Baleirithys glided into the archive, silks billowing behind him, icy gaze scanning the sunlit interior. Nothing changed here, he told himself. Three page boys scurried about, efficiently attending to the whims of the head archivist. Shelves stretched up, up to the vaulted ceiling high above. Tall windows admitted the afternoon sun.
Windows where he regularly stood with Tharaiyelagh.
Baleirithys tried to shake away the thought, but somehow Tharaiyelagh’s presence had imbued every corner of this great sanctum of knowledge. Tharaiyelagh studying. Tharaiyelagh researching some obscure point of court protocol. Tharaiyelagh curled on his favorite window seat with a tome of history balanced across his knees, the sunlight catching his hair just so, gilding his horns. Tharaiyelagh filled the shadows where a frightened child used to dwell, where an unwanted prince hid from the tyrant, where a boy more ghost than dragon schemed and…
Baleirithys swallowed the memories. He stood blinking in a shaft of sunlight. If the pages had paused in their work, to admire him or to wonder at his silent presence, they had resumed their duties by now. He tilted his head back, gazing at a tall shelf that had once offered him particular refuge, and for a moment he almost saw Tharaiyelagh bounding up the ladder, eager to reach a book stowed up near the ceiling. Closing his eyes, Baleirithys drew a slow, deep breath. This would not suit. This all fell perilously close to wallowing.
When he opened his eyes again, Baleirithys had resolved not to fall into self pity, and yet he drifted toward Tharaiyelagh’s favorite window seat. He perched at the edge of the velvet cushion, settling his wings against cool marble and warm glass. From here, he could see the door, as well as several of the tables that occupied the center of the archive. He tried not to let his thoughts drift to the locked mahogany box that contained the seal of state. Tharaiyelagh would return, and soon. He had to. His absence was driving Baleirithys feral.
A flicker of movement and a rustle of fabric caught his attention. Where Tharaiyelagh should have stood, one of the page boys now bowed low before him. Like many half-dragons, this one lacked wings, and yet he still executed the gesture with grace and elegance. Hmm. Baleirithys lifted one hand, and the boy straightened.
“Speak, Tharn,” he said. He should have recognized this page without seeing his face. Ceirithi always dressed him in soft aqua tones to offset the grey-pink of his Raven complexion.
Tharn flushed with pleasure that his prince knew his name. “My lord,” he said, sounding a little breathless, “I wondered, if I may, ah, I should like to bring the Hawk prince something to read?” His blush deepened, and he dug the toes of his slippers into the plush rug beneath him.
The request warmed something in Baleirithys, driving the feral urge a little farther away. Yes, of course, Iyahi-Ila and Tharn were nearly of an age. “I welcome your suggestion.” He gave the boy a serene smile. “You may go immediately, if you’ve already selected something suitable to offer our guest.”
With another bow, Tharn made a hasty retreat. Baleirithys watched him snatch up a small stack of books as he bolted for the door, and for just a moment, the ache inside him eased a bit. He had his people, and they needed him.
It was the same thought that had sustained him throughout his darkest days. The knowledge that he carried Seyzharel’s hope for the future in his person had nourished him while he starved, chained naked to a stone floor, weak and half blind with anemia. The traumatized child he had been stirred within him, for the poor thing was never far. His heart sped its beating, and his throat constricted. Was he breathing? Was he hungry? Famished? The room dimmed, and suddenly he was desperate for light, for air, for blood…
Something at the edge of his awareness snapped taut. Baleirithys grasped blindly at it, and he discovered the thread of magic that anchored Tharaiyelagh. It gave him something to focus on. He held tight to it while he forced his breathing to slow. The thread of magic gave another tug. Falling deeper into the space where spells lived, Baleirithys followed it with caution, hand over imagined hand, never fully releasing his grip on the anchor line.
What are you doing?
