I really hate it when inanimate objects call my name.
Tempest tilted his head to the side, studying the crystal at his feet. The crimson liquid within sloshed gently, thickly, and faint whispers drifted up to him. Take the stone. Take the throne. His nose crinkled in disdain. Who would ever want to be king? He had passed on the opportunity more than once before.
He felt the weight of everyone’s attention on him as he stooped to pick up the crystal. Tharaiyelagh’s brother Ragheiyont had had it concealed in his own flesh, so it had to be safe to handle. About the size of a grapefruit, the crystal fit neatly in his palm, the thick red liquid drawing his eye, almost mesmerizing in its motion. He held it up to the light, inspecting it. The whispers grew louder, calling to him, begging, bargaining. Just one taste. Just a little power.
He knew better than to trust bargaining.
“Surrender the gem.”
For the first time, the angel Seikhiel sounded the way Tempest had imagined him from Akieryon’s descriptions. Imperious. Threatening. Tempest arched an eyebrow. “What, so you can put it somewhere else for this one to steal it?” Though he tilted his head toward Ragheiyont, he never broke eye contact with this Demonslayer, this figure out of Akieryon’s nightmares. He gave the stone a gentle swirl, emboldening it to entice him anew.
How fanciful a thought.
“You don’t know how dangerous—”
Tempest scoffed. “This?” He held the crystal aloft. “I can’t imagine why anyone would think a stone full of blood locked away in a supposedly unbreachable vault might be dangerous.” Oh, no. He seemed to be catching the dragonish habit of grandstanding. He shrugged, forcing the tension to ease out of his shoulders. “Then again, that might be a bit of a tipoff.” He nodded toward the cat Luccan, who stood blinking as though just waking. The black flames were gone from his dread blade, extinguished—no, eaten by the crystal in Tempest’s hand.
Take the stone. Take the throne.
Tempest gave the crystal a withering look. He knew just what to do with troublesome objects.
“Stop!” someone shouted, too late. Tempest had already focused his magic, wrapping tendrils of energy around the stone in his palm. It vibrated, first resonating with his magic, then resisting him. As it had with the black fire, it began to feed.
Well, that was annoying.
Tempest called up a second type of magic, pulling power from the stones beneath his feet, from the air around him, even from Baleirithys’ snare spell. The crystal shuddered once, then stilled. Tempest thought for a moment that he had a proper grip on it, and then it made a groaning noise.
He almost dropped the troublesome thing. Instead, he firmed up his hold on the crystal, both physically and magically. It trembled again. Then it began to emit light.
Well that was different.
Tempest wondered if he should raise defensive barriers to protect everyone from the stone’s unknown magic, but he only had a moment to consider it before the light from the stone resolved into two figures. No, resolved was too strong a word, as they seemed incapable of settling on a set shape. They wavered between every conceivable species, every gender, all ages, all sizes. Tempest’s eyes ached with trying to follow it all. A quick glance around the hall proved that everyone now watched the ghostly projection in their midst.
Luccan pulled a face. “Wrath,” he said, “Mercy. How delightful.”
Seikhiel nudged him. “Show some respect.”
“Respect?” Luccan bared his teeth at the angel beside him. “Where were the Intangibles when Wrath’s own child was betrayed and murdered?”
“Luccan.” Seikhiel pitched his voice low, as though to soothe. “No one could have saved Bel.”
“Ah—that’s not entirely correct.”
The voice came out of the crystal, but one of the two wavering figures held up a hand. The other, lip curled in a snarl, fell to pacing. Luccan advanced, looking fit to strike a figure made of light.
“Speak plain, Mercy. If you can.”
The crystal in Tempest’s hand sighed. “Look,” it—Mercy—said. “I know you would prefer vengeance, but the one who wronged Bel is long dead. Now at last there is an opportunity to put things to rights.” When Luccan uttered a low growl, the projection of Mercy raised both hands. “Wouldn’t you like to be the one to rescue Bel?”
Luccan’s head snapped back, his ears pricked forward, and Warbringer slipped from his fingers. It clattered to the floor with a voice like thunder, a shockwave that Tempest felt all the way to his marrow. Luccan swallowed twice before he managed in a whisper, “Bel is alive?”
“If you can call it life,” snapped a second voice from the stone.
“We must be brief. The Spheres tremble.” The flickering shade of Mercy cast an accusatory glance at Wrath. “We’ve drawn you here with false signs.”
