Rylan brought Vedron back to her nesting grounds, and for once, she didn’t grouse about his leaving nor play games when he tried to unsaddle her. The fight with Bellicor had left her in an unsociable mood.
“Wait,” he said as he hid her saddle and bridle in the hollowed-out oak. “Let me get your lucerta.” Viridians were highly resistant to the powers of aura and umbra. Their lucertae could protect those who knew how to use them, but all lucertae lost power over time, so Rylan collected fresh ones from Vedron when he could.
He took the knife from his belt, and Vedron lowered her head as he approached. He slipped the knife point beneath the dark green scale between her eye ridges, then pried it until it released with a soft tearing sound. Vedron ducked her head once, then turned, spread her wings, and flew away.
He lifted the scale high. “Thank you!” he called, but Vedron didn’t so much as blare a note before she was lost to the trees.
He tucked the scale away in a small leather pouch on his belt, sheathed his knife, and began the long hike back to Glaeyand. He felt a strong urge to rush back so he could smooth things over with his father, but he couldn’t return without black henbane—the excuse he’d given Bashira for leaving so abruptly. In a bit of good fortune, he found a stream choked with the flowers. Even so, it took time to gather several libra of it. It was short of what would be needed to put down a dragon like Rugio, but his father wouldn’t know that.
Cant was nearing by the time he reached the forest below Glaeyand. Exhausted, he opted for the dragonbone lift. The attendant, Mouse, held the door open for him, locked it behind him, and tugged on the cord. The bell jingled, as usual, then Mouse pulled on the cord three more times.
“What was that for?” Rylan asked.
Mouse shrugged. “I was told to.”
“Every time the lift goes up?”
“No, Master Holbrooke, only when you did.”
The lift rose, and Rylan heard a horn blow, surely the message Mouse had just sent to the lift station being relayed. Mouse was usually a chatty fellow. Most days Rylan could hardly shut him up, but as the lift rose, he said nothing, just stared out at the passing bridgeboughs. At the midway point, Rylan transferred to the second lift, and everyone on the platform gaped at him.
Rylan thought surely Andros, his burly, intemperate half-brother, would be waiting for him at the upper lift station deck, but as the lift settled at the deck, only his father, resplendent in an azure doublet embroidered in thread-of-gold, was standing there.
“Walk with me.”
Ignoring the winch hands’ pointed stares, Rylan exited the lift and fell into step alongside his father. As their footfalls thudded on the planks of a wide bridgebough, Marstan said, “Bashira visited you yesterday morning.”
“Yes, I’m sorry I left without—”
“She made a reasonable request of you, it seems to me.”
“It was, and I wanted to go, but it was important I have—”
“Enough black henbane, yes . . . Last time it was calendula. Star fennel and bark of the blood maple before that. You seem to spend an inordinate amount of time collecting common ingredients.”
Rylan was surprised how much his father knew. “I know I’m gone often,” he said, “and I apologize for it, but you must understand, the move to Glaeyand was difficult for me. Uncle Beckett and I used to wander the forest for days. I hated it then. I missed my friends. Now, it’s the wandering I miss.”
It wasn’t a lie, but it was hardly the truth. He couldn’t let his father—or anyone in Glaeyand, for that matter—suspect he was bonded to Vedron. They’d use him to capture and kill her, then likely hang Rylan for heresy.
They rounded a citadel via the broad ringwalk and crossed a suspended bridge bedecked in spring flowers.
“You asked me the other night,” Marstan said, “about conversations I may or may not have had with the King of the Wood.”
“Yes. I’m sor—”
“Yesterday, Aarik Bloodhaven was burned at the Anvil.”
Rylan wondered if his father suspected Rylan already knew. “I see . . .”
“Given your interest in my dealings with the King of the Wood—indeed, your very knowledge of them—one has to wonder how closely aligned you are with them.”
“Father?”
On a deck below them, a gaggle of children were playing tag. Marstan glanced at them, then turned again to Rylan. “Are you a Knife, Rylan?”
It was not a question Rylan had expected. “No! I swear it. I’m not. But I hear things. It’s how I learned of your discussions with Aarik. I came to you the other night because I want to help.”
“Then do what I ask of you.”
