by Beth Alvarez
She sighed. “You only hurt yourself by coming to the window like this. I know you must grieve, Rhyllyn, but please, let someone be there for you. If not me, then one of your friends.”
He'd tried to stop returning to look out the window, but he didn't tell her that. As the hours slid by, it grew to be something like a sore he couldn't stop picking. He should have been baking, studying, practicing with his instruments—anything other than standing in the small parlor in the front corner of the house, staring out through the glass as if he might see something on the other side.
His brother had never even gotten a chance to unpack his bags.
“He's faced plenty of horrible things and come back in one piece,” he said after a time. “He's traveled all over. Faced monsters and thieves. He's been to war so many times. How could he survive all of those and not this?”
Alira couldn't quite restrain her snort. “Half the stories he's told you are gross exaggerations.”
“You don't know that,” he found himself repeating. “And just imagine the stories he hasn't told me.”
This time, her sigh was heavy, defeated. “Very well. I'll let you brood. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me. We still need to eat.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Rhyllyn agreed absentmindedly as she retreated from the doorway. He let himself stare at the empty, muddy path outside for a moment longer, then finally pulled himself away.
No matter the situation, he didn't want to be labeled as brooding. He wasn't that sort of person, but his brother was, and the last thing Rhyllyn needed was for that comparison to be drawn.
He'd been alone in the house plenty of times, but he didn't know how to explain things to Alira. The whole house felt tense, tight, like the spring-wound butterflies Rune had made to entertain him when he'd been small. It felt no different than any of the other times his brother had left on an expedition. The manor waited, and Rhyllyn waited with it.
Instead of lingering in the dim, gloomy parlor, he made his feet move. His claws clicked against the fine parquet flooring in the foyer as he padded across it. He probably should have turned down the hall, gone to see if Alira needed help in the kitchen, but he couldn't make himself seek her out so soon. Instead, he crossed into the study on the other side of the house.
If the parlor was dim, the study was downright shadowy. It was best for the books, Rune always said, though Rhyllyn suspected the thick curtains had more to do with his desire to shut out the world when he was studying than any urge to protect the countless volumes that lined the shelves. Most of the books were not uncommon or even particularly valuable, as far as Rhyllyn knew, and there had been times he passed the study door and saw a glint of sunlight beneath its edge.
He wished it were sunny enough to let some light in now. Instead, he waved a hand over one of the fine oil lamps that sat nestled among books and papers on his brother's wide desk. A flame sprang to life inside and he blinked against the glare.
A handful of Rhyllyn's instruments sat in the study; it was his favorite place to practice, and when Rune was home, he seemed to enjoy the music. Rhyllyn brushed his clawed fingers over the neck of his favorite lute and was rewarded with a few soft notes, but his eyes traveled to the large map pinned to the wall above the desk instead.
Dozens—if not hundreds—of marks colored its surface. The chalks were somewhere in the desk's top drawer, if Rhyllyn remembered right. He pulled it open and rooted around for the box.
Some of the marks represented places he'd been. He'd chosen a cheerful orange as his color, while Rune's marks were a combination of blue, red, and green that apparently meant something, though Rhyllyn couldn't fathom what. Some areas were shaded in, others circled, but for all that the known world was wide, there was little left untouched by chalk.
He found a piece of red, instead of his orange, and turned it between his claws.
Most of his brother's time had been dominated by his exploration, a search for the Alda'anan mages Rhyllyn had never so much as met, but whose existence had still shaped his life. Despite the time he spent traveling, Rune had always found time to be present for him—and when it came down to it, that was what Rhyllyn believed he missed the most.
A return from travel was supposed to be a joyous time. A time for new stories, new songs, new trinkets brought back as gifts for loved ones and friends. Instead, it had heralded quiet, discontent, and yes, grief.
Rhyllyn swallowed thickly and raised his chalk.
