CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Jahir was alive.

The news didn’t dissolve his anger, but it kept that anger from burning him alive. For the first time since their parting, the ground beneath Vasiht’h’s feet felt solid again, and that left him capable of evaluating himself and finding what he saw unlikely, fascinating. Jahir had told him over and over that he had passions of his own, but he’d thought of them as fleeting things, surface winds over unyielding earth. This, though… this felt tectonic. This ability to be so angry, and now so normal despite it.

This new stability arrived just in time because Sediryl was anything but calm. He didn’t need to extend any mental talent to guess she was pacing in her bedchamber, where he and Qora and the Queen might be spared the sight of her agitation. Imposing on her didn’t seem like a good idea, but he didn’t think letting her work herself into a state was any better. When his face turned toward the bedroom door once too many times, the Faulfenzair spoke.

“Let her be.”

“She’s upset,” Vasiht’h said.

The Faulfenzair made an ‘mmm’ sound deep in his throat. “For good reason.”

“Of course she’s got good reasons. But if she doesn’t release some of that tension she might not make it through the next few days.”

“Have you thought that perhaps she needs this tension to propel her through those next few days?” Qora twitched an ear. “An engine works on pressure. Remove the pressure, no propulsion.”

“People are not engines.”

The Faulfenzair snorted. “Metaphor, alet.” He bent over the Queen, touched her brow.

“Do you think she’s all right?”

“Not a physician,” the Faulfenzair said. “People are not machines, remember?”

Vasiht’h wrinkled his nose. “Fine, I deserved that.” He took the Queen’s limp hand, still too hot, and sighed. “I wish I knew how to fix this. Help. Do something.”

“Inaction is difficult,” Qora said. “But deeply important.”

Vasiht’h eyed him. “This should be good.”

The Faulfenzair grinned, showing all his teeth. “We learn the truth of the universe, which is that what control we have is minor and limited. We live at the whim of the Firedancing God. His will, not ours.”

“The Goddess gave us thought for a reason,” Vasiht’h murmured.

“The God gives many tools,” Qora said. “But comes a time when the time for tools is done. And then we are alone with the universe, and our smallness in it.”

Vasiht’h glanced again at the door to the bedchamber. “Our part doesn’t feel very small right now.”

“Why do you think she is so agitated?”

Kamaney did not want to talk to her.

Sediryl had tried leaving the suite, and while her guards trailed her to the pirate’s door, the guards there refused to admit her. She’d tried calling, but Kamaney wasn’t accepting calls. She’d even tried exiting the guest bloc again, only to be halted and reminded of the consequences of her last attempt to leave. She’d tried accessing information she knew would put up flags, but ran into the same security blocks she’d had since her arrival, and no guard burst into her quarters to arrest her.

The pirate was “busy.” The pirate would get back to her when she was ready. But how could Sediryl influence her decision if she couldn’t even see her?

Maia’s loss hurt more than she’d anticipated. Knowing the D-per could be resurrected back in the Alliance didn’t help—what she missed was the feeling that she’d had an ally here, one no one knew about. Maia had also been her only link to someone with a military background, and Sediryl could have used that guidance. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been relying on the other woman’s greater experience; bereft of it, she found herself at a loss for ideas. Seducing Kamaney, she could manage to plan on her own. But what if that failed? What would she do?

She would have to succeed. That was all.

Every day, Sediryl rose, made herself eat. Checked on the Queen. Sat with Vasiht’h to make an attempt at awakening her mental powers. Asked Qora after any of his needs and received the same placid reply. Paced her suite, stared at the computer. Made herself countless outfits, each more ridiculous than the next. Looked at her gun… wondered if she dared fire it. Dreamed about firing it, literally. Put her head down in an attempt to sleep at night, failed. Snatched a fitful few hours, in which her cousins seemed too distant to comfort her and all the slaves of the pirate base wept and begged her to better their estate. She woke, forced herself through the whole routine again.

Each day that passed heightened her agitation. She had promised she would deliver the pirates. She had promised they would attack the Chatcaavan border to draw the Twelveworld Lord out of position for the ambush. And she was running out of time to make good on that vow.

I’m going to win, she reminded herself every day before her shower. I’m going to win this. There is no other possibility. Because if I lose, the consequences will be unthinkable.

