King Tsai-Van lounged sideways in his throne. He had a knee hooked over one arm, and one of his wings draped along the broad back of it. In general, the more he worried, the more he slouched. Today he had practically liquified. Thus far, his scouts had returned no encouraging news. No one knew the source of the tremors, but they seemed to run indiscriminately through all Spheres. No one could tell him anything about the recent sightings of Lost Souls in the Third Sphere. All of his people wanted to get on with their work, but he would not allow them out into uncharted peril. Not without more intelligence.
His Favored Child lurked nearby, filing each claw to a meticulous point, offering absolutely no useful help. Long ago, Tsai-Van had had no intention of declaring a favorite. Then Meitz had challenged and trounced her brothers relentlessly until he had made the formal announcement. Kings were nothing to daughters.
The door at the far end burst open. One of the younger members of the Royal Guard made a skidding landing, sliding on the balls of his feet across the polished floor even as he executed a hasty salute. Meitz grinned a grin too like her mother’s for anyone’s safety or sanity. Tsai-Van suppressed a groan.
“Report,” instructed Meitz, mercilessly not allowing the boy time to catch his breath. He rose to the challenge.
“Prince Van-Dal returns!” he blurted in half a breath. “He brings guests!”
Meitz tucked her file away beside her daggers and squared toward the guard. Her wings flared and her tail lashed. “Where has he been?” She tossed her head and sent a sharp glance toward her father. Shirking. Tsai-Van scoffed at the mere thought. Of all his children, Van-Dal was the most diligent by far. Meitz just resented having to assume some of his duties in his absence.
Tsai-Van had a question of his own. “Guests?” Van-Dal never brought guests home. Indeed, he had few friends outside of work.
“Prince Tempest of Seyzharel is among them.”
Meitz advanced on the poor guard, her interest sharpening to a stiletto point. “The famous Mortal-Born,” she said, eager knives in her words. Tsai-Van put both his feet on the floor and leaned his elbows on his knees.
“Daughter,” he warned, a soft growl underscoring the word. Meitz took a sideways step away from the guard. Favorite or not, she would not dishonor his household with a breach of hospitality. To the guard he said, “Fetch the steward and make all necessary preparations.”
Thus, in short order, his entire household and a small contingent of guards assembled in the forecourt to receive their guests. Van-Dal led the way, a slim Seyzharel youth held tightly in his arms. He set the boy gently on the paving stones before executing a tight turn and landing beside him. As the others touched down around them, Van-Dal began to introduce his guests. Prince Tempest first, of course, followed by a real Makesh who looked like he would like to be anywhere but here. Then Van-Dal introduced the youth who so drew his attention, who was apparently chancellor of Seyzharel. Well, that explained some things. From there the order of precedence grew murkier and the company more troubling: the Soul-Stealer and his twin, the fox Silvermoon, the chancellor’s brother, and apparently the fabled swordsmith Bel. Tsai-Van looked a question at his son, who shrugged and gave a sideways flick of his tail. Explanations would come later.
Tsai-Van spoke words of welcome, then gestured for his steward to take over. As the guests fell in behind him, heading toward their prepared rooms, Tsai-Van sidled up to the chancellor’s brother.
“Nice work on the Heartstone.”
Kleptomancer startled, then gawked at him for a moment before recognition dawned. The poor youngling looked positively heartbroken. “Oh,” he said. “Thanks. Seems a long time ago now.”
Baleirithys’ chancellor’s brother. Would wonders never cease. Tsai-Van inclined his head. “You must tell us the tale over dinner. Rest now, child. Be well. You are most welcome under my roof, so long as you don’t steal from me.”
Kleptomancer found a shadow of a grin for him. “Ya gonna tell Atchi the same?”
“The fox is old. He knows better than to break hospitality.” A youth scarcely out of his first century, born into the broken kingdom of Seyzharel, perhaps would not know enough to honor such bonds.
Young Ragheiyont gave a vague nod, accepting the reply. He worried absently at his right hand, then, catching Tsai-Van noticing, thrust both hands in his pockets and hunched his wings. The signs were unmistakable. Fresh wounds to the boy’s heart bled all over his every movement. If only Tsai-Van could comfort him—but a young male’s heart might as well be made of glass. This recent rejection would no doubt make him stronger in time.
