Rylan walked along a suspended rope bridge high among the trees—in a city, he realized. Andalingr.
No, not again.
He saw Uncle Beckett being led along a soot-stained deck covered in dragonscale, saw the chains between his hands being hung from a hook. Beckett looked up at Rylan and shook his head. “Tell Merida it happened quickly, won’t you?”
Rylan wanted to save Uncle Beckett. He screamed at himself to do more, but the dream played out as it always did: a bronze dragon swooped down and landed with a boom; an inquisitor stared down from behind his white owl helm.
The dragon breathed flame over Beckett, and Beckett burned and burned and burned. But this time, the flames were blue. They spread across the deck, and exploded wildly, consuming everything, including Rylan.
Rylan sat up in near darkness, panting, dizzy. His skin was clammy, his throat tight. A dream. It was only a dream. They always felt so real, though.
For a moment he thought he was lying in his burrow in Glaeyand, but the ceiling was painted with a mural of Alra striking down the trickster god, Faedryn, and the light was not candlelight but wisplight.
He felt a hollowness inside him—an after-effect of the arcfire. He ran his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair and breathed. In the room around him were two rows of beds, six to a side, simple, fitted with gray blankets and white sheets. The only other occupant was the young eyrie-hand, Betheny, who lay sleeping in the bed closest to the door.
He heard voices through the door and lay back down and pretended to sleep.
A nun in a gray robe and white wimple entered the room. Behind her was Quintarch Lucran, a broad-shouldered man with a blond beard and ivory hair. Rylan had seen him several times in Glaeyand but had met him only once, and even then it had been by mere chance in a hallway in Valdavyn.
Behind them was Illustra Azariah, a tall man in white robes and an ivory mask that covered his brow, eyes, and the bridge of his nose. The striking mask and his graceful gate made him look like a small god floating in the wake of the quintarch and the nun. He’d been there on one of Lucran’s trips, but he hadn’t so much as exchanged nods with Rylan. It was a relief, really. The less the illustrae knew about him, the better.
The nun said something to them in a hushed voice, and Rylan gave up pretending to sleep—he didn’t want Azariah to think he was spying. He opened his eyes and rolled to face the front of the room. He felt a fool for having misjudged the arcfire so badly at the eyrie. It had been much more intense than he’d expected. Nevertheless, he’d planned on faking illness from the fire as an excuse to remain in Highreach for a few days. Now he didn’t have to.
The nun bowed and left. As her footsteps faded, Azariah leaned close to Lucran and said something Rylan couldn’t hear. Then, Lucran walked toward Rylan, his boot heels clacking on the stone floor. “Rylan Holbrooke . . .”
Rylan propped himself up against the headboard, dipped his head, and replied, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How are you feeling?” Lucran asked from the foot of the bed.
Azariah loomed behind him, silent and still as a statue.
“Better than I expected,” Rylan finally managed.
Lucran gestured to Betheny, his rings glittering in the wisplight. “We owe you a debt of gratitude, I hear.”
“Not at all,” Rylan said, shaking his head. “I did what anyone would have done.”
Lucran shrugged. “I do hate false modesty.”
“No false modesty, Your Majesty, but embarrassment. I knew how dangerous the rift was as anyone, and I know my way around an eyrie. I should have made sure everyone was at a safe distance, but the girl was in the shadows. I thought the eyrie was empty.” Rylan could still see her standing there, stock still, her eyes wide as saucers.
“Embarrassed or not”—Lucran tipped his head in a sign of respect—“Ancris thanks you for saving her and uncovering a danger to our dragons. The abbess said it will take a few days for you to feel like yourself again, but stay as long as you wish. We’ll give you a ride back to Glaeyand whenever you’re ready.”
With that he left, but Azariah lingered. “Earlier, you smiled.”
“Pardon?”
“The quintarch and the abbess were talking.” Azariah seemed to choose his words carefully. “You looked at us and smiled. Why?”
It was true, he realized. Azariah had been facing the abbess, not Rylan himself, but that hardly mattered to an illustra. It was a slip. “I thought it was ironic.”
“What was ironic?”
