The Impostor
3
The Impostor
[Signe]
Signe’s stomach dropped.
The female in the clearing was an impostor.
It took Signe a moment to let the words sink in, take form—a moment where the female invested against Evan again, dodging their locked swords and producing a dagger from her belt, aimed at his stomach.
But then, as the new information finally took form and put Signe on the move, she disobeyed Azriel’s orders and intervened.
She aimed and released the dagger she had in her hand with deadly precision, and it flew towards the blade the impostor pushed towards Evan’s stomach. The collision of both weapons was enough to smack the dagger from the impostor’s hand, and both the female and the warriors then glanced up, towards the direction where the dagger had come from. But, while Illyrians’ eyes wandered, searching for whoever had thrown the blade, the impostor’s eyes found Signe’s immediately.
As if she knew exactly where to find her.
Her eyes creased with a smile, gleaming with savage delight under the moonlight. A chill ran down her spine as Signe held her gaze. Can she see me? How can she see me?
Then, it occurred to Signe that, certainly, she hadn’t been the only one scouting the area for today’s meeting. And given that the female had managed to get so close to Signe while remaining unnoticed, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to assume she knew exactly where the spy was hidden, even if the Illyrians below didn’t.
Evan took the opportunity to push the female away, and she let go of him without resisting, breaking eye contact with Signe. He moved to strike her again, but she moved before he could, taking advantage of the confusion on the other warrior’s faces—who still looked up towards the trees—and fleeing back to the darkness of the forest almost unnoticed.
Signe jumped from her spot on the tree without so much as a thought, determined not to lose the female’s track. She paid little mind to Azriel’s words at that point. She had already intervened, anyway.
She ran around the clearing, avoiding the eyes of confused Illyrians who now looked at each other. She was sure they would follow the female as well, which was why it was important that she got to her first. But she’d already lost her from sight, so the trail of ruffled leaves ahead of her was all she had. She tried listening to the sound of footsteps amid all the noise from the chase, only to notice that the warriors had already started to follow them, their loud stomping making it impossible to navigate through sound alone. She thought she heard the flapping of wings against the air at a certain point, which meant that at least one of the warriors was already airborne, following them from above.
Great.
A few meters ahead, the trail did a curve to the left, and Signe followed it without questioning. Jumping over rocks and fallen trees, dodging branch after branch, she did her best to keep her eyes trained on the movement just ahead of her. But no matter how fast she ran, how much she forced her legs to push her forward, the impostor was still ahead, still in advantage, still just out of view.
After a few turns—that felt like waytoomany turns—the trail ended abruptly in a clearing, and suddenly Signe was plunged into an open field by her own momentum. She looked around, but there was no sign of the impostor. No movement in the treeline, nor in the bushes near the edge of the clearing. No sound of footsteps, nor of heavy breathing other than her own. Nothing.
She’d disappeared.
Signe spun on her heels, searching, once again, the open expanse of grass for something, anything, that could indicate a presence, a trail, a hiding place—
And a chill ran down her spine as she remembered the Illyrians were on their trail the entire time; that, since they hadn’t seen her chase after the impostor, they were unaware that there was someone else chasing the female as well.
And then it hit her how it would look like if she alone was the one they found at the end of that trail. Because, as far as they knew, an agent of the High-Lord was sent to kill them all. An armed female, draped in dark cloth, whose build was roughly similar to hers—
Shit.
Oh, fucking shit.
Things only get worse today, don’t they?
And, indeed, they did. Because she saw movement at the edge of the clearing, from the path she’d just left. Because it was Evan who stepped out of the line of trees, who took one look around—
And found her, standing alone, out in the open.
Signe saw him take in a breath, saw him open his mouth to warn the others, and she didn’t waste time. She just spun on her heel and ran. Away from him, as fast as she could. Faster, even, for the Illyrians now not only had her location, but a clean line of sight to her. A well-aimed weapon—thrown at her head, at her back, at her legs—was all they needed to take her down. But she refused to go like that; not when she’d just arrived back home, not on her first mission since her return, and certainly not because those dense-brained morons couldn’t tell two females apart.
She heard movement from behind her, and dared a glance over her shoulder, only to find Klaus and the scarlet warrior had reached the clearing, and the three warriors were already in a V-shaped formation—Klaus to her right, the scarlet warrior to her left, Evan in the centre. They were hoarding her, like sheep in a field.
