same instinct as  children, who immediately knew what a frown or a smile meant,  and how to use them. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I don’t understand.’ 

Caitlin was too close; the dance had made her inch nearer.  

Tatters drew the lightborn further away – into the marshland,  over broken shrubs – to avoid being overheard. 

‘The dance is a connection,’ she said. ‘It is speech.’ She was  articulate, with the slowness, carefulness, of someone unfamiliar  with a language. That must be the collar’s doing. If ordered to  learn, however difficult the task, a collarbound would. ‘Where  humans rely on sounds to indicate meaning, lightborns use  movement. There are no sounds up in the air.’ 

‘Really?’ said Tatters. ‘Sounds are new to you?’ 

She nodded. 

Lal pointed out the nod. So much for your theory about body language. 

Maybe she picked up nodding, but not the rest. If you used dancing to communicate, you might miss small facial expressions, but understand touching wrists, nodding, shaking your head, things like  that. 

‘It is similar to human writing,’ the lightborn said. ‘But you  write with your soul. Dancing together means …’ She took a  deep breath, bracing herself for something, but then she sighed,  letting the air hiss through her teeth. ‘Our souls take the shape of  our words. We are what we have said. What we spell is what we  become. We don’t lie,’ she explained. ‘Unlike humans. Language  creates kinship, not chains.’ 

His thoughts were spinning with this new information. A  language without lies. A way to share truths as you spun across  the skies. 

‘Why don’t humans dance?’ she asked. 

‘But we do,’ Tatters said. ‘We just don’t dance in the same  way.’ 

He wondered if the human dances, the ones they performed  at the Temple on festival nights, were remnants of a time when  humans and lightborns could communicate. Did those dances  have meaning? If so, what were they trying to say, what call were  they sending out into night? 

He would need time for this to settle. There were so many  implications, for her, for the Temple, which he still wasn’t able to  process. No sounds? Did that mean she had never heard music?  And no lies? Did that mean that a conversation was always a  heart-to-heart? 

You would have trouble speaking a language with no lies, sneered  Lal. 

They were both mulling over what had been said. The light born emerged from her daydream first. 

‘The sigil for my name means a small light, seen from afar,  bright even from a distance.’ 

She spoke so low, and sounded so fragile, that Tatters wasn’t  sure what to answer. Once upon a time, her mother had cra dled her in her light, had watched her grow, and had called her  daughter my small bright light, my faraway star. Now here she  was, amongst enemies. 

‘We can find a human equivalent,’ he found himself saying  before he’d had a chance to think about it. ‘You could choose  Sunshine. Or Astra? Celestia?’ 

The small star. Starling, said Lal. 

‘Starling,’ Tatters repeated out loud, trying out the word. 

She didn’t say anything at first, her head tilted upwards,  gazing at the sky. Her braid fell sideways across her shoulder,  touching her cheek. 

‘It literally means a small star,’ he explained. ‘But it’s also a  bird. A black bird flecked with white spots, like a starry night.’  He thought of the feathers of a starling, of the pinpricks of  white painted on dusty brown, and how it echoed the night  around them, yet could never do it justice. 

‘Starling,’ she said. ‘It is short.’ 

‘Most human names are short,’ said Tatters. 

‘Starling,’ she said again, as if tasting the sound. ‘Yes.’ There  was resignation in her voice, more than joy. ‘Before I thought  it didn’t matter. But I suppose I need a human name, after all.’ She tore herself away from the sky, levelling her stare so it  didn’t lift above the moors. 

You have given her a slave-name, said Lal. 

The lightborn didn’t look at him. Maybe silence would have  been kinder, after all. 

Caitlin bridged the distance between them, frowning, trying  to hide how troubled she was and doing a poor job of it. Her  thoughts reeked of worry and bafflement. 

‘All right, that’s enough.’ She placed herself protectively beside  Starling, shooing her aside. The lightborn fell into step without  even glancing at the pushy disciple. ‘How did you do it?’ Caitlin  asked. Her tone was unfriendly. 

Tatters shrugged, spreading out his hands. ‘Do what?’ 

‘You think I’m an idiot,’ she hissed. ‘But it can’t just be the  collarbound connection.’ 

‘Don’t fret about it, Cat.’ 

She can’t tell anyone about us, anyway, thought Lal, without  admitting the part she played. 

He turned to Starling. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ he promised. He pulled his stana up, heading further out into the moors.  He could see the two women, framed by the light, but he was  already deep enough into the darkness to be nearly out of sight. He left with the buoyed feeling of having bested the Nest twice that night.