by Devin Hanson
The stiff formality of the congress abruptly seemed to melt away. Dragons roared at the sky and, to Andrew’s disbelief, frolicked about, jumping into the water and mock wrestling with each other for all the world like a litter of kittens in catnip. The ground shook beneath their weight and Andrew staggered.
“Andrew!” Jules shouted, “What is happening?” Her face was pale as she stared about at the leaping dragons.
“They’re celebrating!” Andrew shouted back, flinching a little as fire billowed into the sky.
“Celebrating what?”
“I think we just formed a new alliance.”
“Oh!” Jules looked at the dragons with fresh understanding. The fear was gone from her face.
Maricikossi landed in front of them, kicking up a spray of gravel. “Avandir! Do you truly sing? Are you a true lauith?”
“I– yes. Yes I do. I am.”
“Then we must sing!” Maricikossi roared and blew fire into the sky. Hidden in her roar were the filaments of dragon song that guided and empowered the flames.
Andrew gripped the scale in his belt pouch, feeling it grate against the tooth. He felt the Song grow, knew the runes that would mesh with Maricikossi’s. He pulled vitae from the scale and threw his voice into harmony with the dragon’s.
Fire leapt from his outstretched hand, entwining with the billowing cloud of flame from Maricikossi. The two threads of flame twisted about each other, amplifying and harmonizing in tune with the runes.
The ground shook as another dragon landed beside Maricikossi and threw her own flames skyward. Andrew heard the new Song and adjusted his own to allow it to mingle. The three songs twisted about each other before a new harmony was found.
One by one, the other dragons joined the Song until they were all combined, singing in harmony. The ball of fire above the lake grew and twisted, patterns becoming visible, physical manifestations of the harmonic chords being sung.
Andrew felt lost, disconnected from his body. All his awareness was engaged with the Song. He recognized Ava’s voice and split off a duet with her. They sang, and the nuances brought images of their friendship and their hopes, of dreams and the future. The Song twisting through the air above them, and the other dragons blended their voices into support and harmony.
Other voices split off, lamenting lost clutches of eggs and dragons that wasted away to nothing trying to keep their eggs warm. The twisting fire above seemed to reflect the emotion of the Song, darkening with smoke. Andrew Sang and in his thread he brought hope for the future, clutches hatching without death and dragons giving birth without fear of the slow oblivion from lack of vitae.
The Song stabilized, the smoke cleared, and new patterns emerged. On and on the Song went, and Andrew found himself lost within the complex emotions and thoughts of the dragons all about him. And through it all, the twisting pattern of the flame above shone down upon those gathered below.
When the end came, Andrew felt exhausted. His throat was sore. How long had the song gone on for? The scale in his pouch was still warm with vitae and the sun was still rising in the sky. It couldn’t have been that long. An hour? Surely not longer? He felt dizzy and staggered, and then Jules was at his side, her arms tight around him.
“That was beautiful,” she whispered.
The dragons were leaving, one by one saying their farewells and lifting off into the sky. Andrew watched them go, feeling a new kinship with them. He felt he knew them all intimately, like family, or lifelong friends. The dragons left, but he still felt close to them physically; they were there, just out of reach, but close enough to feel. Finally, only Ava remained.
“You sang well, Avandir,” she said. “It has been many years since the koss joined in song, and many more since a lauith joined us.”
“I’m not sure what I did,” Andrew said, giving Jules a hug. His dizziness was passing.
“You sang,” Ava said simply, tilting her head. “It was good.”
Andrew laughed and shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand dragons,” he said to Jules.
“What now?” Jules asked.
Andrew shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve achieved what we came here for, I think. Feel like going back to Andronath?”
Jules shook her head.
“Me neither. Oh!” Andrew snapped his fingers. “I know, let’s go see Vanali! Now that the dragons recognize us, it should be safe. Let me ask Ava.”
The dragon twisted her neck around, swinging her head down so her great eye stared at Andrew from an arm’s reach away. “I heard the name you call me,” the dragon said.
“Oh, I didn’t think you could understand human speech.”
“It is noise. But I know the noise you make to speak of me.”
“Are your eggs safe for now? Jules and I would like to go to Vanali.”
“My eggs are safe. The hatching comes soon, Avandir. Vanali would be a good place for them.”
“Your eggs are hatching? Ava, that’s great!”
“It is good,” Ava agreed. “You must think on the animivitae.”
“The… sorry, the what?”
“Animivitae,” Ava repeated patiently. “The life of a kossi begins with the life of another.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A newborn koss is dumb and empty of vitae. A source of vitae is needed or they will die soon after hatching. Kossi become their vitae.”
“What do you mean, become their vitae?”
“Were you not taught this?”
“Nobody has taught me anything,” Andrew said, trying to contain his irritation.
“Then I will do so. All life comes from vitae,” Ava explained. “Life is vitae. Vitae is life. There is more vitae in life that is intelligent, or perhaps intelligence is determined by vitae. It is a meaningless distinction. One cannot exist without the other.
