Break the skin. Peel away the superficial. Release potential. That’s one of the fundamentals of most magics.
Tempest strode down the corridor with purpose, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. He understood Baleirithys’ concerns, putting the safety of any hostages above the desire to crush those who endangered them in the first place. Still, he chafed at the instructions to fetch back the Hawk prince instead of taking swift—and messy—action against the Raven king.
He probably had time to do both.
He rounded a corner, and he stumbled over a bit of luck—a uniformed guard, on duty and ready to help him. “Perfect,” he said. “Chaighan, isn’t it? I need you to accompany me on a brief—Ah, are you well?” As Tempest spoke, Chaighan had stumbled, paled, and sagged against the corridor wall. “You look ill.”
“The wards!” Chaighan gasped, and Tempest appreciated how he did not waste anyone’s time with prevarication or posturing. “One of our own is under attack!” He wobbled upright and, snatching brazenly at Tempest’s sleeve, raced down the corridor.
“Are all castle guards attuned to the wards?” Tempest wondered aloud, but Chaighan failed to answer him. He dragged his younger prince along, tripping up mostly-hidden service stairs and out through a narrow archway. There he paused, glancing at the doors lining the circular landing. Guest chambers. Chaighan selected one, strode forward, and knocked.
The prince from the Second Sphere yanked the door open.
“Yes?” Van-Dal arched an eyebrow at the both of them, and he continued the business of calmly fastening a fresh shirt beneath his wing joints. An angry red slash ran across his chest and vanished beneath the black fabric.
Chaighan flushed all the way to his hairline. “Ah, sorry for—”
“This place stinks of magic,” Tempest interrupted. It burned in his nostrils, like star anise and turpentine. Something abrupt, something that could rend and ruin. He peered past Van-Dal, and he saw a slim form bundled in blankets, placed with care on what looked like a chaise built to accommodate wings. “What happened here? Is he hurt?”
Chaighan followed the direction of his gaze, and he gasped. “Chancellor!” He trembled with the effort of not rushing through the doorway.
“I just saw Tharaiyelagh ten minutes ago,” Tempest pressed. “What happened?”
Van-Dal gave him a tight smile. “There was a problem,” he said. “I resolved it.” His demeanor softened as he glanced toward Tharaiyelagh. “The little chancellor should be on his feet again in an hour or two.”
Tempest wanted to trust Van-Dal. After all, he had enough work to do already. He tried to take a less aggressive stance. “My father trusts you,” he said, unable to keep the note of caution from his voice. To his surprise, Van-Dal chuckled.
“I should hope so,” he said, and offered no further explanation. Instead, he said, “My dear young prince, skilled though you are, I’m afraid this matter is… somewhat beyond your experience. Leave the little chancellor in my hands, and he shall return to you in excellent condition.”
At that moment, Tharaiyelagh stirred beneath his swaddling of blankets. He sighed, and he mumbled, “Y’need a thief.”
“A thief?” Tempest repeated, but Van-Dal blocked his advance.
“I’d listen to him,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “His mind roams the veil. He knows your work better than you do right now. Go.” His words came nearly as a growl. “Find a thief to help you.”
Tempest took a slow step back, and the door swung closed. Well. A thief. Yes, a thief could help him free the hostages with minimal bloodshed. He really ought to have thought of that himself. He looked to Chaighan, who watched him with an expectant eye.
“Is he trustworthy?”
Chaighan shrugged. “As far as I’ve seen, yes. I’ve heard that Lord Baleirithys trusts Prince Van-Dal even with his life.”
It would have to be good enough, for his time ran short. Nodding, Tempest beckoned for the guard to follow him.
Ragheiyont eyed the cliffs ahead. “Reckon we can’t just take the lift,” he said. “Though you bein’ Makesh oughta gain admittance easy enough.” When Luccan answered him with nothing but a scowl, Ragheiyont sighed. “Better take the back way, then. See that fissure?” He pointed, and Luccan raised one linen-wrapped hand to shade his eyes.
“That tiny crack off to the left?”
Ragheiyont grinned. “That’s the one. There’s a stairway hidden there.” For all that the wingless races called dragonkind snobs, the royals had provided several ways for the wingless to access their castle. “It’ll take us near half a day more to go ‘round that way, but that’ll get us there under cover of darkness anyway.”
Luccan nodded. His gaze inscrutable, he stared up at the castle. Spires sprang up from the cliff face, uneven and tapered like the teeth of a predator, but graceful arches connected some of them to each other. An outer wall that seemed more decoration than necessity ringed the towers, the white quartz shining in the morning sun.
“Why does a castle on a cliff require a wall?”
Ragheiyont preened at the question, for he knew every possible answer. “It’s not what that wall keeps out,” he said. “It’s what it keeps in. There’s hematite rings set all along the edges of it.”
Luccan nodded. “Wards. More pragmatic than the usual territorial impulse.”
Ragheiyont knew his companion tried to bait him. Fighting back the inclination to respond, he trudged onward. “We’ll veer wide to the east,” he said. “Anyone watching from the castle won’t think we mean to approach. Once night falls, we’ll cut back for the stairs.”
