The Sky on Fire

23. Fair exchange

23

FAIR EXCHANGE

[You understand what a dragonstone is, yes?] Peralon asked, sitting back on his haunches.

“You understand they sentenced me to death for stealing one of these, right?” Anahrod raised an eyebrow at the dragon, then shared it with Ris, too, because had her dragon seriously just offered to explain dragonstones to her?

Ris sighed. “Peralon, love, I think we can skip the unnecessary exposition.”

Peralon evidently disagreed. [But you’ve never used one, right?]

Anahrod waved a hand. “Still innocent of everything they accused me of doing, yes. I’ve never touched a dragonstone before tonight.”

Honestly, she didn’t understand why they were a big deal, why dragons guarded them more protectively than sky amber. She had a sneaking suspicion the dragons didn’t know either, but by this point, it was just dogma.

She was tired. She always poured out an extra glass of cynicism when she was tired.

[Accessing the stone is akin to meditation,] the gold dragon told her. [Look deep into the depths of the stone and free your mind of worldly concerns. Think of not thinking. Let your mind float.]

He made a chuffing sound. [This will likely require some practice. I suggest we try it once here and then you can return to town and continue practicing in your spare time.]

Anahrod paused in the middle of removing the dragonstone, then shook herself and shrugged. Yes, it was illegal for her to possess one of these things, but she was already Anahrod the Wicked. Authorities wouldn’t give her special treatment just because she confirmed their expectations.

“Let’s try this,” Anahrod agreed.

She settled down to meditate on the stone.

It took a while.

Eventually, the world vanished. The hard stone floor of Tiendremos’s cave turned into blue skies and the vast emptiness of open space, but there was no feeling of falling.

She was flying.

Below her, wheat-gold savannas crept up to the foothill children of a fabulous mountain range that stretched from east to west. The world curving underneath her, the distorted atmosphere hazy in the air.

Anahrod wanted to panic, but she was incapable. It’s not that she wouldn’t have panicked under different circumstances, but the fear proved elusive, ephemeral. What she saw and felt had already happened. She observed with no power to make substantive changes, not even to her own emotional reactions.

She flapped her wings and understood.

Gold wings. If she peered down—if she’d had enough control to look down—she’d see Peralon’s gold scales. She couldn’t control this because these were memories—but not hers. Peralon was the one flying. She was merely an observer.

Naturally, she couldn’t feel fear. Why would a dragon ever be afraid of flying?

She smelled the air’s crispness and the wind’s sharp edge. She heard wind shrikes crying, and farther away, a lovesick leviathan’s lonely song. She felt—viscerally, emotionally—the power of flight. How free. How joyous.

She didn’t know why Peralon had preserved this memory, why this was so special—a piece of knowledge that he’d immortalized forever.

Then another dragon joined him.

The newcomer was enormous, with scales the color of flame, deep red at the creature’s head and then fading out to a hot orange at the claws. Anahrod couldn’t tell the dragon’s sex—to be fair, she’d never been able to judge that by sight—only that its presence made Peralon overjoyed, filled him with a quiet, glowing hum of contentment.

She knew the answer then, instinctively: this was Ivarion.

They flew together. Several times Peralon made playful loops around Ivarion to emphasize that the red dragon might be larger, but Peralon could still fly literal circles around him.

[You’re showing off,] Ivarion chided fondly.

[Can’t I just be happy to see you?]

[Of course,] the red dragon said. [But you might also show a little more decorum about the matter.]

[Decorum’s for you youngsters,] Peralon said. [When you’re my age, you’ll stop caring about it.]

[I wish you’d change your mind. I want you to stay.] Ivarion sounded sad.

[I wish I could. It’s just bad timing. Too much magic. I’m snapping at shadows, at children, at clouds. I’m the last dragon in the world you want to see go rampant. I won’t be gone forever.]

The red dragon keened, confusion and question in one. [What will you do?]

[Take a nap.]

Ivarion chuffed out a laugh, stopped as Peralon didn’t laugh with him. [You don’t have to leave Yagra’hai to meditate.]

[I didn’t say meditate, I said nap. I’ll sleep for a century or two and wake as pure as a newborn.]

[A century!] Ivarion went so far as to stop flying for a moment, hovering in midair with giant wings buffeting the skies in broad, powerful beats. [Is there nothing else you can do?]

Peralon hovered, too, if only because it was rude to keep flying circles when his love was in such distress. He understood, he really did, but there was no other recourse. [No. If I had a rider—]

[Then take a rider!]

[I can’t,] Peralon snapped.

[Can’t or won’t? I don’t understand why someone who loves humans as much as you would push away their aid. Is it too late? The poison so bad that a rider wouldn’t make a difference? Or is this just an excuse to be rid of me?] Ivarion’s neck tendril thrashed in agitation. He began flying forward again, but it felt less like a leisurely soar and more like an attempt to leave.