“The koss retain the vitae of those they consume. Kosso simply store their vitae, but they cannot use it as kossi do. They cannot Sing, or speak as the ith do. The first vitae a kossi consumes becomes the kossi, or perhaps the kossi becomes the vitae. The end is the same.”
“So the first meal of a kossi, what, becomes her?”
“As I said.”
“And I must choose this first meal? The animivitae?”
“And choose wisely,” Ava agreed. “For the kossi will always be the animi.”
Andrew frowned. There seemed to be something important here that he wasn’t grasping. “Ava, how were the animi chosen before the Breaking?”
“It was a great honor. Only the best were given to the koss. Their knowledge and memory pass on to the kossi.”
“Wait, humans are the animi?”
“What else would serve?”
“You were… once human?”
“I am kossi, Avandir. My animi was Avanda Toradi, an ith greatly revered before she was chosen. I am she, though time has blurred her memories.”
Andrew rubbed his face, trying to wrap his mind around what Ava was telling him. “So this Avanda was your first meal?”
“As I said, Avandir.”
“Tiny gods. What happens if a kossi eats more than one person?”
“It is not done, Avandir. Madness lies down that path.”
“That’s why you don’t eat people?”
“I would lose myself,” Ava said somberly. “Death would be preferable.”
“How am I supposed to choose an animi?”
“Find one that is worthy and understands they will pass within and become koss.”
“Must they be ith?”
“It was traditional, but not necessary.”
“Do they have to be female?” Andrew swallowed, dreading the answer.
“No. You are male, and are intelligent. Someday, you will pass witihn and become koss. That will be a great day.”
Right.
“And kosso, do they need animi as well?”
“For what purpose? A kosso would gain nothing beyond vitae. Traditionally, those to be e
xecuted were given to the kosso.”
“This… is a lot to think about.”
“The eggs will hatch before long, a score of days, maybe more. You should find the animi and prepare them.”
Andrew nodded and turned to find Jules looking at him, her eyes dark with worry. “What is it? You went white as a sheet there for a minute.”
Andrew attempted a smile then let it slip away. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Chapter 19
Expectations
Travis Bellwether watched Galdaris slowly grow on the horizon. He loved the city, had been born within its walls and roamed its streets as a child. His grandfather had fished Lake Turodel, first out of his own boat, then as the owner of a small fleet. His father had grown that fleet, purchased warehouses and invested in alchemical coldboxes to store the catch and get fresh fish delivered to noble households on the outskirts of the city.
It had been the proudest day of Micklas Bellwether’s life when Travis had joined Baron Priah’s house guard. Serving a noble of the court was a proud calling, one that had the potential for an eventual title himself. Of the Bellwether children, Travis was the only one who had escaped the backbreaking labor of the fishing profession.
Travis never thought he’d look back on the days of pulling nets heavy with fish from the lake with fondness. Then again, he never thought he’d be flying into the city with a hold full of bloodthirsty mass murderers, either.
Finding the alchemists had been difficult despite Trent’s suggestions of where to start looking. After Trent and Bircham had failed to report in, the alchemists had panicked, scattering through Ardhal. They kept lookouts posted to watch over the safe houses. When Travis came calling, they followed him.
He shivered a little, remembering the way his hair had stood on end when he realized someone was shadowing him.
Travis had ducked into an alley and drew his rapier waiting. Cold sweat had broken over him as he thought of all the people who had been murdered or gone missing in Ardhal. When the boy rounded the corner, Travis had almost run him through on the spot.
It had taken some convincing, but eventually he got the boy to lead him back to the alchemist that had paid him a handful of copper to watch over the safe house. After convincing the alchemist not to kill him, he passed on Trent’s request to come to Galdaris.
Getting thirty alchemists onto an airship had been a monumental task. He had begged, bribed and threatened, and then after wasting a whole day waiting on frivolous errands, flatly informed the alchemists that the airship would be leaving at dawn. They could either be on board or be left behind.
Thirty alchemists seemed like a lot, but there were eight of them that acted like high kings and the others scurried to do their bidding. Each of those eight caused more hassle than the rest of the alchemists combined. It didn’t take long before Travis was certain they were the Incantors Andrew had warned of.
Travis didn’t know what he had expected Incantors to be like. Stories described them in various ways: long fanged, drinking only blood, horrible disfigurements, extra limbs, smelling like fish, and so on, singly or in combination. These Incantors were just people. Their skin lacked dragon scales, plants didn’t wilt where they walked, they ate cured pork and beans along with the crew just like normal people did.
In a way, their very normalcy was more disturbing than if they’d had horns and eyes with vertical slits like goats. There was nothing to set them apart from other men, nothing to help identify them before it was too late.
And now he was bringing this airship full of these invisible killers into Galdaris. He knew what task Trent had been assigned. He knew what these men and women would do once set loose in the city. How many would die? How many lives would be snuffed out to fuel the baron’s plot?
How he wished Iria hadn’t asked him to return to the baron. He smiled slightly, thinking of how Iria had looked that day in the inn. She had been beautiful before, when she had been masquerading as a merchant, but seeing her in her true element as a warden had made her even more attractive.
