The Dragons of Nova (Loom Saga #2)(15)
“See that I am, Finnyr, and you will have that which you desire someday.” The man’s eyes were alight at the prospect. Finnyr’s very existence rested in Yevun’s hands. But the King’s future was stacked precariously on the lesser Dragon’s shoulders. The brother of Petra’Oji, the man who would inherit House Xin by blood and rank should he somehow best his sister in a duel, or if Petra and Cvareh were suddenly and mysteriously found dead. “For now, I need you to speak with your dear little sister. I need answers.”
Finnyr paused. Petra’s was one entity that still deflated him with a mention after more than a decade. Shame was a seeping wound and Yveun pressed upon it to get what he wanted.
“What do you want to know?” the Dragon forced through his all-too-dull canines.
“I want to know how Cvareh survived the Riders. I want to know what happened to my schematics.” Yveun’s claws unsheathed at the mere mention of the drawings that held the most substantial progress made on the Philosopher’s box to date. “I want to know what Petra is keeping from me.”
“My lord, my sister, she—”
“No excuses and no half measures, Finnyr. You were born in the month of Lord Rok. Show me where your true heart lies.” Yveun rested his hands on the desk, his claws raking long lines across its surface as he stepped away. He’d have Finnyr flayed for an hour if he buffed them out of the resin. Yveun wanted them to last as a threat to the man until the whole catastrophe that had been the past three months was behind them. The Dono paused at the door. “Succeed, and I will forgive your prior lapse in judgment in even mentioning the schematics to your sister. Fail, and I will not let you live long enough to try again.”
Yveun sneered widely, showing off his wicked sharp fangs. He left the man fighting trembles, but felt immensely better himself. There was more to be done, but it was progress for now.
As loathe as he was to see powder blue skin, it had paid off to have the loyalty of Finnyr Xin’Kin To, eldest son of House Xin.
7. Arianna
It didn’t take long for Arianna to grow bored.
The room she’d been thrown into was uselessly lovely. She circled it a few times, staring out the tall windows to try to get her bearings. It was somewhere in the center of the castle’s x-axis, on western side, judging by the increasing brightness that streamed through one wall. She guessed she was somewhere in the middle of the y-axis as well.
Through both windows, she could see the curve of the carved stone, other colored glass portals dotting its surface. Those out the west-most facing window were far and the wall was sheer and smoothed. However, her other window was within an alcove of sorts. Relief carvings of sweeping birds across the face of the castle would make easy hand and foot holds, and it was sheltered from the gusts that regularly rattled the other window.
Why there were carvings on the outside of a castle, where only a select few with windows could see, escaped her. But seemingly everything about this place served to confound and enrage her, from the decor choices to the very Dragons living among them.
The bed had no less than ten pillows. Ten. As in, the number she would have to use two hands to count to. The fireplace burned cheerfully for a race of people who had skin as strong and thick as leather. Shelves were cluttered with all manner of paintings, bobbles, and strange devices that Arianna could not fathom a purpose for.
Cain had first had the audacity to refuse her winch box and daggers, claiming she was now under the protection of House Xin and such things were no longer needed. Arianna had cut a chunk from Dawyn’s throat with a straight razor in an effort to get to her effects before Cvareh’s “friend” did.
That had been the man’s first mistake. His second was when he threatened to burn her clothes due to the “stench of Loom” on them. Arianna had nearly painted the floor of the bath gold with Dragon blood before she finally submitted. She was outnumbered and it was a battle she’d never had a chance of winning, especially naked and needing to avoid every nick or scratch from the Dragons’ sharp talons. But her viciousness had forced them into a compromise—her clothing would be washed and boxed and hidden until it was decided what they were “doing with her.”
The satisfaction of backing them into a compromise was short-lived as they, in turn, forced her into the most offensive articles of clothing she’d ever worn. They were trying to make a fool of her with the garb, that much was obvious. Two-thirds of the shirt was literally missing and the skirt was utterly impractical. Arianna was a heinous seamstress, but necessity was the mother of invention and she understood the mechanics and principles behind tailoring.
It’d taken her nearly an hour of muttered curses but she’d finally modified some found garments in the room she’d been locked in into something that suited her a little better. Loose trousers belled around her knees, cinched at the waist. Over top, she wore a long tunic dress, split at the bottom much like her White Wraith coat. Just feeling the hem at her calves brought back reassurances in triplicate.
Dressed and harnessed, Arianna opened the window she’d selected, pushing it against the near-constant wind to be open flush against the outer wall. She placed her palms on the sill, leaning over. Nothing stared back up at her, the hazy clouds fogging over the world of Loom below in shifting degrees of opaque. If she didn’t know it was there, she wouldn’t imagine there could be anything solid beneath that impenetrable line.