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“I thought Sorrengails weren’t going to bother me in the rider’s quadrant.”
Brennan barely glances up from the book on the desk in front of him, raising his eyebrows at me. If there is one thing I appreciate about Brennan, it was how willing he is to jump straight into the meat of a conversation, no bullshitting required. Hell, Brennan doesn’t even question how or why I’ve returned to the halls of Aretia. Perhaps his dragon gave him warning of Sgaeyl’s landing. Perhaps he expected to see at least some of the marked ones appear during the brief break. Perhaps over the years I’d simply stopped surprising him.
“My mother is the commanding general of Basgiath.” His voice never lost the bitter tone when he speaks of his mother, though he tries for an air of casualty about it. His attention drifts back to his book as he continues. “I’m certain she’s bothered you more than enough for a lifetime.”
“Not your mother. Your little sister.”
Brennan’s gaze snaps back to mine, every line in his body instantly tense, a fierce protective instinct flowing over him. “Mira already graduated.”
“Don’t be obtuse. You have two sisters.”
Brennan’s teeth click together and the gaze he bores into mine is judging, clearly searching for a joke. When he speaks, anger colors his words. “I didn’t realize my mother was so intent on sacrificing another child to this war. Violet should be joining the scribes.”
My recent meeting with General Sorrengail — a favor years in the making finally called in — said otherwise. The youngest Sorrengail, widely believed to be fragile to the point of danger, would be crossing the parapet and donning black in the near future.
Which would be my problem, because apparently the girl needs a babysitter.
Brennan continues to stare, clearly torn between anger and concern. I stay silent, maintaining eye contact but giving him time to process, a trick I’d learned over the years. Brennan may be the general’s son, but his father was the head of the scribes, and rushing him into a decision never ended well.
Finally, Brennan takes a deep breath, seeming to resolve his thoughts together. Murder and rage fade from his intentions — mainly. He’s likely holding them in reserve, somewhere behind the radical idea of racing to Basgaith and kidnapping his sister. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d considered such a drastic move. “Violet’s a survivor. She can survive the rider’s quadrant.”
“You didn’t seem so sure a minute ago.”
“She’s my father’s legacy. I hadn’t considered her going anywhere other than the scribe quadrant.” Brennan’s gaze focuses on mine again and I hear his question a second before he speaks it aloud. “I suppose it’s too much to ask you to watch out for her?”
I snort. “You’re not the first person to ask me that. Not even the first Sorrengail.”
“You have got to be fucking joking.”
“Humor isn’t what I’m known for.”
Brennan sits back in his chair, winding his fingers together behind his head, his gaze wandering from mine and going distant. Many of the marked ones find it hard to trust the son of General Lillith Sorrengail commanding their ranks, but, over the years, a sense of camaraderie had grown between Brennan and the marked ones. In a way, the oldest Sorrengail lost his family to the same fight I’d lost mine to. I didn’t have siblings of my own, but I willingly place my life on the line for Garrick, for Bodhi, for all the marked ones before, and I know I’d do it again. Liam laments the distance between him and his little sister, but he can keep in contact with her; Brennan has not had that luxury. All of us, Brennan included, understand loss on a fundamental level.
But knowing that his sisters are within a reachable distance, that they have no idea of the truth their mother fights to keep hidden, hurts Brennan deeply, even if he never expresses it these days. In the beginning, he’d longed to go back for them, to at least pull Mira and her dragon into the fight at Aretia. Those thoughts faded over time, only to return with a vengeance when news of their father’s death filtered through news reports from Navarre.
“After everything that’s happened,” Brennan says, dancing around the realities of the apostasy, of the executions and lies his mother and their government is responsible for, “she expects you to watch over Violet?”
Here lies Brennan’s other best trait: he reads between the lines, puts together pieces of information so nothing needs spelled out. For all the talk of the youngest Sorrengail being meant for the scribes while her older siblings are the warriors, Brennan clearly benefited from the years of his father’s influence.
“I offered a trade,” I remind him. “The marked ones were allowed to live, and your mother would name her favor at a future date.”
