Interesting.
I had no idea the Formed Ones could die.
For my part, I suppose I could die. Theoretically. Ideas can die, and yet not die. Not here, though. This tree, my prison, sustains my life indefinitely. I was placed here quite on purpose. My betrayer knew better than to try to fight me.
You’ve made me curious, my young friend. With Apollyon gone, who maintains the Void? Who keeps the souls where they belong?
“What are you doing?”
Szearbhyn picked himself up out of the mud and brushed ineffectually at the smear of green muck in his sleeve. “I’m finding my brother,” he snapped. “Obviously.”
“Are you really?” Atchi raked his gaze over Szearbhyn’s ruined clothes. “It looks like you’re trying to find the lowest point in the swamp.”
With a low growl, Szearbhyn sprang into the air again. The mist swirled with the smoke that seemed to enwrap his wings, and for a moment it looked as though he might make some progress. Then the nearest cypress reached its branches out and lashed him back out of the sky. He splashed down with a dense plop. Luccan sighed.
“We’re not making any progress this way.” Grimacing in distaste, he reached down and hauled Szearbhyn out of the muck. “Your brother is a sensible person?”
Szearbhyn nodded.
“Then he will be on his way to Bel’s prison.” Luccan gave him a little shake before releasing him. “I suggest we do the same.” He wiped the sludge from his hand. “Atchi?”
“This way.” Without a backward glance, Atchi veered off to the left. Luccan stomped after him, trying in vain to find dry ground, but Szearbhyn balked.
“How can you know that?”
Atchi stopped on a muddy knoll that nudged its way out of the swamp sludge. He rolled his head to one side, and his ears flicked. “Because,” he said with exaggerated patience that spoke of underlying peril, “this is the only path that will not devour us.”
That sounded charming. Luccan thumbed the hilt of Warbringer and shook some murky green tendrils from one foot. The sooner they were free of this swamp, the happier he would feel.
Seikhiel and Van-Dal stood against the cliff wall, talking in low tones, and Ragheiyont decided not to waste his energy eavesdropping. He sat at the edge of the ledge, kicking his feet in the empty air while the terror bird grumbled in frustration below. Van-Dal had fashioned him a sling to hold his injured arm close against his chest, and it throbbed painfully. Soon they would have to move on. Soon he would need blood.
His eyes slid closed, and before he had quite meant to, he let his mind wander back to the problem of the barrier. It hummed away at the fringes of his awareness, tantalizing him. He had never before encountered such an obstacle. If he could not best it, surely he would die.
The other two continued their conversation, quite unaware of the heat rising in Ragheiyont’s blood. As his awareness threaded deeper into the barrier, he no longer heard their voices. They existed as mere energy in the periphery of his focus.
Seikhiel shifted his weight, and the barrier pulsed in response. Ragheiyont stumbled to his feet and lurched unseeing across the short distance to the angel. The fog in his head cleared a little, enough for him to register Seikhiel’s surprise.
“What—”
“Shh.” Ragheiyont pushed him closer to the barrier. “Good lockpicks don’t talk.”
Ragheiyont worked quickly, his hand still resting on Seikhiel’s shoulder as he drew off a little of his bright golden energy. The barrier shuddered as he threaded it between the fine filaments of magic. Then, without so much as a whimper, it yielded.
“Got it!” Ragheiyont crowed. He pulled Seikhiel through into darkness, and Van-Dal followed at their heels.
The passage beyond felt cool and dry. A light flared from behind, and Ragheiyont glanced over his shoulder. Van-Dal held one hand up. A tiny globe of light hovered above his fingers, illuminating the narrow passage for a few paces ahead. Ragheiyont nodded. For himself, he would have to conserve his magic until he could feed.
“You mean blood.”
“Well, yeah, of course,” Ragheiyont said, “but I dunno where I’ll get any good stuff ’round here, and…” And when had he started voicing his thoughts? “Ah…” His cheeks warmed despite the cool air. “Am I babbling?”
“A little bit.” Seikhiel sounded amused. “Don’t worry about it. If you’re babbling, we know you’re not going into shock.”
Ragheiyont flexed his fingers inside the bandages. A fresh wave of pain shot up his arm, and he forced a laugh. “Sure, jo. A great loss, right?”
