 
## **Contents**

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COMING SOON...

FELLFIRE SUMMER

Blayre Delecour

Copyright © 2015 Blayre Delecour

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. This book is free-to-share but may not be redistributed through any means, print or electronic, for-profit without permission from the author.

To New Year's resolutions and to job interviews that didn't pan out,

without which I might never have gotten off my butt and written this.

CHAPTER ONE

The pigeon was dead before the sound of the blast even reached their ears, its tiny body obliterated in an explosion of feathers and smoke quickly dissipated by the brisk morning breeze washing over the hunting range.

"As you can see," the gunsmith drawled with a satisfied grin, extending his hand in demonstration, "With birdshot, you really don't need the accuracy of a rifled barrel—you can achieve just as sure a hit using your standard hunting musketoon or barrelbuss, avoiding entirely the hassle of attending a Weapons Faire off-dale to procure arms."

Alaric struggled to stifle a yawn—then winced when a sharp elbow jabbed into his side as his Second hissed through teeth clenched in a tight smile, "Hardly appropriate for the Commadont to display his boredom so openly. That's the third time since the demonstration began." She flicked him a reproving glance out of the corner of her eye, adding, "I don't want to be forced to sit through another tribune's lecture simply because you couldn't manage to disguise your disdain."

"You know as well as I that Her Grace won't be dipping into public coffers to buy birdshot; we're wasting this poor fool's time as much as he's wasting ours," Alaric reminded pointedly. "I may be several seasons off the line now, but I don't recall the Ruzian front lines being populated by peacocks."

And a long several seasons it had been; while his contemporaries and fellow officers still deigned to call him Commadont, an arduous recovery from near-mortal wounds meant he hadn't formally held the rank in the field in nearly a year, and he likely never would again. His shoulder no longer ached insistently, but it did tend to throb whenever a storm rumbled in from the gulf, a sore reminder that all it took was a mistimed step or an unlucky stumble into a foe's swiping cut to end a career. He was starting to think he might have been better off having perished on the field in the heat of battle, or succumbed to illness and rot in the days subsequent. At least then he might have gone relatively quickly and been spared this slow, languid death by boredom as the gunsmith continued to drone on and on about shotseed diameters.

But he hadn't died on the muddy, blood-soaked fields of Zircoda's sweeping plains—despite his best efforts to that end. No, he'd survived the lacerations and severed tendons that had rendered his sword arm useless and somehow managed to refrain from insisting the surgeons just lop the limb off at the shoulder, so unbearably itchy had been the blankets of bandages. He'd come out the other end of that final surge in one piece, unlike many of the men and women under him—but his career had ended on that field as surely as if he'd given up the ghost.

Which left him here, standing on a broad windswept plain listening to a visiting gunsmith up from the coast trying to pass off gravel-and-powder cartridges as proper ammunition—a hard sell at best, given the times they lived in. For his part, Alaric didn't approve of the shift over the past decade or so from an army of hard steel and gloved fist to one tainted with the chill of cold iron and burn of black powder. The swift march of time and technology was overwhelming, though, demanding that he submit and consent to be carried along by the flow or be caught in the undertow.

The demonstration broke up, Faire representatives and munitions traders alike approaching the gunsmith, and Alaric leapt at the chance to make himself scarce. Altavio fell into step beside him as they headed for the waiting carriages, smiling with a shrug. "Oh I don't know—perhaps someday there'll be tales of a great rout by Vasque forces sending the Ruzian high command fleeing back across the Izador with arses painted red by our friend's fine shot."

"Fine shot," Alaric huffed derisively. "It's gravel and detritus he scraped off the beach; the rank smell's probably more deadly than the impact itself."

Altavio barked a laugh and shook a finger at him, reaching for the grip to haul herself into their carriage with her free hand. "I know better than to expect an unbiased opinion from a man who sprang from his mother's womb with sword in hand." She collapsed onto one of the padded seats, shifting over to give Alaric room beside her, and sighed wistfully. "Oh, but I would have liked to have seen the Fellfire shot demonstration!"

"Mm," Alaric agreed noncommittally. Though he wasn't overly fond of the manufacturing revolution sweeping through Vasque that had her forges churning out all manner of fortified explosive weapons—cannon and musketoon and everything in between—even he had to admit the Oresians' demonstration had been most impressive.

The Oresians were a funny bunch. Where Vasque and L'ruz had been at odds for as long as anyone could remember—generation after generation suckling on tales of murder and intrigue and torture and treachery as they bickered over taxes and resource rights—their mutual neighbor of Orexa had remained above the fray. Quite literally, in fact—as most Oresians had ages ago crowded atop vast tracts of land known as Holds and taken to the skies under power from a mineral they called Starfell. Details such as how it was refined and where the lodes were located remained fiercely guarded secrets—but one important point was clear: when exposed to flame, it burned bright and hard, producing Fellfire: lift powerful enough in quantity to hoist whole cities into the skies. On a sunny day at the border and with a fair set of oculars, you could just make out the lowest of the Holds, hovering leagues above the surface and all the problems plaguing the earthbound.

But the very mineral that was burned to power the huge furnaces keeping the Oresian Holds aloft also possessed remarkable destructive capabilities—which were now being used as a bargaining chip: a regular supply of Fellfire cannon shot, in exchange for land grants. Airborne strongholds necessarily meant a limited food supply, and when years of drought had sterilized her own lands, Orexa had been forced to turn to neighbors for aid. That they had approached Vasque before L'ruz for a trade contract was simply because Vasque bordered the rich gulf and had farmland to spare, where L'ruz commanded only rocky mountain passes and the great reichwood forested valleys.

Vasque would benefit substantially from the agreement, though, that much was clear; in exchange for leasing rights to untended farm fields that had lain fallow for years, they would be issued a munitions package that could, if employed strategically on a smart campaign, wipe L'ruz from the annals of history and win Vasque the bulk of the eastern continent inside a matter of seasons.

Everyone was understandably on edge with a mixture of both excitement and anxiety about the whole matter. Alaric didn't envy the border agents working to deflect attention away from the upcoming parley sessions; if L'ruz caught scent of a union of this magnitude, they'd damn any fragile agreements with Orexa and march on vulnerable fronts straight away. They would have to; sitting idly by and letting the treaty happen would be tantamount to bowing one's head before an executioner.

Alaric had been there for the Oresian representatives' demonstration, attendance at which had been limited to the Veld Martiale and lesser leadership, and he could personally vouch for the power the shot provided. Their standard cannons at a quarter league could blow an oak to kindling and destroy the immediate surroundings with the resulting shrapnel—but the Fellfire shot, packed tightly into reinforced cannons under careful instruction, had wiped out an entire copse of reichwood saplings at threefold the distance, scoring a crater shoulder-deep at its epicenter. There was simply no contest; an army outfitted with Fellfire cannon would obliterate any challenger who dared stand against it.

L'ruz's proximity to the Sontifer range and the ores mined therein made her a formidable enemy, especially for a nation such as Vasque with little in the way of natural resources fit for ammunition—as such, Veld Martiale Hadryan was eager to pull Orexa into their fold and hash out a contract between their peoples. Orexa would have the grazing rights and farmlands her citizens so desperately needed, and Vasque would build up stores of precious Fellfire shot, fattening the ranks of her army and navy and all but daring L'ruz to make the first move.

Perhaps, Alaric mused, he'd gotten himself discharged just in time.

"So when will you be leaving us, then?"

Altavio's question, delivered with more grace than her usual barbed probes, called him back to the moment, and he grimaced as he recalled why he'd been asked to sit in on the Fellfire demonstration in the first place. "End of the month."

Altavio nodded solemnly. "Just enough time to get your affairs in order, but not enough to rally your troops to spirit you away to safety and spare you your sentence."

"It's not a sentence," he reminded stiffly. "It's an honor to be asked by Her Grace to represent our country among her new allies. Besides, I'm no good on the field anymore, so I suppose I should be grateful she still thinks me useful."

Altavio rolled her eyes, reaching for a waxnut from a bowl bolted to the carriage door as they jolted along. "You've always been her favorite Commadont. It's why no one likes you."

"The Veld Martiale likes me; that's enough." It was a bold boast, but not entirely unfounded—which was why Altavio just scoffed, no further retorts left to make.

"I suppose I can't argue with that, but—" She raised a brow. "I'd be careful if I were you; you know what the Veld Martiale does with her favorites. You'll have your balls chopped off and be made a member of the Council before you know it."

