48 Drowning in Air
Antal’s name was called.
He rose, emotion locked behind a granite mask, head high for his third appearance before the Daey Celva. Unlike last time, Ixli didn’t walk at his side. Alone, he carried a box with an aedari head onto the council floor.
He couldn’t look at the observation gallery. The weight of the audience was crushing, the circle of council members like a noose around his neck. Easier to pretend they weren’t there until this was over, to stare at the dark stone and lighted inlays beneath his feet.
He set the box in front of Qirza. Touched his highest antler tip. Antal didn’t trust his words, so he backed away silently, assuming his place at the center of the circle.
Avroz rose from his pillow. He crossed the floor on easy strides, standing beside his son to receive the council’s commendation.
After all, he’d landed the killing blow.
His father looked every inch a conqueror, swathed in robes of silver vesper fabric and midnight velvet.
A tail flicked Antal’s ankle, urging him to stand up straight.
The rest passed in a haze—Avroz’s account of the fight, carefully altered. Qirza’s congratulations. There would be no second set of Sunsplitter bands. This ceremony was only for accolades, to pile more praise upon Antal. And Avroz wouldn’t let the opportunity go to waste.
“Speaker Qirza.” Avroz’s voice carried across the assembly, calm and commanding—another skill Antal had never mastered. “We are humbled, as always, to uphold our duty to the Daey Celva, ensuring our home is protected from the aedari.”
Antal almost laughed. To anyone else, Avroz’s glance at his son would look intent, proud. Antal saw only hardness in his father’s eyes.
“I’m equally humbled,” Avroz went on, “when a young daeyari steps forward to carry this mantle.”
Avroz laid an affectionate hand on Antal’s shoulder. The claws dug slightly too tight.
“And so,” Avroz said, “I’ve requested an additional order of business for the council. We have, currently, an empty seat to fill. At your acceptance, speaker Qirza, I wish to nominate my son, Antal, for membership upon the Daey Celva.”
The council members rustled upon their pillows, tails swaying and whispers passing between neighbors, but none protested.
Because this wasn’t a surprise to any of them. Avroz would have found time to speak with every councilor in private before now, stroking egos and calling in favors, stacking every odd in Antal’s favor. All the rest was pageantry.
A raised finger from Qirza silenced the assembly. She stared hard at Antal, gaze probing. “Antal, son of Avroz. Do you accept this nomination?”
Antal hesitated. The claws on his shoulder dug tighter.
“I do, speaker Qirza.” He forced a bow. “It would be my honor.”
“Any opposition to this nomination?” Qirza looked around the council members, all silent. She nodded. “Very well. Let us proceed to hearing arguments in favor of the candidate.”
The first part of the meeting had passed in a haze. This part was like submerging into an icy lake, the world lost to murk, a dull pressure in Antal’s ears each time someone spoke.
He fielded questions when they were pointed at him, inquiries about his desire for nomination, his leadership upon the Winter Plane, his potential contributions to the council.
Leaden words on his tongue, all dutifully crafted, the answers his father had spent the last two days forcing him to recite.
Avroz handled the rest.
He wove a breathtaking tale of his son’s accolades.
Avroz spoke of fruitful travel years and prior apprenticeship to the council, calling testimony from every councilor Antal had worked with.
He spoke of successful territory governance, of Thomaskweld’s strong standing in the Winter Plane energy market, of dispatching Verne’s coup.
He spoke of triumphing over not one, but two aedari, hunting their immortal foes with tireless determination—no mention of the risks Avroz had taken, of how many humans had been left charred before the aedari were slain.
Merciless Void, it was so easy to let this happen. To say nothing, while his father built Antal into a better daeyari than he’d ever be.
He’d watched a few nomination meetings in the past. He knew the interrogation could drag on for hours. Was that why his feet started to ache? Why his shoulders felt impossibly heavy?
Through the gloom, Antal was vaguely aware of Qirza staring at him. As the father spoke, she watched the son, fingers idling with the silver hem of a shawl, tail a mild twitch.
Antal could shout the truth to her. To everyone. He could lay his father’s crimes bare, right here on the council floor.
But how would Antal prove it?
But what if he tried anyway?
But what if he lost Thomaskweld? What if Avroz hurt Fionamara?
Anguish threatened to tear him at the seams. Simpler not to fight. To just let himself sink.
