I understand. I don’t share lightly either.
But these are uncertain times. There’s more trouble afoot than the Void straining to bursting—as though that’s not bad enough. The Fifth Sphere is at its own throat. The dragons of Seyzharel have forgotten how to be dragons, and despite the best efforts of their prince, they have much healing yet to do since the genocide. The Heartstone is loose in the worlds once more. And Heaven…
Well, Heaven is a mess for another time. My lord requires my return, so I’ll bring you that gossip when next I visit.
The colonnade had dissolved around him, giving way to a circular chamber draped in colorful silks, some as light as a breeze. The walls twinkled with small lamps encased in bright, faceted glass. Mirrors reflected the light through the silk hangings, all directing the eye toward the bed at the center of the chamber.
Tharaiyelagh took an involuntary step. He could barely see the four posts of the bed through the shifting silks. His feet caught on the edge of an ornate antique carpet as he shuffled forward, ignoring the pain in his leg.
Something on the bed stirred. Tharaiyelagh froze.
“No need to be shy.” The voice seemed to come from all around him. It rumbled like thunder and flowed like music. “Come closer.” Despite his growing apprehension, Tharaiyelagh obeyed. “Tell me your name.”
“Tharaiyelagh.” Was that unwise? That felt unwise.
A long figure sat up from the bed and stretched, slowing off lean, graceful limbs. Something seemed a little off about the proportions of the figure rising slowly. One hand lifted, parting the silks. Tharaiyelagh stared, mesmerized by graceful fingers and long claws.
“Hmm. Lovely.” The stranger stepped forward, the silks swirling around his—her?—their form. “A big name for a little dragon.”
Tharaiyelagh squared his shoulders. “I am chancellor of Seyzharel.”
“Are you?” The stranger tilted their head, displaying a rack of horns that curved like a crown. “Where is that?”
The question caught Tharaiyelagh off guard. “The… Fourth Sphere. Who are you?”
“I am the Sacred Dragon of the North.” They swept the final silk curtain aside. Impossibly long lashes framed eyes like opals. Gauzy wings blended with the silks, and every limb seemed oddly elongated. Tharaiyelagh could not help but stare. This was the most beautiful dragon he had ever seen, but also the strangest. “And you are young.” The Dragon of the North stepped swiftly forward, pressed one fingertip beneath Tharaiyelagh’s chin, and pushed his mouth closed.
Protocol saved him from embarrassment. Stiffening his spine, Tharaiyelagh stepped back far enough to execute a proper bow. “It is my exquisite honor, Your…”
When he faltered on the form of address, the Dragon of the North closed the space between them once more. “Please, call me North. I’ve not had company in ever so long.” The accent, and even the words sounded a little strange to Tharaiyelagh’s ears, but that incredible voice rolled around in his brain, drawing him in, inviting him to forget his mission, forget his cares, forget his life in Seyzharel…
Firmly, Tharaiyelagh shook his head. “Lord North,” he said, “if a humble chancellor may be so bold as to ask, why do you dwell here in Interspace?”
North’s exquisite features fell into a frown. “I am trapped here. My palace fell through the worlds during the Cataclysm.”
“Really?” For a fleeting moment, curiosity won out over decorum. “How have you sustained yourself for so long?” Almost six thousand years, if the records in Seyzharel kept an accurate timeline.
North touched a fingertip to Tharaiyelagh’s lips, pressed them softly apart, touched the edge of one fang. While Tharaiyelagh stared, blood rushing in his ears and heart hammering in his chest, North gave him a sad smile.
“I do not require blood, as you do. You must belong to my sister, South. As to the passage of time…” North shrugged gracefully. “I hibernate rather more than I would like.”
Acutely aware of the finger lingering on his lip, Tharaiyelagh forced himself to focus on North’s beautiful face. Seemingly lit from within, opal eyes smiled down at him. North leaned down, too close, almost cheek to cheek, then paused, rumbling a thoughtful noise as Tharaiyelagh stiffened once more.
“Do you object to taking a mark, my daring little chancellor?”
Tharaiyelagh thought of the vision he had experienced under the archway. Five seconds of perfect bliss. A kiss he would likely never experience in reality. “I belong to the Blood Prince of Seyzharel,” he said, willing his voice to remain steady. “None other may mark me.”
