As Willow and Andros made ready to depart from the eyrie, Rylan retrieved the stalks of golden calendula from his foraging sack and offered them to Quinn, the eyrie hand with the lazy eye. “You remember how to make the decoction?”
“I remember, Master Holbrooke.” Quinn accepted the stalks with a quick bow and ran off to boil them.
Rylan prepared a bucket of soapy water and took it up toward Magnor’s nest.
Magnor poked his silver head over the edge of his nest and watched as Rylan circled up the corkscrew stairs. The dragon began to snake his head like an eel, gurgle and squeal, and slap his tail against the side of the nest.
“It’s all right, boy,” Rylan said while lifting the bucket. “This will make you feel better.”
As he reached the walkway to his nest, Magnor reared and flapped his wings. In the morning light, his bright silver scales glimmered like mother of pearl. Rylan waited for Magnor to settle, then stepped closer to the nest. Magnor spread the frills behind his jaws and raised the one between his twisting horns. When Rylan dared another step, Magnor whipped his head so fast it was like a silver blur. Like all silvers, Magnor could use the aura he collected from the bright sun to become wickedly fast in short bursts.
“I know, Magnor. The salve is irritating your shoulder. Let me help you. It might burn a little. Please try not to bite my head off.” Rylan had no bond with Magnor, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.
Rylan set the bucket down carefully, stood tall, and hid his left hand, the one with the missing pinky, behind his back. He focused on Magnor’s eyes—sapphire struck through with white with tall, narrow pupils and a diamond shape at the center. He raised his right hand, spread his fingers, and began to sing a wordless melody. It was made in the moment, as all his songs were, and acted as an introduction of sorts, a way to draw Magnor’s attention and begin forging a mental link. He altered the song each time to suit his purpose while taking the dragon’s mood and general inclinations into account, if known. In this case, the song was slow and calming, like the Diamondflow in late summer.
Magnor’s third eyelids nictated and his tail twitched. He uttered a low growl Rylan felt in his chest, then huffed through his nostrils. He tilted his head this way and that as if trying to size Rylan up. But then he stilled, his sapphire eyes closed languidly, and his tail began to sway in time.
A tentative connection to Magnor made, Rylan sang louder and quickened the song’s pace ever so slightly. Rylan’s shoulder began to ache, an echo of Magnor’s pain. He felt a directionless worry as well.
“It’s all right,” Rylan said in a sing-song voice. “Tiny worms have snuck under your scales. They’re multiplying, but we can stop them if you let us.”
Magnor craned his neck back and let out a contented gurgle, and when Rylan stepped closer along the planks, he lowered his chest and spread his right wing wide. Along Magnor’s ribs, below the joint where the wing’s humerus met the shoulder joint, was a patch of pink the size of a dinner plate. The area was coated with a thick, cream-colored salve, which Rylan proceeded to gently wipe away with the soapy water and rag. Humming softly, he rinsed the rag, wrung it out, and wiped away more of the salve. After a third pass, he inspected the area closely and saw tiny, white worms wriggling beneath his translucent scales. Lifting one scale carefully, he saw the worms’ eggs, hardly larger than grains of sand.
“It’s better than before,” Rylan said. “Another few applications should do the trick.” He stepped back. “Rest now. Or fly if you want. We’ll put more salve on later, yes?”
Magnor arched his neck and trilled like a whippoorwill.
Rylan smiled. “Feels better, doesn’t it?”
With Magnor settled, Rylan circled back down the stairs to the receiving deck. He worked the rest of the day in the eyrie. As various dragons came and went, he finished making the salve from the calendula decoction Quinn had completed. When enough time had passed, he took it up to Magnor’s nest and applied a light coating. The silver calmed right down when he saw Rylan and neither squealed nor thumped his tail. Then Rylan helped Jorrik and Quinn tend to a pair of brasses from distant Praecia that were new to the eyrie and were having trouble settling.
