Rylan paced beside the elderly dowager, Soraya Alevada, over the manicured lawn of her family estate. Soraya was the widow of Trichan Alevada, who had once been a volarch, the highest rank in the empire’s dragon legion. He was also the officer who’d ordered Morraine Bloodhaven’s hanging and the subsequent quickening of her wisp. The sun was bright, but the mountain air was crisp, and their breath plumed as they spoke. They were headed toward the eyrie, a massive structure of white marble, brass-work, and red clay tiles. Beyond the eyrie, the Whitefells dwindled to a row of dragon teeth in the distance. In the valley to their left lay Caldoras, one of the empire’s five capitals, a quilt-work of ordered streets, stone buildings, and public squares.
The celebration of Soraya’s granddaughter’s graduation from Caldoras’ famed university was set to commence in a few hours—Soraya wore a sapphire dress and matching gable headdress for the occasion—but first they were off to see her failing iron dragon, Rugio. With Rugio nearing death’s door, Soraya was quiet and sorrowful, and who could blame her? Certainly not Rylan. He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost Vedron.
“His breathing is more labored than ever,” Soraya said in a quavering voice.
“So your letter said.” Rylan patted his foraging sack, which was slung over his right shoulder. “I’ve brought seven full libra of the best woundwort I could find.”
“And his eyes are crusting again.”
“I’ve brought a concoction of blood maple bark for that as well.”
The eyrie had eight stalls, each of which could house two or three dragons, depending on their size. Rylan and Soraya entered the eyrie and then Rugio’s stall, the nearest to the door. It was surprisingly warm inside. Rugio, an ancient iron dragon with scintillant black scales, was alone, lying on the far side of the enclosure. Iron dragons were a bellicose breed, and Rugio was no exception, but as Rylan and Soraya approached, the dragon did no more than shift his forge-fire eyes from Rylan to Soraya and back again. Due to his fever, he was giving off more heat than normal, and his eyes were crusted with rheum. He was easily nine horses from snout to tail, but curled up as he was, he looked much smaller. His ribs, hips, and jaw stood out like an old nag’s. His sides expanded when he inhaled and collapsed like a bellows when he released his fetid breath in a long huff.
Rugio had been Soraya’s personal mount for seven decades. Now he’d never fly again, never leave the eyrie again, which was why the dowager had agreed to let Rylan come in his capacity as a dragon singer.
Like all dragons, Rugio’s wings doubled as his forelimbs. One fluttered momentarily as a bright yellow canary landed on his back, pecked him for scale worms, and flitted away. Rylan set his foraging sack down and stood before the massive iron. He held his right hand out, fingers splayed. His left hand, the one missing the pinky finger, he hid behind his back. He took a deep breath, opened his mind, and began to sing.
As always, the wordless melody was inspired by Rugio’s mood, Rylan’s mood, and, most of all, Rylan’s intent. The song he shared with Rugio was one of simple comfort.
All will be well, Rylan conveyed to Rugio, I promise.
When an image of Rugio basking on a mountain shelf high in the Whitefells flashed through Rylan’s mind, he knew the song was working. Moments later, the link between them formed.
One day soon, when Rugio passed, the stall would be sealed with white marble, transforming it into a crypt. A brass plaque telling his story would be mounted on the wall. Soraya had penned the tale herself and shown it proudly to Rylan on his previous visit. The very fact Soraya had petitioned for and been granted an exemption for Rugio from being harvested for his scales, bones, and flesh was testament to his contributions to the empire. Rylan’s feelings soured every time he thought about it. In his centuries of service, Rugio had fought in many battles in and around the Holt, slaying Kin with his noxious breath.
Rylan caught a brief glimpse of Rugio flying toward a cluster of frightened warriors, and his song faltered. Rugio’s lips pulled back, and a low growl emerged from between his blunted, yellow teeth. Cursing himself for allowing his reflections to affect Rugio, Rylan inhaled deeply and sang of tranquility. He’d made his peace with Rugio’s past. And it wasn’t Rugio’s fault. Not really. He’d been raised and trained for war.
