by Elise Kova
There had been no word or rumor from Loom. The fact didn’t surprise her, given the logistics of communication between the two realms, but she worried for Florence. The girl was no doubt involved in the rebellion and the very fact put her in danger. Arianna hoped she was merely oiling guns in the Alchemists’ Guild hall. But knowing Florence, the likelihood of that was slim.
The world would only ever be safe when the Dragons no longer attempted to rule Loom. For as long as they did, Loom would bend and break, rebellions would creep up, the dream of bygone days would flower into bloody conflict. She knew she had reached her decision when they landed in the manor.
“It’s quiet,” Cvareh observed as they headed for her chambers.
“Perhaps they are still in Easwin?” Arianna proposed, quickly changing the topic to what weighed on her. “Cvareh, I have decided that I will help your sister.”
He stopped in his tracks, leaving her to pause as well, a hand on the doorknob.
“Ari?” The Dragon was uncertain, searching. It was as if she’d given him a truth he deemed far too good to be true. But all Arianna could see was that she was giving him certain war.
“It’s not for her.”
“Who then?” he asked tentatively.
“Florence.” He visibly deflated at the name. “Helping your sister will be the best chance of this rebellion she’s put so much stock in seeing success, as long as Petra doesn’t betray us and try to rule Loom when she has the throne she so wants.”
“Logical. I’d expect no less.”
Arianna sighed softly. “It’s for you as well, idiot.”
He brought his eyes back to hers, hopeful.
“You don’t think I actually trust Petra, do you?” Arianna took a deep breath and braced herself. What she was about to say would no doubt rattle them both. “I trust you, Cvareh. If nothing else I trust that you will do what must be done.”
“I will, I promise you. But Petra won’t betray you, either.” He eagerly followed her into her quarters as she made her way to her desk.
“Good, because I will need some supplies.” She grabbed for the journal that was mostly still blank inside, the others scribbled across with random notes, maps of the manor, and other postulations.
Her pen paused as she thought a long moment. What did Sophie say she needed? What would help the rebellion the most? Arianna wasn’t born to be a leader and she didn’t want to be. She was born to create tools and was content to let others figure out their use.
“Yes, anything. You know I will give you anything,” he repeated his dangerous offer.
Arianna withheld scolding him. She would save her boon for as long as she could. She would use it when she had no other option. When it was something he wouldn’t give her willingly, or tried to be subversive about.
“Those flowers, I will need them.” Merely thinking about crafting the Philosopher’s Box again set the hairs on her neck on end. With every pen stroke and mental note made, she felt like she was writing the world’s future.
“The Flowers of Agandi? Why?”
“The traitor. He brought them once… I thought he was a simpleton, bringing back something for the sheer beauty of it, a memento of home. But it was a stroke of luck.” She laughed at the irony of her word choice. “We discovered that they have a special property in their pollen that can be used as a type of tempering on gold. It helps keeps magic fresh and rejuvenated.”
Cvareh’s eyes widened. The man was smarter than she gave him credit for, sometimes. He was beginning to piece together why she needed what she claimed. “But it wears off when the flower closes, or dies.”
“It does, but if the pollen is tempered properly, the properties stay,” Arianna explained. “It keeps the blood from turning black. It removes the strain of the magic.”
“This is genius,” Cvareh whispered by her shoulder.
“This was Eva’s genius.” Arianna would never miss a chance to laud her dead lover. Eva deserved that much, and so, so much more. “She was the one to notice her reagents hadn’t gone sour in the flower’s presence.”
“How many do you need?”
“Not too many... well, depending on how many boxes we make. But since they don’t grow on Loom and you said they’re particular about where they grow even here… We’ll need your help getting them. They must be transported quickly and securely so they arrive living and undamaged.”
“Petra and I will see that this is done.” There was an awe about Cvareh’s excitement.
“We will also need more gold.” Arianna tried to think back to the things Sophie said were in short supply. “For the boxes, and in general. I think you could perhaps intercept some shipments here to Nova from Loom.”
“Far simpler than that.” Cvareh placed a hand on her shoulder with a broad smile. “My sister has refineries here, nearly in working order.”
“Refineries, here on Nova?” Arianna tried to grasp what this meant for Loom. If the Dragons could refine their own steel into gold, that meant Loom was one step closer to becoming irrelevant. She stared at her supply list. Loom needed the Philosopher’s Box. They needed to secure their place in the world’s future.
“Not as large as on Loom. But there are even Rivets and Harvesters Petra has brought up to help.”
Arianna snorted, trying to imagine the thought. But the emotion was quickly lost. After all, here she was.
“Very well, then. The Alchemists could still use more guns. And any help with transport on Loom. We’ll need to leverage the Rivets to put things in mass production.”
“We will help how we can.” She understood Cvareh’s hesitation. Their power was significantly less once they stepped off the floating islands that drifted across the stars. “I will go pass all this information along to Petra.”
“I’ll finish the list while you do.” Arianna drew another line, thinking of any other demands she could make on behalf of her home. Even if Petra ultimately betrayed them. If she could give Loom enough of an advantage to tip the scales, it might be worth it.