After an eternity, Qirza announced, “All arguments have been heard. All in favor of the nomination: Antal, son of Avroz, to join the Daey Celva?”
The gallery was quiet. On the meeting floor, clawed hands rose one by one, all around the circle of council members.
“Opposed?”
No hands.
“Then by my authority as speaker,” Qirza announced, “this nomination is approved.”
Antal was too stunned to speak. He parsed Qirza’s words in his head, then again, and… that was it? That easy?
“You will be appointed to the Daey Celva for a probationary period of four years,” Qirza said to him. “During this period, your contributions to the council will be evaluated. At the end of this period, an additional vote will determine your permanent membership.”
Antal listened in numb silence. A part of him had never thought it would happen. A daeyari like him couldn’t possibly…
But this was hardly about Antal. It was Avroz, getting everything he wanted. Like always. All of Antal’s achievements, simply decoration for his father’s legacy.
“Do you have any further questions?” Qirza asked.
It didn’t feel real.
Antal forced a slow head shake. “No, speaker Qirza. And thank you, to all esteemed councilors, for the nomination.”
Qirza’s eyes narrowed. But she said nothing.
Avroz steered Antal off the central floor, his smile proud—his claws still too tight on Antal’s shoulder. The world was still underwater. Antal’s ears still rang at the muddied applause from the gallery, the well wishes of the councilors they passed.
Avroz beckoned Antal to sit. His neighbor, Lyve, relinquished his pillow with a smirk, shifting to the empty spot further down the circle. This was all a show. There would be more later, oaths and protocols, new pecking orders to sort.
For now, Antal settled cross-legged upon the cushion beside his father, here upon the council floor he’d studied, pined after for so many years. It should have been the accomplishment of a lifetime.
Antal felt sick. Hollow.
He felt like, if he were to loosen his teeth from their aching clamp, he might scream loud enough to shake the Void. Unable to bear this weight, he looked up at last, seeking the surface of the abyss he was drowning beneath.
The first thing he saw was Fionamara.
Antal’s world cracked back into focus with the speed of sledge-hammered glass.
At first, he thought himself hallucinating—he hoped he was hallucinating. She couldn’t be here, a mortal at the Daey Celva, surrounded by daeyari who’d rip her to pieces for the transgression. He’d told her to stay on the Winter Plane. Where she was safe.
Yet there she stood at the lowest tier of the gallery, her hair a tempest of Void and crimson, her knuckles white on the railing. Her eyes locked with his: one the dark gleam he knew so well, one piercing silver that struck him to the spine.
Veshri’s high and sharpened antlers, how did she get here?
An instant later, Antal had his answer: Syvr and Ixli at her sides, attempting to pull her back from the railing. Vicious, reckless woman, always hurling herself into danger.
Always for him.
The world was too sharp now. Too loud. The gallery tiers were packed, daeyari too busy gossiping over the meeting to have noticed the human in their midst—yet.
A hand from Qirza quieted the council. “Any closing business?”
Antal dragged his attention away from Fionamara. He told himself she was safe. She had Syvr and Ixli to guard her, and he’d whisk her away from here the instant the meeting adjourned.
He could survive the Daey Celva for her. For Thomaskweld. As Qirza drew the meeting toward its close, Antal looked to his father, eager to have this business finished.
Avroz said nothing.
He sat on his pillow with tail curled, untouchable as the moon upon a midnight sky.
“Final business?” Antal hissed. “I’ve upheld my side of the deal, izaevi. You owe me yours: codifying my new system of government in Thomaskweld.”
Avroz tipped his son a chiding look. “Patience, Antal. These things take time.”
The words were coals in Antal’s chest. Razors in his teeth.
“Time?” he asked. Too low. Too small.
“Of course. We’ll need time to gather support, not to mention evidence on whether your new system is effective. We may present it to the council once we have a strong enough case.”
“But what do I do until then—”
“Incremental measures. Perhaps you’ll need to take a few living sacrifices in the interim, as a show of good faith.” Avroz shrugged. “Compromise is important to diplomacy.”
A dozen words snagged on Antal’s tongue. A hundred. They’d made a deal. Antal had played his abominable role perfectly.
“What about your Pilgrimage?” Antal pressed.
Avroz was stone. He listened to the council members delivering their final business, begrudging his son only half his attention.
