by Elise Kova
“Could such a weapon actually exist?” Powell was the only one who risked breaking the silence.
“I would’ve said no a few minutes ago. But this . . . this should work.”
Florence stepped over, looking at Gregory’s sketched calculations. She followed his adjustments, the accounting for an extra feedback of magic, using a canister for priming . . . Her eyes stilled on one line he’d smudged out.
“I think I could make these modifications to something I have currently. It’ll make the gun quite large, but I shouldn’t need anything too special.”
“But that’s . . . what about—” Florence tried to point at the spot she’d gotten stuck on.
“Thank you, Florence,” Gregory said curtly. “In the future, please inform Arianna to send such things to me directly, as the vicar. Now, we need you to return to your post.”
Florence stared at Gregory for three long breaths. She thought about speaking up. She wondered if she should try to make him listen. But this was Loom, where your failures were your own, and you bore the burden of them.
“Should any of the vicars require anything else, you know where to find me.”
Florence gave a tip of her hat and left the room, saying nothing about the explosively critical error she’d noticed in Gregory’s calculations.
CVAREH
Something about that woman changed him. All was right with the world when she was near, yet she made him want to alter everything for the better.
Arianna had come to Nova for him. His boldness had not pushed her away, had in fact brought her to him. Cvareh gripped the feathers of his boco and stared toward the horizon as he raced back toward the Temple of Agendi.
She needed him as the Oji, to fulfill Petra’s promises. Petra’s memory needed him to defend House Xin. All of Xin needed him to work with Loom. So much rested squarely on his shoulders, and it was time he got to work—starting with arranging transport of the remaining flowers to Dawyn’s family’s plot.
He didn’t even spend half of a day on the task, but when he arrived back at the Xin Manor many hours later, it felt as if he’d been gone an eternity. He had scrubbed himself to bleeding at Dawyn’s, but still imagined he could smell the combination of Rok blood and Loom on his skin.
Oddly, Cvareh found it difficult to muster concern over the fact. Let Finnyr and Fae smell their fallen kin and Loom rising to defeat them, his mind whispered dangerously.
As soon as he landed his boco, a servant rushed out to greet him.
“Cvareh . . .” There was a long pause following his name, proof the man clearly had no idea how to address him.
“What is it?” The lack of formality suddenly seemed more obvious than it had before—a matter long overdue to be settled.
“I was asked to send you to your brother the moment you returned.”
“Did he say what for?” Cvareh had half a mind to ignore the request and attend Finnyr later, just to send the message that he did not jump at his brother’s every beck and call.
“No, just that he would be waiting for you in the main hall.”
Cvareh trudged down through the manor, exhausted from the lack of sleep and still recovering from combat. But instead of finding every step harder than the last, he found it easier. Life returned to him in the form of anger, frustration, and a small bit of hard-earned triumph. He had shed Rok blood, hidden the fact, and thwarted what was no doubt a very clear plan to put a swift end to Loom’s rebellion—and with it, Xin’s hopes.
He had done it all before Finnyr had likely even woken for the day.
That anger reached its peak when he entered the hall and his eyes fell on Finnyr, seated on Petra’s throne. Where Petra commanded the seat and it cradled her in return, Finnyr was dwarfed by the stone chair. For the first time, Cvareh wondered what he would look like in such a seat.
“Seems an uncomfortable place to wait.”
“You did keep us waiting,” Finnyr replied curtly.
“I may not have returned at all, and what then? You were planning to sit here all day?” To think, he could have been spending time with Arianna in the refinery and making his brother wait. It was truly a missed opportunity.
“Where were you?”
“Worshiping at Lord Xin’s temple.”
“Do you honestly think that will work on me? I know better.”
“I have alibis.” Cvareh was glad he had spent so much time there throughout the days prior. “Ask several witnesses, if you’d like.” He strode forward before his brother could get in another word. “And you know better? You know nothing about me, Finnyr.”
“That’s Finnyr’Oji.” The emerald-skinned Rider stepped forward, her magic blowing like an uncomfortably hot wind. Cvareh ignored the all-too-familiar scent of honeysuckle in it.
“Sorry, Finnyr’Oji. New title and all, it slips.” Cvareh smiled and didn’t even try to make it look sincere.
“You should be more respectful before your Oji.” It was a normal thing for a Dragon to say, but the woman looked like she could burst out laughing at any moment. Perhaps she found the idea of Finnyr as Oji as comical as the rest of them.
“And you should be more respectful of the Xin’Ryu, Fae Rok’Kin To, and stay out of Xin matters.” Cvareh snapped back, rising up onto the lower step.
“The Xin’Ryu? I don’t recall Finnyr ever appointing you such.” She looked between the two men.
“Finnyr’Oji,” Cvareh corrected as he took another step, assuming his position where Petra usually placed him. He looked down at his brother, who seemed utterly stunned to find his little brother standing toe to toe with the Master Rider. “Perhaps he doesn’t tell you as much as you’d like to believe?” Cvareh wasn’t backing down now; he’d come too far. “Isn’t that right, brother? Tell her, tell this Rok Rider that she is an excellent protector you are most grateful to have, but she doesn’t know everything about Xin.”
