Being Fallen, I am not privy to that information. I imagine that a share of the work falls to my father, but I know he can only do so much to wrangle souls. He keeps watch over the moment of crossing. His power is not limitless.
I wonder whether I have done more harm than good.
But I believe you promised a story, Master Bel.
Akieryon wanted to move faster.
They walked at a cautious pace, mindful of the dense fog, careful of the hot sand beneath their feet. Whenever Tharaiyelagh’s endurance flagged, Tempest called a halt. Akieryon chafed at every delay, and there were many. As safe as he felt at Tempest’s side, he longed to reunite with his brother, and he dreaded what might befall any of their company.
Even Seikhiel.
A deeper gloom gathered, suggesting nightfall, and Tempest ceased their progress yet again. Grinding his teeth, Akieryon divided their provisions for a cheerless meal. Tharaiyelagh huddled over his portion like a wary beast. Fresh resentment welled up within Akieryon, and he turned away. If their number had to be divided by threes, why could he not share this journey with Szearbhyn rather than Tharaiyelagh?
As though chastised by Akieryon’s ungracious thoughts, Tharaiyelagh pulled his knees up to his thin chest and wrapped his arms around his shins. Here was a creature of gilded halls and velvet cushions. What was he even doing here?
Tharaiyelagh caught the direction of Akieryon’s stare, and he shrank in on himself further. Tempest sat between them, almost pointedly, as one might do to separate quarreling children. Akieryon nibbled a bit of bread and struggled to dismiss an irrational feeling of guilt.
“I wonder how much father we must travel.”
Tharaiyelagh had spoken quietly, his words directed down into his own food, but Akieryon tensed nonetheless. He and Tempest were both soldiers, after a fashion. They would carry on for as long as necessary. This soft courtier? Perhaps they would have to carry him.
Tempest sighed. “I wish I had a guess.” He eyed his own food with disinterest, and Akieryon considered offering him blood. He decided against it, for likely they would all need to keep their strength. Even a Demonslayer gone astray.
The ground beneath them gave a restless shiver. Tharaiyelagh darted a wild-eyed glance at his two companions. For a moment, Akieryon envied his fear. Faced with the possible end of the world, he felt only resignation.
Sleep clung close, like the smoke of the sourwood reeds. It thickened his brain and numbed his reflexes. Did someone call for him? Perhaps he mumbled an attempt at a reply before he settled deeper into the woolly recesses of his mind.
“Ragheiyont!”
Yes, fine, someone definitely called to him, but he could not persuade his eyes to open. A strong hand gripped him by the back of the neck, forcing him slightly upward, but he lacked the will to fight it. The will, or the strength?
Were they not the same?
Something warm pressed against his mouth, and a heady tang filled his nostrils and slicked his lips. Blood. Tentatively, he pressed his tongue forward between his fangs.
A jolt like lightning ran right up his taste buds and into his brain. It fizzed and crackled there, awakening his senses before his sluggish brain could shake off the shrouds of sleep. He drank deeply, hunger welling up hotter and fiercer than he could control, the sickness in his veins howling for the unknown power that danced across his tongue.
“Enough.” Gentle but firm, a hand pushed at his forehead. “Leave some for me.”
Mewling like a kit, Ragheiyont clung to the arm he held to his mouth, fighting for another moment, for just one more taste.
…The arm?
His eyes snapped open at last. Van-Dal’s glowing sphere illuminated the scene all too clearly. Blushing with newfound might, Ragheiyont released his grip on Seikhiel’s arm and huddled away from him. Shame welled up within him, hotter than his hunger, and he watched with wide eyes as Seikhiel passed a hand over the wound on his arm. It closed up, and Ragheiyont almost sobbed aloud for longing. How would he live without another taste? Not from the flesh, of course, that was obscene—
A sharp tug jolted him free of his thoughts. He yelped a protest even as he looked down at his injured arm. Van-Dal was securing a band just above his elbow.
