I have come too far to turn back now. If this must be the end, then even the end will not hold me.
Szearbhyn stood beside his brother, his chin lifted in defiance of the castle guards who surrounded them. A half dozen dragonfolk, and one of them a child with shorn horns. Was this all they were worth to Baleirithys? A pittance of security? His lip curled in disdain, and the youngster’s fingers twitched on his bowstring. Perceived threat. Dragons were so touchy.
Probably they all knew how unwelcome he was.
Akieryon shifted his footing. He was unarmed—as far as Szearbhyn knew, his brother owned no weapons at all—but that should hardly matter. Any trained Demonslayer should be able to disarm and subdue all six of these Seyzharel guards.
Szearbhyn wondered when it had stopped hurting to think of his twin as a hunter of his own kind.
“We’re here to see your prince,” Szearbhyn said, and he watched the guards, gauging their reactions. The older ones raised eyebrows. The youngest one scowled. Akieryon hastened to clarify.
“Prince Tempest.”
Really, sometimes he was no fun at all.
The guards muttered and nudged each other, and of course the unpleasant task of minding the unexpected guests fell to the young one with the shorn horns. He introduced himself as Chaighan, and judging by his polite smile, he had no idea who he escorted into the castle. The others knew. Everyone knew about the bad blood between Szearbhyn and Baleirithys. Everyone probably expected that one day Baleirithys would crack and kill him. Perhaps a few of them knew how close that had come to happening.
Behind them, the lift that descended the height of the cliffs groaned. Akieryon peered over his shoulder, but Chaighan assured them that they need not trouble themselves about it. A visitor was on the way up. Szearbhyn thought of several ways he could make trouble for Baleirithys, and he smiled to himself. Perhaps later. For now, he would let the moment pass. Together with his brother, he followed young Chaighan across the empty courtyard and up a set of marble steps.
The castle doors stood unreasonably tall, and swung wide to admit them into a broad entrance hall. Akieryon paused to admire the blue mosaic on the floor and walls, relics of bygone days, but Szearbhyn’s gaze flicked up to the balcony at the far end of the hall. A wingless Seyzharel demon stood there, blushing under the attentive stare of another sort of dragonkind. Second Sphere. What brought one of the assassins here? Squashing a twinge of apprehension, Szearbhyn decided to draw Chaighan’s attention to the spectacle above them.
“You have other visitors?”
Akieryon’s fingers caught at Szearbhyn’s sleeve. “Is that… Prince Van-Dal Kiyrst? Of the Second Sphere?” His voice came as little more than a whisper, but Chaighan ignored his obvious alarm.
“Indeed it is. Prince Van-Dal arrived about an hour ago.” He gave the brothers an arch look. “Invited.”
Chaighan urged them to hurry along, but Szearbhyn hung back a moment more, studying the assassin prince. He seemed unarmed, but he wore lightweight leather armor pieces in that almost negligent way that Tempest had, that manner that suggested he never went anywhere without them. He leaned forward as he spoke, his wings lifted in a solicitous posture, his tail twitching like a cat’s. The wingless Seyzharel demon clutched a stack of documents tight to his chest, but he tilted his head a little, as though inviting scent marking upon his cheek or jaw.
Ew.
“Who’s that flirting with the prince?” Szearbhyn asked the guard. “The little crook?”
Chaighan whipped around on one heel, his wings raised and his teeth bared. He hissed, then he turned away again and stalked toward a side door. Szearbhyn returned his twin’s reproachful look with a smug grin. His impertinence had yielded satisfying results. Better, he may manage to needle this young guard further.
Perhaps this visit wasn’t a terrible idea after all.
Prince Van-Dal paused, leaning close, far too close, and Tharaiyelagh felt his cheeks warm at the scandalous nearness of him. In the entrance hall. Where absolutely anybody could see them. “What are you—”
“Hush, little one,” Van-Dal rumbled, the sound of it reverberating down Tharaiyelagh’s spine. His gaze flicked briefly to the lower level. “Play along. Why is the Soul-Stealer here?”
Tharaiyelagh stiffened for a moment, but then he forced himself to relax, to lean toward that silken voice. “He’s not supposed to be,” he said, a bit more sharply than necessary. Then, composing himself, he added, “He’s a beloved friend to Lord Tempest. Unfortunately.”