Baleirithys almost snapped back into his own headspace in surprise. Whose voice was that? It growled like a landslide, yet shivered over his senses like the finest silk. Where is Tharaiyelagh? He forced himself to concentrate, and an image swam before him. Tharaiyelagh, a little distance away, wrapped up in the coils of a dragon. A serpentine dragon, not one of the dragonfolk of the lower Spheres. It lifted its great, oblong head, and it blinked luminous opalescent eyes—eyes without pupils—at Baleirithys.
Tharaiyelagh is here. Tharaiyelagh is safe. The brush-like tip of the dragon’s tail twitched. So long as he is with me, no harm shall befall him.
Savagery boiled up within Baleirithys, and he bared his teeth and growled, He is mine. The strange dragon chuckled and tossed its big, beautiful head.
Clearly. He shall return to you unharmed. The gate is near. Fear not, Prince Baleirithys. He loves none so well as you.
The dragon stretched its neck forward and gave Baleirithys a gentle nudge with its broad snout. Baleirithys fought to stay, fought to reach Tharaiyelagh, but instead he fell back into himself. He sat blinking in the too-bright sunlight, trying to make sense of the familiar chamber, the rugs and the shelves, the tables and chairs. His pulse had slowed and his breathing had steadied. When had that happened?
Baleirithys inhaled the familiar scent of books and scrolls, of linen paper and of parchments made from split hides. He could stay a little while longer, hidden away, surrounded by Seyzharel’s past, but the past could offer him no refuge now. Without Tharaiyelagh helping him shoulder the burden of restoring his kingdom, Baleirithys had nearly twice as much work to do as usual. If he was honest about it, though, he had to admit to a certain amount of shirking in recent days. His unhelpful, turbulent moods made it so difficult to focus.
He had just persuaded himself to leave the safety of the window seat when a startling sound reached his ears. Laughter. Almost tiptoeing, his wings held close as though they might shelter him, Baleirithys followed the sound. He peered around a shelf full of legal texts, and he saw two heads bent together in study. Gavi sat with Yrich—no, not Yrich. That easy smile could only belong to Laraghn, though the two shared the same self, along with a third, an unnamed feral creature who would sooner bite Baleirithys than look at him. As Baleirithys watched, Laraghn picked up a book from the bench beside him and pointed to a passage. Haltingly, Gavi read it aloud. Ah. So Laraghn was helping her learn Dragonish.
With an odd feeling of satisfaction, Baleirithys turned away. Other matters required his attention—now overdue—but at least the newest additions to his household had begun to settle in.
The fenland had risen steadily into plains, and from there the land rolled up into hills. Three weary travelers trudged onward through the afternoon as the sun seemed to hover overhead, its position unchanged for hours. Footsore and surly, they had long since stopped trying to count the time as it passed, if pass it did. Even Atchi tired of his efforts to needle his companions, and focused merely on their uphill climb.
They crested a ridge, and Luccan came to an abrupt halt. Szearbhyn stumbled to avoid colliding with him, then peered around to see the cause. Below, a vast expanse of water glistened in the sun, obscuring their path.
“No boats,” remarked Atchi, helpful as usual.
Luccan sat down on the grassy slope and stared glumly at the water. Szearbhyn squinted at the shore, looking for a likely place to cross. The water lay still in the sunlight, apparently not part of any ocean. It had to narrow somewhere. Szearbhyn looked to Atchi, who had led them this way.
Atchi blew a breath through his nose. “We need to get a closer look.”
“I am not going in that,” announced Luccan. His lip curled, and his ears fell flat.
A tremor ran down Atchi’s tail, leaving the fur fluffed. “Fine.” His flat tone belied his words. “We shall find another way.”
Raaqiel considered slipping out after his afternoon classes again, but decided against it. The effort outweighed the reward. Instead, he packed up some papers to grade at home, locked his office door, and headed for the main entrance. Seikhiel’s course load had begun to weigh heavily upon him. How long had he been gone now? A week? Ten days? Raaqiel had almost counted them up when his old friend fell into step beside him.
“When are you going to tell me what you know?” Feriel grumbled. He looked weary, worn, as though his inner light had faded almost entirely away. Dull pewter replaced luminous silver. A sudden pang of panic caught at Raaqiel, but he batted it away. Panic was rarely useful.