He couldn’t fly faster than Peralon, though. The gold dragon circled around in front of him. [Never believe that. Even in sleep I will dream of you, and miss you, and long to return to you.]

[You know you are welcome to sleep in my lair.] The offer was plaintive, anxious.

Ivarion was so young. He still thought this might be a rejection.

[I know, and I am thankful, but it would be unwise. I have too many enemies. I would never wake again.]

[I’m their leader, the chosen of Eannis. They wouldn’t dare.] The dragon twisted in anger. What Peralon had just said could be taken as an insult, a slight on the red dragon’s ability to keep him safe. Ivarion would not have stayed his claw if any other dragon had expressed the sentiment.

[You always see the shine on someone’s scales and never the shadows underneath,] Peralon mused. [And you being named First Dragon does not make nearly the difference as you might think.] He wished it were not true, but he knew better. No one ruled by their own will alone. [I ruled them once, too. If they don’t like the way you lead, you’ll be removed just as I once was. You cannot force them to tolerate me just because we’re friends.]

[But it’s lies. It’s all lies.]

[No.] Laughter from Peralon. [It’s something much harder to kill than a lie. It’s a story.]

Ivarion had nothing but silence in response, but it was a deliberate, sullen silence.

His poor dear Ivarion, who meant so well and had principles so high he would’ve long since scorched his wings on the sun if fire could burn him. Those same qualities were why Zyrsene had named Ivarion as heir in the first place—because she had thought having a genuinely good dragon on the throne would make a difference.

Peralon could’ve told Zyrsene not to waste her dying breaths.

[Don’t be so upset. I’ll be back soon enough. A century is not so long a time for our kind. It will give the younglings a chance to forget.]

Ivarion didn’t respond. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said.

[I’ve been thinking I might take a rider,] Ivarion shoved into the silence. He flipped over and then righted again, as if to get a better position to see Peralon’s reaction.

[Ah.]

[You don’t approve?] Ivarion sounded surprised—and disappointed.

[No, no. It’s not for me to say what you should do. Take a rider—more dragons should—but be careful. Humans are weaker than you would expect and stronger than you can imagine.]

[You’re not making sense.]

[When you find a rider, you’ll understand.] Peralon tried not to think of his, and how much he still missed him. Missed him so much, even after all the years.

[Do you regret taking a rider, then?]

His neck frills ruffled, despite his intention to not let how the question affected him show. [Never,] Peralon said. [He was beautiful. He shone so brightly I could look at nothing else.]

[He shone? Humans do that?] Disbelief filtered through Ivarion’s telepathic touch.

[Metaphorically, I mean. Some days I miss Senros so fiercely I would set the sky on fire if it meant bringing him back to me.]

[Then it’s just as well you’re not attuned to fire, isn’t it?] Ivarion tried for humor and missed the mark. He twisted his head away. [I’m sorry,] the dragon finally said.

[Let’s talk of something else. Anything else.]

A beat of silence. [How will I know when you wake?]

[I’ll find you,] Peralon said. [I promise you that.]

With that, he rolled away from the other dragon, turned on his side, and spread his wings wide as he headed north. Behind him, Ivarion keened low and soft, which Peralon forced himself to ignore.

Ivarion turned back and returned to Yagra’hai. Peralon pretended not to watch him go.

Anahrod opened her eyes, and discovered she wasn’t in the same place as when she’d closed them.

“At least I wasn’t kidnapped this time,” Anahrod murmured out loud.

She even recognized the room. Another bonus. They’d returned her to the guest room Ris had rented for her. Her sword lay on the table, her other clothes hung from inside the open wardrobe.

She lay on her bed, fully clothed. The dragonstone rested on the bedcovers next to her. A half-capped inscribed lantern glowed dimly from one side of the room, while moonlight from the briefly full moon filtered in from a window.

“You were not supposed to lose yourself like that so quickly.” Ris’s voice came from somewhere by the table. “My sincerest apologies. I didn’t expect you to be so sensitive to draconic magic.”

Something about Ris’s voice seemed off, lacking in her trademark quicksilver sharpness. Anahrod glanced over at the woman and then sat straight upright as a shock raced through her.

This wasn’t Ris.

Gold eyes stared back at Anahrod. This was Peralon, wearing Ris’s body.

Anahrod felt paralyzed. Her mind was still overwhelmed by the memory of Ivarion. How accurate had it really been? After all, Peralon had not gone off to “take a nap” for a hundred years…

Or maybe he had. Maybe something had woken him. It had been a hundred years since Ivarion fell into rampancy, hadn’t it? Maybe Peralon had “napped” for some of that.

But he’d also taken a rider, which he’d sworn he’d never do.

Maybe these things were not disconnected.

The dragon set a thin metal strip in the book’s crease. “More importantly, did it help?”

“Where’s Ris?” Anahrod asked. “Can she hear us?”

