The blood of the world is on our hands if we fail to right a wrong that is brought before us.
Van-Dal knelt before the great labradorite throne, his head bowed, his tail coiled around one ankle in a manner that would not allow it to betray his thoughts. It could not flick or twitch, could not shiver in anticipation, could not even lift in friendly greeting. His wings folded politely against his shoulders. Every detail appeared in perfect order. His father the king drummed ornately capped claws on gleaming stone, watching him, waiting with patience that could wane quickly.
“My lord king,” Van-Dal said, “my noble father, I am away to Seyzharel for a brief visit.” He kept his thoughts from his face, but his father knew. He always knew.
A broad grin broke across the king’s face, showing razor fangs, . “Business or pleasure?”
Van-Dal’s tail tightened around his ankle. He would not react. Reactions were for amateurs, and Van-Dal had proven himself a worthy heir a hundred times over. “With luck,” he said, biting back a smile of his own, “perhaps a bit of both.”
The king chuckled. “Then go with my blessing, my firstborn. Bear our goodwill to our brethren in Seyzharel.” The tip of his tail tapped unspoken displeasure on the polished obsidian of the floor. “What remains of them, anyhow.”
Indeed.
Van-Dal had undertaken his apprenticeship during the so-called Killing Days, that troubled time when the ruler of Seyzharel had enacted countless bloody horrors upon his own people. Every bit of news to trickle in from the Fourth Sphere had been more horrifying than the last. Van-Dal had learned to kill while keeping one eye to the neighbors’ plight, with intent to end their suffering. Baleirithys had beaten him to it. No, not in the way Van-Dal would have handled it, but the young Seyzharel prince, battered and half dead of starvation, had committed himself to an act of ultimate daring.
Van-Dal had ample opportunity to finish the work, but he would not risk Baleirithys’ friendship over the slaying of an unconscious man, no matter how loathsome that man may be.
Dismissed from the royal presence, Van-Dal allowed his formal demeanor to relax. His tail flicked behind him as he strode down the corridor, contemplating the work ahead. Contemplating a pair of bright blue eyes. When one of his personal guard fell into step beside him, she rudely glanced down at his tail, and she grinned.
“Where are we off to, then?”
“Nowhere,” Van-Dal said, his gaze pinned unwaveringly forward. “You are staying right here.”
“But—”
“No.”
“Where—”
“No,” Van-Dal repeated, more firmly. Their Seyzharel cousins had scarcely even seen a female of dragonkind since the Killing Days, and Tamn’s offers to maul them in a playful and flirtatious manner would likely only baffle them. She was a diplomatic disaster waiting to happen.
Tamn huffed annoyance through her nose. “So you’re courting someone, then?”
Van-Dal imagined bouncing her head off the nearest pyrite-encrusted sconce. Her arced horns would likely break it. Instead, he bared his teeth at her. “Tamn,” he growled, “your brother has your orders for the duration of my absence. Heed them this time.”
“Not another dracc hunt!” she protested. Van-Dal strode on ahead, but Tamn’s voice halted him. “My prince?” she said, softly, almost hesitant. Not at all like her usual brash self. Van-Dal tilted his head back, pointing his horns at the floor.
“Yes?”
“Be careful?” Tamn still sounded uncertain. Worried, Van-Dal realized, and worry did not come easily to her. Relaxing the set of his wings, he turned.
“It’s just Seyzharel,” he said. “I shall be safe enough.”
“Right, I know, but I heard the Heartstone was stolen, and there’s no telling what amount of mischief a thing like that can work in the world.”
“Mercy and Wrath, not Mischief.” Van-Dal gave his subordinate a fond cuff to the horns. “I swear I shall watch my back.” When Tamn looked up, a hint of her usual belligerence gleaming in her eyes, he added, “And for pity’s sake, do as your brother tells you.”
“Never,” Tamn grinned.
Of course not. Shaking his head, Van-Dal continued on his way.
Night had fallen in Seyzharel. A dry breeze skimmed the plains, bearing a promise of cold yet to come. Akieryon looked to his brother, who shrugged.
“They probably won’t let us into the castle at this hour.”