A broad, sharp grin broke across Van-Dal’s face. “So Baleirithys still hates him.”
“Most intently.” Tharaiyelagh tilted his head and peered up at the visiting prince. “Are they still watching?”
“Mmh,” Van-Dal confirmed, lowering his voice and his eyelids. Tharaiyelagh kept his documents between them, but he rocked forward on the balls of his feet, as though magnetically drawn by the sound. It’s fake, he told himself. I’m not really flirting with the deadliest man I’ve ever met.
“They’re in the way,” Tharaiyelagh complained. “It’s almost time.”
The tip of Van-Dal’s tail twitched against the marble floor. “You’re certain Baleirithys doesn’t want a show of force?” He showed fangs in a teasing grin. “I can be very intimidating, you know.”
Most intimidating. Tharaiyelagh felt a flush creeping over his cheeks. “No, he’d rather let KeReyll set his own pyre in this matter.”
Van-Dal’s tail twitched, almost as though agitated. “As you like,” he said, his tone hinting at disapproval.
The great doors opened again, admitting the subject of their conversation. Tharaiyelagh cast a brief, downward glance, confirming that yes, the Soul-Stealer and his brother had gone elsewhere. Had he wings, they would have sagged in relief. Instead, he smiled up at Van-Dal.
“It looks like it’s time.”
Van-Dal trailed one claw along Tharaiyelagh’s jaw. “I’d wish you luck, little one, but I have every confidence you don’t need it.”
Suppressing a shiver, Tharaiyelagh held his gaze steady, though he feared he may have gripped his stack of documents tightly enough to fuse some of the pages together. “Well,” he managed, “I thank you for the thought.” He stepped back, gave a brief bow, and turned away. The door was a mere five paces away. He could manage an exit without making a fool of himself.
He had almost made it when Van-Dal’s voice stopped him.
“Tharaiyelagh.”
Hearing his name froze him as he reached for the door. He tried not to think about Van-Dal’s slight accent, or the way he lingered on the vowels, as though savoring each syllable. “Yes?” Did he sound calm? His heart jumped against his ribs, and a flush seared his skin. Wasn’t that a bit disloyal of him?
“If you could have your wings back…”
Tharaiyelagh gasped. The words felt like a physical blow, like a blade thrust into his flesh. “Please,” he whispered, forcing the word past the pain. Please don’t.
Van-Dal persisted. “Would you?”
Tharaiyelagh blinked hard to clear his stinging eyes. He had come into this incredible new life a sad and wingless creature, with no hope of ever being otherwise. Why would Van-Dal hurt him like this? “Of course.” Of course? Van-Dal had just cut to the bone with his words, so why did he respond? “Who wouldn’t?”
Fingertips brushed against the back of his neck. He flinched away from the touch.
“I’m so sorry, little one,” Van-Dal murmured, allowing Tharaiyelagh to step away from him. “You do not deserve what was done to you.”
Tharaiyelagh rested his hand on the door. He looked at the colorful panes of glass, now blurred and swimming as he failed to stem his tears. “You can’t know…” He swallowed the tremor in his voice. “I have to go.”
He pushed the door open, and he hurried down the corridor beyond. He had work to do. He could not allow his emotions to compromise this meeting with the Raven king. He scrubbed at his cheeks with the edge of his sleeve, but he knew it did little to erase the evidence. How could Van-Dal do that to him?
“I thought he liked me,” he muttered to himself. Foolish, on two counts.
“Surely you don’t mean my father.”
Tharaiyelagh turned his face away as Lord Tempest fell into step beside him. “No.”
“Good. Otherwise I would have to have a stern word with him.” Tempest offered a plain handkerchief. Nothing more than a square of white cotton, it thrummed with a subtle magic. Tharaiyelagh accepted it. “As it stands,” he continued, “I shall have to have a word with him about this politics-before-breakfast business.”
An unwilling laugh burst from Tharaiyelagh’s throat. “It doesn’t happen often.” He applied the handkerchief to his tears, and he felt a soft tingling warmth spread across his face, a spell he could not identify. Well. Lord Tempest knew magics that were not of dragonkind.
