by Elise Kova
“Even when she attached Finnyr’s hands… There were no rags of blood in her quarters. She burnt them along with her severed parts. The stink from the procedure should have been enough to set half the manor fleeing to avoid the smell.”
“Was there no mark of Chimera blood in her room?” Only Dragon blood disappeared tidily in the air. Chimera and Fenthri blood stained, much like their very existence.
Cain shook his head. Petra considered heading there herself just for the sake of checking. “There was a blood trace, but it was unlike anything I’ve known—Dragon or Chimera. It smelled of both Xin cedar, like Finnyr, and Tam honeysuckle.”
“The room would smell of Finnyr,” Petra reasoned, thinking of her elder brother’s severed hands. But that didn’t explain the crispness, the purity. “What do you think is the cause?”
“I don’t know…” Cain struggled with the evidence set before him. If looks could kill, the Chimera who was still besting Cvareh far below them would be struck down and begging for release. “But I do know she has at least four Dragon organs.”
“Four?”
“Eyes and ears were visible from the start, even if she’s capped her ears with metal so they do not grow into points.”
Petra couldn’t stop herself from touching her own ear, horrified at the thought of such mutilation of one of the most striking features of a Dragon.
“Hands, now, thanks to Finnyr,” Cain continued. “And her stomach.”
“Her stomach?” Petra repeated expectantly. That wasn’t information that could be encountered casually.
“I saw the addition of holly peas into her food.”
Red and unassuming, the holly pea looked similar to any other brilliant berry. But it caused severe indigestion in both Dragon and Fenthri alike. Consumption of just a small amount was usually followed with a day of vomiting and diarrhea. Non-lethal, but severely uncomfortable if one did not possess magic in their stomach. “How very underhanded of you, Cain.”
“Forgive me.” He avoided her narrowed eyes.
Subversion was something Petra didn’t tolerate; it was an affront to their ways. But the matter was done, and the woman in question wasn’t a Dragon anyway. “Do not make a habit of such deceptions. You are above it.”
“I would not.” He looked horrified.
“Good.” Petra let the conversation continue, satisfied. “She was unaffected?”
“No sign of troubles.”
“There was no way she could have removed them?”
“If she even knows what they are? No. They were added to a strawberry jam.”
“You are truly ruthless.” She bared her teeth in an appreciative smile. This was what she needed from Cain. She needed someone who was so loyal to their House that he would risk her ire for the sake of its defense.
He gave a small bow of his head. All delight faded when Cain turned back to the pit. Arianna had just bested Cvareh again. “Petra’Oji…”
She wasn’t familiar with hesitation from Cain. It made her give him all the more attention. “Be careful with this one.”
Petra narrowed her eyes to slits. “You think I cannot fell her?”
“I do not doubt you.” The but was felt before it was spoken. “But she is something different. She has that many organs and has not fallen. Think of what she might be like with more. More magic? More power? She—”
“You have been heard, Cain,” Petra dismissed him abruptly. She would not tolerate dissent or questioning in her ranks. Cain had earned himself good will for investigating the woman, an odd mix given his unconventional methods of doing so. She wouldn’t want to see him squander it.
Cain gave a short bow and descended the stairs gracefully. Petra’s eyes remained locked on the woman far below. Cain didn’t know it, but what he feared was a Perfect Chimera. A creature that was so mighty it could even challenge a Dragon.
Petra grinned madly.
One man’s fear was another’s salvation.
24. Yveun
The skies were filled with boco as Dragons of all colors flooded Easwin, the easternmost town of the Isle of Ruana. It was impossible to look in any direction and not see scarlet, cerulean, or viridian. Yveun surveyed the generally unassuming town from his current perch. It was unorthodox to be anywhere but Lysip for a Crimson Court, but it was too late now to question his play.
“How many people worked on getting the amphitheater up to par?” he asked over his shoulder. Slaves silently dotted and lined his exposed chest with a thick paste that would temporarily tattoo his flesh.
