by Elise Kova
“How quickly can we hold the Tribunal?” Strong words aside, the reality of their situation was becoming very apparent to Florence. Communication systems, in all forms, were down. They didn’t even know if there were Vicars left to meet with. Perhaps the Harvesters had been the only ones warned with enough time.
The idea was only kindling to the pyre of Florence’s rage. The Harvesters had been a fluke, with all the Masters in the guild at the time. The other guilds had their Masters positioned throughout the territories. They would regroup. And if word spread far enough and fast enough, they could do so at the Tribunal.
“Two months, perhaps?” Theodosia begrudgingly suggested at a silent behest from Powell. “That would give messengers enough time to get all the way to Dortam, and for the Vicars to travel.”
“Spread the word like wildfire,” Florence suggested aloud. “Invite all of Loom.”
“What if the Dragons choose to attack again?” Max was still clearly uneasy at the idea of gathering in one place.
“We have the numbers on them. Even with Chimera alone, we have the numbers.” The fact had been known since Nova was first discovered. The sky world was a much, much smaller place than Loom. “The only way they will overpower us is with our own weaponry, coronas, and gliders. And how will they get that weaponry when there is no one to build it?”
“We cannot make a real stand against them,” Max pressed.
Derek was quick to speak up again. “Not without the Philosopher’s Box.”
“You keep saying that, boy, but you have no evidence.”
“We do.” All eyes were on Florence. “We do,” she repeated without hesitation. “We have the person who made the very first Philosopher’s Box.”
“Lies.”
“Her name is Arianna, and she is my teacher,” Florence spat venom, protective at the mere round-about accusation against Ari. “She will make the box for the rebellion.”
“Arianna, Arianna the…”
“Rivet,” Florence finished for Max. “A Master Rivet, at that.”
“Who appointed her?” Max asked with squinted eyes.
“Master Oliver.” Florence had only heard the name a few times before, and prayed she had it right. Judging from Max’s reaction, she did.
“That’s impossible.” The man shook his head. “Master Oliver was part of the Counsel of Five—the fools who died in the last rebellion. His student, Arianna, she perished with him.”
“Except she didn’t,” Florence insisted. She was exhausted the moment the defense crossed her lips. Standing for someone whom everyone seemed to know more about than she did was wearying. The first thing Florence would do the moment Arianna returned would be to demand an explanation of everything. “She is alive and well, and is securing the resources to make the box,” Florence lied, perhaps. What Ari was doing was anyone’s guess.
“We will expect to see the box, then, at the Tribunal.” Powell’s tone left no room for question or interpretation—it was now a caveat. “Once the Vicars see the Philosopher’s Box working, we will stand behind the Alchemists’ Rebellion.”
“I don’t know…” Derek started uncertainly.
“Done.” There wasn’t time for hesitation. Derek shot Florence a look from the corners of his eyes. “Can we count on the Harvesters, two months from now, in Ter.0?”
“I will be there to see the Vicar Alchemist and her Philosopher’s Box,” Powell affirmed. “And I will personally see that the other guilds come with me.”
“Thank you, Vicar Powell,” Florence said sincerely.
“The best thanks you can give us is holding up your end of the deal,” he cautioned.
Florence nodded. “We will return to the Alchemists’ Guild with haste, on the fastest train out.”
They didn’t have anything to pack, so the three of them made their way toward Ter.1.2’s main terminal directly from the hall. Florence knew Derek would have something to say about what they had just done, but it took him longer than she expected. When at last he spoke, the words he found were also unforeseeable.
“Florence, Sophie will stand for the Tribunal, but the box…”
“I don’t think she’ll want to share it with the other guilds,” Nora finished.
“That’s lunacy.” Florence shook her head with a small laugh at the comical notion. “How would she see the box built en masse without the Rivet’s tools and factories? Or get the supplies without the Harvesters and Ravens?”