“That prophecy thingie is fake?”
Ignoring Ragheiyont’s outburst, Mercy continued. “Thrice three must go. Interspace is where Bel may be found, bound within a—” The image wavered, the voice faded, and Tempest realized that his own strength flagged. He reached for more sources of magic to sustain the greedy connection.
“A tree,” Ragheiyont said, his hoarse whisper carrying through the great hall. “He’s bound within a tree.”
The shade of Mercy nodded. “A sacred cedar. Please. Free my—” With a crackle, both shades vanished. Tempest glared down at the stone in his hand.
Everyone began shouting at once.
The guardsmen returned to Castle Seyzharel as the first faint fingers of dawn painted the horizon. They brought a prisoner with them, a sullen, silent king. On the plain below, the Raven Clan had fallen back to escort the funeral procession from a respectful distance. Chaighan smiled at a job well done.
“You.” Captain Thanasc’s voice knifed through his satisfaction. “Go. To. Enci.”
Chaighan fell into a sulk. Not only would he receive no thanks for his diligence, now he knew Enci would chastise him for his escape earlier. Weariness seeped a little deeper into him with every obedient step he took. Honestly, all he wanted was sleep, but he had little doubt he would first have to endure a lengthy examination. He had been rebellious enough for one evening, he supposed.
Rebellious enough for a decade.
Something tugged him toward the great hall, but he wrenched himself away, onward to Enci’s infirmary. His throat tightened a little more with every step. Out of habit, his gaze turned downward. Steeling himself for the inevitable scolding, he pushed the door open.
“Your king is well pleased with you.”
Chaighan’s head snapped upward, and he frowned at the Hawk prince. “Lord Baleirithys is here?” he said, hoping the boy misspoke. His king slept. His king would remain asleep. When he received no reply beyond a shrug, Chaighan lowered his weapons to the floor beside the nearest cot.
“Prince Iyahi-Ila is still halfway in his visions.” Enci unfolded himself out of a chair in the farthest corner. “I gave him a rather powerful tonic for the pain.”
“Prince Iyahi-Ila is a seer.” Was it safe to give a seer a tonic for pain? With a soft groan, Chaighan untied his sash and shrugged out of his uniform coat. “He told me of an impending attack on his people.”
Enci glanced down at the two lonely arrows lying in Chaighan’s quiver. “I see you made good use of the information.” He somehow moved swiftly without giving any appearance of hurrying. “How are you feeling? Any more pain? Faintness?”
The cot sank beneath Chaighan’s weight as he sat. Briefly, he considered lying, just to be released back to his regular duties. Back to his own bed. But Enci would find out, probably when Captain Thanasc asked after him. Chaighan drew a deep breath. “I…yes. On the battlefield.” As Enci’s brow furrowed in concern, Chaighan described the incident in as much detail as he could manage, leaving out only the voice in his head. Enci listened, all concern and concentration, until he lapsed into silence.
“And now?” the healer prompted, his voice gentle.
Chaighan considered. “Tired,” he decided, his gaze falling to his hands, clasped in his lap. “I think I could sleep for a week.”
Enci felt for the pulse in Chaighan’s upper wing joint. “Get some rest,” he said, apparently satisfied with what he observed. “I’ll check on you in a few hours.” He turned away, but not before Chaighan saw a shadow of worry cross his face.
He would think more on that later. First, sleep. Chaighan settled back on the cot, but as his mind began to drift, he felt someone watching him. He opened one eye.
The Hawk prince sat upright, staring across at him. Slowly, the boy smiled.
“You will receive your reward,” Iyahi-Ila intoned, managing to sound unreasonably sinister.
Chaighan lay awake, staring at the ceiling until the morning sun streamed in through the infirmary windows.
“That thing was in my arm!” wailed Ragheiyont. “There’s people in it!”
Seikhiel pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Not people,” he corrected, with an undue amount of patience. “Intangibles, and only their blood. They were able to communicate once the blood connected with Prince Tempest’s magic.”
“What are Intangibles?”
A chancellor really ought to know already. The prince of the Second Sphere spoke up, sparing Seikhiel another use of his schoolteacher voice. “Ideas that have gained sapience. They mostly keep to themselves in the wilds of the First Sphere.” Van-Dal eyed the Heartstone with distrust. Sensible of him. “Mostly.”
