by Jaida Jones
Was Faolan Cab’s own age? He couldn’t remember, felt very big and dirty in the fine room regardless.
“Morien,” Lord Faolan continued, “care to explain what you’ve dragged in?”
32
Rags
Lord Faolan had a wicked tongue, for sure, but Rags almost admired its skill, especially when Faolan asked Morien if this was what passed for treasure back in Oberon’s day. Rags turned his answering laugh into a cough, muttered something about wind and rain, and shut his trap while Morien brought Shining Talon forward.
“Explain to my lord Faolan what you told me,” Morien said.
Rags winced and looked away, not wanting to see Shining Talon’s glance at him—all your fault somehow, Rags—before he began.
“The Great Paragon,” Shining Talon said, “was designed from the heart of all fae silver.”
“Sounds like a treasure to me.” Lord Faolan’s honeyed murmur gave Rags a good idea of what he was like when court was in session. Making anyone who listened feel good about the guy fucking them in the eye. His shirt had fluttering yellow cuffs that nearly covered his hands. Rags tried not to fantasize about how much he could steal with sleeves that ridiculous hiding his fingers.
“More than a treasure,” Shining Talon continued, “the Great Paragon is a weapon. But it can only be wielded by those destined to use it.”
“Pesky fae caveats. A key element of your society, as historians understand it.”
Shining Talon glanced at Rags again, something Rags wasn’t expecting. It hit him like a blow. What did Shining Talon want from him?
He had to want something. Couldn’t be looking at Rags simply because he liked what he saw.
Rags busied himself thinking about the jewels set into the hounds’ collars, how long it’d take for Lord Faolan to notice one missing.
Lord Faolan cleared his throat, then shifted his weight to lean on one arm of his chair. “I’m a student of the law, and we love the little details. Indulge me. How often does one of these destined masters come about? If one of ours were to, say, die. Unexpectedly.”
Rags laughed.
They were supposed to laugh, right? He glanced around. For some reason, everyone was staring at him.
Nobody else acknowledged that Lord Faolan was asking outright whether he could make them disposable mirrorcraft slaves. Fine, fine. Rags could have this crisis all by himself.
A muscle jumped in Shining Talon’s jaw as he clenched his teeth. Too quick, Rags had the sensation that Shining Talon had been looking at him again.
“With the Great Inventors having perished, only the fragments know how to locate their masters.” Shining Talon stared hard at a place on the wall above Lord Faolan’s head. “But it is my understanding that there is only one master for each fragment living at a time. Should one die, a new one must be conceived, born, and raised to the appropriate age before their fragment can locate them.”
His muscles stood so stark and rigid that Rags was sure he’d break his foot if he tried kicking the fae to make him stop talking.
Rags couldn’t help thinking again how Shining Talon, this ageless being, had said goodbye to his entire people, and he was still trying to protect Rags’s short, fleeting horsefly of a life.
No one spoke, though Rags suspected Morien was frowning beneath his red scarves, and Shining Talon continued.
“So it was that the Great Paragon was divided into six fragments, each of which retained its own personality. They are alive”—Shining Talon spared a nod for One, who licked her lips with her forked tongue and winked her third eye—“and also implanted with the knowledge of how to seek out those who were meant to master them.”
“And what happens to these beasts when their master dies?” Lord Faolan asked more plainly. “Surely that’s an important element of the . . . what to call it—mechanism? Do they self-destruct, or waste away like maidens in a bard’s tale, or simply cease to function until their next heir comes of age?”
Shining Talon’s hands tightened imperceptibly, not all the way into fists. Rags saw the motion, felt its ache. “Because the fragments of the Great Paragon would accept only those most worthy for the bond, there was no need to fear that the immense power in their bond would be used for anything other than good. But . . .” Another probing look into Rags’s eyes—he had to stop doing that—followed by an inclination of his head in Cabhan’s direction. “I know only that when the Great Paragon was fashioned as a gift, it was intended for human partnership. More than that I was not allowed to know.”
