by Elise Kova
“I had never thought otherwise.”
“Does she?” Cvareh’s silence told Arianna everything. She pulled the chair opposite him around the table to sit before him. Arianna folded her hands, resting her elbows on her knees. “Cvareh, you know that will not work with me.”
“I’ve advised Petra thusly.”
“And yet your words haven’t worked.” Arianna shook her head. This is why she didn’t depend on other people to get the job done. “I want to return to Loom.”
“What?” Cvareh drew back, his magic fluctuating. “Petra would never allow it.”
“I’ll find a way out or I’ll jump to my death and take the knowledge of the box with me.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Do you want to test me?” Arianna grinned faintly at the notion. The man clearly thought she placed more value on her own life than she did. She leaned back with a sigh. “Or, perhaps, I’ll wish for you to do it.”
“That’s not what you want the boon for.”
“You know nothing about me,” she cautioned.
“I know more than you think.”
Arianna wanted to refuse him. She wanted to shut him out violently and without remorse. But the door had been opened too wide between them. His mouth on hers ghosted upon her lips, reminding her of the un-crossable lines they’d traversed together. Lines that she might dare walk again if she had the chance. Arianna focused on the curve of his mouth for too long a moment.
She wouldn’t let herself give into frivolous distractions. “Here are your options: Tell Petra that I seek passage home without hindrance.”
“Or?”
“Or, I demand a pair of hands.”
Cvareh’s brows knitted in confusion only to untangle with shock when he realized what she was asking. He sputtered, trying to build momentum behind his words. “That’s something that isn’t done. I can’t just—”
“Those are the options, Cvareh. Either would give me my freedom, and therefore her trust in my future actions.” Arianna stood and turned her back to him. “If Petra seeks my acquiescence, she must treat me like an equal. Or at the very least, a worthy opponent.”
10. Petra
“There has been another contact from Finnyr’Kin, Oji.” A weathered, ancient woman reported from the side of the room where Petra dressed in her riding leathers.
“And does my brother have anything worthwhile for me?”
“He seeks to return home.” The whisperer had the sense to pass no judgment on the message she’d received, merely report the facts.
Petra waved the slaves away and busied her hands with buttoning up her knee-length riding trousers with a heavy sigh. Finnyr had gotten it in his mind that he needed to return. She had no doubt it was in some way Yveun’s influence; her brother wasn’t known for having his own thoughts. Either the Dragon King had made Finnyr’s life torturous as a result of Petra’s actions against him, or he had ordered Finnyr to seek information on the truth of Cvareh’s supposed prayers to Lord Xin.
Either way, it made no sense for Petra to let her brother back into her home. Finnyr would be put in a harder position to feed lies to the Dragon King if he were here. At the Rok estate he could continue to collect information for her on the King’s scheming, even if it was an intolerable place for him to be.
“Tell Finnyr he has more to offer House Xin by continuing to express his loyalty to our Dono.” The words were sickly false. But the whisperer wouldn’t betray that to anyone. It was one of the sacred rites of becoming a House whisperer: no secrets were repeated and all messages were verbatim. All Dragons respected this as much as they respected the other innate laws of their world.
“As you command, Oji.” The whisperer gave her a low bow.
“And, Shawin,” Petra stopped the woman in the door frame. “Also tell Finnyr that when I do see him again, I am looking forward to tales of all his time at House Rok.”
“Of course.” The woman departed.
When it came to matters of House, Petra felt as though she were trapped on a stationary wheel that spun and spun without progress, no matter how hard she pushed ahead. Finnyr was as useless as he’d always been, offering little more to her than his position as a pawn in the Rok estate that freed up Cvareh to remain at her side. Cvareh had returned, but his help was relegated to the shadows as it had always been. He was worth too much to her to risk parading his strengths before any member of the Crimson Court.
And then there was the Chimera.
Cvareh had reminded Petra time and again that threatening the woman would be of little use. But every moment lost due to her stubbornness was another that scraped away at Petra’s patience—and she wasn’t known for an excess of that to begin with. Petra kept enough of her head to recognize that losing it over the woman’s antics would be akin to defeat. She chose to focus on the things she had direct control over, instead, and today those matters were hidden on the far side of Ruana.
She fastened a tight circle of leather around her bosom, draping emerald strips of fabric over her shoulders and fastening them to cuffs at her wrists. The cuffs appeared to be leather on the outside, but their inners were gold, enough to support a corona should she need it. She’d had to leverage the defense four times in her life, and she was not afraid to welcome a fifth if the world so designed.
Men and women stepped aside as she strode through her manor in the waking dawn. Servants, slaves, Anh, and nameless—those for whom Petra didn’t even need to spare a sideways glance. On occasion, a Da was about, and Petra would give their bow a small nod of her head. Otherwise, she gave them no heed.
She loved her house like a wolf loved its pups. But she did them no favors by coddling them or tempering her demands. The world would burn under her heels if her designs saw the light of day. Only a strong House would able to rise from its ashes. If she failed to set the example, they were all destined for death.
