by Elise Kova
But Leona... She would wait at the top of the narrow stair that led back into his private chambers. She would grant him his privacy, and say nothing of the clawing or howling that no doubt echoed up to her from time to time. She thought herself mightier for it, for knowing the King’s secret. Yet another suggestion of Coletta’s gone well, only to be wasted by Leona throwing her life away on Loom.
Yveun snarled, his claws straining against his skin as he gouged them into the wall. Cvareh Xin. He thought only Petra would be able to elicit a raw, emotional response from him. But it seemed she’d taught her younger brother in much the same fashion. How that meager slip of a man had bested his Leona was a mystery. Seeing the Dragon-child emerge from his supposed meditation only proved the point further.
Cvareh was not a laughable specimen, but he was no exemplar of the Dragon form. Not even the will of the twenty gods should be able to sway the cards in his favor in a duel against Leona. Yveun retracted his claws and folded them over his chest, walking faster.
Sybil, Leona’s sister, had said that Cvareh had help upon Loom—a Chimera and Fenthri. Yveun had seen Leona turn Fenthri into ribbons and reduce Chimera to no more than sharpening posts for her talons. Logic told him it was highly improbable for such meager prospects to be a threat to his Master Rider.
But logic had run its course, and here he was—less several Riders, and his Leona gone well before he intended her removal. Cvareh was alive and upon Nova once more. No schematics for the Philosopher’s Box returned. An Alchemists’ guild gone rogue—or going fast. And no answer for any of it.
When the probable had been exhausted, the only explanation that remained was the impossible.
Yveun launched himself forward with wide steps. He needed more information and there was one way he knew how to get it with any measure of certainty: he needed a Dragon on the inside. Fortunately for him, he had just the blue-skinned worm for the job on retainer.
The world materialized beneath his feet as he left his unorthodox sanctuary. He envisioned that nothing existed while he was in that tiny claw-scratched room, that the gods themselves held their breath and halted everything for the sake of his thoughts. When he emerged, the world shone with their magic, pulled back together in a new shape that carved a path for him to progress.
Yveun pushed against the wall at the top of the stair. It gave and he emerged from the passage that closed to form the back of the large hearth that dominated one wall of his chambers. They were a glittering contrast to the dark, rough-hewn passage he’d just been in. A large platform bed stood adorned with silks. Pillows were tasseled with beads cut from jewels. The desk alone had taken three craftsmen four months of non-stop work to carve.
It was a collection of all his favorite things, arranged only for him and the few he deemed worthy to rest their eyes upon it. Yveun was in no mood for it. He wouldn’t soil the essence of his room with his present ferocity. He’d return when he could rest knowing that action was being taken.
Waiting for him in the hall was the man-child he’d been forced to choose as his new Master Rider. Yveun did not even lay eyes upon the boy. He was barely twenty. His age made his three beads more impressive, but all Yveun could see was how scarce they were compared to Leona’s.
He needed to call a Crimson Court soon and test the mettle of his Riders. A few would fall, and a few unexpected upstarts would distinguish themselves from the pack. Yveun would pluck them from their humble beginnings for a place on the top of Lysip. He could only hope a woman would emerge from the lot as a potential candidate for Master Rider. He had a much easier time manipulating a creature he could leverage sexuality against.
“Finnyr?” he demanded.
“In his quarters, I believe.” The Rider endeared himself to his lord by knowing exactly what Yveun sought in nothing more than a word.
Beads clicked softly around Yveun’s neck as he walked, holding a decorative plate that bore the symbol of House Rok over his bare chest. The silver contrasted brilliantly with his wine-colored skin. Around his waist was a simple sash, holding in place a draped cloth in both front and back. Otherwise, his physique was apparent, cut muscle rippling ominously with each aggravated stride.
Even the Rider gave him an extra half-step of space. Nervousness flashed across his magic, assuring Yveun that his choices in how to present himself were well founded. He leveraged his sexuality against his female riders, his physical presence against male riders. In both, sheer dominance prevailed.
In the end, Yveun didn’t care if his subjects loved or feared him, so long as the emotion was an all-consuming one.
“Dono,” a green-skinned man greeted him and stepped to the side. He was a Kin from House Tam, a ward of the Dono’s to assure the other House’s loyalty to their sovereign. But, just having him on Lysip wasn’t enough.
Around the man’s neck was a thin gold chain. The tempering on the metal whispered familiarity to Yveun, assuring him that his magic was the only force by which the metal could be controlled. Keeping the most important family members of the two subservient Houses might have been sufficient for some other, less King, but Yveun preferred adorning his wards with nooses he could tighten with a thought.
Above all else was his dominance over Loom and Nova.
The Rok Estate opened up on the north side, spilling over the hillside in wandering arcades that connected smaller chalets. The Dono smiled, inhaling the potent scent of wildflowers and subservience.
This was where his most loyal subjects lived. Chosen Kin of Xin and Tam—immediate family to the Oji and Ryu of the Houses. The Dono invited them to the Rok Estate and gave them some of the most lavish accommodations in all of Nova. They ate like kings and slept like brothel masters. They were given honors of state and management of affairs both on Loom and Nova. It was a life that many could only dream of.