Peralon raised an eyebrow. “Ris is busy.”

“Is she?”

The dragon closed the book and set it aside. “Yes.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Flying,” he said with perfect composure. “She’s fond of flying during the full moon. As I am fond of reading paper books.” He tapped on the cover as emphasis. “Difficult to do when you have dragon-sized claws.”

“And she was willing to do that?”

“It was her suggestion.”

“Did you teach her how to do that? How to… swap places with you?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Any dragon and rider can learn to do so.”

“Do the other dragons know that?” They must have some idea. Tiendremos hadn’t been appalled by the idea that Ris could take possession of Peralon, but because Peralon had allowed it.

The dragons knew. They just weren’t willing to share that kind of power.

He laughed, startled. “Some, perhaps. The ones who pay attention. Probably not the ones who believe the lies.”

Anahrod’s throat felt desperately, horribly dry. She sat up and poured herself a glass of water. “Lies?” she asked, finally, after. Her mouth still felt like the grim, dusty bottom of a neglected tomb.

“You know the ones. That humans were created to serve us. That therefore we must be superior. That Eannis created the universe. That she watches over us like a kind and attentive goddess, our mother in all ways.” His expression might almost be fond, were it not so full of hate.

The dim light felt dangerous, precipitous. She felt unsteady and unsure of her balance in ways that had nothing to do with her body. “Those are all lies?”

“Every single one,” Peralon assured her. “If humanity was created, I know not by whom. You weren’t cast from heaven to serve my race, or any other. My kind are not superior, which we will eventually figure out, although I fear we will learn the lesson in the most painful way possible. Eannis did not create the universe. She made us—dragons—but she also left us and never came back . Eannis was powerful enough to meet the definition of goddess, but I like to think a real goddess would’ve stayed around to watch over her children. Perhaps even answer the occasional prayer.”

“What about—” She swallowed. “What about Zavad?”

His gaze sharpened, and the smile there was ironic and knowing and far too aware. “Zavad never existed,” Peralon said. “He’s just a story. It’s much easier to avoid taking responsibility for your mistakes when you have someone else to blame.”

She drank some more water while she unsuccessfully tried to think of nothing at all, unwilling to voice her terrible suspicions, as if saying the words out loud might give them life.

She also didn’t need to say the words out loud. She didn’t need to ask. She understood perfectly, didn’t she?

She, too, was just a story. They’d written stage plays about Anahrod the Wicked. Stage plays and novels and who knew what else, all to tell an utterly false but no doubt engaging tale about a spoiled rich girl’s descent into evil. She couldn’t reclaim those stories, couldn’t stuff cruel words back into mouths or pull libelous ink off pages. Anahrod the Wicked existed now, separate and independent of Anahrod Amnead the real person. In just seventeen years, that stain had set so deeply that it would never wash clean.

How much worse could it be, if the stories were old enough to become myth, to become religion ? Old enough to change Eannis into the creator of all life, old enough to turn someone who’d disagreed with her into the source of all evil.

“I suppose dragons are like humans in that way,” she finally said. “It’s easier to believe the things that bring us comfort. Someone watching over us is… a comforting idea. As is, I suppose, the idea that our mistakes are not our fault.” She pressed her lips tightly together. “Neveranimas. Does she know this is something any dragonrider can do?”

“Guaranteed,” Peralon said. “Although I suspect she’d rather cut off her left wing than contemplate such a notion. Tiendremos is her right hand, and has been for a century. And while he would never allow his rider such liberties, it’s hardly a great stretch of intellect to theorize that a road that can be traveled in one direction can also be traveled the other. How embarrassing that Tiendremos does better than most dragons—at least he doesn’t think he’s too good to talk directly to humans.”

Anahrod’s jaw worked against her throat. She’d never considered that angle, although she suspected Jaemeh might prefer his dragon to be a bit more snobbish. “Yet you have no trouble with it.”

“I’m old,” Peralon said. “It gives one a certain perspective. And Ris is my other half. Why would I not trust her as she trusts me? How would that be fair?”

Anahrod wondered if he was just telling her what she wanted to hear. He wouldn’t have been the first dragon to whisper to her that humans should be dragons’ equals rather than their slaves.

Neveranimas hadn’t meant it, though.

Peralon seemed more genuine. Seemed. If only Anahrod could trust it. The true test of such a relationship would not be when facing a common threat, say, Tiendremos throwing a tantrum, but when dragon and rider disagreed. So far, Anahrod had yet to see Ris and Peralon do that.

Love turned flimsy and insubstantial when the whole world said only one side of an argument mattered.

Love. Her mind turned once more to the dragonstone.

“Ris said her motivation for doing this is revenge. What’s yours?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

The dragon stared at her, and somehow his stare wasn’t less intimidating just because he wore a smaller body.

The silence stretched out between them until Anahrod thought it might snap, or at least sink between them into awkward tension.

