Safe journey, my young friend.
The doors sighed open. Beyond lay an ornate metal frame with a polished flagstone floor. Gavi eyed the lift with suspicion, then tipped her head back, peering up at the austere walls that sprang from the tops of the cliffs.
“It really goes all the way up there?”
Chaighan gave her a kind smile. “It really does.”
Clutching her pack tightly to her chest, Gavi followed him into the lift. The floor gleamed beneath her dusty old boots. She looked to Baaz, who was every bit as ragged and travel stained. They looked out of place in the gleaming lift.
The lift doors slid closed behind the three of them. The other guard, the silent one, opted to fly to the clifftop ahead of them. With a lurch, the lift began its ascent. Gavi edged closer to Baaz. Gears creaked. The dusty footings of the cliff gave way to sheer faces smoothed by wind. Here and there cracks ran more or less vertical, where rocks had split and fallen away. Gavi glanced out across the plains, realized how far they had ascended already, and decided to keep her attention on the cliff instead.
The lift shuddered, then stopped. Tilting her head back, Gavi peered up at the castle above. “What…?”
“Strong winds.” Chaighan watched the castle for some unseen signal. “The gusts should stop in a minute.”
The chains above rattled, as though in confirmation of Chaighan’s words. In that moment Gavi felt the frailty of their position, suspended as they were in a fancy metal cage, halfway up the cliff face, at the mercy of the elements. She looked to Baaz, who stood as stoic as ever. Gavi drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. The prince wanted Baaz at the castle. This contraption had to be safe. Surely they would not fall—
With a lurch, the lift started up again.
Gavi clutched her bag until her claws pierced the canvas. The chains rattled. The gears creaked. Intermittent gusts of wind whined through the metalwork. A small eternity later, they arrived at the top of the cliff. A set of doors opened directly into the castle wall, where two guards flanked an open gate. Chaighan saluted them and stepped through. A second gate, even larger than the first, stood a short distance ahead. For these few strides, Gavi realized, they were inside the castle walls.
Curious, that the entrance should taper so.
Together the three of them stepped out into a broad, paved yard. Gavi tried not to gawk as they followed Chaighan toward the gleaming quartz steps, but then she noticed steel rings set at intervals along the walls. She froze.
This place was just another kind of prison, wasn’t it?
In a moment, Chaighan had returned to her side. “The rings?” he said in an undertone. When Gavi nodded, he said, “They’re for the guards.”
“What?” Somehow, the idea seemed ridiculous.
“We use those to tether ourselves so we can fly in high winds.” He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “I know. I thought the same thing when I first arrived.”
Gavi decided that Chaighan was an agreeable sort of person. He led them through an unreasonably large set of doors and into an entryway that took her breath away. Chaighan hurried them along, not allowing her proper time to admire the blue tile mosaic. A marble archway opened into a narrow corridor, which seemed to curve around into the space beneath the enormous stairway that occupied the far end of the entrance hall. Doorways lined one wall, each identical to the last. With unfaltering confidence, Chaighan pushed one door open, and he ushered them inside.
A plush rug occupied the center of the floor. Tiny tables of questionable utility stood at intervals along the walls. Crystal sconces twinkled and gleamed. A tall mirror on the opposite wall showed the three of them for the dirty, travel-weary mess they were. Chaighan assumed a post beside the door, standing at attention as though his uniform didn’t shed dust every time he moved. Gavi eyed him with some interest. Had he truly shucked off the shrinking self-doubt the slavers instilled in their captives? How did a person accomplish such a feat?
Their reflections tilted, and Gavi realized a bit belatedly that the mirror hid a doorway. Another dragon stepped through, but such a dragon as Gavi had never seen. His skin was as smooth and luminous as the good porcelain locked away in the back of the inn, a relic of more prosperous days. Smooth crimson plumage curled over his brow—upon which was set a large blue gem—and spilled over his shoulders, vanishing between his wings. His horns and his claws had been buffed to a shine that matched the mirror behind him. His black gaze swept over Gavi in a question she didn’t know how to answer, and heat crept up her cheeks. This could be no one but the prince himself, the man to whom she owed her freedom.
And he was outrageously beautiful.
Her mouth went dry, and a thousand thoughts battered the inside of her skull before settling into a whirl of anxiety. How could she meet the prince? How could she stand in his presence, filthy from the road and suddenly unsure this was even real?
Chaighan bowed low, but straightened at a subtle gesture from his lord. The two of them conversed in rapid dragonish, shooting occasional glances at the two newcomers, and Gavi felt her cheeks heat even more. She understood perhaps every tenth word. Apparently agreeing with Chaighan, the prince stepped up in front of Baaz. He gave a slow, appraising nod.