He understood the reason why Iria had asked him to spy on the baron. Inside knowledge could make the difference between thwarting the baron’s plans and falling victim to them. It was the right thing to do. Glumly he wondered if seizing control of the airship and crashing it in the middle of Lake Turodel would even kill the Incantors. He was fairly certain the alchemists would perish, but he couldn’t get rid of the image of Trent getting stabbed through the chest and smiling at Lucius, his teeth red with blood. Who knows what alchemy the Incantors could perform that would allow them to survive the crash.
Or if Travis would be able to take control of the airship.
He sighed and put the idea from his mind. He knew nothing about fighting Incantors, and getting himself killed wouldn’t help anyone. The most he could do was report to Iria and bide his time. He had a full list of names of the alchemists and names and descriptions of the Incantors. That had to be worth something.
The city swept by under them and Travis felt the window of opportunity to do something slip away. With a last look out over the city, Travis turned his back and headed into his cabin. He had a letter to write.
Corvis Priah walked into King Delran’s audience chamber and took a knee, bowing his head low. He couldn’t decide if he was pleased with the way things were going, or sickened with his responsibility for it. It had been three days since young Bellwether had flown the airship full of alchemists in to dock, and in that time, Galdaris had been brought to its knees.
Trent and his alchemists had set out on a mission of terror and they had accomplished that goal with bloodthirsty savagery. They struck in broad daylight, their faces masked, with alchemy and blades, careless of who saw them. In the middle of a market, twenty-two people were cut down with fire and lightning, their hearts cut out and devoured without a care for the eyes of watchers. At the docks, fifteen people were killed. A minor noble and his entire family were ambushed and slaughtered in the middle of the street. An entire guard garrison was murdered in the middle of the night, thirty-six men and women found dead the next morning. A hospital was attacked, with every nurse and doctor killed, leaving the patients behind to spread their tale of horror.
And those were just the ones that Corvis had heard of. There were a hundred smaller attacks, random, meaningless beyond the terror they would cause; dozens more murders where the bodies were left to be discovered by friends or family.
The city was in chaos. Markets were empty. Caravans of panicked citizens were leaving the city every morning. You couldn’t buy a ticket on an airship, not for a weight of gold. Looters and arsonists were taking advantage of the chaos.
Through it all, the tabloids printed their flyers, loudly pinning the blame on Andronath and its warden protectors. A thousand eye-witnesses claimed the attackers were wearing masks and using alchemy. Who else could it be?
That the masks weren’t the sand masks worn by the Nas Shahr Rangers and wardens was a detail carefully glossed over. And any printer who questioned too closely or doubted the narrative being constructed by Baron Priah quietly vanished.
The king had called a council of war. The citizens and nobles demanded it.
An hour ago at dawn, a messenger had arrived at the Priah manor, out of breath and terrified of being outside alone. The baron was summoned to council.
Wary of keeping up appearances, Corvis had taken no less than a hundred men at arms to the king’s palace, marching in tight formation with his personal guard in their alchemically reinforced armor close about him.
The palace was swarming with guards armed to the teeth. They were not the typical ceremonial guard, in their fancy inlaid breastplates and beribboned lances; these were hard soldiers, their weapons and armor worn with years of use.
Corvis had left his personal forces behind at the gate except for a token honor guard and was escorted to the audience chamber, where even that protection wasn’t allowed within.
�
�Stand, Baron,” King Delran said. His voice was deep, his face lined with care. The last few days had left their mark upon him and his eyes had deep shadows beneath them. He wore his dark hair long, in carefully maintained curls. He had been a handsome man in his youth, but now, in the late years of his life, age had taken its toll upon him. Unlike the baron, the king had not let an easy life soften his figure, and despite his years, the king stood straight and strong. The fighting gloves tucked into his belt were worn with use and the sword at his side was utilitarian and scarred with regular wear.
Corvis stood, looking about the room. A large table had been set up to one side, with what looked like a map of the city on it. The king’s war council stood about it, along with a collection of nobles that he recognized as having large personal forces. Included in their number was the Duke of Ardhal, and Corvis offered the duke a short bow when their eyes met.
None of the people present looked cheerful or happy. Corvis schooled his face to match their somberness and walked to the table at the king’s invitation. Up close, he saw the map had dozens of markers about it, places he recognized as targets of his son’s depravities.
“Like I was saying, it’s completely random.”
Corvis stepped up to the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Don’t stop on my account.”
“General Forthist,” the king said, “please, continue.”
The general gave a short bow. “As I was saying, these attacks are random. They have no commonalities, no particular concentration in any one part of the city. These are not the attacks of irrational men. Serial killers always have a pattern or a motive they follow. This attack was planned by intelligent men who thought out our probable response and acted accordingly. Nothing this perfectly random happens by chance.”
“What we need to determine,” the king said bluntly, “is whether this is an attack by another nation or a private interest.”
“As of right now, my lord,” Corvis said, “the only nation that has access to alchemists is Andronath.”
“What of this schism among the alchemists, though?” another lord asked. He was an aging gentleman, his voice querulous, but his back was straight and his eyes were clear and sharp. “It is possible we’re looking at a non-affiliated attack. Andronath has never instigated violence in all its history.”