Max stood again, as the woman at Powell’s side stepped away. “Powell, Vicar Harvester, so voted on the thirteenth day of the eleventh month of the year one thousand eighty-one. Lead with wisdom.”
“Lead with wisdom,” the room repeated, Florence included. Even though she had never seen a Vicar voting ceremony, she had read about them. And, while this was certainly an unorthodox situation, falling to convention felt right. It harkened back to the old days of the guilds and the traditions they kept—the things the Dragons could only take from Loom if the guilds let them.
“Sow and reap.” Maxwell placed his hand on Powell’s shoulder.
“Sow and reap.” Theodosia did the same.
“Sow and reap.” The other Masters spoke the words and joined as well. Soon, the room was one large, spoked wheel with Powell at its center. “Sow and reap” filled the air and connected the Harvesters as much as their physical contact.
“Sow and reap, Powell,” Florence whispered, apart from the group. To her surprise, Derek and Nora echoed the same.
It was a dark stroke of luck, but a stroke of luck all the same. Florence leaned against the wall, content to let Powell have his moment and to let the Harvesters find comfort in it. For she was no longer worried about finding time or sympathy from the Vicar Harvester.
41. Yveun
Yveun was awoken with a sharp knock on the door. He gave a low growl from the back of his throat, expressing his discontent at whatever fool would dare disturb him this early in the morning. He chose to ignore the offender. Instead of flaying them, he curled toward his queen.
Let no one claim he wasn’t a benevolent ruler.
There was another knock. Another low growl. And a voice that changed the pace of the early hours of dawn.
“Dono, Dono, I have returned from the Xin Manor.” Finnyr.
Yveun narrowed his eyes in the dim light. Finnyr of all people would not be so bold before him. Which meant whatever he had learned at the manor was worth risking Yveun’s ire. He bared his teeth in the twilight dawn, as if the scent of wine and poison could still waft through his open balcony.
Coletta stood without a word. She drew a sheer vermillion robe around her that floated like an aura of freshly broken sunlight as she excused herself without word into a small side room. They rarely let themselves be seen together, especially fondly. It suited their image better when the perception was the fearsome King and his unwanted Ryu.
Yveun stood, walking to the door. He paused briefly. There was a different magic in the air. Muffled by the door, it was hard to make out. But, judging from its ferocity alone, it was certainly not Finnyr’s.
He eased open the door. His posture was relaxed, but every muscle in his body was taught and primed, ready to explode. The claws of the hand behind the door were already unsheathed.
“Who is your guest?” Yveun asked directly, narrowing his eyes at the unfamiliar Dragon at Finnyr’s side.
There was no time for Finnyr to formulate a response.
The illusion over the woman rippled the second she moved, too complex to maintain over the bulky clothes she wore. Yveun crisply heard the sound of bone breaking and the slicing of flesh. The scent of cedar assaulted his nose as Finnyr coughed blood.
With a spray of gold, Yveun watched as the careful play he had been orchestrating for years was cut down before him. Finnyr, his toy, his opportunity to slice Xin down and seat a loyal shadow in the Oji’s seat, could not be killed here and now. They were too close, Petra too weakened, to stray from the course.
Rather than reaching for the woman, Yveun reached for Finnyr. He gripped the man and pulled forward, un-impaling him from the woman’s blade. She twisted her knife through the empty air with a snarl, its mark gone. Yveun threw Finnyr behind him, hoping the wordless Dragon would muster enough sense to crawl from the fighting. All the worthless Xin had to do was keep himself alive, yet Yveun was unconvinced if he’d manage that much.
The woman lunged for him, all teeth and growls and golden blades. Yveun dodged, letting her momentum carry her into his den. He slammed shut the door as she turned.
Two bright lilac eyes stared at him, nearly glowing in the first sunlight of morning. She was gray, bland, swaddled like a babe in industrial garb. A Fenthri turned Chimera. Unmarked. Addressing him like she was a champion.