“I can’t tighten this too much,” he said, meaning the knots his fingers twisted in the cord. His voice carried no emotion, only facts, as though he had not just witnessed a spectacle that bordered on pornographic. “If I stop the blood flow altogether, your cursed wound will surely migrate higher. This way, perhaps, we can slow the bleeding a bit.”
Shamefaced again, Ragheiyont nodded. While he had slept, his bandages had soaked through with blood. Seikhiel’s lewd offer had probably saved his life.
“Thanks,” he ventured, and amazed himself at the steadiness of his own voice. Angel blood. He had consumed angel blood. The power of it hummed within him, filling him with a foreign kind of strength. He wanted to leap to his feet and run ahead, into the dark, heedless of hidden perils. He glanced down at his arm, and he knew he would not. How could he waste the gift Seikhiel had given him?
Directly from the flesh.
A fresh blush warmed his face. Ragheiyont had never fed from the flesh before. When would he have had opportunity? He was a solitary thief, a loner, and only lovers engaged in so intimate an act. He swallowed as though he could drive the taste from his mouth, and he stole a glance at Seikhiel. Unconcerned, the angel leaned against the wall, rummaging through the bag that contained their medical supplies.
Too soon, the bandages would run out.
“Hold still.” Van-Dal gave another sharp tug, sending a fresh stab of pain up Ragheiyont’s arm.
“Sorry,” Ragheiyont mumbled, turning his attention to the clean gauze Van-Dal tied about his arm. Both of his unwilling companions took his wellbeing into their hands. Why? He was nothing to them. Just a noisy young dragon with a gift for larceny.
Perhaps he should say something.
“Does he…” Ragheiyont darted another glance at Seikhiel, who roundly ignored them both. “Does he understand what he did?”
Van-Dal smothered a laugh. Ragheiyont fought not to giggle along, and he failed spectacularly.
Perhaps they could get along after all.
The swamp seethed with life. The mossy old cypress boughs cast long shadows over the mud and muck. Here and there, the surface of the water would ripple with the movement of… something. Szearbhyn preferred not to think about it.
He tried to imagine Akieryon slogging through muck and mire, somewhere nearby, perhaps just out of earshot. The idea made him want to shout, to unfurl his smoky wings once more and fly in a broad circle around his flightless companions. He still had the welts from his last attempt. As much as he hated the squelchy drudgery of it, wading onward was their best option. One foot in front of the other. Squish, splash. Splash, thop.
He could not say when he had begun humming.
A Lenyr travel song had eased its way up out of the depths of him, and now, settled into its easy rhythm, he outpaced the cat and the fox. The mist seemed to ease in the distance, and he felt certain the ground had taken a slight upward angle. Heartened, he began to sing.
Something cracked beneath his step, and he sank to his waist in questionable water. His song ended in a yelp.
The darkness of the cavern crowded in on them, so close that they were nearly upon the fork in the passage before they saw it. Van-Dal lifted his globe of light high, but the two paths looked identical. He crouched, examining the stone beneath their feet, but Ragheiyont breezed past him, giving an airy wave of his good hand.
“I got this, j—Ah, I got this,” he corrected, and Van-Dal’s lips twitched in a near smile. The young thief stood right at the junction, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead against the rough stone of the cavern wall. Van-Dal took the opportunity to draw Seikhiel aside.
“What were you thinking?” he hissed through his teeth. Seikhiel’s brow creased in a frown, but he followed the direction of Van-Dal’s glance. Blithely oblivious, Ragheiyont stood absorbed in his work. “You gave him blood from the flesh. At your age, surely you know—”
“I panicked,” Seikhiel interrupted, and Van-Dal saw at once how dearly the confession cost him. “I… I wasn’t thinking at all.” His gaze turned downward, the mighty warrior shook his head. “This will bring no end of trouble.” He looked worn, defeated.
