I taste danger in the air, a miasma all around me, yet stronger when the wind blows from the north. Lost Souls roam the Spheres, hungry and searching, eternally searching. I know not how much longer I shall walk this path, but the work needs doing. I am here. I am capable. I am skilled.
Atchi walked with the young Seyzharel guard along the leeward slope of a hill. Oh, this one was very young. A century, a century and a half at best. Still, he smelled of blood and purpose, and Atchi liked that in a man. This day would have come, it always would have, since Atchi first set eyes on the thing, and yet he hesitated to surrender his prize. It was, after all, quite shiny.
Well. It was only an artifact. Artifacts drifted in and out of history all the time, and right now he had more important tasks at hand.
“Your prince is very well informed.” Too well informed. Atchi had told no one. His Looties perhaps could infer some breadcrumbs of fact, but someone had gathered up all the crumbs and passed them along to the dragons. Well. He would have to lay a trap for spies and snitches, wouldn’t he? And that Baleirithys, he was interesting…
The most dangerous ones were always the most interesting.
The guard Chaighan merely agreed with him, offering no suggestion as to how Baleirithys came by his information. As usual, Atchi would have to get his hands dirty. But Chaighan, well, hadn’t Atchi seen him once before? He’s been newly liberated then, recovering from fresh wounds, stinking of a magic that ran bone-deep. Chaighan has been taken quite literally under the wing of that protective captain of the guard, and Atchi suspected he would learn to wield that raw magic soon enough. The best ones always did.
Something stirred in the reed bed at the foot of the hill. Atchi held up one hand, and the young dragon at his side froze, still and patient, a perfect soldier. They strained their ears, some ears more suitable to the task than others, and they stood listening long after a pair of rush martens came tumbling out of the ditch, squabbling or courting. At length, Atchi lowered his hand. This business put him on edge. Best to get it over with now.
“Come,” he said, lengthening his stride into a loping gait, forcing Chaighan to jog to keep up with him. “What does your prince want with the foul thing?”
“I… uh…”
“You don’t know.” Atchi shook his head. “I forget sometimes how power structures function.” Out here in the lawless lands, he operated with absolute freedom, and he attracted followers who shared his way of thinking. He would not send someone to collect an object of Sealing without first warning them of its power. Really, he would rather just handle the errand himself.
“Here.” Crouching in the shadow of a crumbling watchtower, a relic of King Chaizhyn’s reign, Atchi began to dig. His gloves protected his hands from the sharp crystals hidden in the silt, a deliberate safeguard on his hiding place. Now that Chaighan knew its location, he would have to abandon it.
His fingers found the stones beneath the silt, and he caught the iron ring and pulled. The little chamber came open too easily, as it should. Atchi disarmed the trap, then withdrew the ebony chest from within. Bound in steel, it looked about the right size to hold a dagger. It did not hold a dagger. He stood with a warning on his lips.
“Do not touch the artifact. It is not kind to those who cannot wield it.”
With a grave nod, Chaighan accepted the ebony box. In any case, Atchi supposed He was well quit of the wretched thing.
What the dragons would do with it was not his problem.
Raaqiel peered at the notes scattered across the table. The cadets, accustomed to him reading over their shoulders, ignored him until he tapped a scrawled line. “No, this part is incorrect,” he said. “Dragonish societies have no standard for monogamy. It does happen sometimes, but it’s not expected.”
The little cluster of cadets stared up at him, perhaps a little hesitant to take his advice on their project. It wasn’t for one of his own classes, so he could forgive them a moment’s pause, though they ought to know by now that his was the superior intellect. Behind him, a soft scoff drifted out of the stacks.
“I’d listen to him.” Feriel emerges with an armload of scrolls. “He used to run off and play chess with King Chaizhyn’s of Seyzharel.” The corners of his eyes squeezed in a near smile. “And he’s an insufferable know-it-all.”
“The word you’re searching for is ‘genius’, but let’s not fight in front of the children.”
“The word I’m searching for,” Feriel retorted, “I cannot apply to a superior officer.” He headed for the door, but he inclined his head in silent invitation. Raaqiel fell into step beside him on the way out of the library.
