by Elise Kova
“Cvareh is loyal above all to House Xin. If someone is fond of him, then they must also be fond of his House. Their relationship is an advantage to us. Ends before ideals.”
“Ends before ideals,” Cain repeated.
“Have a little more heart in that,” Petra cautioned.
“Forgive me, Oji. It is only, the notion of our Ryu with a… thing… like that woman.” Conflict was apparent in both Cain’s voice and expression. He believed in the motto of House Xin, but the matter bothered him to an immense degree—enough that it seemed to rattle his very core.
Oh well. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. There were certain benefits to being Oji, and never having to explain herself was one. Cain would come to his senses sooner or later, or Petra would forcefully remove all conflict on the matter for him.
“Petra, her blood…”
“Was as it should be.” Cain was too smart for his own good and had been around the woman for too long. Petra needed to stop this speculation where it was. “It is none of your concern.”
“You must have seen it, smelled it. There was something off about that illusion. I don’t think—”
“I do not need you to think,” Petra interrupted abruptly. “I need you to do as I say for the good of Xin.”
“That is what I am concerned for, Oji.”
“Cain, that is what I am concerned for. If you wish to be so concerned for it, then you wish to be the Oji.” Petra turned to him, baring her teeth. “Would you like to step into the pit?”
“Never.” Cain lowered his eyes and face, submissive.
“Good.”
The duel before them finished and a long stretch passed before any challengers shouted forward. It had been an aggressive first day, but they were all becoming overwhelmed with bloodsport. Half the stands had already retired and even the Rok versus Rok duels held less joy for her.
“There is someone I need to see,” she announced upon arriving at a decision in her head. “Cain, stand for someone if they’re of particular import.”
“Understood, Oji.” His eyes betrayed his curiosity, but his tone and body language were obedient. She hoped he had learned his lesson sufficiently.
Petra descended into the busy halls and walks of the amphitheater. With most of the stands emptying, many a Dragon worked their way to the town below. Petra did not blend in. The masses parted for her with small bows. Members of House Xin delighted in their genuflections. Tam were pleased to keep the balance, respecting the Oji of another House.
House Rok stepped to the back of the lines that formed on either side of her. They gave nothing more than the obligatory bow of their heads, regarding her with shadowed eyes and mouths pressed into thin lines. Their subservience and respect was drawn from them with force.
The Court had only served to make things worse between the Houses, she decided. The bloodshed had singed their nostrils and reminded them that Nova was not one Dragon family. They were factions, divided and vying for the circumstances that would give them the most power. What was “best for Nova” was defined entirely by what was best for any one individual House.
Petra turned, disappearing through a curtained hall and onto a shaded balcony. The sticky scent of fruit that had been baking in the sun all day upon silver platters created a masking perfume to the carnage that happened in the pit. Petra’s eyes fell upon two lounging couples—luckily Xin and Tam.
“Out with you,” she commanded. “I require this space.”
The Dragons exchanged a look. She could sense their displeasure at the prospect of being uprooted. But they obliged her, every last one.
Petra turned to the slave who stood in the corner by the table, a scrawny little Tam with the symbol of Xin emblazoned upon her cheek. Petra had made sure that all the slaves and low servants were wine-or forest-skinned Dragons. She wanted Tam and Rok Dragons to look upon the men and women who had left their Houses and now wore Xin’s mark forever. She wanted to test the slaves’ loyalty. She wanted all to see Dragons that were previously Rock and Tam now under her claws, and serving her as the picture of obedience.
“Bring me Finnyr Xin’Kin To,” Petra ordered. “You will find him with the Dono.”
The servant nodded, departing in haste. Petra walked over to the un-railed edge of the balcony. The sun was starting to dip low in the sky. If Court hadn’t been formally ended, it would be soon.
The Crimson Court was always between dawn and sunset. The priests taught that Lady Luc, the Light-herald, was born each morning by the hand of Lord Rok. Each night, she was slain by Lord Xin, to make room for his brother, Lord Pak the Dark-wielder, to overtake the sky. Lord Rok fought against Lord Pak until the dawn… when the cycle repeated.
House Rok held the Crimson Court during the hours of their patron’s Lady. Long ago, when it was the Cobalt Court, duels were held at night. Petra tensed her claws, relaxed them. Her mind filled with the fantasy of midnight blue Dragons swirling through the pit like wraiths made from shadow and death, illuminated by the moon, and fighting for House and glory.
“You summoned me.”
Petra turned, her thoughts pushed back into the far recesses of her most delightful fantasies. Finnyr stood just inside the still-swaying curtain. Petra tried to remember the last time she’d seen her brother as she assessed him.
He was still small; his time at House Rok had put no might on his bones. It was further affirmation that nothing about Rok or Lysip was inherently mighty. Petra had narrower hips and shoulders than her brother, but her muscle held twice the raw power and her magic was overwhelming in comparison.
Finnyr, her pale-skinned brother with his tarnished hair. The child of House Xin that should never have been born.
