by Elise Kova
Cvareh kept silent, his strides brisk and long. What had become Finnyr’s domain was the third wing on the lower floor, comprised of only a handful of interconnecting rooms. By far the nicest of what Petra had designed to be guest and Kin chambers. It was good enough, Cvareh appraised as he took in the decor and careful woodwork.
It’s too good for Finnyr, a treacherous little voice crept up.
His ears picked up voices several paces before the door. Cvareh stilled, trying to catch the words when the door was suddenly opened from within.
“See, I thought I smelled your brother,” Fae said to Finnyr, but kept her eyes on Cvareh.
“Forgive me, brother.” It was already hard to speak. His jaw was aching from the anger that kept it clamped shut. “I didn’t realize by not taking breakfast with you that you would be forced to break the morning’s bread with Rok.”
Finnyr looked over dully from the table. It was a very different look than at the one he’d worn at his arrival the day prior. Now, he held the advantage. So he looked on Cvareh only apathy and ambivalence, as though he was appraising his own brother to be worth little and less.
“I have had many a meal with Rok. You would do well to find their company enjoyable also, brother.” Finnyr looked back to his plate, ripping through a small, seeded loaf and smearing butter on it liberally.
“I had not meant to imply otherwise.” Cvareh looked back to the woman who was still eyeing him with a gleeful grin. “I know better.”
The woman strolled back into the room, leaving the door open. With all the hip swaying of a brothel madam, she paraded over to the bed, lounging back on it as though it were hers.
Could he have read this wrong? Was Finnyr merely bringing back a lover? It would make sense for him to find someone to confide in throughout the years he had spent on Lysip. A displaced Tam made as much sense as anything else . . .
Finnyr barely regarded the woman, instead watching Cvareh warily as he entered the room. “What do you want?”
“I wish to speak with you.” Cvareh cut right to the chase. Finnyr’s tone made it clear that they were not going to find themselves on friendly or casual footing.
“Speak, then.” Finnyr shoved a wedge of melon into his mouth, chewing like an animal. Juice dribbled down his chin as his teeth chomped into the pale yellow flesh.
“May we have privacy?” Cvareh glanced over at the woman who was inspecting her claws. Cvareh understood the message clearly: She was ready to strike at any moment.
“Anything you say to me can be said before Master Rider Fae.”
It was as though his brother had begun speaking Fennish. No, it was something more confounding than the whispering tones of the gray peoples below the God’s Line. He was going to allow a Rok Rider to sit in on House Xin conversations?
“Finnyr, I would—”
“That is Finnyr’Oji, Cvareh.” Finnyr demanded Cvareh use his title, yet still kept stripping Cvareh of his. It was equal parts confusing and alarming, and Cvareh had no intention of letting it go for a moment longer.
“Finnyr’Oji, I would like to know if I am nameless now?” That wasn’t what he’d intended to say originally. But this was the path Finnyr was choosing—one of difficulty.
“I have yet to decide.” Finnyr returned to his meal.
“What? Who is the Xin’Ryu then?”
“Presently, no one.”
“Who do you intend to ask to be the Xin’Ryu?”
“I have yet to decide.”
“Finnyr’Oji—” Spitting out the title of Oji in conjunction with Finnyr’s name was like spitting up glass. “—I must encourage you to pick a Ryu. If not me, then someone. I could even put forward some names of those who are in the House who have proven their loyalty.”
“Typical Cvareh,” Finnyr snarled quietly, looking up from his meal like a dog protecting a bone. “Always so worried about loyalty for House Xin.” Finnyr slowly put down his utensils, punctuating the movement by folding his fingers. “I am House Xin now. Do well to remember it.”
“I am merely trying to give you counsel, as your brother, if nothing else.”
“My brother?” Finnyr scoffed. “We are no more brothers than I am Tam.”
The words blindsided Cvareh, hitting him so hard he nearly staggered. Not brothers? No Ryu? No Petra? His world was collapsing one cornerstone after another.
