No longer concerning herself with logging every Dragon in residence, Arianna shifted her focus to the residence itself. During her schooling in the Rivets guild, she had learned about architecture. It wasn’t her forte, but she understood the basic principle as any good Rivet would be able to. With every project, the first thing a designer was taught to look at was the function of the space, followed by allowances for land and materials. The result was a blissful logic across Loom. Everything had a purpose, and the reasoning behind that purpose was simple to see.
She could not see the purpose in half the decisions the architects made here.
Hallways led to nowhere. Rooms materialized in the least logical places she could fathom. Alcoves with what must be months’ worth of embellishments on their stonework were tucked away in obscurity. There were switchbacks and odd connections that made it nearly impossible to map the palace in her mind.
After nearly an hour of wandering, Arianna knew the only way she’d be able to find her way back to her room would be to let herself get discovered by one of the wandering occupants. It only made her resentment for the Dragons grow. Of course their way of life would prove as aggravating as their very existence.
She was about to give herself over to the next Dragon she encountered, when the scent of woodsmoke tickled her nose. It sizzled with familiarity she couldn’t deny. Cvareh. The man was close.
Like a bloodhound, Arianna tracked the essence of magic through narrow corridors and wide thoroughfares alike. Her ears twitched as the scent grew. The familiar tones of his speech, muffled yet from distance, echoed like an invisible whisper tether between them. He had imbibed from her and she from him; there was no place he could hide now where she wouldn’t find him, and the fact wasn’t nearly as repulsive to her as she thought it should be.
“… She will hand me my army?” an unfamiliar voice echoed from behind the door she’d tracked to.
“For Loom, there is nothing she wouldn’t do,” Cvareh replied.
Arianna dulled the sharpness of her anger at the idea of Cvareh correctly describing the design of her mind to someone else with the curiosity of what else he might say about her. If she knew what he told others about her, she could adjust her actions accordingly when the need to be subversive arose. She stilled her hand over the latch of the wide door, exercising patience.
“Very well,” the female voice continued after a long pause. “I will tell this Chimera what she needs to hear.”
“Arianna will know if you lie to her.”
Laughter erupted at the notion. “Brother, did your time on Loom dull your senses? You think I cannot handle a Chimera?”
Brother. That meant the speaker was certainly his sister—the woman Arianna had come to meet.
“She is of Loom, but do not underestimate her for it. Heed my counsel on this, Petra.”
“I fear no Dragon, so I hold no more concern for Chimera or Fenthri. I will sing the song she wishes to hear and she will thank me for it. Then I will have my army.”
Arianna rolled her eyes and pushed down the door handle. Loathing seared through her veins and she did little to temper it. She had come up to the Dragon’s world, allowed herself to be bare before strangers and treated like a simpleton. She had to draw a line somewhere.
“Your song will fall flat, I fear, since I have heard the truth of its melody,” Arianna seethed by means of greeting.
At one end of the wide room, Cvareh sat in surprise on the second level of a dais. Above him was a woman who looked as though her skin was made from the deepest blue ocean waters. Hair the color of Dragon blood spilled from her head in thick tresses. And, instead of shock or anger, she smiled widely, baring her canines.
Arianna replied in kind.
“I was told you had been sequestered.” Petra’s eyes had a nearly identical color to Cvareh’s, but they were similar in no other way. There was a savage edge to their shape, and they regarded her with a ravenous desire to consume every scrap of courage Arianna might even attempt to muster.
Arianna would reveal no seams in the iron walls of her resolve. She was the opposite and equal of this woman. She bent before no man, woman, king, or queen—and most certainly no Dragon. Folding her arms over her chest, Arianna leaned against the door, making no effort to cross the room. Foremost, she wanted to make it clear that she would not approach like some groveling mortal before an idol.
But not having to cross the floor was also appealing.
What builder would ever think it was a good idea to make the floor of a suspended castle from glass? Arianna deeply hoped that the multi-colored design was, in actuality, crystal or stone. Something, anything, stronger than liquefied and hardened sand. But she had her doubts.
“Were you also told that I cut a chunk from one of your servants’ necks? Or bit the ear off another?”
“Those details were neglected.” Instead of anger, there was a twisted sort of amusement playing between the woman’s words.
“Arianna, you should—”
Arianna shot Cvareh a glare.
“Silence, Cvareh,” Petra echoed Arianna’s sentiment, much to her surprise. “I am told that you have come to assess me for our negotiations with Loom’s rebellion to proceed.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Arianna relaxed her hands, placing them behind her, ready to grab for her daggers in an instant.
“Cvareh tells me you seek assurances for Loom should I rule. I will gladly give them.”
Arianna snorted. Did the woman really think her words would mean anything after what Arianna had just heard? “And what do you think your assurances are worth?”
“The word of an Oji? Very much.”
Well, Petra certainly believes her words, Arianna thought silently. She was shaping up to be exactly what Arianna had feared. The Dragon would be another ruler that saw herself seated above the world, who paid little attention to the plights of Loom and cared even less.