I refuse to die like damned cattle today.
She looked back to the stretch of open field in front of her, already cursing under her breath, already measuring the distance to the other end of the clearing, which seemed to stretch forever—
When a winged shape slammed into the ground just a few feet from her. It only took Signe a fraction of a second to identify the single emerald siphon, blazing under the silver lighting of the moon.
Kallon.
Kallon, who raised his right fist without hesitation—
And slammed it against Signe’s jaw, who, due to the speed she was in, didn’t have enough time to dodge it. She fell on her back with full force, the impact of Kallon’s fist reverberating across her whole body. She opened her eyes with some effort, tears blurring her vision, only to find Kallon already above her, his leg raised to stomp his foot on her stomach. Her muscle memory took over, and she rolled to the side, just in time to avoid his strike. A second later, she was on her feet, one hand reaching for the sword sheathed at her back, her body locked and ready for a fight.
Kallon eyed her, measuring her stance, his eyes lingering on Signe’s still covered face. “Does your High Lord know you run from a fight?”
She opened her mouth to say something, but Kallon reached for his sword before she could get a single word past her lips. He, for one, didn’t seem to be in the mood for listening.
But, then again, what could she possibly say to get away with all this?
He invested against her, his blade arching furiously towards her neck, and she raised her own blade to deflect it, the impact of steel-on-steel reverberating in her bones. Again he invested, again she deflected, and soon enough they fell into the choreographed, violent dance that swordplay was. Strike after strike, Kallon proved himself to be a quite skilled dance partner, his attacks directed with deadly precision at her legs, her sides, her head, and she dodged his blade with mastery, her body falling back into the skin of the fighter she’d once been.
He swung his blade downwards, slamming against Signe’s with such force that made her wish she’d simply dodged it. But she stood her ground, gritting her teeth as, once again, her bones rattled with the impact. Kallon took the chance to lock the hilt of his sword with hers, and she was sure the move was meant to give his companions time to reach them. And he took the opportunity to lean in, his eyes furiously searching hers. “You’d think he would have at least come after us himself,” he seethed, “instead, he sent one of his whores after us.”
And Signe couldn’t tell, for the life of her, if he meant Rhysand or Azriel.
“Who are you calling a whore?” She bit back, her voice strained from the effort of keeping him away.
But, again, he didn’t seem to listen. “Perhaps we should send your head back to him. As a pledge of alliance,” he mocked.
Can’t this piece of shit see he isn’t fighting the same person as before? She thought, still bearing the weight of his gaze and of his body weight, still pushing against their locked swords. But, judging by the unadulterated rage in his eyes, he certainly didn’t. Either that or he simply wished to kill something, someone, and be rid of the feeling—in which case, it really didn’t matter if she was a rabbit, a person or a beast, for he’d attempt on her life all the same.
Signe pushed back, unlocking their swords with a frustrated grunt, stepping back and away from Kallon and his anger, just in time for the remaining Illyrians to arrive. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Evan unsheathe his sword to her left. Klaus did the same, to her right. The scarlet warrior did the same, right behind her.
She was surrounded. There was no choice but to fight.
“We’d like to send your High Lord a message, as well,” Kallon stalked closer to where she stood now, in the centre of the circle the warriors formed, before assuming his own fighting stance, “in pieces.”
And invested against her, again.
* * *
Azriel found her two hours later.
Surrounded by fallen Illyrians, badly bruised, exhausted to her bones and beyond pissed, Signe offered him no explanation as to why or how the whole situation had escalated that way. Instead, she simply threw up her hands in exasperation and asked, voice heavy with irony: “Am I in trouble?”
The answer was, of course, yes.
As usual, Azriel remained silent as he approached her, but she could tell he was mad. To be fair, she did disobey his direct orders, and though it wouldn’t be the first time she’d done it, things were different now. That mission had been a test, one as simple as it could be—and one she’d most definitely failed.
Before he reached her, he crouched beside Evan, reaching for something strapped in his belt. As he stood up again, the object glinted in the moonlight. Her dagger, the one she’d thrown, to prevent Evan from getting stabbed.