“Get it out of my sight,” commanded Baleirithys. Tempest shrugged, and in an instant, a darkness gathered in his hand, enwrapping the Heartstone, concealing it. As they all watched, the darkness dwindled, and the stone with it, until both had condensed into a black opal smaller than Tempest’s thumb. Atchi’s tail flicked with interest, and he edged nearer to the young prince.
“How did you shrink it without awakening it again?”
“I didn’t shrink it,” Tempest said, explaining almost nothing. “I moved it somewhere else.” He contemplated the black opal, then looked to his demon sire. Slowly, a smirk spread across his face. Lifting the opal, he set it into his brow, a dark mirror of the blue gem Baleirithys wore.
“I see we have to upgrade your status,” remarked Seikhiel, always thinking of work. Luccan’s lip curled, but he squashed his annoyance. He had too recently lost control, and he would have to wear the shame of it for some time to come. He stole a sidelong glance at Ragheiyont, who looked every bit as intrigued as Atchi. Thieves. Impossible, the lot of them.
The angel Akieryon stepped between Seikhiel and Tempest. His chin lifted in defiance, though his voice trembled. “You will not harm Tempest.”
Poor Seikhiel looked like the younger angel had just told him he smelled like pungent cheese. “I… had no intention of doing so.” His hand lifted, paused, then fell back to his side. “Akieryon.” The muscles in Seikhiel’s jaw tightened as he forced himself to maintain eye contact. “I’m sorry.”
Luccan could dwell on Seikhiel’s apology, could savor his discomfort, but he had more pressing matters on his mind. This Akieryon had clearly been a student of Seikhiel’s. He knew the classification system the Demonslayers used, knew that they never raised arms against demons that they deemed little threat, demons like Ragheiyont. So Akieryon’s concern for Tempest? That raised the hair on the back of Luccan’s neck.
Just how gifted a mage was this young Mortal-Born?
“Sorry!” repeated the Soul-Stealer, bristling with indignation, but Baleirithys intruded, smoothly stepping all over his outrage.
“Friends. Guests—invited or otherwise.” He swept one hand toward Tempest, toward the place where the apparitions of Wrath and Mercy had stood. “I sincerely doubt any of us want Intangibles intruding on our affairs. If these beings speak true—”
“I’m going,” Ragheiyont blurted, the urgency in his voice shattering the prince’s pretty speech. Baleirithys glared. “I’m gettin’ Bel out. Alone, if I must.”
A chill of dread gripped Luccan, squeezing hasty words from him. “You can’t go into Interspace. You’re only a kit.”
Making a noise of derision, Seikniel turned an appraising eye on Ragheiyont. “He’s not a child, Luccan. I send soldiers his age into battle.”
“It shouldn’t be our problem that you’re a terrible person,” Luccan shot back. He looked to Atchi, but instead of offering support, the fox shook his head.
“Sorry, but I have to side with Seikka on this. If it’s to be a rescue, two thieves are better than one.”
It mollified Luccan somewhat to see Baleirithys growing still more vexed at having lost control of the conversation.
“What about three thieves?”
Everyone blinked at the little chancellor. Baleirithys’ expression melted from annoyance, darkening like he urgently wanted to stab something. “Tharaiyelagh,” he said, not quite a question.
“I’m… I’m not a very good thief,” he amended hastily. “But I do have other skills, and I can’t just wait here wondering if my wretched brother has managed to get himself maimed or killed.” That last he addressed directly to his lord, more of a plea than a statement. Baleirithys gave a rather melodramatic sigh.
“Tempest—”
“I’ll watch over him,” volunteered the prince of the Second Sphere. Tharaiyelagh’s face flamed crimson. Baleirithys held Tempest’s eye, and Tempest nodded his response to his sire’s unspoken request. Mage and assassin. The little chancellor would be well guarded.
Luccan glanced around, counting. Three thieves, two princes, Seikhiel and himself. As he opened his mouth to say they needed two more, Akieryon and the Soul-Stealer silently attached themselves to Tempest’s side.
Baleirithys passed a hand over his face. “Fine.” Judging by his tone, he meant the opposite. “Tonight we feast. Tomorrow you depart on this fool’s errand.” Black as coal and twice as hard, his gaze settled on the young Hawk king. “Old friend, you and I have much to discuss.”
Kiile-Kili inclined his head in mute acknowledgment.