“Come, Finnyr.” She smiled, displaying her canines, and motioned for the spot next to her. “It has been some time since we last spoke face to face.”
“It has.” He obeyed, standing in the spot she selected for him.
“You appear to be well. Has House Rok treated you properly?”
He snorted. “As well as can be expected from House Rok.”
That was an acceptable answer. “And the Dono?”
“He gives me no cause for complaint.”
“Unfortunately,” Petra lamented. She would always stand with her House first, but there would be something quite convenient about Yveun abusing her brother, giving her enough cause to challenge the Dono outright.
“He has never harvested any of my parts.”
Petra folded her hands in front of her abdomen to keep her claws from unsheathing. Finnyr was familiar enough with the motion that he visibly tensed, realizing what he’d done. Petra took a half step away from the ledge, toward Finnyr’s back.
“Brother, who is the Xin’Oji?”
“You are.”
“And what House do you belong to?”
“House Xin.”
“Therefore, what must you never do?”
Finnyr sighed heavily. “Petra, I was not questioning your decision, I was merely stating—”
Petra’s arm shot out without even half a thought behind it. Her claws extended beyond her fingertips like magic daggers. They hovered at the edge of his throat.
“Finnyr, your very existence happens at my allowance,” she growled. “You are not to think, you are not to hesitate. It was these traits by which you lost your place as the rightful heir to House Xin. Have some shame and work to make yourself useful.”
She wanted to love him. She wanted to embrace her brother as a fellow warrior. If he had been strong, the responsibility of Xin would’ve never fallen to her. Not that she’d minded, of course. But he was an embarrassment of a brother and had been the shame of their mother and father. His weakness continued to be a blemish on the opinion of their House from the rest of Nova. Unlike Cvareh, it was not a calculated play. Finnyr was truly inept.
Fear colored his magic, even if he didn’t let it show on his face. Petra kept her claws at his throat.
“Now, tell me of the Dono.” Anger singed the edges of her consciousness.
“I know nothing more than I’ve told you before.”
“You didn’t know of the new Master Rider?” Petra scowled.
“I did, but—”
“You did not think to inform me?”
“I did not think it was of note.” Finnyr held up his hands, showing that his claws were still not out despite Petra’s being at his throat. “You must have assumed, with Leona’s death, that the Dono would find a new Master Rider. And with all the other Dragons that perished hunting Cvareh on Loom, the Dono didn’t have many choices. Lossom was no one of importance, and a Dragon without much experience.”
Petra took her time reasoning through this. The logic stood. If she had committed a moment’s thought to it, she likely could’ve reached the same conclusion herself. She eased her hand away from Finnyr’s throat.
“Now, sister, you did not tell me you had such a fierce fighter you were training up within House Xin.” Finnyr spoke lightly, as though she hadn’t just threatened his life. All was forgiven to the Oji of the House when the Oji had only acted in the best interest of the Dragons whom she sought to protect.
“I prefer to keep many surprises.” Petra would not give Finnyr the knowledge of Arianna. She, Cvareh and apparently Cain had managed to keep the truth of her to themselves, and she would see it remained so.
“How many others do you train?”
“Enough to see this Crimson Court to its bloated conclusion.”
“Enough to fight against House Rok?”
Petra scowled at the horizon. “No.”
Far out there was the Isle of Lysip, the largest island on Nova and the most overrun with fighters. Floating between them was the Isle of Gwenri, home of Tam. And another House’s worth of Dragons who would fight for the sake of keeping the status quo.
“Such numbers will never be found on Nova.”
“On Nova?” Finnyr knew her too well. He knew where the important parts of her phrasing lay.
“Tell me more about the Dono.”
“There is not much to say.”
Useless. “You live in his home. You eat his food. You mingle with his other To and you gossip in Lysip’s tea parlors. There must be more to say.”
“The Dono is his own Oji as well. He keeps people at claw’s length and only tells them of his plans and movements when he deems it essential for them to know.”
Petra stared down Finnyr from the corners of her eyes. “You have done well enough making yourself so small that things are said in your presence without concern. Learning of why there was always a Rider stationed at that records room has paid well in dividends.”
Finnyr remained silent.
“You must have heard something else of use to our House.”
“I did hear that Yveun went beneath Lysip not more than a month before the Court.”
“Beneath?” she emphasized for clarity. “Why would Yveun lower himself to such measures?”
“I don’t know.”
Petra cursed. “Find out.”
“It would be easier if he trusted me.”
“Then go back and earn his trust.”
“I am House Xin, I will never earn his trust.” Finnyr sighed heavily. “Unless…”
“Unless?”
“You give me something I could use as a bartering chip to do it.” Finnyr seemed determined to toe dangerous lines. She ground her teeth together, reminding herself not to rip out his throat. “Give me something small, something that changes nothing. I could spin it into a lie, even, but the best lie has a grain of truth. Tell me how you are training Dragons like this Ari—for he now knows you have the means for warriors such as her. Tell me of your work on the refineries; are you putting gold aside for Xin? You must be; Yveun would assume this anyway, my saying so would pose no extra risk. Or Cvareh’s journey to Loom. Yveun seeks our brother’s blood already, him knowing how his Riders were killed would not satiate that lust for violence. And he would certainly not share the truth, as the whole affair is a source of shame considering how many Riders he lost.”