“Petra told me she had over five hundred workers at all hours.” Finnyr was seated awkwardly in the center of the room behind Yveun. He was appropriately ignored by the slaves, their focus on their master—as it should be. Yet the fact that Yveun had not dismissed him was its own form of honor. Yveun kept Finnyr trapped in the “between”, a place few Dragons ever found themselves in thanks to their society’s strict hierarchy.
“How did she find the craftsmen?” It annoyed Yveun to no end that Petra had managed to scrape together the sort of display that towered against the distant horizon. The girl was an annoying little gnat, impossible to squish and always flying around where she didn’t belong. A gnat that aspired to be a wasp and already fashioned itself thusly.
“She told me she took all hands from progression on the Xin manor. Some others were in Napole still after the initial construction. The rest? Nameless from below, I believe.”
“So desperate is she to display her strength that she leans on the shadowed nameless.” His insult was for no one but himself. Finnyr was already his obedient servant. The slaves who attended him had no names themselves and therefore no souls and no purpose. Nevertheless, letting out his displeasure into the very air on Ruana sated him some. “I will let you return to her tonight when the day’s duels have ended.”
“You will?” Finnyr’s voice started shrill before he managed to control his emotions.
“Is that a problem, Finnyr?” Yveun held up a hand, stalling the servants’ work. He turned to look at the Xin’s face. It was harder for a man to lie when you were actively trying to spoon out the truth through his eyes.
“N-no, Dono…” He went pale. “After last time, my sister was adamant that I stay with you.”
Yveun keenly remembered the man’s bruises from having his hands harvested. He wanted to slice Finnyr up himself and force him to watch his organs being fed and connected to Fenthri as punishment for his cowardice. His voice was a low growl that rumbled over the jagged stones of his aggravation. “I held this Court on Ruana so I might finally learn the truth of what happened on Loom, and the extent of how far Petra’s power reaches into the land below—how it may even be increasing here on Nova. You will play your role and return to her as a relieved prodigal child, blessed to be home. You will prove your worth and give me the information I seek.”
Finnyr lowered his eyes submissively. “Of course, Dono. I live to serve you in no half measures.”
Satisfied, Yveun turned forward again. “I want you to find whatever information you can on Cvareh—of his trip to Loom, of the schematics he stole. Speak to slaves, servants. Offer them a better life on Lysip with the favor of the Dono if you must.”
He would never actually allow Xin hands who had served Petra directly to attend him. But they didn’t need to know he would see them dead the second they set foot on his home. Their surprise would be delicious.
He locked eyes on the grand, stone amphitheater in the distance. The streets were already filled with music and cheers. Laughter harmonized with song as men and women danced together. The Court was a celebration of life, and death, and everything that hung in the balance between those conflicting yet beautiful forces.
He rode in a litter to the Court. It was a wide platform with low railings and a pointed roof covered in red clay tiles and edged in silver. T
he wooden base and poles were a fine mahogany, stained to a deep wine color. Textiles the colors of fire shone, silks glinting with sunlight. Sixteen men carried its bulk through the streets.
It stood in stark contrast to the lake blue pennons and people of House Xin that parted like waves around his metaphorical boat. Yveun kept his eyes forward, or on the woman who lounged next to him.
Coletta Rok’Ryu To was thin for a Dragon. She had never quite grown out of her girlish years, her face remaining soft and her cheeks rounded. Her ears pointed more outward than upward and her nose was thin and narrow, cutting between two eyes that looked all the larger for it.
She was his cherry woman. She smelled of the fruit and perfumed herself with it for added effect. Her flesh was creamy-orange, hardly red at all, but it reminded him of the sweet cherries that could be cultivated in the spring. Her hair was the bright red of a candied fruit of the same variety. But her eyes were truly striking, dark orbs that shone with the depth of a rich wine. The kind that could absorb a man whole.