Akieryon eyed the darkened cliffs with trepidation. “But Tempest—”
“We aren’t here to make trouble for Tempest,” Szearbhyn reminded him, holding up his hand against further protest. “Besides, Baleirithys already hates me. I don’t intend to throw any more fuel on that particular fire.”
“I remember,” Akieryon grumbled. In his final act as a human, Tempest had placed himself between Szearbhyn and Baleirithys. The demons’ feud had ended Tempest’s mortal life. And he, the trained Demonslayer, had stood by and allowed it to happen.
How ashamed of him Master Seikhiel would be.
“We can approach the castle at sunrise.” Szearbhyn cast about, searching for shelter against the cliff face, refuge for the remaining hours of the night, however many they may be. Akieryon shivered at his side. The last time he had visited this Sphere, six hundred years ago, he remembered warmer weather, but perhaps the season had been different then. He remembered little of that visit. “It’s safe enough,” Szearbhyn added, misconstruing his brother’s shiver. “Most everyone leaves these snobs alone.”
Akieryon tried to think of Tempest as a snob, and he laughed. “It’s fine,” he said, also eying the cliffside for any outcropping that might offer shelter from the wind. “Honestly, the dragons are the least of my worries right now.”
“If you say so.” Szearbhyn’s tone indicated that he thought nothing of the sort. Not bothering to utilize his wings, he clambered up the cliff face, coming to crouch on a ledge just above his brother’s head. “Here,” he said. “There’s a bit of a fissure behind a jutting boulder.”
“Comfortable enough, I suppose.” Akieryon unfurled his wings in a shimmer of white light, and he sprang up to join Szearbhyn. He tucked his wings away out of sight again a second later, before his feet even touched the stone. Long ago, in another life, he had learned that trick from a former classmate.
But the brief flare of light against the barren cliff face?
That did worry him.
What if someone had seen?
What if someone knew what it meant?
Whatever happened, he would protect Szearbhyn. He would not fail in his duty again. So sworn, Akieryon settled down to spend a watchful night beside his twin.
The faintest of humming noises drew Ragheiyont out of his dreams. He flexed his arm, feeling the solidity of the stone hidden there, and then he eased himself upright. Luccan drowsed nearby, catnapping, unaware of the subtle magic sending electric tendrils through Ragheiyont’s skin.
Now is not a good time.
Suppressing a sigh, Ragheiyont took the little pewter cuff from his ear and examined the opal set there. It shimmered faintly green. Nearby, then. Leaving his blue overcoat on the ground, he stood up. Luccan’s ears flicked, and his grip on Warbringer tightened for a moment. Flatterer. Making his movements as silent as smoke, Ragheiyont drifted away.
The opal clutched in his fist, he followed the thread of magic to its origin point: a matching stone held aloft by a cloaked demon on a hilltop. Ragheiyont alighted just out of lunging distance. No point in taking unnecessary risks.
“Your timing stinks, jo.”
“I need the artifact.”
A few days ago, Ragheiyont would have handed the stone over without question. Tonight, however, something had given him the strange notion that he deserved a bit of respect. He jammed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Ya got my payment?”
In the shadows of his cowl, the other demon grimaced. “Later,” he growled. Ragheiyont’s wings flared, ready to launch him back into the air.
“Nah, jo. Ya kip cash or I’m off an’ back asleep.”
“Don’t be difficult.” Ragheiyont’s employer tossed a small pouch of coins at his feet. Not nearly enough. “I have partial payment. I can get you the rest tomorrow.”
Ragheiyont looked down at the money, and he felt his lip curling into a sneer. He actually sneered! At money! “Partial payment gets ya no stone, jo. How’m I ta know ya won’t kill us all with it? Face the afterlife half-paid? Not this demon!”
“That’s just absurd—”
“No.” No? Ragheiyont’s wings propelled him upward. “Full payment, or no artifact.”
What in the world was wrong with him? He had refused money because some duster thought he could skip half the bill? He itched to the marrow at the loss of payment, but it bothered him less than he had expected. The howling hunger within him had abated a little, eased by…
By what?
By the weight of the stone embedded in his arm? By Luccan’s insistence on feeding him dragon blood a minimum of once a day? By the proximity of Warbringer?