“If I’m going to tell you everything I know,” he said instead, “we’re going to be here a very long time.”
It worried Raaqiel that Feriel apparently lacked the strength to give him an exasperated glance. “Seikhiel’s whereabouts,” he said, his voice flat, defeated. It stirred an ache in Raaqiel’s chest.
“I can’t tell you where he went.” Raaqiel drew a deep breath. “Not just because I do not know.” He wanted to fix it. He wanted to make Feriel light up the room again, like he used to do.
The past was dead and gone.
They walked in silence for a little while, descending the west stairs together and crossing the marble floor toward the front doors. Raaqiel almost reached for Feriel’s hand, but then a swarm of cadets burst into view. They laughed and chattered their way out into the sunlight beyond the doors, to the freedom of an afternoon with no classes, bearing Raaqiel and Feriel along in their wake. Once, the two of them had been as carefree.
Raaqiel and Feriel paused on the Academy steps, blinking in the sun while the cadets continued onward. Feriel looked away, then heaved a mighty sigh. The prim, professional lines of his posture wilted. “I can’t ask you for information while withholding it.” He dug in his pocket and produced a small golden object, something like a large coin. The image of six interlocking wings gleamed in the sunlight. “Araschel tracked Seikhiel to Seyzharel in the Fourth Sphere. Did you know that’s where he went?”
Staring at the Sigil of the Six Wings, Raaqiel gave a halfhearted shrug. “I don’t think he mentioned it, but I’m not surprised. He wears his guilt over Seyzharel on his sleeve.” So to speak.
Feriel snorted softly. “And he almost never wears sleeves,” he said, echoing Raaqiel’s thought. With great care, he tucked the Sigil away again. “How he lost his Sigil, I can’t imagine. Also, his trail simply vanishes at the castle, which bodes ill for all of us.”
“I hear the prince there is tremendously skilled at portal magics.” Raaqiel watched as a new commotion erupted across the yard. The cadets—more numerous now—flocked around Lord Michael, who basked in the attention. Together, the lot of them drifted toward the gate. “Seikhiel is doing important work,” he insisted, though he had no reason for such conviction. “But I can’t imagine where that work has taken him.”
“Raaqiel, I can’t—”
A buzzing sound interrupted Feriel, an alarm, one Raaqiel knew well. His sword vibrated in its scabbard, a warning of imminent danger, and he reacted without thinking, shoving Feriel behind him and darting forward. Across the yard, naked steel glinted in the sun, beyond the cadets, just outside the gate, and Raaqiel would never reach them in time. He unfurled his wings, and his splendid sword Reunion came to his hand with a mere thought. He could protect the cadets, if he just—
“Lord Michael!” called a voice ragged with desperation. “A message from the Fifth Sword!”
However swiftly Raaqiel could move, Michael was faster. He slipped through the startled crowd like a fish through a stream, and by the time Raaqiel alighted at the gate, Michael and the assailant sprawled together in a heap. The archangel lifted his head, and the cadets gasped at the sight of blood dashed across his youthful face.
“Oh, no,” Feriel whispered at Raaqiel’s elbow. “Oh, Keilel, no.”
Michael’s haunted gaze fixed upon Raaqiel even as his hands pressed against the prone angel’s wound. “Get Raphael.” His voice broke upon the name. “He’s stabbed himself. I don’t—I don’t know…” He drew a shuddering breath. “Go now.”
Raaqiel saluted, then stretched his wings once more.
Feriel struggled for breath as he stared at the scene before him. The sky pressed down, too heavy, too near, and the sun blazed too hot, showing every drop of blood. Keilel’s blood. Keilel’s blood on the pavement, on Lord Michael, on his conscience… Feriel almost choked on his efforts to breathe. Then Lord Michael did the most horrifying thing he could conceive to do. Cradling Keilel in his arms, still trying to stanch the flow of blood, he looked directly at Feriel.
“Sid,” Lord Michael whispered. “I need Sid.”