“Were we brothers, you would have sent for me years ago.”
“I could take you from the Dragon King no more than Petra could.” Cvareh glanced at Fae, who wore the smallest of smiles. She looked like a sea sponge on the beach’s shore, lapping up every wave of words, absorbing them into her memory until it filled to capacity.
“Petra, she was an even worse example.”
“Stop.” Cvareh wouldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear it. It was a load too heavy to bear so soon after her death.
“She spoke of family and usurped our father—”
“Stop.”
“—sent me away—”
“Finnyr . . .”
“—used you like a tool—”
“I said stop!” Cvareh punched a fist into the doorframe. Anger escaped through heavy exhales and his heaving chest. Wood splintered into his knuckles and the smell of woodsmoke filled the room from his wounds. Cvareh didn’t notice; his eyes were only on Finnyr.
There was the fear he expected to see from his coward of a brother. It was all talk. There was no greatness. It wasn’t until the shadow of the giant green woman pulled herself off the bed with a sigh that any resolve returned to Finnyr’s stare. He was only brave as long as he sat under the protection of Yveun.
Cvareh slowly pulled his fist from the doorframe, regarding the woman and her claws warily. He raised his hands, showing that his claws had yet to be exposed.
“Forgive me, Oji.” He spoke to Finnyr, but looked at the Rider. It was apparent who the true Xin’Oji was. “I am merely emotional given the present trials. I shall work on composing myself.”
Fae looked to Finnyr, and Cvareh’s gaze followed. Finnyr continued to look at him with that same detached, cold stare.
“See that you do, Cvareh,” he cautioned. “If you want any hope of keeping any sort of title to your name.”
Cvareh gave a small nod. The meeting had been a failure from the moment the door opened and at the rate things were going, it wasn’t impossible for him to wind up dead. It made complete sense to turn his back and leave, and yet, something compelled him to hover a moment longer.
“Remember, brother . . . For however much you hated Petra, and hate me, you are still Xin, and we are Dragons. Your blood flows from Lord Xin. Build your own legacy as you see fit, but at least make it truly yours.”
Finnyr’s mouth was shut so tightly, his lips weren’t even visible. “Get out of my sight.”
With pleasure, Cvareh barely kept himself from saying as he departed down the hall and away from that miserable room.
Cvareh strode through the Xin Manor with the look of a man on a mission, but it was all a carefully crafted illusion. He had no direction to go in, and what seemed like fewer options available to him by the second. His mind and heart both were heavy with a frustrating, infuriating ache.
He found himself walking up a long staircase. It was a narrow offshoot from one of Petra’s lower halls, and wound upward into the heights of the manor. When he was lost, there was one place he’d always gone to for answers.
The viewing chamber was empty and that, for some inexplicable reason, surprised him. Cvareh stared at the far edge of the dais, where his sister had sat facing the large windows that looked out across the Ruana mountains toward the temple of Xin. He sat heavily in that same spot, looking for answers he didn’t think he’d find.
It wasn’t long before footsteps broke the silence, and Cvareh knew who stopped at the top of the stair without having to turn. He knew it by the smell of the man and the sound of his gait, and because there was only one other Xin Dragon who would dare venture up to
one of Petra’s most personal and private spaces.
“Sit with me?” Cvareh spoke without turning.
Cain didn’t speak. He did as he was told, but in the wrong way. He walked around to the far edge where Cvareh sat, sitting next to him.
Cvareh didn’t have it in his heart to correct the man. “How did you know I was here?”
“Dawyn told me,” Cain answered softly. There was something about the space that made lowering one’s voice in reverence natural. “She saw you headed this way.”
Cvareh vaguely recognized the name. “One of my sister’s attendants?”
Cain shook his head. “She actually helped see to the Fe— to Ari while she was here.” He stopped himself mid-word with a glare from Cvareh at the slur for the people down on Loom.
“What is she doing in Petra’s wing?” Cvareh felt protective of the space. He wasn’t ready to see it turned over to Finnyr, to anyone.