“No,” Petra spoke quietly, stopping him before he could think of any more useless ideas. “Your words are near treason, Finnyr. You will not bargain our truths for his favor. That makes us exactly what he wants House Xin to be: loyal at all costs. If you must tell him anything, fabricate something. Tell him whatever you please.”
“He will know if I am lying. He’ll see it lacks no substance!”
“Than become a better liar.”
“Petra, I cannot help you if you will not let me in!” A familiar hurt colored Finnyr’s voice. “I cannot be loyal to House Xin if I do not know what House Xin needs.”
“House Xin needs information on Rok. House Xin needs you to relay information pertinent to our success.”
“And I—”
“I have spoken.” Petra cut him short. She’d had enough of this tantrum. “Go back to the Dono’s temporary estate and come back to me tomorrow with something tangible. Have some self-respect as a Xin’Kin and make use of yourself to our House.”
“The Dono has told me that I would stay in the Xin Manor during the Court.”
“The Dono does not decide who sleeps in my halls, and he would do well to remember it.” Furthermore, Petra could not stand to look at Finnyr for a second longer. Not after this slew of disappointments. If he returned to the manor, she might kill him before the night was over, just so the mere knowledge of his ineptitude couldn’t shame her further.
“Petra—”
“I have spoken!” Her teeth clicked together as she slammed them shut into a half snarl. “Now leave, Finnyr.”
Finnyr looked at her as if considering disobedience. Lucky for them both, he retreated. Petra took a deep breath of the air that was wholly hers the moment he left.
She had somehow managed to avoid killing Finnyr for over three decades, but every time he was around her it was a test of her resolve on the matter. He was the embodiment of all that she loathed: entitlement without effort, weakness, proximity to House Rok. Petra would not kill a member of House Xin without good reason, especially not her elder brother.
But eventually, she knew it could not be helped if he continued as he was.
Petra stared into the setting sun, the gold fading in the wake of Lord Xin’s hour growing nigh. Petra invited the strength of the Death-giver into her heart. So, too, would she someday watch the sun set on House Rok.
29. Florence
“How did the Dragons save Loom?” Florence was utterly baffled. All her life, she’d felt the negative effects of the Dragons’ presence in her world.
“How old are you?” Powell asked.
“Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen later this year.”
“And you’re still an initiate?” He raised his eyebrows, referring to her outlined mark. “You should have taken the second round of tests for Journeyman by now.”
Florence stayed her tongue, choosing to look out the window.
“I see.” She had no doubt Powell actually did. “Revolvers, then?”
She neither confirmed nor denied the fact.
Powell merely chuckled at her silence. “Come with me, Flor.”
Florence followed the Harvester away from the outer ring of windows and into a narrow hall lit by biophosphorous. She took note of the same lanterns she had seen in the tunnels below. “Does Faroe have no generators?”
The man glanced at the lanterns. “There isn’t much room for anything unnecessary here. Generators take up precious space that could be otherwise dedicated to the essentials.”
“I see,” she mumbled as they pressed onward and upward.
The stairs wound straight
up into an open second floor. Large tables made a ring by each of the windows. Men and women, all bearing a sickle on their cheeks, walked between them, stopping at smaller tables to check things and make notes along the way. Chimera sat in an innermost ring of chairs, their brightly colored ears betraying their black blood.
“This is where we plan new mines,” Powell explained. “We have a bird’s eye view of the immediate area. Each of the other cities in Ter.1 has towers of their own that function for the same or similar purposes. To the north, it’s mostly plotting farmland. On the coastlines, they serve as lighthouses for the sailors as well.”
He led her over to one of the tables that sat flush against a window, strategically picking one with the least amount of activity.
“On the maps we mark the depth and location of existing mines, as well as what they’re producing.”
The map was covered with marks, crossed out and marked again and again. Lines in different colored chalk wound around and between them. Dust from past coloring hazed the paper.
“The chalk is for veins and pockets of minerals, which we then—” He directed Florence to the inner table that sat opposite. “Mark and note how much is harvested. These numbers are compared against historic numbers and reports from the guilds to estimate how much needs to be pulled from the earth.”
He motioned toward the Chimera sitting in the middle, engaged in conversations seemingly with their palms, fingertips touching their ears, or with the other Harvesters who walked around the room.
“Then the reports go out to the mines, as well as to another group of Chimera upstairs who then communicate with the Ravens to see the resources are ultimately moved to where they need to go.”
“How did the communication happen before magic?” Florence couldn’t help but wonder.
“Much more slowly,” Powell admitted. “Letters delivered by couriers. Though our overall perception on mining was different then.”
“It’s fascinating,” she admitted. “But I fail to see how this relates to the Dragons saving Loom?” Saying the words singed her tongue; her body physically rejected the notion.