“Chreri thcithri chinaghit rghtaghla thrilarim,” he said, apparently approving. Baaz crinkled her nose, but made no reply. Gavi glanced between them, her anxiety clawing higher in her throat. The prince extended one arm and beckoned.
The door behind the mirror swung open again. Another dragon sidled in, this one with apprehension carried in the set of his wings. A light dusting of some pale powder—flour or sugar, probably—had settled over his clothing. His head tilted away, almost shielding from view…
A child?
As Gavi stared at the first little nestling she had ever seen, the child in question began to kick both tiny feet at once, struggling against the dragon who struggled to keep a grip on his squirming burden. Beside her, Baaz sucked a sharp breath through her teeth.
“Is that a girl-child?”
A girl. The weight of the situation settled over Gavi, a clammy mantle of dread. In the old days, male dragons had outnumbered females at least five to one, the disparity resulting from a combination of birth rates and the more aggressive nature of the dragon women. In these days since the genocide, no one ever saw female dragons who weren’t, like herself, at least half something else. The tiny child held so securely in the baker’s arms was the rarest and most precious treasure in this entire castle… perhaps in this entire Sphere.
“I see the need for secrecy,” Baaz murmured. “What’s her name?”
The little girl threw both arms in the air. “Lechyonthra!” she announced. Baaz raised one heavy eyebrow at the prince.
“You didn’t name her Princess.”
“No.” He almost smiled. “It’s what she likes to be called.”
Baaz slanted a weathered smile at Chaighan. “You came t’me a bit older, you know.”
Chaighan glanced toward his prince before replying. “You’re more than equal to the task.”
“Wasn’t up for discussion,” Baaz shot back, grinning.
The prince shifted his attention to Gavi again. “Balincha alantscai?“
Ba, ba, what… What, what? Gavi tried to meet his cool, questioning stare, but she failed.
“What are your skills?” he asked again, this time in the language of the Hawk and Raven Clans.
Ah. “I’m… um, maid of all work?”
The prince tilted his head a little to one side. “Is that a question?”
The unhelpful stubborn streak that had gotten Gavi into trouble more times than she could count crawled up her spine once more, drawing her shoulders back and lifting her chin. “I wash and I cook and I clean and I toss reprobates out the door.”
A smile tugged at the prince’s perfect lips. “Good.” He nodded toward the man who held the child. “Thrin will find a place for you.” His smile now included Baaz. “Welcome to Seyzharel.”
The lock gave way with a squeal of protest, a complaint against the ravages of time and… whatever had blasted two men to ash shells. Ragheiyont tugged at the left door. It ground open, taking the arms of its guardian with it. Ragheiyont froze. Opening it wider would crumble the ash figure to dust. He eyed the narrow opening, gauged it a tight fit, and wriggled through.
Beyond, a street paved with flagstone stretched away unbranching. Six towers lined the thoroughfare, slits for archers keeping baleful watch over any approach. Ragheiyont took a cautious step forward. No shouts greeted him. No arrows flew down from above. All remained eerily still. Ragheiyont stepped lightly, exercising his considerable reserves of stealth, but he need not have bothered. The city felt as dead as dry bone.
Like those two men outside.
Suppressing a shudder, Ragheiyont padded down the street, toward what looked like the shattered and decayed remains of a barricade. Curiosity pricked at his brain. What had happened here? The door scraped behind him, and he tensed. Van-Dal and Seikhiel, he reminded himself. For the first time in his life, he did not enter a ruin alone.
They caught up with him as he inspected the barricade. Amid the wreckage, a strange char pattern blackened the pavement. A twisted portcullis lay nearby, but Ragheiyont could make no guess whether the barricade had been meant to replace it or reinforce it. Either way, all efforts had led to the same end.
Abruptly, Ragheiyont realized that he could inspect his surroundings without the aid of an illumination spell. Tipping his head back, he squinted at the great dome that crested high above the city. Slits of light speckled it’s surface like oblong stars, casting the world below in soft twilight. Huh. That was different. A familiar itch spread through his veins, and before he could stop himself he had stretched his wings out, eager for a closer look.
Seikhiel’s hand on his arm stopped him.
“Stay close,” he said in an undertone. “Something’s not right.”
Something? Blinking as though he might clear the fever from his blood by washing it from his eyes, Ragheiyont peered around at the silent city. Beside him, Van-Dal had affixed a mask across the lower half of his face. “Nothing’s right here.”