Behind him, Van-Dal made a soft sound of displeasure. Ragheiyont turned a lopsided grin on Seikhiel. “Say, jo, when did I start to hallucinate?”
Seikhiel stopped and turned him toward Van-Dal’s light, gripping his chin and tilting his face this way and that. “Why do you say that?” he demanded, his voice terse. His fingertips found Ragheiyont’s pulse, and he frowned.
“Uh… because I annoyed him by being mean about me.” Ragheiyont rolled his eyes toward Van-Dal, who scowled at them both.
A flicker of horror crossed Seikhiel’s face. “Do you truly not know the value of your own life?”
“Well, I think my life is pretty valuable, but I never expect anyone else to agree.”
“Seyzharel dragons are almost extinct,” Van-Dal said, his tone gathering chill as he brushed past them. “Surely even you know that.” He held the light high, examining the cavern ahead.
The remark stung a little, perhaps more than it might have before Luccan had explained to him that young dragons ought to be raised in large family groups. Ragheiyont tried to swallow the unexpected ache in his chest, but it only came back as bitterness. “Yeah, that’s the world I have to live in, jo. You just visit.”
“Don’t call me that,” Van-Dal growled. He had stopped walking, and the tense set of his wings just showed by the dim light he held.
Ragheiyont considered arguing, mostly out of petulance. How much would he have to rely on his two companions? “I’ll… try,” he conceded instead. He would certainly slip up, just as he did with Luccan.
“Steady there.”
Ragheiyont hadn’t noticed that he swayed until Seikhiel’s arm steadied him. He blinked into the darkness, considering. Had he expended too much energy in opening the barrier? His hand throbbed, and he found it difficult to think.
“You need rest.” Seikhiel looked past him, to Van-Dal, who nodded. The three of them sat down, and Ragheiyont eased back against the cool stone wall of the cavern.
He wondered that they had not yet grown impatient with him.
The ground was definitely growing hotter. Tharaiyelagh tested it with his toes as Akieryon distributed rations to all of them. Of course Thrin had seen them provided with the very best foodstuffs that would keep well in a travel pack, but still Tharaiyelagh longed for fresh pastry and a good cup of blood.
Well. He had gone and gotten himself spoiled, hadn’t he?
A shoulder bumped against his own, and Tharaiyelagh blinked in surprise at his younger prince. “You’re smiling,” Lord Tempest said, and Tharaiyelagh could almost swear that something amused him.
“I suppose I am.” Blushing, Tharaiyelagh focused on the bread in his hand. “This is… a lot closer to what I’d expected my life to be like. When I was younger. And stupid.”
“Before Baleirithys, you mean.”
The heat in Tharaiyelagh’s face rose faster than the heat beneath their feet. “Yes.”
Lord Tempest’s shoulder bumped against him again. “I refuse to believe that you were ever stupid.”
“I got caught,” Tharaiyelagh objected. “Thrice. That’s pretty stupid, you know.”
“No. It just wasn’t the work you were suited to do.” With that, Tempest drifted away into the thick mist to murmur a few words to Akieryon. Tharaiyelagh tried to digest the comment, but he found it as unappetizing as the bread in his hand.
He thought of his new life at Castle Seyzharel. He thought of all the gentle encouragement he had received there, of how everyone had celebrated with him when he had excelled. He thought of late nights and early mornings and dusty books too heavy to hold. Of absent caresses and soft scent marks on his cheek. His fingertips strayed to his shoulder, to the bite mark there, fresh, yet already almost healed. It hummed with a subtle magic, even at so great a distance as this.
I only want to make you proud of me.
For a wildly fanciful moment, Tharaiyelagh imagined that he could hear a reply.
Whyever would you think I wasn’t?
Baleirithys blinked, and the audience chamber came into sharper focus. Drawn out of his reverie, he nodded to the pair of visitors who lingered just outside the door. Like guilty youngsters caught at some mischief.
“Chaighan. Thrin.” To the pastry chef he added, “You, at least, ought to know you are always welcome in my presence.”
Thrin flushed with pleasure, as though his lord had offered him the very highest of praise. Rather, it had been Thrin who had risked himself day after day to sustain his young prince. Long ago. Baleirithys forced the bitter memories from his thoughts. These were his people. He lived for them.
“How fares your father?”