“Of course. I’ll go back to the Alevadas and make amends. I can leave in the morning. Or tonight if you wish. And if Rugio hasn’t already passed—”
“Rugio passed last night. Your condolences have already been forwarded to Lady Soraya.”
A few trees away, the eyrie master, a few eyrie hands, and a number of dracorae were standing and talking on the eyrie’s triangular staging deck, likely in preparation of a scouting mission.
“Father,” Rylan pressed, “I know you were working with Aarik. He’s dead now, but surely all is not lost? There must be others Knives who want peace.” He meant Blythe, but he could hardly admit that to his father.
In the eyrie’s open well, three fledgling brasses curled upward toward the eyrie’s entrance. One suddenly dove, and the other two gave chase. Watching them, Marstan said, “Just this once, I’ll share a few things with you, Rylan. I was having discussions with the King of the Wood. We did draft of an amendment to the Covenant. But you know it takes unanimous consent for such an amendment to pass.”
“I thought you had the votes,” Rylan said.
Marstan nodded. “A near thing, but yes, I think I did.”
It was a rare moment of candor from his father, but the knowledge was gutting. Rylan hadn’t even been aware of the chance for peace two months ago. Now he felt it slipping through his fingers. “There must be some way the deal can be salvaged.”
“If you think so, you’re much more optimistic than I am. Last night, a few hours after Aarik’s death, the messenger Aarik and I were using was found dead. No one will dare defy Llorn when he wears the crown. And when word of the peace amendment leaks, which it surely will, some of our own people will try to paint me as a Red Knife sympathizer. Whatever Llorn does from this day forward—whatever he has done—will be used against me. I’ll be lucky to keep my seat as Imperator.”
Rylan refused to believe it was a lost cause, but how could he make a difference? If he could learn why Llorn had gone to Ancris, why he’d been meeting with the Hissing Man, it might convince Blythe and some of Aarik’s allies to return to the negotiating table. Blythe was too scared to share anything with Rylan, but perhaps the alchemyst, Master Renato, might know what Korvus Julianus had stumbled onto, why he’d been killed. That knowledge might help pave a path toward peace. But how could he convince his father to let him go?
“Aarik never left the Holt,” Rylan said, “but for some reason he did. Let me go to Ancris and see what I can find.”
“Toward what purpose?”
“Knowledge. Leverage over Llorn. Leverage over whomever he’s working with.”
Marstan shook his head. “No, Rylan. First, I need to survive the coming vote. Then I can try for peace with the Red Knives again. Until then, I must ask you to remain in Glaeyand.”
“But I’ve other visits arranged, business to attend to.”
“Give Bashira a list. She’ll get someone to take your place or make excuses if that’s not possible.”
“Father, please—”
“Let there be no misunderstandings between us.” Marstan’s green eyes bored into Rylan with an intensity Rylan had rarely seen. “I make it my business to know all I can of persons who conduct business in my name, including my children. When your disappearances became troublesome, I had you followed. I know you travel quite far on your rangings, and that you often head east, close to where the nest of a viridian was found.”
Rylan’s ears rang. He’d been so careful, always watching for followers, visiting Vedron’s nesting grounds only when he knew the forest was clear.
“Remind me, Rylan. The man who raised you, this Beckett, wasn’t he burned for bonding with a viridian?” He pointed to Rylan’s left hand. “Didn’t you lose a finger for trying to bond with one of its kits?”
Yes, and it was one of the greatest experiences of Rylan’s life. Vedron was like a sibling to him, a soul mate, a protector who at the same time needed his protection. He couldn’t lose her.
“In all honesty,” Marstan said, “I don’t care if you keep a pet. The restriction on umbrals always seemed foolish to me. But I won’t hesitate to have your dragon killed should you disobey my orders.”
On the staging deck near the eyrie, the group of dragon riders parted. Rylan hadn’t noticed earlier, but Andros was among them. He stared at Rylan and Marstan with a broad smile.
“Andros doesn’t know,” Marstan said, “but I’ll give him the honor of leading the chase. I imagine he’ll make a suit of armor from your dragon.” He paused. “Do we have an understanding?”
Rylan nodded numbly.
“Good.” Marstan clapped Rylan’s shoulder and left, his boot heels thumping on the planks as he went.
Rylan turned away from him and stared eastward into the forest.