Another ending. Another beginning. Akieryon sat at the edge of the bed, worrying about Feriel, worrying about Seikhiel even. Here he was, freshly washed and dressed in borrowed finery again, while something had gone horrifyingly wrong in Heaven. But what could he do? He was a fugitive, a deserter. Surely he must be powerless to help.
Rolling over across the luxurious bedclothes, Szearbhyn bumped his damp head against his brother’s hip. “Don’t look so glum,” he said. “We’re about to feast with dragons. They always put on a good spread.”
“Feriel didn’t sound right,” Akieryon muttered.
“Yeah, but is that your problem?”
Was it? More to the point, should it be?
Akieryon still chewed on the question when Tempest returned from washing up. Squeezing water from his long, two-toned hair, he addressed a question to both twins: “What’s a Clutch?”
“I guess we are,” said Szearbhyn unhelpfully. “Although you did collect us before becoming all dragonified.”
“That’s not a word,” Akieryon said, giving his brother a playful shove. To Tempest he said, “In dragon culture, it’s common for males to gather an extremely close-knit group of individuals that they protect and nurture. While there is some functional overlap between Harems and Clutches, the groups are usually distinct, and fulfill different roles. Most of the time,” he added before Tempest could ask, “a Harem is focused on the raising of young.”
“You sound like a textbook,” Szearbhyn grumbled.
“Huh,” said Tempest, his thoughts already drifting elsewhere. He pursed his lips. “Do you suppose my father has a Clutch or a Harem?”
“Honestly, I don’t know him well enough to speculate.”
“He’s not nurturing,” Szearbhyn said flatly. “I think that disqualifies him from having a Clutch.”
“You’ve only ever been on the receiving end of his ire,” Tempest pointed out. He tossed his towel aside and twisted a few loose plaits into his hair. “Get dressed. You don’t want more dragons pissed off at you, do you?”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Szearbhyn shot back, grinning.
“Of course I am.” Tempest leaned over him, all smug victory. “You’re part of my Clutch.”
“I resign.”
“Actually,” Akieryon said, sounding like a textbook on purpose, “one does not leave a Clutch to strike out on his own without consensus approval that he is mature enough to do so.”
Szearbhyn opened his mouth to object, but Tempest spoke over him. “No,” he said. “You’re not.” Akieryon grinned.
Van-Dal’s people had provided Tempest with princely attire, layered in yards upon yards of black velvet and black satin and black suede with fine black embroidery. He wore the borrowed garments easily, as though he had not considered wearing something of his own, not even for a moment. Perhaps he hadn’t.
Akieryon thought about standing up and crossing the small distance to Tempest, thought about running his hands over all those luscious textures… Making them late for dinner with the king. Shamefaced, Akieryon averted his gaze. Tempest noticed. Tempest always noticed.
Extending one hand, Tempest beckoned to him. Rising, Akieryon slid both arms around his waist. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to beg for a kiss, but he knew better. Tempest disliked such things. Instead, he buried his face in Tempest’s neck and contented himself to inhale the scent of soap mingled with that unique voidspace and magic smell he knew so well.
“Tell me what’s troubling you,” Tempest rumbled against Akieryon’s ear. With a soft sigh, Akieryon held on tighter.
“You’re not going to like it.” Caveat delivered, he launched into a hasty explanation of how Feriel’s message and Seikhiel’s recent behavior had left him feeling uneasy, how he worried for the people he had left behind. Tempest held him at arm’s length and regarded him with a grave expression.
“You’re worrying about the people who cast you out.”
“Technically, I ran away,” Akieryon corrected. He could feel his face reddening, but he kept his shoulders squared and his chin lifted.
“They didn’t deserve you,” Szearbhyn said.
“They weren’t all cruel to me. Feriel always tried to be fair with everyone, and now he sounds—” Broken. “He sounds like…” Akieryon struggled for words. “Um.”
“Forget Heaven,” Szearbhyn urged. “They only ever did you wrong.”
Akieryon reached for Tempest’s hand, clasped it tight, and pressed it to his heart. “Feriel sounds the way I felt,” he said softly. “When I was locked in darkness.”
Perceptive as ever, Tempest tilted his head, a small frown shadowing his brow. “You say that so I won’t object to you leaving.”
Akieryon met his gaze steadily, projecting a confidence he himself questioned. “I’ll come home,” he promised. “I’ll always come back to you.” I have to do this, and I have to face it alone. Please understand.