Rags found himself staring at Lord Faolan, whose mouth was pressed into a tight line. Showing discomfort in place of the triumph Rags had expected.
House Ever-Learning must have played a part in the war against the fae, though it had happened hundreds of years before Lord Faolan’s time. Maybe he was whip-clever enough to know that smiling in the face of your utterly defeated enemy was in poor taste.
Shining Talon continued, ignoring the expressions in the audience. “I do know that the fragments do not like to be alone. When awake, they seek completion.”
“Do you know where the other fragments are?” Lord Faolan asked.
Shining Talon shook his head. Rags almost detected a note of hesitation. “What knowledge I was given had to remain vague. No single master can know too much. It is my understanding that One would lead us to her master, which she has done. After that, the instructions become less clear. In some way, One’s master should be able to point us toward the Master of Two . . . and so on.”
“Fascinating.” Lord Faolan turned to Morien. “Like links in a chain. Not sorcery as we recognize it today, but that incredible fae technology whispered about in ruined texts, splinters of a past found only on the most ancient battlefields. . . .”
“Fascinating.” Morien’s voice didn’t shimmer with quite the same amount of wonder. Instead, his eyes burned into Cabhan.
A knot in Rags’s throat told him what Morien needed to do to maintain control over this weapon.
If none of the fragments like One chose Morien or Faolan for mastery—who had no reason to rely on such a wild card—there was still a way for the sorcerer and the Ever-Noble to remain masters of the operation. Who wouldn’t want that?
The solution to the problem was already buried in Rags’s heart.
Rags shouted, stupidly—he didn’t know what it was he hoped to effect, who he was warning, if it was even a warning, not a yelp of pointless protest—as Morien made his move, reaching Cabhan’s side with lightning speed. One opened her mouth, bared what looked like ten rows of teeth sliding into position for the occasion, bracing herself to leap for Morien, flay his skin off his body, suck the marrow from his bones—
Morien held up his hand. Rags fell to his knees. Lord Faolan shook his head as if weary of theatrics, and Shining Talon drew himself to his full height, eyes suddenly blazing.
STAND DOWN!
Later, Rags wouldn’t be able to say if he’d heard the words spoken out loud or if he’d felt them echoing in his veins. The room shook with the force of its warring tensions, mostly with the strength of Shining Talon’s voice, rattling Rags’s teeth in his jaw.
Rags tasted blood. He’d bitten his tongue.
His heart shuddered, needle-thin shards of mirrorglass lancing through muscle—
Do it, Rags thought. Do it anyway, you crazy fucking lizard, who gives a shit, don’t stand down—
Reared and ready to strike, One paused as her resolve wavered. Rags’s eyes watered. He couldn’t make a sound, blood bubbling past his lips instead of words. Maybe he hadn’t bitten his tongue and this was blood from deep in his chest, where Morien’s sorcery had begun to shred him into ribbons—
One lowered herself to all fours, casting Shining Talon a withering look brimming with impotent fury and betrayal.
Cabhan tried to twist his body into a fighting position despite everyone in the room, Cabhan included, knowing it was too late. Morien had Cabhan in his grip. One couldn�
�t protect her master because it would have harmed Rags, and Shining Talon refused to let that happen. Cabhan was about to receive the same dirty sorcery treatment that was ruining Rags’s life. About to be gifted with a shard of mirrorglass in his heart to ensure his obedience to Morien.
Rags’s vision swam at the edges. Morien’s fingers moved and mirrorglass dazzled. Shining Talon dropped to the floor, hands over his ears. The lizard shape of One’s body rippled at its edges, lost certainty, reminding Rags of how she’d been when they’d first met—a formless river. It wasn’t worse than being sharded, but being in the room as it happened to someone else wasn’t pretty, warping to unrecognizable horror all perspective, distorting the world itself.
As soon as it had started, it was over. One didn’t melt onto the carpet. The air stopped trying to suffocate them. Morien released the front of Cabhan’s shirt, wiped his hands neatly on a fold of his robes, and turned to Lord Faolan with a slight bow.
Lord Faolan shrugged apologetically. “We learned from experience that such insurance is necessary.”