North’s laugh rang around the circular chamber, stirring the silks as it went. Tharaiyelagh eyed his strange host with curiosity as the impossibly tall dragon stepped back from him. “Oh yes, I think you can conquer it.”
“It?” A more pressing question reared up within him. “Where have you taken me? Where are my companions?”
North turned away, batted aside some gauzy silks, and took a gold chain from a small table. “Tell me.” The irresistible resonance was gone from their voice. “What do you know of Interspace?”
“That it’s the space between the Spheres,” Tharaiyelagh replied dutifully. “It was formed during the Cataclysm, and the few paths in or out are well hidden and difficult to travel.” He thought of the gateway they had used, how it had resisted them and divided their party. With a pang, he realized that he worried for the others, especially for his brother.
“Difficult?” Turning back, North held a pendant toward him. “Every exit demands something of the traveler. It think only one will be viable for you. Take this.”
Luminous and ablaze with the same colors as North’s eyes, a large opal swung from the golden chain. Tharaiyelagh stared at it. “I… I can’t.” He swallowed a sudden dryness in his throat. “Gold is for royalty.”
“Then present the chain to your prince upon your return.” Before Tharaiyelagh could protest again, North looped the chain around his neck and secured it. “Keep this stone with you.”
The gold felt warm against his skin. Tharaiyelagh tucked the pendant away beneath his shirt before he could think about it. “Why?”
North gave him a sad smile. “Because I am lonely.”
The room faded to darkness.
By midday, Baleirithys had grown listless. His thoughts returned to Enci’s cool disdain, and to Tharaiyelagh. Tharaiyelagh’s absence. The unusually strong bond between them. That kiss.
Baleirithys cancelled his afternoon meetings, and he closed himself in his antechamber. Lacking even the will to pace, he folded himself onto a padded stool, and he stewed.
Shadows stretched across the carpet—freshly cleaned—and the faceted glass of the windows threw dancing rainbows everywhere. Too cheerful. Baleirithys waved his hand in a petulant gesture, and the velvet curtains snapped closed. He twisted toward his vanity mirror. The black eyes that gazed back at him looked haunted. Feral. Ready for some havoc.
No. No, he owed it to Tharaiyelagh to keep his inner beast under control. He needed to be here when his chancellor returned, not off terrorizing some distant Sphere. He needed to present a face of stable rule. He needed…
He needed…
With trembling fingers, he touched his lips. They burned with the memory of the kiss, the intensity of Tharaiyelagh’s emotions. Of course he knew that his chancellor loved him, but this? This was so much more than he expected. This was forever. This was the way he himself had loved—
A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. Scowling, Baleirithys gestured, and the door swung inward.
Enci stood there, framed neatly in the doorway, looking displeased.
Baleirithys sighed and stood. “Enci. Come in.”
Enci stepped into the room and slammed the door. Baleirithys suppressed a flinch.
“Please,” he said instead. “Speak freely.”
Enci folded his arms across his chest, and his wings lifted at an angle of irritation. “You called my patient out of bed this morning.”
“I did.” Baleirithys studied Enci’s face, and developed a cold feeling in his stomach. Somehow, he had done wrong. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes.”
Enci’s chill demeanor twisted the sliver of uncertainty deep in Baleirithys’ heart. “Do explain.” Did he really want Enci to explain?
Enci took a step forward. His eyes flashed anger, and his pulse beat visibly in his wings. “What do you know of Hawk physiology?”
“Only what you are about to tell me,” Baleirithys admitted.
“A child of his age experiences periods of rapid growth. Iyahi’s hip and knee are badly damaged, and Hawk demons’ limbs do not regenerate the way ours do. The ways his body has been broken can cause the next growth spurt to turn out… Wrong. It’s already likely that he will never become a warrior, and you called him out of bed before he should even be standing!”
Stung by Enci’s words, Baleirithys blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me this morning?”
Enci waved one arm in a gesture of helplessness. “As soon as your invitation arrived, the young prince was out of bed and trying to wash up!”
Ah. So not all of his vexation was directed at Baleirithys.
“Enci…” Baleirithys took a hesitant step forward. “I didn’t mean…”
“Of course you didn’t!” Enci swatted his hand away as Baleirithys reached for him. “You didn’t know! But that doesn’t mean you didn’t hurt him.”