Yveun wanted to laugh, but he recognized something in her eyes beyond their oddly familiar shade. It was the same look Petra had when she stared at him. It was the same look he saw in the mirror.
A broken lust for something that you would drown the world in its own blood for twice over.
He didn’t announce his attack. He didn’t throw a threat. He didn’t give her the opportunity to know he was about to claim her life. It didn’t matter how or why she was here; she was an agent working against his goals and that was all he needed to know. Fools threatened. Killers moved.
But his claws didn’t meet flesh. They met a golden dagger that sprung to life seemingly with its own consciousness, like some kind of barbed tail tethered to a line. His hand pushed against the weapon in surprise, cutting to bone on the edge of the blade.
The blade twisted, deepening its bite onto him. One hand closed around his wrist, pulling him in one direction. She landed the first hit square onto his face with claws.
The dullness of shock wore off quickly. Yveun dipped down, pushing the blade and her hand back. He reached with his teeth, sinking through all the mess of fabric and leather to her shoulder.
Most Dragons never attacked with their fangs out of the taboo associated with imbibing. But that made such attacks the perfect opportunity because they were unexpected. The woman gave a grunt, biting in a yell of pain. She let go of his hand, reaching for his neck. His claws gouged into her side and they both drew blood.
But the slit across his throat was enough to make his jaw relax. She leapt away, her dagger lashing out. Yveun parried it with his claws effortlessly.
It was then that he noticed the blood pouring from the wound on her shoulder. The taste it left lingering in his mouth. As gold as his, she did not bleed the rot of a normal Chimera. On his tongue was the taste of honeysuckle, the faint essence of Finnyr, and the recognition that didn’t require the other man’s obvious interjection.
“Arianna! It’s the Master Rivet, the engineer. The one from the rebellion!”
The woman turned to Finnyr, momentarily distracted by who she wanted to kill more. Yveun sprung for her when she was caught in her own loathing, barreling into her like a bull. Arms around her waist, he dug into her. He felt her knife stab into his shoulder.
Golden blood poured over his hands like an omen of all his worst fears.
“The Rivet who claimed to make the Philosopher’s Box.” The scent of blood made him feel alive, woke his senses and gave him power. Yveun gave an extra push and she tumbled under his weight. “I’m sure you’ve confused many a Dragon with your trick of bleeding gold.”
Arianna rolled away from his violent slashes, her blood leaving a trail on the balcony. The spool on her hip spun and the line whipped forward, keeping him at bay. Yveun ducked, narrowly missing it wrapping around his neck. She panted, reclaimed her feet and kicked, spinning midair, seeking purchase against him with feet or claw or wire.
But Yveun dodged her.
The woman was good, that much he’d admit. Yveun began to laugh, which only seemed to whip her into more of a frenzy. He could see how this creature had killed his Leona. It made so much more sense than the unambitious and untrained Cvareh. He had seen these movements in the pit, another explanation settled just by watching her attacks.
Cvareh was not mighty. Xin was not mighty. It was this girl, this prodigy of two worlds, who threatened him time and again.
As he dodged an attack, Yveun felt the line of a wire wrap around his ankle, pulling. The world fell from under him as he slipped back. She lunged
forward, her knee digging into his side. Her blades above him, he didn’t even struggle, he merely kept laughing.
It was delightful.
“I expected more of a fight from the Dragon King,” she snarled.
“I’ve no further interest in fighting you, my pet.” Yveun relaxed, noting movement from the corner of his eye. “You are more valuable alive, at least for now.”
“You’ve lost.” She raised the dagger in triumph.
“And you wasted the chance to kill me like the child you are.”
Coletta loomed behind the Chimera who thought she had him pinned. In her hand was the smallest of daggers, little more than a letter opener. Without a single expression crossing her features, she dug the tiny blade into Arianna’s neck.
Arianna’s spare hand rose to the wound as she turned in shock. But her eyes were already losing focus, the artery quickly carrying Coletta’s poison to her brain. The Chimera twisted her blade in her hand and swung backwards.