Those same eyes looked listlessly at the world around them, as if it were all more trouble than what it was worth. For Coletta, it may well have been.
“Ruana has not changed much since the last time I was here,” she said softly. She was a humble and unassuming counterpart to the loud and dominating presence that was Yveun.
“And how often do you come to Ruana?”
“Too often, in that I come at all.” She lay back. Gossip-mongers would continue to perpetuate her weak and sickly state. But all Yveun saw was the visage of a woman who was nothing more than fiercely bored.
“I appreciate your indulgence, Rok’Ryu.” He spoke sincerely. Coletta wasn’t one for leaving her gardens or… diversions. But she had packed and mounted her boco without question upon hearing that the Court was to be held on Ruana.
“You should never have any doubt.” The words were almost threatening, on the off chance he sincerely had.
“In you? Never.” Truer words had yet to be spoken that day.
“Besides, you need me.” Her mouth pressed into a thin and knowing smile that Yveun could never deny. “So, what role am I playing by day while we are here?”
He was the sun, and she was his moon. Forever in orbit, perpetually watching the sky while the other slumbered. Thus, by day, she operated by his wants and rules. By night, he by hers. “The same role you usually do. No one will challenge you if they think it will be a poor, shameful duel with a sickly Ryu.”
Coletta laughed softly. When she smiled he could see the gray of her gums, turned to ash with her secretive and underhanded business.
“Let them challenge me, Yveun, and see how long they live.”
Yveun smiled back at his mate, baring his teeth. If anyone did ever challenge the Rok’Ryu, they would answer to him. Yveun would never let another touch his queen. They should hope to answer to him. For, if Coletta had her way, the death would be infinitely more painful and drawn out than anything Yveun could devise.
The amphitheater was even more impressive up close. Every fifth column was the sculpture of a Dragon—ones he did not recognize but could only assume were important to House Xin. Wide, bat-like wings extended behind them, supporting the second tier of seating and arcade windows that let in the breezes from above. Sapphires as big as his head made their eyes, shining keenly at all who entered through the archways below.
They were met by a tall man with skin the color of sea foam. His name faded away from Yveun’s immediate memory into the realm of unimportance, but Finnyr seemed to recognize him. The two exchanged a tense look before the man led them up a quiet stair.
“The Xin’Oji has prepared this viewing platform especially for you, Dono.” He bowed, motioning for Yveun and his party to continue.
The balcony was high, the highest in the amphitheater, laden with fineries and draped in chiffon that danced upon the wind. It was a box befitting of a king positioned among the nameless and slaves.
In all other instances, he would insist on being the highest in a room, the better to loom over all that was his. But at the Court he wanted to be in the thick of it. He wanted to be so close to the pit that blood could splatter his cheeks. He wanted to be—
Yveun walked over to the edge of the balcony.
—where Petra was sitting.
The woman raised her glass of Xin wine with a thin smile. It was a restrained motion, but a quiet jab all the same. Yveun waged an internal war. He could demand her position, but then he would look like the insecure ruler who needed a place to solidify his prowess. Tam would certainly trade him; their platform was in the middle of the arena. But the spot was fitting for those who kept the balance. Furthermore, he was the Rok’Oji Dono, and he would not rely on a Tam.
“Wine,” Yveun growled, holding out his hand. He didn’t even see who supplied it.
He raised his own glass to Petra, staring down the woman for a long moment. She sipped, and he did the same. Yveun turned and stalked to his seat, virtually out of sight for the masses below. No, he asked no man or woman for pity. If he was to be seated above them all, he would appear like a god to rule over life and death and the Dragon Court. He made concessions to no man or woman.
The man who had escorted them to the box departed. Finnyr, Coletta, Lossom, and two of his most trusted Kin remained. Coletta stepped forward, dropping her voice to a hush meant only for his ears.
“She seeks to make a fool of you, Yveun.”
“Doesn’t she always?” He took another healthy drink from his wineglass.