By the time Kamaney sent for her, Sediryl was nearly beside herself with impatience. She accepted the dinner invitation and shot to the bathroom to prepare. This was it. This had to be it. Her one chance, and she couldn’t fail. She sorted through her most outrageous designs before choosing one that was more lingerie than clothes, all hints of pale skin against black boots and high-cut black leotard with knife-like cuts framing her navel and breasts—parts of it had to be held on with cosmetic tape. The black leather coat that went over it had a collar so high she could barely turn her face, and the gun went under it, still the most real thing on her body.

When she exited the room, Vasiht’h’s eyes widened.

“I may be out all night,” Sediryl said.

“All right,” he answered, ears sagging.

Sediryl swept past him, the coat flaring around her, and stopped only to dig through Kamaney’s gifts to find a panther pard fur. Draping it over her shoulders was overkill, but she knew the pirate’s taste by now. More was better, except when less was called for, and less was rarely called for.

The guards let her into the pirate’s apartments. The dining room table had been set for two. With candles. Seeing her, Kamaney rose, waved away the guards. “Sediryl.” She came closer, eyes glowing. “You look… amazing.”

“Don’t tell me this lovely setting is for me?” Sediryl asked, effecting the coquette.

“Tonight is our last night here,” Kamaney said. “We leave in the morning.”

“And what enemy do we go to punish first?”

The pirate laughed and caught her hand, kissing the back. Her mouth left a smudge on the glossy black leather. “Business tomorrow. Tonight… well. Let’s say I’m done with self-discipline.”

“How fortuitous,” Sediryl murmured. “As I am as well.”

They sat to the dinner, a multicourse affair with wine, and Sediryl allowed Kamaney to feed her and tried not to feel like an expensive courtesan. Not revealing their destination was more of the pirate’s need to maintain control, but she couldn’t keep their plans secret for the entire night, particularly given what she was planning. Could she?

More importantly, could Sediryl go through with it? Some part of her had been hoping she’d be able to manipulate the pirate without actually bedding her. As the night continued, that hope dimmed, until when Kamaney rose and Sediryl stood to join her, she knew she had come to the crossroads.

Some part of her was wailing for someone, anyone to rescue her, but it was a very distant part of her. Distant enough that Sediryl wondered at her own cold calm. She could feel herself sorting through her memories of Davor and Hyera, picking and choosing among the moments they’d kissed and caressed her, replaying them to warm her skin and quicken her breathing. The process felt as artificial as imbibing a drug, and its effect on her body should have appalled her. But that part of her, the part that could cry and feel shock, was so far away.

There were candles around the bed.

Candles.

The bed itself was heaped with furs from the backs of people, all of them black and dark gray save one fire-red one so bright it looked dyed. A perfume in the air, cloying and musky… the candles, she thought with that same unearthly calm. They were scented.

“I wanted it to suit you,” Kamaney said.

“Then perhaps you should put me on it and see if it does,” Sediryl answered.

As the pirate started on the buckle of her holster, Sediryl lowered her lashes and remembered Hyera’s husky laugh and dexterous fingers: artist’s hands, strong and articulate. She thought of Davor’s lips on her neck as Kamaney licked her over her pulse, nipping with sharper teeth than any human’s. She closed her eyes completely when she and the pirate kissed, remembering the taste of anyone else’s mouth. As Kamaney stripped her, petted her, drew her down to the bed, she clung to those memories to ensure the response of her body.

At some point in the interminable time that followed, Hyera and Davor lost their immediacy, drowned by the stench of the candles and her own arousal and the pirate’s, in the dark and by the furs. And in that moment she thought of her cousins, and that small screaming piece of her buried herself in their arms and did not raise her head again.

She was staring at the ceiling, ignoring the sweat cooling on her skin and the weight of Kamaney’s head on her breast, when the pirate murmured, “You were so right. Waiting makes giving in so much better.”

“Yes,” Sediryl said, forcing herself to run her hand idly down the woman’s furred spine.

Kamaney nuzzled her. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“You have devastated me,” Sediryl said. “I am limp with satiation.”