Ragheiyont shuffled along near his two companions until the street opened into a market square. Immediately forgetting Seikhiel’s admonition not to stray, he scurried around poking at burnt-out market stalls and boarded-up shopfronts. The itching in his veins prodded him onward, enticing him with thoughts of untold treasures, but a newer, more urgent need almost supplanted it. A smithy. If he could find a smithy, if he could light the fire and stoke it up and…
“Ragheiyont.”
A loose board came away in his hand.
“Raya—”
A second board clattered to the pavingstones, and miraculously he glimpsed hammer and tongs in the gloom that filled the window. He scrabbled at the boards, heedless of the blood soaking his bandages. No sooner had the last one splintered free of its nails than he shoved the glass inward and struggled through the narrow window.
Darkness stretched away beyond the little square of twilight. Ragheiyont edged forward, and bruised his knee on a toppled anvil. Would he have to right that? Or might he find another? He had his hand on a bellows now, and he fumbled around for fuel. He snapped his fingers several times before he got a spark, but the tinder caught on the first try, and he scrambled to feed the sputtering little flame. The flickering orange glow revealed two more anvils, both upright, but a nearly empty scuttle of charcoal. Ragheiyont took a pitiful packet from his pocket, unwrapped it with great care, and counted the shards of Wardbreaker. He looked back to the scuttle.
“Ragheiyont.”
Ragheiyont startled, and the fire sputtered out. He blinked toward the door, which now stood precariously ajar. Seikhiel took a step toward him.
“You don’t know how to light a forge.”
In sullen silence, Ragheiyont shook his head. The itch climbed the walls of his veins, growing more insistent still.
Seikhiel took hold of hand, gently closing the cloth over the shattered blade. “I doubt you have the skills to fix this.” He spoke mildly, the warmth and sadness of his tone easing the impact of his words. Still, Ragheiyont ground his teeth to stop the wobble of his chin.
“I can’t keep dragging us down,” he whispered. “I’m worse than dead weight. You can’t feed me forever.” Just as tears threatened, a wave of fever struck. The usual complaint, he was simply too weak to resist it. Beads of sweat sprang across his brow, and he shivered in the darkness.
“You’re not dead weight,” Seikhiel was saying. “You’re—Ragheiyont?” When Ragheiyont swayed in place and made no reply, Seikhiel reached out and tilted his face toward the light. “Rahi? Are you ill?”
“Nah’m…” The lie died on his lips as he stared into Seikhiel’s eyes and read nothing but concern there. “It’s fine,” he amended. “It’ll pass inna minute.” It always did.
Seikhiel pushed his thumb between Ragheiyont’s lips, pressed it against one fang. Ragheiyont gasped as his tooth broke skin. Had he ever drawn blood with a bite? A blush that had nothing to do with the fever rushed his cheeks as the taste of copper flooded his tongue. The fog cleared from his mind, and the itching subsided.
Seikhiel caught Ragheiyont as he sagged forward. “Van-Dal,” he called over his shoulder. The assassin appeared as Seikhiel scooped Ragheiyont up in his arms and carried him farther back into the smithy. “He’s sick. It’s not just the anemia.”
Ragheiyont made a derisive noise through his nose. “I’m always sick.” He had lived with it for decades, and if he survived this misadventure, he would endure the beast in his blood for years yet to come. Instead of saying so, he let his damp brow fall against Seikhiel’s cheek. Seikhiel pressed back, just a little, almost like a dragon would.
For the first time in a century, Ragheiyont felt that perhaps someone wanted to protect him.
He wanted the moment to last forever.
Chaighan and Thrin had seen the two newcomers settled belowstairs. After time sufficient for them to eat and wash up, Ceirithi took their measurements. Afterward, one final task remained.
Baleirithys paced his outer chamber. This was routine. Everyone contributed, and therefore everyone was protected. His fist clenched around a small oval of blue stone. What was this anxiety? A knock at the door startled him, and he nearly dropped the stone. Why did he feel braced for a fight?
Baleirithys lifted two fingers, and the door swung open. Beyond stood Gavi, looking every bit as apprehensive as he felt. Freshly scrubbed and dressed in borrowed clothes, she glanced everywhere but at Baleirithys. He took in every detail: the blunted horns, still growing in from the last time the slavers had had them cut, the single broken claw, the way her ridge swept upward like a crest. The distinctive Hawk blues of her plumage. Baleirithys gave a slow nod.
“Come in,” he said, before remembering that Gavi struggled to understand dragonish. “Come in,” he repeated, this time in the language shared between Hawk and Raven Clans. “This will only take a minute.”
Gavi’s lips twisted in a flash of humor. Disappointingly, she kept her gaze lowered as she stepped forward. Baleirithys gestured toward a small table, and Gavi followed the movement with her eyes, which widened when she saw the silver knife and the crystal goblet.
