Sunlight glazed the windowpanes, casting a blaze of colors across the spotless white tabletop. Warm and fragrant, a plate of pastries rested between pools of blue and orange light. Baleirithys flicked his claws against the silver tray before making his selection and easing back into his chair. Taking up his goblet of blood, he watched his dining companion through narrowed eyes.
“Eat, friend,” he said, an edge of frost to his voice. “You must be famished.”
Kiile-Kili kept his shoulders squared, kept his head held high, but still he managed to project the air of a scolded child. “Of course.” He took a pastry, took a cautious nibble.
Baleirithys considered toying with him, drawing out the anguish until the new Hawk king told him everything all in a rush. Much as it would salve his wounded pride to do so, however, tormenting one’s allies over personal feelings only made for rocky politics in the future. He took a long sip of his blood. It tingled over his tongue, replenishing the magic he had expended. He closed his eyes for just a moment, savoring the sensation. Then he pointed one claw at Kiile-Kili.
“You never intended to tell me about the Heartstone.”
Kiile-Kili dodged his stare, but only just. “I…” He drew a deep breath. “I hired Kleptomancer to steal it, yes. It was my intention to use the stone’s power to defeat my father without endangering my brothers.”
Misguided of him, but Baleirithys could understand that sort of desperation. Once, he had poisoned himself to accomplish a similar aim. “Did you have a plan as to how you would harness its power?” When Kiile-Kili’s cheeks reddened, he shook his head. “I thought not. Likely we are all fortunate that you did not try.” He sipped his blood slowly, deliberately, allowing the barest hint of his simmering fury to show in his narrowed eyes. Even from a distance, he had felt the power in the Heartstone. He remembered the lure of it, the maddening, pulsing pull from deep within the crystal, first worsened by Tempest’s magic, then cut off altogether, sealed safely away in some pocket of space outside of this world, beyond the reach of even the most intrepid of thieves.
Kleptomancer was a problem to be resolved later.
“I owe Iyahi-Ila a great debt,” Kiile-Kili was saying. He paused, apparently contemplating the tabletop. “Do you intend to allow your son to keep it?” Your Mortal-Born son. The words hung unspoken in the air between them. Little Kiile-Kili knew of Tempest’s true worth. Baleirithys feigned disinterest.
“I would hesitate to say that he has indeed kept it.” He selected another pastry. “Rather, he keeps the gateway to its new location. Which is now none of your concern,” he added, allowing a sharper edge into his voice. “You are king. You no longer have use for the stone.”
Wisely, Kiile-Kili dipped his head in silent acknowledgment.
They finished their breakfast with no further discussion of unpleasant matters. Afterward, when Kiile-Kili expected that Baleirithys would dismiss him, Baleirithys instead invited his longtime friend to walk with him down the corridor. Kiile-Kili blanched a bit, perhaps expecting further censure, but Baleirithys led the way without comment. He had no reason to doubt that Kiile-Kili spoke true about his intentions, and now his guilt would prevent his repeating the mistake. Better, now he owed Seyzharel thrice over, a fact he would remember presently.
Baleirithys pushed open the infirmary door.
“Iyahi!” Kiile-Kili bounded across the short distance to his brother’s bedside. Iyahi-Ila smiled a gentle, careful smile. Watching them all the while, Baleirithys drifted toward Chaighan, who rested on a cot nearby.
“Is he well?” he asked, concealing his own relief at seeing the guard conscious and apparently intact.
Chaighan grinned. “The prince is drugged, my lord, which is a terrible thing to do to a seer.”
“Seer?” Baleirithys repeated, unable to keep a note of interest from his voice. He nudged a stool closer to Chaighan and perched upon it, listening raptly to the tale of the midnight attack, of Seyzharel’s defense of the Hawk Clan, and of the role Chaighan and young Iyahi-Ila played in it. “You’ve been very busy,” he concluded when the guard fell silent at last. “Especially for someone who should have been right here the entire time.” When Chaighan blushed, Baleirithys smiled. “I’m relieved to see that the attack on the wards has done you no lasting harm.”