It felt a bit too familiar.
“Where is he?”
Oh, well, so did that. Raaqiel gave his old friend a beatific smile. “Who has the Fifth Sword misplaced now?”
“Cut the jackassery, Raaqiel. We know each other too well for that.” Feriel shook a scroll at him, scattering dust between them. “Seikhiel was last seen in your company, and now you’ve taken over his classes? Not subtle, Tactical Genius.”
Feriel presented a moral dilemma for Raaqiel, insofar as he could be accused of having morals at all. He longed to share his schemes with a friend and ally, but Feriel had the grotesque misfortune of working closely with Raaqiel’s mortal foe. With a sigh, he shook his head. “Seikhiel is on a special assignment. Lord Sidriel has the paperwork right now.”
“You’re lying. Why would Lord Sidriel send Seikhiel anywhere without telling Niseriel?”
Because Niseriel is scum and we both know it. Raaqiel shook his head. “It was an urgent matter. I’ll make sure you get the paperwork as soon as Lord Sidriel is done with it.”
Which sentenced Raaqiel to an afternoon confined to his office, forging documents. Lovely. Why did he do these things to himself?
Ragheiyont had returned to his usual, unfortunate self. He bounced along, chattering about landmarks, getting details wrong so often that Luccan had to wonder if he did it on purpose. Did he enjoy getting corrected? Or perhaps he intended to test Luccan’s knowledge of this Sphere. Perhaps he knew that no cat could resist being right.
Shockingly, Luccan had missed the noise.
In centuries gone by, plenty of people would have looked after this hapless fledgling. Seyzharel demons preferred to live in large social groups, with friends and extended family all helping to care for the young. Ragheiyont would have known better than to live at the edge of starvation. But now…
Now they could travel more than two days without ever seeing another Seyzharel demon. Now the blue glass and marble spires of the sprawling cities crumbled to dust, for the few wingless demons who lived in their shadow would not risk the climb to repair them. So much culture lost, and worse: with the magical power of the Sphere no longer divided across thousands of dragonkin, the Sphere itself could destabilize far too easily. It could break apart, crushed between the inhospitable Third Sphere and the war-torn Fifth Sphere.
And worse cataclysm was yet to come.
“Look!” Ragheiyont pointed at a silhouette speeding by far above them. Another Seyzharel demon. Another stripling with little mass to him. “If you’d let us fly, we’d reach the cliffs in only—”
“You are not carrying me,” Luccan interrupted for what felt like the hundredth time.
“But—”
“You would exhaust yourself in an hour. Come,” he added, to forestall the inevitable pouting. “Let’s find you something to eat.”
“You always want to feed me!” Ragheiyont wailed, as though somehow upset by the prospect of proper nutrition. Undeterred, Luccan scanned the barren landscape for the next ruined town. Why did dragons insist upon building everything so far apart?
A faint shuffling sound stirred the air, an animal movement alien in these desolate plains. Luccan’s ears swiveled toward the noise a moment before four demons wearing the black linens of the Raven Clan rushed them, charging out of the ditch beside the road. Four? Well that was insulting. Luccan had his claws buried in the nearest one’s chest before Ragheiyont even registered the attack. He kicked the man free, snatching the short sword from his hand as he fell. These fools were not worth Warbringer.
The second nearest Raven demon screamed a war cry and leapt forward. The third joined him, but the fourth one, the one who wore the leathers of a commander, held back. She stood relaxed, her crossbow held loosely at her side, simply watching. Ragheiyont growled, and Luccan felt a ripple of malevolence as he unsheathed that nasty Wardbreaker of his.
Luccan jabbed at one of the attackers, carrying the movement through into a slash at the other when he dodged. He dropped below a rising slash from a scythe-shaped weapon, and he slammed the short sword between one man’s ribs. He released it before the weight of the felled demon could wrench it away. Looking up, he saw Ragheiyont landing an aerial kick on the other one. The Raven demon crumpled beneath him, freezing at the feeling of Wardbreaker’s cursed edge against his throat.
Huh.