The pirate laughed softly, breath warm over Sediryl’s collarbone. “I’m flattered. I didn’t think I could do justice to you. You’re… you’re everything I thought you would be.” Another kiss, almost reverent. Sediryl’s gorge rose. “I want to keep you forever.”

“Two queens,” Sediryl murmured.

“Empresses,” Kamaney said, smiling, brushing her nosepad against Sediryl’s breast. “We’ll punish the Alliance for betraying me and then take the Chatcaavan worlds for our homes. It’ll be glorious.”

Sediryl’s heart lurched. She forced herself to yawn and stretch before saying, “So you have decided.”

“Yes.” Kamaney pushed herself upright, leaned across the bed toward the nightstand where she’d left a bottle of wine. “You’re right—trying to keep territory on the Alliance border will never work. So we won’t stay. Just hit them enough to make sure they’re weak enough for the Chatcaava to tear them open.”

“You don’t suppose that’ll leave the Chatcaava too strong for us to fend off?”

“No,” Kamaney smiled over her shoulder at her. “They’ll be too busy fighting over the spoils. You’ll see. I know these things. You’ll learn them too.”

“At your side,” Sediryl said, rolling onto her stomach to smile lazily up at her.

“Yes,” Kamaney said with a shiver. “And under me. And beside me.”

“I can’t wait,” Sediryl breathed.

The pirate unscrewed the cap from the bottle and set it down before twisting to kiss Sediryl again, squirming tongue and fevered breath. When she sat up, she said, “Goddess, you’re so irresistible. Do you know that?”

“The feeling is mutual,” Sediryl murmured. “So perhaps you should pour that and we can regain our strength?”

“Yes.”

Watching the wine flow into the glasses, Sediryl said, “Though… if I could use the bathroom…”

“I like you messy,” the pirate said with a grin.

Sediryl laughed, low. “Not to clean up. I like your… marks. The sound of the wine trickling has reminded me of other needs, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Yes. Go, then. But hurry.”

“Trust me,” Sediryl said. “I won’t be long.” She slipped off the bed and rose, stretching again before bending to the discarded clothes on the floor.

This is a bad idea.

Deliberately she slid the gun from its holster.

This is an awful idea.

It was heavier than she expected. It was the most real thing in the room.

But you don’t have any better ones.

She lifted it, steadied her grip with her second hand. Pointed it at Kamaney’s back. The blue light on the back of the sight turned red and a crimson dot appeared between the pirate’s shoulderblades.

Maia’s voice. If you’ve got it up and pointed at someone, the safety’s off.

Sediryl pulled the trigger.

Fire exploded from the muzzle of the gun, struck the pillow beside Kamaney’s shoulder, burned a hole in it. The pirate jumped up, dropping the glass in her hand. She twirled to face Sediryl and her mouth dropped open.

I missed, Sediryl thought remotely. She pointed the gun at the pirate’s head as Kamaney’s lips began to form words. One more shot before the situation decayed past saving. Sediryl squeezed.

The pirate’s head exploded.

One heartbeat. Another. Then she screamed, and the world erupted in fire. All the world, her mind burning, everything, the bed, the furs, the candles melting into rippling puddles. She screamed and screamed until the overhead fire-management systems woke, screeching alarms, and poured down watery foam, slicking her hair down her naked back, carpeting the deck.

She found out she was still holding the gun when the guards burst into the room. She shot the first and didn’t miss. The second went down just as quickly. She was still screaming but there were words now. “PUT THEM DOWN GUNS DOWN GUNS DOWN OR I’LL SHOOT YOU NEXT.” The remaining three halted abruptly, holding up their hands. One of them was leering at her naked body. No possibility he’d respect her. She shot him through the torso, which exploded outward and he crumpled in half like a cored-out melon and she fought her nausea, turning to the next whose eyes were only just traveling from her breasts to his friend’s crumpling body, so she shot him too.

The last guard yelled, “NOT ME I’M NOT INTERESTED I RHACK GUYS GUYS NOT GIRLS.”

“Prove it!”

“What??”

“Shove your pants down now,” she said, trembling so hard her teeth were chattering and yet her arms didn’t move. His forehead was framed in the sight. The red dot was seething like a flame. “SHOW ME.”