The two exchanged a look. Florence waited for their nonverbal dialogue to end. When it did, Nora linked one arm with Florence’s and Derek linked the other. They walked together as one tight-knit group toward the station.
“Whatever happens, Florence, we’re with you,” Derek spoke for the both of them.
“You may be the worst navigator we’ve ever seen.” Nora gave her a toothy grin. It slipped when their eyes met and Florence desperately wished she could see what Nora saw in that moment. “But so far, you seem to always get the people who stick by your side where they need to be.”
It was a compliment that rang fundamentally Raven, but not. Either way, for the first time, Florence looked beyond the guild affiliation associated with the words and really distilled their meaning. For the first time, she didn’t try to correct any link between herself and the transportation guild of Loom.
43. Cvareh
As the first light of dawn winked into existence, Cvareh realized he hadn’t slept a wink in what amounted to nearly a full day. Even as a Dragon, he was beginning to tap into his magic to find energy. And another day at the Court awaited him, a day that was sure to be awash in blood. The only relief he found was in the thought that the Court would not possibly sustain a full three days, as was the average. After all that had happened, he’d be surprised if it ran a full two.
He dragged his feet toward his room. Even if there wasn’t time to sleep, there would be time to wash and dress in something clean. Cvareh never underestimated the power of a pair of well-stitched trousers or a fashionable vest. He would feel far more like himself if he wasn’t coated in the blood of his sibling.
His room was intentionally far from Petra’s. They could reach different sections of the manor faster and could easily meet in the middle in instances of emergency. As such, it also meant that most of the aesthetic had been catered to his tastes. Thousands of gemstones were inlaid in a dark ceiling, shining like the light from Lord Agendi’s flowers. How he had loved them and their magic, only to have his sentiment surrounding them forever clouded by the events of the past day.
There was irony in nearly everything that encompassed him. The woman who was sharp as a dagger and more abrasive than pumice was his lady of flowers. She smelled potently of honeysuckle, a scent he had delighted in long before they met. Her skin was the color of Lord Xin’s veil, her hair the shade of Lord Agendi’s path. She had been the first woman to so consume him that he had taken her before his patron to mate.
And yet, it had been those same well-loved flowers that had changed her life as well. Had the Dragon who betrayed her never brought them to the rebellion, she may have never found the solution to the Philosopher’s Box. Her lover may well still be alive, or maybe they would have perished together.
Cvareh certainly would’ve never met her, and that would have spared them much confusion at the very least.
Yes, it all seemed to come down to that Dragon’s singular act, a man she had named as Rafansi. Cvareh knew he should loathe him in a stand of solidarity with Arianna. But, guiltily, he appreciated the man’s dark hand in her life. For it had so clearly driven Cvareh and his Fenthri lover together.
He ran his hands through his clothes, trying to carefully select his ensemble for Court. He did not want to run the risk of re-wearing anything too similar, resulting in a fashion crime he would hear about for years to come. It was a therapeutic process that freed his mind, al
lowing it to wander.
Arianna had claimed this “Rafansi” was a Xin. Perhaps a nameless from below? Cvareh mused. He had neglected to ask Arianna how she’d known his House—if it had been the man’s skin shade or if he’d had a tattoo on his cheek. The Dragon could’ve been someone loyal to Rok originally.
Now, that would make more sense. By the time Petra had even heard of the rebellion from Finnyr, the Dono had already begun putting an end to it. The traitor must surely be Rok, or someone with ties into that House.
Cvareh crossed into the bathing room attached to his dressing area. The water was hot on his skin and the steam cleared his head. He perfumed it with rose and hickory, trying to overwhelm his senses with heat and scents so foreign that they would inspire no further thoughts on anything. But it was a futile effort.
Arianna was certain that the man who had betrayed her had been Xin, not Rok. The woman wouldn’t have said anything if she was unsure, and she knew enough about Dragon culture now to be confident in such a claim. He didn’t think the Dragon she had dealt with was marked, not after Arianna’s surprised and curious reactions to the House tattoos. Even if she didn’t know the meaning years ago, she did now.
He closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the smooth porcelain of the soaking tub.
Her eyes stared back at him. Tam purple amid a stormy sea of ashen skin. They looked through him, seeing right to his core, as though he was nothing more than a child’s riddle. But they hid her truths just as deftly.
Cvareh mapped the curves of her face. He tracked the soft line of her jaw, the surprisingly feminine arc of her cheek. Her hair, the color of pure snow. Had she ever worn it long? Had she always kept it cut just below her shoulder as it was? These were questions he may never know the answer to and the fact shouldn’t have stung him so.
Yes, he was enamored with her. Her differences. All her contrasting pieces that made up a whole that could be none other than Arianna. Even the pieces that weren’t hers: the eyes, the hands, the ears—
Cvareh’s eyes snapped open.
The hands. The ears. He repeated it again and again in his mind.
He stood from the tub, his heart racing. The ears she had possessed as long as he had known her. They were an older part, from when she had first become a Chimera—a Perfect Chimera—more than three years ago. She had never detailed how she had acquired them, and Cvareh had never asked. He’d assumed it to be some horrible harvesting ring that chained his people and turned them into meat factories. He hadn’t wanted to think on it.
But what if they were given willingly, by a Dragon who had been seeking to earn her trust? Cvareh remembered Arianna’s accusations when they first met. The fragile stitches he had ripped off the gaping wound within her heart at the fact that he carried her schematics.
He hadn’t really listened to what she had said then. He thought her anger had stemmed from the fact that they had been stolen, and her general distrust of Dragons. But no, the woman had mentioned he was merely trying again to earn her trust. To betray her again.
Cvareh barely had time to towel dry before he was moving out the door, still dripping from his hair, still naked.
If her ears were given to her by the Dragon who betrayed her, that meant he may have given her other things, like her stomach or blood. That meant he had been the Dragon she thought was Xin. Her betrayer, her organ provider—the man was from his House.
“No,” Cvareh breathed, and began to run.
Arianna had nearly attacked him when he delivered the hands. Hands that matched her ears nearly perfectly, when he actually stopped and considered it. Hands that smelled of cedar, a scent she had enough organs and perhaps blood to also possess, alongside the much more favored and potent sweetness of honeysuckle.
Finnyr smelled of cedar.
Finnyr, a man of House Xin who lived under the Rok’Oji—loyal to House Rok.
Rafansi, a failed creation of life that lived under the pity of Lord Rok. A name Yveun Dono would not doubt delight in using at every turn, at forcing upon a once-Xin’Oji.
He arrived at her door, panting. He wanted to find her in the room. He wanted to tell her that he had put together everything she had been telling him—and not telling him—all along. That he knew who had betrayed her and, even better, that she could be the one to give the man death.
It would’ve been perfect. Petra wouldn’t have to kill their brother. They could make up another claim for Ari to make in the Court. Yveun wouldn’t stand for Finnyr, not when Petra could then stand for Ari and they would be forced to face each other in the ring. No one else would dare step forward in a seemingly Xin-on-Xin duel. It would’ve been a neat solution to all their problems.
But Cvareh knew, the moment he saw her ajar door, there would be no neat solutions.
He entered the room silently, as if by doing so he could sneak up on the truth and tear it apart with his claws to craft a new reality. He looked hopefully to the bed, though it showed no signs of being slept in. Her Dragon clothes were strewn about the floor. Some tears in them had been made by Cvareh’s hands earlier, but new ones tore his hopes asunder. Ones that told him they had been discarded in haste. That their wearer didn’t care if they could ever be put on again.
His eyes fell on an open drawer. It was empty. Cvareh’s heart may well rip through his chest trying to drown out the ringing of horror in his ears. He pulled out the next drawer, throwing clothes onto the floor, clothes Arianna may have never worn.