Wrenches and bolts, Arianna mentally cursed herself. She sounded like the same idealistic girl who had let herself be swept up in the rhetoric of the last rebellion.
“One more thing, Cvareh.” She didn’t look up from her paper. “Tell Petra to ready the glider for me to return to Loom.”
There was an agonizingly long pause. “Pardon?”
“I’ll need to return to Loom. I’ll need to return to the Rivets personally. I will still have sway there—the Masters will remember me as Oliver’s student. I can teach them how to make the box. I—”
“We have everything you need here.” Cvareh said hastily. “The flowers, the gold, tools…”
Arianna looked out the window. This shouldn’t be so difficult. But here she was, struggling against the truth, fighting for words. “I need factories. I need other Rivets and Alchemists. I need to go home.”
“Can you return?”
“Why would I?” Arianna turned to see him trapped in limbo in the doorway. She wanted to stand and walk over and comfort him. She wanted to pull him into the bed and build blockades out of blankets to keep the world at bay.
“Because Petra needs me here.” The truth was more deadly than a paring knife between her eyes, though the pain may have been equal. “She won’t let me go again. I can’t afford the suspicion.”
“Understandable. Your place is here, mine is on Loom.”
“Arianna, that cold and detached persona will no longer work on me.” Cvareh stood his ground, literally and proverbially. “I know you, and I know that you…”
“That I what?” she pressed, seeing if he would really say the words her mind filled in. Cvareh faltered. “You barely know me, Cvareh.”
“After tonight, I think I do.”
“One day of sex and a small conversation does not give you my mind, all my history, my tr
uths. You will never understand what drives me.”
“I don’t have to.” He smiled soothingly. “I merely have to love it.”
“You’re being a fool.” The man was going to paint color on her gray and dreary dreams, and somehow, she wanted to let him.
“No.” He stepped toward her, rather than hastening away to his sister to report that he had finally secured all that House Xin needed. “I think this is one of the few times where I’m not.”
That smile, sharp canines and all, was more dangerous than it had ever been. She hooked a hand on his neck and brought her mouth to it. Arianna wanted to taste the flavor of hope again.
“I love you, Arianna. And I will not stand in your way, but I will also not let you flee from this. Reject me if you must, and that will be that. Until you do, I will see my future built with space for you in it.”
She searched his face as if she could read the words he wanted her to say off it with ease. But she was tired. There was only so much change that could be expected of a single person in one day.
Cvareh eased away, but there wasn’t disappointment in his motions, merely patience. “I should go to my sister.”
She watched him go, still caught in the same limbo. He loved her. Loved. Arianna placed a hand on her chest, feeling nothing. She remembered what it felt like to have a beating heart, though she hadn’t in years. Eva had cut out the heart Ari had given her, and Arianna had built a new clockwork machine to take its place.
She didn’t remember anything in her designs that would allow her to love again.
37. Petra
Her people, her family, were dying in the streets.
By the time word arrived to Petra of the mysterious circumstances under which they were suffering, it was far too late to even attempt to save the majority of them. The organs from a slave squished under her feet as she paced the room. Killing the messenger solved nothing, but the scent of blood made her mind sharp and her senses keen. Killing directed her rage at someone worthless, so it didn’t escape through her at the people she needed to depend on.
The doors at the far end of the hall opened. Claws out, fangs bared, Petra wheeled in place to look at who had traversed into her space at such a time. There were only about five people she wouldn’t kill on sight, and lucky for Cain, he was one of them.
“Cain, tell me news. Tell me something worthwhile.” She felt utterly useless, and it was a feeling Petra both loathed and feared. She was the Xin’Oji, the young warrior, the champion of blue. She knew how to fight her way out of any corner.
“Petra’Oji.” Cain’s bare chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath. “I just arrived from overseeing healers from Napole to Easwin. They began to try to help the living, but their medicines are failing, so they looked to the dead. They suspect poison.”
“Poison?” Petra repeated out of pure shock. A shameful death, poison was only reserved for killing animals without marring their pelt or flesh, or for the ill whose hearts could not be safely consumed seeking relief. Petra tried to think of even one poison, but could not name any. “It was not a rash of sour elk? Or an unhealthy growth upon the yeast?”
Cain shook his head grimly. “When they opened the cores of the fallen, half their innards had been completely dissolved.”
“Are any surviving?” Petra walked over to one of the tall windows in the hall that faced east. All that was before her were the spires of her manor.
“Only those with strong magic in their stomachs.”
Petra hung her head. Her claws dug so far into the stone that they nearly snapped. This was an enemy in the shadows. It was not one she could hunt down. It was not someone she could summon into the pits and make an example of several times over.
She had dealt with a coward. She had dealt with someone who was willing to sacrifice all their ideals for the ends they wanted to achieve. Petra snarled despite herself; the irony was not lost on her. Whoever had done this knew it was a very dark way to twist the Xin motto.
“Cain, I have an important task for you.” Petra thought through her next move as carefully as she could manage. But blood clouded her mind and engulfed her nose. She wanted to roar the song of vengeance.