He gaped at her, and when she started screaming at him to show her he hastily started on his trousers, fumbling the buttons as she watched. When he dropped his pants she found him shriveled. Fear? Lack of interest? She didn’t care. It was good enough.

“Kamaney’s dead,” she said from between her bared teeth. “I’m in charge now.”

“Yes, ma’am! Orders, ma’am!”

“Alert the fleet,” Sediryl said. “We’re leaving. Now.”

For days, Jahir skimmed the Usurper’s mind for reports of changes in the fleet movements, but the Chatcaavan remained obstinately uninterested in the prosecution of the war. He read Second’s updates, but these were cagey; even Jahir, who had little knowledge of military matters, could tell they were thin on content and long on obfuscation. The Usurper didn’t care, though; his only thoughts on reading these missives from the front were minor irritations: “If he must bother me with minutia, why can’t he wait until he has enough of it to make the report worth reading,” or “He is dispersing his forces so much he can’t accurately gauge their disposition.” Nor was the monotony of this vigil interrupted by any meeting, for the Usurper talked to almost no one in person, preferring electronic communication to time-consuming and messy personal interactions. His belief in his infallibility was so powerful it constituted a neurosis, and had he been a client, Jahir would have done his utmost to address it. But the Usurper was not his client, did not want to be his client, and could not be his client. In those long and interminable silences, Jahir wondered how much his oath extended beyond those who entered into that relationship with him willingly, and whether it was possible to remove the oath from the fabric of his soul when it had sunk in so deeply.

His condition, he ignored. He could do no less and stay sane, particularly with the roquelaure’s constant warnings. The Surgeon became a fixture of his evenings, for Oviin could no longer feed him enough orally, and while they spoke little they didn’t have to. Through the Surgeon’s touch Jahir could hear the Chatcaavan’s concern, and worse, his prognosis. They were neither of them sure how long he could survive the malfunctioning implant without de-activating it. But turning it off was also a death sentence, for the Usurper’s reaction to the deception was eminently predictable.

He had lied in his message to Vasiht’h, but how could have he done otherwise? To deprive his partner of hope when he so desperately needed it… no. God and Lady willing they would both survive. But if Jahir didn’t, he found his regrets few. Another chance to see the homeworld, perhaps. The opportunity to tell Sediryl in his own words that he had loved her for as long as he could remember, that those rambles in the woods when they were youth and maiden had shaped him all the years that followed. One more kiss from Lisinthir, one more hug from his partner. But duty had summoned, and he had not failed in it.

Yet.

The bath remained his sole respite in each day, for his blankets were too thin to make sleep comfortable and only the buoyancy of the water gave him some relief from the unrelenting pain of joints held too long in traction. Oviin washed him, fretful and hiding it, and gathered the changing map visuals from his mind to transmit to their allies. From Sediryl, they heard only once, that she would be on her way within a week. From the Emperor and Lisinthir, nothing, until one day Oviin laid hands on him and looked him in the eye. /They’re coming./

Jahir raised his head.

/It is their best chance, they say. With the Twelveworld Lord gone. And if they cannot find enough Chatcaava, they hope to entice the Alliance into fighting at their side./ Oviin’s great aquamarine eyes blinked once, steadied. /We have made a difference, Ambassador. Maybe the difference./

/If the pirates divert the Twelveworld Lord./

/Yes./

/But we have not heard from the pirate contact./

Oviin hesitated. /No./ He started laving Jahir’s shoulders, careful of tender skin.

Jahir did not doubt that if it was within Sediryl’s power, she would deliver the pirates in the right place at the right time. But that didn’t change that it might be beyond her powers. Her continued silence could be a sign that she was on her way and too busy to coordinate with them… or, more likely, a sign that something had gone wrong.

The Chatcaavan poured warm water over Jahir’s head, and under that stream he closed his eyes.

/You think she might have failed,/ Oviin murmured.

/It is possible. It was always possible./

Oviin paused, one hand on the Eldritch’s wrist. /What will you do?/

Jahir said, quiet, /What I must./

The following morning, Jahir watched the Usurper enter his office and said, “Do your lords tell you the truth?”

The Chatcaavan snorted as he sat behind the desk and called up his displays. “Of course they do. They know the penalty for treason.”

“So it is treason, lying to you.”