He darted to the bed. Feathers filled the room as he threw aside the pillows, his claws unsheathed. He was out of control. Anger, heartbreak, denial, frustration, exhaustion—it all had worn him down. He trashed the room, at first in his search, but then just out of anger when he realized he wouldn’t find what he was looking for.
Her daggers and coat were gone.
That meant the White Wraith was now on Ruana. Arianna was at work. And he did not think it chance that this disappearance followed the one night Finnyr himself had returned to the manor.
Cvareh collapsed into the chair, the weight of inevitable truth compressing him into a small, weak being. She had never trusted his family. He had barely begun to earn that fragile gift. And now… Cvareh groaned, burying his face in his palms.
It had been his brother that had betrayed all she loved.
With a snarl, Cvareh slammed his fist into the desk next to him, spilling a bottle of ink and sending pens rolling. He looked at her soiled inventory. It had been going so well. Petra had been getting all she had ever wanted, and somehow, Cvareh was getting all he ever needed. But Arianna had yet to find either.
Cvareh was back on his feet. He might still be fast enough to stop the momentum spinning the wheel of fate that threatened to crush them. She had no doubt smelled Finnyr’s blood; given her last reaction, his brother’s room wasn’t far enough to protect him. Really, he should be surprised it took the woman so long to put together the pieces. But the same could be said for himself.
Cvareh prayed to the Twenty that he was not too late in realizing what she had been trying to tell him from the moment they first met.
He collapsed to his knees in the open doorframe of Finnyr’s room. The wrinkles in the rug and splintered wood of the door latch told the story of what happened as plain as the daylight breaking through the window. He had failed her by not being fast enough, by not being smart enough. She and Finnyr were gone, no scent of blood to betray a kill. Which meant there was a chance they both left alive, and that was a truth far more horrible than having to deal with the body of a Xin’Kin slain in a duel without witness. Where Finnyr went, the Dragon King—the true orchestrator of Arianna’s heartache—was sure to follow. And there was no way Arianna would not take the opportunity to challenge Yveun.
She was going to get herself killed.
He practically jumped back onto his feet. He was on the move again through the halls. But rat
her than heading to his room, he headed for Petra’s corner of the estate.
Petra would know what to do, he insisted to himself. Her mind would’ve cooled enough that she could think logically, and she would force it to for the sake of the woman who had promised her the Philosopher’s Box.
She would do it for the woman Cvareh had chosen as his, he wanted to believe.
“Petra!” He banged on the door so hard the hinges rattled.
“Enter,” she called in reply.
Petra was halfway dressed for Court, two servants attending her.
“Leave us,” Cvareh demanded.
Petra arched an eyebrow, clearly trying to decipher what had worked Cvareh to a frenzy. But when she gave no question to his order, the two slaves left, closing the door behind them. Cvareh crossed to his sister.
“Arianna is gone.” If he wasn’t just out with it, he may lose all courage.
“Gone?” Petra repeated.
“She found Finnyr, and she, they, he—she’s going to make an attempt on Yveun’s life.”
“Finnyr?” The mere name elicited a snarl on the back end, rising up from the throat. “Why?”
Cvareh launched into his explanation without thought. Arianna may have kept the matter private. She may hate him for speaking her truth. But it was Petra. This was his sister. His flesh and blood, the woman in whom he had nothing but faith.
Petra was seething by the time he finished. “You should have come to me sooner with these truths. I would’ve never let Finnyr stay under this roof had I known.”
“I did not form lines between them until just now, until she told me enough yesterday.”
Petra cursed, knowing he was right. His sister gave him a once-over. “Dress, for the sun has nearly risen and we will head to Court. He will no doubt be keeping her and Finnyr close. We will find them during the Court’s distraction,” Petra vowed.
Cvareh did as his sister commanded. He was thankful he had already set out his clothes and they were waiting, because for the first time in his life, he didn’t care about fashion. He wanted to jump on a boco and fly across the island as fast as he could. He wanted to try to find Arianna before she found Yveun. But a torturous pragmatism whispered that he was no doubt already far too late.
