A tale I promised, my young friend. A tale you shall have.
Imagine, if you will, a smith of some renown—don’t scoff at your elders, boy, it’s rude—with two apprentices at the forge. This was not unusual. I’ve had as many as five at a time, but just then there were only the two. Earnest young men both, they came to me to learn of steel, but what they really craved was the magic struck into the metal with every fall of my hammer. Yes, you impudent child, everyone does want that.
In those days, I had recently completed Warbringer. Oh, yes, mighty Warbringer was forged in my righteous fury and plunged still warm into the flesh of an angel, one who would have killed me first, had I given him the chance. Abomination. Hah. Well, considering that the blade took on the character of the moment, I suppose I should not have made it quite so powerful.
Now, if you ask the cat, he will deny it to his dying breath, but Warbringer is not the finest blade I have ever crafted. No, dear friend, that distinction belongs to the one I forged after Warbringer. My final blade, as it turned out. A sword I made as a gift to an angel—of sorts—who had done me a great kindness.
My triumph, my masterwork… of course I mean Reunion
Baleirithys paced his outer chamber, his slippered steps crisscrossing the pool of moonlight on the plush rug. An unnamed anxiety clawed up his throat, unfurling its tendrils along every nerve until the the beast he buried deep inside howled for vindication. He trembled with need, with agitation. Beyond the finely cut panes of his windows, a wisp of clouds slipped across the moon, and Baleirithys’ mood darkened with it.
He crossed the room one final time, to the wall that divided this space from his bedchamber. On the vanity table, a jeweled dagger and a silver chalice gleamed, ever at the ready. So few ever chose the blade. Baleirithys reached beneath the table, and his claw flicked a switch on its underside. A panel in the wall slid soundlessly aside.
Baleirithys stood before the compartment, studying his own reflection in the stand mirror he kept tucked away between his rooms. He looked drawn, he decided, which hardly suited his alabaster beauty. With a sigh, he traced one fingertip along the filigree frame of the mirror. Blue gems glistened there, pulsing faintly with magic, one stone for every one of his people he kept safe at his castle. Here he anchored them. Here he stored the magic of the binding spell, the Blooding. True, he could keep it all in his person, but this method was safer for everyone.
His hand stilled when it came to the gem that anchored Tharaiyelagh. It pulsed faintly with an inner light, an effect of recently renewing the bond. Baleirithys pressed his tongue against the backs of his teeth, remembering, reliving the taste of the blood and the rush of the magic. The stone fairly buzzed in response to his emotions, first resonating a happy sensation, but falling quickly into alarm. A frown drew Baleirithys’ brows inward. Was this what had pulled him from his repose? Did Tharaiyelagh suffer, and suffer dearly enough to call out to his lord across such a distance?
Had it been a mistake to allow him to go?
Baleirithys pressed his thumb to one fang, just breaking the skin, and then he touched the tiny drop of blood to Tharaiyelagh’s stone. He pushed his will across the blood bond, quieting his own anxiety enough to send Tharaiyelagh strength.
You will return to me.
His hands shook as he closed the panel. So simple a spell could not drain him, and yet fatigue settled over him like a mantle draped around his bones. He paced through to his bedchamber, where he dropped almost gracelessly on top of the blankets.
Sleep would continue to elude him.
The impact drove the air from Tharaiyelagh’s lungs, but still he tasted the dust that billowed around him. Glass. Sulfur. Ash. He threw his arm across his face before he could draw a ragged gasp. His lungs burned, and he sobbed into his sleeve.
Moving would be useless. He could almost hear echoes of the snapping of his bones. His left leg swiftly numbed even as it ached to the core. He could only lie helpless and hope for rescue. If he remained calm, soon he would draw breath enough to call for help. Soon.
First he had to stop coughing.
Ash seared his lungs with every gasp, and he choked and sobbed with every breath. He clenched his fists in frustration, but he would not strike them against the soft earth, would not scatter more accursed dust into the air. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he begged himself to find some hidden reserve of strength. If he could catch his breath, if he could sit up above the worst of the dust, perhaps…
Perhaps he would not embarrass himself.
The realization of his deeper fears struck him into stillness. Yes, he dreaded embarrassing himself, and by extension, all of Seyzharel. Had his lord not chosen him over everyone else who could do the job of chancellor? What if Tharaiyelagh failed? Proved himself dull and weak and useless? He could never live with the shame of it.
