Raaqiel almost never wore his dress uniform. The stiff collar forced him to hold his head high, and the lean fit of the jacket would show every line of a slouch. Worse still, it required him to belt his sword on over the jacket, which, when one carried the finest blade in Heaven, was needlessly ostentatious.
Under the circumstances, he could hardly wear anything else.
He stood with his back straight and his shoulders squared. His hands rested at his sides, and his boots—shined beyond all reason or good taste—pointed rigidly forward. He stared at some invisible point beyond the back of Lord Sidriel’s head.
Had he just been called before Lord Sidriel, he would have appeared in his everyday attire, with little care to his supervisor’s opinion. It didn’t matter. The headmaster knew he would do as he pleased right up until the point at which someone threw heavy or pointy objects at him. Had he been called before Lord Michael, he might as well have appeared in his skivvies. No, here he stood, a cramp in his shoulder and a bit of gold braid itching at his throat, facing a long table behind which sat three archangels.
Dammit.
He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, somewhere around the vicinity of Sidriel’s forehead. His hands remained at his sides, gloved fingertips resting against the seams of his white trousers. Every instinct told him to flee, told him that he had finally managed to get himself into a situation he could not talk his way out of. Well, it had to happen eventually.
“You’re not under review,” Sidriel said, as though plucking the thought right out of Raaqiel’s head. His voice sounded flat, and impossibly tired. “We need information only you can provide.”
Raaqiel stole a glance at Michael. He sat with his eyes downcast. His hair was mussed—moreso than usual—and he looked like he had not slept in days. Not since the incident. Raaqiel tried not to think about it, tried not to remember Keilel’s blood, so bright in the afternoon sun.
“Ask, my lords.” Raaqiel met Sidriel’s gaze, and he found it sharp, hardened by a thousand worries. “If it’s mine to give, you shall have it.”
Sidriel produced a folder, which he opened flat on the tabletop. Within lay a too-familiar set of documents, papers which must have been taken from Niseriel’s office. Raaqiel kept his expression neutral.
“Your forgery of my signature is nearly flawless.” A hint of amusement flashed across Sidriel’s face before worry and weariness settled back into place. “Why did you tell Niseriel that I had sent Seikhiel on an assignment?”
“Because he would have taken offense if I had authorized the action myself.” Taken offense perhaps was an understatement.
“And the action was necessary?”
“Seikhiel certainly thought so.” Raaqiel met Sidriel’s searching stare with far more calm than he felt. If his conduct was not under review, he need not worry about the documents in Sidriel’s hands, and yet a trickle of sweat crept between his shoulder blades. “He meant to pursue it, with or without proper approval.”
“Mm-hm.”
Sidriel cut a withering glance toward his own superior before returning his attention to his unruly subordinate. “Raaqiel,” he said, “I don’t know if you realize the gravity of the situation. You are the last person to have spoken with Seikhiel—”
“Raaqiel.” The third archangel’s voice cut through the conversation with surgical precision. No longer able to ignore his presence, Raaqiel defiantly met his searching green stare. “I have spent the last two days examining soldiers—former students of yours. Every one of them is reluctant to speak to me about their injuries, but when they do, every one of them tells me tales of horror, nightmares writ large across their bodies, inflicted by the hand of a person who had means and motive both to make Seikhiel disappear.”
Raaqiel’s throat constricted against grief and outrage, against spitting his fury in a stream of curses, against the cold dread that mounted within him. He tried to take in what he was hearing, tried to process it all with a cool head. Surely Niseriel had not found some clever means to dispose of Seikhiel. If he had, Feriel would not be pestering him—
Feriel.
Raaqiel stood a little straighter, his jaw set in determination. “I understand, my lords,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the healer. “Lord Raphael, if I may be so bold as to ask?” When Raphael nodded encouragement, the silver ends of his hair swaying across his grave expression, Raaqiel drew a shuddering breath and gave voice to the question he least wanted answered. “Have you spoken with Feriel yet?”
“Not yet,” Raphael replied, his voice softening.
“You must.” Raaqiel fought to keep his voice steady, fought to keep the sick wave of fear from consuming him. One piece of his heart already hung from the Memorial Oak. “He will know everything. He may even have kept records.” If he made Feriel sound important enough, the archangels would use a considerable amount of their abilities to protect him, but Raaqiel knew better than to overstate his case. Instead he waited, his gaze returning to Sidriel.
