Darkness wrapped around him, sure and steady. It held him like a lover, entwining and protecting and caressing. He was born into this darkness, and this darkness was the whole of his existence. He breathed it. He understood it. He adored it. What sweet simplicity, with the shadows to watch over him and sustain him. He had never known anything else.
Nobody knew him.
Nobody needed him.
Here, in the dark, he could rest. He could rest forever.
Or he might have, if not for that infernal itching.
He twisted around, trying to reach the itch, trying to make it stop. Fabric stopped him. Silk. His arms wrapped around himself, he flexed his fingers, claws eager to tear through his jacket to get to—
To get to—
He drew a deep breath, and he let his arms fall to his sides. Dignity. Someone needed him to conduct himself with dignity.
Nonsense. Nobody here required anything of him. And yet…
And yet some aching hollow deep within him yearned to be needed, to be necessary. To fit just right in a place where he could…
Where he could…
Blood and ice and a hunger he could not name danced just at the fringes of his mind. He needed… something…
Something inside him, deeper than he could reach. He tried, his claws stinging across his chest until they encountered something smooth and rounded. Opal. The thought sprang unbidden into his head, and just then, like a reflex, he reached out with all the magic in him, groping in the dark, groping within himself.
A fine thread of magic, just where it belonged, just where it had always been. It anchored him to…
To…
Did it matter?
Grinding his teeth in frustration, he gave the thread of magic a solid yank. Of course it mattered. Of course—
An image burst upon him, bright as daylight, sharp as broken glass, resonating out of the tiny thread of magic. He—the other him, the one through whose eyes he saw—lay on a sumptuous carpet, spasms of agony convulsing him in on himself by fractions. Blood oozed from a fresh bite to the inside of his elbow, bright red already blackening with deadly poison. Thick, angry scars knitted around his frail wrists, flushing crimson as they flinched and shuddered ever closer to his face.
“You—” snarled a ragged voice from the floor beside him. He rolled his eyes around to look with triumph on the pallid face that lay too close to his own, half obscured by crimson plumage, blackened blood staining bared teeth. “You’ve killed us both!”
The world blurred and faded, but he managed a grimace that felt appropriately smug. “Good.”
The vision broke apart as Tharaiyelagh’s eyes snapped open. “Lord Baleirithys!” he yelped, and at once his own memories flooded back, filling up all his empty places. Looking down, he saw that he clutched North’s opal tightly in one fist.
“Tharaiyelagh!”
Baleirithys snapped upright, scattering bedding in all directions. He blinked in confusion at the sunlight streaming in his open windows, at the sheer curtains stirring in the mild breeze. Morning. When had that happened? The mattress sank beside him. The audacity. He tilted his head toward the intrusion.
“My prince.” Enci leaned close, pressing a hand to Baleirithys’ bandaged chest. “Are you—?”
Cautiously, Baleirithys tested the thread of magic that connected him to Tharaiyelagh. It held fast. His wings sagged as relief flooded his body, leaving him wrung out and exhausted. “He’s alive,” he breathed, and his voice sounded raw and ragged. “My Tharaiyelagh is alive.”
Enci nodded, as though he expected as much. Without invitation, he began conducting a thorough examination of his prince. Baleirithys tried to shake him off, but found he had no strength. With no recourse else, he sat and he glared.
“You need to feed,” Enci said. “And you need to rest. Last night…” He sighed. “My prince. Baleirithys. You frightened us rather badly last night.”
Baleirithys looked down at his hand, caught firmly between both of Enci’s. For a long moment, he said nothing. What, indeed, was there to say? He knew he had wasted much magic, even while tearing open his own flesh. He had raved and raged and flung out everything in him in futile desperation, trying to reach Tharaiyelagh. Even in this weakened, anemic state, he found his cheeks could burn with shame. Then: “Us?” Baleirithys repeated, giving the healer a fleeting frown. He rolled his gaze around the bedchamber until he saw a huddle of a person folded tightly into a chair, feet just peeking out beneath the tight shelter of his wings. “Oh, Ceirithi,” Baleirithys whispered.
At the sound of his name, the tailor stirred. He stretched, peered blearily around the room, then dragged his chair to Baleirithys’ bedside. “My prince.” Ceirithi began rolling up one sleeve. Baleirithys waved away the offer.
“I’m fine. I don’t need blood so desperately as to take it—”
“You do,” said Enci sternly. He pressed his own wrist to Baleirithys’ lips. His pulse beat through his skin, warm, inviting, dizzying…
Baleirithys flinched away from Enci’s wrist, away from his own growing hunger. “You could at least behave like a civilized person and get a knife,” he grumbled. Seeing the worry on both of their faces, he shrank from his own strident words. “Did I frighten you so much?” he murmured, lifting one hand to caress the curve of Ceirithi’s horns. One trembling hand. Well, there was that.