“I've warmed some bread and fruit preserves from the cellar,” Alira announced from somewhere beyond the open door. “I thought you might—” She stopped short as she reached the doorway and saw him before the desk. “What are you doing?”
“I asked him why he didn't look here, once,” Rhyllyn said, his hand hovering over the map. “He grew quiet when I did. That was how I knew what it was.” A home he'd always known existed, that his brother refused to speak of.
Alira tilted her head and watched as he pressed the chalk to a tiny point near the center of the ocean, halfway between the north and south.
“He said, 'Ithilear's a big world. In a place as small as that, people don't even know the world has a name.' But he never told me anything else.” Slowly, Rhyllyn twisted the chalk, leaving a bold red mark atop the island's delicate outline. “It's so small, the country's name isn't even printed on the map. But I guess now he'll know if the Alda'anan ever reached it, won't he?”
As he lifted the chalk from the map, the colors blurred. It took him a moment to realize there were tears in his eyes.
Wordlessly, Alira swept into the study and gathered him into her arms.
Though he felt no shame for his display of emotion, he worked to hold back his tears. Letting them loose was tantamount to admitting defeat, and until he received word or Garam returned alone, he chose to cling to hope.
They were closely matched in height, and Alira cradled the back of his head to settle his brow against her shoulder. He relented and allowed that much, though he bit his tongue and inhaled deep to keep hold of his emotions. After a time, he wrapped his arms around her ribs and let himself be comforted. If Rune had become his brother, Alira was the closest thing to a mother he'd ever known, and he was not too old to admit he still needed to be mothered sometimes.
“It just isn't fair,” he murmured into her white robes.
“It isn't,” she agreed. “But if things were fair, he never would have left that island, and we wouldn't have met, dear heart.”
Rhyllyn rolled his eyes and held back a huff as he removed himself from her embrace. “That doesn't make it better.” Nor had it made things better when his brother said the same thing.
“No, but it may bring you peace, in time. Come. Eat.” She beckoned him toward the hallway.
Reluctantly, he followed.
The kitchen was no cheerier than the rest of the house, but with the fire in the oven stoked, it was warm enough to chase away the chill of the rain. Alira led the way to the worn wooden table where they took most of their meals, and Rhyllyn sat with a frown.
She crossed to the counter once he was settled. “Let me make you some tea. There are things we should probably discuss.”
“I don't want to talk.”
“Then you can listen.” Alira waved her fingers over the kettle and it began to steam. Her sway over fire was always impressive, but given what he knew of her history, it was no surprise.
Rhyllyn slouched, but didn't argue. A moment later, she sat a plate of warm bread and berry jam before him, followed by a cup of hot tea.
She sat across the table from him with her own cup in her hands. “Tomorrow morning, we will need to visit the capital.”
“Roberian?” He curled his fingers around his tea and found himself grateful for the warmth that seeped into his scales.
“The Royal City. I had hoped to go alone, but I think it will be best if I take you with me.” Her grip on her cup tightened. “I already told you the news was not well received. Your brother always was an influential man, and
between the king's mages and the Iron Children, it seems there are spaces that will need to be filled.”
The suggestion was so blunt, it made his skin crawl. “It's too early to discuss who's going to replace him.”
“Rhyllyn. The entirety of his estate falls to you, which means there will be social obligations, too.”
“He's not dead,” Rhyllyn snapped.
“I did not say he was,” Alira replied, with more patience than he probably deserved. “But you cannot deny that he left you in charge of things here, and that means you will need to be in charge of his affairs in the Royal City, as well.”
He squeezed his eyes closed. “I'm not ready.”
“I know. But many things you weren't ready for have befallen you, and you've risen to the challenge every time. I don't ask this of you lightly, dear heart, but if there's any example he's set for you that I hope you're willing to follow, I hope you've learned his courage.” A soft note of admiration colored her voice, and Rhyllyn cracked an eye to squint at her.
“I thought you said his stories were exaggerations,” he said.
