Airlean Tales

Azalea didn’t retire to her rented room on Gallows Square.

She climbed up the workshop and sat herself on the roof, turning her face into the rain, letting it thicken until her cloak was sodden and pressed at her skin like ice.

Fletcher’s Fry. Another town given, another target. Another burden to linger on her mind.

Azalea wanted to ignore it, but she couldn’t. And Echo knew that, knew that she could never turn a blind eye.

Was this his new plan, then? To ignore her wishes and simply force his brutal, terrible knowledge on her? To maneuver her like a pawn, knowing that her greatest weakness was her own goodwill?

She hated him for it.

Azalea rubbed her hands down her face and sighed, the evening chill sinking into her bruises and making them pound. It wasn’t the time to dwell on her hatred of the Lone Wolf; it was time to decide on a course of action.

She could report the tip to the Guild. Tell Nicolina, who would certainly know what to do. Nicolina, who was always put-together and assured.

But Nicolina had tried to take Wes away. Nicolina had looked at Azalea’s sweet sprout of an ingeniator and tried to cut him down. Perhaps it had only been in everyone’s best interests—but now that Nicolina had shown that she worked under a hidden agenda, Azalea could not shake the dreadful feeling that perhaps every sentence from the guildmaster was a clever snare. Perhaps Nicolina only saw people as blank-faced puppets, empty numbers, wooden pieces on a crimson chessboard. Perhaps there was a darker secret behind every word she chose to share.

No, Azalea could not talk to Nicolina. Someone else, perhaps. Someone else put-together and assured, someone else who was experienced. Someone like a mentor.

The idea fluttered into Azalea’s mind, succulent.

Sugar plums and flower pink.

Karis Caelute.

The idea gained roots and gripped her like a vice. Karis, the knowledgable veteran who had kindly guided Azalea through the surge. She had managed to be both impervious and approachable, deadly and kind. Azalea could think of nobody better to entrust.

Yes, she would find Karis Caelute and ask her for her wisdom.

“You should come inside,” said a sudden voice from behind Azalea. “You’ll catch a cold.”

She nearly jumped at the sound of soft footsteps on the roof’s ridge, slightly muffled by the rain. She relaxed when she recognized the tread of Wesley Geppett, her good posture collapsing as her shoulders slouched.

“There’s no evidence that rain or chill causes illness,” she said. “That comes from infectious agents or carriers.”

Wes dropped something on her head—a thick coat with fleece lining—and settled next to her, legs swinging over the side. “Alright, then come inside to make me feel better,” he said. “You look like a sad kitten out here.”

She felt a little bit like one, soaked from the rain and questioning her own guild. She shrugged the coat over her shoulders. “How did you know where I was?”

“You’ve always hidden somewhere high up.” Wes looked at her like he saw her, really saw her. “The rafters, the clock tower, the Academy parapets. Like a little songbird.”

For a moment, the weight of his gaze held her there. Then she saw his eyes slide to a dark spot on her cheek. She quickly turned away, hoping he hadn’t seen.

But a moment’s pause was all she needed to hear to know he had.

“Your cheek,” Wes said softly, “is bruised.”

“Hm?” She rubbed at it, holding back the flinch of pain. “Oh, looks like it’s just some dirt.”

He pulled her hand away. “’Zalie.”

She stared at the mottled sky, her knees, at anything but him.

“What happened while I was asleep?” he asked flatly.

She wanted to tell someone. To dig this miserable ache out of her chest. To find a direction in this path that kept spinning her around, leaving her dizzy and confused.

“There was a fight in the street,” she admitted. She paused, searching for the right words.

Wes read her face and nodded. “Tell me while we get you fixed up.”

He led her down the roof and she followed. She tried to tell him in slow, halting words about Echo—the scavenger who’d shadowed her steps and diverting her path, leaving her angry and lost. Wes’s gaze was solemn and flared every so often with cold fury, but he kept silent, listening intently.

But Azalea didn’t get far into her tale. Wes had barely opened his medical kit when there was a sharp rap on his door.

“Tidings from the Geppett estate,” called a man’s voice from the other side. “Pray open the door and receive it at once, young master.”

Wes’s hands paused on his medical kit, and Azalea paused in her tale.

“At this hour?” she whispered, eyes wide. “What could it be?”

“Nothing good,” Wes said, putting away his kit. “Sorry, give me a moment.”

Azalea watched as he cracked the door open, showing a sliver of plate armor decorated with the Geppett crest. A guard of high status, then.

“Yes?” said Wes, his tone clipped.

“His Grace requires you to present yourself at the residence,” said the guard.

“Very well,” said Wes with a nod of acknowledgment. He moved to close the door.

A metal sabaton wedged in between the frame, stopping the wood.

“He requires you now,” said the guard.