He opened his eyes and blinked away his tears. High above, he could see the fissure he had fallen through, a narrow slash of gray against the black of the cavern. Even if he had not broken his leg, he would never climb out on his own.
A flicker of movement broke the feeble light above, then disappeared from view. Tharaiyelagh tried to draw breath enough to call out, but only managed a fresh fit of coughing. Perhaps his companions would never find him. Perhaps it was his fate to be lost forever in Interspace, in this miserable pit in this bleak hillside…
“Tempest! Over here!”
As Tharaiyelagh tried to squint through his tears, the fissure above vanished entirely. He swallowed the last of his coughing, and he held his breath. Above, it sounded like someone struggled to squeeze through the gap that had admitted him readily enough. Some faint oaths reached his ears, along with fallen pebbles stirring fresh billows of deadly dust. Watch it! he wanted to shout, but still he had no breath.
A light flared above him, soft and white, and in a moment Akieryon alighted at his side. Tharaiyelagh tried not to breathe.
“How’d you manage to fall in a hole?”
Tharaiyelagh glared as the angel summoned a narrow tongue of flame to hover above them. It illuminated the pit better than the faint glow of his wings did.
“Ooh, this is a nasty break.” Akieryon leaned over him, blocking Tharaiyelagh’s view of his leg, but he could see his blood where it had seeped into the ashy dust. “Any other injuries?” he asked as he edged forward, somehow a little hesitant to conduct a full examination.
Tharaiyelagh shook his head. Aside from his abused airways, his leg had taken the brunt of the damage. Akieryon nodded and rubbed his palms together. The air warmed. It crackled and sizzled, and Tharaiyelagh watched with apprehension as the space between Akieryon’s hands took on a faint glow, much like the light from his wings. He placed his palms over Tharaiyelagh’s leg. Warmth tickled over his skin before spreading into muscle, sinew, and bone.
More pebbles rained down from above, distracting Tharaiyelagh from the strange sensations in his injured leg. He looked up, alarm gripping him enough to squeeze out a strangled shout. “Lord Tempest, don’t—!”
Tempest’s landing beside Tharaiyelagh cast up a fresh cloud of dust. He grimaced and made a small gesture, turning his open palm downward, and the dust obediently lay flat, as though it had never stirred at all. Near Tharaiyelagh’s knees, Akieryon gasped and snatched his hands away.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Keeping his hands clutched against his chest, Akieryon shook his head. “Just… He just pushed back against my healing spell. Just now, when you arrived.”
Pressing his lips tightly together, Tharaiyelagh looked away. Lord Tempest and Akieryon leaned over his leg together, inspecting the injury. An enormous purple bruise blossomed across his shin, but the skin had closed up and the swelling dwindled.
“You should be able to walk,” Tempest pronounced after the uncomfortable silence had stretched until it nearly broke something else in Tharaiyelagh. “What about the rest of you?”
“Fine,” Tharaiyelagh wheezed.
Lord Tempest’s eyes narrowed. “Your shirt,” he demanded. “Off.”
His face burning hotter than the little flame hovering above them, Tharaiyelagh clutched the fabric of his shirt over his chest. “I’m fine!” he squeaked, but a rattling cough betrayed him. Tempest arched an eyebrow and tilted his head. With a sigh of resignation, Tharaiyelagh shrugged out of his jacket and his shirt.
“Ah,” said Tempest, his dancing eyes immediately falling upon the bite mark on Tharaiyelagh’s shoulder. Tharaiyelagh clapped his hand over it with stinging force.
“Right. Nothing to see here.”
Akieryon made a poor effort to stifle his laugh. Tharaiyelagh glared through the gloom until he turned away.
Lord Tempest leaned close and listened to Tharaiyelagh’s lungs. He tapped at various ribs, some more tender than others, and prodded him somewhere around the region of his liver. Then he peered at Tharaiyelagh’s back and let out a noisy breath. “I suppose this is nothing to see as well?”
Tharaiyelagh shifted his shoulders, stretching the long scabs that ran parallel to his spine. “It’s… it’s fine.” He almost held his breath, hoping his prince would ask no more questions. He wanted to keep the truth a secret a little while longer. A secret treasured between himself and Van-Dal.