“I am the Emperor, freak. You will have noticed.”

“Then if, hypothetically, one of your lords was failing to report the proper position of one of your military assets….”

The Usurper slowly craned his neck around the floating display in front of him and narrowed his eyes.

“Hypothetically,” Jahir said.

“You are making another attempt to instill doubt in me,” the Usurper said. “Why do you bother? What good will it do you?”

“In this case,” Jahir said, “I’m actually trying to help you.”

“This is rich.” The Usurper was once again reading his displays, his mind settling into its customary grooves, rigid and narrow and direct. “Go on. Entertain me with your suppositions.”

“I was thinking, you see… there are many males who might benefit from your death.”

“Obviously. I am the Emperor.”

“But few of them could hold the throne,” Jahir continued. “Second, perhaps, but he has removed himself from the area. He could hardly depose you from several sectors away.”

The Usurper huffed. “Again with Second’s illusory treachery.”

“But there is someone closer who could make the attempt.”

“And who now should I be fearing, according to the logic of aliens?”

“The Twelveworld Lord.”

“Ah, I see,” the Usurper said. “Having lost Second as a convenient villain, you are casting his replacement. You think I am easy prey to paranoia?”

Jahir did, but did not say so.

“But now I am curious.” The Usurper peered at him through the displays, his face cast in green and yellow light. “Exactly how is the Twelveworld Lord going to enact this treasonous ploy?”

“Perhaps he has more pirates in his employ than he’s said,” Jahir replied. “I was intimately involved in the efforts to document the extent of the pirate threat, you understand, and I believe there are more non-Chatcaavan pirates than the Twelveworld Lord is reporting.”

“Oh, do you.”

“It makes one wonder where these extra pirates are, that the Twelveworld Lord is understating the numbers of.”

The Usurper snorted, pupils constricting as he focused on the display in front of him again. “I am not concerned about a handful of pirates.”

“But several hundred?”

The Usurper’s freeze was so swift Jahir would have missed it had he not been waiting for it. The Chatcaavan’s voice was even as he replied, “Even if there were several hundred pirates, they would not be any danger to the fleet.”

“Of course not,” Jahir agreed. “But the fleet is at Apex-East.”

“And shortly to be at the border of your nation, yes.”

“Which means they are not here. In orbit over you.”

The Usurper shoved back in his chair and rose. “You want me to believe that the Twelveworld Lord is bringing pirates here to help him depose me? It’s ridiculous!”

“If it is ridiculous, why are you angry?” Jahir asked.

“Because you are an insolent and obnoxious wall hanging,” the Usurper snarled. “And I should have had you muzzled when I came in!”

“You should have,” Jahir said. “As it would have prevented you from hearing this. But you didn’t, and now you know.” He smiled. “Maybe you should thank me for warning you. It would only be fair.”

The Usurper lunged over the desk, wings spread. His tablet clattered off it, and the Galare dagger, and then the dragon was in front of him with lifted hand, swiping—

They both halted in the wake of that blow, shocked that it had finally arrived.

Bloody prophet, born in seeping wounds

Jahir opened his eye, cautious, felt relief that he could. His cheek was streaming; hot blood dripped on his chest, stark contrast against goose-rashed flesh. The Usurper stared at him, hand still up, panting. Stared at the slashes on the Eldritch’s jaw. Turning from him abruptly, he called, “Guards!” As they arrived, he said, “Bring the Twelveworld Lord.”

Would this be what it would be like when Lisinthir flogged him? Jahir wondered, breathing through the pain and finding it less troubling than the sense that his flesh had been violated. He knew the hot droplets should distress him, particularly since there were enough of them to drizzle down the channel of his collarbone, but the warmth was welcome. Time became diffuse, made the pain distant. But he heard the Twelveworld Lord’s arrival, and that was not a dream.

“Exalted. You sent for m—Dying Air…!”

“The freak required discipline. As you can see, I am not incapable of meting it out.”

“No one thought otherwise, Exalted.”

The Usurper’s sneer narrowed his voice around the words. “Yes. Well. Tell me, Twelveworld Lord. These pirates of yours. Have you heard from them?”

“I have reports from them every week, Exalted. They tell me about their activities at the border.”