Inexcusable. Swallowing his shame, Baleirithys nodded. “I understand. In the future, I will always consult you first.”
“That’s it?”
What else was there? “I… apologize?”
Enci shook his head. “You’re not fine.” His wings relaxing, he paced around the chamber, trailing fingertips over plush velvet and polished hardwoods. “I’m not sure what’s troubling you. Is it Iyahi? Or is it Tharaiyelagh? Or are you just spoiling for some carnage?” He stopped a mere stride from Baleirithys, and he met his gaze. “Stay with us. We need you.”
“We?” Baleirithys pressed. He had loved this man since he himself had been Iyahi-Ila’s age, and while time had tempered his feelings, at his most vulnerable moments he found he still craved Enci’s approval. It was most inappropriate. It was dangerous.
“Don’t ask me to put my personal feelings ahead of all of Seyzharel.”
No. Neither of them would ever do that.
“I’m… not going anywhere.” Baleirithys wanted to reach across the distance between them, so small and yet so impossible to traverse. He had tried once, had thought he could hold Enci in his arms and in his heart, but his own wounds had forced them apart. Enci knew all of his scars. Enci knew his shame.
Enci reached out.
Baleirithys stared, shocked at the sight of Enci’s fingers encircling his wrist, covering the knots of scarring that hid beneath the silvery silk. He swallowed, but found a lump in his throat. His pulse quickened, and he dared to look into Enci’s eyes.
“You don’t sound certain. Please.” A glint of humor lit his eyes. “The last time you were out of sorts, you brought home a son.”
“Oh?” A flicker of hope stirred in Baleirithys’ chest. Why? “Did that bother you?”
A shadow of a smile twisted the corners of Enci’s lips. “It bothered me to see you in such distress.” His fingers drifted from Baleirithys’ wrist to his palm. “I don’t ever want to see you like that again.”
Baleirithys tugged Enci across the small space between them. He pressed their foreheads together, his wings mantling over Enci’s shoulders. “I… don’t know what to do about Tharaiyelagh,” he confessed in a whisper.
Enci gave his hand a soft squeeze. “Why should you have to do anything at all about him?”
“Because he…” He kissed me across our shared magic. Baleirithys swallowed. “He loves me.” Why did the words hurt so much? Panic battered at him, and he closed his eyes as though that could steady him. Nothing steadied him. That was the problem.
“Of course he does. Baleirithys, you deserve love.” As his prince’s head sank to his shoulder, Enci released his hand and slipped both arms around his waist. “We all love you.”
“I can’t…” Can’t what? Can’t accept that? Can’t understand it? Deep down, he would always be the unwanted prince, the boy whose father wanted him to die. The child in chains.
“You’re trembling,” Enci murmured, his breath tickling Baleirithys’ ear, which did not help at all with that particular matter. Baleirithys shook his head. “You are,” Enci insisted, because he would not lie simply for his prince’s comfort.
“He’s young,” Baleirithys whispered. “He’s going to figure out that I’m a mess and then he’ll leave.”
“My prince, my prince.” Enci held him a little tighter. “There is no one more devoted, no matter how much of a mess you think you are.”
Baleirithys’ heart sank a little. Why? Did he want Enci to feel jealous of Tharaiyelagh? Absolutely ridiculous. But then, what did he feel? Had Tharaiyelagh grown so great in his affections as to equal Enci?
“I can’t be this distracted right now.”
“Shh.” Enci tugged him toward a divan and sat, pulling Baleirithys down with him. “You’re taking the afternoon off, and I’ll stay right here with you.” He tugged, and Baleirithys yielded, sagging against his side. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”
Maybe not. Baleirithys tilted his head, bumping his horn against Enci’s. Maybe, for once, he could lean on someone else for a little while.
If he could learn how.
The darkness was absolute. Tharaiyelagh scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, as though that might help. He knew he had magical affinity, but he only had learned one purification spell. He could call forth no light. How would he find his way?
Tharaiyelagh shuffled three steps forward. When he encountered nothing, he edged to the left. Nothing. Turning around, he tried six steps forward. On the fifth step, he encountered a smooth wall. He ran his fingers over the hewn stone, noting every notch and groove. Nothing gave him any indication of which way to go.
