The Rebels of Gold (Loom Saga #3)(35)

“I suggest you find some,” Cain said firmly. “House Xin needs you.”

“Finnyr has not said if I am to remain Ryu.” Cvareh shook his head. “Even if he did, this is not what was intended. I was to help Petra, not become Oji myself.”

“Pull yourself together. We need a leader.” Cain sighed, looking out through the windows. “Plus, life is made of missed intentions.”

“Poetic.”

“I heard it at a tea parlor in Napole.”

Cvareh chuckled and shook his head. With his friend, he should’ve known. “I think he will avoid appointing a Ryu.” Cvareh whispered what he had been too afraid to even think. “If there is no Ryu, he’s less likely to be assassinated from within Xin.”

“Because if it’s not in a clear duel and there’s no Ryu, succession isn’t assured.” Cain cursed under his breath. “Damn that Yveun.”

Cvareh was inclined to agree.

“What’s worse is that Finnyr will get away with it. Because he knows you love this house too much not to keep functioning as Ryu, with or without title.”

Once more, Cvareh’s silence was his agreement. He’d always gone along. He’d spent every moment and every breath in devotion to his house. He’d only done what others had set out for him. But what should he do now, when there was no clear path?

“This is wretched.”

Cvareh sighed and leaned back, wishing he had his sibling to lean against.

“What is it?” Cain made note of his shift in demeanor.

“I wonder how much could have been avoided if Petra had just given him some favor.”

“Turn sympathetic to Finnyr and I will duel you myself,” Cain threatened.

“Twenty gods, no.” Cvareh shook his head. “Merely wishing things were different.”

“Wishing gets us nothing. We need action.” Cain folded his arms over his chest, beginning to pace. “We need to show Yveun that we won’t tolerate these slights.”

“We need to bide our time.” Cvareh tried to use his words as a mental block to slow Cain down, but they only seemed to make him pace faster.

“Until what? Until Rok decides to pick us off one by one?”

“Until we hear from Arianna.”

Cain spun to face him in one fluid movement.

“You know I’m right.” Cvareh preempted whatever the other man was about to say. “If we are to stand a chance against Rok, we need the help of Loom. We bide our time until then.”

Cvareh could almost feel Cain’s anger bubbling to the surface. He braced himself for the moment it would explode. But Cain took a slow breath, and his whole demeanor shifted.

“How do you plan on making use of them for House Xin?” his friend asked, finally.

“The same way Petra intended: to make us an army.” Cvareh wondered how much Petra had shared of her mind with anyone beyond him. Judging from Cain’s almost confused frown, he guessed the circle was small, if it existed at all.

“Make us an army? Of people like her.”

“Arianna is the first of her kind, a Perfect Chimera. They will make more and stand with us. With that much power, we will defeat Yveun.”

“I hope you’re right . . .” Cain shook his head, starting for the stairs. While Cvareh considered it a success that his friend could even stomach hearing mention of Loom and Arianna without exploding, it seemed the fuse of tolerance was still quick to burn. “Because if you’re not, we’re all dead.”

“I know I am,” Cvareh reassured Cain.

“Then I will leave it to you. Fetch me when I’m needed in your master plans, Cvareh’Oji.” The final vowel of the honorific echoed back up to Cvareh, ringing in his ears several times over before it finally faded.

Cvareh . . . Oji . . .

He’d never thought of the idea before. That had always been Petra’s mantle, Petra’s mission.

Now, House Xin expected him to bear its weight—him, who had wanted to carry it least. Cvareh knew the esteem would honor many a Dragon, and it was something so many lusted over. But the notion sat uneasy with him. So uneasy, that he wondered if anything could ever make it settle.





Florence


Just once in her life, Florence wanted a well-stocked workshop. She didn’t want to buy supplies on a budget, or scavenge in secret, or scrape bottoms of barrels. She wanted a workshop with perfectly level tables, cabinets full of all manner of powders—even some she didn’t quite know how best to work with—and a door with a lock that prevented people from entering whenever they pleased and nibbing through her work.

“So, this is where you’ve been holing up.” Will ran his hand along the dusty countertop. “A bit dirty.”

“Helping run a rebellion severely limits one’s ability to clean.” Florence looked up from the one surface she had scrubbed to shining perfection. Gun parts were carefully set upon it in meticulous order. Every screw was lined up, the springs sorted by size—it was an organization unique to her, which meant she’d know instantly if one of her items was missing.

“You always did like to keep things tidy.” Will walked over to the table, assessing her layout. He touched nothing, an unspoken respect for another’s guild ministrations.