"Oh will I now?" he grinned. "And will she be storing my balls in the same place she stashed your breasts when you traded them for a commission in her army?" He winced as Altavio chucked a waxnut shell at his head. "Peace! You want me meeting the Oresians outfitted with an eye patch?"

"You'll regret that remark and be wishing you had me at your back when you find yourself taking a long walk off a short cliff in a fortnight's time." Alaric chuckled at this, then directed his gaze out the carriage window in an attempt to distract himself from the uneasy reminder of his upcoming mission.

A contract of any sort between two nations necessarily required representatives be present to work out details, discussing the parameters of their agreement and outlining in no uncertain terms how each party would be expected to conduct themselves. This whole process became a great deal more complicated, though, when one of the parties involved was Orexa.

Perhaps because they'd lived apart from the surface for so long, neglecting any historical alliances or friendships with their neighbors, Oresians were notoriously insular and wary. Trespassers over her borders—not that there was all that much left to loot—were dealt with swiftly and without mercy, and all trade and business with the Holds was conducted through their sole remaining link to the lands far below: a bustling trading post called Layton. Most of the merchants fortunate enough to have business contracts with Layton had been grandfathered in, as new contracts were hard to come by when customers were as vigilant and untrusting as Oresians.

When talk of the trade agreement had first begun circulating, the question on everyone's lips had been the same: where would the summit be held? The idea of an Oresian delegation daring to descend from their sky palaces was laughable, in light of their infamous paranoia, and Orexa would sooner crash the Holds en masse than allow foreign boots on her soil. But one way or another, they would have to bend their rules if they wanted this contract: and bend they did, squarely in Alaric's direction.

A single representative had been the compromise: Vasque would send an ambassador, authorized to exercise the Veld Martiale's will in carving out an agreement between their nations—and in return, that ambassador would remain in Orexa, permanently confined to her Holds. An emigrant, never allowed to return home, removing all worry he might carry back word of the wonders he would no doubt witness.

He'd been told, in fawning, obsequious tones, that he'd been the Veld Martiale's very first choice—a decorated Commadont who would throw up a brave front and represent Vasque as a strong, formidable ally that would bring the Oresians flocking to their side. Alaric suspected it was less his prowess on the field that had earned him the appointment and more the proximity of his family's lands to the Oresian border, giving him a smattering understanding of their language, along with the pleasing terms of a treaty he'd brokered three winters prior when his unit had crushed the Northern Hartsvåel's ice-locked defenses. Leagues from the Capitole and with Hartsvåel warlords demanding to treat with him instead of a diplomat, he'd had little choice but to act on his own conscience. The Veld Martiale must have been pleased with his work, for she'd promoted him on his return instead of discharging him outright for insubordination. With his useless right arm now, he was of no more use in the field and a second son who wouldn't be missed as an heir—and so his appointment had been sealed.

He supposed if Vasque was to be hobbled with only a single delegate, then they would be wise to send someone both expendable and whose solo work in treaty brokering they'd witnessed—and been satisfied with—before. But the Hartsvåel warlords had been honored to hash out terms with a man they respected for fighting in the thick of it with his troops instead of commanding from his tent; Alaric doubted the Oresians wanted him for similar reasons.

Altavio seemed to follow his thoughts, cracking a nut husk in her teeth before asking, "Don't you find it the least bit suspicious that they won't tolerate more than one man on their Holds and yet refuse to come down and debate contract terms with us themselves? I don't buy this drivel about weight distribution management and risk evaluation." She waved. "Not that I understand what that even means, to be honest."

"Suspicious? Of course." He shrugged. "But what choice do I have? I'm Her Grace's Man, I go where I'm sent." More to the point, both Vasque and Orexa needed something from the other, so it was in their mutual interest for both sides to play fair.

Altavio threw another nut his way, and this time he caught it, peeling it before popping the meat into his mouth. She smiled, "With that attitude, you'll stay her man and no one else's."

Alaric considered this for a moment. "I see it more as, so long as the Veld Martiale holds my balls in her grasp, then I run no risk of another getting hold of them." He then leaned forward and grabbed a handful of waxnuts for himself as the carriage rumbled on, musing darkly that this might be his last chance to enjoy them.

❖

"Monteval, you really ought to hold on to the reins with both hands—we don't want to hand you over to the Oresians concussed because you couldn't keep your seat between language studies and dusty research." A chorus of chuckles from the rest of the escort cut through the dead, quiet air as their troupe plodded along, and Alaric cut Altavio a warning glance.

Three weeks it had been, now, since he'd received his emigration assignment, and he'd finally been ordered to put boot to dirt and march out. He could have made the journey alone, but his superiors had insisted he take a small squadron with him. After three days dealing with their commentary, though, he was beginning to wish he'd ignored those orders.

"My knowledge of Oresian presently consists of price haggling and inquiring as to the health of a herd of goats. I think Her Grace would like me a bit more well-versed in the local language and customs before I start this mission."

"By all means, Commadont," called Zuria, a sub-letenant he'd worked with since the man had been a green recruit. "Perhaps you ought to begin with the wedding vows?"

This instigated another round of laughter at Alaric's expense, and he grumbled, "That'll be enough of that, Sub-letenant; I may not be your commanding officer anymore, but I still have favors I can call in." Zuria ducked his head, still flushed with amusement. The teasing was starting to get out of hand—but they were three days out of the Capitole with another week at least of hard road ahead before they even reached the Oresian border, so it was important to keep spirits light. To this end, the current topic of interest seemed to be the fact that, to seal his immigration, Alaric was going to be folded into an Oresian household, something which generally only happened through marriage or adoption.

He supposed it was to be expected; as a foreigner, they'd want to keep him under close watch, and it could only help his assignment to surround himself with native Oresians, acclimating to the language and culture far more easily than he might have otherwise. But he was a private man who wasn't looking forward to being gawked at and placed on display, gazes trained on him wherever he went. The curiosity would likely die down within a few months—but there would always be that undercurrent of suspicion, and for someone who'd worked hard to earn the trust of those around him over the years, the realization that he'd now have to start building relationships all over again was proving difficult to accept.

Out of deference—or perhaps pity, Altavio shifted the conversation to discussions of upcoming faires and how harvests were going and whether it was going to be a good summer or a bad one for sweet gourds, and when they gathered around their fire that evening, their party's Cartograph Felippe produced a set of reedpipes. The invitation was quickly met with demands for this ditty or that soldier's tune, and Alaric drifted off to the sound of his comrades-in-arms still making merry well into the evening.

The journey dragged but was not overly difficult, with the only foul weather being a short early-summer shower sending them scrambling for their slickers. Alaric wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed when they finally reached the stretch of dried-up riverbed that formally marked the border between nations.

Passing from Vasque with its expansive farmsteads and bustling towns into the barren emptiness of Orexa was like crossing from day into night, and as a group, they stifled a chill of unease as they guided their mounts forward. It was more than a little unnerving, as they trod further and further into foreign land, to realize that if they found themselves stranded—or if one of them came down with something or a horse went lame—they would find no aid from helpful ranchers or innkeepers. The Oresian landscape stretched far and empty, and Alaric felt their little entourage to be very small and very vulnerable.

Seeing the barren gold plains for himself, Alaric could no longer blame the odd Oresian for stealing over the border to raid Vasque larders. The land felt dead as old bone, wild and rough and unwilling to cooperate, and the sight stirred in his breast a renewed drive to ensure this contract was sealed. This was a land in dire need of a swift injection of new life—Vasque merely wanted new weaponry.

As they traveled, now and then the quiet would be interrupted by a stir of excitement when they neared a settlement, but most seemed utterly abandoned, clearly not having seen human habitation in years. In the early afternoon two days after crossing the border, though, they caught their first glimpse of one of the Holds, and their troupe as a whole halted a moment to take it in.

Zuria scrambled for a pair of oculars, but from this distance, they hardly needed any. The Hold hung suspended in the clouds, impressive even from so far away, and Alaric suppressed an uncomfortable churn of his stomach knowing he'd soon be standing atop one such structure, looking down on these same plains they now trudged across.

The Hold followed them the rest of the journey, a great black blotch against the sky, and in another two days, they spotted a second, higher still, shadowing the first. With his oculars, Zuria exclaimed with great enthusiasm that he could make out four in total. "They look so very fragile, though, just hanging there..." He let the oculars fall away, squinting into the distance. "Like the slightest breeze could blow them over." Alaric didn't much appreciate the comment and gruffly ordered them along—they were coming up on Layton and had a schedule to keep to.