“If you don’t,” Tempest warned, “I will come for you.”
An unspoken promise hung between them: Tempest would destroy anything and anyone that stood in his way. Akieryon should have worried, but he only felt reassured.
The fading sun gilded the graceful walkways and the broad sweep of the curtain wall. From his high vantage, Baleirithys watched the shadows deepen across the plain below. The usual evening wind howled along the cliff faces, keening for him to leap, to ride their perilous currents into the nightfall. He could do it. He could test his wings against the dying of the day.
A hand on his arm stayed him.
“He’s coming home.” It was not a question. Looking away, looking anywhere but at Enci, Baleirithys nodded. The wing over his shoulders surprised him, and he spared a sideways glance. Enci smiled. “My prince,” he said, “I know—”
“You know nothing,” Baleirithys interrupted, too sharply, spilling more hurt across the wreckage of what they might have been together. “I thought he’d died,” he added in a whisper that tore at him more surely than the rising gale did. He had thought he’d lost the ability to hurt so much. He had been wrong. “I can’t lose him.”
“I know,” Enci murmured, not flinching, not looking away. “He eases your burdens. He gives you hope.”
A small, sullen part of Baleirithys wished that Enci could muster at least a speck of jealousy. “Clearly hope only brings pain,” he snapped. “What use have I of hope?” But he knew. Hope had kept him alive—not his own, but the hope of his people, given into his keeping, depending on him to forge a better future for Seyzharel.
“Baleirithys.”
He sighed. This was the part where Enci chided him for his self-indulgent misery. He braced himself for more sharp words.
“I know how much it hurts, knowing that someone you care about so deeply is beyond the reach of your protection.”
Baleirithys flinched. Harsh words would have stung less. Enci might as well have struck him, invoking the past like that. “I was never yours to protect,” he said, his voice as tight as the muscles knotting along his spine.
Enci made a noise that conveyed doubt while not directly disagreeing. “I am a healer,” he said. “You are my prince.” He tilted a knowing smile toward Baleirithys. “Let’s get you indoors,” he said, a note of teasing rising in his voice, “before you decide to do anything foolish.”
Baleirithys remained still, his gaze fixed across the plain. “I want to watch the sunset.”
Enci slipped a brazen arm around his waist and turned him. “Then perhaps you should face west, my lord.”
Every muscle in Baleirithys’ body ached to sag into Enci’s embrace. Instead, he held himself perfectly upright, a graceful marble statue of a beautiful prince. Pride sustained him as surely as hope ever had.
“Don’t leave us,” Enci whispered, his voice almost lost in the evening wind. “Please.”
All at once, Baleirithys felt his shell of pride fracture and crumble away, leaving him cold and lonely. Had he wanted to flee? Probably. None of these dreadful emotions served any purpose beyond plunging him deeper into misery and doubt. Slowly, as though trying not to frighten a small animal, he reached for Enci’s hand. “I’m done running away,” he said, and he almost believed it. Enci’s answering smile made him want it to be true.
Well. He could try for a small measure of Tharaiyelagh’s courage, couldn’t he? He could start right now.
Baleirithys slid a sideways glance at Enci. The fading daylight caught at the gold in his plumage and brought out the bronze undertone in his skin. Still so lovely. I could blood you right now. “You’re overdue,” he said instead, like a coward.
A hint of a smile played at the corners of Enci’s mouth. Even as he drew his wings in tight against a sharp gust, he offered up his wrist, offered his warm and willing flesh. Baleirithys stared for a moment, his heart hammering against his choked throat, watching the place where Enci’s pulse beat just beneath the surface of his skin. He blinked. He looked away.
“Of course,” said Enci, his voice softened to hide any lingering emotion. “Shall I come to you in private tonight?”
Never mind that they were utterly alone on the windswept rooftops. Baleirithys managed a small nod. Later. Perhaps later he could manage to shore up his courage.
Young apprentices fetched the guests more or less in order of precedence, though Prince Tempest arrived with his Clutch in tow. Akieryon comported himself with military dignity. Szearbhyn Soul-Stealer gawked at the gemstone sconces before throwing himself into the chair meant for the Makesh. Much to his credit, Tempest managed to persuade him to move to his proper seat. Soon they had all assembled, all dressed in borrowed shades of black, though Chancellor Tharaiyelagh’s hems were trimmed in fierce Seyzharel blue. Tsai-Van smiled at the tableau they presented.