“Lord Baleirithys,” Ceirithi said baldly, “you look an absolute wreck.”
Well. He simply could not leave his rooms looking an absolute wreck. “Enci, my appointments—”
“Already cancelled.” The healer gave him a knowing smile. “And you, my prince, shall remain in bed until I say otherwise.”
With a soft groan, Baleirithys sank back onto his pillows.
Tharaiyelagh found himself standing in a dimly lit corridor. The walls, ceiling, and floor seemed to form a perfect square, a square that stretched away into a nondescript gloom. His companions milled about without apparent purpose. Nearest to him, Seikhiel sat on the floor, his head tipped back against the wall, his hands limp at his sides. A little distance away, Ragheiyont slouched and picked at his bandages. Bel flicked through forms faster than the eye could follow—the smith was a shapeshifter?—and Tempest devoted his full concentration to inscribing sigils on the wall. The air sizzled with magic, but one source felt stronger than the others.
It felt urgent.
Tharaiyelagh followed the fierce push-pull of magic past Atchi, who drifted aimlessly from person to person. He followed it past Luccan, who finished washing and curled up for a nap. He followed it until he found the twins.
Akieryon and Szearbhyn stood with their hands joined, their foreheads touching, their gazes locked each on the other. Their breathing came slow and shallow. Everywhere they touched, they seemed to blur into one another. Akieryon had said that the balance between Darkness and Light formed the basis for all celestial magic, and here they melted into each another. Szearbhyn tugged, and Akieryon sank forward, sank against him. They nuzzled into one another’s contours, their distinct shapes and shadows blurring all the more. Szearbhyn unfurled wings of black smoke, which immediately lost form and swirled around them.
“No!” Instinct driving him faster than he could process what he saw, Tharaiyelagh leapt forward. He forced his arm between the twins, crying out in pain as the air around them scorched and froze him in equal measure. “Akieryon, stop!” He pushed with all his strength, even as the energy flowing between the twins sapped the magic from his blood. “Akieryon, you have to—you have to help Tempest!”
Akieryon blinked. Slowly, he turned toward Tharaiyelagh. The dark smoke around them turned abruptly to a swirl of luminous white feathers. “Where’s Tempest?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Szearbhyn’s lip curled back in a snarl. Dark energy gathered in his open palm. “You dare—”
Akieryon pushed back, hard. “Don’t you dare, Szearbhyn Soul-Stealer,” he growled. “If you try to eat my friend, I will punch you into the middle of next week.”
Szearbhyn gawked at his brother, understanding slowly creeping across his face. The energy in his hand vanished, as did his smoky wings and large, coiled horns. Tharaiyelagh gave a curt nod. “This way.” He led them back to where Tempest had taken to carving the sigils into the wall with his claws. The twins glanced at each other.
“Tempest.” Akieryon pressed up against his side and slipped an arm around his waist. Tempest paused, his head tilted as though listening intently. Szearbhyn pushed up behind Tempest, pushed his plumage aside, and bit the back of his neck.
Stifling a scandalized little gasp, Tharaiyelagh turned away. Leave them to it, whatever it was. He had work yet to do. He strode across to his own brother, and he swatted irritably at his hand. “Don’t pick your bandage.”
Ragheiyont looked at him, studying him as though they were strangers. His eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, maintaining eye contact all the while, he picked at his bandage.
Desperate situations, Tharaiyelagh reflected, called for desperate measures. He caught Ragheiyont by the hand and turned it over, baring the inside of his arm. Tharaiyelagh pitched his voice high and pleading as he lifted Ragheiyont’s wrist toward his mouth. “Please, Rahi, I’m hungry.”
“No!” Ragheiyont snatched his arm away and clutched it to his chest. “You’ll get sick!” And in that moment of panic, his memories crashed back. With a nod, Tharaiyelagh turned to survey the rest of their party. Behind him, Ragheiyont grumbled something about having a mean little brother.
“Yell at me about it later,” Tharaiyelagh said. “Can you wake the Makesh?”
Ragheiyont snorted. “You want me to handle Luccan? Lucky thing I move quick.”
Tharaiyelagh slanted a smile at his brother. “That’s why you’re the man for the job.” He looked around, counting companions, assessing who most needed his help, when a low growl drew his attention. Far down the tunnel, where all sank into shadows, Atchi stood motionless, his head tilted to one side, his ears pricked intently forward, his tail bristling like a waxthistle bloom. Beyond him, something moved in the darkness. Tharaiyelagh broke into a run.
He had accounted for everyone else. Only one person could lurk there. Only one person could frighten and fascinate the fox in equal measure.