“Here.” Tempest placed one hand on Tharaiyelagh’s spine and one on his chest. Warmth flooded his lungs, and his breathing eased. “Better?” When Tharaiyelagh nodded, he grinned. “Good. If that hadn’t worked, I would have had to give you some blood.”
“Lord Tempest!” Tharaiyelagh gasped, scandalized at the mere thought of overreaching his station. “I could never—”
“You’d drink it if I commanded you to.”
Tharaiyelagh’s jaw snapped shut on his protests. What indeed would he do in such a situation? His hands trembled as he pulled his shirt on and secured the ties.
“Now what?” Akieryon turned in a slow circle, inspecting the pit. “I doubt we’ll be climbing out.”
“Hold the light higher.” Tharaiyelagh started to climb to his feet, and found Tempest’s arm steadying him. His cheeks warmed. “There.” Nearly obscured by a rockfall, a hewn archway led away into darkness. When his two companions gave him curious stares, he managed an uncomfortable shrug. “It didn’t sound like a fully enclosed space.”
Akieryon made a thoughtful noise. Tempest nodded and gave Tharaiyelagh’s shoulder a brief squeeze.
Into the underbelly of the hill. That hardly sounded promising.
Raaqiel ducked out of his office half an hour early. He had managed to avoid Feriel, Sidriel, and Niseriel all day long. Why ruin it now? He packed up the last of the quizzes he had yet to grade, and he took the back stairs down to the parade grounds. Michael was there, showing off for his usual crowd of fawning admirers. Rolling his eyes, Raaqiel stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked faster.
He dodged the patrol cadets on their rounds, skirted the barracks yard, and made for the front gate. Sweet freedom lay beyond. Home. His library. An unreasonably large heap of blankets. He half expected to hear feet running behind him, voices calling out his name, urging him to stop, to turn back.
He cleared the gate, the smart flagstones of the Academy yards giving way to cobbled roads, and tension seeped out of his shoulders.
The road to the right would take him down the hill to Enoch’s. To the left, he would find the bustling shops and cafes surrounding the Memorial Oak. Legend held that Sidriel himself had planted the tree. Raaqiel had never bothered to ask.
His hand unconsciously falling to the sword at his hip, Raaqiel considered the two paths. He would find solace at Enoch’s. A friendly ear, should he choose to employ it. But he would also be visible, available to approach. He glanced to the left, and his sword gave a soft thrum of approval.
Well. Even when he disliked the option, the enchanted blade never actually steered him astray. Affecting a casual saunter, Raaqiel headed down the road to the left.
Ragheiyont’s chatter filled the empty caverns. He boasted of past thefts and daring escapes. He complained of petty annoyances. Mostly, though, he told tales of his childhood, spent in the dark beneath the jagged cliffs of Seyzharel. Did Baleirithys know that some of his people lived hidden away in the inhospitable wilds?
Eventually, the floor evened and flattened. When Van-Dal crouched to inspect it, Ragheiyont leaned against the cavern wall above him. “Y’like my little Tarali, yeah?” He paused, choosing his words with greater care than he had yet demonstrated. “Like, like-like?”
Pushing a noisy breath out through his nose, Van-Dal tilted his head against a wave of irritation. “I’m not certain how you can make three identical words take separate meanings.” His fingertips traced tool marks where the floor met the cool stone of the wall. “Look. Someone has worked to make these caves into roads. Such as they are.”
“Yeah, it smells like ruins down here.”
“And you didn’t mention?” Straightening, Van-Dal dusted his hands and reached for his gloves.
Ragheiyont shrugged. “I thought everyone knew.” Brazenly, he linked his arm through Van-Dal’s. “Now, Tarali, he’s a great kit. Always thoughtful and inquisitive, but a little… eh, needy? I guess? Comes of not havin’ better parents than just me, I reckon.”
Van-Dal almost pulled away from him, but the topic caught his interest. He walked onward at a steady pace. “What do you mean?”
“How are your people born? Egg or membrane or live birth?” When Van-Dal scowled at the intrusiveness, Ragheiyont waved the question away. “Us, we’re mostly live births these days, but membrane birth ain’t so far in the past as we don’t remember, see? An’ some of us come out fightin’, like we still need to break free into the world.” He drew a ragged breath. “Tharaiyelagh, he’s a fighter. No surprise, yeah? It was jus’ the three of us, an’ me wi’ no idea where ta get a healer, an’ I tried, but…”
Seikhiel’s hand settled on Ragheiyont’s shoulder, gave a brief squeeze, and rested there. “It’s not your fault,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. The young thief’s steps faltered for a stride or two.