It might as well have been an order. “Sir.” Feriel saluted, then turned and numbly walked back to the school.
The brick walls sheltered him from the oppressive light of the sun. What had he done? His silence had wrought this tragedy. He had stood by, doing nothing while somehow thinking he spared these poor soldiers the brunt of their commander’s wrath. He, in his arrogance, thought that he could shield them.
Not even Seikhiel could do that.
The familiar office door loomed before him, the usual messy calendar confronting him in silent reproach. How had he arrived so quickly? Had he used a spell without knowing it? Was his control so far gone? Swallowing his panic, Feriel knocked.
The door swung open. Lord Sidriel sat at his desk, his head bowed over a stack of papers. Feriel’s throat constricted at the sight of him. So ordinary. As though this wasn’t the day of Feriel’s undoing.
“Come in.” Lord Sidriel sat back. He looked up, and a small frown shadowed his face. “Feriel, what’s wrong?”
“Keilel,” Feriel managed in a hoarse whisper. “At the gate.”
Lord Sidriel’s frown deepened. “I recently processed his discharge papers.”
Yes, for an injury not sustained in battle. Feeling his stomach turn over and over, Feriel nodded. “He’s with Lord Michael. He…” Feriel’s voice failed him, and he lowered his gaze. Lord Sidriel was on his feet then, striding across the office, lifting one hand. Feriel flinched from the fingertips that reached for his arm.
“Feriel, what happened?” Lord Sidriel pitched his voice low, aiming to soothe. Feriel fought against tears. Nobody could know how close to total ruination he was.
“Keilel stabbed himself,” he whispered.
A soft mist and a swirl of feathers surrounded them, sending a shudder along Feriel’s magical senses. Archangel assistants had this ability, the power to transport themselves to their counterparts. Until this moment, Feriel had not realized how different it felt, how foreign it was to ordinary angel magic. The mist cleared and the feathers settled, leaving him once more at the edge of the growing crowd. Lord Michael looked up from Keilel’s inert form, and his wild eyed stare cut right through the heart of Feriel’s guilt.
“Cadet Commander,” Lord Sidriel said, his voice firm. “Patrol Captain.” When the two cadets presented themselves, saluting, he gave them instructions for managing the horrified onlookers, for giving Lord Michael and Keilel breathing room. If Keilel was still breathing. If.
“Feriel.”
He shied from Raaqiel’s voice, as he had done so many times recently. Lord Raphael was suddenly there, his shimmering wings mantled over Lord Michael and Keilel, shielding them from view. Not quickly enough to hide the tracks of tears on Lord Michael’s cheeks. Not quickly enough. Feriel’s every instinct told him to flee, but he had to know. He needed to see if Keilel still lived.
“He came to me about his wings,” Lord Raphael murmured, too low for most of the crowd to hear. “They were…” Feriel missed the rest, but he already knew. He could see the chains, the searching fingers, the cruel hands that sought out every joint, systematically crushing bone and sinew together. He heard the popping sound of wing joints breaking, coupled with Keilel’s screams. Turning aside, Feriel retched into a planter.
“Feriel!”
Raaqiel reached for him, but Feriel moved faster. Slipping his awareness into the space between darkness and light, he pulled a mantle of invisibility over himself. It was a simple spell, but not terribly sustainable. He had to move quickly if he meant to escape.
Gently, Lord Raphael lifted Keilel in his arms, leaving Lord Michael kneeling, bloodied and tearstained. He turned his back on the crowd, his wings slightly upraised as though to form a barrier. “Sidriel,” he said softly, “meet me at the Clinic in half an hour.” Lord Sidriel nodded once, and then Lord Raphael was gone, taking Keilel with him.
“Sid.” Lord Michael lifted his head, and his dulled stare found his assistant. “Freeze the Fifth Sword. None of them are to leave this Sphere until I know everything.” His bloodstained hands clenched into fists. “Everything.”
Blood pounded in Feriel’s ears, and he felt his spell wavering. Stretching his wings open, he sprang upward, up and out. None of them were to leave the Sphere. No escape.
They were doomed.