The town wasn't difficult to find, standing out stark with life and activity against the backdrop of Orexa's dead golden plains. The remaining settlers had long ago abandoned their ghost towns and congregated around this point of trade, few daring to stray too far from the lifeline connecting them to the floating cities above, and what had likely started life as a few storage barns and a water trough had since blossomed into a veritable oasis.

To Alaric's surprise, Layton didn't strike him as terribly foreign-looking at all. Granted, he didn't know much about Oresians to begin with, but he'd been expecting something just a bit more exotic and was almost disappointed. Aside from the coloring of the locals—swarthy complexion rich as caramel with flaxen hair—the town itself could probably have been lifted from any of Vasque's holdings, though clearly less prosperous than most.

As their troupe strode in through the main thoroughfare, all in full dress and packhorses laden down with their travel kit and Alaric's belongings, it became clear they'd been expected. The gawking was apparently going to start well before Alaric set foot on a Hold, as men ducked out of the way to watch their entrance warily from the shadows while young children openly gaped in wonder until shuttled away by fussy mothers. Trading post though Layton may have been, surely none of them had ever seen soldiers marching through. The town was laid out in a rather straightforward fashion, and in short order, Altavio pointed out a side street that fed into a plaza fronting the grandest structure around—what had to be the town hall.

Word of their arrival seemed to have already spread, for they were hemmed in by a growing crowd at their backs which made their mounts restless and Alaric equally so. They were spared an uncomfortable mangling of Oresian by the timely arrival of a harried young man scrambling down the steps of the hall to meet them, waving away the crowd and reprimanding them in a rush of Oresian. Alaric didn't quite catch the particulars, but the tone made it clear he meant business, and soon the crowd had thinned enough to allow their party to advance.

"Come, come!" the young man beckoned with sweeping arm movements. "Welcome!"

"Thank the Lady someone here speaks Vasque..." Altavio muttered, relief in her voice, and Alaric shared the sentiment—though not without a twinge of guilt that his own linguistic studies were lacking.

Alaric was the first to dismount, wincing from the long days in the saddle as he strode over to deliver formal greetings. He executed a curt salute out of habit before starting in with a lavish introduction he'd been working on since crossing the border. "I, Ambassador Alaric Monteval, bring greetings from the court of Her Grace Veld Martiale Hadryan of Vasque. Her Grace extends her most sincere gratitude to His Oresian Majesty Reinhart for allowing our delegation into your lands, and she hopes that this will be the beginning of a long, fruitful alliance between both our peoples."

The young man blanched at the onslaught of Vasque, fumbling for a reply before finally managing, "Yes. We—yes, thank you. Serr Monteval. We welcome."

Alaric nodded slowly, confidence flagging, and kept his grin as wide and white as possible as he leaned over to the still-mounted Altavio with a whispered, "How much of that do you think he actually understood?"

She looked the attendant over, calculating, then offered, "Well, clearly your name." Zuria and the others snorted softly behind them, and Alaric cut them a glare. "Perhaps you should have ridden double with one of us and studied your books a bit more closely on the journey over."

The attendant's gaze flicked uneasily between them, and he forced a nervous smile as he bowed sharply and excused himself. "Just a moment!" He then disappeared through the tall reichwood doors flanking the entrance to the hall, returning only a moment later with a portly man who carried himself with the air of someone in charge. "Serr Monteval!" the excited young attendant announced with a flick of his wrist, as if Alaric were a traveling act he'd been charged with introducing, and the man Alaric now took for the town's mayor scuttled forward, bowing in greeting and clasping Alaric's hand in his own with a smile hidden beneath the bristles of a thick mustache.

"Serr Monteval, Serr Monteval!" the mayor continued breathlessly.

Alaric groped for an appropriate response, before realizing anything he mustered would simply fall on deaf ears. "Er, yes—quite. It's a pleasure to meet you..."

The attendant rushed to his master's side here, gesturing to himself. "I am called Henrick. I know Vasque a little. I will help." He gestured to their horses. "Yours?"

"Oh—yes, yes." Alaric pointed to the packhorse at the back. "That rear one's carrying most of my things, and the cart will have the rest." Henrick nodded his understanding, for what it was worth, and immediately snapped orders to a trio of rough-looking men who scrambled to make quick work of unloading the horse and cart. He'd tried to pack lightly—which hadn't been an easy task, given that this would be a one-way trip. His wardrobe he'd reduced to the bare essentials, though, confident he'd be able to supplement it in time. He winced at the rough handling of his uncle's trunk, which had seen him through more hard campaigns than he liked to recall, and was about to urge them to take care with it, when Henrick's hand on his arm stilled him.

"They load everything—you, all, come sit inside."

With a reluctant glance at the trunk and a silent prayer it remain in one piece, he motioned for the others to dismount and followed the mayor and Henrick through the reichwood doors after a pair of stablehands relieved them of their reins, drawing the horses away to refresh them.

The hall was dimly lit with reichwood finishing and ornate carpeting and upholstery that looked just this side of threadbare, and Alaric and his party were quickly shuttled into a parlor off to the side of the entryway. The mayor motioned for them to be seated, and while Alaric didn't want to muss the furniture with their road dust, to refuse would likely raise offense, so they obliged. Chilled juice from a vine Alaric didn't recognize and delicate meat pastries were laid out for the Vasque entourage, and while his troupe took advantage of the hospitality, Alaric reiterated his gratitude and compliments. "Your city is fine, Master of Layton. My Veld Martiale appreciates the hospitality you've extended us as foreign visitors to your hall."

Henrick relayed his remarks in a whisper, and the mayor inclined his head with a smile before gesturing toward a back door leading into another area of the building, sending a waiting servant scurrying. "We wait for your baggage to load. Meanwhile, we have...ah, gifts?" Henrick's voice shook with nerves, and even in the cool of the shaded room with a rare breeze passing through, his forehead beaded with sweat—clear signs that he wasn't at all confident in being the voice of his leader to a foreign ambassador and overwhelmed with the importance of his first job interpreting. "Soon, you will travel to Eizenthley Hold—" Alaric was definitely going to need to hear that one pronounced a few times before he got it. "—Under care of Holdmaster. Eizenthley is—good? Fine Hold. Not high. But fine."

Henrick held his hand up above his head, indicating the altitude with a weak smile, and Alaric wondered if this was some attempt at reassurance—he recalled distantly that the Oresian hierarchy was measured in altitude, with the Crown Hold sitting highest in the sky while the lower Holds flocked below. "That's...good then. I look forward to meeting the, ah—Holdmaster, was it?" Henrick nodded with a relieved smile, evidently pleased his meaning had gotten across.

"Now—oh! Yes, yes. Here." Henrick squirmed in his seat when the servant who'd slipped out before returned with a small coffer in hand, passing it gingerly to the mayor. "A gift! From your Holdmaster."

The mayor gently placed the coffer on the table between them, unlatching the hasp facing Alaric and lifting back the lid to reveal its contents. There, tucked securely into a velvet bed, lay a ring—a handsome argentine band of swirling vinework filigree studded with a dark violet stone that iridesced in the lamplight.

With a questioning glance up at the mayor, Alaric reached for the ring, palming it and studying it further. At his side, Altavio leaned forward, her shoulder bumping his, and he could hear the grin in her voice as she asked, "Are you quite sure you're not marrying into this Hold?"

He wasn't entirely certain the answer was still no, with this new development, but Henrick hastened to explain, "This is a Hold ring—all members of Hold must wear it. Eizenthley Hold's ring." He pointed to the gemstone set in the center. "Eizenthley Starfell."

"This—this is Starfell? Truly?" The others crowded around him now, curious for their first glimpse of the mineral they'd only heard tales of. Holding it in his hand like this, it felt so...well, rather ordinary. All this fuss, over a rock. A flashy bit of rock, to be sure, but no more precious on first glance than any other gem, for all its beauty. Looking at it, one would never presume it capable of blowing an armory to dust when combined with the right catalyst. "And I'm to wear this?"

Henrick nodded. "A gift, from your Holdmaster."

"Yes, you mentioned that already." He frowned; it was a fine piece, if a bit a gaudy, but Alaric was a soldier and had never been one for jewelry. This was a token from his new Holdmaster, though; to refuse to wear it might constitute some gauche breach of protocol—especially if everyone else would be sporting one. He glanced back at Henrick, checking the man's own hand and noting, "You don't wear one."