When all was done, he promised Jorrik he’d check on Magnor in the morning and headed toward the center of Glaeyand. The sky was darkening by then, and the cant had arrived, the time when the bright sun set and the dark sun rose. A streak of yellow light flashed across the sky, then a fan of blue that wavered toward green as it spanned. A splash of saffron twisted and turned like a sheet pulled off a drying line, then burst, spreading like the shards of a broken vase. For several minutes, the heavenly bodies clashed, aura and umbra striking in the atmosphere, creating wild displays of vibrant colors. One particular sequence—a vivid, bloody red—was the sort of foreboding omen one didn’t ignore lightly, and it went on for so long Rylan nearly decided to postpone his trip to Hollis’s antiques shop, but he didn’t want to wait to return the medicine, ring, and jewelry to the caravan. It had been weighing on him all day.
When he reached his burrow, he opened the hidden compartment behind the lowermost shelf, retrieved the signet ring from the centurion’s purse and placed it in the inlaid box with the rest of the jewelry. He set the bag of medicine beside it, then closed the lid. The centurion’s winnings, two hundred stags, he dropped into a coin chest he kept for emergencies. Then he closed the hidden compartment, took the inlaid box, and left.
Glaeyand’s market was built on a broad square suspended by great cables from eight nearby citadel trees. By the time Rylan arrived, the sky was dim, the market largely torn down for the night. A few stragglers were making final purchases at stalls here and there, but for the most part, the vendors were placing wares in lockboxes or wheeling them away on hand-pulled carts.
Rylan made his way toward Hollis’s Historical Artifacts, one of eight permanent buildings at the center of the broad platform, and entered to the jingle of a bell. The shop contained an eclectic mixture of books, furniture, paintings, statuettes, and more lit by the pleasant glow of two lanterns in opposite corners. A trace of myrrh, Hollis’s preferred incense, lingered in the air. Rylan breathed it in and felt suddenly calmer.
Hollis, a bald man of middling years with dark olive skin, sat at a desk at the back of the shop, nursing a cup of tea and reading. He looked up as Rylan entered, wagged a finger at him, and went back to his book. Knowing how much Hollis hated having his reading interrupted, Rylan remained silent as he made his way to the desk, pulled out a chair, and sat.
Apparently having come to a good breakpoint, Hollis regarded Rylan with a handsome smile. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”
Rylan set the jewelry box on the desk and slid it toward Hollis.
Hollis opened it and nodded appreciatively. “Any difficulties?”
A vision of a crossbow bolt streaking through the air flashed through Rylan’s mind. “No more than usual.”
Hollis began pulling some of the jewelry out and made two piles on his desk.
“I took a purse off the centurion,” Rylan said. “Two hundred stags. Count that as part of my cut. The rest can go into my account.”
Hollis adjusted one of the piles appropriately, slipped both into the bottom drawer of his desk, put the jewelry box in, and shut the drawer with a hollow thump. “I have something for you as well . . .” From another drawer, he drew a leatherbound book, set it on the desk and slid it toward Rylan.
The title stamped onto the red leather cover read, From Ancris to Olencia, A Brief History of Early Imperial Architecture. It was likely part of the haul from the auction Hollis had just attended in Ancris. He knew Rylan’s penchant for history books of all sorts, but Rylan was still surprised he’d picked out this particular treatise.
“You mentioned the temples in Caldoras,” Hollis said. “I thought you might like to know more about them.”
“I would at that.” Rylan opened the book to a random page and admired the precise script. “How much do I owe you?”
“Gratis. Call it a bonus for your excellent work.”
“Well, thank you for—”
The bell above the door rang. Rylan stopped what he was saying and turned to see two men in long cloaks enter the shop. They threw their hoods back, and Rylan felt a chill run along his arms. They were Llorn and Raef, two of the highest ranking members of the Red Knives. A visit from either was an ill omen; a visit from both felt like a guillotine being raised over Rylan’s head.
“Which one of you is Rylan?” Raef asked.
Rylan suddenly felt like he was falling. Hollis’s gaze shifted from Raef to Rylan and back again.
“Oy!” Raef said. “Which one?”
“I am,” Rylan said.
Raef gave Hollis a hard stare. “Out.”