“There was a rift in the Holt recently, near Glaeyand. The arcfire spread and caught a small tinker caravan by surprise. One man died outright. His wife died from complications a few days later. We’ve been on edge lately in the Holt, but I remember thinking that at least in the mountains I’d be safe.”
Azariah pursed his lips and nodded. “And the rift itself, how did you know about it?”
“Bothymus sensed it. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have.”
“Dragon singers can feel something like that from the dragons they commune with?”
“Not so precisely as that. I felt his discomfort, his fear. It seemed related to the eyrie, and I’d heard of dragons sensing rifts—”
“From whom?”
“Who told you dragons can sense rifts?”
Rylan paused to gather his wits. He didn’t want to talk himself into a corner. “Why do you ask?”
Azariah smiled, cold and pitiless. “In my experience, people who answer questions with questions are often dissembling.”
In truth, Rylan hadn’t heard it from anyone. It was part of the story he’d concocted to justify his finding the rift in the first place. Rylan nearly elaborated on the lie but stopped himself and made a show of thinking about Azariah’s question. “You know, I don’t rightly recall.”
“You don’t recall.”
Rylan shrugged. “I heard it around a bonfire, I think.”
Azariah grunted quietly and said, “Rylan Holbrooke?”
“Yes.”
“Son of Marstan. Your foster father was burned for bonding with a dragon, but you escaped punishment, correct?” He tilted his face down and seemed to stare at Rylan’s left hand through the eyes of his ivory mask. “Save for a finger.” When Rylan said nothing, Azariah straightened and said, “Well, rest up. I’m sure your father eagerly awaits your return.”
Azariah strode away, tall and proud, and Rylan felt blood rush to his face. Despite the embarrassment, the illustra had done him a favor. Lucran had come across so warmly that Rylan had started to relax, but Azariah’s treatment was a reminder that he had to play things carefully and quickly, then get the fuck out of Ancris.
Word was the alchemyst, Ash, not only lived in the palace but often stayed up late. Praying that would hold true tonight, Rylan pushed himself off his bed with a groan and headed toward the palace proper. He paused at the foot of Betheny’s bed. Her breathing was shallow but steady. “Please forgive me,” he whispered. “I was reckless.”
He left the infirmary and wandered Highreach for a time, eventually arriving at a large rotunda with gilded pillars and broad plinths holding marble statues of Ancris’s former autarchs. At the center of the rotunda was a glass globe large enough to fit a man inside. Dozens of wisps floated within, creating an otherworldly display of light over the floor, ceilings and walls. Rylan wondered who the wisps’ souls might have been. Had they witnessed the Talon Wars? Were they alive when the Kin first came to the Holt? When Faedryn fell at the Ruining?
His thoughts were interrupted by a clattering on the far side of the rotunda. A train of servants in black uniforms was pushing dining carts topped with crystal goblets, decanters of wine, and plates covered by silver cloches through an archway. They nodded as they passed.
A long-legged, hollow-cheeked man paused behind the train. “Master Holbrooke, I’m Theron, the chamberlain. Is there anything you require? I hear you need much rest.”
“Thank you. I was just stretching my legs.”
Theron waited, perhaps hoping Rylan would take the hint. When Rylan merely smiled, Theron bowed. “You have but to ask.” He trailed after the others and managed to catch up to them while somehow looking unhurried.
Rylan followed them, curious where they were headed. A few turns and several hallways later, they wheeled their carts through a solarium and onto a veranda. Rylan waited for them to leave, then entered the solarium and looked at the many plants. The room’s walls and roof, composed of slumped glass, gave a wavering view of the veranda, the curtain wall, the mountains beyond. Overhead, Nox brooded among a scattering of stars.
On the veranda, a dozen well-dressed nobles sat around a granite table under a vine-choked trellis. At the head of the table was Quintarch Lucran. To his left, his wife, Tyrinia. To his right, Illustra Azariah. With a number of brazier’s providing warmth, the women wore sheer, sleeveless dresses. The men wore shirts unbuttoned to expose their necks and chests. Despite the danger from the dark sun’s rays, none wore hats or head coverings of any kind.
Rylan knew enough of Lucran’s advisors to realize that this was a meeting of the privy council. Years ago, holding such a meeting at night would have been extraordinary, but having seen how well the palisade worked in the city, Lucran had ordered another, smaller palisade over the palace. It was a wanton display of excess and power.