A hint of a smile crossed her lips. “And they are. Surely you don't believe there are things like giant well-worms, or ancient underground trees?”
Rhyllyn picked at the crust of his bread and slouched deeper in his chair. “There might be.”
“And I will concede that, but I've certainly seen no evidence.” She lifted her cup to her lips and took a long sip of tea. When she lowered it, she sobered, her eyes pinched with concern. “What I have seen evidence of is trouble. If we address nothing else in the Royal City tomorrow, we must visit with Vicamros. I suspect he's in need of a friendly face.”
“Fine,” he said, and he meant it. Still slumped in his seat, he lifted his bread from his plate and took a large bite. Alira wouldn't ask any questions if his mouth was full, and from the way her eyes narrowed at him, she knew he was avoiding conversation.
Still, it seemed enough to dissuade her from unpleasant topics for now. She sipped her tea again and the kitchen grew quiet, save the soft, distant rumble of thunder outside.
At Alira's insistence, they Gated directly into the palace. The mages present in the Gating parlor frowned at them in disapproval, but Rhyllyn hardly cared. Rune had always come and gone from the palace as freely as he pleased, with or without permission to use the parlor, and Rhyllyn had no reason to think the king would begrudge them an unannounced visit. Especially not when Alira had pushed so hard to get him out of the house.
Though he hated to admit it, the brooding she had accused him of seemed far more appealing than the Royal City. Their direct transport into the palace might spare him from hearing the discontent he was certain had taken the city, but the people in the palace knew him. The moment they stepped from the parlor and passed a handful of guards outside its door, he received his first sympathetic glance.
He's not dead. He fixed the thought firmly in his mind and kept his face from showing feeling as they traversed the palace with Alira in the lead.
Halfway up the winding hall, she flagged down a councilor. “Is King Vicamros in his council, or is he in the throne room downstairs?”
“His private offices,” the man answered in a murmur. His eyes flicked Rhyllyn's way, but there was no apology in his glance. Instead, his gaze darted away again, quick as a dragonfly.
Rhyllyn lifted his chin. How many of the wretched councilors had pushed to have his brother sent to hang? The only council members he could be sure were friends were Redoram and Garam, and Garam had not yet returned. Which means he's still alive, Rhyllyn reminded himself. Until Garam comes back, he has to be.
Alira offered a brusque thank-you and returned to Rhyllyn's side. “Come,” she said as she took his arm. “He'll be happy to see you, I'm sure.”
“I'm sure,” Rhyllyn repeated in a grumble.
She escorted him to the king's office, offering a polite nod to each and every guard stationed along the way—and there were many. More than Rhyllyn was accustomed to seeing, with a half-dozen of the king's personal guards stationed just outside the office door.
He tried to hold to his sour mood as she knocked, but the moment the door opened and it was the king himself who stood on the other side, all his frustration slipped away.
Vicamros straightened and wiped a hand over his face, though it did nothing to hide his weariness. Deep shadows smudged the space beneath his eyes, and his expression could be described as nothing other than bleak.
“Alira,” the king said, his voice far more rough than usual. “I didn't expect you. Or you.” His eyes drifted to Rhyllyn, and a new line of worry threaded itself between his brows.
“Majesty.” Alira spread her white skirts and dipped in a curtsy, then nudged Rhyllyn's side as if to remind him to show the same respect.
Instead, Rhyllyn stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the king's ribs.
A pair of guards surged toward him, but Vicamros raised a hand as he stumbled back a step and then regained his balance. His arms closed around Rhyllyn's shoulders, and from the way they tightened until it grew difficult to breathe, Rhyllyn knew the king needed it even more than he did.
“Come inside,” Vicamros said at last, motioning for Alira to join them. The half-dozen men outside the door moved to follow her, but the king raised two fingers, and only two slipped inside. Once they closed the door, he returned to his desk and sat with a heavy sigh.
“Are you well, Majesty?” Alira asked.