He looked northward, to the inky line the cliffs scrawled across the horizon. Perhaps, when he let Luccan into the castle, he could steal away to the archive. Perhaps he could find a book that would tell him what was wrong with him. Perhaps, if it could be cured, he may abduct a healer and…
Childish dreams? Probably. Anyway, what was he without the hunger? He could hardly remember a time before he had willfully taken the sickness into his blood. Not that he had known what it would do to him, of course. No one would choose this life.
Soft as a whisper, his feet touched the mossy ground on the hillside where he had left Luccan. As he stooped to retrieve his coat, he cast one more glance toward the distant cliffs. A pinpoint of white light flared, then vanished.
“Angels,” hissed Luccan. Ragheiyont flinched from the sound of his voice. Too late. “Where were you?”
Ragheiyont shrank from the accusation in his tone. “Had a meeting.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“That’s the work I do, jo.” Catching his mistake too late, he braced himself for a scolding.
Luccan pounced. Moving too swiftly for Ragheiyont to evade, he darted forward, one hand closing in a bruising grip just above the telltale lump that was the Heartstone. Ragheiyont stared, wild-eyed, panic battering his insides as Luccan squeezed his arm and gave him a fierce shake.
If he moved his hand, even just a finger’s breadth lower…
“It is not what you do,” Luccan growled, leaning close, too close. “Not right now. Right now, you do nothing that could jeopardize our objective.” Another shake of his arm set Ragheiyont’s heart stuttering over itself again. “Do you understand?”
“Your objective!” Ragheiyont snapped, temper flaring over fear. “We’re out here chasin’ nesting tales, and you won’t even tell me why! If ya can’t do that, ‘least tell me why ya care so much ‘bout me bein’ proper fed!”
“You’re scarcely out of the nest—”
“Been on my own more’n fifty years,” Ragheiyont corrected him, which somehow made Luccan drop his arm and step away.
“That,” he said quietly, “is why i feed you. You have no idea how to be a dragon.”
Ragheiyont scoffed. “And you can help with that?”
Tilting his head to the side, Luccan gave him an appraising look. It cut deep, too deep, as though he could see through to the hidden Heartstone, to Ragheiyont’s refusal to surrender it. “It seems I have already.” When Ragheiyont opened his mouth to protest, Luccan continued, “This argument is proof enough of the progress you’ve made.” He settled himself on the damp ground, and he placed Warbringer across his knees. “Sit with me. I shall explain the urgency of our mission.”
Iyahi-Ila opened his eyes to darkness. For a moment, he failed to remember where he was. He had faithfully obeyed Kiile’s request. He had kept close to his two eldest brothers. He had done his best to keep himself safe.
A snore rumbled through the tent, and the reality of his failure crashed over him. When his father’s guards had come to take him, Shiili had lacked the strength to fight them. Iyahi had gone meekly to sup with the king. They had both failed Kiile.
Under the cover of darkness, Iyahi tested his limbs. Pain answered him, stabbing through his hand, his shoulder, his hip, but he knew he had to escape. He felt for his fingers with his other hand, and he found two of them broken and swollen. His breath shuddered in, then out again. What would Kiile do when he saw this fresh damage?
An image flashed through Iyahi’s mind: Kiile-Kili standing on a windswept hillside, sword in hand, blood streaked over his face and down his chest. He had a wild, voracious look about him, and when he turned, his focus narrowed on his brother.
“Give it to me,” he rasped, lunging forward, his free hand reaching for Iyahi’s eyes. “Give me your Sight!”
With a squeak, Iyahi jolted out of the vision. His heart battered painfully against ribs that were surely broken, and he wheezed with each shallow breath. He cast about in the darkness, away from the sound of drunken snores, hoping for an exit. His injured leg betrayed him, and he had to crawl, dragging it twisted and useless behind him. His broken fingers bashed against something solid, sending a shock of pain up his arm. He collapsed with a silent sob.
“You’ve heard the legends of the King of Shadows. You know he’s destined to destroy worlds.”
Ragheiyont lifted his wings in a shrug. “Everyone hears that. It’s one of the foundational myths of our society.”
Under the pale starlight, Luccan gave him a curious look. “Sometimes,” he said, “you don’t talk like you were born in a cave.” When Ragheiyont merely shrugged again, he continued. “You may not know that the stories are based on a real prophecy nearly five thousand years old.” If he closed his eyes, he would smell the sulfur, hear the chanting, and feel the fear afresh.