And all he asked for in return was their unyielding and unquestioning loyalty.
He strode past his subservient subjects on a mission towards one of the middle homes. Yveun did not even knock before crossing the threshold of a stately one-roomed chalet. Just the man he was looking for stared, startled, from behind a desk that could nearly rival Yveun’s in quality. Nearly rival.
“Dono.” Finnyr stood only to fold at the waist in a low bow. “I was not expecting you this morning.”
“Weren’t you?” Yveun folded his arms over his chest, widening his stance.
“My lord?” Confusion shone true from Finnyr’s face into his magic. He clearly had not consulted the whisperer for House Xin. Or, more likely, Petra hadn’t sent any word of the King’s venture this morning.
Yveun let the accusations drop. “Finnyr, where do your loyalties lie?”
“My King, they lie where they have always been, with you and House Rok.” His brows, the color of tarnished gold, knitted together, drawing lines in his powder blue flesh.
“I have no room for question in this.” Yveun crossed the remaining distance to the desk opposite the other man. “The Guilds on Loom still resist me. Those that do not outright have yet to fully embrace the structure which I am attempting to impose upon them—structure that is the only thing standing in the way of the world below being lost to their own devices as they leech off the earth past the breaking point.”
“None have understood the gravity of this more than I.”
Finnyr was a smart and resourceful man. What he lacked in physical prowess he made up for in mental fortitude. It was the only thing that had kept him alive for the past decade. He was certainly of no other use to his family. Though Yveun had found creative ways to apply his talents.
“I cannot fight battles on two fronts. I cannot give Loom the attention it needs when I am being picked apart from within.”
Finnyr paled to nearly the white of a Fenthri. He’d heard all the layered meanings in Yveun’s words. They had not been on entirely good terms since the schematics we
re stolen.
“How may I serve you, Dono? You are our one true King.”
“I hope you believe that,” Yveun pushed.
“You are everything.”
That the Dono believed. Without him, Finnyr would long be dead. And Yveun knew that he held the key to the future Finnyr sought. It was a shameful bargain for a Dragon to make, to seek power and prestige through a means other than sanctioned duels. But Finnyr was a Xin, and the Xin put their ends before the means used to achieve them. They would cut out their own eye and sell it to a Harvester if it benefited their goals, and that was how Yveun had ended up in this predicament to begin with.
“See that I am, Finnyr, and you will have that which you desire someday.” The man’s eyes were alight at the prospect. Finnyr’s very existence rested in Yevun’s hands. But the King’s future was stacked precariously on the lesser Dragon’s shoulders. The brother of Petra’Oji, the man who would inherit House Xin by blood and rank should he somehow best his sister in a duel, or if Petra and Cvareh were suddenly and mysteriously found dead. “For now, I need you to speak with your dear little sister. I need answers.”
Finnyr paused. Petra’s was one entity that still deflated him with a mention after more than a decade. Shame was a seeping wound and Yveun pressed upon it to get what he wanted.
“What do you want to know?” the Dragon forced through his all-too-dull canines.
“I want to know how Cvareh survived the Riders. I want to know what happened to my schematics.” Yveun’s claws unsheathed at the mere mention of the drawings that held the most substantial progress made on the Philosopher’s box to date. “I want to know what Petra is keeping from me.”
“My lord, my sister, she—”
“No excuses and no half measures, Finnyr. You were born in the month of Lord Rok. Show me where your true heart lies.” Yveun rested his hands on the desk, his claws raking long lines across its surface as he stepped away. He’d have Finnyr flayed for an hour if he buffed them out of the resin. Yveun wanted them to last as a threat to the man until the whole catastrophe that had been the past three months was behind them. The Dono paused at the door. “Succeed, and I will forgive your prior lapse in judgment in even mentioning the schematics to your sister. Fail, and I will not let you live long enough to try again.”
Yveun sneered widely, showing off his wicked sharp fangs. He left the man fighting trembles, but felt immensely better himself. There was more to be done, but it was progress for now.
As loathe as he was to see powder blue skin, it had paid off to have the loyalty of Finnyr Xin’Kin To, eldest son of House Xin.
7. Arianna
It didn’t take long for Arianna to grow bored.
The room she’d been thrown into was uselessly lovely. She circled it a few times, staring out the tall windows to try to get her bearings. It was somewhere in the center of the castle’s x-axis, on western side, judging by the increasing brightness that streamed through one wall. She guessed she was somewhere in the middle of the y-axis as well.
Through both windows, she could see the curve of the carved stone, other colored glass portals dotting its surface. Those out the west-most facing window were far and the wall was sheer and smoothed. However, her other window was within an alcove of sorts. Relief carvings of sweeping birds across the face of the castle would make easy hand and foot holds, and it was sheltered from the gusts that regularly rattled the other window.
Why there were carvings on the outside of a castle, where only a select few with windows could see, escaped her. But seemingly everything about this place served to confound and enrage her, from the decor choices to the very Dragons living among them.
The bed had no less than ten pillows. Ten. As in, the number she would have to use two hands to count to. The fireplace burned cheerfully for a race of people who had skin as strong and thick as leather. Shelves were cluttered with all manner of paintings, bobbles, and strange devices that Arianna could not fathom a purpose for.