Vicamros's mouth twisted with something that was halfway between a grimace and a rueful smile. “No. I've not slept.”
“I can tell,” Rhyllyn said.
The king seemed to deflate. “I fear I've made a grave mistake.”
“I think you're right,” Rhyllyn agreed.
Alira shot him a warning look.
He ducked his head and pushed his clawed toes at the plush carpet underfoot. “He said it.”
“I did say it.” Vicamros leaned his elbows against his desk and rubbed his forehead. “And I mean it. I've gone over the council meetings in my head so many times, and I can't see any other way to handle things, yet...” The sigh that escaped him said enough without him needing to finish.
Rhyllyn crept forward. There were no empty chairs in the king's office, so he stood before the desk instead. “He went by choice, Cam. He knows what he's doing.”
“And I wish I knew what that meant.” Vicamros lifted his eyes to Alira, hopeful.
She merely shrugged in response.
His shoulders sagged and he reached for a paper. “In any case, I'm glad the two of you are here. The council is satisfied with the decision made, but there are a number of groups who are less forgiving. Councilor Parthanus holds a great deal of sway over the scholars these days, and they seem to feel they've been robbed of an asset.”
“They aren't without a free mage,” Alira said. “It will take time, but Rhyllyn will be able to continue any projects they began and were unable to complete.”
Rhyllyn tried to smile, but found he couldn't. One of those projects was determining the source of the corruption in his brother's magic, in hopes it could be cleansed without the Alda'anan. Without Rune, was there any reason to continue? Rhyllyn had scales of his own, but they didn't bother him like they'd bothered his brother.
He caught himself too late and his brow furrowed. How easy it was to slip into thinking of someone as gone.
“Do you disagree?” Vicamros asked.
“No,” Rhyllyn said hastily, mindful to return his face to neutrality. “Just thinking. It's... it's a big role to step into.”
“And not one you're eager to take, I'm sure.”
“No,” he repeated, softer. “It's too soon.”
The king nodded as if the statement had lifted a burden from him. “Then we will wait. For now, I will instruct the scholars to give you time. That will likely appease them, but I'm not convinced the Children will be so easy to please.”
“They never are
,” Alira sighed.
Rhyllyn was more eager to work with the scholars than the Iron Children. That was one role he doubted he could fill with ease. Everything they did revolved around machinery and its development, and Rhyllyn was no engineer. Nor did he share their disdain for magic, which was what drew their council together in the first place—and drew his brother into their midst. There were some practices Rhyllyn agreed with, and he enjoyed seeing the creations their society produced, but he held no desire to be part of their work.
“Maybe you can just tell them to wait, too,” he suggested halfheartedly.
That drew a chuckle from the king. “Somehow, I don't think that'll work.”
“Why not?” Rhyllyn fidgeted where he stood, feeling more a child than he ought in the company of a friend.
“Their motto,” Vicamros said, and the distant look in his eyes gave him the appearance of a man haunted by the events he'd tried to halt. “Progress never waits.”
18
Distraction
Rikka watched until the white of Balen's robe vanished into the ruins. Only then did she allow herself a sigh of relief. Somehow, she feared more for the safety of the mages outside the temple than that of those within it. Perhaps because as long as they were in the temple, they could be conquered along with it. Those who ran put themselves at risk.
She spun from the gardens and hurried back to the tower. Part of her wanted to flee alongside him, but with Anaide and Shymin trapped in the tower and Edagan already in the ruins, there was no one else left with the authority to carry warning to Kytenia and the queen.
Yet she still wanted to run. Running was easier than facing the anger that swelled within her and threatened to burn her up from the inside out. The woman in the tower with the other Masters was worse than an enemy to the temple or the kingdom. Envesi's actions had left Ilmenhith crippled when it needed mages the most. The lack of power had driven magelings onto the battlefield to quell a fight that wasn't theirs. In that battle, Rikka had lost her dearest friend.
