Andromeda could still remember the line in the report that had made her skin chill: Her mouth was rimmed with blood after she lifted it from the neck of her sacrifice.
Lijuan’s side had stated that her soldiers had volunteered in droves so their archangel could gain glory. In this, the soldiers had found honor beyond mortal or immortal ken, leaving a proud legacy for those of their bloodline.
In this case, Andromeda had a feeling both reports were equally true.
One side had seen horror, the other side honor.
She couldn’t fault Xi for the reports he’d personally filed: he’d been brutally honest in terms of the wins and losses of battle. He also hadn’t attempted to make it seem as if Lijuan had won—though he had softened her fall, as would any loyal general, saying that his lady had retreated from the field of battle so that she would be strong for the war to come.
His interpretation was strikingly different from the report filed by Illium. Raphael’s lead aerial commander had stated that Raphael “blew Lijuan to smithereens,” though Illium, too, had made a note that Lijuan may or may not be dead: Zhou Lijuan is an archangel and they do not easily die.
“I have served my lady for most of my nine hundred years on this earth,” Xi said after another member of his squadron tied her ankles together. “You know nothing of her. Your task is to record, not to judge.”
Andromeda inclined her head because in this, he was right. “But,” she added, “some small judgment is required when we record the histories. We must often search for the truth amid grandiose claims, outright lies, and everything in between.”
That, Jessamy had taught her, was why they so often put competing reports into the official history. Both Xi’s and Illium’s reports lay within the pages to do with the battle in New York, along with an overview written by Jessamy after she’d read, watched, and listened to all records of the battle. “If we record blindly, we are little better than machines.”
“As I make no untrue claims in my reports,” Xi responded, “you have nothing to say to me on that point.” His fingers gripped her chin without warning, the hold firm but not painful. “I will give you one piece of advice, scholar.”
Able to feel his power crashing against her, though it was more muted than she’d previously felt near Xi—testament to the statement in Illium’s report that Lijuan fed her generals power—Andromeda went motionless.
“Do as you are told,” Xi said in his cool, refined tone, “and you will not be harmed.” He released her chin. “Unlike your grandsire, my lady has a soft spot for scholars.”
“I appreciate the advice.” It wasn’t a lie. Xi’s statement told her how she could play this until the opportunity rose to escape—because she didn’t have the same faith in Lijuan as Xi. Badly injured angels were like any other injured creatures in their pain and frustration. They could strike out without warning.
The fact Lijuan had been unstable prior to her injuries only made the situation more volatile. Add in the fact that she was an archangel . . . No, Andromeda would never survive a confrontation should she anger Lijuan. No matter what she saw or heard or experienced, she had to act the meek scholar who was out of her depth.
Xi barked out an order at that instant and Andromeda found herself lifted up unceremoniously into a sling formed of the net. They did her the courtesy of allowing her to lie on her side this time, ensuring her wings weren’t crushed, but the netting dug into her flesh nonetheless. As the salt wind whistled past her on takeoff, she found herself thinking of the wild creature with whom she’d sparred under lamplight.