When Rugio closed his rheumy eyes and let out a contented gurgle, Rylan extended the notes of the song and sang more fluidly, allowing him to sink deeper into Rugio’s experience. He felt the pain in the dragon’s joints as if they were his own. His eyes itched and began to water. His breathing grew labored. A bit lost in the sensation, he realized his song was faltering again. He regained his composure and catalogued Rugio’s symptoms more impassively. Rugio’s left wing, in particular, ached from disuse. He no longer had the energy to stretch it. Merely lifting his head led to a heart-pounding dizziness. He’d deteriorated noticeably since the last time Rylan had come.
The eyrie master, a wiry woman with dark, gray-streaked hair, arrived through the rear door as Rylan was finishing. Rylan told her which medicines were to be used for which symptoms, and how much. It was a terse discussion. The dosages had merely increased from previous visits with little sign that they were helping. The woman bowed cursorily to Soraya and left.
When she was gone, Soraya said, “Our family has seven other dragons, you know. I could use a man who tends to them with such care.”
Rylan smiled. “Your eyrie master is more than capable of handling them.”
“Yes, but she has much to attend to besides dragons. She cleans and maintains all three eyries, manages the staggering flow of food, liaises with the dragonworks for the harvesting of scales and such. I’d feel better knowing someone was dedicated solely to the health and well being of our mounts.”
“My thanks, but my home is in Glaeyand.”
“People do move, you know.” Soraya Alevada was not a woman accustomed to being told no.
“It’s a kind and generous offer, truly, but I’m happy in the Holt.”
Soraya scoffed. “Cut you and you’ll bleed sap, is that it?”
Rylan smiled at the old saying. “Just so.”
“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll be here.” She scratched Rugio’s eye ridge, and he thumped the end of his tail on the tile floor. “Please pass along my thanks to your father. It was kind of him to see to the arrangements.”
Rylan’s father, the Imperator of Glaeyand, not known for his generosity, had paid for Rylan’s services and the ingredients he’d gathered. Soraya was very important in the social circles of Caldoras. “He’ll be pleased to hear it.”
Soraya stroked Rugio’s neck, then led Rylan out of the eyrie and back to the estate. On the patio, servants in black uniforms were stacking wood into braziers. Soraya had asked Rylan to arrive several days earlier, but he’d told her he’d had other commitments and that, regrettably, the only day he had available in the next month was the day of the celebration. He had been certain Soraya would invite him to stay—it was the easiest, best way for him to get into the gallery undetected—but the celebration was quickly approaching, and Soraya had still made no mention of it. He was starting to think he’d need to make plans to return under cover of darkness, but he wasn’t ready to give up just yet. “I wish your granddaughter a bright future,” he said as they stepped up to the patio. “What did she study?”
“Philosophy, if you can believe it.” Soraya rolled her eyes. “Perhaps she’ll spout lines from Diocenes while serving drinks at some posh new taberna along the Greenway.”
Rylan chuckled, then said, “Some say the philosophers are the ones who guide our morality.”
Soraya frowned. “Alra guides our morality, that we may one day greet her in the blessed fields of Déu.”
Rylan nodded, not wishing to ruffle feathers. “Then perhaps your granddaughter can guide us where Alra’s teachings fail to illuminate.”
“And where might that be?”
Rylan tilted his head back toward the eyrie. “As far as I’m aware, she gave no guidance on when it might be more merciful to allow the suffering to pass on.”
“Are you saying I should put Rugio down?”
“I’m saying you’ll find no answers in Alra’s psalms. No clear ones, anyway.”
She glanced sadly toward the eyrie, the wind tugging at her headdress. “Yes, well, I suppose Alra did grant us leeway to navigate life’s little mysteries, didn’t she?” She straightened her headdress. “You’ll stay for the celebration, I hope.”
Rylan bowed and feigned surprise. “You’re too kind, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Soraya waved the concern away. “It’s no imposition. Consider it part of your work. Quite a few guests will be arriving on mounts of their own. I dare say you’ll be able to drum up a bit of business.”
Rylan allowed a diplomatic pause to pass before smiling. “In that case, I gladly accept.”
The celebration took place in the grand ballroom just before cant. The room was lit by a massive chandelier hanging from the high, arched ceiling. Long tables were laden with every delicacy imaginable, and servants carrying silver trays of wine navigated the crowd of senators, patricians, and thriving merchants.