“And you’re sure they’re there, and not somewhere else.”

“Why would I think otherwise?” The Twelveworld Lord frowned. “Did Second tell you something in his scouting reports that contradicts what I’ve heard?”

That pause was sudden and thoughtful. “I don’t know. Stay.” Footsteps. Jahir heard the Usurper sit, then a few moments later, the Twelveworld Lord, the chair scraping back from the desk.

“Hmm,” the Usurper said at last. “Second only occasionally mentions your pirates. Weren’t they supposed to be wreaking sufficient havoc to be noticeable?”

“Certainly,” the Twelveworld Lord said. “For a force of their size. Recall they’re not a large group, Exalted.”

“You’re certain of that.”

“Exalted… why do you think otherwise?”

“The freak seems to believe that the piracy on the border prior to the war is suggestive of a force several hundred ships stronger than the one they’ve reported to you.”

The chair creaked. Jahir opened his eyes and found the Twelveworld Lord staring at him.

“Disinformation, Exalted?”

“Only if it’s false. Is there a way we can discover whether it’s false?”

“Why would we bother?” the Twelveworld Lord replied, puzzled. “What difference does it make if they are underreporting their numbers? So long as they’re attacking the freaks and the freaks are disturbed by those attacks, they are serving their purpose.”

The Usurper said nothing, but his thoughts shouted their alarm because this explanation sounded far too convenient for a male who was secretly planning a raid on the throneworld. What he said aloud was, “But if the freaks have numbers that lead them to believe that some of those pirates are missing, they may decide piracy is decreasing, not increasing, and that they can afford to fix their attention elsewhere.”

“If they know we’re coming—”

“They know you’re coming,” Jahir murmured. “I told them.” They fell silent and he finished, “After your failed attempt to stop me at the border. When I escaped back to the Alliance, I told them there would be war. They know.”

“Ridiculous,” the Twelveworld Lord muttered. “You did not strike him hard enough, Exalted. Allow me—”

“No. I discipline the freak.” The Usurper’s voice was clipped. “Anything else is a privilege I will extend to those who’ve earned it.”

“Exalted…” The Twelveworld Lord sounded astonished. “Surely… are you… you’re not intimating anything about my loyalties? On the basis of a wingless freak’s poisoned words?”

“Of course he’s not,” Jahir said, eyes closed. His head was beginning to spin. “He’s evaluating all the possibilities raised by my suggestion, which also include the possibility of the missing pirates targeting you, Twelveworld Lord. After all…” He opened his eyes and managed a hazy smile, “you’re not home to watch over your fiefdom either. And they know you’re gone.”

This silence was electric, and tasting the shock in it Jahir felt some tension finally ease from his shoulders.

“How many ships does this freak think have gone missing?” the Twelveworld Lord asked, voice low.

“He claims ‘several hundred,’ a number we both know to be ridiculous. Pirates cannot organize on that scale.”

“Of course not,” the Twelveworld Lord said, but he meant the opposite. More confidently, “He strives to unsettle us, Exalted, knowing that we will soon destroy his nation. That is all.”

“Yes,” the Usurper said. And added, “You may go. I must discipline this creature a little more.”

“A little,” the Twelveworld Lord said, rising, and there was amusement in his voice that hid the unease Jahir sensed shrouding him like a cloak.

“Too much more and he’ll die of it,” the Usurper said. “Such fragile creatures, Twelveworld Lord. They will die beneath our ships and our claws.”

“And in our beds?”

A pause, but the Usurper said, “And in our beds.”

“Exalted,” the Twelveworld Lord said, bowing, and turned, coming face to face with Jahir. Their eyes met.

He is weak, Jahir thought, whispering the words.

The Twelveworld Lord hesitated.

Second left. Second plans this Emperor’s demise.

“Twelveworld Lord?” the Usurper asked, irritated.

He allowed Second to leave because he is weak. And if you leave, and take your legions with you… could you not come back and seize the throne for yourself?

The pupils in those magenta eyes contracted to slits.

The pirate threat is the perfect excuse. Leave. Take all your ships. If he does not stop you, that is proof enough, isn’t it?

“I beg your pardon, Exalted,” the Twelveworld Lord said, voice husky. “The blood is… very striking. Against white skin.”