Coletta stepped back in an effortless dodge.
Off balance and sluggish, the Rivet tipped sideways, landing in an undignified heap at Yveun’s side. Her eyes held awareness still. The only thing capable of attacking him. But looks couldn’t kill, and Yveun stood.
“She had you on a few attacks,” Coletta both teased and chastised.
“I merely didn’t want to kill her,” Yveun explained.
“I reasoned.” Coletta leaned forward, drawing the dagger from the woman’s neck. “The poison will wear off within the hour. Move her before then.”
Yveun watched with both fascination and chilling horror the gold blood that dribbled from the hole. This was what Fenthri could be capable of, if they were left to their own devices. The ability to become mighty enough to slay Dragon Riders and challenge even the Dono himself. All from the might of stolen organs.
“Your insight is unparalleled.” Coletta began to collect her things after nothing more than a cautionary glance that showed she had heard him. Yveun looked to Finnyr, knowing the source of his mate’s discomfort. It was very rare for them to have a guest in their chambers. “You have many words to tell me,” he spoke to the pasty blue Dragon.
“I will tell you all of them.” Finnyr thrust his face against the ground at Yveun’s feet. “But we have more pressing matters. Petra has sworn to challenge me today in court.”
And Petra would win.
Yveun sighed. The blue sack of flesh before him sometimes seemed more trouble than it was worth. As easy as it would be to off Finnyr once and for all, doing so would be a half measure, the easy route. He had cultivated Finnyr for too long to throw away the effort.
“After yesterday, there need not be another day of Court,” Yveun announced. “She will not have a chance to challenge you, as we will be on Lysip within the hour. I will announce the Court ended.”
Yveun stared at the unconscious engineer, the woman who had single-handedly caused him so much trouble. There was information he needed from her. But for once, he was going to have the time to extract it. And Yveun would do so with deliciously slow, full measures.
42. Florence
The room began to clear and Florence bided her time. She would not endear herself to Powell by taking this moment from him. Plus, it was the silent observation that freed her mind time enough to think.
She had come here on behalf of the Vicar Alchemist to secure the loyalty of the Harvesters. Florence glanced at Nora and Derek. Well, she had come here as an escort to those appointed to secure the Ter.1 guild’s loyalty.
But a rift was slowly growing between her and her Alchemist friends. Not one of the heart—in that respect they were as close as ever. The rift was one of purpose. Nora and Derek were still being pulled along by the mechanisms of fate and chance. Florence had seen those gears spin too many times. There were two types of people in the world: those who loaded the gun, and those who pulled the trigger.
Florence wanted to be the latter.
She didn’t want to live another moment in a world of the Dragons’ making. Certainly, there were some Dragons, like Cvareh, who were genuine and peaceful and kind. But the more interaction Florence had with the race, the more she saw that Arianna had been right all along. The Dragons were vicious, destructive creatures that had no true regard for the world. No matter what Powell said, Florence couldn’t believe their intentions matched their actions. They were compassionate only so long as it suited them, and even then, it was the Harvesters who found the solutions to the problems Loom faced.
Florence pushed away from the wall, starting for the ever-thinning center of the room. There were only a few journeymen with fully inked sickles on their cheeks, and the Masters. It would be as good a time as any.
“Congratulations, Vicar Harvester,” Florence commended sincerely.
Powell’s coal colored eyes met hers, offset by the mess of long hair that was perpetually determined to hide his right eye. He looked haggard, they all were. But the man had aged nearly to double his life in an hour. His cheek had yet to be tattooed with a Master’s circle and he was already the Vicar.
“Tell me of the rebellion.” Powell wasted no time. He knew what they were there for.
“The Alchemists are working toward a Philosopher’s Box.” Derek stepped forward. “If we have the appropriate amount of gold and organs—”
“A Philosopher’s Box?” Max snorted in amusement. “We need solutions, and the Alchemists give us dreams.”