“You have walked into her home to let her do it.” Coletta rarely guarded her tongue to anyone, Yveun included.
“She will be the fool before the day is done,” Yveun swore.
“See that she is, Dono.” Coletta gave him a cautionary stare. “I grow tired of this game I’ve let you play.”
A growl rose from his throat as his mate walked to one of the plush seats. It escaped as a roar that echoed throughout the amphitheater. A third of the seats were still empty, as the upper echelons of Dragon society slowly flowed in from the revelries outside. But Yveun was done waiting, and they all functioned at his behest.
He threw down his glass. Wine arced through the air like crimson rain before splattering between shards of glass in the pit far below. The very wind itself seemed to hold its breath for his decree.
“I did not travel from Lysip for wine.” His voice boomed, echoing off every pillar and person. “I traveled for blood. I traveled to thin my fattening Court. I traveled to see which of you are deserving of your names and which of you have yet to grow into the titles you were born for.”
No one spoke. No one breathed.
“Let the Crimson Court commence!” he shouted so loudly the very heavens rumbled. “Who will be the first challenger?”
A man stood, eager for the honor of being the first in the pit, to be the one whose feet would touch that hallowed and unsoiled ground. Yveun bared his teeth in utter delight that the man was one of House Rok. Unsurprisingly, he called against one of House Xin for an offense of cheating committed in his card room.
The two leapt over people and empty stands, descending into the pit as claws and teeth and rage. With no objection from Yveun, they collided. Gold splattered the walls, the smell of freshly cut grasses filling the air from the Xin. It mingled and soured against the smell of huckleberry from the Rok. The two scraped and scrambled for a long few minutes, shredding each other to pulp.
But, as Yveun expected in all things, the man of House Rok eventually won the upper hand.
He tore the Xin man’s heart still beating from his chest. He held it up with a primal cry, golden blood running down his arm and dripping onto his face before slowly evaporating into the air. The Rok man brought the heart to his mouth and took a glutinous bite.
Rok and Xin battled into the afternoon. For every one Rok challenge
, there were two Xin. Tam may as well have not even shown up. It was clear who was fighting for dominance in this Court. Yveun missed half the fights, his seat positioned too far back and too high for a good view. But every time he graced the edge of the balcony, the Rok fighters below battled twice as hard and went for increasingly vicious kills.
As a result of this poor positioning, it was afternoon by the time he finally realized the House Xin box had been filled. Yveun’s blood ran hot at the mere sight of Cvareh, the lying bastard brother of the bitch who pursued his demise as though she had nothing else in the world to worry over.
“Lossom,” he summoned his current Master Rider. The man was at his side in an instant. “Challenge Cvareh’Ryu.”
“Dono, I have no cause for a challenge against the Xin’Ryu…” Lossom’s hesitation was almost enough for Yveun to kick him face-first into the pit below and let whoever desired tear him limb from limb and lick his bones clean.
They had cause a hundred times over. The death of each one of his Riders on Loom would be more than enough for Yveun to order any Rok to challenge Cvareh. But that would first require admitting that the Riders were on Loom to begin with. Yveun growled, caught in a snare of his own shadowy invention.
“Invent one.”
“But—”
“I am the Dono, Lossom. Comprehend what that means. If I support your demand for a duel, none will permit him to back out.” Yveun walked away from the edge, and toward his beacon of sanity lounging in the shape of a woman.
Cheers erupted from the duel ending. The runner of the ring, one of House Tam for all their love of balance, called for the next challenger. Yveun waited expectantly.
“I, Lossom Rok’Anh To, Master Rider to Yveun Dono, challenge Cvareh Xin’Ryu Soh as a liar, and for disgraces against the Dono’s name in the presence of a Rok.” Lossom didn’t flinch, completing the fatuous challenge with bold confidence. “Let he whose merit runs deepest through his veins live for the night’s revelries. Let he whose merit is a facade be reduced to blood upon the ground and shame upon his House.”