“I suppose it is.” The Usurper sounded surly. “Go now.”

“Yes, Exalted.” But as the male passed, Jahir felt the brush of his thoughts. They had tightened from their diffuse unease into a hunger streaked black and eager red. It blended into the pain and the weakness, and Jahir allowed himself to sink into it.

“Send for the Surgeon,” the Usurper said to someone else, and Jahir no longer cared enough to see whom. “And have someone clean up the mess. He’s… dripping.”

Dripping. Still dripping?

It didn’t matter.

The Surgeon’s touch next, piercing his fugue. /Are you trying to kill yourself?/

/He struck me./ This seemed important. Jahir struggled to communicate why, could not.

/He nearly took your cheek off,/ the Surgeon replied. /Your blood’s not doing enough work as it is, you can’t afford to lose any of it./

Something about that… alarm briefly dispersed the fog in his head. /Don’t try to replace it!/

/What would I replace it with? I don’t know the first thing about synthesizing replacement blood for aliens./

Jahir let that go, then. The roquelaure repeated its piteous noises in his head, and he drifted. Oviin’s touch now, and the Surgeon’s. Their concern. The removal of the latter’s aura, like a cloud shadow gliding from a field, leaving it exposed to the sun. That was Oviin: that sense of gentle golden light. /You are badly ailing./ Oviin sounded aggrieved. /And your skin! It tears so easily./

/Talons,/ Jahir murmured, sensing that he was being guided into the bath.

/Was it worth it? What you did to earn this?/

/Yes,/ Jahir said. /Even if Sediryl can’t send the pirates, he’ll still leave./ He exhaled. /Worth it./

/Then rest. You have done too much./

/All that I could have done would have been as nothing,/ Jahir murmured. /Without you. You made it possible, alet./

He felt Oviin’s flush of pleasure before he lost reality, and this time he let it escape.

Recovery was achingly slow. His skin didn’t want to heal the Usurper’s scratches, and the roquelaure’s warning chimes came interspersed with constant verbalized messages about its malfunction. Every half hour now, he thought. He was forced to stumble to the wall in the mornings, but once he reached it, hanging was almost a relief. The ache in his joints seemed remote, though now and then he felt the streaking of blood traveling the underside of his arm and was transfixed by the vivid and sensual heat of it.

He developed a fever. The Surgeon suggested gel healing, but the Usurper refused.

“Your investment may die.”

“He’s not an investment,” the Usurper said. “He’s a decoration. That’s all.”

But he did not die, and a few days later the fever subsided, though the crust on his wounds often broke and resumed running. Oviin found it distressing in the extreme and forced him to lie down with a compress against his face after he came off the wall. /You must rest, Ambassador. The Twelveworld Lord has been making many calls and sending many messages. We have seen it, we who serve and clean and cook. Whatever you said sank deep in him. It won’t be long now. But your part is done./

Jahir tried to tell the Chatcaavan that he would be fine, no matter what happened, but Oviin wouldn’t hear of it. Nor would he accept the gift of the Eldritch shape. /Not yet./ Or /Not now./ And finally, softly, /You hear my thoughts, Ambassador. I find… that is enough for me./

Sensing what rested under those thoughts, Jahir bowed his head and accepted.

Night brought no surcease, for his sleep was restless on the stone floor.  But solitude had become a blessing, and the Usurper’s interruption of it distressed him. He no longer remembered how many days had passed since he’d been scored by the claws: enough for the cuts to once again be stiff, but what did that mean when they never closed? Days? Weeks? Not weeks, surely. He could not fit time into discrete pieces. If this continued, he would seep into the Pattern and there would be no gathering him back without Vasiht’h, or Lisinthir, or the hand of a god or goddess.

The Usurper was staring at him.

Jahir’s unease grew the longer the Chatcaavan remained there, unmoving. The pulse of the dragon’s thoughts had become more ordered, not less, but the channels ran scarlet from end to end, as if poured with blood. It made the air around the Usurper look like a red mist, pulsing with menace.

“The Twelveworld Lord has left with all his ships. He says…” A long pause as if to gather thoughts, but the Usurper was staring at him with all the focus of a predator. “That he’ll be back. As soon as he’s sure these rumors aren’t true.”