Raku milled about in a high courtyard. He cooed the moment his giant eyes caught sight of her and Petra smiled in reply to her trusty steed. He was saddled at her request, her favorite oxblood colored seat. Petra wasted no time, mounted, and took to the skies.
Ruana shrunk beneath her, smaller and smaller with each flap of Raku’s wide wings. The Temple of Lord Xin rose from the mountainside, shading the farmlands below. The cities and towns speckled the countryside like gemstones in a mine only to cluster together in determination against nature to create cities and centers of art and culture. They were children of earth and sky, birthed from sunlight fractured into a thousand shining colors.
From this vantage, Petra could see all that she fought for. Her home, her father’s home, her father’s father’s home, and all the way back hundreds of years to the great fall of House Xin to House Rok. This was the land where the Dono was meant to sit. And she would see the mantle returned.
Banking across cliff faces and weaving over treetops, Petra made her way around the mountains that curved across the back of the Isle of Ruana. Nearly opposite the Xin estate, tucked behind imposing sheer mountain peaks, was a series of work houses situated atop a slowly blossoming network of mines. From the air, it was easy to mistake as nothing more than a snowy, barren valley. The smokestacks had been carefully tunneled through the mountain itself, hiding the real work of Ruana’s first refinery.
Petra tugged on Raku’s feathers, clicking a command with her tongue and teeth. The beast curved through the sky, spiraling downward. He landed nimbly on a narrow ledge, well trained to seek the safest footing.
She swung down from the saddle, her long toes curling through the thick snow and seeking purchase against the frozen rock beneath. The wind was icy and bit with savage numbness into her skin. Every pinprick made her feel alive.
She waved her hand at Raku, and the boco took to the skies. He would hunt, or roost, or mate—whatever satisfied his wild nature that morning. Petra allowed the beas
t to indulge his whims as long as he always responded to the shrill whistle that demanded his presence once more. He was one of the few beasts in the wide world who had yet to fail her.
“Oji,” a man greeted her from the shade of a sheltered window. “It is a pleasure to have you in our presence.”
“You flatter me, Poiris’Kin.” Petra jumped down into the hall where he stood. Despite having no glass or shutters, it was so warm that the snow melted on the windowsill.
“Never flattery, merely truth.” The Kin walked forward, knowing why she was there without an explanation. “We are making good progress. Spinning iron to steel is becoming a simpler task by the day.”
“The help you demanded?”
“Has been invaluable.”
Poiris was a smart man, enough so that Petra had placed him in charge of one of the most important tasks involved in laying the foundation of her new world order. He was leading the charge in assembling the refineries she needed to produce House Xin’s own gold. Doing so would free the House from under Rok’s thumb. He who controlled the gold, controlled Nova. Once House Xin had their own refineries working, they would no longer need to depend on small allotments or what limited back-winds trading could be done with Loom.
Of course, it wouldn’t be enough. Not even close. Petra still needed Loom and the depths of their mines, the extensive capacity of their refineries, the efficiency with which the Fenthri operated. But even small steps were progress. Change did not happen overnight, birthed from plots of wishes. It grew from the grit of sacrifice and blood.
“Have they presented any problem?” Petra asked.
“Quite the opposite.” She gave him a look that demanded elaboration. “They tell me we treat them much better than House Rok.”
“So even Fen have sense.” Wicked satisfaction pulled on Petra’s cheeks, drawing her lips taut in a satisfied smirk.
“More than we give them credit for, on the whole,” Poiris affirmed.
“Don’t go too far.” Petra couldn’t help but think of the woman Cvareh had brought home. She fashioned herself as clever, but all Petra had seen was a child. She had been too easy to break, sitting quietly in her room, only walking the courses that Petra had designed for her to be led along. She had expected more from New Dortam’s infamous White Wraith. “Show me your product.”
Poiris led her inward to a great room of whirring mechanisms and molten metal. Petra surveyed it like some fire god. She didn’t understand the first thing about how it worked, but she commanded it nonetheless. Chimera stood in the corners, sweat dripping off their faces, as they spoke to Dragons who walked unfazed through the overbearing heat. Giant buckets poured liquid iron into other containers.
“We have the air lance situated to remove impurities in the iron.” Poiris pointed overhead to a long tube. “But we are yet working on the reagent lance.” He shifted her attention down to the bottom floor far below, where a similar golden tube was being fashioned by a number of laborers.
“You are slowed by gold,” Petra observed.
“We believe with what we can attain, we should have it finished within the next six months.”
Slower than she wanted, but nothing could be done. A solution was offered and her men were hard at work. She could demand nothing more from them. When a boco was flapping its wings with all its might, it served little to push it harder. That was how riders got thrown from their saddles.
I have time, she reminded herself. There were decades of history behind her. She would not sacrifice all her work in haste. At the least, she delighted in the knowledge that she was quietly siphoning off gold and resources for the refineries she claimed to be assisting Rok in building.