The younger thief, of course, would be a problem.
Ragheiyont sat in sullen silence as light conversation rolled around the table. He held his wings hunched close, and though he looked nowhere but at his own plate, it seemed to Tsai-Van that he had been weeping. In response to his father’s raised eyebrow, Van-Dal only shook his head. Leave it be. Fine.
Tsai-Van insisted on hearing of his guests’ recent adventures, and the tale did not disappoint. Bel sat as rapt as the king, listening to the ordeals of her rescuers, reacting at all the right moments. Tsai-Van would not have expected such manners from someone who had spent so many centuries in isolation, but perhaps she simply basked in the friendly company. She nodded along as Van-Dal praised Ragheiyont’s courage in the face of near-certain death. Ragheiyont looked at his right arm and said nothing for a long while. Then, as Van-Dal described how Ragheiyont had opened the ancient gate and saved them from the Lost Souls, the young thief blurted out, “Never woulda made it that far without Seikhiel.”
Akieryon shifted a little in his seat. Prince Tempest gave him a soft nudge. Half the company wore expressions ranging from faintly anxious to vaguely funereal. Tsai-Van’s eyebrows rose. “What happened to Seikhiel?”
“He went home,” Makesh Luccan said shortly. Had he a tail, it would have lashed beneath his chair. Home, Tsai-Van reflected, was probably the worst place Seikhiel could have gone. It was too close to the source of the tremors.
“Doing his job, I suppose,” he said instead, causing a few more worried glances to fly around the table. He encouraged his guests to continue the tale, and Prince Tempest obliged. As he described how Tharaiyelagh’s aptitude for deciphering archaic Dragonish had saved them, the young chancellor turned a flattering shade of pink. Van-Dal watched him closely, which Tharaiyelagh pretended not to notice.
“It wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t held back all that smoke and ash and… and…”
“Magma,” said Akieryon. “It’s called magma if it’s underground.”
Tsai-Van’s eyebrows shot upward, and he revised his opinion of the Seyzharel prince. He may be new to being a dragon, but he was already formidable. “I see that Prince Baleirithys has been keeping secrets,” Tsai-Van remarked mildly.
“Tempest has always been terrifying,” Szearbhyn Soul-Stealer said, settling back in his chair with a smug, proprietary sort of slouch. “I’d say scarier than all you lot together, but that Unsealing makes me wonder, just a bit.”
Tsai-Van looked to his son, who nodded. Tharaiyelagh described Bel’s liberation, and the king felt satisfied that his people’s secrets remained safe. It must have cost Van-Dal dearly to break so powerful a Holy seal, but he had not let his companions see that it weakened him. Good. Tsai-Van’s son and heir safeguarded their livelihoods, even deep in Interspace, even while clearly besotted with a charming Seyzharel boy. Not that he had ever had cause to doubt Van-Dal. Smiling, the king lifted a glass to his son. The smile Van-Dal sent back looked a little weary around the edges. Indeed, everyone at his table looked ragged and tired, despite their best efforts to clean themselves up. Everyone except Bel, who, fresh as a dewy nightshade, helped herself to a third serving of the dracc roast. Tsai-Van let the gathering wind down with the conclusion of their tale. They could make an early night of it, and he would speak privately with his son in the morning. If the morning came at all.
Ah, well. A king had to be prepared for every eventuality.
Late in the evening, Tharaiyelagh sat wrapped in silken pajamas and a warm robe. He was clean and fed, and he had just finished his evening preening. The luxurious bed awaited. If only he could persuade himself to stand up.
A knock at the door startled him into dropping the buffing cloth he still held. He should have expected a visitor. Should he have expected it? Yes. Maybe. He hurried to the door and he opened it.
The wrong person stood there.
King Tsai-Van tilted his head to the side, almost grazing the door frame with one horn. “May I come in?”
Struggling to collect his wits, Tharaiyelagh nodded and stepped back. The king had to stoop his wings a little to enter. He looked rather like his son, Tharaiyelagh reflected, but older. And larger. And pointier. Tsai-Van gestured toward the bed as he himself sank into the vanity chair. Tharaiyelagh sat.