Jahir said nothing.

“All his ships,” the Usurper repeated. “Thousands of ships. To assess the threat of a few hundred pirates. A probably illusory threat.”

Still, he could not speak.

Seer, bloody-mouthed seer

where are your words now

“I didn’t call him back,” the Usurper said. “Because if he had disobeyed me, then it would have exposed me to those who thought me weak. But the fact that he has left has already done so. So I have lost either way.” He slowly canted his head, so slowly Jahir heard the vertebrae pop. “Second said you were dangerous. I thought that peril was all in your flesh. But it’s not, is it. It’s in your mind, which you speak through your mouth. So I ask myself… what is to be done with a mouthy alien? I could gag him. But then everyone would know I could not control him without external aid. It has to be done willingly. You must be forced to comply. And how does one make an alien comply?”

Sounds from the corridor. Dragging noises. Muffled whimpers.

“Fortunately, you yourself have shown me how one controls an alien,” the Usurper said. “It is all in the records of your stay here.”

The guards entered and threw Oviin to the ground between the Usurper and Jahir. Golden hair spilled over the dark stone, shining in the moonlight let in by the door. There were splotches all over Oviin’s body, and thin cuts that seeped, constant and thick and black.

Jahir cast his blankets aside and reached and his hand grazed the Chatcaavan’s shoulder as the Usurper raised a gun.

“NO!”

A shot, echoing in the chamber.

Blood everywhere. It was over so quickly. Jahir rolled Oviin into his arms and the light had already died in those gentle eyes.

“The Surgeon next, I think,” the Usurper said.

“The Surgeon is Outside!”

“But you like him,” the Usurper said. “So the Surgeon is next. Unless you shut up.”

Jahir stared up at him, unable to speak.

“Do we understand one another, Ambassador?”

“Yes,” Jahir whispered.

“Good.”

They left Oviin with him there, left the mess of his body, ungraceful in death, deprived of dignity. Jahir cradled the narrow head in his hands and pressed his brow to the Chatcaavan’s. There would be no teaching of the Eldritch shape. Oviin would never know the Change. Jahir’s body was failing around him, starved and fevered, but somehow he was the one who lived and Oviin had died, and not even because he’d been caught relaying messages to the Emperor. The Usurper had killed him only because he thought—thought—that Jahir cared for him.

And he’d been right.

Jahir bent over the body. The tremor began at the base of his spine and traveled outward, and for a long time he knew nothing but a bodily tension that built until he thought he would pass out.

But he didn’t. And the tension crested like a wave, flooding him with a resolve that dismissed his exhaustion, his weakness, the possibility that he might kill himself with further exertion. Eyes closed, Jahir reached outward. Downward. Throughout the tower. Slid into its bones, seeped into its air, seeded the dreams of hundreds of Chatcaava with fear and nightmare.

The mind he wanted was awake.

/Surgeon./

A clatter. He saw through the alien’s eyes: a tablet. A dropped stylus. Talons scrabbling for the edge of a desk, as if to ensure the world had not tilted.

/Speak, Surgeon, in your mind. I hear you./

/What… what are you doing! You… you can reach me without touching me??/

/I am capable of a great deal./ He listened to the roquelaure’s furious warnings impassively. /Though not for long. I take this risk to tell you that you are in danger. The Usurper does not recognize the validity of Outside as a protective status./

/What?/ the Surgeon hissed, shock framing the word with ice.

/He has told me today, after killing Oviin to silence me, that he would kill you next to keep me controlled. Because he perceived I cared about your fate./

That pause felt electric. Then, low, /You have not been silenced./

/Even my silences are dangerous./ No answer, but he did not need one. /Take steps to protect yourself and your family, Surgeon. And tell others. All the others. Nothing is sacred to this false Emperor. He is not Fitting./

Anger, rising like a smoldering sun. Matching resolve. A terrifying competence, hidden so long beneath a gruff exterior and the necessity of holding apart from a society too dangerous to engage. But it had become more dangerous to cling to neutrality, and they both knew it. /I hear you./

Jahir let the contact fade. His numb fingers moved slowly over Oviin’s stained and moon-silvered mane.

“It was you,” he whispered into that small ear. “You made it possible.”