“I need a little blood. Just enough for a protective spell.” He left out the details. He always did. “I require it of everyone under my roof.”
Gavi squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. In that moment, she reminded him of Tharaiyelagh. Dear Tharaiyelagh… Faced with this same request, Tharaiyelagh had denied the blade. Tharaiyelagh had bared his shoulder and stepped forward. Baleirithys should not have bitten him. Not that day. It was far too soon, and Tharaiyelagh had been barely old enough…
Gavi’s fingers closed around the knife.
A moment too late, Baleirithys realized her intent. Gavi pushed up her sleeve, located a vein, and slashed downward with the knife. Fearless. Misguided, but fearless. Blood flowed. Too much. Too freely. It dribbled into the cup and splattered on the tabletop. Droplets of crimson stained the white linen of her sleeve, and her eyes widened at the sight. His movements more instinct than thought, Baleirithys licked his palm and grabbed Gavi’s arm, right over the wound. It closed up as he pulled his hand away.
Gavi gawked at him. “Teach me,” she breathed. Something irrational in Baleirithys recoiled at the thought. He wanted to bare his teeth, to growl, to tell her to go get her own magic. Instead, he picked up the cup and turned slightly away, giving the blood within a thoughtful swirl.
“I’m no teacher.” Not quite true. He had managed to teach Tharaiyelagh politics well enough. “But there are volumes on magic in the archives. Don’t let Yrich give you a hard time about it.” And right now he needed an untroubled mind. Closing his eyes, Baleirithys drew a deep breath. He quieted himself and he focused. Then he lifted the cup to his lips.
The blood warmed his tongue and intertwined at once with his freshly awakened magic. He drew the energies together into a tightly spun thread, which he pushed into the stone still held in his hand. Once he had anchored it there, he reached out for the fine web he had woven of everyone who belonged in his castle. The shifting threads of magic quivered in response to a new addition, then settled. It was done. Gavi was home.
A sharp tug along another energy thread snapped his eyes open.
Tharaiyelagh.
Putting on a mask of serenity, Baleirithys turned again to Gavi. “Good,” he said. “That’s all for now. Occasionally I will need to renew the enchantment, but it’s not often.”
When Gavi has gone, Baleirithys opened the panel in his wall and added the new gem to the mirror’s frame. He surveyed it for a long moment, admiring his growing collection of people. He gathered them to him and he kept them safe. And then…
Tentatively, he touched one fingertip to Tharaiyelagh’s stone. It felt warm.
Van-Dal lit a small fire in the forge, and he handed Seikhiel a soft black overcoat to cover Ragheiyont until the fever had broken. Then, lacking anything else to do, he explored the smithy. Let Seikhiel look after the thief. They seemed to be growing fond of one another, and Van-Dal feared…
No, fear was the wrong word. Still, Ragheiyont’s illness made him uneasy. Not much could give a dragon a fever, even one weakened by blood loss. Van-Dal found a set of stairs up the back of the building, and he crept upward. His thoughts followed him into a small, cozy set of apartments. Ragheiyont said he was always sick. That almost guaranteed that he had The Madness, the destroyer of lives, the disease that caused dragons to turn on their own, to cut down tiny nestlings just to feed their cravings. If it was true, Ragheiyont was a danger to everyone around him. If it was true… Well, he supposed he would have to tell Baleirithys.
Van-Dal pushed a door open. A tidy little bedroom lay beyond. The bed had dry rot, but the window seat looked promising. A deep layer of dust covered the small bookshelf. A threadbare rug clung to the shrinking floorboards. The stairs creaked behind him, and he froze, half expecting Ragheiyont to come to challenge him for imagined treasure.
“He’s asleep.”
Seikhiel sounded weary. Turning, Van-Dal studied the angel’s somewhat wilted posture. Keeping Ragheiyont alive was wearing him down. “This illness of his…” Van-Dal hesitated, searching for the right words, the words that would convey the peril they faced.
“Hoarding Sickness,” Seikhiel said in a near-whisper, startling Van-Dal. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”
Van-Dal nodded. “Its a terrible disease. One drop of tainted blood, and soon enough a man will slay his entire Clutch just to feed the fever.” He met Seikhiel’s worried gaze with his own unflinching stare. “If I must, I will kill him.”
“I can’t promise not to stop you.”
Van-Dal nodded. So long as they understood each other. He crossed to the window seat and wiped dust from the glass. The market square lay below like a monochrome diorama, scaled down and lifeless. His eyes traced each shadow.
Then one of the shadows stirred.