Surprisingly, so mundane a question caused Thrin to fumble for words. “He’s, ah… well, my prince, that’s… that’s rather a matter we must discuss.” Privately. He need not utter the word aloud. Baleirithys lifted one hand, and the sentry at the door stepped out.
“Very well,” he said, leaning forward in his seat. “Speak frankly. What troubles you?”
“The Princess has begun to crawl,” Thrin blurted all in a rush, as though delivering terrible news.
Baleirithys started out of his seat, overcome for a moment. Someone had left the tiny child for him to raise. No one had seen who, but the mysterious benefactor had left a single white feather tucked into her blanket. She had been mere days old, and now… now she could move about the castle on her own power? Truly miraculous.
He caught the look of concern on Thrin’s face, glanced toward Chaighan, and sank back, understanding. Once, long ago, Thrin’s father had objected to things the unconscious abomination that was Baleirithys’ father had intended to do to the young demons at the castle. His reward was injuries Enci could not heal. “Your father can’t keep up with her,” Baleirithys guessed. Thrin looked miserable, but said nothing.
“My lord, if I may?” Chaighan ventured, then lapsed into uncertain silence. Baleirithys supposed he still expected censure for the liberties he had taken two nights ago.
“Please.” Baleirithys gestured his encouragement. “All of your ideas thus far have been good ones.” Chaighan’s swift action had saved the Hawk Clan from heavy losses, and Baleirithys trusted him now more than ever.
Visibly, Chaighan gathered his courage. “If my lord likes, I can fetch someone who… well, she raised me, my prince, until I was almost fifty. She’s no dragon, she’s, ah, Mortal-Born. Brought from the Fifth Sphere, but… but she could help?”
Baleirithys drummed his claws on the arm of his chair, and he just stopped himself from glancing to the empty place at his right hand. Chaighan would not endanger the Princess. None of his people would. Slowly, he nodded. “Have Yrich draw up a contract of employment. Do not let him give you trouble about it. Go at once, as soon as you have the offer in hand. You may bring one guard with you, but keep your mission to yourself.”
Thrin nudged Chaighan, who flushed and executed a shaky bow.
Somehow, this matter meant a great deal to him.
Ragheiyont slept with his limbs all curled in against his body, his wings shielding him, hiding him. He might have been an infant yet in its egg membrane, if not for the size of him. Was he truly at ease in this unknown place, or did the injury to his arm exhaust him so much already?
“He needs to feed,” Van-Dal said to Seikhiel, keeping his voice pitched low, careful not to wake the subject of their conversation.
“Sooner rather than later.” The low light showed a grim expression on Seikhiel’s face. “His kind are prone to anemia, aren’t they?”
“He’s going to be very ill.” They both avoided stating the obvious, that Ragheiyont would die if the two of them did not strive to sustain him. An odd little ache settled in Van-Dal’s chest, and when he examined his thoughts on the matter, he found himself shying from the expectation of Tharaiyelagh’s grief. No. He had to keep the brash young thief alive. “I have secrets in my blood that I must not share.” To do so would require permission from his king, permission he could not secure. “I expect—”
“We keep him alive,” Seikhiel interrupted, his tone firm. “I defied orders to be here. I did it because I could not stand by a second time while Seyzharel fell. Even this one life could be the difference between wasting my effort and…” His words trailed away into the dark, and his gaze had gone unfocused, his thoughts turned inward. Van-Dal knew that look from the haunted stares of soldiers who had endured nightmares beyond reckoning.
“Are you willing to feed him, then?” he prompted softly.
Seikhiel looked down at the sleeping thief. “It’s… the right thing to do,” he said with the gravity of someone who had sometimes failed to make the right choice.
Van-Dal nodded. “Given your age,” he said, “it ought to sustain him better anyway.”
Shifting his weight, Seikhiel glanced away. “Actually, my age presents a danger to him.” Something bitter and angry twitched the corners of his mouth downward. “If word gets back to Heaven that he has consumed my blood, no one will be able to protect our young Kleptomancer.”
“Then we tell no one.” Van-Dal offered his hand, a pact of secrecy. Seikhiel clasped it with a grip firmed by desperation, then turned away to watch over Ragheiyont.
Van-Dal studied him through the darkness, wondering what could frighten the most fearsome warrior in Heaven.