Sidriel nodded. A warm wave of relief surged over Raaqiel, but it could not silence his gnawing guilt. He had been so lost in his own grief, he had never realized how dire Feriel’s situation had become.
“Seikhiel never told me where he was going,” Raaqiel confessed, and he watched the flicker of disappointment play across Sidriel’s face. “I have a few guesses. Nothing solid, but basis enough to start searching. I’ll pull in all available resources.” He thumbed the hilt of his sword. He had resources beyond the expected military channels.
“Give this your full attention,” Sidriel commanded. “Classes are suspended until further notice. I don’t have the time to take on Niseriel’s curriculum, and I doubt anyone else is up for it.” He gave a wan smile, and it struck Raaqiel that the headmaster was exhausted. His ashen complexion and shadowed eyes spoke of too many long nights and too few decent meals. Raaqiel gave him the courtesy of a fairly decent salute for a change. He had his orders, and his superiors dismissed him to carry them out.
In their presence, he had tried to project a confidence he did not feel. Resources he had, but he could search for months with little progress if Seikhiel truly wanted to remain hidden. Where would he begin his search? The Fifth Sphere was a mess, bad enough to need intervention, but that was nothing new. The Third Sphere and the Fourth Sphere has both seen strange events in recent days, of a less cataclysmic nature, though definitely worth investigation. And the Void groaned, lending false urgency to every little problem.
The cat, Raaqiel reflected, would probably know best.
Time to call in some favors.
“Here, boost me up.” Ragheiyont sprang forward, his wings heaving him into the air with a single stroke before settling, flaring for balance. Tharaiyelagh wondered at his absolute faith that Seikhiel would catch him, would hold him up while he examined the ceiling—and that Seikhiel did indeed catch him, holding him easily about the knees. Ragheiyont licked the tip of one claw and pressed it into the nearly-invisible seam between two of the square slabs that made the walls and ceiling of the corridor. He muttered and he shifted, and Seikhiel shifted with him, keeping him rock-steady while he worked. “Ah-hah.”
Something sighed and shivered, more a feeling than a sound, and some foreign sort of writing lit up on the stone slabs, traced across the ceiling in sweeping curves and odd angles, running the length of the corridor. Ragheiyont dropped back down to the ground and beamed at Seikhiel, who gave him a slight smile and a tiny nod, which Ragheiyont clearly took as high praise. He turned away as color crept up his cheeks.
“This way!” Ragheiyont announced, and perhaps Tharaiyelagh might have followed him without question, but Atchi cleared his throat, and everyone paused.
“You’re very good, little thief,” the fox said with a grin more appreciative than indulgent. “But you can’t read it. The exit is this way.” He indicated the opposite direction with a tilt of his head.
Ragheiyont pivoted in place, and he eyed Atchi with curiosity. “Y’can read it, hey? What’s it say?”
His smile spreading wider than his lips looked like they ought to stretch, Atchi dug into his pockets and began distributing items to everyone. Tharaiyelagh’s notebook. A jeweled earring to Szearbhyn. A black feather to Bel. “I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have,” he said as he handed back Ragheiyont’s set of lockpicks. “Come find me if you’re interested in an apprenticeship.” He passed a bulging purse to Luccan.
“Don’t you dare,” objected Seikhiel, though Tharaiyelagh was not quite certain which one of them he addressed.
“You picked all of our pockets while we had no memories.” Keeping his tone of offense mild, Van-Dal accepted his royal rubies back with hands that almost trembled. Anyone who did not know him so well would have missed it.
“I picked your pockets while I had no memories,” Atchi corrected, inclining his head in apology. “I must beg your indulgence, all of you.” He pressed something into Akieryon’s palm and closed his fingers over it. “You’ll not find peace until you stop running,” he said, and Akieryon shrank back from him. Shrugging, Atchi turned and handed a signet ring to Tempest. “Let’s go.”