“Oji.” Cain brought his heels together, standing taller.
“Find Finnyr, and bring him to me.” Petra straightened, looking at Cain’s reflection in the blackness of the windowpane. “I only need him alive and able to speak, Cain. His condition otherwise matters not.”
“Do you think Finnyr’Kin has anything to do with this?”
Petra was smart enough to tell the difference between true insubordination and inquiry; this was by far the latter. Cain’s face was overcome with horror at the very thought. It was heartening, but Petra did not have time for it.
“No…” Petra tapped her fingers along the windowsill. “Finnyr is a Xin, even if he lives under a Rok roof. Furthermore, even if he wanted to betray us, this is beyond him. At worst, he’s a worthless little slime, not cunning or devious.
“However, the man whose roof he sleeps under is both.” Petra growled the Dono’s name. “Yveun has much to gain from Xin fighters mysteriously dying in the night, especially after our showing today.”
“I will find Finnyr’Kin.”
“See you do so with discretion,” Petra cautioned. “We must act carefully until we know what picture is being painted.” Accusing a Dragon of engaging in dishonest battles was a high offense if it proved to be unfounded. Even if Finnyr confirmed it was Yveun, Petra still wasn’t certain she would be able to outright accuse the Dono of treason.
Dawn had barely kissed the sky when Petra knew Cain had returned. She smelled the man’s magic and the sharp tang of her brother’s. She had done nothing but pace the room for hours and bark orders at any who entered.
The doors opened and Cain shoved Finnyr through them. Her brother tripped, nearly falling on his face. He was like a skittish field mouse trying to squeak a mountain lion into submission.
“I am a Kin of this House. I will not tolerate this treatment!”
Cain looked to her. It was a delicious feeling—another person deferring to her above Finnyr, the first born, the fallen child of Xin. Petra’s claws felt ten times sharper.
“We shall see what you are soon enough,” Petra said silkily.
Finnyr turned slowly to look at her. All boldness he had tried to throw around with Cain washed away beneath the shower of her judgment. She poured her suspicions silently atop him and watched as they eroded his resolve.
“Petra, what is the meaning of this?” Finnyr demanded.
“Cain, I wish to be alone with my brother.” Petra didn’t want an audience for what she was about to do to Finnyr. She didn’t want anyone in the manor to know what she could do with her claws. The speculation over what prompted each delightful scream would be a far stronger message to warn others against disappointing her.
“As you wish, Oji.” He closed the doors behind him. Petra’s ears twitched as she listened for footsteps. There were none, meaning Cain had assumed responsibility as guard.
They would not be disturbed.
“Petra, there—”
“Petra’Oji,” she corrected venomously. “You will refer to me by my title, Finnyr.”
“There are things I must tell you.”
“Oh, I imagine so.” She began to advance on him. “Our House, your family, are dying, Finnyr…”
“You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with it.” Finnyr retreated, shuffle step after shuffle step.
“No, I know better. You’re far too inept for that,” she chastised. “You’re weak. You think small. You require a guiding hand.” Claws shot from her fingers at every flaw she named. “You likely aren’t even aware of what happened.”
“No, I am aware.”
“Oh?” She wanted to hear him say it. She wanted him to be s
o worked up and afraid that he would do anything to prove himself to her. And, in doing so, he would show her his true colors.
“I hadn’t come home because I was searching for answers on my end, just like you commanded.” Finnyr stood straighter, like a performer in the spotlight. “I overheard a conversation that I think will be of use to you.”
He couldn’t overhear anything when she needed him to, but suddenly managed without a problem when it was far too late. His inconsistency was beginning to rub Petra wrong. “For your sake, you’d best hope it is.”
“It was in the wine,” Finnyr said hastily. “The poison was in the wine.”
Petra stopped just within arms reach. She stared at her brother for a long moment before raising her hand in a quick motion, bringing its back across his face. Her claws dug long, golden lines in his cheek.
Finnyr reeled. “What, why?”
“Tell me true. Where was the poison put?”
“I told you—”
She grabbed the chain that sat around his neck, the collar the Dono made all his beasts wear, and yanked him by it. Petra placed a hand on his shoulder, tensing her fingers and dragging her claws down his bicep. Finnyr howled in pain.
“Tell me how my people were poisoned!”
“I am telling you!” he snarled. “It was in the wine.”
Petra slapped him again, this time with her palm. She ripped a chunk from his ear in the process. “Where did they put it?”
“In the wine!” Finnyr hissed in pain. “Petra, the poison was in the wine.”
“Where?” She hit him again.
“The wine!”
“Where was it?” Petra threw him backward. Finnyr stumbled, giving her an easy opening to straddle his feet and hold him against the wall by his neck. Rivulets of gold pooled in his collarbones as her claws dug into the soft muscle of his throat.
“The wine!” Finnyr was nearly at the point of tears. The shameful, pathetic man came undone under her fingers, the truth pouring from him like the blood from his neck. Petra could confidently ascertain that he was not trying to deceive her in any fashion.