“Hope.” Peralon leaned back in the chair. “All I can do is hope. Hope that what I need to cure Ivarion is buried somewhere in Neveranimas’s hoard. That we can find it and act.”

She could see the logic. Neveranimas had been the one with the most to gain by Ivarion’s rampancy, and conversely, the one with the most to lose if he was cured. Even if she’d had nothing to do with the original sickness, she could easily imagine the violet dragon locking up anything that could heal Ivarion.

The moment Ivarion had gone rampant, he’d tried to take a “nap,” hadn’t he? He must’ve gotten the idea from Peralon, from the very conversation she’d witnessed. Unlike Peralon, Ivarion’s slumber was one from which the dragon had never woken.

Church faithful whispered that Ivarion slumbered on the verge of Ascension. Every year, more pilgrims traveled to the Cauldron, the volcano where he slept, to pray and leave offerings.

No one thought Ivarion would wake.

“You and Ivarion—” She knew little of dragon relationships. What was allowed, what was taboo. Anahrod had always thought they didn’t have romance as much as biological imperative—mating seasons and parents who might well never see each other again once the hatchlings were born. Stories rarely spoke of dragon couples.

Peralon picked up his book again. “Yes. Me and Ivarion. Was there a question in that?”

Only every question. How did they meet? How had they fallen in love? Had all the dragons known? None of them? Why or why not?

Why, why, was Varriguhl such a raging jerk if his dragon had been so wonderful?

If their ruler had been so great, why were the dragons like this? But Peralon had warned Ivarion, hadn’t he? Warned him that being ruler wasn’t enough. That he would know because—

Because he had once ruled, too.

Anahrod studied the dragon hiding inside Ris and wondered, again, just how old he really was.

“No,” she said slowly. “I suppose there isn’t a question there at all.”

“Introducing you to sleeping saints was not the object of this exercise,” Peralon reminded her. “The point was the flight itself. The point was showing you it’s nothing to fear.”

“Nothing to fear if you’re a dragon,” Anahrod amended.

Peralon smiled, nothing at all like Ris’s smiles, which were coy and mischievous and full of baited promises. Peralon’s smile was old and wise and a little sad.

“Your body won’t make that distinction,” Peralon said. “You may tell yourself that it doesn’t matter because you’re not a dragon, but that’s a logical argument. No more meaningful than you logically telling yourself that there’s no reason to fear heights in the first place.”

He opened his book and began reading, pausing only long enough to raise his head and say, “You should use that stone as often as time allows. No need to follow it to the bitter end, but let yourself enjoy flying. I promise, the experience will help.”

Anahrod wasn’t feeling in the mood to do any such thing. She felt wrung out, both physically and emotionally. It was as he’d said: her body didn’t know the difference between his memories and hers.

And Peralon had powerful emotions when it came to Ivarion.

Anahrod pulled her wandering thoughts back home. The dragon wearing Ris’s body still regarded her, waiting for more questions. She couldn’t decide whether he wanted to answer them or was merely resigned to.

Then Anahrod frowned. “How long do I have?”

His brow wrinkled. “I don’t understand the question.”

“How long do I have to go over the memory? Until morning? Tomorrow evening? When are you taking the dragonstone back?”

He laughed. “I wasn’t planning on ever taking it back. That’s what a gift means.” Peralon stood up, book in hand. “Don’t let anyone catch you with it. I also wouldn’t go through it so often you forget to sleep or eat or the like.” He paused on his way out. “Speaking of sleep, you should do that. It’s been a long day.”

She huffed. It had been at that.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about the things he’d said to her. Even though she tried to sleep, her attempts were laughable. All she could think about was how desperately Ivarion had wanted to make things better, how his good intentions had meant nothing. How, at least according to Peralon, that had been cynically predictable. Because there was no mother comforting the cries of her children, no father waiting to punish the errant.

No gods at all.

They were, all of them, from the largest dragon to the smallest human, flung into the Deep, on their own. When the dragons couldn’t have Eannis as a mother, they’d turned her memory into a goddess, an echo, and an excuse to enslave humanity.

There was no mandate from heaven keeping humans in chains. No hubris. They weren’t thrown out of heaven to teach them humility.

It had made for a good story, though, hadn’t it?

Sleep must have come to her at some point, but she only recalled tossing and turning, furious and lonely and desperately unhappy, before morning light rudely poked at her eyes through the window.

The next morning, Ris called for a meeting. Sicaryon must have given Ris a means of communication, since he was there, too.

“Do we have any idea why Neveranimas has increased security?” Anahrod asked the group.

“Who knows?” Jaemeh whispered, exhausted and resigned. “I gave up on trying to understand how Neveranimas thinks a long time ago, but she’s”—he grimaced—“she’s grown more paranoid of late. Tiendremos thinks she’s risking rampancy if she doesn’t take a rider soon. Which she won’t. She never has before. Why start now?”