Cain had first had the audacity to refuse her winch box and daggers, claiming she was now under the protection of House Xin and such things were no longer needed. Arianna had cut a chunk from Dawyn’s throat with a straight razor in an effort to get to her effects before Cvareh’s “friend” did.
That had been the man’s first mistake. His second was when he threatened to burn her clothes due to the “stench of Loom” on them. Arianna had nearly painted the floor of the bath gold with Dragon blood before she finally submitted. She was outnumbered and it was a battle she’d never had a chance of winning, especially naked and needing to avoid every nick or scratch from the Dragons’ sharp talons. But her viciousness had forced them into a compromise—her clothing would be washed and boxed and hidden until it was decided what they were “doing with her.”
The satisfaction of backing them into a compromise was short-lived as they, in turn, forced her into the most offensive articles of clothing she’d ever worn. They were trying to make a fool of her with the garb, that much was obvious. Two-thirds of the shirt was literally missing and the skirt was utterly impractical. Arianna was a heinous seamstress, but necessity was the mother of invention and she understood the mechanics and principles behind tailoring.
It’d taken her nearly an hour of muttered curses but she’d finally modified some found garments in the room she’d been locked in into something that suited her a little better. Loose trousers belled around her knees, cinched at the waist. Over top, she wore a long tunic dress, split at the bottom much like her White Wraith coat. Just feeling the hem at her calves brought back reassurances in triplicate.
Dressed and harnessed, Arianna opened the window she’d selected, pushing it against the near-constant wind to be open flush against the outer wall. She placed her palms on the sill, leaning over. Nothing stared back up at her, the hazy clouds fogging over the world of Loom below in shifting degrees of opaque. If she didn’t know it was there, she wouldn’t imagine there could be anything solid beneath that impenetrable line.
But Loom waited. A resistance brewed. And Florence had cast in her lot with those rebels. Meaning Arianna had no choice but to align herself as well.
She stepped up onto the sill, the wind rising to meet her. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the clip of her golden line firmly, charging it with a jolt of magic. It jumped from her fingertips. The cabling spool on her hip whirred, golden line funneled through the gearbox without resistance, propelled by magic. It shot across the narrow chasm between her room and the stonework by the opposite window. The clip looped around the sculpture at Arianna’s silent command, magically fastening to itself.
She gave the line a firm tug, feeling the tension through her harness. There was a moment’s hesitation, a second where her throat tightened. Her feet shifted against the sill and then, nothing.
Her stomach shot to her throat and her harness tightened reassuringly as she dropped in free fall. Arianna had used her winch box to perform such a maneuver hundreds—thousands—of times, from heights that would mean her death if she miscalculated distance or the security of her line. But this felt different. The vast nothingness that yawned beneath her rose with alarming speed, threatening to consume her like nothing more than an irrelevant speck of sand in the hourglass of time.
She gripped the line tighter, pushing magic into her winch box with almost violent intent. Her descent slowed as she neared the arc of her jump. Ari felt herself rising upward toward the window and toward the security of established hand and foot holds.
Fear was nothing more than staring into the mirror known as death and seeing the reflection of your own transience, a visage far too intense for many to look upon. But, for Arianna, it was nothing more than an instrument in her toolbox. It had a handle worn from years of grabbing for it time and again. Fear was familiar from taking it into her own hands and using it as deftly as if she were the personification of time’s judgment upon all
mortal men.
Weighted against the wall, she grabbed for one of the two daggers settled at the small of her back. The blunt, thin tip of one fit nicely into the narrow groove of the window. The locks were simple tension latches; nothing more than a twist of the wrist, and mechanical precision Ari possessed from years of practice, was needed to render it useless.
The window swung open, and she helped herself into the quiet hall before shutting the pane behind her. She hadn’t known Cain for very long, but she was already savoring the idea of the arrogant Dragon guarding an empty room. Arianna knew she’d be discovered eventually, or would choose to expose herself. But for now, she’d wander this floating castle on her own terms.
Arianna pulled her own magic in tight, winding it like a ball around her core. She silenced its pulse as much as possible, limiting its ability to radiate from her with each breath. The stillness it created was prone to disturbances from other magic, and Arianna avoided any unwanted encounters with relative ease.
For a castle of stone and glass, it was alive with the scents of earth. Notes of moss blended with fresh dirt and the sharp smells of cedar and sandalwood to create a palette that was slowly becoming definable as distinctly “Xin”. Twice, she thought she picked up the scent of woodsmoke, and edged toward corners expecting to see Cvareh on the other side. But it was never him, and she was left to label the emotion that charged through her as relief.
It would be an immense inconvenience if Cvareh discovered me now, she insisted. She certainly had no need of the Dragon.
At first, Arianna tried to make notes of the individual Dragon scents, but it quickly became impossible. Every Dragon’s aroma seemed unique on Loom purely because there weren’t many Dragons. But on Nova, the scents became repetitive and Arianna began to focus, instead, on filtering out all scents but the ones most important to her: woodsmoke and cedar.