A pulse of warmth at his chest drew his attention. Looking down, Tharaiyelagh saw the opal glowing beneath his shirt. He turned slowly, and the light faded. Turning back, he kept one hand on the wall, and he followed the light.
He counted steps as he walked, careful of his footing, mindful of his injured leg. After seventy-four paces, he came to a corner. A junction, it turned out. As he stood in place, turning, watching his chest for a glimmer of light, he heard voices echoing down the corridor. Akieryon and Tempest! The pendant forgotten, Tharaiyelagh hobbled as quickly as he could manage, hurrying toward the voices of his companions.
A glow appeared around a bend: Akieryon’s little light. A moment later, Tempest and Akieryon rounded the corner. They froze, their expressions shadowed, but Tharaiyelagh let out a glad cry and increased his pace. Akieryon shouted his name, and then Tharaiyelagh was caught between them in a joyous embrace.
“Where have you been?” Akieryon demanded.
“Some… magic pulled me away.”
“And what’s this?” Tempest’s fingers plucked at the chain he wore, and Tharaiyelagh slapped an hand to his chest, keeping the pendant safely beneath his shirt.
“Ah… an artifact.” Tharaiyelagh felt heat rising in his cheeks. “I’m not sure. But I need to keep it safe.” Was that true? It felt true.
Tempest slanted a skeptical look at Tharaiyelagh, but said nothing. When they continued on toward the junction, the opal resumed its glowing. Tharaiyelagh tried to cover it, but his companions had already seen.
“What sort of artifact is that?” Tempest pressed.
“It wasn’t glowing before,” Akieryon pointed out.
“Ah, no.” Again, heat climbed Tharaiyelagh’s cheeks. “I think…” This sounded stupid. “It seems to be showing the way.”
“Yes…” Tempest’s eyes narrowed. “But to what?”
So far, it had helped Tharaiyelagh reunite with his friends. Friends? Looking up from the pendant, he realized that he limped along between the two of them. Akieryon’s shoulder bumped against his own with every step. Glancing over his shoulder, he realized that Tempest kept a firm grip on Akieryon’s hand behind him.
A slow smile drifted across Tharaiyelagh’s lips. He felt protected.
Together they walked, and just as Tharaiyelagh began to tire, the corridor ended at a door that swung sadly from one hinge. The opal continued its soft glow. Tharaiyelagh hesitated. Why? What was this apprehension that clutched at him?
Tempest pushed the door aside and led the way. Beyond lay a large circular chamber. Dust and ash clung to every surface. Gauzy wisps hung from the ceiling, and at its center stood an ornate four-poster bed.
Ragheiyont grew weary of his two companions doting on him. He had always expected that he would love being the center of attention, but this? They seemed to expect him to drop dead at any moment.
Following the map he had memorized, he led them in the direction of the city. If any answers were to be had, they would likely find them there. The pathway descended deeper underground. The hewn stone walls grew cool and clammy. Underfoot, the floor took on a sandy feel. Blithely he carried on. The city should be just ahead. And where one found a city, often one could find treasure.
Strange, how his blood could warm at the thought of treasure even when he had so little of it to spare. His arm throbbed below the tourniquet, but heat flooded his head, feverish and distracting. How long ago had he stolen the Heartstone? A week, at least. Too long. Soon the chills would set in. Soon the disease would grip him and shake him. He had to feed it, if he wanted to survive. Actually…
Given the blood loss, he should really be sicker by now.
The corridor ended in a towering pair of doors, right where the city ought to be. Two twisted, featureless statues flanked the doors, but Ragheiyont paid them no mind. Slipping between them, he tugged at the doors. Locked, of course. Crouching, he tapped at the lock.
“Ragheiyont…”
Ignoring Van-Dal, Ragheiyont took out his lock picks and hesitated, strategizing how he would manage with one hand mostly useless. He eyed the lock. He was the greatest thief in any world. He could do this.
“Ragheiyont.”
Something in Seikhiel’s voice caught his attention. Sitting back on his heels, Ragheiyont peered up at his two companions. They both studied one of the statues, a figure frozen in the act of closing the door.
Closing the door?
Van-Dal lightly drew one fingertip along the statue’s forearm. His glove came away dusted with a fine, pale powder. “Ash,” he said softly. “They’re ash casts.”
Not statues.
These twisted figures were all that remained of two people.