Henrick followed his eyeline, then brought his hand to his chest, clutching it close. "No! Oh, no. I am not of a Hold. I am Henrick of Layton. Layton is no Hold—so no Hold ring." He raised his brows in reassurance, encouraging Alaric, "But you are of Eizenthley, so you have a Hold ring."

It seemed there was no getting out of having to wear the thing, so with a sigh, he slipped it on, sizing it to several different fingers before settling on one he found most comfortable. Perhaps he'd be able to discuss with the Holdmaster merely keeping it on his person, or around a chain on his neck, if wearing a ring became just too much.

He took a moment to admire the way the ring looked on his hand before turning back to Henrick. "I thank you—and my Holdmaster for his generosity."

Henrick and the mayor ducked their heads in response—then glanced as one over Alaric's shoulder when a new arrival knocked at the door to deliver an announcement Alaric couldn't make out. The mayor called his thanks, then stood with outstretched arms, gesturing for the double doors through which they'd entered. "The transport is good now. You will go."

"Go?" Alaric repeated dumbly, glancing around. "You mean—it's time to leave? Already?" It felt like they'd only just settled down—but evidently the mayor's men worked quickly, for when they stepped back out into the bright sunlight, Alaric saw through squinted eyes that his belongings had been piled atop a carriage, strapped down under a tarp, and his party's mounts stood refreshed and waiting at a nearby trough.

Henrick gestured to the horses. "Your friends can stay tonight, they are welcome. But if they will leave now, we can give supplies."

Alaric doubted the others were eager to start the journey back home just yet, and given how quickly the little meat pastries had disappeared, he trusted they'd appreciate a night to recuperate. "Thank you. I think they'll be taking advantage of your hospitality this evening, so I leave them in your care." Henrick nodded. "This is for me?"

He'd thought it a carriage at first, but on closer inspection, it was rather bulky, with wheels far too fragile to carry it over the rough Oresian terrain—plus, there seemed to be no place to hitch a team. He made a circuit of the vehicle, surveying it with caution, then glanced up again at the tiny blotches marring the blue sky as the Holds floated high overhead, recalling with a sudden shudder of realization that there would be no team, not where he was bound.

He twisted the ring on his finger nervously as Altavio and Zuria drew up alongside him. "...It's not too late to make a break for it," Altavio reminded, arms crossed. "We could be halfway to the border before they managed to mount any recovery attempt."

"Of course, you'd be returning in utter disgrace, possibly even inciting a war if you flee with that bauble on your finger," Zuria supplied helpfully. "But at least you'd be on solid ground."

Alaric grinned wryly and shook his head. "No, I fear I've gotten myself into this situation, and I will have to be the one to see myself out. Or up, as the direction may be." He turned to face them properly, feeling a sudden maudlin wave clutching at his breast. This wasn't merely a long campaign, or seasonal trip to the gulf—he was leaving his homeland, his people, his friends. His duty was clear, and he didn't regret accepting the mission, but just now, standing here at the parting with men and women he'd seen through war and peacetime, whose sides he'd fought at and backs he'd protected, he couldn't suppress a lump of emotion in his throat.

He'd learned long ago that to be a soldier was to suppress any urges to openly display his feelings—such frivolities were a liability in situations where death could strike at any moment and it therefore behooved one to keep apart, to stay aloof and never get too close. Despite the logic, though, Alaric himself had never quite learned the fine art of making a clean cut of his emotions.

Altavio stepped up to save him the embarrassment of mangling any parting words, reaching forward to clap him on the shoulder and offering a tight smile. "Ride with honor, Commadont. And try not to trip over the edge of your Hold before you've secured us our weapons package."

He shook his head, grateful she'd defused the tension. "Please, Altavio. Don't be so emotional, you'll embarrass us all."

The rest of the group had gathered on Altavio and Zuria's heels, and before any of them could make further remarks or truss him up and throw him onto a horse as they beat a hasty path back for the border, he cleared his throat to command their attention. "Layton has agreed to host you for an evening, let you sleep under a proper roof and bathe—which several of you could do with. Altavio will take point on the ride back—so try not to give her too much grief, and take care to keep your guard up until you're back safely on home soil. This is still foreign territory, after all."

"All due respect, sir, I think you'll be needing a fair bit more of the Lady's luck than we for the journey ahead," Felippe quipped, rousing a chorus of uneasy chuckles, and Alaric allowed a soft snort, nodding his agreement.

"Aye, that I may." He cast a longing glance at the trough where their mounts had been hitched, wishing he might have a moment to bid his lovely bay farewell. The beast had seen him through more horrors and pain than most humans could bear, let alone a horse, and the knowledge that he'd be going into this next battle without his trusty steed beneath him didn't sit easy. He supposed there was still time to pop over, but he worried what their hosts might think, seeing the Vasque ambassador going all morose over an animal, so he checked himself.

Altavio read his gaze easily enough, though. "Fear not; I'll work him so hard he'll be begging for you to come back."

Not that he'd likely be coming back, he wanted to retort, but he held his tongue and nodded his thanks. He glanced around at the faces of his companions, trying to memorize them and knowing he was doomed to fail, and before he could fumble another goodbye, Zuria cut in with, "Best of luck, Commadont," which was quickly echoed by the rest of the troupe. This seemed to be their cue that he should take his leave, so he left them with a curt salute, which they all returned, then strode back toward Henrick and the mayor, apologizing for the delay.

"Perfectly fine," Henrick assured, then gestured toward the carriage cabin. "If you're ready...?"

He would likely never be ready, but any more stalling would only rouse suspicion, so he followed Henrick to the open door, bracing his hands on the jamb as he climbed inside. Another attendant leaned in after him, a set of straps in hand, and proceeded to fix the straps to hooks bolted to the sides of the cabin while Henrick briefed him. "Please do not worry. The driver, very experienced. He travels to Holds many times, easy ride." He gestured to the skies with a beaming expression. "Nice weather! Fair winds and clear skies. You will enjoy it."

"Would that I shared your confidence, my friend..." Alaric muttered, distracted now by the twin straps pinning him in place across either shoulder. He tugged at them with undisguised concern. "Ho now, what are these for?"

Henrick poked his head inside, inspecting the attendant's work. "Just in case."

"Just in—? In case what?" But Henrick had already ducked back out of the cabin and was about to shut the door. "Wait—" Alaric stopped him with a hand braced against the thick-paned glass windowing the cabin. "You're not coming?"

"Oh—no! I'm not of a Hold—"

"Yes, yes, you said that earlier," Alaric interrupted with a huff. "But how am I to communicate?"

Henrick only seemed amused at Alaric's nerves, reassuring, "On Eizenthley will be a new speaker. You can talk to him."

He really didn't want to go through this rigmarole with a new interpreter, though, and he pressed, "But—can't you come? You're perfectly qualified, and—"

He was interrupted by a remark from what he took to be the driver of the carriage, and Henrick conversed with the man for a moment, distracted, before turning his attention back to Alaric. "I cannot go. I am Lay—not my place." And before Alaric could lodge another protest, he slammed the door shut and engaged the lock. Through the thick-paned glass, Alaric could hear him delivering a series of orders in quick, clipped Oresian, while Altavio and the others waved for his attention, shouting reminders at him to keep his feet on the ground, not to let his head get lost in the clouds, and to watch his step. He showed his appreciation for the advice with a rude gesture, and then settled back with a groan, praying the straps held and willing his heart to cease its staccato thudding in his chest as he waited for the inevitable.

Through the window, he watched the crowd of Oresians that had gathered to see him off begin to shuffle back, giving the carriage a wide berth, but before he could begin to ponder why, the cabin gave a lurch, wood groaning and metal scraping, and listed to the side as if the ground had just given away—before quickly righting itself and evening out again. Alaric swallowed thickly—they were moving. They were moving, and it wasn't forward, or backward, or even side to side. It was up, and while not precisely swift or stomach-churning, it was nevertheless away from the ground, and that presented a problem Alaric hadn't entirely come to terms with quite yet.

The glass muffled the whoops and cheers of the Vasque entourage that looked on, and he dared another glance out the window, relieved he could still make out the group smiling and laughing at the sight of their Commadont being spirited away to the heavens like some hero of old. A twinge pierced his chest when the cabin shifted again as the vehicle changed course under the driver's careful guidance, and he lost sight of the ground entirely, until even the calls of his compatriots eventually died away and he was left alone in the dead silence to wait out the journey.