Like so much in the bloody capitals.
A voice called from the darkness to Rylan’s right, briefly startling him. “If you’re thinking of joining them, I warn you, the conversations are dull as a sheep’s bleating and every bit as annoying.”
Shading the light coming from the veranda, Rylan spotted Ash sitting behind a table in a dark corner with a liquor cart behind him. “I rather think the last person a privy council wants to hear from is a half-blood from the Holt.”
“Then join me instead.” Ash pulled the hood from a wisplight on the table, lighting the solarium in ghostly blue. Ash was sitting twisted and with a leg thrown over one of the padded arms of his chair, which would seem overly informal, but there was a familiarity about it Rylan found appealing. He gestured with his glass of what looked to be whisky to the empty chair across from him. “Please, sit.” When Rylan shoved the chair with his hip, so that it was no longer in the unlight, Ash pointed to the glass roof above them. “You won’t be harmed. The glass is treated, and we’re under the palisade.”
“Yes, well”—Rylan practically fell into the chair—“old habits die hard.”
Ash set his drink down, craned like a contortionist over the back of his chair, and grabbed an empty glass off the liquor cart. He poured a generous helping of amber liquor and handed it to Rylan. “I suspect you could use it.”
Rylan nodded. “I could at that.”
Ash winked and settled into the cushions. He downed a healthy swig, bared his teeth, and gestured toward the eyrie. “That was quite the scene earlier.”
Rylan breathed in the whisky’s heady scent and took a sip. The smoke and peat were too heavy for his tastes, but the notes of salt and caramel were welcome, as was the buttery finish. “Like something out of a Diocenes tragedy.”
“Ah!” Ash seemed surprised. “You sit the stone benches do you?”
“From time to time.”
“Well, if it is a tragedy, it’s a poorly written one. You don’t start with a conflagration. You end with it.”
Rylan smiled. “Perhaps the worst is yet to come.”
“Alra forbid,” Ash said with a wan smile. “Have you ever seen an arcfire catch like that?”
“No,” Rylan lied. He’d tested it three times before he flew to Ancris. He’d made certain the ingredients would mimic a real arcfire. “You?”
“No,” replied Ash, “but Master Renato told me about one he saw in the forest once. Apparently it spread through half a village before it burned itself out.”
Normally, Rylan would be worried about pressing too hard, too fast, but the way Ash seemed to hang on his every word told him he could press a bit. “Can I share something with you?”
Ash seemed taken aback. “Please.”
“Earlier, when I asked you questions about the rift burnings, I was only pretending to know little about it.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I know a good deal about the alchemycal agents used, the process.”
Ash held his drink in front of his chin and stared at Rylan. “Then why did you ask?”
“Because I didn’t want to seem presumptuous. People in the capitals often get offended when someone with my . . . background seems to know too much.”
Ash sipped his drink and said, “Well, you don’t need to worry about that with me.”
“I realize that now. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Already forgiven. But now I’m curious—just how much do you know about alchemy?”
“A fair bit, actually. You mentioned Master Renato. I know he’s overseeing the renovations to the shrine. I know that the formula he developed to fuse the cracks in the stone uses night hazel, and that its distilled with steam to extract the alcohol.”
Ash’s mouth dropped open in the affected manner of a stage actor. It was an act, but he seemed genuinely surprised. “Are you going to tell me you own an apothecary next?”
Rylan laughed. “No, but I knew a fellow who owned one. Korvus Julianus? I’m sure you knew him . . . ?” In truth, Rylan had spoken to Korvus only once, and only then to buy a flu remedy, but he’d chatted up a journeyman in Glaeyand to learn more about shrine’s renovations so he’d be prepared for a conversation like this one.
“Yes,” Ash said. “I met Korvus a few times before he went missing.”
“You heard about his wife as well? The apothecary?”
Ash nodded, turning his glass in his hand. “Such a pity.”
“Do you know much about his disappearance?”
“Very little. He was off on a survey, apparently.”
“Any idea what he was surveying?”
“The flow of aura and umbra through the Holt, as I recall.”