“Come on.” Tempest gave him a gentle nudge. “Let’s get this treaty signed quickly. I need some some blood and some pastries.”
“How about some blood pastries?”
“Now that is a delightful suggestion.” Tempest flourished one hand toward the door to the audience chamber. “After you, Chancellor.”
That wasn’t right, but Tharaiyelagh felt a little too tired to argue about precedence. His tears forgotten, he pressed the handkerchief back into Tempest’s hand, and he led the way.
Ragheiyont selected a large, wedge-shaped rock. With the point of his cursed dagger, he teased the ugly ground lobsters out of the coals of the fire, and then he used his makeshift hammer to crack them open. Billows of steam poured out, smelling suspiciously mineral. With an apologetic shrug, he nudged one toward Luccan.
“These things don’t taste the best,” he said, “but they’re nutritious.”
Luccan gave the steaming lobster a skeptical eye. “Does nothing on this Sphere taste good?”
Ragheiyont shrugged. “Nothin’ that’s easy to catch.” He pried some of the yellowish flesh free of the cracked shell. “You get used to it.”
Luccan had no intention of doing any such thing, but neither could he refuse hospitality. He dug a claw into the meat, and he sampled it.
It tasted like sand.
“If you’re the world’s greatest thief,” Luccan said, chewing tentatively to avoid tasting the lobster too much, “then why do you live like this?”
If Luccan expected resistance at so rude a question, Ragheiyont disappointed him. “I travel light,” he said, shrugging again. “No attachments. No baggage.” His lips gave a wry twist. “Minimal risk.”
“Dragons aren’t meant to be solitary.” And the Fourth Sphere should not feel so empty.
Somehow stung by the remark, Ragheiyont hunched his shoulders and drew his wings close about him. “Done fine so far,” he grumbled.
“Starving for lack of blood is not fine.” Luccan would have pressed the argument, but a distant sound caught his ears, haunting and strangely sweet. He cast back his hood, and the song burst upon him with fresh vigor. “What is that music?” he asked instead.
“Mourning song,” Ragheiyont said. “Hawk Clan.” He paused, listening, then added, “Sounds like they’ve lost a royal. Last time I heard this song was when their king left with his twin daughters and came back with one son.”
Luccan stared at him, horrified. “That’s a powerful dark magic,” he growled. And deeply forbidden in any land halfway civilized. “What lawless backwater has this Sphere become?”
Ragheiyont shrugged and picked gritty lobster out of his teeth.
“What’s that singing?”
Atchi looked down at the child at his side. The boy, who called himself Kayaha, kept silent except to ask questions.
He had many questions.
“It sounds like the Hawk Clan’s song of mourning. They’re having a funeral.”
The child tilted his head to one side. “Why?”
Why, indeed. Small though he was, Kayaha was too old to ask such a question. “It’s something people do when one of their own has died.”
“Why?” Kayaha asked again.
“To remember those who’ve gone before. To feel a sense of place, a sense of continuity. To let go.” Atchi shrugged. “To appreciate their own mortality, I suppose.”
Kayaha’s little nose wrinkled, and he kicked up dust with each step. “I liked it better when you explained the magic that makes the distance shorter.”
A shiver of irritation ran down to the tip of Atchi’s tail. Against his better judgment, he had taken it upon himself to see this child back to his people, and already he regretted the decision. Kayaha was… well, not truculent. Not exactly. Rather, he displayed a distaste for interacting with others, and a disdain for understanding them. How would the Hawk Clan receive such a child?
Perhaps he would do better to bring the boy to the castle.
Atchi squinted at the distant cliffs. He trusted Prince Baleirithys with the recovery of stray dragons. Why not leave this foundling at his doorstep as well?
It seemed a better idea than bringing a strange child to a people who mourned one of their royal family.
KeReyll looked smug, as though he had won concessions Baleirithys would not have given him anyway. The Hawk Clan would clear the roads and vacate some key areas frequented by the Raven Clan. Of course they would. The Hawk Clan scouted the countryside looking for the very artifact that Baleirithys had revealed to Kiile-Kili. They occupied the areas around Rustwater for lack of a better place to go. With that Silver Feather in their possession, they would withdraw entirely.