“Are you okay?” It was all he asked, as he extended the blade to her. She sighed and nodded, taking it from his scarred hand.
She watched Azriel as he turned again and stepped away from the mess she’d made. His feet made their way around the Illyrians fallen on the ground—all of them beaten up and unconscious, but alive, thankfully—returning to the place where he’d landed, a few feet away from her. “You’re…not going to ask what happened?”
His eyes were focused on the warriors, but they left the aftermath of the fight to focus on her again. “We’ll have plenty of time for that in your debriefing.”
Signe nodded again, as the shadowsinger unfolded his wings, already preparing for the trip back to Velaris. She then made her own way over the warriors fallen all around her, willing herself to feel accomplished for having taken all of them down on her own. But the circumstances of that fight wouldn’t allow her the satisfaction of that small victory, because it hadn’t been a victory at all. Because, in the eyes of the warriors on that clearing, and to whomever they told that story to when they woke up, they had been attacked by an agent of the High Lord all the same.
She was in so much trouble.
Azriel watched her the whole way, certainly taking notes for her debriefing session. The way she walked, the way she talked and the way she reacted to the weight of the mess she’d made—all of it would come in handy when dissecting her answers, later, separating truths from lies. What he didn’t know was that she had no intentions to lie, no reason to, though she understood—and respected—his suspicion. After all, he hadn’t been named the Night Court’s spymaster for his trusting disposition.
She stepped over the warrior closest to Azriel—Klaus, with his red siphon glinting faintly under the moonlight—and the spymaster reached out a hand to her. She took it, looking up at his hazel, inquisitive eyes that didn’t betray any of the questions he surely had, and waited for him to take them away from the clearing.
Still, as angry as he might be, he waited for her to nod before winnowing them back to Velaris.
Seconds later, Azriel’s shadows parted to reveal the night sky and the lights from the city far below their feet. For a moment, all she felt was the pull of gravity before Azriel’s wings broke their fall, his other hand skilfully sliding behind her knees, holding her against his chest. She gripped his shoulders tighter against the sudden lightness in her head, closing her eyes to avoid making it even worse. Still, even with them closed, she knew that, on her left, the House of Wind sprawled over and into the red, flat-topped mountains north of Velaris, and that the shadowsinger aimed for it, crossing the invisible wards that prevented anyone from winnowing directly inside. The wards, which were a safety measure—a good measure—to prevent uncontrolled entry from outsiders in the High Lord’s official residence. Though Signe couldn’t help but wonder, sometimes, how impractical it was to have your guests be carried inside one by one by either Azriel, Cassian or Rhysand himself. Because the alternative was to winnow directly above the the House and land the nine-meter fall towards the terrace—and that didn’t seem like a very elegant method of transportation.
Either that, or the ten thousand steps, which were even less elegant.
But since Signe’s visits to the House were usually on circumstances such as that one, being brought inside by Azriel wasn’t exactly an inconvenience to either her or the shadowsinger himself. Even if that particular transportation method she could do without.
After they landed, Azriel’s feet touching the ground with a lifetime’s worth of experience, he let her go and watched her lean onto the banister, struggling to steady herself as she did her best not to empty her stomach all over the floor—or over him.
Signe hated winnowing. There really were no other words that could better describe how she felt about that particular kind of travelling.
Travelling was a way one could meet other cultures, other people. It was meant to be fun, it was meant to be beautiful, it was meant to be breathtaking—just not in the literal sense of the word, certainly not in the drowning sense of the word. Because that was what winnowing had always felt like to her, as if the air in her lungs was forced out of her body while she was pushed through the fabric of reality. It was a tightening, claustrophobic sensation, too close to suffocation for comfort, and she often wondered how everyone else could do it so naturally, without coming out on the other side gasping for air, or nearly fainting because of it.
Azriel, at least, had the decency of waiting until she’d settled herself before asking, for the second time that night: “Are you okay?”
She threw him a pointed glare at the mockery in his voice. He knew how badly she handled winnowing but also knew better than to shower her with pitiful looks and concerned questions. He wasn’t the type of person to do either, anyway. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, straightening her posture, “no need to worry about me.”
“Take your time,” he said, folding his wings. He gave her a single tap on the shoulder before aiming for the glass double doors on the other end of the balcony. “I’ll be inside when you’re ready.”