Hollis’s hands trembled on the desk, but he made no move to stand. “This is my shop. No one tells me—”
Raef put his hand on the hilt of his knife and sidled past Llorn, but Llorn put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
“We need to chat, that’s all,” Llorn said.
Rylan’s heart started to pound.
Hollis turned to Rylan. “You want me to—”
“It’s fine,” Rylan said, nodding. “The man just wants a bit of a chat.”
Hollis stood, shuffled carefully past Llorn and Raef, and exited through the front door. The pleasant jingle sounded like the toll of a bell before a burning.
Llorn stepped around Rylan and dropped into Hollis’s chair. His gaze passed over the book Hollis had given Rylan, and he did a double take. “Garbage.” He kicked his legs onto the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Word is you can find things.”
Rylan glanced back at Raef, who was leaning against a bookshelf, glowering at him, then back at Llorn. “I’m a dragon singer.”
“I heard that as well. We’ll come back to it before too long. For now, I’ve something that needs pinching.”
Rylan tipped his head back toward Raef. “Then have him do it. Are his legs broken or something?”
Without taking his eyes from Rylan, Llorn said, “Are your legs broken, Raef?”
“Yes,” Raef snorted. “Can’t walk a step. Such a shame. Don’t even know how I got up here.”
Llorn smiled, dimpling his sun-marked cheeks. “Raef’s legs are broken, as you can clearly see.”
“You’ve got plenty of other Knives who could help.”
“Maybe, but I need this done well, and I need it done quietly.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“No?” Llorn leaned toward Rylan. “The man who stole bones from a sepulcher in Lyros so they could be reburied in the Holt where they belong can’t help? The man who pinched the Sylvan Tapestry and returned it to the abbey in Skjalgard . . . That man can’t help?” Llorn peered down at the drawers of the desk. “How about the man who crept up on an imperial patrol and stole jewels, contraband, and a very valuable signet ring from right under their fucking noses? You’re telling me that man can’t help?”
Rylan recalled the shape in the tree above him as he hid behind the lilac bushes. It was just before he sent Vedron to harry the patrol’s horses. Had one of Llorn’s Knives been watching him?
“If it’s true,” Llorn continued, “that I really do have the wrong man, then surely you’ll be able to explain these things to your father. Or maybe to your brother, the one who likes to puff out his chest when the girls walk by . . .” Llorn snapped his fingers. “What’s his name?”
“Andros . . .”
“That’s the one. He seems the understanding sort. I’m sure he won’t mind that you steal from the imperial legionaries he loves so dearly, or that you’re bonded to a viridian and have been for many years.”
Rylan tried not to show his shock. Why would Llorn, one of the top bastards in the Red Knives, care enough to learn so much about him?
“Understand me, Rylan Holbrooke. I don’t fault you for any of those things.” He leaned back in the chair. “I admire you for them. You do the Holt a service by stealing from those sons of bitches.”
There was a reason Hollis refused to work with the Knives. “Doesn’t matter if it’s something big or something small,” he’d told Rylan once. “Start working for them and, sooner or later, they’ll consider you theirs. You’ll be bound by their rules then, whether you take their blood oath or not.”
“I’m not a Knife,” Rylan said, “and I won’t become one.”
“I’m not asking you to. I just want you to accept a new commission”—he scanned the shop—“as you have for your friend here. It’s one I’m certain you’d accepted if it came from him.”
Muted conversation rose from the front of the shop, and a young couple passed by the door, lit briefly by the shop’s lanterns. Beyond them, Rylan spotted Hollis and willed him not to interfere.
“Come,” Llorn said, “aren’t you curious to know what I want?”
Rylan shrugged. “Go on then, if you’re so eager.”
“Watch your fucking tongue,” Raef said from behind him.
Llorn glanced at Raef, then flashed Rylan a brief half smile. “It’s a wisp. My sister’s wisp.”
Rylan blinked. “Morraine?”