“Show me.”
Poiris led her back into the hall from the observation deck and they wound down through the refinery’s innards. It was simple, rough, and raw compared to the luxury of the Xin manor. But there was no time to fit it with things of beauty. She allowed those living here to bring their own artistic sensibilities to bear, and fashion furniture as they could without raising suspicion, but could do no more for them. It was a pitiable existence, but it had to do. Somehow, the Chimera didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.
They had almost reached the ground when a Dragon, unknown to her, came bounding down the stairs behind them. Petra turned with fluid grace, her claws tensing on instinct but not unsheathing.
“Oji, the Ryu has arrived,” the man reported.
Petra glanced between the messenger and Poiris.
“You may use my office,” the Kin offered.
“See him there,” Petra ordered the other Dragon. “Lead on, Poiris’Kin.”
They traversed upward on a secondary set of stairs to a homely office. Poiris was notorious for favoring practicality over fashion, but nothing betrayed him more than his working space. It was humble for a Kin and reminded Petra that she had risen him from an Anh. After his work at the refinery was finished, she’d see him situated in a lavish room in the Xin manor. No more rough fur carpets, no more worn desks; Poiris would have the trimmings yielded by the gold he helped create.
“Thank you.” Petra gave Poiris a pointed nod as Cvareh was ushered in, and the two were promptly left in peace. Petra placed her hands on her hips expectantly.
“Arianna has some demands.” Uncertainty dulled the scent of Cvareh’s magic.
Petra did not ease her expectations for Cvareh. Out of everyone, he, as her Ryu, needed to be fearless before her. “Tell me.”
“She is restless.”
Petra snorted. “I am not made to amuse her.”
“She wants to return to Loom.”
“Unacceptable.” Petra wouldn’t even entertain the thought. She had the crafter of the Philosopher’s Box. She would do whatever she must to gain the information of its machinations.
“I had a feeling you would say that.” Cvareh sighed heavily, running his hand through his blood orange hair. Petra watched it fall over his face time and again as he repeated the motion.
“So you have an alternate solution?” He wouldn’t have come to her if he didn’t.
“She wants to return to Loom… Or have hands.”
Petra considered this for a long moment. “She wants to make her own illusions.”
Cvareh nodded.
“Can she sustain the additional magic without becoming forsaken?” Petra knew of the plagues that would set in on Fenthri bodies pushed too far with Dragon magic. She would not be responsible for the woman’s death. At least not prematurely.
“I don’t think she would’ve asked if she couldn’t.” Cvareh was certain in Arianna’s self-awareness, Petra noted with amusement. “She wants a shade similar to her skin, light blue, steel blue…”
“A shame you cannot make illusions,” Petra stole his thoughts and gave them sound. Another note was made when she realized that Cvareh was truly disappointed. Her brother would’ve given the woman his hands. Cvareh was loyal to their House above all else, of that Petra had no doubt, but no Dragon savored the notion of cutting off their body parts for Fenthri gain. They should loathe it. The fact that Cvareh not only seemed willing, but gleaned some sort of delight at the idea of pleasing her was worthy of note in the slowly evolving dynamic of their relationship.
“No matter, she will have the hands she needs.”
“Truly?” Cvareh was shocked.
“Yes, truly. I gain more by appeasing the woman, and a set of hands means little to me.” Petra started for the door. Progress churned within her, the feeling of a great wheel beginning to spin forward once more. Yes, this was the White Wraith she’d been expecting. She’d give the woman free reign, she’d give her space to challenge the narrow parameters Petra had put her in—if she dared, and she’d see if the gray Chimera was made of steel or steam. “Fortunately for me, I have two brothers.”
Petra grinned to herself. Fi
nnyr had been so eager as of late to help their House. Well, now she really needed him to give a hand… or two.
11. Arianna
“Which one do you like the best?” She nearly startled Cain out of his skin when she spoke. He stared at her as though her illusion had melted away like ice in the sunlight of a summer’s day. “You always pause here. Which do you like best?”
“The one on the far left is Lord Xin.” He motioned to the painting of a veiled figure wielding a sword.
“That’s not what I asked.” It didn’t matter which one he liked or why. But time had whittled away at her. Time, and silence, and more time. It persisted, encasing her mind insistently and eroding her resolve to hate Cain. She was stuck with him and he with her, for the foreseeable future. They may as well put aside the determination to be at each other’s throats.
He seemed to have arrived at much the same conclusion over the past week.
Cvareh had proved himself worthless, and a Dragon to the core. He’d not returned with hands nor a glider to bring her back to Loom. Arianna shouldn’t have expected differently. So she waited, and bided her time carefully.
“Isn’t it though? I am of House Xin.”
“And that dictates your favorite will always be Xin?” Arianna asked incredulously.
“Would it not?”
Arianna laughed and shook her head. “You Dragons accuse Loom of being mechanical, but you are nothing more than automatons competing for the distinction of being most suicidally loyal.”