I suppose the simplest explanation is that I have a peculiar sentiment for captive creatures. I spent my youth in the company of the Angel of the Void.
Apollyon.
You must remember him, the way he wore his chains with quiet dignity, the way he yearned for travel…
I was a cadet, and I…
I took my sword and I struck him down.
Ragheiyont skimmed along the cliff faces, his quick gaze alert for any sign of the others. The gateway had helpfully deposited the three of them midair in a ravine of sorts. Seikhiel and Van-Dal now stood on the ground below while Ragheiyont circled above. Their voices drifted up to him.
“Perhaps they could not open the gate.”
“No,” Seikhiel said, his voice firm. “Atchi can open it.”
“It’s been too long already.” As he banked around again, Ragheiyont saw Van-Dal’s face tilted upward, up toward the dense canopy of vines that grew across the top of the ravine, blotting out the sun, cutting off escape. “We must consider that the gate sends travelers to random locations. We may not see the others again until we arrive at our destination.” Through the prince’s clipped words, Ragheiyont heard an undercurrent of anxiety.
“Then we must believe them all capable.”
“I gave my word.” To protect Tharaiyelagh. That much need not be said. Irritation bubbled up after concern, and Van-Dal called upward, “Ragheiyont, come down and join us.”
Ragheiyont balked. It ill suited his temperament to obey. Also, the ravine walls had not yet given up their secrets. Here, in the place where he circled, he had space enough to do so. In either direction, the cliffs soon angled tightly in. Walking along the ravine floor would serve better than flight.
“Please,” added Seikhiel.
With a sigh, Ragheiyont tucked his wings and dipped downward. He wanted Van-Dal to be wrong. He wanted his brother and Luccan to catch up to them. A dull ache in his chest gave traitorous agreement to Van-Dal’s words. When Ragheiyont’s landing kicked up fine dust from the ravine floor, Seikhiel gave him a squint of annoyance, and Van-Dal closed his eyes as though searching for patience. Ragheiyont grinned at them.
“We got a plan?”
Van-Dal pointedly fastened a mask across the lower half of his face. “You’re not much like your brother, are you?”
“Ah… I wouldn’t know.” Trying to hide how the remark stung, how it prodded at the guilt he carried, Ragheiyont forced a careless shrug. “We haven’t seen much of each other in about three decades.”
Van-Dal’s long, rope-like tail lashed, betraying his thoughts before he uttered them. “He was a child,” the prince growled. “You left him on his own?”
Apparently Tharaiyelagh spoke freely of the past. Every instinct in Ragheiyont’s body told him to step back, to put distance between himself and this angry assassin. He held his ground. “You woulda done the same, jo.”
“You—”
“Gentlemen.” Seikhiel stepped between them, giving each a warning glance. “We have more pressing matters to deal with.”
“He called me—”
“I know what he said,” Seikhiel interrupted, his tone sharp, what Luccan called schoolteacher voice. “Indulge me, Your Highness. And you,” he said, just as Ragheiyont had begun to feel a premature sense of relief. “Govern your tongue.”
Ragheiyont snorted. “Ain’t never learned how.”
“We are not here to nest-sit a feral!” snapped Van-Dal. To his credit, regret flashed in his eyes the moment he said it, but already anger and resentment boiled in Ragheiyont’s blood.
“I’m civilized enough! Maybe not for your sort, but—”
A long, high shriek cut off his rebuttal, echoing off the stone walls of the ravine, chilling their heated tempers. Ragheiyont stood frozen for only a second, guessing at the size of a creature that could make such a noise, assessing the direction of its origin.
“Running!” he declared, and he bolted in the opposite direction, trusting the other two to catch up. They were supposed to be the best at what they did, after all.
Under the cover of night, Chaighan crept out of the infirmary. Enci had retired only as far as the adjoining room, not trusting that the guard had made a full recovery, not certain that the Hawk prince would not need him in the night. Dosed again with powerful tonics, Iyahi-Ila snored on his cot. Chaighan eased the door closed.