Finnyr seemed at a loss for words, looking between them for something to say. If he wanted lines, Cvareh would feed them to him.
“Tell her that I am the Xin’Ryu.”
Finnyr’s mouth opened and nothing came out.
“Tell her.” Cvareh’s hand curled into a fist as he stared down his brother. He searched those familiar golden eyes for any shred of the man Finnyr could have been, for any remaining love he might harbor for his house. Finding none, Cvareh scraped the bottom of Finnyr’s pathetic personality for a lingering scrap of self-preservation, and found it.
“He’s right. Cvareh is the Xin’Ryu.”
Cvareh felt as shocked as Fae looked. Her surprise quickly turned to anger, and she stared down a now-cowering Finnyr. But Cvareh was done; he’d gotten what he wanted, and so had his brother—the oversight of House Rok and all the joys that came with it.
Cvareh walked away, leaving Finnyr alone, and not feeling a speck of regret for the fact.
COLETTA
Yveun never sought Coletta out in her garden unless something had gone catastrophically wrong.
“Cvareh is moving to gain control of House Xin.” Right to the point, her mate wasted no time.
Coletta wiped her hands on a delicately embroidered rag, giving the declaration some thought. “How have you arrived at this conclusion?”
“Fae has whispered this afternoon that the youngest Xin has begun to show signs of ambition. Cvareh, out of everyone, shows ambition! What is this world coming to?” Coletta wasn’t sure if he sounded impressed or frustrated.
“It was only a matter of time, and we knew it.” Coletta had long suspected there was more to Cvareh than Petra let on. The schematics, and then the events on Loom, followed by the Crimson Court, all confirmed it. This was more of the same, and therefore nothing to be worked into a panic over.
“I would like to bring Fae back to Lysip.”
Coletta turned to her ledger, feigning attention to its contents.
“If Xin truly decides to wage war, she will do little alone and—”
“—and we risk
losing her,” Coletta finished, looking up from her notebook. “I do not disagree with you, Yveun. Fae is far more valuable to us alive. Her presence at Xin would always come to this end.”
Yveun nodded. Coletta wondered how much he understood about the delicate play of keeping Fae at House Xin. An opportunity to ensure the house’s loyalty just a little longer while they attempted to weaken Loom through demoralizing attacks and weaning their gold, as well as an opportunity to further their organ research.
Even failures could be part of a plan.
“After she has returned and you have had your fun, send her to me,” Coletta instructed.
“Have you found more success yet with your experimentations?”
“Not yet,” Coletta admitted.
“Then I would not have us carving up our prize stock.” Even Yveun referred to the woman as little more than an animal. To them both, Fae was a bitch on a chain, poised to attack, or satiate whatever desires he could conceive.
“She will be fine. Despite our setbacks, there has been no lasting weakness in Yeaan. Even now, my flower seeks out the resources the rebellion on Loom requires, and destroys them.” Yveun seemed unconvinced, so Coletta continued. She didn’t really need his approval, but things were easier when she had it. “Furthermore, Fae is far stronger, wouldn’t you agree? She’ll manage without issue, I’m sure.”
“I hope you’re right, Coletta.” And just like that, the hulking monster that was Yveun gave in to his Ryu.
“I usually am.” It never hurt to remind him. “Summon her back before House Xin descends into anarchy. Then, contact Tam for a meeting.”
“Tam?”
“With Fae gone, I have no doubt Finnyr will be dead within the month. As soon as that happens, we should make sure we have the loyalty of House Tam secured.”
“Their tithing?” Yveun asked grimly. Coletta knew he hated Tam’s demands; she held no love for them either. But there could be no half measures. Anything less than absolute loyalty to him was a foreign concept.
“I have acquired enough for them to make all things equal in the matter of their assistance for the battles ahead.”
“I am a wise man, to leave such important acts in capable hands.”
Coletta could not stop the swell of pride that came at his words. “Trust me, Yveun, and I will see us through to a bright future where Rok reigns the worlds above and below unquestioned.”
“If anyone can, it is you.”
“It is us,” Coletta reminded him. They would either live together in victory, or perish in failure. No half measures.
ARIANNA
“Nevertheless, I don’t know how you stomach them,” Arianna muttered, having the oddest conversation she’d ever conceived.
“They treat us better than House Rok did.” The man across from her, a Fenthri with the Alchemist symbol on his cheek, continued to fiddle with the tubular object they’d been passing between them for the better part of the afternoon.
“So you’ve said . . .” Arianna mumbled, though she just couldn’t imagine it. Fenthri on Nova—not just Nova, but Ruana—the whole time she was there. There had been a taste of home hidden right under her nose while she was isolated in the Xin Manor, and Petra never told her. It was almost enough to make Arianna resent the deceased Dragon. “Didn’t you want to come home?”
“Of course, but it wasn’t an option.”
Arianna chewed on her lips and flipped one of her daggers in her free hand. She felt restless, uneasy. Was Xin any better than House Rok if they kept Fenthri? Surely, if conditions were so good, Petra would’ve mentioned it. Had she been conspiring to put another Yveun in power?