Anahrod sipped her tea. It was a fair point. She didn’t know of any dragons who used spells as freely as Neveranimas did, and while the dragon’s willpower was legendary, there were limits. Dragons liked to pretend they didn’t need humans, but that clearly wasn’t true.

“Don’t change that we’ve got a real problem, does it?” Claw looked thoroughly disgusted. “Half of us don’t have proper papers right now, let alone fancy magic-based identification. They’re doing it through the divisions, you said?”

“I’m not sure—” Jaemeh paused, looked up and to his right.

Anahrod didn’t hear his question, but she heard Tiendremos’s sullen, angry answer.

“Yes,” Jaemeh said. “Through the divisions. Each guild will oversee certifications, handed down to individual divisions. Just Yagra’hai, of course.”

“No.” Anahrod set her mug down on the table with a hard clink. “Not just Yagra’hai. She can say it’s only for Yagra’hai until the moon spins itself to pieces, but she’s forcing Seven Crests to come to her for these certifications. In a few years, someone will decide it’s too much hassle to wait months for the approvals every time they send a new person to Yagra’hai and they’ll start authorizing everyone who might ever need to travel there. Other divisions will fall in line rather than take a chance their competitors will gain an edge on them. Then the cities themselves will start doing that. And in a few years, it will all be running through Yagra’hai.”

“This is just an excuse. She’s consolidating power,” Sicaryon murmured.

“Maybe so,” Jaemeh agreed, “but right now, it’s inconvenient. And by the way, who are you again?” The dragonrider gave Sicaryon a hard stare.

“Oh, I’m Cary.” Sicaryon’s smile was perfectly innocent. “Supply and logistics. Good thing, too, from the sound of it.” He tapped his lips. “I have a question, though. Why did your dragon feel the need to trumpet his search for this woman”—he pointed at Anahrod like he’d just met her—“all over Crystalspire? That seemed a bit… no offense… unsubtle?”

Anahrod almost smiled. The best way to keep people from asking awkward questions was to ask one’s own first.

Jaemeh visibly ground his teeth. Then he snatched a pastry from his plate and tore a chunk off it. With his mouth still full, he pointed at Ris. “Ask her why we did it this way. It was her plan.”

Anahrod narrowed her eyes. “All right. Why make Tiendremos do something this flashy?”

Ris stared up at the unfinished beams of the ceiling. “It was necessary.” She held up her hand when Anahrod protested. “That’s all I’m going to say: it was necessary. The whys don’t matter.”

Anahrod didn’t believe that for one second.

“Come up with a better explanation than that, given how upset Tiendremos is,” Jaemeh pointed out. “He feels like he screwed this up because he listened to your advice, and he does not like failure.”

“It’s not failure,” Ris said. “It’s a complication.”

“Kind of a big one, boss,” Claw reminded her. “How are we supposed to do the job if we can’t even get into the city? You’ll be okay, Jaemeh will be okay. But Kaibren? Me? Naeron? Oh, let’s not even get started on Anahrod…”

“My papers are in perfect order, in case you’re wondering,” Sicaryon offered.

“No one asked,” Ris snapped.

Jaemeh raised an eyebrow at her. He said nothing, but Anahrod had little doubt he filed away that rather out-of-proportion response for later.

“Why change?” Naeron asked. “Cargo workers will still work.”

“Because cargo workers won’t have a reason to enter the city,” Jaemeh answered, “so they won’t be allowed to leave the docks. That cover no longer works. We need to think of something else.” Jaemeh finished one of his pastries and frowned at the plate.

The other two pieces were missing. Naeron looked innocent.

“Anyway…” Jaemeh continued, “maybe we can bring you on with servant licenses? Tiendremos could approve them.”

“Is Tiendremos going to be in charge of approvals moving forward?” Anahrod asked.

“Yes.”

Claw rubbed her hands together. “Fantastic! That solves everything then.”

Anahrod scowled. “No, it doesn’t. Is Tiendremos personally overseeing approvals, or is he delegating that job?”

“Oh.” Jaemeh frowned. “Delegating, I should think. It sounds like a lot of paperwork.”

“Then that won’t work,” Sicaryon pointed out. “Because the person you’re trying to hide this from is his boss, and if she’s this paranoid, any change in routine will stand out like a full moon on third night. If he personally authorizes anything, the official reason he’s doing so better be obvious and believable.”

Silence fell again, this time frustrated and sullen.

Finally, Ris sighed and leaned back against her chair. “I know how to get us inside.” She threw Anahrod a quick, apologetic look.

Anahrod didn’t like that look at all.

“Great,” Claw said. “Care to share it with the rest of us?”

Ris made a face. “Dragonrider candidates—”

“No.” Anahrod stood up from the table. She felt flushed and brittle, and her pulse beat a furious tempo in her ears. “Absolutely not.”