Ragheiyont hesitated, but Tharaiyelagh caught him by the elbow and propelled him after Atchi. “We’ll be back soon,” he said, watching his brother’s face closely. “And then we can work on—”
“We won’t be doing anything.” Ragheiyont jerked his arm free of Tharaiyelagh’s grasp. “I’m an exile, remember? Too sick for the company of civilized dragons.” He shook his head at Tharaiyelagh’s inevitable protest. “It’s for the best. I’d rather die than let you catch it.” His wings slung low in defeat, he trudged onward, following the fox. Tharaiyelagh stood still, watching him walk away again.
Just like when they were children.
No. No, he couldn’t let it end this way. Tharaiyelagh had a home. He had warmth and security and people who cared about him. He couldn’t leave his brother without any of those things. He drew breath to call out to Ragheiyont.
“He will be fine for now.”
Tharaiyelagh managed not to flinch from the voice in his ear, nor from the hand sliding up his back. “But—”
“Hush,” Van-Dal murmured. “Look.” As they watched, Seikhiel and Luccan fell into step to either side of Ragheiyont, bantering across him. Ragheiyont brightened almost immediately, his wings lifting and his steps bouncing along as vibrantly as ever. “He’s not alone.”
Pressing back against the warmth of Van-Dal’s hand, Tharaiyelagh watched his brother walk away from him. “He’s not,” he conceded, and the truth of it yielded solace. “But I will see the law changed. We can’t banish people. We are too few.”
“Brave little Chancellor.” Van-Dal rubbed his jaw along Tharaiyelagh’s horn, until Tharaiyelagh flinched away. He allowed the wing draping over his shoulder, though, just as he allowed the hand sliding from his back to his waist. “I have no doubt,” Van-Dal purred, “that you will change the world.”
Would he? Tharaiyelagh thought of the seal of state, resting for now, locked safely in the Archive. He missed the weight of it, the feel of it in his hand. Soon they would be home. Soon he would stand beside his own beloved prince again. Journey’s end. Impulsively, Tharaiyelagh reached for the hand that had come to rest on his hip. Would it feel strange to go home? To sleep in his own bed? To enjoy Thrin’s pastries and share blood with Chaighan?
Tempest bumped his shoulder against Tharaiyelagh on the way past, an odd but friendly gesture. Startled out of his thoughts, Tharaiyelagh stumbled after him. No need to dawdle. The world was waiting for them.
“The dead have come loose.”
Baaz peered at the child on her knee, who had just uttered a complete sentence, grammatically correct, in perfect Wolfish. “Nipper,” she said, “what did you say?”
The little girl, who refused to answer to any name but Princess, simply stuck her doll’s head in her mouth and chewed with vigor. Baaz frowned. The girl would babble in bits of Dragonish when the mood took her, but mostly she preferred to communicate via growls and squeaks and assorted chittering sounds. Well, she was at that age, wasn’t she?
Gently, Gavi set the lunch tray on a side table. That girl moved around the castle with far too much caution, as though it might all shatter and fall down around her if she breathed too hard. “Did she say something?” she ventured, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Nah.” Baaz chucked the child under the chin, and immediately had to snatch her hands away from snapping teeth. “She jus’ made some growls that sounded t’ my ears like talkin’.” But she liked that Gavi took an interest in the little one’s upbringing. Soon she’d be able to snatch a gliding child right out of the air, sure enough.
As though answering her thoughts, Princess stretched her little wings as wide as they would go. Too small yet for gliding, thank the Old Ones, but the day they grew so large was not all that far off. Dragonlings were a menace from the moment they started testing their wings. At least, Chaighan had been. Baaz smiled at the memories.
“Ffah—chirhi,” burbled the little girl, and a chill crept down Baaz’ spine. Ffah’wchirr was the Wolfish name for the realm of the dead. It was coincidence. It had to be.
“Say that again,” Baaz coaxed, but the child refused. Her sharp little teeth bit through the doll’s leather horns, and she chewed contentedly on the pieces that came off.
Abruptly, the ground bucked beneath them. The walls shuddered and the floor rolled in a way floors should not. Gavi yelped, but she also caught the lunch tray before it could fall from the table. Little Princess stared around her with wide eyes, taking in the swaying curtains and the rattling sconces. In a moment, the shaking had passed.
“That ain’t right,” Baaz muttered, and Gavi’s ashen face registered agreement.
“This is the best I can do for you.” Worry creased Raphael’s face as he gently applied a cool cloth to his colleague’s forehead. “You need rest.”