Wes stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “The hour is late and the weather is poor. There’s no telling who could be waiting in the shadows. I will make the journey at first light when the roads are secure.”

“That is why I was sent, young master. To accompany you.”

“I wasn’t negotiating.”

“Neither is His Grace.”

A soft, deadly silence fell upon the doorway. Wes did not move, and neither did the guard. They only stared at each other unflinchingly, waiting for the other to cave. The silence built like a fire in the hearth, waiting for a single touch to billow into a roar.

Finally, Azalea couldn’t stand it. “Allow me to help,” she said, moving to the door.

Wes flinched for a moment, his eyes darting to her, before a forced calm dropped over his face. He opened the door wider, allowing the guard to step through.

The guard was younger than Azalea expected, but he had one of those sharp, pointy faces with thin brows and high cheekbones that made him look sour and imperious. He was decked in light armor with ceremonial finishes from head to toe, the Geppett crest proudly emblazoned on his tabard—unnecessarily opulent for the time of night. His eyes landed on her, and his brows arched to his hairline.

“A woman,” he noted. “At this hour? What sort of aid is she offering?”

Azalea was about to reach for her Hunter’s sigil, but Wes interrupted, his syllables clipped but clear.

“The lady is a client of mine.”

“Rather youthful for that, I would think.”

“I will go with you,” Wes said suddenly, drawing attention away from her. “Allow me a minute to find garb more favorable for this weather.”

He turned and slipped further into the workshop. Azalea’s fingers stuttered on her sigil, then fell away.

Of course. It would be better for the depth of her connection with Wes to remain hidden. She was a Hunter, but the status difference between them was still significant, and she was a young unmarried woman. Not that Wes should ever see her in that way, not when there were so many perfect and accomplished noblewomen surrounding him—but it was better to be safe and avoid unnecessary attention.

She shouldn’t have revealed herself at all.

Next to Azalea, the guard sniffed haughtily, casting a glance about the workshop. “An heir of noble blood, living in such a dreadful pigsty. It’s unthinkable.”

Azalea was beginning to think that she was not a patient person at all, given how often her anger was rising this evening. “It’s a cozy place, kept tidy and maintained well,” she said sharply. “Many would be fortunate to see a house so lovely.”

His cutting gaze turned on her. “Yes, as many rats would be fortunate to feast upon the rubbish bin. How quaint.”

Oh, how terribly she wanted to bloody his nose.

“Then to avoid further offending your senses,” Azalea said, “I guess you’d prefer the outdoors.”

And without further decorum, she shoved him out into the rain and shut the door in his face, locking it for good measure.

She’d only begun to realize the gravity of what she’d just done when Wes’s footsteps sounded behind her. “Well, good riddance,” he said with a hint of mirth. He was now in a crisp shirt and trousers, fastening the cuff links on his sleeves.

Azalea only wilted, feeling even more miserable. “I’m sorry. Now he’s going to take it out on you.”

“He would have anyway,” said Wes. “That was Grey, the son of my father’s lead advisor. Thinks that if he licks enough boots, he has a chance at inheritance.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I wish he would. He’s more Geppett than I’ll ever be.”

“He’s horrible.”

“He’s arrogant.” Wes shrugged on that stiff juniper jacket. “I was too. The difference is, I had older brothers to take me down a few pegs.”

If Azalea remembered properly, Wes’s two brothers were also horrible people. They were currently serving time for multiple counts of battery and assault, being prone to violence and strong drink. Little wonder that Lord Roland Geppett’s hopes for his estate had fallen on his youngest son, who, despite his utter lack of interest in politics, was at least mostly sane.

Azalea bit her lip and helped him into a thick cloak. “Will you be alright?”

“Nothing I haven’t done before.” Wes fastened the cloak with a golden leaf-shaped brooch. “Father’s probably just in one of those moods. He’ll go on some tirade, send me to some luncheon or tea with some random lord’s daughter, and then let me come back.”

What an awful place. An awful family. Azalea wished that she could help him, but she knew this was a fight where she’d only make things worse.

“Be safe,” she said helplessly.

Wes brushed her fingers in a gentle touch, and she felt a little flutter of heat up her wrist.

“It means the world to me,” he said, “that I have someone to come back to.”

She watched him as he slid through the door and into the rain, her mind turning his words over and over, wondering what exactly he meant.

Azalea slept until the sun was well up in the sky, and then searched for Karis Caelute.

She did not have to look far. She inquired at the Guild, where Sasha provided a quick Ooh, the scary sugar lady isn’t around here, and pointed her to Karis’s residence on the north side of Mythaven. It was a wealthier part of town—not as grand as the country manors of the nobility, but orderly streets of nice, quaint houses with flower beds beneath the windows and tracery on the black iron lampposts.