The cabin chilled as they rose higher, and he was suddenly grateful he'd suited up in dress uniform, stifling though it had been on the ride into Layton. He laid a palm against the glass, and it came away cold, leaving a frozen print on the pane. He hadn't bothered to bring anything heavier than a single minkrat overcoat that had seen better winters, and he recalled harsh nights at altitude when campaigns took his regiment through rocky mountain passes—the chill, the shortness of breath, the abject misery. These Holds sat higher aloft than the tallest peaks he'd ever camped at—peaks routinely covered in snow. Would he even survive life on a Hold? What if Oresians had spent so long on their floating sky palaces that they'd adapted to life in a setting surface-dwellers would perish in? What if he took two steps from the carriage and then collapsed and had to be chartered back to Layton for Altavio and the others to drag back to the Capitole on a pallet?

Before his mind could concoct another scenario in which he disgraced both Veld Martiale and country, though, a cloud passed overhead, blocking the sunlight streaming into the carriage—except when he glanced out the window, he realized it was not in fact a cloud, but a city. A Hold, massive and imposing and no longer a tiny black blotch in the sky but there filling his vision, real and peppered with people going about their daily lives. He strained at the straps to get a better look, and while they were rising faster than he'd initially realized, he still managed to catch a glimpse of cobbled roads and houses of masonry and wood, dirt and grime and fountains in town squares and stray dogs being chased off by angry housewives. Scenes he'd witnessed in every town and village and city he'd ever stepped foot in. It was all so very...mundane, and he felt a beat of disappointment spear through him, as when he'd held the Starfell ring in his palm and realized that story and myth had built otherwise ordinary material into something larger than life. Starfell was no more precious to touch than a gemstone of any other make, and Holds were merely homes, not sky palaces fixed in the heavens untouchable by mortal man. Thinking in these terms curiously made the whole idea of what he had committed himself to a bit easier to stomach, and his breathing evened as he settled back again.

The carriage quickly floated up out of viewing range of the Hold, though, and Alaric was treated to the eerie sensation that he was once again lifting off from the ground. Shortly, he was able to make out another Hold passing in the distance, this one too far away to see her inhabitants. These must be the lowest of the Holds, he was realizing, and he wondered how many there were altogether, and at what level his own Eizenthley sat.

He felt himself growing bolder, curiosity driving strength and energy back into his sapped core, and he was just on the verge of unhooking himself from the restraints Henrick had placed him in to chance a question to the driver—when he caught the sound of shouts, muffled by the thick windows and distance. His driver was calling to someone else—but who, so high up? He received his answer in short order when the cabin abruptly listed to the side, hanging worryingly on an angle that had Alaric fearing they were about to tumble over before righting again. Now, they were no longer merely floating up but being dragged at an angle, hauled in like a ship to shore—which meant they'd reached their destination.

He settled back in his seat, wary of overbalancing, and waited what felt like ages for the carriage to eventually settle down—but settle it did, smooth as a feather, and when a glance out the window confirmed they were once again on solid ground, he began fumbling with the straps and hooks, eager to be free. He'd managed to work himself loose from one strap and was just seeing to the other—when the door was yanked open abruptly, flooding the compartment with bright sunlight.

"Welcome, Serr Monteval, and well-met!" The greeting was delivered in slightly accented but more than passable Vasque by what Alaric took to be the steward—though a rather rough and harried one. The man's bone-bleached hair hung limp and unkempt at his shoulders, hastily tied back from his face, and his livery was rumpled with a streak of dirt or some such grime marring the caramel skin of one cheek. Perhaps not the steward, then—or at least Alaric hoped not, if this was the state this young man thought fit for greeting diplomatic guests.

"Er—yes, a pleasure..." he allowed, awkwardly shifting to glance past the servant who was now bodily blocking his exit. Just over the man's shoulder, he could make out a well-kept courtyard fronting a towering manse of at least three stories, all fresh lacquer and trimmed hedges, with the occasional servant bustling by about their daily routine, sparing the new arrival little more than a passing glance before continuing on their way. It was worlds away from the reception he'd received in Layton, and he wasn't quite sure if he preferred this more relaxed atmosphere or not. At least no one was staring. The servant stepped back to give him room to breathe, and after unhasping the second shoulder strap and the lap belt, Alaric unfolded himself from the tight confines of the carriage and took his first steps on Eizenthley soil.

On first glance, it didn't feel all that different from the finer rural villas of Vasque, particularly along the inland western corridor. The manse took up the bulk of his view, bordered on the left by a well-beaten pathway leading around back, likely to stables and storage sheds, while the right side opened up to several long rows of grapevines, the first of many that Alaric now saw blanketed the front lawn of the estate, stretching for nearly a league with a dusty road down the center cutting a swathe to connect the manse to a hamlet further afield. He'd known the Holds to be massive, but standing here now with hard dirt and bedrock beneath his boots, it was difficult not to be impressed anew.

This impression was short-lived, though, when he noted with some trepidation that instead of butting up against a treebrake or perimeter fence, the entire estate was surrounded by only a low, single-rail fence that barely reached Alaric's knee. Was this truly all that stood between servants tending the vines and toppling over the side of the Hold into nothingness?

His head snapped to glance over his shoulder as a squawk startled him from his gaping, and he spotted a young boy rushing past with a cockerel under one arm, headed for the path leading around back. The air was crisp and clear but carried the dull background of a dozen voices chatting in comforting tones, and he could smell hay and animals and fresh green things. He'd worried in the back of his mind, he was starting to realize, that he would find himself bunking in a stuffy lord's apartment in something resembling a city, like that first Hold he'd clapped eyes on as he rode up, but this...this reminded him of home, of his family's lands and the neighboring estates he'd frequented as a child. While not exactly pastoral, it was quaint enough. There were worse places to be exiled, he supposed, and his first impression was not a terrible one.

Even the very ground beneath him, solid and hard-packed, was graveled with patches of green grass and red dirt peeking out from beneath, and he kicked a stone with the toe of his boot, grinning at the crack that sounded as it bounced off a neighbor.

"May I take that to mean Eizenthley pleases you?" the steward prodded with a flicker of amusement, and Alaric started, having nearly forgotten he had a chaperon. He regarded the man for a moment, only now realizing that this must be the interpreter Henrick had promised, and with silent apology to Henrick himself, Alaric was relieved to note that the steward had a much more impressive command over Vasque than his Layton counterpart.

"It's...quite nice so far, thank you."

The steward nodded primly. "I shall have to ensure it remains as such, then." He gestured towards the brick steps leading to the manse's main entrance. "I'll be happy to give you a tour of the estate later, but we should get you settled in first. I'll see that your belongings are carried up to your room straightaway; in the meantime, we've had refreshments laid out in the receiving room. If you'll follow me?"

Oresians certainly did seem to like plying their guests with food and drink, Alaric noted, and turned to follow the steward—when the nearby crunch of gravel underfoot caught his attention. He turned around just in time to catch a young man racing across the courtyard at breakneck speed—and making straight for the drop off, head down and determined. Alaric's heart leapt into his throat as he watched, helplessly, as the poor fool ran headlong right over the edge, dropping off and out of sight before Alaric could shout a warning. He froze in place, vibrating in shock, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder as the steward asked, "Are you quite all right, Serr Monteval?"

Alaric's head whipped back around, eyes going wide and worried, and he managed a shaky, "I—did you just...he just..." He couldn't even bring himself to say it; worse yet, none of the other servants tending the courtyard or even the steward himself seemed to have noticed. Was this perfectly commonplace? Did people go toppling off the sides of these great floating tracts so often that no one really cared anymore? He swallowed thickly, clearing his throat, and tugged at his collar, hoping to find some privacy soon that he might strip off this dress uniform and breathe a bit easier. A drink wouldn't be remiss either; several wouldn't, at that. "Lord and Lady, it's hot," he muttered to himself, if only to break the awkward silence that had settled between them as the steward waited for Alaric to collect his thoughts.

"Serr Monteval?"

He took a few steps to work the blood back into his limbs, swinging his arms. "I've camped on peaks up in Hartsvåel territory at lower altitudes than I expect this rock of yours sits, and nearly froze my ba—" He caught himself before his language grew too colorful, conscious of the fact that he was no longer among compatriots. "Nearly froze. And yet it's sweltering up here."