“Have you been resting?” As usual, Gabriel’s neat, factual words used truth as a cudgel. Raphael turned away, another cloth twisting between his hands, spilling drops of lavender tincture on the kitchen floor.
“I have work—”
“Precisely.”
Raphael looked down at the towel clutched in his hands. “Go home,” he said softly. “Try to sleep. The Void—all of this mess will still be here in the morning.”
Probably.
Gabriel gave him an arch look. “Shall I send Phanuel around to make sure you do the same?”
Raphael made a small, noncommittal noise. His thoughts strayed to his medical files, and the nightmare unraveling therein. Sleep? Who could sleep with the shadows of such cruelty seeping through ink and paper so near at hand? He had so many more exams to conduct, so many more horrors to record. He may never sleep again.
Gabriel’s chair scraped across the floor. “Two hours. Then Phanuel will check on you.”
Raphael managed a weak smile. “It’s a deal,” he said.
His head down and his hands stuffed in his pockets, Raaqiel hurried through the late afternoon. Shadows stretched away before him, grabbing for the horizon with spidery fingers, but the sun at his back did nothing to warm him. His feet knew the way down the familiar avenue. But how he wanted to run!
He had spent the better part of the day sending messages, requesting favors, ignoring the cold dread settled in his stomach. Now, free of his office, what could he really do? Deeper shadows gathered around him, drenched the road, absorbed his own shadow into their hulking forms. Raaqiel lifted his head, scanning the fronts of the close-set military housing, regimented rows eerily silent in the fading of the day. Too near, someone lurked against a fence post.
Raaqiel felt his blood turn icy, his chest constricting as he beat back familiar panic. He stepped bravely forward. To this archangel he gave his best salute.
“Lord Azrael. You haven’t seen Seikhiel around lately, have you?”
The Angel of Death gave him a thin smile that looked several shades of weariness beyond exhaustion. “Professionally or otherwise?”
“Don’t tease,” Raaqiel said. “I know you won’t break the Rules for me.” Up close, he saw that Azrael leaned more than lurked, the post taking most of his weight and giving only mild protest. Raaqiel hesitated. “Were you… waiting for me?”
Azrael chuckled. “Still so arrogant, pup.” He pushed himself free of the post. “No.” As though Raaqiel needed the clarification.
“Right.” Raaqiel let his gaze drift down the street. The house he sought was there, three down from here. His eyes narrowing, he slanted a dark look at the Angel of Death. A fresh chill spiked through him, and his usual bad attitude settled into place, masking it. He smiled. “If you take Feriel, I’ll have to rip your arm off,” he said in the most amicable of tones.
Azrael paused, as though weighing Nephil strength against his own boundless eternity required actual consideration. “I would stand still for the attempt,” he said at last. “But no. Even one more angel soul would badly overbalance the Void, and all within would spill out.”
“Huh.” Raaqiel chewed on this new information. “That sounds… cataclysmic.”
“Indeed.”
Lucky thing Keilel failed to die. “I guess we’d better find Seikhiel before something bad happens.”
Azrael seemed to will himself fully upright. “Your boss is expecting me. Take care of yourself, Raaqiel.” He stretched, tested his footing, then headed off toward the Academy. It struck Raaqiel that he moved slowly, as though carrying an immense weight.
Shaking away the thought, Raaqiel hurried the short distance to Feriel’s house. He knocked. The magics woven into the door remembered him, and it swung open at his touch.
The house lay dark and still. Tentatively, Raaqiel sidled inside. The air felt heavy, cold. Sepulchral. He looked around the once-familiar rooms, and he found little had changed in the last four hundred years. A clammy pall of disuse clung over most of it, though, as though Feriel had folded in on himself so tightly that he kept his living space spotless, yet failed to actually live in it.
And he was not home.
The vacancy of the house pressed down on Raaqiel even as guilt filled his chest, deeper with every breath, drowning him in the knowledge that he could have prevented this. If he could have plucked himself up from his own grief, if he and Feriel could have clung to one another through their darkest days, Feriel may never have retreated so far from himself, from life, from everything but work. Raaqiel charged out the door, and it slammed closed behind him, hollow and final.
He sank onto the steps, and he sat with his head in his hands.
Feriel would come home.
He had to.