KeReyll knew none of the truth, nor would it interest him. Here, Tempest thought, was a man who cared only for immediate benefit to himself and his people.
The ongoing conflict between his people and the Hawk Clan somehow benefited KeReyll.
The Raven king took his leave, and he headed for the door. Tempest watched him with growing distrust. When KeReyll paused at the door, he felt Tharaiyelagh stiffen beside him.
“It would be most unfortunate if this deal were to fall apart,” he said, giving the three of them a sly smile. “My people… acquired some stray dragonlings. We wouldn’t want anything unpleasant to befall them.”
Tempest lunged forward, his wings coalescing behind him as he charged, but Baleirithys held up a hand to stop him. KeReyll withdrew, all slick smugness, and Tempest turned on his demon sire.
“Why did you do that?” he demanded. But he knew. Even if KeReyll lied, the chance of a single Seyzharel life was too precious to risk.
“Because KeReyll is the kind of person who would order the hostages harmed over a silly little thing like you tearing his arms off.” Baleirithys forced a light tone, but Tempest heard a deep weariness running beneath his words. It did nothing to quell his rage.
“I’ll go after him,” Tempest insisted, speaking the fury that seethed up from unexpected corners of his heart. When did he begin to think of these people as his own? Strangers who may not even exist? “I can track him to his camp and lay waste to—”
“No,” Baleirithys interrupted. “You speak true, my son, and I will see our people freed, but KeReyll will only turn your anger against us.”
Tempest growled, but Baleirithys held his ground. Close at hand, Tharaiyelagh gathered up documents as quickly as he could manage. Poor little chancellor, he had already had a trying day. A disagreement between princes seemed more than he could handle.
“Get those archived,” Baleirithys said to Tharaiyelagh, not breaking eye contact with his son. “As for you…” He waited a beat, until Tharaiyelagh scurried out the door. Tempest considered arguing, strictly on principle, but he decided to wait until he had heard what Baleirithys had to say. “Take one of the guards and fetch Kiile-Kili.” A fire burned in his dark eyes, a fire that Tempest appreciated. At least the same wrath raged and roiled in both of them.
“We finish this,” Baleirithys said. “Today.”
Tharaiyelagh eyed the grand staircase with resignation. He had filed the documents in their appropriate places, as quickly as he could manage. Lacking the ability to fly through the center of the broad spiral stair, however, his top speed felt woefully sluggish.
He trotted down the stairs, and he reminded himself to appreciate the fact that some past king had thought to include them at all. Lord Baleirithys would be expecting him on the third floor. They needed to work quickly to unravel this latest affront. Ferocious anxiety gnawed at him at the mere thought. He had done his part. He had drawn up his documents and borne witness to their signing and wielded the seal of state. Now, returning from the archive, what more could he do?
Under the archway leading from the fourth floor landing into the corridor, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Too late. As he tried to twist around, a sudden impact sent him reeling. Pain seared down his back in twin lines, from shoulders to waist. He tried to cry out, but his assailant moved faster, one hand closing over his mouth, the other pulling him backward. He slammed back against something solid. Someone’s chest. His back was on fire.
Tharaiyelagh tried to struggle, but his strength ebbed too quickly. His vision blurred, somehow crackling at the edges with blue tendrils of lightning. Blood thundered in his ears, deafening him to the voice murmuring to him. He blinked hard, tried to focus on the bloody daggers on the floor.
Was his throat closing up?
A tremor wracked his body, and he whimpered against the hand that held him. Pain spread from the center of his back, blossoming like whorls of ink in clear water. The light hurt. The hands holding him hurt. The tears on his cheeks burned like acid. The world wobbled, then started to melt into darkness.
He didn’t feel the hands shift their grip from restraining him to supporting, then lifting. He didn’t see the wings raised to shield him from the light, from prying eyes. He didn’t feel himself carried away down the corridor, but he heard a soft voice in his ear.
“Easy, little one. Deep breaths. The pain will pass.”
It wouldn’t. It felt like he was dying, one muscle at a time.
He would surrender to the darkness, he decided.
Just for a moment.