“Chancellor.” The king’s smile was Van-Dal’s smile, slow and reassuring. “It strikes me that you and I can come to understand one another very well.”
Tharaiyelagh glanced down at his state of undress. “Your Majesty, I don’t know if this is a good time for politics.”
King Tsai-Van waved a dismissive hand. “Relations between your Sphere and ours are good. I’m here about personal matters.” He watched Tharaiyelagh tense. “My son has expressed his intent?”
Blushing, Tharaiyelagh clasped his hands between his knees. “He… yes.”
“And?”
Tharaiyelagh searched for the right words. “I belong to Lord Baleirithys,” he said at last.
The king of the Second Sphere held him with a level gaze. “In what regard?”
“I owe him my fealty and my life.” Tharaiyelagh tried to keep his own gaze steady. “I can’t in good conscience return Prince Van-Dal’s affections without my lord’s approval.”
“Hmm.” King Tsai-Van turned the fallen polishing cloth over with the toe of his boot. “I think it would help to heal the fear between them if they were both a little in love with you.”
“Your Majesty?” Tharaiyelagh gasped, shocked as much by the frankness of the statement as the content. He tried to imagine Van-Dal afraid of anything. “They’re friends…” he ventured, scrabbling for a scrap of understanding.
“Oh yes. They have been for most of their lives. Van-Dal would skin his own forearm before he would allow harm to come to Baleirithys. And yet…”
“The poison!” Tharaiyelagh gasped, realization as sharp as the phantom memory of the time his prince lay dying. “He got it from Van-Dal!”
With a slow nod, Tsai-Van rose to his feet, and Tharaiyelagh scrambled to stand as well. “Baleirithys was right to risk himself to defeat the tyrant,” he said, “but Van-Dal has struggled to forgive himself for not realizing exactly what he meant to do.”
“I don’t know how I can help.”
“Keep doors open. Maintain channels of communication.” Tharaiyelagh nodded along, for this was nothing more than doing his usual job. Then, with a wry little half-smile, Tsai-Van added, “When the time comes, you must be strong.”
A chill crept up Tharaiyelagh’s spine. “Are there such troubles ahead?”
Reaching out, Tsai-Van engulfed Tharaiyelagh’s hands in his enormous ones. “Oh, child,” he said softly. “Always.” His gaze pinned Tharaiyelagh in place, quickening his pulse and drying his mouth. “But stout hearts endure. I have great hopes for you, Chancellor.”
Tharaiyelagh managed a small bow. “I aim not to disappoint,” he said. King Tsai-Van appraised him for a long moment, then nodded and took a long step back.
“It will do,” he said. “For now.”
In the smallest hours of the morning, Bel arose from her bed and fastened Atchi’s kilt around her hips. The enthusiastic young guard had gone at last, off to get a little rest before reporting for her morning duties, leaving Bel alone in the dark once more. Restless energy rattled along her nerves, unslaked, needing a direction. Bel shrugged carelessly into a rumpled shirt as she crossed to the low-burning fire. The fireplace was large enough. A single candle flame would have been large enough.
Bel reached down into the struggling flames, plunging both hands directly into the embers. After so many centuries, it still only took a moment before her fingertips brushed against the filaments of ideas that underpinned reality. She closed her hands into fists, gathering filaments into threads, twisting threads into cords, and she gave a mighty pull.
The fireplace opened up into a forge. Her forge. The flames danced higher, leaping in response to Bel’s satisfaction. Taking the leather apron from its hook beside the anvil, Bel put it on like a second skin. Never mind that this bedroom in this castle belonged to dragonkind. She was home.
Bel unwrapped Ragheiyont’s nasty little dagger, and she placed it carefully in the coals. “Let’s get you fixed up,” she murmured to it as the flames edged over to devour the leather and wood of the hilt. She cranked the bellows, coaxing the heat higher and higher, burning the past from the dagger until all that remained was metal and concepts. The idea of a dagger, the idea of cutting away barriers, all feathering away into sloppy execution. Bel reached for it with her tongs. Her hands could withstand the heat of the forge, but she would not touch a blade until she had refined the chaos of its ideas into something better to work with. The remnants of Wardbreaker needed to be compressed.
Bel moved the glowing metal to her anvil, and she took up her hammer. She tested its familiar weight in her hand, and she smiled. Nothing—no fine feast, no warm bed, no lover’s caress—had ever felt half so good.