Soraya fulfilled her promise. She introduced him to a dozen men and women, always with a kind word about his care for Rugio. Rylan spoke to them easily and affably—eagerly as well. Legitimate business in the empire’s largest cities gave him reasons to be in them, an essential ingredient in the cover stories for his various capers.
A gaggle of children flocked to the windows as a brass dragon winged in and landed near the eyrie. The rider, a military man with a trimmed beard and a bald head, was the volarch of Caldoras’s dragon legion, an old friend of Trichan’s who’d come to pay his respects. Several more officers also arrived on dragonback. Then Princess Resada, the daughter of Quintarch Zabrienne, arrived on an indurium that roared as she slipped down from the saddle. Soraya greeted her personally, and the other guests were drawn to her like flies to a corpse.
Knowing his father would never forgive him if he didn’t put in a kind word, Rylan approached her when he saw an opening. “Your Highness,” he said with a bow. “My father sends his regards.”
Resada stared at him. “And you are?”
“Ah, forgive me. I’m Rylan Holbrooke, son of Marstan Lyndenfell, Imperator of Glaeyand.”
Her gaze drifted away from him. “The bastard?”
It was no secret Rylan was Marstan’s bastard. Even so, her casually cruelty surprised him. “The very one,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Tell me, has your father made any strides in taming the threats to our empire?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Tidings from the Holt these days always seem to involve temple burnings and caravan raids. My mother lost two dragons and their dracorae to a surprise attack on Brevin. How long will your father allow it to continue?”
The attack was clearly meant to put Rylan off balance, and it was working. “I couldn’t say, Your—”
“It seems your father can’t, either. Perhaps that should be addressed at the next council meeting.”
The Covenant, the document that governed the Holt, stipulated that every five years, the landowners of the Holt would vote to elect an imperator. But the empire had insisted on some sway over the decision, which led to another stipulation: the winner needed a vote of confidence from three of the five quintarchs. If the candidate failed, elections would continue until a new imperator was found.
Through no end of political maneuvering, Rylan’s father, Marstan Lyndenfell, had held his seat for twenty-five years, longest of any imperator since the seat’s creation. But the next election was nearing, and there were rumblings the quintarchs were displeased—enough, perhaps, to vote Marstan out. Assuming he even got that far. The original authors of the Covenant also stipulated that only patricians with Kin ancestry were allowed to vote so the imperator would be sympathetic to the Holt’s needs, but the empire had skirted the rule in recent years by bribing patricians to favor the empire. Were a vote taken that very day, Marstan would likely still win, but it would be a near thing, and each year the likelihood increased that the seat would fall to someone else, someone more beholden to the empire.
“I’m confident,” Rylan said to Resada, “that my father has the full support of the Holt. I hope he’s performed well enough to gain the quintarchs’ support as well.”
“Yes,” the princess replied, smiling coldly, “I guess we’ll see soon enough, won’t we?”
Beyond Resada, a woman in a golden mask shaped like a sunrise and a glittering sleeveless dress with gold accents reminiscent of the togas of old was speaking with several officers. Her lips, painted in a shade Rylan could only compare to eggplant, were neatly bisected by a strip of gold.
Only illustrae, the highest ranking members of the Alran Church, wore masks of that sort, partly to hide their eyes—which, if rumor were true, were cloudy white from the acid used to burn them during their ascendance ritual—but also to honor the goddess herself. What are mortals but blind in the face of the goddess’s wisdom? Or so the saying went. To Rylan, the masks had always been more symbolic of the Church’s willingness to blind itself to the pain it caused.
Resada followed his gaze. “Illustra Camadaea . . . draws the eye, does she not?” When Rylan said nothing, she went on, “Would you care to meet her?”
Rylan planned each mission with the utmost care, not only to avoid getting caught but to prevent anyone from sensing patterns and connecting him to other crimes, which helped him control his nerves, but the presence of an illustra made this operation much more perilous than usual. Their ability to sniff out danger was legendary. They’d lost their natural sight but some folk said their second sight allowed them to peer into men’s souls. It suddenly felt like Camadaea—and by extension, everyone in the room—knew why he had come to the Alevada estate.
Having no need to feign discomfort, Rylan placed a hand on his stomach. “Perhaps another time.”
Resada pouted. “The food?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“A pity, the food in the capitals is indeed very rich.”
Rylan felt his cheeks flushing, so with a bow of his head, he slipped away.