Luccan looked to the woman in leathers, who had not bothered to lift her crossbow. “What do you want?”
She shrugged. “Peace, economic stability, and a really big plate of liver.”
“Princess!” Ragheiyont beamed up at her from his seat astride his captive warrior. “Whatch’s got runnin’ gapsers, hey?”
It struck Luccan that the irritating fledgling had made something of an effort to speak sensibly around him. The Raven princess seemed to understand him, however, for she gave a noisy sigh and slung her crossbow on her belt.
“Of course it would be you.” She gave Luccan a pitying glance. “New employer?”
“No,” Luccan growled at the same time that Ragheiyont said, “Yep!” The princess raised an eyebrow at them.
“Haven’t worked out the terms yet?”
Ragheiyont’s smile somehow brightened. “You know me. Dedicated pain in the—”
“Look,” the princess interrupted. “By royal decree, we are to bring in any Seyzharel demon we encounter. You present a unique challenge, as you’re—”
“Like grabbin’ water?”
The princess glared at him. “Go away,” she told him. “Stay off the main roads. Do not get caught again.”
Ragheiyont bounced to his feet. “Y’ain’t caught me yet.”
“Do shut up,” Luccan growled, snatching hold of him by the scruff again.
“Of course, Your Undying Ruthlessness.”
They continued on their way down the dusty road, but Luccan could feel the inscrutable gaze of the Raven princess at their backs. It raised the hairs on his neck.
What did the Raven Clan want with stray dragons?
“Prince Kiile-Kili approaches.” Tharaiyelagh touched the tip of one claw to the glass of the window, and the enchantment faded, leaving an ordinary view of the countryside far below, of shallow plains and low scrubland. Roads twisted away like faint threads thrown across the landscape, and in the distance, a scattering of ruins shadowed a hillside. Tharaiyelagh lingered, his gaze tracing the hazy line of the horizon. Fingertips grazed the back of his neck. He trembled at the touch.
“Good,” Lord Baleirithys purred. “Our plans can move forward.” He prowled away across the mosaic floor, but his Chancellor did not follow. Tharaiyelagh loved this archive chamber, with its towering windows and vaulted ceiling. The shelves soared as high as the windows, and he alone needed a ladder to reach the upper levels, but something about this space felt warm and safe. It felt well-loved.
It felt like home.
“I shall summon my son,” Lord Baleirithys said, and Tharaiyelagh’s heart sank. Not that he tried to avoid Lord Tempest, not exactly. The Mortal-Born prince made him uncomfortable, especially in proximity to Lord Baleirithys.
A little jealous, too.
“You are going to contact Prince Van-Dal.”
Tharaiyelagh stared in sudden horror at the crystal mirror his prince had just placed in his hands. “What?” he tried to say, but the word got tangled up with “me” and “why” and came out as an inarticulate squeak. He had only met the prince of the Second Sphere twice before, and had felt quite intimidated both times. Another race of dragonkin, Van-Dal’s people were tall and densely muscled, and widely known for their skill at assassination.
“Because he cannot resist your beautiful blue eyes,” Lord Baleirithys said with a slow smile, answering Tharaiyelagh’s garbled questions. “Invite him to stay for a week at least. He’ll be here when KeReyll betrays us.”
So that was the game.
Lord Baleirithys touched the surface of the crystal. Tharaiyelagh’s reflection rippled, then faded to black. Cradling the mirror between his hands, Tharaiyelagh drifted over to lean against a shelf. A flicker of movement appeared in the depths of the mirror. He waited for the shifting shadows to resolve into an image.
Prince Van-Dal’s face appeared, masked and wearing his jet diadem—his working clothes. Anxiety clenched in the pit of Tharaiyelagh’s stomach.
“Ah,” Van-Dal said, the corners of his eyes squeezing with his hidden smile. “It’s always good to hear from friends.”
Friends. Is that what they were? Could he be a friend to a prince? Tharaiyelagh fumbled through a greeting, heat rising in his face all the while. Van-Dal’s smile intensified.
“Ask me anything, little one.” In the distance beyond him, someone yelled. “Quickly,” he added with an apologetic tilt of his head.