Everyone in the Holt knew the story of Morraine Bloodhaven. Like Llorn and Aarik, she’d been a member of the Red Knives. Ten years ago, a pair of imperial dragonriders, known as dracorae, had spotted her, tracked her to Glaeyand, and captured her. Their commander, a volarch named Trichan Alevada, was set to return her to the mountains when Marstan Lyndenfell stepped in as imperator and requested that Morraine be hung in Glaeyand and that her body be buried in a nearby barrow mound, arguing it would prevent bloody reprisals from the Red Knives.
Trichan, reluctant at first, had eventually agreed, and Morraine was hung. But afterward, Trichan commanded one of his shepherds to quicken her wisp so he could claim it as a trophy. It was as deep an insult as could be imagined in the Holt because it prevented the wisp from attaining peace and rising to the heavenly lands of Déu. In the years that followed, there were several attempts on Trichan’s life. None succeeded, but Trichan decided to hide the wisp away. When Trichan was stricken by pneumonia and died several years ago, most folk assumed Morraine’s wisp would never resurface, either because it had been sold or locked away in a place so secure it would be nigh impossible to retrieve.
Rylan had no idea what the Alevadas had done with it, which implied Llorn did. “You know where it is,” he said.
“It’s hardly a secret anymore,” Llorn told him. “It’s on display in their family gallery.”
Rylan reeled. That the Alevada family would do so implied they felt that, with Trichan’s death, the danger to their family had passed. It also gave hint as to Llorn’s purpose in Hollis’s shop—if all he wanted was his sister’s wisp, Llorn could easily break in and get it. But it would advertise to the empire what he’d done. “You don’t want anyone to know it was taken . . . . ”
Llorn shrugged. “Would you?”
“Speak plainly.” Rylan glanced over his shoulder, but Raef apparently wasn’t following the conversation. “Why do you want her wisp?”
“Because she’s my sister. Are you slow?”
Rylan ignored the insult. “And that’s the only reason you want it?”
“What other reason could there be? I want her soul returned to the Holt. I want it given to her daughter, Rhiannon, so she can decide what to do with it.”
On hearing the name of Morraine’s only surviving child, Rhiannon, Rylan blew out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. After Uncle Beckett’s death, Aunt Merida joined the Trinustine Abbey in Thicket and became something of a foster mother to many druin aspirants, Rhiannon among them. Rylan had gone to the abbey to visit Sister Merida, as they called her at the abbey. He’d met Rhiannon while he was there. She seemed the quiet sort, perhaps from what had happened to her mother, but attentive and dutiful as well. Her mother would have been proud.
“Even assuming I wanted to accept,” Rylan said, “I’m not a burglar. I need an excuse to be at the Alevada estate.”
Llorn nodded. “That’s reasonable enough. As it happens, Trichan’s widow is nursing an aging dragon, Rugio, her personal mount since she was eight. Even I will admit it’s almost admirable how the old crone dotes on it. I imagine she’d welcome the help of a dragon singer as the old lizard slides toward death.”
The approach made sense. The wealthiest courtiers in the empire—be they senators, magnates, landowners—often paid handsomely to ensure their personal mounts died as comfortably as possible. Rylan had performed the service more than a dozen times in the past decade. The reputation he’d built and his status as the son of the imperator opened many doors, even if he was half Kin. He was reasonably certain he could arrange for a visit or two to the Alevada estate.
“It’ll take time,” he said to Llorn.
“Of course.”
“And my services aren’t free.”
Llorn nodded to Raef, and Raef reached into a leather pouch at his belt, pulled out a small coin purse, and tossed it through the air, landing it on the desk with a merry clink.
Rylan opened it. It was filled not with silver stags nor gold thrones but indurium scepters. He managed to hide his surprise, but it wasn’t easy—a hundred scepters was easily the fattest sum he’d been offered for his work, ever.
Llorn said, “You get another one just like it when you hand the wisp to Raef.”
It was a staggering sum for a few weeks’ work. Llorn obviously wanted his sister’s wisp back badly, which made Rylan nervous. Maybe he wasn’t seeing the big picture—but he had no reason to think this was anything more than it seemed: a man with access to gobs of money trying to right a wrong. “How will I reach you?”
Llorn smiled and stood. “Leave word with the owner of the Broken Antler in Tallow.”