The moss-grass crunched beneath their steps as they strayed from the dusty roads. Ragheiyont tried to imagine the ending of their errand, his life returning to normal, to the way it was before he had ceased noticing the ache of his tired feet. He had never walked so much in all his years, but now, beyond all expectations to the contrary, walking had become quite ordinary. He tried to think of flying to all his destinations, of leaving Luccan’s company and moving on to the next job.
He didn’t want to imagine it.
If pressed, Ragheiyont may have admitted to a certain ache of loneliness. Even at his most taciturn, Luccan made for a better companion than the sickness buzzing in his veins. But solitude was the price of his freedom, the cost of his failures, the future charging toward him. He had learned to make the best of it. No turning back now. After all, he had work to do.
They had best get on with it.
Tempest had seen little of the Fourth Sphere outside of Castle Seyzharel. Now, riding the cold winds above the cliffs, he began to understand why. Jagged peaks and barren plateaus stuttered away to the north, interrupted by the occasional gash of a canyon. To the south, olive-toned plains rolled like a placid sea, the occasional swell rising in a paltry mockery of its northern neighbors. Faint ribbons of roads twined like rivers between the hills, and in the distance he counted only three or four towns. Humans would have filled such a landscape with vibrant life. Here, everything felt oddly still. Frozen.
Lifeless.
His companion gave a short, sharp whistle—a sound intended to carry over the noise of the wind—and he banked westward. Tempest followed, and in a moment he saw what Chaighan saw: movement on the roads below. Two separate roads, both maybe a day’s walk from the cliffs. Chaighan made for the nearer traveler, though out of pragmatism or misguided hope Tempest could not say. A strong tailwind pushed them down away from the cliffs, hastening them on their errand. Soon they dropped through a wisp of cloud, angling toward the road. They would overshoot their destination, a hooded traveler walking with a small boy at his side. But how? Their trajectory had been perfect.
They had come nearly abreast of the traveler before Tempest sensed the twinge of magic. A spell to fold the distance, or perhaps to speed their steps. If not for the magic, Tempest would have left the pair to their travels. The magic tasted of stone and shadows, the chill and the dark. It smelled of secrets.
It brought to mind Tharaiyelagh’s words.
With a single thought, Tempest dropped the magical equivalent of an anchor. The invisible tether snapped taut, pitching him about in a tight circle. He angled his wings to slow himself, and he spiraled down to greet the travelers.
The hooded man watched him with obvious amusement as he landed at a stumbling run on the dusty road. The child shrank back, though out of fear of dragonkind or merely put off by this one’s odd behavior he might never discern.
“Well met,” the hooded man said, his voice almost too soft, like the whispering of a breeze. He tilted his head. “How may we serve the new prince of Seyzharel?”
Tempest had never felt more aware of his hair, once black as a raven’s wing, now growing in crimson at the roots. Before he could reply, however, the child peered up at him in unabashed curiosity.
“Are you really Mortal-Born?”
Tempest smiled down at the child. “Indeed. Until very recently, I was human.”
“Father says Mortals don’t deserve the world they live in,” the boy said. Before Tempest could take offense, he added, “Father’s an idiot, so I’ll probably like you.”
Tempest laughed, and the hooded man gave the child a gentle shove. Judging by the boy’s grin, this was not his father. Glancing up, Tempest saw Chaighan doubling back to join them. “I find myself requiring the services of a thief,” he said, wishing he had time to explain himself less bluntly. Or perhaps such a request always called for bluntness.
“Interesting.” The hooded man drew the word out, as though savoring a sip of finest wine. “And why does the young prince believe he has found a thief?”
Tempest wondered that the same subject had come up twice in less than an hour. “The smell of your magic. It’s steeped in shadows.”
The man’s head snapped up, and his hood slipped a little, showing narrow jaw, pointed nose, and wisps of silvery hair. “That’s not a Seyzharel skill.”
“No,” Tempest agreed. “You’ll be well compensated.”
“I expect no less of dragonkind. What is the task?”
Tempest watched Chaighan’s approach. “The Raven king has several Seyzharel demons in his custody.”
“Easy,” declared the child. “Atchi stole me away from my father’s guards.”
The hooded man, Atchi, gave the boy another shove. “Kayaha, your words are reckless.”
Kayaha offered no apology, opting instead to stare up at Tempest in a cold, still way that felt too familiar. Here was a child raised by monsters. He felt the shadowy fingers of his past graze the back of his neck, raising the fine hairs there.
“My prince!” Chaighan executed a landing far more graceful than Tempest had managed. “What delay is this?”
Really, Tempest appreciated this guard’s direct nature. “I’ve found us a thief,” he said.
“Perhaps.” Tempest felt the weight of Atchi’s gaze, his eyes glittering in the depths of his hood. “Are you willing to take on my young charge here? I was delivering him to either his people or yours, whichever I encountered first.”
Tempest studied the unsettling child. He sported the bluish hair and bronzed skin of the Hawk Clan. “He can come with us,” he found himself saying. Kiile-Kili would know what to do with the boy. Possibly before Tempest began to regret his decision.