A few dim lights illuminated the corridors, broadly spaced, allowing shadows to settle over the castle. No time like the present. Chaighan paused, his head tilted, considering the gloom around him, the subtle pull within him. When had the wards begun to speak full sentences to him? Perhaps something had broken in him. Perhaps some ill effect of the thief’s attack had left him sick in the mind. He would know eventually.
Chaighan slipped behind a tapestry and crept down a back staircase. For the moment, at least, he would be concealed. Enci could scold him later. In minutes he arrived at the ground level. A tall door stood closed before him. From beyond drifted the most unlikely sound in all of Seyzharel.
A child’s laughter.
Chaighan pushed the door open. Thrin started up from his seat on the kitchen floor, but he relaxed when he recognized the visitor. Behind him, between him and the broad hearth, a rare and precious Seyzharel infant watched them both with wide, intelligent eyes.
“Look, Princess.” Thrin gathered her up in his arms, holding her close despite her sudden squirming. “Chaighan has come to see you.”
No one remembered who had first called this foundling Princess. The dull pewter of the down on her head proved she had no noble lineage at all, and yet everyone doted on her like a trueborn daughter of their prince. Mostly that meant venturing down to the kitchens to spoil her, as she had been given into the care of the only person at the castle who had any experience with small children. She was also Seyzharel’s dearest secret.
“Hello, Princess.” Chaighan came to kneel beside them. “What has you awake at this hour?”
“Her teeth,” Thrin answered with a worried frown. “She’s cut herself three times today.” His concern hung unspoken between them: is this normal?
Right on cue, the little girl stuffed her fist in her mouth and bit down.
She shrieked with laughter at Thrin’s yelp of alarm, her bloodied little fangs gleaming in the low light. Chaighan leaned closer as Thrin bandaged the fresh wound. “Does… does Lord Baleirithys know she’s started crawling?”
Thrin shot him a sharp look across the child’s downy pewter head. “Who told you that?”
“She’s going to bite every ankle in the castle.”
“Chaighan.” Thrin’s voice dropped to a rumble, and his arms tightened around his precious little charge. “Who. Told. You?”
The wards told me sounded ridiculous, so Chaighan settled with the next best explanation. “The little seer in the infirmary talks in his sleep.”
The little girl babbled and reached her bandaged hand toward Chaighan. Thrin scowled. “I don’t like that. He could tell anybody.”
“Well, he’s here right now. Safe with Enci.”
Say your piece.
Chaighan looked down at the broad, clean flagstones beneath them, and he fidgeted at the edge of his sleeve. Of course, it would not do to argue with the wards. “I, uh…” He drew a deep breath. “Look, Thrin, I know your father is really busy, and it will be difficult for him to keep up with her once she starts walking, and I…” He forced the words to tumble out faster. “I know someone—not a dragon herself, but she raised me from about this age. If, uh, that might help?”
Thrin settled his wings into a more relaxed position. “Why don’t we ask Lord Baleirithys about it tomorrow?” he suggested. “Both of us.”
Relief washing over him, Chaighan unwisely offered the little girl a finger to gnaw.
Lungs and limbs burning with the effort, Ragheiyont pelted down the twisting ravine. Van-Dal charged along at his heels. “Faster!” called Seikhiel from the rear, but the ravine narrowed, and soon Ragheiyont scraped his shoulders on the stone walls. What if it came to a dead end? What if the creature that shrieked and struggled through the narrow confines of the ravine cornered them, caught them…
An answering scream resounded ahead of them.
Before Ragheiyont’s heart had leapt in alarm, the passage broadened, and he glimpsed great feathers and terrible, slashing talons. He threw himself to the ground and slid on his hip beneath the creature. In a moment, he bounced up again, his wings stretching to propel him clear of danger. He twisted in midair, searching for surer escape. A ledge jutted just above. He had almost reached it when his conscience caught at him, slowing his ascent. Had he really just abandoned his companions?