Which meant Arianna might need to course-correct. If she wouldn’t get anywhere with Petra, she would need to secure a way on her own to get the materials needed for the Philosopher’s Box. To give Loom a fighting chance in the power struggle to come. Let the Dragons fight among themselves, kill each other off. If they turned their eyes to Loom, Loom would be ready. There were options before her, still, and she would consider them all for Florence’s sake.
“We don’t have Oji—” Arianna tried to form the word so carefully it bordered on mocking, “—on Loom. So it means nothing to me, Petra.”
The claws shot out from the woman’s fingers so fast that Arianna was surprised they didn’t launch from her hands. Dragons were predictable. If one didn’t give in to their excessive system of titles and decorum, they lost all patience. Arianna would push until she exposed the truth of this woman’s nature.
Cvareh was an anomaly among Dragons. As was the fact that Arianna found him tolerable. The fact that, in some impossible way, she truly believed he harbored no ill will toward Loom. But it ended with him. All other Dragons thus far had proved just as she’d expected.
“I must remind you that you are not on Loom any longer, Arianna.” The woman continued to smile with murderous intent. She stood, unfurling like a sail, her ego ballooning on her magic to a size that was greater than her physical frame. “You are in my House. You are under my protection. Your presence is a liability to the wellbeing of my family, should you be discovered by the Dragon King. You are alive because I permit it. And for all this, you will call me Petra’Oji.”
Arianna shrugged. “I’ll call you as I please.”
The woman stepped forward. Cvareh rose as well, but made no attempt to impede his sister’s progress. Certainly, Petra had told him to stay out of their squabble, and Arianna echoed the sentiment. But the fact that he didn’t struggle to resist even the slightest urge to rise to her defense told Arianna everything.
He stood behind his sister, at home on Nova. She stood as a foreigner in a strange land on behalf of a Fenthri girl. No matter how close they’d become on their journey, an impenetrable line was still drawn between them. It had been foolish to think the chasm could ever be crossed.
Arianna drew her dagger. Her other hand hovered over the clip dangling from her winch box. Petra stopped in the middle of the room, the glass floor illuminating her from below as though she stood in the sky itself.
“Sheathe your blade. I have no interest in spilling blood here.”
“Certainly fooled me.” Arianna didn’t oblige the command.
“Cvareh told me of your ferocity. He told me you killed the King’s Bitch, which tells me two things, Arianna the Rivet.” She held up two clawed fingers. “One, that we are not enemies. Two, that killing you would be a waste. If you are not my enemy and you are a fierce fighter, then it would be a shame to see you die needlessly.”
Anger flashed like gunpowder in the priming pan of her emotional arsenal, but it was short lived. For, as frustrating as it was to see, Cvareh’s suspicions echoed true. She and Petra seemed to hold something in common, for Arianna had used much the same logic when it came to deeming who was worthy to kill.
“You have yet to prove that you are not my enemy. And you are doing a poor job of endearing yourself to me if you wish an ally.” Arianna sheathed her dagger.
Petra smiled. It was an arrogant look, but not sinister. Arianna couldn’t shake the condescending feeling of it, however. The Dragon began to walk again, making her way toward a different door.
“My family has been fighting the Dragon King for centuries. A few more days, weeks, months, years, will not hurt me. Time to wait for you to come around is something I have.” Petra paused in the open door frame across the room, staring Arianna down for one last long moment. “The real question is, do you?”
Arianna wanted to gouge out the knowing gaze from her eye sockets. The Dragon would live more than six lifetimes of the average Fenthri. Arianna could threaten with the Philosopher’s Box all she wanted. But the woman could stall until long after Florence was dead.
Petra hummed softly at Arianna’s silence, a purr of victory. “Cvareh, escort our guest back to her chambers before she makes a scene.”
Arianna watched the Dragon leave, walking as though she already owned the world.
8. Florence
“I’m telling you I need more.” Florence balked at the Revolver who was in charge of the Alchemists’ armory.
“I’m telling you, you’re not getting any.” The man was old; Florence guessed he was nearly thirty-eight. His black hair had begun to twist in weird directions, haloing thinly around the crown of his head. It was salted with gray almost the same color as his skin. The dark symbol of the Revolvers tattooed on his cheek sagged. She’d never met a Revo as old as him before. It wasn’t usually a profession that boasted particularly long lifespans. Perhaps being assigned far from the guild hall in Dortam had helped spare him from the Revolver’s suicidal groupthink.
“Not a day ago I counted that you had at least two barrels of sulfur. I know charcoal isn’t hard to come by, and you don’t need much graphite…” He was back to ignoring her as she spoke, counting and checking off quantities behind the gated shelves. “Why are you being so stingy with the gunpowder?”
“Because you’re wasting it.” He didn’t even turn.
“I am not wasting it. I’m trying to help you.”
The man shot a look over his shoulder that told Florence exactly what he thought of that claim. Florence put her hands on her hips, trying not to deflate. Certainly she’d had some failures… a lot of failures. But she was making progress. It was just difficult to explain that progress to anyone who hadn’t seen the implosion beam she was trying to recreate based on what the Riders had used to attack the airship she’d ridden on weeks ago.