“Attack, my prince?” Chaighan repeated, and Baleirithys related in brief how Kleptomancer, Tharaiyelagh’s own brother, had stabbed his cursed dagger the core of the wards in a desperate attempt to rouse the castle. Desperate and foolish, but ultimately he had done no lasting harm.
“Everything is settled,” he concluded. “The danger is passed, and since you look to be making a full recovery, I won’t have to punish him beyond what he has already agreed to do.” And what Tharaiyelagh had volunteered for. The thought caught him midway between pride and… and what? Resentment? Rage? Unable to name his own emotions, Baleirithys shuttered his expression and glanced around the infirmary. “Where has Enci gone?”
“He left a short while ago with medical supplies for the Hawk Clan.” Reading disappointment on his prince’s face, Chaighan added, “Captain Thanasc is accompanying him.”
Baleirithys shot a glance toward Kiile-Kili. “I’ll allow it,” he said, as though he had ever had any sway over Enci at all.
Tempest insisted on seeing his friends settled in a comfortable guest suite before attending to any other matters. Behind closed doors, Akieryon immediately fell to trembling, and Tempest stayed with him until the panic had passed. When at last he had calmed, Tempest left him in the care of his twin, and he made his silent exit. He strode with purpose down the corridor, guided by certainty and sense more than true knowledge of the layout of the castle. Push and pull. Celestial magic. At the door to another of the guest rooms, he knocked with perhaps a bit more vigor than necessary.
He had to see this business through to the end.
The door opened, and a frowning angel stood just within, squeezing his golden hair dry with one of Seyzharel’s plush silvery towels. He studied Tempest in silence for a long moment, then stepped back, allowing space for him to enter the room.
“I need to know,” Tempest said. “Do you intend to harm Akieryon in any way?”
He had considered that his question might shock, offend, or even anger this angel, this Sword of Heaven. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the supreme weariness that fell over Seikhiel.
“Sit.” The angel waved Tempest toward a chair. Tempest sat, and Seikhiel dragged a second chair closer to the first. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I have no doubt it’s a mere fragment of the entire truth.” He avoided eye contact, instead looking vaguely past Tempest’s ear. “Yes, I left Akieryon hidden away. I thought I was protecting him, but that doesn’t justify my actions, nor does it undo any of his suffering.”
It annoyed Tempest that he could respect this man so quickly. “What were you protecting him from?”
A pained expression flashed across Seikhiel’s face, gone almost before it had shadowed his brow. “From the person who would have sent him to kill Szearbhyn Soul-Stealer.”
In that moment, it occurred to Tempest that despite his fame, despite his widely renowned skill, the Sword of Heaven feared someone. One of his own kind.
When Enci and Captain Thanasc returned, they brought KeReyll’s eldest daughter with them. MiiSehlenn declined to visit her imprisoned father, and she took his place in conference with Kiile-Kili and Baleirithys. Tharaiyelagh sat silent throughout the meeting, his pen never still, scribbling the terms of a new agreement between the three nations as their leaders determined them. The impromptu summit went well, and though it would take many more before Hawk king and Raven queen learned to trust one another, Baleirithys felt they made excellent progress in a few short hours.
And MiiSehlenn would be queen. The question remained whether KeReyll would yield the crown willingly. Surely he must know that Baleirithys would not hesitate to wrest it from him. Not after what he had done.
MiiSehlenn and Kiile-Kili left the chamber with their heads bent together in conversation, discussing the future of their people. Baleirithys lingered, his gaze settled on Tharaiyelagh, on the line of his shoulders, the angle of his neck, the swift scratching of his stylus as he made a final annotation.
Please return to me.
Baleirithys swallowed his fear, making his face impassive by the time his chancellor leaned back from his work. Tharaiyelagh wore a near-smile of weary satisfaction. He met Baleirithys’ gaze, and his good humor faltered. He took up the seal of state, gave it a fond caress, and presented it to his prince.
Baleirithys’ heart stuttered almost to a stop. “No.” Firmly, he pushed it back across the tabletop. “You are returning to me. As swiftly as possible.”