A number of the crew looked confused by her outburst, but not Naeron, and not Ris. “Anah, please understand—”

“You said you’d smuggle him out of Seven Crests,” Anahrod hissed. “That no matter what happened, he wouldn’t be sent to Yagra’hai. You promised .”

Ris exhaled heavily. “I know that, but—”

“May I ask what you’re talking about?” Sicaryon raised an eyebrow. “Or rather, who?”

Jaemeh scratched his cheek. “Is this about that kid back in Crystalspire?” Then his eyes widened, and he choked back a laugh. “Wait, isn’t his father the mayor? The divisions are handling the paperwork, but it all goes through the mayor’s office for each city. That’s perfect!”

Damn it.

She’d hoped no one else would see the connection, but it was too obvious, never mind that Ris was probably sitting on a six-page essay justifying this obscenity. Gwydinion had been assigned to attend the dragonrider school, and he could bring his own handpicked staff, including guards. And the mayor of Crystalspire would vet all those handpicked staff. Which meant that with the mayor’s help, they’d soar effortlessly past all Neveranimas’s extra security.

All they had to do was be comfortable delivering a fifteen-year-old boy directly to the dragon trying to kill him.

Anahrod clenched her fists. “It’s not perfect. Neveranimas wants to murder him, the same way she’s tried to murder every student whose blessing involves talking to animals. Neveranimas will pay attention to his coterie. This is a remarkably bad idea and people will die .”

“Be honest now. Do you have any strong opinions on this, Jungle?” Claw seemed less mocking than genuinely taken aback.

Sicaryon turned to Ris. “Is there any other way?”

She barely moved except for the smallest shake of her head. “No.” Then she added: “I’ve already reached out to the family. They want to help.”

Anahrod contemplated how long it had been since Tiendremos had informed them they’d need this level of documentation and ground her teeth.

Ris must have contacted the Doreyl family immediately .

Anahrod set her fists against the table and leaned across it, looming over a still-sitting Ris. “Do you remember when we talked about limits?”

A flicker of irritation shone in Ris’s eyes. “Don’t—”

“You just flew right past them.”

Anahrod stormed out of the room.

There’s a fine art to fleeing the scene of an argument.

It depends on one’s goals, of course. If the point is to make the other person come find them, then one must be findable. If the dramatic gesture was the goal in and of itself, then what happened afterward was less important, and under those circumstances, Anahrod had always favored going for a ride. However, if the point was to get away from the argument itself, to go find someplace to think and brood, well, then hiding was the most important skill.

She had tried going for a walk, but she ended up encountering no fewer than three different stage or puppet shows that revolved around Anahrod the Wicked. It didn’t take long before she suspected she would start a fight if she continued to surround herself with people, and so she ended up on a rooftop overlooking the university courtyard where her father sold sausages.

Sicaryon found her anyway.

She gave him a gimlet stare as he climbed up over the edge, using the very same collection of stacked crates she had. He had a basket tucked under one arm. She saw the neck of a wine bottle peeking out.

Anahrod sighed to herself. She supposed he probably had been waiting for an opportunity, and she’d certainly provided one, hadn’t she?

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to find you?” he commented as he unpacked the basket.

“Not hard enough, it seems. If I told you to fuck off, would you?”

“Is that a thing you might be likely to do?” He set down a plate filled with cheeses, sour black bread, and—

“Where did you get chena?” she asked, incredulous.

“I know a local bakery,” he confessed as he poured glasses of wine for them both. “They have a secret menu, if you know to ask.”

She wondered just how many Deepers were secretly living in the Skylands. She didn’t think Sicaryon would tell her, assuming he knew.

She had a feeling he did.

She took the glass of red wine when he offered it. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“I think you’ll find I did, if you read between the lines.” He took a sip of the wine, gave it a pleased appraisal, and drank a larger swallow. “I have no useful advice for you, but I thought you might like the company. Oh, and it’s deeply unpleasant to watch someone else make all the same mistakes I made. I don’t recommend it.”

Anahrod paused in the process of taking a piece of aged cheese. “Am I the one making the mistakes, or is Ris?”

“Definitely Ris.” He lowered his glass. “I’m sure you’re also making mistakes. They’re just not my mistakes. Her, though?” He chuckled wryly. “Oh yeah. I know all the lyrics to that song.”

She scoffed and shook her head. What was she supposed to say? I told you so?

She had, in fact, done that.

Anahrod drank a little more wine and watched the clouds. An occasional dragon flew by, too, but always at a distance. “Why are you here?”

“Because trying to rule a country is too much paperwork?”

She glared.

Sicaryon sighed and set his glass aside. “Because you were right,” he said in a much more serious tone.

She’d have wondered if she was dreaming, but her luck had not been rolling that way of late. “Was I?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I won’t say that defending the family honor didn’t improve some things, because it’s never a bad day to decapitate a tyrant, but the cost?” His laughter was harsh, ragged. “It cost me everything. Everything that mattered, anyway.”

