The Dragons of Nova (Loom Saga #2)(92)
“I vote for Theodosia,” the second woman decided.
The final man thought it over a long moment. Florence wished she could ask him what ran through his head. What did one think while they were deciding the future of a guild? How did someone even approach a situation like that? It was a skill Florence wanted to imitate and learn.
He took a deep breath and made his choice. “I vote Powell.”
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.