“Paying her respects . . . looking for answers . . .”
Cvareh heard his friend’s meaning without needing it spelled out for him. “I don’t have the answers.”
“I suggest you find some,” Cain said firmly. “House Xin needs you.”
“Finnyr has not said if I am to remain Ryu.” Cvareh shook his head. “Even if he did, this is not what was intended. I was to help Petra, not become Oji myself.”
“Pull yourself together. We need a leader.” Cain sighed, looking out through the windows. “Plus, life is made of missed intentions.”
“Poetic.”
“I heard it at a tea parlor in Napole.”
Cvareh chuckled and shook his head. With his friend, he should’ve known. “I think he will avoid appointing a Ryu.” Cvareh whispered what he had been too afraid to even think. “If there is no Ryu, he’s less likely to be assassinated from within Xin.”
“Because if it’s not in a clear duel and there’s no Ryu, succession isn’t assured.” Cain cursed under his breath. “Damn that Yveun.”
Cvareh was inclined to agree.
“What’s worse is that Finnyr will get away with it. Because he knows you love this house too much not to keep functioning as Ryu, with or without title.”
Once more, Cvareh’s silence was his agreement. He’d always gone along. He’d spent every moment and every breath in devotion to his house. He’d only done what others had set out for him. But what should he do now, when there was no clear path?
“This is wretched.”
Cvareh sighed and leaned back, wishing he had his sibling to lean against.
“What is it?” Cain made note of his shift in demeanor.
“I wonder how much could have been avoided if Petra had just given him some favor.”
“Turn sympathetic to Finnyr and I will duel you myself,” Cain threatened.
“Twenty gods, no.” Cvareh shook his head. “Merely wishing things were different.”
“Wishing gets us nothing. We need action.” Cain folded his arms over his chest, beginning to pace. “We need to show Yveun that we won’t tolerate these slights.”
“We need to bide our time.” Cvareh tried to use his words as a mental block to slow Cain down, but they only seemed to make him pace faster.
“Until what? Until Rok decides to pick us off one by one?”
“Until we hear from Arianna.”
Cain spun to face him in one fluid movement.
“You know I’m right.” Cvareh preempted whatever the other man was about to say. “If we are to stand a chance against Rok, we need the help of Loom. We bide our time until then.”
Cvareh could almost feel Cain’s anger bubbling to the surface. He braced himself for the moment it would explode. But Cain took a slow breath, and his whole demeanor shifted.
“How do you plan on making use of them for House Xin?” his friend asked, finally.
“The same way Petra intended: to make us an army.” Cvareh wondered how much Petra had shared of her mind with anyone beyond him. Judging from Cain’s almost confused frown, he guessed the circle was small, if it existed at all.
“Make us an army? Of people like her.”
“Arianna is the first of her kind, a Perfect Chimera. They will make more and stand with us. With that much power, we will defeat Yveun.”
“I hope you’re right . . .” Cain shook his head, starting for the stairs. While Cvareh considered it a success that his friend could even stomach hearing mention of Loom and Arianna without exploding, it seemed the fuse of tolerance was still quick to burn. “Because if you’re not, we’re all dead.”
“I know I am,” Cvareh reassured Cain.
“Then I will leave it to you. Fetch me when I’m needed in your master plans, Cvareh’Oji.” The final vowel of the honorific echoed back up to Cvareh, ringing in his ears several times over before it finally faded.
Cvareh . . . Oji . . .
He’d never thought of the idea before. That had always been Petra’s mantle, Petra’s mission.
Now, House Xin expected him to bear its weight—him, who had wanted to carry it least. Cvareh knew the esteem would honor many a Dragon, and it was something so many lusted over. But the notion sat uneasy with him. So uneasy, that he wondered if anything could ever make it settle.