Van-Dal heaved the weary sigh of one who manages the blunders of others every day. “We’ll get past this, I’m sure. Just, be gentle of his feelings.” He had promised to look after Tharaiyelagh. Lacking the ability to do so, he would make a solid effort at protecting Ragheiyont. Even from the faux pas of angels who cared little for dragon customs. “Who knows how he will react to this.”
To his credit, Seikhiel looked abashed. “He seems fine right now.”
Just then, Ragheiyont crowed in triumph. “This way!” he sang out, bounding into the darkness of the passage to the left. Van-Dal pinned Seikhiel with a fierce stare.
“For now,” he said, his low voice a growl of warning. Seikhiel nodded.
Together they proceeded onward, downward into the belly of the earth. Before long, they had caught up to Ragheiyont, and the young thief attached himself to Seikhiel’s side. Van-Dal sent the angel an arch look. Seikhiel stared doggedly into the dark.
“This is just like the caves I spent my childhood in,” Ragheiyont chattered happily. “A lot deeper, sure, and maybe not as cold, but really similar anyhow. Y’ever had gulchskipper? Tarali an’ I used to have those for supper all the time. They’re proper nutritious, but—”
“Those things taste awful,” Van-Dal interrupted, drawing a quizzical look from Ragheiyont. It horrified him to think of Tharaiyelagh growing up on such vile fare.
“Like meat that somehow has most of the flavor of hydrogen peroxide,” Seikhiel agreed, grimacing at some distant memory. “I tested it twice because I thought it might be poison.”
“Nuh-uh.” Ragheiyont staggered a little in his vehemence. “I refuse—refuse to believe either of you fancy-men ever had gulchskipper. That’s… That ain’t right.”
Seikhiel spared Van-Dal the trouble of refusing an explanation. “I was stranded in the mountains with two soldiers who were injured and too weak to cross to another Sphere. We were there more than a week before they had strength enough to travel. Provisions gave out after four days.” He grimaced. “Nothing that’s easy to catch on your Sphere tastes good.”
Ragheiyont’s laugh rang down the cavern. Van-Dal’s tail twitched his satisfaction.
So far, so good.
A gloom had fallen over the swamp, and the mist gathered in closer for the evening, or what passed for night in this place. The trees groaned and shifted. The root twined around Szearbhyn’s ankle held him fast, resisting his efforts to drag himself out of the water.
Luccan started forward, to drown him or to yank him free, but Atchi stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. “We won’t get an opportunity like this again,” he said. Rolling his eyes, Luccan turned away. Atchi crouched, placing himself on a level with Szearbhyn’s scowl.
“Whatever you mean to extort from me—”
Atchi waved a dismissive hand. “Information, of course. You’re going to tell me how the Blood Prince of Seyzharel came to make a Mortal-Born son.”
“Atchi—”
“The Fourth Sphere is my business,” he interrupted, not glancing away from Szearbhyn, “for as long as I choose to make my home there. Answer me, Soul-Stealer.” His lips split across in a sharp-toothed grin. “Answer me, and I shall free you.”
Szearbhyn kicked his feet, hoping to find purchase on anything other than the grasping roots. His toes had gone a little numb. “My ma taught me never to bargain with a fox,” he said, echoing Atchi’s grin with one made of pure bravado. He was sunk, quite literally.
Atchi chuckled, and a tremor ran the length of his silvery tail. “Wise. But in this case, wisdom won’t save you.” He tilted his head to one side, studying Szearbhyn as though surveying the landscape of his thoughts. “I mean your friend no harm. Many of the Mortal-Borns in the Fourth Sphere have been enslaved at some point, and it is currently my trade to free the slaves. For a profit, of course. So you must see, this is professional interest.”
“You talk too much,” Szearbhyn grumbled. Worse, the fox made a good argument. “It’s not Tempest I’m protecting.” How odd to admit it. His lip curled in disdain of himself. Atchi stiffened in surprise, and Szearbhyn pressed the advantage. “Is that worth hauling me out? Forbidden knowledge of the Blood Prince himself?”