“Go!” yelled Van-Dal from below. Ragheiyont glanced back, but he could make little sense of the thrashing limbs and flying feathers. He alighted on the ledge, and he crouched low, where he could watch unnoticed.
Two giant flightless birds screamed and struck at each other. One had not fully emerged from the narrowest part of the passage. The other danced from foot to foot, its stubby wings raised in threat. Though they had Van-Dal and Seikhiel caught between them, the birds scarcely seemed to care. The nearer bird reared back to wield its heavy bill like a hammer, and Seikhiel shoved Van-Dal underneath the creature’s field of vision. The assassin prince whirled, drawing his sword now that he had room to move.
“Up here!” Ragheiyont called. Van-Dal glanced up, met his gaze, and gave a brief nod. Then he started back toward Seikhiel, who had been obscured entirely by the thrashing wall of feathers and fury.
A blinding white light flared on the ravine floor. Screaming in pain and alarm, the giant birds fell back a step or two, just enough for Seikhiel to dart past, the light fading from the palm of his hand. “Go!” he yelled, unfurling his gleaming white-gold wings where a moment ago there had been none. Ragheiyont desperately wanted a taste of that skill.
Van-Dal slammed his sword home into its scabbard as he gained the ledge. Immediately, he turned back, reaching a hand toward Seikhiel. Two different kinds of soldier, equally unwilling to leave a man behind. Puzzling.
Seikhiel’s fingers stretched upward, almost reaching the ledge, almost reaching Van-Dal’s waiting grasp, when his flight faltered. The nearer bird struck at him with beak and talons, tearing at his wings. Feathers filled the air. Van-Dal surged forward, caught Seikhiel’s hand before he could withdraw it in pain or shock. Ragheiyont glimpsed the angel’s grimace before he began to sink out of sight, dragging Van-Dal with him.
“No!” Ragheiyont threw himself at Van-Dal’s ankles. Straining every muscle, he pulled backward. The two dragons beat their wings against the pull of the raging bird creature. Seikhiel groaned in pain. Then, with a rush, he surged up over the lip of the ledge. The three of them landed in a heap.
“What are those awful things?” Ragheiyont panted. Below, the bird shrieked and paced.
“Terror birds.” Seikhiel winced as Van-Dal pushed him aside and sat up. “Unfortunately well named.”
“Don’t.” Van-Dal caught at Seikhiel’s wings just as they began to shimmer out of view again. Ragheiyont sat and watched in awkward silence as the assassin prince applied healing magics to the angel’s wounds.
His attention soon strayed. One of the terror birds retreated, clearly unwilling to battle for territory or tasty little dragons or whatever. The other called and hissed and paced beneath the ledge. Ragheiyont wondered how far Seikhiel could fly with so many feathers torn from his wings. Could he and Van-Dal manage to carry him? Would they have to?
A faint hum of magic dragged his attention away from the uncomfortable spectacle before him. Something resonated off of Van-Dal’s spells. Something nearby…
Before he had quite agreed with himself to do it, Ragheiyont had climbed to his feet and begun running his hands over the sheer cliff face. The resonance heightened to a buzz, echoing the itch in his blood. Something was hidden here. Something interesting.
He touched the cliff wall in just the right place, and the glamoury fell away before his eyes. A fissure of darkness, just large enough to serve as a doorway, enticed him. A net of magic barred his path.
“Heyo,” Ragheiyont called to the others. “I think I found our way out.” Wardbreaker hummed with anticipation as he drew the hungry little blade. One quick cut and—
“RAYA, NO!“
Van-Dal’s warning reached him just as the dagger struck against the threads of magic. It caught against the curious resonance. It stuck.
The world shattered.
Pain exploded in Ragheiyont’s head and up his arm. He tasted blood, choked on it, and fell backward into oblivion.
A dense, warm mist gathered all around them, too thick to part, almost too thick to breathe. They had shuffled along at a tentative pace for maybe half an hour, listening to silence, wondering when the earth might fall away beneath their feet. It seemed a slight incline, though none of them mentioned it. Far, far away, something howled as though in agony. Shivering, Akieryon edged closer beside Tempest.