“Of course, my prince.” Tharaiyelagh sounded unconvinced. “But I shouldn’t like to lose something so valuable in Interspace.”
Baleirithys studied him in silence. How much he had grown in so short a time. In the face of Tharaiyelagh’s firm resolve, Baleirithys gave a slow nod. “Then we shall go together to lock it away in the archive, and you can claim it again upon your return.”
Tharaiyelagh inclined his head. “Of course, my prince.” When he stood, Baleirithys drew him close with a feather-light touch.
“Come to me after the feast tonight.” He rubbed his jaw along the smooth curve of one of Tharaiyelagh’s horns. “I would blood you before your departure.”
Tharaiyelagh flushed to the roots of his plumage. He did not object. He would never object to such a request.
Luccan stood on the balcony, his elbows propped on the railing, his gaze fixed out across the soft ripples of the plains far below. From this great height, he couldn’t see the crumbling ruins of the Seyzharel that had been. He couldn’t see the decayed cities with their cracked stonework and their poorly patched glass. He couldn’t see the survivors struggling in a world that no longer made sense.
Perhaps the distance served as a comfort to the prince of Seyzharel, that creature of ice and blood. Or perhaps it only reminded him of all he had lost, and all he had never known. Luccan knew something of watching civilizations fall. Some arose from their own ashes. Some faded to dust forever. While he would not presume to predict the future of Seyzharel, he saw in its people hope, and that gave them a fighting chance.
As though summoned by his thoughts, a pair of gloved hands caught the balcony railing from below. In a moment, Ragheiyont had hoisted himself up and over, and he leaned nonchalantly beside Luccan. “Heyo,” he said, as chipper as ever. “Havin’ a think?”
Luccan assessed the young dragon at his elbow. Ragheiyont had taken the time to wash, but he had not tied his hair back. Nor did he wear his blue overcoat, opting instead for attire of plain black. Thief’s clothes. Luccan scowled. “Why aren’t you resting?”
Ragheiyont shrugged, but he avoided Luccan’s gaze. “This is all… a bit posh for me, ya know?”
Not in so many words, but Luccan could make a fair guess. Ragheiyont was far more at ease sleeping on the unforgiving scrubland below. “I can’t say that I do,” Luccan replied. “I’m a cat. I can nap anywhere.”
“Sure.” Ragheiyont shifted his weight, shifted his wings. “Bet you’re eager to head out. Rescuin’ that friend of yours an’ all.”
Luccan studied the young dragon beside him more closely. Ragheiyont seemed at once lighter and wearier than he had been before freeing himself of the Heartstone. “Come.” He pushed open the tall glass doors, leading the way into his rather comfortable room. Following at his heels, Ragheiyont gave a low whistle.
“This is nicer than my room, jo!”
Just this once, Luccan decided not to point out Ragheiyont’s unpleasant word choice, for he had no doubt the thief understated the difference in their accommodations. “Some people do remember my station, it seems.” He nudged Ragheiyont toward the massive fireplace. “Go on, try the chaise. It’s not as soft as the bed, but it’s comfortable enough.”
With a skeptical eye on the marble gargoyles that flanked the mantelpiece, Ragheiyont edged toward the chaise. He sat, and relief flooded his face. “Yeah, that’s better.” He tucked his feet up and wrapped both arms around his knees, but he ran a greedy eye over the lapis set in the mirror frame opposite him. Luccan bit back a smile.
“Rest,” he repeated.
“Yeah? You, too.”
Luccan hoisted himself up onto the double-thick mattress. “That was the plan, yes.” He watched as Ragheiyont curled up on the chaise, his wings drawn close, his cheek propped on one hand. What would Bel think of this unruly young dragon? Hah, likely that Luccan deserved him. If they succeeded, of course.
“Say, Luccan?”
His eyes snapped open—when had they drifted closed?—and he peered across the room. Ragheiyont hadn’t stirred, except to speak. “Hm?”
“It’s fine if ya wanna kill the sleeping king when we get back.”
We.
Luccan smiled into the crook of his elbow. He liked the sound of that.
~Vol. 1 End~
Coming in August 2020: The Sacred Tree