Tharaiyelagh’s sudden arrival startled Atchi, and he whirled, lips raised in a snarl, keeping one eye to the shadows beyond. Tharaiyelagh raised both hands in a gesture of appeasement. “I’m not here for you, Atchienna Silvermoon,” he said. A whiplike tail lashed in the dark.
“Tarali.” Ragheiyont skidded to a stop beside him, Warbringer clutched triumphantly to his chest. “Are you sure about this?”
Luccan tackled Atchi. “Who else stands a chance?” Tharaiyelagh whispered, his words almost lost in the cacophony of their yowls. An answering hiss rattled out of the shadows.
“But…” Ragheiyont shifted his weight, shifted his wings with apprehension. “He’s gone feral.”
Tharaiyelagh took a step forward.
The faint light from behind them glinted on bared claws and naked steel. Tharaiyelagh paused, waiting. The wailing of the scuffle between Luccan and Atchi faded into laughter. Ragheiyont scuffed his feet and muttered something to one of them. Ahead of him, deep in shadow, wings flared in warning.
“Tharaiyelagh,” said a voice behind him.
He held up one hand. “Lord Tempest,” he said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the way his heart jumped in his chest. If harm befell either of these princes… “Walk away.”
Still behind him, Tempest made a thoughtful noise. “I’m charged with your well-being.”
“So is he.” Tharaiyelagh balled his hands into fists, then slowly unclenched them. “If you must remain, at least stand out of striking range.”
“I doubt that’s possible.”
Van-Dal proved his point, feinting once and sliding past Tharaiyelagh to strike at Tempest. An invisible wall of magic wrenched the blade from his hand, and he hissed, widely baring all his teeth as he dropped back and down, landing in a crouch at the edge of the shadows.
“He’s a danger to us all like this,” Tharaiyelagh said, and Tempest made a small noise of agreement.
“I can keep him focused on me until he exhausts himself,” he suggested, “but that could take hours.”
Would take hours. Tharaiyelagh watched as Van-Dal slowly uncoiled himself, decision already made. He took a step forward.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m fixing this.” Tharaiyelagh took another step.
“Don’t cause an international incident.”
Tharaiyelagh took another step forward, and he forced a smile into his voice. “I think I know my obligations as well as you do, my lord.” Another step. Van-Dal’s wings flared in threat. Tharaiyelagh held his hands relaxed at his sides, palms turned forward. He lifted his chin and he looked Van-Dal in the face as he stepped within his reach.
Van-Dal hesitated, his posture straightening a bit as he tilted his head, assessing the threat posed to him by one small, unarmed Seyzharel demon. Unarmed and wingless. Tharaiyelagh shrugged, emphasizing the lack. Van-Dal’s tail lashed with renewed vigor, but he made no move to attack.
“Crown Prince Van-Dal Kiyrst,” Tharaiyelagh said, keeping his voice low and even. “Trueborn son of Tsai-Van, High King of the Second Sphere. You know me. You… you broke the seal on my wings.” At this distance, Van-Dal could end his life with one simple, swift movement. Just the flick of a few well-trained muscles. Meeting and holding Van-Dal’s gaze, Tharaiyelagh stepped into the last of the space between them. “You’ve become precious to me.”
Van-Dal’s tail coiled around Tharaiyelagh’s leg, holding him in place as his wings snapped wide open, then tightly closed, enwrapping Tharaiyelagh, pressing them close together. His gaze sharpened even as the muscles along his jaw relaxed. “Tharaiyelagh,” he murmured as he inclined his head and allowed his lips to brush softly against Tharaiyelagh’s own. The thrill of the touch burned like fresh magic, as though it could replace what the twins had unwittingly drained out of him. “Remarkable little Tharaiyelagh, I owe you a great debt.”
Tharaiyelagh felt a hot blush rush to the points of his ears. “It’s nothing,” he said, in flagrant disregard of his education.
“Nothing?” Van-Dal repeated, a sharp frown creasing his brow. “You risked your safety to give me back my self. How is that nothing?”
“It’s… it was necessary.”
“Necessary and nothing are not the same, little one.” Van-Dal learned in for another kiss, a proper one this time, and Tharaiyelagh made no effort to resist. He was a traitor to his own love for Baleirithys, but he craved Van-Dal’s affection. He craved the soft touches and the lingering glances. The tender caress of Van-Dal’s lips, the low rumble of pleasure resonating from one mouth to the other and back again…
Tharaiyelagh slid his hands up Van-Dal’s ribs, over the slim blades he had concealed there, and let them come to rest on his chest. He savored one last caress before he gave a firm push. Van-Dal yielded at once, stepping back, only leaving the fingers of his wings draped lightly on Tharaiyelagh’s shoulders. Tharaiyelagh took a bracing gulp of musty tunnel air and composed himself.