“It is quite real, I assure you,” Derek responded faster than Florence could.
“Your guild has been claiming such since before you were born.” Theodosia stepped forward. “But we have yet to see the product. Stitching together a Chimera with that much magic without falling is impossible.”
“We have a solid lead.” Nora joined the fray, as if to prevent Derek from being outnumbered by the Harvesters.
“Leads and lies.” Max turned to the new Vicar. “Powell, we have other more pressing matters to concern ourselves with. We have to reorganize the guild. We have to rebuild Faroe. We are responsible for what remains of the Harvesters.”
Powell’s eyes never left hers. The room buzzed around them, yet Powell remained focused, searching, silently calling out to something in Florence’s soul that he may have felt all along. What within him had made him speak to her on that train? What connected them with such faith?
“I know where you can go.” The idea came to her in that moment, thinking of the fundamental essence that joined every Fenthri at the core. It was the essence that Loom so desperately needed to recover. “I know where you all can go.”
“Where?” the elder asked.
“Ter.0.”
“From the fisher’s hook onto his spear!” Theodosia threw her hands into the air in exasperation. “We have our own wasteland here. We don’t need to go to another.”
“This is our home,” Max agreed. “We won’t abandon it.”
“I’m not saying abandon it.” They didn’t understand yet. “I’m saying go to Ter.0, and meet with the other guilds.”
“You want to hold a Vicar Tribunal.” Powell was the first to realize.
“A Vicar Tribunal? There hasn’t been one in over a decade,” one of the journeymen interjected.
“Exactly.” Florence remained focused on Powell. His decision was the only one that mattered now. He was the Vicar. “The Dragons split us apart, forced us to be silent. They bred animosity between the guilds where there was none. They separated us as children, forced us to learn apart, to compete. They fostered silence with magic. Whisperers may make it faster to converse, but there is no magic that can compare to seeing another’s face, truly hearing their plight with your own ears. Anything less is separating, impersonal, dividing. It makes us think the only way we are strong is with their help.
“But Loom was strong long before the Dragons.” She addressed the
elder of the group, the man who should remember best the bygone days of another time when Loom was free. “We stood together. Links in a chain. One strong, unified, force.
“We gave the Dragons technology. We gave them gold. And, yes, they have given us some insight,” she begrudgingly admitted, thinking about Harvesting practices. “But that does not make them our saviors. They did not find the solution; they merely identified the problem. We are our own saviors and we must—”
Powell held up his hand, cutting her short.
“Enough, Florence.” He sighed softly, pressing his eyes closed a moment. Florence’s heart raced, not just from her risky declaration, but from truly not knowing what Powell’s reaction to it would be. The tiniest of smiles curled his mouth when he opened his eyes again. “The Harvesters agree to a Vicar Tribunal.”
“Really?” Theodosia shifted uncertainly. “The Dragons torched the Tribunal hall and the rest of Ter.0 in the war. They said if we assemble again, they will do worse.”
“What could be worse than what we have already witnessed?” Powell asked. All were silent. “We have no more guild for them to destroy. Faroe has burned. Our mines are stalled. Our fields will go unplowed. Our fishers may be moored for who knows how long, while we attempt to recover what was lost. What more can the Dragons take from us?”
“Our pride, if we let them.” The question was rhetorical, but Florence wanted to drive the point home. It was an almost Arianna-like quip and she was instantly proud of herself for thinking of it so deftly on the spot.
“And the Alchemists will not let them,” Derek said, lending his support.
“The Vicar Alchemist will support the Tribunal?” Powell asked.
“I have no doubt,” Derek affirmed. “Vicar Sophie wants to see the rebellion to power. She wants it for Loom. I’m sure she will stand at the Tribunal.”
Powell seemed satisfied by the response. “We will get word across the narrow strait then, to the Rivets in Ter.3. They are connected by land to the Ravens, who can then get word to the Revolvers.”