Cabhan gasped to regain his breath. His hair was soaked with sweat, his eyes wide and sightless. He swayed on his feet but hadn’t collapsed. Had to be one strong bastard to remain standing. One prowled, belly low to the floor, to settle by his side, a grinding noise keening from her throat. Cabhan sagged against her.
Rags bowed his head.
“Morien, what about Shining Talon?” Lord Faolan asked his sorcerer. “Is there any way to know if that insurance will also work on someone with his . . . anatomy?”
“To my knowledge, it has never been tested,” Morien replied. “It is something I intend to pursue. But for now, I don’t believe it will be necessary.”
“Yes, that display did prove as much.” Faolan sighed. “Very well. They can rest in the guestrooms while they recover from their arduous journey—and your welcome, Morien. After that . . .” Faolan approached Rags, then passed him like he wasn’t there, halting in front of Shining Talon. “. . . we’ll discuss how to find the other five fragments. We don’t intend to be barbarous. I really do want you to be comfortable, to extend every possible hospitality.” Lord Faolan lowered himself to one knee after touching Shining Talon’s shoulder sympathetically. Shining Talon didn’t shake him off. “Forgive our drastic measures. Your people would have done the same—did the same, as you can see, by making this Great Paragon so tricky to assemble under one commanding body.”
“That was the point,” Shining Talon said dully.
Rags was going to be sick.
“Caveats, caveats.” Lord Faolan rose to pat the fae’s shoulder companionably. “Fortunately, as a student of law, I’m adept at pinpointing loopholes.”
His hounds followed him out, only too happy to leave that fucked-up room.
33
Rags
Lying on what had to be the world’s biggest, fluffiest bed, Rags still felt like a pile of shit.
Any other day of his life, Rags would have been able to luxuriate in his sudden, incredible fortune. He’d have rolled around like a happy piglet in silks and velvets, figured out what in the room he could steal, and gone to blissful sleep feeling like a prince. Everything smelled clean, and there’d been a tub of steaming-hot water for bathing, a platter of delicacies for his indulgence. It was better than anything even Clave leaders had in their private rooms. It was every street kid’s best fantasy come to life, and Rags was living it.
It tasted sour.
He took his lump out of his pocket and set to peeling it free of its silvery cocoon. He tore off strips of the dark, tarnished stuff, revealing the brighter, near-white silver beneath. The etched designs covering it were like those on the seven doorways he’d seen in the ruins, only these depicted no scene Rags could discern, just a repeating geometric pattern. Interlocking diamonds and sharp arrowheads traveled in a spiral from the tippy-top to the fat middle.
Eventually, he couldn’t stand it anymore. Into the silence that was driving him out of his skin with frustration: “I’m sorry, all right? I’m fucking sorry, Shiny.”
Rags practically felt Shining Talon blink. “Why do you feel the need to express remorse?”
Rags groaned, a hoarse growl. “Why? Why would I? I’ll tell you why. Because I’m nobody. You don’t have to act like my shit’s worth protecting—for a fae prince, you’re an idiot. No wonder you were all conquered, if you’re like this, stupid—”
“It does not sound as though you blame yourself,” Shining Talon said.
“That’s ’cause I don’t apologize,” Rags muttered. “Never had reason to, until lately.”
“The apologies should be mine. I have failed in my duty to protect you.”
“Shut up, Shiny.” Rags grabbed a pillow, intending to throw it, then pulled back at the last second, mashing it over his face. Perfumed. He grunted and threw it away. “I told you, I don’t need that. You should apologize for not listening, if you want to apologize so bad.”
“I do listen. But I cannot act on your instructions when they conflict with what must be done.”
What must be done. Rags forced a cracked laugh, rolling onto his side and putting his back to Shining Talon. He wished he had thrown the pillow at the fae prince’s big golden tattooed head.
“Everything’s gone to shit,” Rags said.
“As I said—”
“I remember what you said.” Rags remembered everything Shining Talon had said, every damn word since the start. “And like I said—shut up, Shiny.”