"Ah yes—welcome to the everlasting Fellfire summer, my good ambassador." The steward drew up alongside him, inclining his head in invitation for Alaric to follow him back toward the manse. "Our Starfell stores burn high and bright, generating warmth and breath where we otherwise might perish. Winter never visits, and we've not seen snowfall in centuries now, but it is a small price to pay for such fine weather and assured security."

Alaric mounted the front stoop slowly on his interpreter's heels, trying not to gawk as the double doors guarding the entrance swung inward. The town hall in Layton had seemed fine enough, if in want of a good dusting and lacquer polish, but the Eizenthley property was as fine as any country noble's home he'd visited. The walls to either side stretched high to an overhead skylight, from which dangled an elegant crystal chandelier, and family portraits and heirlooms dotted the walls as they wandered through. A servant helped Alaric from his overcoat, and already he felt like he'd shed a second skin, breathing more easily.

He followed the steward into a foyer where a grand staircase parted down opposite wings with plush dark carpeting spilling down the steps. "On ground level, we have the dining hall, the kitchens, the library and study, and of course a receiving room and smoking room, with bedchambers located on the second floor. Your rooms are being prepared in the Holdhelm's eastern wing, where the guest bedrooms are located. You're a full-fledged member of the Hold, rest assured, but only blood relations and marriage partners reside in the Holdmaster's western wing. Tradition and all that."

They trudged up the stairs, the steward babbling on about the history of the Hold, former Holdmasters and mistresses, and what an honor it was for Eizenthley Hold to be allowed to host the Vasque representative. Well-mannered though the man was, he was more garrulous than Alaric was quite prepared for after nearly two weeks on horseback and a jaunt through the air, and most of his responses to the steward's comments were monosyllabic and distant. Had he been more of a diplomat, he might have worried the impression he was giving off, but even soldiers had their limits, and he released a near audible sigh of relief when the steward finally announced they'd arrived at Alaric's rooms at the end of the wing.

"Your eastern windows look out over a portion of our vineyard, while the southern wall faces the courtyard. A lovely view, if I do say so myself, though I would take care to draw the curtains in the evening, as the sun can be quite brutal come morning." Alaric nodded noncommittally, making a circuit of the room—the decoration was sparse and muted, unlike elsewhere in the manse, but Alaric actually preferred the understated tone, never quite one for flash and fancy. His luggage had already been delivered, as promised, and Alaric was relieved to note that his trunk appeared to still be in one piece. "You've a private bathing chamber here, along with a desk and bookshelves, and two wardrobes and a boot rack. Should you require more storage, I'm sure we can salvage something from another room." The steward tugged open one of the windows with a satisfied sigh, and a brisk breeze floated in, sending the thin curtains fluttering. He then turned on his heel and clapped his hands together with some finality. "Well! I suppose those are the basics. Will you be needing anything else, or would you like some time to settle in?"

Alaric absently ran a finger over the petals of a bouquet of bright violet flowers that decorated a small coffee table stuffed in a corner of the room. "Actually, since you ask—I was wondering when I might meet the Holdmaster?" He wanted all of the formalities out of the way before he began the arduous process of unpacking his life, and while he supposed introductions could wait until dinner, a simple exchange of greetings wouldn't be remiss. Best to get started on the right foot.

The steward straightened with a short, "Oh," before admitting with a wry grin, "How terribly awkward; that would be me." He then dipped a small bow, executing a rough imitation of a Vasque salute with a hand over his heart. "Everet, Viscount of Eizenthley Hold, at your service."

Shock stilled his tongue for only a moment, before diplomacy and tact fled him entirely and he blurted out, "Wait—you're the Master of the Hold? I thought you were the steward!"

He might as well have slapped the man, for the steward—no, Holdmaster Everet—jutted his chin out a hair and explained with a hint of defense in his tone, "My man brought you up two bells early; I didn't have time to make myself presentable."

"Well, yes—that I can understand, but—" He made a sweeping gesture at Everet's outfit. "What in the Lady's name are you doing running about in servants' livery?" Clear irritation flashed over Everet's features at this remark, and Alaric bit his tongue, muttering a hasty apology. After all, what did he know of Oresian fashion or the financial straits of Eizenthley Hold? This might be the Holdmaster's finest—and this bungled introduction had to be making it exceedingly obvious that Alaric was no diplomat or noble fit to represent a nation.

When Everet spoke again, it was after a tight intake of air, calm forced into his tone. "As I said, my man brought you up earlier than anticipated. I was seeing to some business in one of the lower fields—there's a blight we can't contain that's spreading faster than we can prune the vines to keep it in check. As you may have noticed, we're a vinting Hold, and our harvest is our livelihood." He indicated the scrubby linen tunic he wore. "One of my men lent me an old uniform, that I might not dirty my own garments."

Alaric swallowed any further comment, nodding, though the Viscount's explanation did provoke some curiosity—what was a Holdmaster, who could presumably delegate such work to skilled servants, doing digging around in his own fields? He recalled Henrick's mention that Eizenthley was a middling Hold—was this what he'd meant? Had Alaric been dumped in the Oresian equivalent of a country bumpkin lord's Hold, expected to pull his weight or be tossed over the side like refuse?

"Now then, pleasantries over with, can I help you?"

Everet's icy tone jerked Alaric from his ponderings, and he realized he'd quite clearly insulted his host; it wouldn't be the first time he'd inadvertently made a mess of a first impression, but the stakes were high indeed this time, and he needed to make amends for his misstep. "No—no I'll manage, thank you. And again, I do apologize—I just wasn't expecting you to..." There he went again, and he pursed his lips forcibly if only to keep any further tactless comments locked behind them.

Everet huffed softly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Very good. I'll leave you to unpacking, then, Your Highness."

Alaric glanced up at the title, brows cinching in confusion—had that been sarcasm? Granted, Alaric had been rude first, but his comment had merely been a slip of the tongue. "That's..." he began uncertainly—then decided against it; best to let both their heads cool for the time being and not go around taking offense at every imagined slight. "Yes, thank you."

Everet regarded him curiously for a moment, clearly expecting more fight from a figure no doubt as imposing as Alaric, before making for the door with a twist of his heel that hinted of a flourish his simple clothing belied. "If you need anything, I'll leave a man waiting just outside the door; feel free to make use of him, he knows the manse and grounds well enough. Otherwise, I'll see you at five bells for dinner."

When the door closed behind him, Alaric finally allowed himself a breath—what a fine mess he'd made of things, freshly arrived. The Veld Martiale would have been better served sending a nanny goat as ambassador. He wandered the room in a daze, running fingers through his hair and wondering where on earth he'd gotten the idea that he might be fit to head a diplomatic mission. It was one thing to treat with fellow commanders fresh off a battle won, another entirely to sit at a table and negotiate with royalty and nobility in bloodless, tiresome debate.

He was a mad bull with muddied, clopping hooves who'd just blundered into a glassworks display room—and already he'd trampled a lovely figurine to bits.

He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and released the breath slowly as he approached one of the southern windows, bracing his palms against the sill to stare out across the courtyard. Beyond the countless rows of creeping vines, he could make out the peaked roofs of the hamlet he'd noticed earlier. Everything was built so tall here, and he supposed space was at a premium when land was as limited as on a Hold. The only choice left for expansion seemed to be upward.

He dared a glance over at the low fence bordering the hold, recalling the sickening moment when that poor young man had toppled over the side; how long until he misstepped as well? Had the slight against Everet's fashion been so egregious that he should start watching his back, lest he find himself taking that long walk Altavio had warned him against?

He rubbed at his eyes and turned away from the window, putting all thought of Everet's dusty tunic and Altavio's grating jeers from his mind as he took in his luggage piled in the middle of the room. He needed to unpack—at least it would be a worthwhile distraction—but first, he would use the facilities.

A soft curse slipped from his lips when he stepped into the bathing chamber, though; the water closet seemed the most foreign thing he'd yet encountered—which was saying something, since he'd flown up to Eizenthley strapped into a carriage under power he didn't quite understand. The contraption before him now was all pipes and levers and chains, and while Alaric could see where he was meant to do his business, that the bowl was presently empty suggested he was meant to do something with his leavings once finished. He half considered just ducking outside and pissing off the side of the Hold, but he'd made fool enough of himself today without chancing another international incident.

