The Dragons of Nova (Loom Saga #2)(65)

But eventually, she knew it could not be helped if he continued as he was.

Petra stared into the setting sun, the gold fading in the wake of Lord Xin’s hour growing nigh. Petra invited the strength of the Death-giver into her heart. So, too, would she someday watch the sun set on House Rok.





29. Florence


“How did the Dragons save Loom?” Florence was utterly baffled. All her life, she’d felt the negative effects of the Dragons’ presence in her world.

“How old are you?” Powell asked.

“Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen later this year.”

“And you’re still an initiate?” He raised his eyebrows, referring to her outlined mark. “You should have taken the second round of tests for Journeyman by now.”

Florence stayed her tongue, choosing to look out the window.

“I see.” She had no doubt Powell actually did. “Revolvers, then?”

She neither confirmed nor denied the fact.

Powell merely chuckled at her silence. “Come with me, Flor.”

Florence followed the Harvester away from the outer ring of windows and into a narrow hall lit by biophosphorous. She took note of the same lanterns she had seen in the tunnels below. “Does Faroe have no generators?”

The man glanced at the lanterns. “There isn’t much room for anything unnecessary here. Generators take up precious space that could be otherwise dedicated to the essentials.”

“I see,” she mumbled as they pressed onward and upward.

The stairs wound straight up into an open second floor. Large tables made a ring by each of the windows. Men and women, all bearing a sickle on their cheeks, walked between them, stopping at smaller tables to check things and make notes along the way. Chimera sat in an innermost ring of chairs, their brightly colored ears betraying their black blood.

“This is where we plan new mines,” Powell explained. “We have a bird’s eye view of the immediate area. Each of the other cities in Ter.1 has towers of their own that function for the same or similar purposes. To the north, it’s mostly plotting farmland. On the coastlines, they serve as lighthouses for the sailors as well.”

He led her over to one of the tables that sat flush against a window, strategically picking one with the least amount of activity.

“On the maps we mark the depth and location of existing mines, as well as what they’re producing.”

The map was covered with marks, crossed out and marked again and again. Lines in different colored chalk wound around and between them. Dust from past coloring hazed the paper.

“The chalk is for veins and pockets of minerals, which we then—” He directed Florence to the inner table that sat opposite. “Mark and note how much is harvested. These numbers are compared against historic numbers and reports from the guilds to estimate how much needs to be pulled from the earth.”

He motioned toward the Chimera sitting in the middle, engaged in conversations seemingly with their palms, fingertips touching their ears, or with the other Harvesters who walked around the room.

“Then the reports go out to the mines, as well as to another group of Chimera upstairs who then communicate with the Ravens to see the resources are ultimately moved to where they need to go.”

“How did the communication happen before magic?” Florence couldn’t help but wonder.

“Much more slowly,” Powell admitted. “Letters delivered by couriers. Though our overall perception on mining was different then.”

“It’s fascinating,” she admitted. “But I fail to see how this relates to the Dragons saving Loom?” Saying the words singed her tongue; her body physically rejected the notion.

“Look here again.” He tapped the papers he’d carefully spread out on the table. “This is one mine and this column is the overall output for all minerals over time.”

Her eyes skimmed the years and the numbers. It went back over six decades, a virtual eternity. The figures became more reliable with time, but it wasn’t until the year the Dragon King became Loom’s sovereign that all the rows were consistently filled in. Despite this, Florence could see the trend clearly.

“It was a lot more before the Dragons.”

“It was,” Powell agreed, as if she’d suddenly understood. Florence gave him a look that said she didn’t. “For generations, the mines sprawled as if the earth went on forever and the minerals we found would never run out of resources. When we found new pockets, we’d pursue. When we ran out, we dug deeper, and deeper, and deeper.”

Florence was reminded of the cavernous chasms they’d crossed to reach Faroe.

“The Harvesters had produced the most addicting drug Loom had ever known: progress. We never questioned if we should, only if we could, and the idea spawned the rest of the guilds. We asked and asked, what would we find if we pushed just one peca further into the earth?”

“But because Loom had those resources, the Alchemists made medicine, the Rivets created engines, the Ravens laid track, the Revolvers built guns.” She had yet to see the flaw in it.

“And all of these things enabled us to dig further and further. It was a self-feeding system, a chain linked by the need to produce.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“What happens when it runs out?”