Shining Talon shut up.
Despite being the one to request—demand—it, Rags regretted it the moment he was left alone with his thoughts, missing the steady fae voice distracting him from everything he didn’t want to be thinking.
In silence, Rags practiced the techniques he knew to keep his fingers steady in a tough situation. Couldn’t be a thief with shaky, sweaty hands. Not if he wanted to keep those hands.
“Something troubles your heart,” Shining Talon said finally.
Rags snorted. It was rude, but he couldn’t help himself. “No shit.”
Shining Talon shook his head. “Something beyond the Lying One’s mirrorcraft. Like a shadow on your soul.”
Rags crossed his arms over his chest, feeling foolish as he did it. It wouldn’t help him hide.
“Stop looking into my soul,” he instructed bleakly.
“This is not something I can help,” Shining Talon confessed, a new, mournful note to his voice. Rags was behind that. Great. “My eyes work as they always have. There is no changing them.”
“Of course not.” Rags dragged his hands through his hair, tugging at the ends to jolt himself back to reality. He had to shift the topic, come up with something to keep from talking about himself. If Shining Talon expected an explanation for Rags’s behavior, he wasn’t about to get one.
“So.” Rags hoped the ragged snarl to his voice sounded husky and mature, not like he was completely out of his depth. “Next fragment of the Great Paragon, huh? You said something about how Cabhan can lead us to it?” Rags thought about One, who was an it but also a she, and how little he wanted to offend any of those creatures. “Or to her?”
Shining Talon remained shut up.
Was he sulking? He’d spoken before, so it wasn’t that he always followed Rags’s commands this strictly.
Rags rolled over to face the guy where he sat: in the room’s least-comfortable-looking chair, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped, eyes fixed burningly on Rags’s face.
“Stop worrying about me, will you?” Rags waved his hands to indicate health and energy. “I’m fine. Nothing wrong. Having a bad day.”
Shining Talon waited a moment longer, checking Rags’s expression to be sure the admission was genuine, then nodded. “You blame yourself for the fate of a companion. A noble sentiment.”
Remind me, how did noble sentiments serve your king? Rags bit back the words. Didn’t like being read so easily. Fae could probably see into minds, open them like R
ags opened locked doors without needing keys.
And if they could, Rags didn’t have to tell Shining Talon that that kind of responsibility—that guilt—chewed a Cheapsider up into nothing.
He couldn’t survive on the streets and get this worked up over every sad-sack stranger who crossed his path. He’d buried those feelings deep, same as how the fae had hidden all their best shit.
“Whatever,” Rags murmured. “This is why I work alone. Hey, we were talking about the Great Paragon.”
“In answer to your question, my instructions are—were—vague.” Shining Talon bowed his head. “All I know is that One will be able to draw the truth from her master . . . somehow.”
“Somehow.” Rags shoved one pillow aside, only to bury his face in another. “Fucking great.”
The quiet went on long enough that he was nearly asleep before Shining Talon spoke again.
“You work alone to protect others from having to share in your fate,” he said. “I believe I understand you a little better, Lord Rags.”
“If you did,” Rags told him, “you’d stop calling me that.”
“I prefer your company to being alone,” Shining Talon confessed. “I have spent too long in the Sleep to bemoan companionship.”
Even that of a lowly thief? Rags didn’t know how to respond to that, couldn’t handle the weight of replacing an entire race of people, even if he wanted to.
Too tired to correct him, or acknowledge the statement, Rags exchanged his misery and hopelessness for a few hours of dreamless sleep.
Slipping away like a thief in the night.
34
Inis
Inis Fraoch Ever-Loyal didn’t mind banishment as a concept. Banishment kept her away from court, away from the constant wheeling and dealing of power. The gossip, the wickedness, the flirting.
The relentless backstabbing.
It was how banishment had come—brandishing unsheathed swords in the dead of night, weapons trained on unarmed children—that remained an open wound, still refusing to scar and heal. Treason, a magic spell, which, once cast, permitted soldiers to murder her family and servants indiscriminately.