Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

Even in the shadows, I can see that they’re gorgeous birds, large for their breed. Their tawny feathers carry a sheen that extends to their sharp beaks and feet.

I note their perches built into the walls, the bones of dead rodents picked clean amongst the brush at the floor. Above, there’s an open window cut into the wood, allowing the hawks to come and go, letting faint moonlight in.

Swallowing, I glance down at the flat surface in front of me, the wood extended out like a desk, perfect for mobile message writing. Everything I need is here, right down to rolled bits of blank parchment stuffed into holes, bottles of ink and feathered quills set into indentations at the front.

I look around me again, but all is still and quiet.

Turning back to the desk, I reach forward and grab a roll of parchment, tearing off a small strip. I flatten it out, using a bottle of ink to keep the edge down, and then lift the quill, dipping it in.

My hand is trembling so badly that I nearly overturn the bottle, but I manage to catch it before it can tip.

“Get it together, Auren,” I whisper to myself.

Pressing the metal nib against the parchment, I write quickly, sloppily, my handwriting so much worse than its usual drawl. But it’ll have to do, because I’m in too much of a rush, too shaken on adrenaline and fear. My message is overly simple and hasty, but it’s the best I can do.

&n

bsp; Fourth’s army has captured me and the others. They’re marching on you. Prepare.

—Your Precious

I drop the quill back in its holder and find a box of fine sand in the desk. I pinch a bit of the powder between my fingers and toss it over the wet words to speed up the set of the ink.

As soon as it’s dry enough not to smear, I start to roll up the paper, but freeze at the sound of approaching soldiers.

“You got any smokes left?” a gruff voice asks.

“Yeah. In my fuckin’ pocket, and you’re not gettin’ any of them.”

“Aw, fuck off. I need a smoke.”

There’s a sigh, and then the footsteps stop, and I hear the distinct sound of a match striking.

There are only the two of them from the sound of it, but they’re several paces away, coming up the other side of the hawk’s carriage. If they head for the horses, I’ll be caught.

Biting my lip, I stare down at the rolled paper in my hand. I could flee right now, take the letter with me, and try to come back again.

But this might be my only chance.

Heart pounding, sweat collecting in beads at the back of my neck, I lean in and reach for the perch post inside the carriage.

The soldiers are talking, a few coughs to go with their smoke, but I focus, trying not to panic. Opening my hand, I show the hawk the parchment, hoping it’s as well trained as it appears to be.

The largest hawk snaps its beak at the others, as if claiming the job, and then jumps down from its higher perch. Landing at the post near my hand, the bird immediately turns so I can reach its legs.

Thank the Divine.

I grasp the empty metal vial attached to its right leg and pop open the cap. Left for north and right for south.

The soldiers start walking again, and my eyes flare with alarm, making me nearly drop the damn letter. I manage to keep hold of it and stuff it into the vial, and as soon as it’s in, I snap the top back on with the pad of my thumb.

The hawk stretches its leg, as if noting which direction to fly, and then it expertly launches itself up, flying out through the open window cut into the ceiling and flapping into the sky.

I hear a curse, some shuffling in the snow. “What the Divine hell?” the man grumbles.

The other soldier chuckles. “You gonna shit your pants from a little hawk?”

I immediately back up and close the small door as quietly as I can, but I’m too nervous to latch it, in case it makes a noise.