“I figured the favor would focus on Navarre as a whole, not Violet specifically.”
I had, as well. In fact, I had been telling myself to forget about the youngest Sorrengail entirely: to never remember how close, how defenseless she would be in the scribes, how easy it would be to exact revenge for my father’s death by murdering the general’s youngest daughter…
But the scars on my back quiet those thoughts. Every movement pulls at them, reminding me of the one hundred and seven marked ones whose lives would be forfeit, all for the split second revenge of killing Violet Sorrengail.
Now,the quadrant will be under my command. With it, the impossible task of weapons runs to the fliers may be one step less deadly, or at least easier to conceal. If the price for helping Aretia prepare for the inevitable outbreak of war is babysitting duty of Violet Fucking Sorrengail, I’ll do it.
“She’s a good person, Xaden,” Brennan says quietly. His intentions wavered; he never settled on following me back to Basgiath to protect his sister, but it lurked in the background, somewhat less likely than begging me to keep her safe. “It’s not her fault.”
“I didn’t say it was. Doesn’t make us friends.” Brennan continues to stare into the distance. He never said anything out loud, but missing his siblings — knowing how they had also been lied to and he couldn’t share the truth with them — is the biggest drawback to Brennan’s spot in the revolution. Anything he shares about his youngest sister would be outdated and emotionally tainted, but I want the information anyway. All information is good information. Leaning forward, I recapture Brennan’s focus. “Tell me about her.”
“She’s brilliant.” Brennan’s answer comes without hesitation. “She’s my father’s prodigy, and was reading through the archives by the time she could walk.”
I nod and lean into the rumors I’ve heard. “But physically?” Can she survive the rider’s quadrant? Am I wasting my time protecting her?
“My mother got sick when she was pregnant with Violet. Hell if I know the details — I was just a kid — all I remember is people going on about how lucky Violet was to survive. Whatever it is affected her joints most as she got older. Never stopped her from trying to keep up with me and Mira. ” Brennan’s face turns sheepish. “She dislocated both ankles when she was six falling out of a tree. I didn’t catch her when she fell.”
“Why is she joining the riders, not the scribes?” I ask, even though Brennan is already shaking his head.
“That decision,” Brennan’s voice tightens, “has my mother written all over it. Violet is brave, but she’s not suicidal.”
I would ask why now, but we both know the reason. A year hasn’t passed since Brennan’s father passed and the unexpected consequence seems obvious now: Violet Sorrengail’s parents were pulling her towards two different quadrants, but the scribe’s influence was gone. Into the mother's quadrant the baby Sorrengail goes.
Brennan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why are you here, Xaden?”
“Officially, I’ve been given leave to oversee the next year of marked ones coming to the quadrant.” Not that Aretia was the agreed upon flight path — not that anyone at Basgiath knew the city lives on — but the marks on my back and the fresh promise of wingleader gifted me enough trust to leave unaccompanied.
“Unofficially.”
“I thought you’d like to know about Violet.”
Brennan laughs, a short derisive sound. “You wanted information.”
“I always do.”
“Tell me,” Brennan sits forward in his chair. A desk still sits between us, but he focuses in, making the space seem smaller than it is. “Did you agree?”
His mother’s request. His request. They’re so similar, these Sorrengails, it sparks my curiosity about the youngest again. What traits of Brennan’s will she have? Will she be cunning, a loyal protector, possess a fierce sense of right and wrong? Will her mother’s traits shine through: the stoney exterior, the harsh pragmatism, the selfish priorities?
“How’s your sister’s balance? Because if she makes it across that parapet, I’ll keep her alive.”
Nothing masks Brennan’s sigh of relief. “I owe you for it.”
You do , I resist the urge to say, because what else did Brennan have to give? With the discussion closed, I stand, ready to see what other updates the Assembly might have for me, to see what moments of nostalgia my childhood home waits to assault me with. I’ll give Brennan updates about his little sister when and where I can, but that falls to the bottom of my priority list.
“Hey, Riorson?” Brennan calls out as I’m halfway out the door. “Stay out of my sister’s way, or she might try to poison you.”