Signe nodded in response, even though he had his back to her, and lifted her head to the night sky above, starry and beautiful as always. As rude as it seemed, Signe preferred to be left alone when she was recovering from winnowing. It wasn’t that she didn’t cherish people’s concern, but that was a reaction that, unfortunately, had become normal to her, and therefore was something she had under control. There was no need for worry, all she needed was a couple minutes alone and then she was fine.
Azriel understood it and never took her distancing to heart—something that he, apparently, remembered, even after all those years. It made her throw another glance over her shoulder, to where the shadowsinger disappeared into the warm, buttery light that came from inside. Azriel would wait in there, she knew, just past the doors, and then he’d lead her to one of the studies, for the debriefing session. Usually, he’d let her change first, or bathe, but there was an understandable level of urgency in this particular case. And even though there was nothing she wanted more than laying down somewhere, anywhere, she also wanted answers.
So, for a couple minutes, she allowed herself to stand there, against the chilly mountain wind, waiting for her vision to settle, for her balance to restore. Until, finally, she felt ready to face whatever was about to come, as well as the scale of the trouble that had slipped through her fingers that night.
So, with a deep breath, she turned to the doors and entered the House.
* * *
Signe wasn’t really surprised when Azriel led her to the right and up the stairs, headed for Lord Rhysand’s study. It was where they usually met for mission briefings such as this one. What she didn’t expect, however, was to find the High Lord himself inside the room, impeccably dressed, as usual, and with a grim expression on his face.
“My lord,” she bowed, as Azriel followed her inside, closing the door behind him.
Even though it was very late and the High Lord’s sleep had probably been interrupted for this, Rhysand’s voice came out pleasant, as always. “Signe,” he said, eyebrows furrowed, “are you injured?”
“I am not, my lord, thank you,” she said, even though her body ached all over and she probably looked like she’d been run over by a carriage. More than once.
Which must have been the exact thought that crossed Lord Rhysand’s mind as he arched an eyebrow and asked again: “Are you sure?”
Signe grinned. “You should have seen the others.”
She feared, for a moment, that the joke would come across as inappropriate, given the situation she found herself in. She braced for a reprimand, but was instead rewarded with a chuckle from the High Lord. “I heard it was a tough one, that fight.” He looked at her, at the hilt of her sword, peeking from over her left shoulder. “Three against one?”
She allowed her smile to grow. “Four, actually,” she corrected, gaining another smile from the High Lord. She finally allowed herself the pride in winning that fight—it was no small feat, indeed; though she knew, deep down, what he was doing. Amid all the pleasantries and small talk, there it was: her debriefing.
It was easy to forget Lord Rhysand was a strategist and a warrior of his own might, since his courtier’s side was the one he displayed most. And with all the charm, it was also easy to forget another, very important thing.
Lord Rhysand was a daemati. A mind-reader.
Debriefing sessions were usually left for Azriel to conduct; in fact, she could count on her fingers the number of times she’d been in a meeting where the High Lord himself was present. Whatever she reported to Azriel was later passed on to him directly from Azriel’s mind, through Lord Rhysand’s power, as if he was watching the debriefing from the shadowsinger’s eyes. That is, whenever he wasn’t actually witnessing it in real time through Azriel, which Signe was sure had happened more than a few times.
Lord Rhysand’s magic was truly something else. Though she couldn’t imagine how Azriel felt comfortable with someone stepping into his mind with such frequency.
But anyway.
“Please, sit,” Lord Rhysand gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Signe bowed her head. “With all due respect, I’d rather not, my Lord,” she declined, “but thank you.” She didn’t tell him, however, that even though she wanted to sit, to give her legs some rest after all the running and the fighting from earlier, she was afraid that, if she did, she’d fall asleep. And that wouldn’t be very professional, or respectful, of her.
Though it seemed Lord Rhysand understood her refusal, regardless, because he just nodded, a hint of amusement in his gaze, gone as quickly as it came. He exchanged a glance with Azriel, who remained by the door, out of her sight, and regarded her for a long moment before asking, finally: “How did that happen?”
“My lord, I apologize—” She tried, but he was already shaking his head.
“There’s no need for apologies, Signe. I have every reason to believe you did it out of self-defence.” He stated, and it felt like a weight lifted. “Just tell me what happened.”