“It’s still early for my Pilgrimage, Antal.
What’s another century? It would be irresponsible of me to nominate you to the council, then leave you on your own.
I’ll remain here, for as long as it takes you to settle. ”
Another… century? No, no, Avroz had promised…
Antal was drowning again.
He slipped down, down into the abyss, the surface fast receding.
As he sank, he thought: only a fool would be surprised by this. Maybe Antal was a fool, hoping this would end so easily. Maybe this world had always been too big for him, these scheming politics and deadly immortals, ageless councils and loaded deals.
But this wasn’t a matter of compromise. This wasn’t a matter of him being good enough. Antal’s tail lashed his pillow, the noose tightening on his neck as he finally realized:
Nothing would ever be good enough.
Avroz would always find fault. He’d manipulate anyone to his benefit.
And he’d never allow Antal to exist out of his control.
Even now, the seat Antal had gained and the deal they’d brokered, just one more notch to keep the collar tight.
How could Antal ever compromise on the lives of innocent people?
How could he accomplish anything that would make this council seat worthwhile, with his father throttling every move?
Fionamara had tried to warn him.
Antal looked to the gallery railing. She stood like a vengeful spirit, eyes boring through Avroz’s skull. When she caught Antal’s gaze, she didn’t soften. Only a shift, resolve settling in her shoulders.
She reached into her pocket and retrieved a metal box, setting it atop the rail. Eyes locked with Antal, she tapped the object. Then, a pantomimed finger above her head, curved like…
An antler tip. Antal’s stomach plummeted.
She’d retrieved the antler? She’d brought it here?
Antal wasn’t sure whether to be impressed, or… no, definitely terrified. If she called out Avroz now, with the full council at his back, she’d be swarmed. Even the antler wouldn’t be proof enough on its own.
Yet she made no further move. Fionamara stood at the rail, watching Antal.
Waiting—for him to decide what to do.
She’d come all this way. She’d risked her life, a mortal in a den of predators, just to be ready. Just to watch Antal, once again, fail to find the courage to confront his father.
She didn’t force his hand. He saw the conflict on her face, the fierce crease of her brow drawn against everything they could lose—and everything they’d fought for to get here.
She mouthed a single word: Together?
Coals burned through Antal’s stomach. Fear? Or anticipation? Every time he’d faced his father, he’d lost.
But this time, he wasn’t alone. This time, Antal couldn’t hide behind his fear, when all the lives in Thomaskweld were on the line.
He couldn’t leave their fates to Avroz’s mercy.
He couldn’t keep drowning, when he was sitting on the Daey Celva, an obligation to wield this power against every entrenched tradition that allowed daeyari like his father to have whatever they wanted without consequence.
This time, he had to fight.
Antal raised his hand.
With great effort, he fought to keep his arm from shaking. Doubly so, when Avroz’s glare sliced into him.
“Put that down,” his father hissed, moving to grab Antal’s wrist. “This is no time for foolish displays—”
Antal swatted the hand away, a low growl of warning.
The chamber went silent.
Energy hummed in Antal’s ears. He felt the weight of the council’s attention slide onto him, old daeyari eyes in every shade of red and black, dozens of centuries levelling disapproval at the outburst. Avroz firmed his mouth in warning, distaste seeping off him with a scent of hoarfrost and ozone.
Antal fought every instinct begging him to back down.
“Antal,” Qirza said, “you request to speak?”
Antal forced himself to stand.
He’d never seen Avroz so livid. He wondered if his father might tackle him to the floor, hold him down with his claws and demand he act like a proper daeyari. Antal had just been nominated. He was meant to sit and look grateful, not stir waves before his first meeting ended.
He forced himself to walk. Unsteady steps, crossing the council floor.
Avroz didn’t intervene. Even now, he must have thought himself in control.
He must have seen Antal as nothing but a stubborn child, a na?ve new council member determined to propose his new government system.
Or perhaps, to plead for his human lover.
Nothing that could harm his father beyond embarrassment.
Fear burned through Antal. He knew, in his ether, this would end in failure. He had to try anyway. He paused at the center of the circle.
“Speaker Qirza.” He bowed his head to mask the quake in his voice.
The speaker of the Daey Celva regarded him with keen eyes. A flick of claws urged him to continue. Antal swallowed the blades in his throat.
“I wish to accuse my father of treason.”