FLORENCE
Just once in her life, Florence wanted a well-stocked workshop. She didn’t want to buy supplies on a budget, or scavenge in secret, or scrape bottoms of barrels. She wanted a workshop with perfectly level tables, cabinets full of all manner of powders—even some she didn’t quite know how best to work with—and a door with a lock that prevented people from entering whenever they pleased and nibbing through her work.
“So, this is where you’ve been holing up.” Will ran his hand along the dusty countertop. “A bit dirty.”
“Helping run a rebellion severely limits one’s ability to clean.” Florence looked up from the one surface she had scrubbed to shining perfection. Gun parts were carefully set upon it in meticulous order. Every screw was lined up, the springs sorted by size—it was an organization unique to her, which meant she’d know instantly if one of her items was missing.
“You always did like to keep things tidy.” Will walked over to the table, assessing her layout. He touched nothing, an unspoken respect for another’s guild ministrations.
Florence paused, her rag hung off the gun barrel she’d been cleaning. “One thing I could control,” she said, finally. “When your life’s a mess, it feels a bit better to tidy something. Even if it’s just a bit of laundry, or a countertop.”
“Or all of Loom.” Will swiped away the dust on the empty secondary table in her room, hoisting himself up to sit on it.
“Loom is still a mess.”
“We’re getting better. That last meeting of the vicars was almost productive.”
Florence couldn’t keep in a groan. “I came to my workshop to escape that nonsense.”
She’d been all but silenced for the meetings subsequent to the first, relegated to sit behind Vicar Gregory and say as little as possible. Florence knew she didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to actually leading the meetings, so she wasn’t sure why she still felt frustrated.
“No rest for the weary.”
“What do you want, Will?” Florence picked up a wire brush, working out some caked-on gunpowder from her gun barrel.
“I can’t just call on a friend?”
“Are we still friends?” Florence flashed him a small grin. “And here I thought you liked Louie more than me.”
“The man flies a few feathers short, that’s for sure.”
“I think you just said I’m not crazy enough for you.” Oh, the stories she could tell him to prove otherwise.
“We’re all afflicted with a different sort of madness.” Will shrugged. “Louie’s sort is more similar to mine and Helen’s, though.”
“Ravens.” Florence had suspected Louie’s actual guild for some time. The man was restless, wandering, driven to something unseen just over the horizon, just
a few more steps away.
“You think so?”
“Birds of a feather.” Florence dipped her rag in gun oil, the familiar tang filling her nose.
“Helen wants to take over his work. The man’s on death’s doorstep.”
“What ‘work’ is that even?” Florence didn’t have the foggiest what Louie considered his magnum opus to be.
“There’s always something to steal, someone who will pay for it, and the people who need to broker the transactions.” Will put his elbows on his knees. “Plus, it’s pretty handy we’re here with this rebellion of yours.”
“We’ll see . . .” Florence had ideas for Louie, but none that had paid out dividends yet. The man was like a rare canister—very few occasions to use it, but when you found one, the resulting reaction was magnificent.
Speaking of canisters . . . Florence began reassembling her gun. She should have just enough time to make some additional ammunition.
“We got Ari to you.”
Her hands paused. Ari. The woman had been the kind of quiet Florence wasn’t sure she wanted to break. She’d attended every meeting, sat as directed, said what made sense and anything needed to reinforce the idea that Florence had been right to call the Tribunal. But there was a distance between them, rendering the woman untouchable.
“That was chance.” Florence tested the hammer and trigger of her gun, unloaded, with satisfying tension and clicks. “She would’ve gotten to me without you.”
“She was in bad shape.”
“I have no doubt.” Florence re-holstered her gun. “But you don’t know Ari like I do. She would’ve made it to me.”
Will hummed, opened his mouth to speak, and was interrupted by a familiar ghost in the doorway.
“Will, I think Helen is looking for you.” Shannra made her way into the small workshop.
“What does she need?” Will half-jumped off the table, waiting for Shannra to pass before he started for the door.
“Who knows? Something about a map?” Shannra shrugged.
“She with Louie?”