So, Signe did.
She described the last few days, Ironcrest and the clandestine gatherings west of the camp, and Lord Rhysand listened closely to her every word, occasionally glancing at Azriel. She spared no details, and he did not ask for any further clarification, either, for he was certainly checking the truth of the events directly from inside her mind. All that time, he remained silent, his expression unchanging.
Until she mentioned the female in the clearing, who was, allegedly, acting under his orders.
“Under my orders?” Lord Rhysand frowned. “I haven’t issued any orders of the sort.”
“I thought so,” Signe commented, “which was why I had to intervene. She was going to kill Evan.” She looked at Azriel, who had moved to Rhysand’s right. His expression was a mirror to Rhysand’s, but when his eyes met hers, his frown softened.
I had to, were the words she didn’t say.
But he just nodded slightly, understanding.
“I see,” the High Lord leaned away from the table, “did you see her face?”
Signe shook her head. “It was concealed under a cloth, and there was no crest, no marking on her weapon, nothing that I could identify her with.”
“And what happened after you intervened?”
“She ran. I ran after her, and the Illyrians came after the two of us.” Signe paused, looked at her High Lord and then at Azriel, and then continued: “I lost her trail, and soon enough it was just me running from them.” She paused, coming to a realization herself. “They were following my trail, not hers.”
“Did they not see you running after her?” Azriel asked this time, his voice hinting at the confusion etched in his eyes and shared by everyone else in the room.
“I don’t think so. At least they didn’t tell us apart when they surrounded me in that clearing.”
“But they would recognize the way you fight.” Azriel pointed out. “They would recognize your weapon, your clothes.”
And Signe’s blood chilled. He was right, they would. They only wouldn’t be able to tell Signe and the impostor apart if their fighting techniques, their weapons and their clothes were similar enough.
And it hit her, then, how much Signe and the impostor looked alike from afar, how she had stayed out of both Signe’s and the Illyrian’s senses the whole time, only revealing her presence when she was about to attack. How their swords looked similar during a fight, and the layers of cloth that covered their leather gear were dark and unassuming, similar enough to be mistakable.
“Yes, I suppose they would,” she managed, the chill only worsening as she realised how the whole situation looked from the Illyrians’ perspective, “if she wasn’t impersonating one of the High Lord’s agents.”
Her eyes met Azriel’s, and his lit up as he came to that conclusion himself.
Mother above, this day only gets worse.
“Signe,” Lord Rhysand said and she looked back at him, her heart already thrumming in her chest, her mind already reeling. But his eyes softened, understanding. “I have every reason to believe it was a set-up.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, and Signe tried to hold back a sigh of relief, even if the knowledge that there was someone out there pretending to be her did nothing to soothe her nerves. “Unfortunately, that means more work to us.” He paused. “Especially to you, I’m afraid.”
Signe bowed her head slightly, agreeing. Indeed, it does.
“It is only fair you figure out why she targeted you. So, I’m tasking you with finding out who this impostor is. I want her taken in, and I want answers.” Signe bowed once more, and Lord Rhysand turned to Azriel. “Go back to Ironcrest, assess the damages and report back to me. I want to know how they’ll deal with what happened tonight.”
Azriel’s only response was: “What about Cassian?”
He was right. The news would affect Cassian’s mission in Windhaven, as rumours about the attack—of the attacks—would certainly spread like wildfire.
“I’ll tell him,” Lord Rhysand answered, with a nod. They exchanged no more words, at least none that Signe could hear. Azriel’s shadows gathered around him as he prepared for the jump that would take him all the way back to Ironcrest and the mess that she left in her wake. But, before he could make the jump, his eyes found hers one last time.
“You’ll find her, Signe,” he said, simply, “I know you will.”
Then he was gone.
Signe stared at the place Azriel just stood, hoping, with all her heart, that he was right.
“As for you,” Lord Rhysand continued, coming up next to her and pulling her from the storm that had already formed in her mind, “I’m sure you’d like nothing more than to get home.”
Home, the word echoed in her, laced with longing, I’m home.
She nodded, trying to smile. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
And with a smile of his own, Lord Rhysand extended his hand to her. “Then allow me to escort you home.”