“Lord Baleirithys would like for Your Highness to visit us in Seyzharel for the next week,” Tharaiyelagh blurted, then congratulated himself for not stumbling over any of the words.
“And what would you like, little one?”
Tharaiyelagh felt the blood rushing to his ears. “Your presence is always a pleasure,” he managed around a sudden stab of guilt that Van-Dal could fluster him so.
Someone yelled again, and Van-Dal glanced away. “Then I shall… cut my other entanglements short.” He smiled one more time. “See you tomorrow.”
The mirror went dark again.
“That went well.” Lord Baleirithys gently lifted the mirror from Tharaiyelagh’s hands and placed it on the shelf beside him. Tharaiyelagh followed the movement with his eyes. How could he look his beloved prince in the face while he still blushed at Van-Dal’s obvious flirting? “Come along,” Lord Baleirithys continued, as though nothing unusual had happened. “We must make ready for today’s guest.”
The Hawk prince. Of course.
Tharaiyelagh scrambled to retrieve his precious treaty from a nearby table. It had taken him the better part of three days to get the wording just right, but now his prince approved, and he had a separate document for each of the warring clans. Work well done, he thought with a swell of pride.
“You bring the paperwork,” Lord Baleirithys said as he breezed toward the door, “and I’ll bring—”
His hand traced a sigil in the air, and a portal opened in the empty space before him. The demon who stumbled through wore linen and leathers, more after the Raven fashion than Seyzharel. He took in his surroundings, and he sighed. Lord Baleirithys gave him a self-satisfied smile.
“Tempest.”
“Really, Father, you need to warn people before you do that. I could have been bathing. Would you like a mess of water all over your archive? Hello, Tharaiyelagh.”
Tharaiyelagh clutched the treaty tight against his chest. He wanted to bare his teeth at Lord Tempest’s easy familiarity. His pulse hammered in his ears, and his throat tightened. He forced a smile. “Welcome, Lord Tempest.” Did his voice sound strained? Did he imagine it?
Lord Baleirithys turned his smirk on both of them. “Come,” he said. “We have work to do. Tempest, you remember what I told you of the Hawk and Raven Clans?”
Lord Baleirithys led the way out the door, his son at his side. Tharaiyelagh trudged along, listening halfheartedly while his prince explained recent developments, culminating in the precious treaty. How much attention Lord Baleirithys devoted to teaching his Mortal-Born child!
In all fairness, he had spent as much energy on teaching Tharaiyelagh, and not all that long ago.
Lord Tempest glanced over his shoulder, and he winked. Tharaiyelagh stiffened. What was that? Mockery? An attempt at friendliness? Some unknown human signal?
Not knowing what else to do, Tharaiyelagh decided to fall back on decorum. He returned the smile, and he inclined his head.
He would make Lord Baleirithys proud.
He wanted little else.
Dusk came early when a storm rode the western winds. Purple twilight dragged Atchi’s shadow down to merge with the stone beneath his feet. He crouched, his ears pricked forward, listening.
The two guards below him were bored. They talked of idle nonsense, of ways to pass the time, of people and places they missed. Atchi had little interest in their conversation. Only one question danced in his brain, a shimmering thread that bounced and twirled, drawing all of his attention:
Why did it take two accomplished warriors to guard one little child?
The rising wind tossed Atchi’s cloak about him. He sank lower, blending with the striated stone of his perch. Something was wrong here. This was no common slavers’ operation.
The two guards paid no mind to their charge, and he ignored them in turn. He seemed to have the run of their little camp, so long as he stayed within its boundaries. Twice he had disappeared into the tent, only to emerge with a new book in his small hands. He looked like a Hawk child, Atchi decided, though he was too young yet for tattoos. What in the name of all Hells could bring a Hawk child to this forgotten place? Where were his kin?
The boy looked up abruptly. Though he surely lacked eyesight keen enough to penetrate the shadows, it felt as though he met Atchi’s searching stare.
A cold little smile drifted across the child’s lips. Atchi felt an echoing smile on his own face.
Game on.