“You fashion yourself a Revo.” He punctuated the statement with a sigh, finally giving her his attention. “But it shows that you have not had proper training.”
“I had ample tr—”
“I looked through your notes.”
“Y-you went into my laboratory?” Florence stuttered. There was no more sacred place on Loom than the halls of research. It was more private than a bed and more secret than a bath. She would rather parade naked through the guild than think of someone poking through her research.
“I did.” He was utterly unapologetic. “I’ve been letting you leech off our supplies for weeks. I wanted to see the fruits of your labors… or lack thereof.”
“My research wouldn’t make sense to someone else. My shorthand isn’t common.”
“You’re right on both accounts. It doesn’t make sense to someone else because you are chasing rabbits without knowing the first thing of the hunt. And your shorthand is uncommon for a youth like you, but the style was fairly popular twenty years ago.”
Florence pursed her lips, taking issue with his tone.
“The Wraith taught you, didn’t she?”
“She did,” Florence affirmed proudly. Ari had quickly become infamous among the Alchemists. She’d only been there about two weeks before flying to Nova, but in that time she’d worked the Vicar into a fit, claimed to be the creator of the Philosopher’s Box—a real Philosopher’s Box, and produced so many clockwork locks that half the initiates couldn’t get into their rooms after they quickly forgot the complexity of Arianna’s designs.
“The woman is half monster and half master. I can’t deny it,” he continued before Florence could correct him in Ari’s defense on the former. “But she is a Master Rivet. I’ve no doubt you benefited from her tutelage. You ask the right questions and you’ve been trained to think beyond what is there to what could be. You are young but you have the foundation of one truly raised on Ter.0.” Sadness lined the man’s eyes at the mention of the lost continent, a way of life that had been destroyed by the Dragons. “But she is not a Revolver. She cannot teach you the skills of follow-through on those theories. And, to that end, you are lacking.”
“Then you teach me.”
The man scoffed, brushing away the notion with a wave of his hand. “If I’d wanted a pupil I would’ve remained near the guild hall chasing my circle. I’ve not the time, energy, or interest for a student.”
“Then give me the gunpowder so I can continue to learn on my own.”
“No.”
Florence felt like she was stuck in a loop. “How am I supposed to improve?”
“Go back to the Revolvers, have whomever you claim was teaching you—despite your being a marked Raven—continue to do so.”
“Even if I could do that…” Florence didn’t actually know if she could. Her teachers likely stopped going to their meeting places when she’d stopped showing up. Arianna had been the one to forge those relationships. “I want to help the resistance.”
“Then help us, and don’t be a leech on our powder.”
“I—”
“Go away, girl. There’s nothing more to say.” The man turned his back on her again.
Florence couldn’t help herself; she shot one nasty face at his ugly salted hair before storming out of the armory. The guild continued on around her. Initiates worked on magic, reagents, pharmaceuticals, and a half dozen other things with all the help and support of a guild behind them. Florence was the only one adrift.
She slunk back to her tiny laboratory with her tail between her legs in the hope of licking her wounds in relative peace. She had only about twenty minutes of quiet before her door opened for two Alchemists. Nora and Derek helped themselves into her space, crowding around her table without invitation.
“You weren’t at dinner.” Derek dropped a plate before her.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Do you know how quickly your body will go into starvation mode if you don’t eat?” Nora leaned f
orward, resting her elbows on the table. “The second it does, it starts breaking down your muscle for energy because it’s the densest source in your body. It also destroys your ability to process—”
“I get it. I get it.” Florence hooked the plate and pulled it toward her. She was hungry, she just didn’t want to be around people. But it seemed she had an audience despite her efforts. And, if she was going to be miserable either way, she may as well be miserable and full.
“What has you so upset?” Derek asked after she tucked in.
Florence offered them both a quick summary of her encounter with the armory master.
Derek leaned back and folded his arms, listening thoughtfully. Nora hummed and nodded along, picking off the vegetables that were too bland for Florence’s taste. The other girl was the first one to speak when Florence finished her tale.
“He has a point.”
“As do I.” Florence frowned.
“His is more valid,” Nora insisted. “You haven’t done much here.”
“I’m working on making long-term change.”
“At least by blowing up trees in the forest,” Derek added dryly, earning him a sharp look. He remained unapologetic.
“You two go through reagents like water. And I’ve seen how quickly chemicals disappear when you’re working on something new.”
“But we’re Alchemists. This is our home, our guild,” Nora reminded her, as though she could’ve somehow forgotten. “It isn’t the place for you to run your… whatever tests you run. You should go home for that.”
Florence rolled a canister across the desk as Nora spoke. If she hit it too hard it would blow up the three of them. Though she neglected to mention that fact about the “tests” she ran. “I thought the resistance believed in the old ways of Loom? The notion that men and women should choose to study what they please. That there’s more to be learned from working together than apart?”
“We do. But if our resistance falls, it doesn’t matter what we believe.”