“My usual rate applies. I’ll come to the castle to collect my fee.” Atchi gave the boy Kayaha one final nudge. “Prince Tempest will take you the rest of the way to safety. Don’t stab him or anything.”
“I won’t promise that.”
Ignoring Chaighan’s squeak of protest, Tempest knelt to allow Kayaha to get a firm grip on him. The child was honest and brutal and dark on the inside, all of which made him feel more at home than anything yet had in the Fourth Sphere. Let Chaighan worry that the little Hawk boy would indeed stab him. Kayaha served as a timely reminder of his own origins, and a harsh dose of reality, that no matter how he loved his friends, no matter how they loved him, this one solemn child would always understand him better. Tempest stabilized Kayaha with one arm, stretched his wings, and leapt skyward.
The rush of wind tore a gasp from Kayaha’s throat. He clung with bruising force as Tempest banked against the air currents, wheeling toward the other traveler they had seen. This one jogged with long, loping strides, and soon Tempest saw his destination. A low smudge of movement seethed slowly across a hollow in the land: the Hawk Clan, gathered together, marching with purpose.
Tempest whistled a single shrill note. Hoping he had sent an intelligible signal to Chaighan, he whispered a word to the winds, a spell to hasten them on their way. This time, Kayaha made no sound. They sped along, skimming the tops of the strange shrub-like trees, until Tempest saw that they did indeed approach the man they sought. He dipped one wing, swerving around in a sharp arc that cut Kiile-Kili off just as they approached the crest of a ridge. His feet touched the ground, and he skidded to a stop, kicking up clods of spicy-smelling moss and a cloud of dust.
“Prince Kiile-Kili!” Tempest called to him. “Forgive the intrusion.”
Kayaha released his grip on Tempest and hit the ground like a disjointed collection of doll limbs. He bounced back up to his feet, dusted himself off, and stared his awkward predatory stare at the Hawk prince. Chaighan landed behind them, raising far less dust. Kiile-Kili looked the three of them over, then shook his head and continued walking toward his people, toward the haunting songs they sang.
“I must go,” he said. “It’s a funeral.”
Kayaha tugged at Tempest’s sleeve and whispered loudly, “That means someone died.”
For the first time, Kiile-Kili took notice of the child. “I don’t know you,” he said, a small frown creasing his brow.
Kayaha stepped forward, straightened his spine, and placed one small hand over his heart. “I am Kayaha-Aki, fifth prince of the Hawk Clan.”
Tempest gave the boy a nudge, much in the same way Atchi had done. “You might have mentioned that.”
“Father hates you,” Kayaha continued, ignoring Tempest in favor of sharing gleeful gossip with his elder brother. “Calls you his greatest failure.”
“I’m honored,” Kiile-Kili said dryly.
“So I probably like you,” Kayaha concluded, with a nod of granite-like certainly in his own reasoning.
A shout rang out from below them, and Tempest glanced down the slope of the ridge. Two figures had broken from the rest of the Hawk Clan, and they struggled to climb the steepest part of the hillside. One of them carried a large bundle clutched tight against his chest. “They’ve spotted us,” Tempest grumbled to Chaighan, who merely shrugged as though his life overflowed with such inevitabilities.
Tempest watched the approach of the others while Kiile-Kili grappled with the revelation that he had another brother. “Where was he hiding you?”
“With the slavers,” Kayaha said, shrugging and making a vague gesture southward. “Something about not wanting me to turn out like you.” Tempest noted with some satisfaction that Kiile-Kili seemed to find his littlest brother unsettling. He kept breaking eye contact, looking to Tempest and Chaighan as though for an explanation.
“Kiile!”
He turned at the sound of his name, and he pushed past Tempest, running to greet the newcomers as they gained the top of the ridge. “Shiili!” he called. “Tahiye! Come and meet—” The sight of the bundle brought him up short. Tempest edged closer.
It stirred.
“Kii-le…” it wheezed, and Tempest saw that the tallest of the Hawk princes held another child, this one a little older than Kayaha, perhaps eleven or twelve years old by human reckoning.
“Iyahi.” Kiile’s voice broke over the name, and his hands hesitated, reaching for the child but unsure where to touch without hurting. Welts and bruises covered Iyahi’s skin. One of his eyes had swollen shut, and his lips twisted around a bloody gash. “My Iyahi,” Kiile whispered, “what has he done to you?”
“His last.” Iyahi forced the words out with obvious effort. He uncurled one bloodied fist from his chest. When Kiile reached for his hand, Iyahi clumsily dumped something into his open palm. “Saved those… for you,” he rasped.
Kiile-Kili stared, and Tempest peered around to see what he held. A pair of silver earrings lay in his palm, cast in the shape of wings, the shine of the metal dulled with bloodstains. The king. The Hawk king was dead.
“Shiili?” Kiile-Kili whispered. The brother who did not hold Iyahi nodded.
“Dead,” he confirmed. “Gone. Fork-stabbed, a bloody mess. The songs—”
“Enough.” Kiile-Kili’s fist closed around the earrings. “Forget the funeral.” His eyes burning bright with sudden fury, he rounded on Tempest. “My brother needs a healer.”