“The word around Glaeyand is he ran afoul of the Knives. Do you reckon he stumbled onto something sensitive?”
“I’ve no idea. Korvus and I barely spoke. He and Master Renato always talked about the old days, which bores me to tears. Are you thinking of becoming an apprentice?”
“That depends. Are you offering to become my master?”
Ash put a hand over his smile, then he laughed so loud one of Quintarch Lucran’s guests glared through the window. “Perhaps I am, my dear.”
“Then perhaps I’ll accept, assuming you ever attain the rank, that is.”
“Oh ho ho! You think I won’t?”
“Well I hardly know you. For all I know, you’re going to retire and open an incense shop in the market square.”
“Incense irritates my nose.” Ash finished his drink in one swift go. “And I quite enjoy my chosen profession, thank you very much.”
“I agree, it’s fascinating. And to work on the shrine, to feel the history of that place . . .”
“Don’t tell me you’re a history buff as well!”
“I am. I’ve always wondered why things are like they are, and that sort of understanding only comes from history.”
Ash looked like he’d been about to pour himself another, but he paused. “Would you like to see it?”
“What? The shrine?”
Ash nodded.
Rylan could hardly believe his ears. He’d planned on pressing Ash for more information while he had the chance but he didn’t want to push his luck. An extended visit would give him plenty of time to steer Ash back toward Korvus Julianus and his ill-fated trip. Plus, Rylan had long been fascinated by the Church’s shrines. He’d never thought to see any of them, given his heritage, but now . . .“I’d love to, but how?”
Ash set his glass down on the table, then stood and motioned to the archway leading back to the palace. “We go. That’s how.”
“Now?”
“What better time than the present?”
Rylan peered over at Quintarch Lucran, Azariah, and the privy council. The idea of seeing something His Holiness would most certainly deny him was delicious. “I couldn’t be more thrilled.”
“Okay, then. Wait here a minute.”
Ash left and returned a short while later wearing a purple waistcoat. They left through the palace’s front entrance, where Ash summoned a coach. Soon they were rumbling down Palace Road toward Ancris. When the coach’s steel-rimmed wheels began clattering along the cobbled streets of Old Town, Ash leaned out the window. “Take the river path.”
They entered a section of the city dominated by tall, narrow, wattle-and-daub homes, many of which butted up against one another. Ash knocked on the roof. “This is close enough.”
“We’re nowhere near the shrine,” Rylan said.
“I know.” Ash opened the door and stepped out. “We’re picking someone up.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.”
They trekked down a narrow alley and came to a home that looked just like all the others. Ash picked up a pebble and threw it at a second-story window. When no one came, he tried again. A moment later, one of the panes swung outward, and a woman stuck her head out. It was none other than Inquisitor Lorelei.
“The dark sun’s wicked ways, Ash,” she hissed, “what do you want?”
“We’re going to the shrine.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Yes, we are. All three of us.”
“All three . . . ?” Lorelei started when she saw Rylan. “Give me a minute?”
“Your wish is my command, my sweet, adorable newt.”
She rolled her eyes and was gone. The window thudded shut.
“She hates it when I call her that,” Ash said.
“I gathered.”
A short while later, Lorelei emerged wearing loose trousers, an old woolen coat, and a pair of beaten leather shoes that looked like they were made for men. The outfit was so casual, her manner so unassuming, Rylan felt welcomed in her world. It was an illusion, he knew, but he indulged in it. He hadn’t felt this way since before Beckett died.
As they headed down the alley toward the coach, he wondered at the sudden giddiness in his chest. It was Lorelei, he realized. Rylan had always been careful to build walls between him and his marks, but there was something about Lorelei . . . She was unassuming, quaintly charming, and threatening to dismantle those walls. For the life of him, he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. He suddenly wished she had declined, or that Ash had not invited her at all.
When they reached the coach, Ash and Lorelei piled in, but Rylan lingered on the cobbles.
“Coming, Rylan?” Lorelei asked through the window.
He had half a mind to say he needed rest and would make his way back to the palace alone. But only a fool would do so. No matter how uncomfortable it made him to use Lorelei along with Ash, he needed to make headway on his quest to learn more about Master Renato.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, and climbed in and sat across from them.