She would’ve had to be a fool to miss the meaning there, considering the way he was looking at her. “You haven’t changed,” she said.

He was still a charming bastard.

“Now, now. There’s no need for insults.” Sicaryon’s hurt expression was not entirely for show. He raised his hand. “Don’t worry. I’m perfectly aware that I don’t get to come marching back in with a blithe apology, a clean slate, and everything will revert to how it used to be. Some mistakes can’t be fixed and the Deep doesn’t give second chances.”

“We’re not in—” She stopped herself.

That wasn’t a door she wanted to open. Logically, anyway. Emotionally and physically was something else. And with everything that had just happened with Ris, the timing was… unfortunate.

Sicaryon ate a piece of chena and then straightened. “I think I’m going to say something that you don’t want to hear.”

“Wonderful. It’s what I’ve always wanted.” She glanced at him sideways.

“Ready?” He waited.

“I have my sword with me today, you know,” Anahrod pointed out.

“A good point,” he said. “Okay, here it is: you don’t get to decide for the Doreyls.”

Anahrod’s nostrils flared. “It would’ve been so nice if only you had the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”

“I told you that you wouldn’t want to hear it,” he reminded her. “But you need to hear it. I know you like to think that you are the only person licensed to go out and do heroic deeds, but as it happens, that is an individual choice. I asked around: he’s fifteen. That’s young, yes, but he’s not an infant. If his parents are supporting the decision—”

“I’m sure they don’t have all the facts,” Anahrod snapped.

“What if they do?”

Anahrod’s rebuttal died in her throat.

“By all accounts, the boy’s mother is a terrifying spymaster and his father used to volunteer to fly into blizzards to rescue trapped travelers.”

Anahrod made a face. “That does sound like the man.”

“So, you should consider the possibility that Ris didn’t need to deceive them, because they’re brave, smart, and just maybe aren’t thrilled about the idea of sending their only child into permanent exile.”

She exhaled slowly. “I hate you so much.”

Their eyes met.

The Sicaryon she’d left behind in the Deep would’ve tried to kiss her. Maybe she would’ve let him, too. This one did not.

Maybe the forty spouses were responsible.

He just smiled tenderly at her and said, “I hate you, too.” Then he bounced a finger off the tip of her nose before she could dodge, and added, “Now we’re both liars.”

She shook her head, drank her wine, looked out over the city.

“As long as we’re being so delightfully honest with each other, I—” She inhaled. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Fair,” he allowed. “But I will repeat the words of a wise woman I knew when I was younger”—he gave her a significant look—“who said that just because you love someone doesn’t mean you shouldn’t confirm their sources.”

Anahrod snickered. “Not my wise words. That was one of my second mother’s favorite sayings.”

“Fine. It’s still a good idea. So do that: if you’re curious whether Ris has fully explained the danger to the Doreyls, ask them.”

Talking to the Doreyls proved more difficult than Anahrod had expected, primarily because she didn’t have a good excuse to leave Duskcloud. Maybe Ris wouldn’t mind, but Tiendremos sure as hell would if he returned to Duskcloud to discover her missing.

So, she hadn’t asked them, and now they were back in Crystalspire, and she had very little time to fix that situation. Assuming she could.

Anahrod scratched her cheek through her veil, then resumed waiting along with the rest of the guards at the dock.

Sicaryon leaned his head in her direction. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

Anahrod chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Maybe they changed their mind.”

She doubted she would be so lucky.

She sighed and continued to wait. They were both dressed as guards, the mercenary sort employed by the rich. Ris had decided that since they both used swords, they’d draw less attention, ironically, if they worked together—like a matched set.

Anahrod suspected that this was also Ris’s idea of an apology, although she had no proof. She just couldn’t think of any other reason the woman would’ve put them in such proximity for the entire trip to Yagra’hai.

It was time for the dragonrider candidates to go to Yagra’hai.

Babies surrounded them. Not literal babies—none of the dragonrider candidates from Crystalspire were younger than fifteen. But fifteen was so young. Too young for what lay before them. Someone should’ve stopped them, warned them, said something.

No one would. Not even she.

Anahrod had an identity again. The irony was laughable. If she walked away that instant, she could start a new life as a Skylander. She had all the paperwork she needed to go anywhere in Seven Crests. Her name and background would stand up to any scrutiny short of personal interviews with friends or an interrogation under mirrorspell. She could join a division, settle down, live any life she wanted.

Admittedly, that life would be a violent one; her paperwork listed her as part of a mercenary division in Crystalspire, even if she was supposed to be—originally—from Blackglass.

Sicaryon’s cover identity hailed from Snowfell. Ris must’ve done that on purpose, just as she’d dressed Sicaryon in a Snowfell-style shirt and breeches. People from that city rarely wore coats unless the weather dipped below freezing—their tolerance for cold was a point of pride.