The idea quickly evaporated. Petra was dead and whatever kind of king Cvareh would be, he wouldn’t be anything like Yveun.
“Did you try to escape?” She wanted to find a way to make herself feel better about the whole situation.
“To what end? Escape would, at best, require a sympathetic Dragon. I’ve met Dragons I’d dare call kind, but sympathetic enough to just let me go? Certainly not.” The Alchemist, Luther, sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been here thirteen years.” She believed him, judging by the white streaks in the slate hair running back from his temples. “I don’t have that much longer left.”
“Hush.”
“It’s true and you know it.” Arianna kept her mouth shut, rather than argue against a fact. The man smiled tiredly at her silence. “I wouldn’t know what to do if I returned to Loom. From what you tell me, I doubt I’d recognize it.”
“Or maybe you’d know it better. It’s moving back to what it was before the Dragons.”
He held out the tube and Arianna took it, popping off the bottom and inspecting his work, making her own modifications. “I can’t believe you’re happy here . . . you want to be here.”
“I want to be here more than I wanted to be at Rok. I’ve had my own room, proper food, the ability to work. What more does a Fenthri really want?”
She withheld the word “freedom” for his sake.
“I’m not crammed in a single room like livestock,” he continued. “None of us are. None of us are beaten or debased. The ones Petra got out were the lucky ones.”
Arianna felt anger rise in her. Anger at herself, at the world she lived in, at the people she’d made into Loom’s allies. No matter what happened Arianna was beginning to wonder if Loom was trapped in an endless cycle of subjugation at the hands of Dragons.
It was a dark moment—perhaps one of her darkest—and the least ideal for her to see a Dragon, any Dragon. Naturally, Cvareh rounded the corner of the laboratory at that very instant.
“Ah, I see you’ve made a friend.” He beamed.
Arianna didn’t know what expression her face had, but it was enough for Luther to stand from the seat he’d been comfortably occupying for hours and make a swift retreat.
“Xin watch over you, Cvareh’Ryu,” the other Fenthri muttered as he passed. Arianna wondered if it had been drilled into him by force or if a Fenthri could actually believe such superstitious nonsense.
Cvareh didn’t even motion at the display of respect. His eyes stayed locked with hers, searching. He opened his mouth to speak, but Arianna had already decided she would not give him the liberty of having the first word.
“Were you going to tell me?” She carefully set down the tube she and Luther had been working on to transport the Flowers of Agendi past the clouds without damage.
“Tell you what?” Cvareh frowned.
“Tell me your sister was no better than Yveun.”
“What?” Cvareh hissed. “You know well and true Petra was not Yveun. Not by any stretch.”
“Then what of you?” She practically leapt from the chair. “What of you, Cvareh?” She rammed a finger into his chest, though she couldn’t recall crossing the room to get to him. “Are you any better than Yveun?”
“Arianna, what happened?” Cvareh clasped her hand with his. There was no reason why she couldn’t wrench herself away; she had the strength. But every part of her suddenly felt weak. Arianna couldn’t place why until she felt her eyes burning at their corners.
“Petra, you . . .you kept Fenthri as slaves.”
Cvareh’s head whipped from her to the door Luther had just exited through. Emotions swept across his face, beckoned by the winds of a truth undeniable to either of them.
Arianna stepped away.
And was tugged closer.
His cheek was against hers, staving off the first prickle of tears by pressing his flesh to her own. His mouth was on her ear, and he uttered promises she didn’t know if her heart could hear.
“We never saw them that way, Ari. We couldn’t get them home.”
“You lie.” Her mind knew better, but her heart begged to believe him. It ached for him despite herself.
“I never saw them that way,” he clarified.
“Set them free, then.”
“Is this your boon?”
“No, this is what you w
ill do for me if you truly care for me.”
“And care for you, I do.” He moved the corner of his mouth against hers, and then the whole of his lips.
She leaned into him, matched him touch for touch. She hated herself for it, for needing it, for wanting it, for wanting him.
Eva forgive me.
“Free them,” she repeated. It was the only thing she could cling to. She’d lost all other dignity the moment her fingers curled around his.
“I will. When I am Dono, I will,” he uttered.
And then, the tears fell.
Not since the death of her master and her last lover had she cried. For what Arianna had just heard was the decree that would separate them; it was the utterance that would tear them apart as the great machine of fate continued to roll over the world.
He would be Dono, and she would be no one. That would be the end of them.
So, for now, she indulged herself. Arianna cast aside all pride. She pulled him by the scraps of fabric he called clothing and pressed herself against him. She felt the curves of that all-too-familiar chest, the swell of his pectorals before they fell to the dips of his abdomen.
Cvareh’s hands moved to her face, held her mouth to his, and they breathed together for a blissful moment.
“I will be leaving soon.”
“When?” The word was more of a gasp—part groan, into her neck.
“Soon. I must return to Loom. I must bring flowers with me. There are boxes ready for tempering; we shouldn’t dally.”
“When?” he repeated.
“Tomorrow? Soon.” She had to return to her world and leave him to his, or else they would fall into that contented state that dulled the pressing needs of all they had become responsible for.