Azalea straightened her skirt and knocked primly on the door. After a brief pause, it swung open. Karis Caelute stepped out onto the porch, dressed down in a simple blouse and woolen skirt, hair pulled back low on her neck. Her lips were parted in surprise.

“I’m very sorry to intrude,” Azalea said haltingly, and then stopped. Her mind ran blank, the words slipping through her fingers. “Um. I…um. I was…um.”

She was beginning to think that it was exceedingly rude for a Hunter to call upon the personal residence of another Hunter. And this was not just any Hunter; Karis was the Second Rank, practically a legend. What right did Azalea have to bother her at her own house? Just because she’d shown a bit of kindness when Azalea had shadowed her?

But before Azalea could throw herself to the ground and grovel or run away, Karis opened the door wider and gestured through, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Excellent timing,” she said. “The kettle’s just boiled. Perhaps you’d like to join me for some tea.”

Azalea opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“Yes,” she said faintly. “That would be wonderful.”

Karis’s house was lived-in and cozy, with every setting for two. There were two chairs with two doily placemats on the dining table, two bedrooms kept tidy and waiting, two sets of cutlery waiting to be washed in the sink. Azalea wanted to ask if Karis was perhaps married, but thought it might be rude. Karis bore no ring, and a Hunter’s loved ones were always a sensitive topic.

Karis led her into the dining area that abutted the kitchen. There was, indeed, a kettle of boiling water set on the wood-fired stove. She steeped herself a cup of plum tea, and after asking, a cup of rose tea for Azalea. The sugar bowl was full of not cubes, but snowflake-shaped crystals that were almost too beautiful to dissolve.

They were stirring in spoonfuls of cream when Karis finally spoke. “You’re not overstepping, you know.”

Azalea sat bolt-upright. “Pardon?”

Karis sipped. “You are a Royal Hunter of Airlea. We are essentially soldiers of the same cohort. You deserve to speak with other Hunters and sit with them.” She smiled primly. “Unless we are in the middle of killing something. Then interruptions aren’t so welcome.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” was all Azalea stammered out. She wasn’t sure if she would dare bothering Karis Caelute at home again, even with the reassurance.

Karis settled back. “Now, what is your quandary?”

Azalea jumped into her story so quickly, eager to not waste any of her hero’s time, that she almost choked on her tea. She’d received a tip for a Class Four at Fletcher’s Fry, she said, from a source on the street who she was certain meant ill. Only, the source was trustworthy and she could not quite ignore it.

“I’m not sure whether to post it to public commissions, or report it, or—or anything else,” said Azalea through a dry mouth. “What would you do, Lady Karis?”

Karis sipped. “Hunt it down, of course,” she said. “A Four is a nice way to pass the time.”

Azalea flinched. “I mean, if you were me. Unless, do you think I’m ready?” Surely she wasn’t. She had relied so much on the power of the Whisperer.

Karis evaluated her for a steady moment. Azalea waited for judgment, her stomach slowly sinking to the floor.

“No,” Karis said softly. “I don’t believe you are. Nor should you be. The average Hunter does not even think of approaching a Class Four until their second year for risk of dying. If you feel the need to do so…then we have failed you.”

“No, no,” said Azalea emphatically. “I just want to make myself useful. I wouldn’t ever…I wouldn’t want…”

She trailed off, uncertain. The doubts built in her mind like one brick on top of the other. The Wolf, his offer, her inadequacy. She felt jumbled together and undone.

“Do you hire an informant, Lady Karis?” she blurted. “For…the extra marks, the extra commissions?”

Karis’s eyes gleamed blood-crimson, and yet, they calmed Azalea. “When it’s slow, yes. Though it hasn’t been slow for some time now.”

A half-truth from Echo, then. As was everything that seemed to come out of his mouth. “Why hire an informant?” Azalea asked curiously.

“There can be…inconveniences with the workings of a guild, sometimes. News that should take one day to spread takes one week, and assignments can delay in their distribution.” Karis’s fingers traced the curved handle of her teacup. “Sometimes, the rural villages can suffer for it.”

“So public rumor is faster.”

“Faster but unreliable. That, you see, can make it deadly. The wrong tip right before a surge can leave towns undefended, so Hunters never take on additional assignments in the days leading up to a surge.” She tilted her head. “You are certain that your tip is accurate?”

Azalea didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“A surge is building. It will strike in the coming days.”

“Yes.”

“Still, you would risk it?”

“I know it’s true.”

Karis’s eyes flickered over her face. Then she stood. “Well. Let’s get started, then.”

“Where are we going?” asked Azalea, getting to her feet.

“Why, it’s quite simple.” Karis smiled and glided to a hook on the wall, taking down a drab brown cloak. “We’re going to catch ourselves a hunting bird.”