Ragheiyont gave a low whistle. “That’s a long time, jo.”
Luccan felt annoyance twist his features. “Greater still number my years, child,” he snapped. When Ragheiyont flinched, he softened his words. “And it’s not myth. I was there.” At the widening of the young dragon’s eyes, Luccan abruptly felt every one of his years. He ached with the time he had spent burdened with this prophecy. It felt as though it bent his back and stooped his shoulders, and he ached to lay it to rest at last. He drew a deep breath, and he sighed.
“Set to crumble—
Sphere in Heaven, Sphere in Hell
Existence propped on the shoulders of the determined—”
“Wait,” Ragheiyont interrupted. “This tosser breaks entire Spheres? How is that even possible?”
Luccan felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. “Do you know how Spheres collapse?”
“Well…”
“In the Spheres of Hell, the collective life energy of the inhabitants binds the fabric of reality in place. If a large amount of the population is lost very quickly,” he continued, gesturing at the empty night around them, “the presence of a few individuals of strong magical inclination is usually sufficient to hold the Sphere until it stabilizes. The sort of event it would take for two Spheres to collapse…”
“You’re talkin’ genocide,” Ragheiyont whispered.
“It seems that’s already happened here,” Luccan said, immediately regretting his bluntness when he saw Ragheiyont cringe from his words. “Between the actions of your sleeping king and the brutal civil war in the Fifth Sphere, that’s two Hell Spheres vulnerable to collapse. The Mortal Realm may not endure another such cataclysm.”
Ragheiyont picked at the mossy grass beneath them. “What’s this got to do with Mortal stuffs?”
So little this fledgling knew.
“When two Spheres of Heaven collapsed, the shockwave of it forced the three Mortal Spheres to fuse into one.”
“Why did—”
“Because Archangel Lucifer killed his own brother, and so doing became the first of the Fallen,” Luccan interrupted. Ragheiyont’s grin gleamed in the dark.
“Were ya there for that, too?”
Impertinent child. Telling this tale would take all night.
Fighting against his own broken body, Iyahi dragged himself upright enough to explore the wooden tray. It sat on a folding stand, the edge of which had assaulted his poor fingers. He found the center of the tray, and the remains of his father’s repast. Shredded bits of flatbread and some scraps of meat. Iyahi needed his strength. Though his stomach churned at the thought of food, he forced it into his mouth. His jaw ached, but he chewed his scavenged scraps and he searched the abandoned tray for more.
His fingertips encountered a miracle.
There, at the far edge of the tray, lay a fork. Iyahi tilted his head toward his father. The Hawk king must have been very drunk, for he usually locked the cutlery away after every meal. Iyahi’s fist closed around the fork, and with resolution, he turned.
He made slow progress, dragging himself back toward the pile of cushions where his father still snored. The fork clutched in his good hand slowed him nearly as much as the broken fingers did. Each breath came a little more labored than the last, and he wondered if he tasted blood on his lips. When his knuckles brushed against the nearest cushion he paused, gathering what remained of his strength.
The rattling snores lead Iyahi to his father’s head. Carefully, with the lightest touch he could manage, he felt for the pulse point in the king’s neck. He closed his eyes despite the dark, and he thought of his father’s final words to him.
“At least your little brother is more obedient.”
Iyahi positioned the sharp tines of the fork against his father’s neck, and he pressed down with all of his weight.
Metal wrenched in his grasp, twisting, biting back against his good hand, but blood spurted over his fingers. The Hawk king awakened with a startled gurgle, too late to save himself. Too late for either of them.
Iyahi collapsed across his dying father, and he allowed the darkness to take him.
Ragheiyont shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said. “If ya kill the prince, won’t that do more harm to the stability of the Sphere?”
“Perhaps.” But that same prince now had a Mortal-Born son, an heir who may claim responsibility for all of Seyzharel. It could be enough to preserve the Fourth Sphere. It had to be enough. “But if he becomes King of Shadows, he has two fragile Spheres ready for destruction. And he will do it.”
Ragheiyont looked toward the cliffs, now haunted with the first faint glimmer of dawn. “Is that why there’re angels here?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“Perhaps.”
Probably.
Damn that angel anyway.