Anahrod saw at least one benefit, namely that it put Sicaryon’s breeches in full view. Perhaps that was the point: no one was looking at Anahrod when Sicaryon’s tight leather pants were right there .

Sicaryon hated the cold, of course. Never let it be said that Ris couldn’t be petty.

He inclined his head in her direction. “You do a good job of passing for someone from Blackglass, but you need to frown a little more. You can see it in the eyes, you know.”

Anahrod glanced at the other bodyguards. Many of them were from Blackglass: bodyguard was a popular occupation for natives of that city traveling abroad. Mostly, people from Blackglass seemed to be everything Claw wasn’t—taciturn, quiet, disinclined to engage in gossip, chitchat, or more than the barest minimum of casual conversation. They all wore veils.

Anahrod glared at Sicaryon, who grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Just like that. Ah, this brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

She stared at him. “When have we ever stood on a boarding causeway waiting for a fifteen-year-old boy to show up so we could escort him to school?”

“Never,” he agreed easily. “But we’re doing it together. Just like old times.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Finally, a carriage rolled up.

Anahrod snorted. She recognized the carriage: it was the same damn carriage she remembered from her own childhood. The mayor didn’t own it; the mayor’s office owned it, so it changed hands with each succeeding mayor. Each person to hold the office added a little more decoration to the carriage as well, transforming it over the years into a gaudy little beast: all silver filigree in the traditional Crystalspire angles, with purple enamel and inset crystals to catch the light.

Hideously expensive and simply hideous.

Anahrod doubted the excitable, overly enthusiastic Gwydinion had chosen to arrive last. The mayor could be expected to maintain appearances, which would include the idea that very important people could arrive last, to draw the maximum amount of attention.

Gwydinion jumped down before the carriage stopped rolling, while his father, Mayor Aiden e’Doreyl, waited for a more appropriately decorous exit.

A woman’s hand appeared at the carriage window—Gwydinion’s mother. Perhaps she didn’t want to leave the coach’s safety and suffer the unwelcome stares of the unwashed. The woman made an abortive motion, as though she’d been about to wave goodbye.

Gwydinion moved toward his father, then corrected and stepped back, head high.

Mayor e’Doreyl snorted and pulled his son into a hug, anyway.

Anahrod felt her lip curl.

It wasn’t the hug that triggered her disgust. Just the opposite. She remembered a lifetime being forbidden from doing anything like that. Stand up straight. Be polite. Don’t be too cheerful. Always hold yourself with dignity. Why are you smiling all the time? Do you want people to think you’re a simpleton or a fool? Don’t you know you’re representing the most important city in Seven Crests?

She clenched her fists and looked away.

“Come along,” Sicaryon whispered, snapping her out of it. He stepped forward to meet Gwydinion and his father.

Anahrod was unsure whether anyone had bothered telling Gwydinion she would be one of his guards. Someone must’ve, because when Anahrod approached, Gwydinion smiled even as he looked slightly embarrassed. The mayor, on the other hand, gave her a firm nod.

He didn’t recognize her.

Gwydinion noticed Sicaryon, too, but his reaction was more confusion than shame. He’d probably expected the second person would be Claw.

“Mother said she wanted to speak with one of the guards.” Gwydinion pointed at Anahrod.

Good. Because Anahrod sure as hell wanted to talk to Gwydinion’s parents, and she didn’t feel like having this conversation out in the open.

Why Gwydinion’s mother wanted to speak with them, however, was a mystery. Probably the woman had questions about the level of security, in which case, she would not enjoy this conversation at all.

“Yes, that’s fine,” the mayor said brightly, and gestured to the carriage. “Please tell my wife to hurry, though: I believe the flyer’s about to leave.”

She bowed to the man and then hurried to the carriage. Sicaryon started to follow her, but Gwydinion blocked his way. “Just her, please.”

Sicaryon shrugged and stepped aside.

Anahrod opened the door and hauled herself inside, sitting down on the empty padded bench before her eyes had finished adjusting to the dim light. The carriage had changed little: the velvet was dyed a brighter purple than she remembered, and several new inscriptions lined the sides.

Its occupant was familiar as well, such that when Anahrod’s eyes finished adjusting, she couldn’t breathe.

She felt dizzy, unmoored, and buffeted. For a second, Anahrod wasn’t in her thirties, preparing to sneak into Yagra’hai as a criminal. She was fifteen again. Fifteen and being sent away from home for the first time.

Even though they all hailed from Crystalspire, Anahrod had never, not once, thought she knew Gwydinion’s mother. She’d known no Doreyls growing up, and seventeen years was long enough for some ambitious newcomer to make the right friends. There’d been no reason to question the woman’s identity. Why would she?

And yet, Anahrod did indeed know Gwydinion’s mother.

She was Anahrod’s birth mother, too.