“Yeah, I know.” He tossed his head in mock defiance before settling back into his tale. “I fed him on my own blood until he was big enough for solid food, but I was only twenty-two, so I s’pose that’s why he’s so small now.” He forced out a dry chuckle. “I ain’t much of a mother, but I did try. Taught him everything I could. An’ I left once I became a danger to him.”
The words sent a shiver down Van-Dal’s spine. “A danger?” he repeated in an undertone. How could a child not yet out of the nest become a danger to his brother?
“Aha, yeah. The sickness.” Ragheiyont released his hold on Van-Dal’s arm, and he swayed against Seikhiel. “Couldn’t control it. Didn’t wanna share it. Had ta leave.”
Sickness. Van-Dal resisted a primal urge to take a step away from him. “And now?” he prompted, knowing he had no right to ask.
This time when Ragheiyont shrugged, his wings failed to lift with his shoulders. “I keep a lid on it.” He turned his face toward the wall, hiding his expression.
“Enough.” Seikhiel maneuvered himself between them. “You need rest,” he said to Ragheiyont, and the thief offered no resistance.
Van-Dal watched the pair of them settle down on the floor, Seikhiel sitting with his back against the wall and Ragheiyont curled up beside him. Yes, he had noticed how Ragheiyont did show outward signs of chronic illness. Though he kept his two-toned plumage in good condition, he had neither buffed nor sharpened his horns in quite some time. Shadows haunted his bright blue eyes, which Van-Dal would have attributed to loss of blood, had Ragheiyont not mentioned another affliction. But was it…?
Van-Dal thought back to the first moment he had taken notice of the thief. A flush to his cheeks and a feverish gleam in his eye, Ragheiyont had tracked Warbringer’s every movement. Perhaps he had evidence enough to guess already, and perhaps he should wonder that Ragheiyont had survived so long on his own. The sickness, the scourge of dragonkind. If one so young could endure it, he would be made of strong stuff indeed.
With a sigh of resignation, Van-Dal crouched beside the drowsy thief. “Here.” Unslinging a pack full of innocuous supplies, he propped it beneath Ragheiyont’s injured arm. “Keep that elevated. You’ll bleed less.” Probably.
Hopefully.
Raaqiel stood at the foot of the Memoral Oak. Above him, around him, its mighty branches stretched, bearing shimmering crystals that swayed and chimed a tuneful cacophony in the breeze. He had not meant to pause here, had not meant to miss her.
He had not meant to feel so alone.
Closing his eyes, Raaqiel touched the sword at his hip. No. He was never alone. Sidriel had seen to that when he had formally presented the priceless blade to him at his graduation.
Well, intention aside, he had come here to this place, to this starfall of crystals, each inscribed with the name of a soldier lost in the line of duty. What would she say to his current predicament? Almost certainly she would laugh. Perhaps she would tell him that he worried too much. That Seikhiel could take care of himself. Life was messy and complicated, and Raaqiel supposed he just wanted to hear someone tell him that he had made the right choice.
“You don’t come here often enough.”
Too late, Raaqiel shied from the sound of Feriel’s voice. His fingers flinched on the hilt of his sword, and Feriel’s bitter laugh cut him to the core.
“What are you going to do, Raaqiel? Fight me for speaking the truth?”
“I don’t want to fight you,” Raaqiel snapped, more stung by Feriel’s accusatory tone than by his words. “I’m just trying to protect everyone.”
Again, Feriel laughed a cold, mirthless laugh. It sounded wrong, all wrong. “It’s too late,” he said, tapping one finger against the crystal that bore the name that had left gaping wounds in both of their hearts. “You lost your chance to protect me a long time ago.”
“We… we’ll make it right.” Raaqiel started forward, but Feriel backed away from him, shaking his head. “We’ll go to Lord Sidriel. We’ll tell him everything. Together.”
“And then what?” Feriel demanded, his voice rising harshly, drawing glances from schoolchildren as they passed through the square. “And then it’s my name hanging from this tree!”
“Feriel—”
“You do what you must. I am already lost.” With a shimmer of magic, Feriel vanished.
Raaqiel slumped to the ground beneath the Memorial Oak. “As am I,” he murmured. Grass dampened his knees, and the name of his moral compass swayed benignly above him.