“Should we…” Tharaiyelagh cleared his throat and managed to raise his voice above a whisper. “Should we go see if someone needs help?”
Tempest shook his head, though none of them could see it. “If that was a person, I doubt we’ll ever find them. We press on.”
They trudged through the fog. Akieryon shivered and Tharaiyelagh made a noise suspiciously like a sniffle, and Tempest rapidly tired of feeling responsible for the both of them. He knew Akieryon could look after himself, and yet somehow…
“Is… is the ground getting hotter?”
The fact that all of Tharaiyelagh’s confidence seemed to have vanished with their departure from Seyzharel did nothing to ease Tempest’s irritation. He crouched, and he placed one hand in the ground. The dust felt finer than silt, and when he lifted a bit of it near enough to see, it looked as gray as the fog. Tempest exhaled a noisy huff of air through his nose.
“Yes,” he said. He sat down at once and considered whether he had led them off course. He had aimed them at the largest source of magic he could sense, assuming that it would lead them to Bel’s prison. “It’s possible we may be heading toward a volcano.”
Tharaiyelagh crouched beside him. “What’s a volcano?”
With a groan, Tempest threw himself back onto the powdery ground.
Ragheiyont heard someone calling his name, but distantly, as though across a deep chasm. He tried to shake his head, to dismiss it, but somehow he had managed to get his skull filled with lead. That, or he had stuck his horns into the floor. He tried to speak, to tell the insistent voice to shut up and let him sleep. He only managed a weak groan.
“He’s coming around.”
Was he? Ragheiyont fumbled for memories of the last few moments before… before he had blacked out? Some sort of magical barrier. Something his Wardbreaker couldn’t cut.
Wardbreaker! His eyes flew open, and he struggled to focus on the canopy of vines overhead. “My… can’t feel… why?”
Can’t put words in the correct order, either. Immediately, two faces leaned over him, and his wobbly vision again failed to focus.
“It’s probably for the best you can’t feel your hand,” said Van-Dal ominously.
No, no, he absolutely could feel a throbbing ache radiating from his fingertips up toward his shoulder. Ragheiyont swallowed around the dryness in his mouth, and he tried again. “Wa… blade?” he slurred. The prince and the angel exchanged a look that set alarms jangling in the back of Ragheiyont’s impaired brain.
“I’m sorry,” Seikhiel said, looking as though someone had died.
“It’s broken.”
For a moment, the word failed to register. How could Wardbreaker break? He fed it on his own blood. He nurtured it and indulged it.
“That’s not all.” Seikhiel eased a hand behind Ragheiyont’s head and held a canteen to his lips. “Drink slowly,” he cautioned. “We thought we’d lost you.”
“Unf,” Ragheiyont replied around a mouthful of water. It brought everything into sharper focus. He swallowed with care, and he squinted at the worried faces that hovered over him. “Why?”
Van-Dal looked away, picked up a little bundle of cloth. “It seems you’re pretty solidly bonded with that dagger of yours.” He glanced down. At Ragheiyont’s arm.
Ragheiyont tried to flex his fingers, but somehow they refused to respond. He strained his muscles, lifting his head enough to see. From elbow to fingertips, his arm was swathed in bandages.
“It… cut me?” That didn’t sound right.
“More like your skin shattered with the blade.” Seikhiel lifted one hand, showing his own blistered fingertips. “The wound is resistant to healing magics.”
“My guess is,” added Van-Dal, “that the injury won’t heal until this is repaired.” He placed the cloth packet on Ragheiyont’s chest, and he knew it at once. The thing put up a feeble mewling, faint, almost dead, but struggling yet for survival.
“Wardbreaker,” he murmured, closing his good hand over it. His eyelids drifted downward. “I guess,” he said to the distant sky, “we’d better hurry up and find that smith, yeah?”
Seikhiel and Van-Dal exchanged a worried look.