“Atchi.” Exasperated, Luccan elbowed his friend aside. “Enough theatrics. We have more pressing concerns.” Reaching down, he grasped Szearbhyn by the wrists. Atchi’s hand closed over Luccan’s forearm.
“Let him speak.”
“Quickly,” Luccan growled, and Szearbhyn thought he felt a chill creeping in on the mist. He drew a deep breath.
“Baleirithys came to the Mortal Realm in distress. I have never seen him so…” Feral. “Desperate.” Szearbhyn cleared his throat, trying to shake away the memory. “He wanted a particular kind of blood, and he would have gone through me to get it. Tempest got between us. Baleirithys came to his senses when he realized he’d envenomated a human.”
Luccan sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. “He used his venom?” Everyone knew dragon venom dealt a most painful death. Dragonkind also regarded its use as profoundly vulgar.
“I told you,” Szearbhyn said, “he wasn’t himself. He also did not know that Tempest has always had… contact with demons.” Let Atchi chafe at his withholding information. The details of Tempest’s childhood were not on offer. “He had more than enough demonic energy in him to make the Rebirth at the moment of death.” He glanced around, and he thought he saw shadows shifting in the gloom. “Now will you haul me out?”
It took both of them, straining against those grasping roots, but in the end the swamp released its hold on Szearbhyn. He squelched free of the muck and lurched forward, stumbling into the arms of his reluctant rescuers.
At least he was able to share the soggy experience.
With nowhere dry to rest, the three of them slogged onward in sullen silence. Branches reached out to caress them with damp, mossy fingers, but Luccan swatted them away with growing ire. It seemed the cat grew weary of being wet.
Deep in the mist, something flickered, then stilled. Luccan stopped so abruptly Szearbhyn stumbled against him. At his side, Atchi grumbled an oath. Szearbhyn squinted, willing the mist to fade.
Not so far away, pinpoints of violet light gleamed in the dark, at almost the right height to pass for eyes. Two. Then six. Then perhaps a dozen. Then more. A chill ran down Szearbhyn’s spine.
Luccan groaned the groan of a man whose horse had thrown three shoes in one day. Then he reached for Warbringer.
Tharaiyelagh huddled his knees to his chest. By strenuous diplomacy, he had managed to persuade Lord Tempest and Akieryon that he could take a turn keeping watch while they rested. Now, as the haze thickened with a sulfurous smell and the ground beneath them thrummed as though in protest, he questioned the wisdom of doing so. Surely no living creature would endure this inhospitable slope. Surely he was unsuited to defend them against anything that might exist in this place.
His back itched painfully, and he shrugged his shoulders against the fabric of his shirt. It would accomplish as little as his vigil. Nothing helped the itching. He had only to bear it in silence. Rising to his feet, he began to pace a slow, silent circle around his two companions.
He could be at home right now. He could be at his lord’s side, where he belonged. What lapse of judgment had prompted him to volunteer for this journey? So far, he had slowed their progress with his sore feet. What could he really contribute in a place where even Lord Tempest’s magic could do little more than guide them?
Tharaiyelagh stilled in his circuit, and he looked back at his two companions. The haze softened their forms, making them seem oddly at peace. Tempest stretched flat on his back on the powdery sand, his arms folded beneath his head, as though nothing at all bothered him. Akieryon curled close against his side, seeking shelter or comfort or—
Tharaiyelagh squashed an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Shaking his head at himself, he turned away. He was fine on his own. He needed no reassurance. He could bear this peril as well as that anxious angel, couldn’t he?
He resumed his pacing just as another small tremor shivered through the hillside. By now, Tharaiyelagh scarcely noticed them, but he should have. He took a step, and with a crack! the ground yawned open before him. He yelped an oath as he plunged into darkness.