Instead, he stifled his pride and stuck his head out into the hallway, spotting the manservant Everet had mentioned leaving for him. He was an older man—older at least than Alaric, though Oresians looked like they hid their age well. When your hair was already white as fleece from birth, how was anyone to tell your true age? He was going to stick out like a sore thumb here; one had but to glance at Alaric, all wild-eyed with his coal-black hair and coat of scars, to peg him for a foreigner. He snapped his fingers, seeing no other way to grab the man's attention. "Hoi—you there. A moment?"

The man only lifted his brows, clearly far less comfortable with Vasque than his master, and Alaric cursed himself for not insisting Henrick come along. Too many new faces today—and Everet had probably left him with a particularly cheeky servant just to teach him a lesson. He rolled his eyes and beckoned for the man to enter, and to his great relief, he complied.

Once Alaric showed him to the water closet, the servant seemed to understand his problem, though the less-than-subtle grin that curled at the man's lips confirmed Alaric's suspicions that he'd been purposefully saddled with one of the more impertinent household attendants.

The servant stepped back out into the bedroom, returning a moment later with a vase—and tipped its contents into the basin. He then reached overhead, pulling on a chain which spilled more water into the basin to wash the wastewater out through a pipe which had opened at the base. In mere moments, the basin was clean again, the waste having been washed away. "Ingenious..." Alaric murmured; private latrines had been a luxury on campaigns, but this put even the well-kept garderobes in the finer Vasque homes to shame. Perhaps they could trade in more than just Starfell, for the mutual benefit of both nations.

He began to dismiss the servant with a muttered thanks—before quickly recalling himself and dipping into his limited Oresian vocabulary to thank the man in his own tongue. The servant quirked a brow, nodded politely, then slipped back out into the hall. That he hadn't blustered his offense or given a cool response as Everet had suggested that Alaric hadn't mangled the phrase, but this didn't put to rights the damage he had done with the Holdmaster.

He sighed to himself, shuffling out of the water closet without using it; he hadn't even unpacked yet and he'd already embarrassed his nation, shamed his host, and proven himself too ignorant to work a toilet. A fantastic start to his mission, to be sure.

❖

"Ho there, Ainsley!" Everet hissed from the end of the hall, tucked around the corner in case Serr Monteval poked his nose out and found him skulking nearby. "Here! Smartly, now!"

His aide favored him with a beleaguered glance, then shook his head and strode over after ensuring the Ambassador's door was securely shut behind him. "Begging your—"

"Not out here, you fool," Everet reminded snippily, jerking his head toward one of the empty guest bedrooms. "Honestly, you've no nose for subterfuge, man."

Ainsley responded with a roll of his eyes but kept quiet enough until they'd placed some space between themselves and their guest's new quarters. "As I said—begging your pardon, m'lord, but if you were going to play the doting manservant, you might have done the poor man the courtesy of showing him how to work the toilet." He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head in mock sympathy. "I think he's feeling so turned around right now he'd need a map just to find his own arse."

"I wasn't 'playing the doting manservant'," Everet snapped defensively; everyone seemed bent on mistaking him for the help today.

Ainsley had borne witness to the entire charade, though, and wasn't convinced. "Weren't you?"

"No," Everet maintained superiorly. "I was playing Holdhelm steward; there's quite a pay differential between the two. And I was simply trying to discover just what our Ambassador's about. People tend to be a bit more honest in their attitudes when they think they're speaking to their lessers." This, he'd staked his life on in the past. "I only wanted to get his measure."

Ainsley snorted derisively, white teeth flashing a knowing grin. "And here I thought you had the measure of all his important bits the moment he set foot on the grounds."

Everet brushed off the jibe with a scoff and brought the conversation back around to more serious matters. "...So what say you?"

Tension lined Ainsley's face, and he shook his head. "Honestly—he seems entirely out of his element. I doubt he's ever sat higher off the ground than the saddle of his warhorse."

Everet chuckled in agreement, then pulled at the thread Ainsley had begun to unravel, "You agree he's military, then?"

A nod. "Former, though."

"Former?" This didn't fit Everet's read of the situation; Serr Monteval was entirely too stiff and alert to be long out of the field.

Ainsley raised a fist, slapping his forearm for show. "He favors his left side, guarding his right; I'd wager a thimble of Starfell it's a war injury. Carries himself like a soldier, too; you couldn't have missed the way he was reading the courtyard, like he expected a battalion to leap ripe from our vines in full kit at any moment."

"He is tense, isn't he?" Everet grinned. "Did you see the look on his face when that Runner went over the side? I thought he might wet himself, or else dive off after the fellow."

Ainsley's expression remained tight, though, and he stepped in closer. "...It can't be a good thing, them sending a military man instead of a proper diplomat for these negotiations. I won't claim to understand what they could gain, sending a soldier as representative for peaceful discussion, but their army alone eclipses the entire population of Orexa—"

"Precisely," Everet interrupted with brisk calm. "If they were mounting an invasion, they wouldn't send one military man, they'd send ten thousand, and damn any negotiations." He fixed his gaze on the closed door, wondering if Serr Monteval had managed to work the toilet himself yet. "Though they're certainly not being subtle about it; no one would mistake that for a diplomat."

Ainsley laughed a rough little snort. "Stung you keenly with that comment about your threads, did he?" He pointed to his cheek, and Everet scrubbed at the same spot on his own with the cuff of his sleeve—it came away grimy. "I hope it was at least worth it?"

"It was," he assured, without going into further detail—and Ainsley knew not to expect him to. He hadn't had time to change or wash up after poking around Anheim all morning—but at least he'd managed to tie his assignment up nicely. He doubted Adelyne of Jenevier would appreciate knowing her maid-of-all-work was smuggling the good argentine off the Hold to pawn in back alleys of lower Holds in exchange for Fell favors, but how she handled the issue from here on out was none of Everet's concern. He could report his findings this afternoon and be back in time for an exceedingly awkward dinner with the Ambassador. "We really must see about getting Fitz a dial, though; two bells early he was, this time! I'd still be down on Anheim scuttling about in the muck right now if I hadn't caught sight of his transport nearly crashing into the side of the Hold—wouldn't that win us favor with Vasque!"

Ainsley clapped him on the shoulder, shaking a finger in his face. "Now none of that; you'll work with the Ambassador they've given us, not try to have him killed so they'll send us a replacement. Surely he can be taught some manners."

"He thought I was the butler."

"Holdhelm steward," Ainsley reminded helpfully. "There's quite a pay differential, I'm told."

"Don't get smart," Everet chided, lips quirking up in a grin he failed to repress. He sighed dramatically and flopped down onto a chaise draped with a dust sheet. "A soldier... Stars, why would they send a soldier? Gerholt won't like this."

"Perhaps they're merely hoping to put up a strong front; they're on foreign soil—I expect they'd want to play as unbowed as possible."

Everet chewed at his thumb in thought. "I could see it...if he had an ounce of diplomacy to him."

"In all fairness, you did mislead him as to your identity. Can you fault him?"

"I can and I shall," Everet announced petulantly. "...But I suppose I will have to work with what I've been given."

"You always manage, m'lord."

"I do, don't I?" He felt his spirits buoying, even if he knew Ainsley was merely humoring him. He stood, straightening his tunic and attempting to brush off any dust before abandoning all efforts as hopeless. "...I really ought to clean up."

"Shall I have a bath run?"

Everet shook his head, waving away his concern. "Wait another bell; keep an eye on our Ambassador while I'm out? I'm going to pop up to Jenevier and brief Adelyne on the location of her tea service before dinner."

"Looking like that?"

Everet raised a brow in warning. "Now you want to start in on my outfit?"

Ainsley took a step back, hands raised in innocence. "You look a vision, m'lord; I'll have the water piping on your return."

❖

Alaric stiffened, straight and alert in his seat in the grand dining room as the distant tolling of a bell announced the time. He counted the notes mentally—over the course of the afternoon, he'd learned to recognize the lighter chimes as quarter intervals and these longer baritone tolls as time markers. The Holdmaster had announced earlier, before flouncing off, that dinner would be at five bells, and so here he was. Had been, actually—for quite some time now.

It had taken all of half a bell to unpack in full, filling the spacious closets with his less-than-impressive wardrobe and making proper use of the latrine to his great delight (this, he would leave out of any reports he filed). But the bloom had quickly fallen from the rose as he'd been forced to spend the rest of the afternoon twiddling his thumbs, idle without a guide about the grounds. He'd considered slipping back down to the courtyard on his own to poke around but worried the manservant Everet had assigned him might tail him, and he'd embarrassed both himself and his country enough today without adding "suspected spy" to his list of dubious qualifications.