“I must examine the diplomatic implications of… this.” Tharaiyelagh gestured vaguely between the two of them. A faint smile playing about his lips, Van-Dal inclined his head.
“Of course.” He withdrew his wings and folded them loosely behind his back. “As ever, you know where to find me.”
Tharaiyelagh nodded. Trying to ignore the hot flush of mingled desire and embarrassment, he turned around. Blessedly, everyone else seemed to be ignoring them. In fact, most everybody clustered together in a tight knot. As though someone had been injured. Catching Van-Dal by the hand, Tharaiyelagh hurried to investigate.
He assessed the situation quickly, noting how everyone seemed to have regained their memories. Everyone except for the one person seated on the floor, the person around whom they all gathered.
Seikhiel.
He stared blankly ahead, refusing to react to Ragheiyont and Akieryon, who both tried to wake him from the enchantment, both with increasing distress. In desperation, Ragheiyont nibbled at the wound from which Seikhiel had so frequently fed him. Seikhiel did not react. Frustrated and despairing, Ragheiyont collapsed into Seikhiel’s lap, keening like a dragon half his age. Seikhiel’s hand moved then, just enough to stroke Ragheiyont’s plumage in an absent gesture of comfort.
“This isn’t like you,” said Atchi, his lip curling. “What are you so desperate to forget?”
The tears welling in Akieryon’s eyes began to spill down his cheeks.
“Is he… broken?” Tharaiyelagh whispered. Van-Dal squeezed his hand in response, but his gaze remained fixed on Ragheiyont, now curling himself as small as he could manage, lying half in Seikhiel’s lap. At least he had quieted.
Luccan sighed a noisy sigh through his nose. Then he crouched, one hand on Ragheiyont’s quivering back, the other on Seikhiel’s shoulder. “Seikka,” he said as he leaned in close, but the rest he whispered directly into Seikhiel’s ear.
Seikhiel made a noise that started as a shuddering gasp and grew into a groan of agony. He rocked forward, curling his body protectively around Ragheiyont. “No,” he managed after a few inarticulate sounds. “No, no, no, no.” He kept his eyes squeezed shut, and he pressed his cheek against the smooth curve of Ragheiyont’s horn, possibly hard enough to bruise. Luccan watched, horror plain in the widening of his eyes and the swiveling of his ears.
“I will mince whoever did this to him,” the cat vowed, and Atchi nodded silent agreement.
Ragheiyont nuzzled into Seikhiel’s protective embrace, offering comfort in the form of murmured words and gentle touches. Slowly, too slowly, Seikhiel relaxed.
Everyone took several awkward steps away from the two of them and pretended to have been doing something else altogether. Luccan did so with great disdain, and Tempest had to be nudged along by the twins, but the illusion of privacy was provided by the time Seikhiel looked up. “Am I the last?” he demanded, his voice a little hoarse. In a moment Van-Dal had moved to his side, offering a canteen without looking directly at him.
“You didn’t want to remember,” he said softly. When Seikhiel merely nodded, Van-Dal added, “One death. Anyone. Anywhere. No charge.”
Seikhiel gave him a startled glance. Tharaiyelagh concealed a frown. Once, Van-Dal had extended a similar offer to Baleirithys, an act of retribution upon the tyrant who had nearly destroyed Seyzharel. He knew that his beloved prince had endured unspeakable horrors, of course he knew, but Seikhiel? The famous Sword of Heaven, hero of the Great Uprising? If Seikhiel had faced such horrors as to want to forget himself forever, well, it stood to reason that such a thing could happen to absolutely anyone. Tharaiyelagh glanced around, at Tempest, at Akieryon, at Bel and Atchi. It shamed him to admit that he had thought Seyzharel unique in struggle, unique in the scars of its people. He edged a little closer to Van-Dal and reached for his hand.
“I’ll consider it,” said Seikhiel, which was more positive a reply than Baleirithys ever gave. His amber gaze rested briefly on Akieryon before returning to Ragheiyont. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”
“Don’t got one,” Ragheiyont sulked as he clambered to his feet.
“You can—” You can come home with me. Tharaiyelagh bit off the words before they escaped. Not until he changed the law. Understanding too well, Ragheiyont gave him a sad smile.
“Don’t you worry about me, little Tarali. I’ll get by, just like I’ve always done.”
Holding back a flood of protests, Tharaiyelagh gripped Van-Dal’s hand tightly. Van-Dal squeezed back, a gesture of reassurance. Now was not the time to sort this matter out. One problem at a time.
“Hey.” Luccan stalked over and gave Seikhiel an imperious stare. “Why are you still on the floor?”
Seikhiel stuck his jaw forward and stared right back. “My foot is numb.”