A heavy set of double doors swung open just as the tolling died away, and in strode the Holdmaster, looking a sight better than he had when Alaric had first met him out in the yard. He'd bathed, that much was clear, and grime no longer caked his skin. His hair as well, previously lank and dull, now shined with luster a pearl would envy and had been combed smooth to be drawn back away from his face, bracketed on either side with tight, delicate plaits. The frumpy tunic had been traded for a pair of long khaki breeches and stockings with a dark vest piped in glinting gold threading over a crisp shirt dyed a muted aubergine. He'd clearly dressed to impress, keen to remake his image in Alaric's eye, and he'd succeeded. The juxtaposition of dark and light in body and cloth was quite striking, so of course Alaric blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

"Oh, so you can clean up nice."

He winced inwardly the moment the words were off his lips, regretting not learning to still his tongue before speaking now that he was among strangers. How he was ever going to manage any measure of diplomacy up here with his head in the clouds was beyond him—but manage it he must.

Everet merely arched a calculating brow before motioning for Alaric to take his seat across the table, remarking brusquely, "Do you make a habit of saying precisely what you're thinking, Serr Monteval?"

The wince this time was outward, and Alaric admitted with bald chagrin, "Unfortunately..." He'd never been very good with first impressions—in his early years as a young officer, he'd once made the horrific mistake of assuming his commander's wife to be one of the whores accompanying their regiment, even going so far as to say as such to the man's face. He'd paid for that remark in a fortnight's red-eye watches, standing guard unrelieved with only snatches of sleep. It was not one of his fonder memories. "I apologize—that remark was quite uncalled for. It's only—" He gestured across the table, groping for words as neutral as possible. "I almost didn't recognize you."

And now he sounded like he couldn't tell one Oresian from another, all while drawing even more attention to his earlier slight against Everet's appearance. He wanted to bury his face in his hands, or else sink into the floor. Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, he might sink right through the Hold's bedrock and come out the other end, falling away to the earth never to bring shame upon his station or nation again. An honorable death might at least help him save some face.

"Stars above, man," Everet huffed, beckoning over a servant who stood at hand with a decanter. "Have a drink—before you start spilling state secrets."

The servant tipped a generous portion of a dark red into Alaric's glass, and he promptly did as instructed, knocking back a dram to give his mouth something to do besides apologize and talk himself into a diplomatic morass.

"You really are not good at this, are you?" Everet observed mildly, though his tone carried a hint of amusement. "You're going to be eaten alive at the parley table, apologizing like that." He took a draw from his own glass. "It doesn't suit you."

Alaric watched as the servant measured out a refill. "And you would know what suits me?" He kept his words just shy of challenging; he didn't dare offend, but he couldn't let Everet's remark stand there without comment.

Everet lifted his glass with a thin smile. "I know you're Vasque—and I know you're living down to their reputation as headstrong brutes." Alaric felt his features go stiff as he struggled to keep his offense from showing; perhaps he could pass the chagrined blush off as early wine ardor. He'd deserved that barb, but it didn't make it sting any less.

Everet seemed to realize he'd spoken too freely himself this time, though, and it was his turn to apologize as he cleared his throat. "That was indecorous. Forgive me; I'm not accustomed to hosting foreign dignitaries, and I've been warned that my earlier reception of our distinguished ambassador was less than appropriate." He gently set the glass back on the table, tracing a finger along its stem. "Perhaps it would serve us both best to start over. You're going to be here a while, Stars willing, and I at least would like to start our relationship off on a promising note."

Alaric felt, on reflection, that he'd done far more damage to burgeoning relations between their nations with his straightforward manner than Everet had with his subtle quips, but to quibble now, when Everet was offering him an out, was folly even he could recognize, so he raised his glass again and dipped a nod. "I'll drink to that."

Dinner was braised pigeon in a red alderberry sauce, accompanied by some kind of roasted tuber that looked too green to be a potato and left a slightly bitter but not unpleasant aftertaste. A new decanter was brought out with the main course, this one filled with a chilled florid sparkling wine Alaric didn't recognize but took to be a local vintage. "Below..." Alaric began, swallowing a mouthful. "Below, when we arrived in Layton—they offered my comrades and I wine as well. I didn't recognize the vintage—was it yours?"

Everet tried to keep his features even, but his chest puffed out a bit as he nodded. "Indeed. The Eizenthley vineyards date back to well before we lifted our Holds into the heavens—our wine is our pride, and well-deserved if I do say so myself."

Alaric swirled the liquid in his glass, eyeing the tiny fizzing bubbles that irritated his sinuses. "I must confess I'm more of a whiskey man, by nature, but I can appreciate a good hearty red on occasion."

Everet's brows lifted, lips twisting into a cautious smile. "I take that as a challenge, Ambassador; you'll soon swear by my grapes, mark my words."

They managed between the two of them to keep their conversation amicable throughout dinner, steering well away from talk of politics and instead speaking of the history of the Hold and the manse itself. Alaric had just finished off his second glass of the sparkling dinner wine, now beginning to feel its effects despite his strong tolerance, when Everet remarked with some relief in his voice, "Oh—excellent. I was worried our fare might not agree with you. But I see my fears were unfounded."

Alaric had all but inhaled his dinner, the first real filling meal he'd had since departing Vasque, and he stifled a sated little burp. "My apologies for what I'm sure must have been atrocious table manners. I've been on the road traveling here nearly a fortnight, and even back home—" He stopped himself, then corrected, "Even...back in Vasque, rarely was I treated to so fine a meal. Thank you—it was indeed delicious." His words were more than mere flattery; while he was used to the spicier palates of Vasque, the sauce had paired nicely with the drink and the pigeon. At the very least, he wouldn't go hungry on Eizenthley.

"Cook will be delighted to hear." Everet dabbed at his lips with a napkin, glancing back at the heavy doors through which he'd entered, and he seemed to consider his next move for a moment before speaking. "I...realize you're likely quite exhausted from your journey—a fortnight overland in even the best of conditions cannot be an easy trek—so I would understand completely if you wished to retire straightway, but...if you're up for it, I'd be happy to give you a proper tour of the manse. To help you feel more at ease while wandering about on your own."

The brief tour he'd received on arrival had consisted of mainly the courtyard, entryway, and grand staircase, and it had only been with that manservant's aid ("Ainsley," he had explained helpfully after Alaric had faltered a bit) that he'd found the dining hall at all. He suspected this offer was part of Everet's attempts to make amends and start over, which meant that returning to his chambers could be construed as rude, and would definitely be boring. So feeling magnanimous with the wine warming his veins, he folded his napkin beside his plate and allowed, "The evening is young yet, Holdmaster."

❖

Everet apologized that they would need to drop by his rooms before the tour could start in earnest, and Alaric found himself whisked back upstairs and down the western wing toward the Holdmaster's chambers situated at the far end. Everet strode over the threshold, flinging the doors open to reveal a room far more lavish, and far more cluttered, than Alaric's. The paneling of the walls had been covered over with a loudly patterned baize, and there seemed to be more chairs than people could possibly fit in the room. Everet hastily tugged off the cravat he'd secured around his neck for the meal, draping it over the wing of a high-back and unclasping the topmost set of buttons at his throat. "I'll only be a moment," he assured as he marched with purpose toward an alcove set into the far wall, dipping into the pocket of his breeches to draw out a handkerchief he'd stuffed there during the meal.

Alaric had watched throughout dinner, curious but quiet, as the Holdmaster had secreted away slivers of meat into his handkerchief. At the time, Everet had reminded him of a child sneaking scraps for his favorite hound, and when Everet pulled back a heavy curtain to reveal a tall lattice supporting a web of clinging vine, he wondered if he had been very far off.

"Good evening, my lovely," Everet cooed, dangling a piece of meat in reach of one of the plant's tendrils. "Famished, I hope?" The plant's thick stem shifted visibly as tendrils looped down, grasping at the morsel and curling eagerly around the outstretched fingers in search of more. Several folded leaves unfurled like gaping maws, and Everet delicately placed thicker chunks on the open blades, offering soft praise when the leaves snapped shut again.

He held the handkerchief out for Alaric. "Come on, she won't bite."

"She?" Alaric parroted blankly, but gingerly drew out a stringy piece of meat, nearly dropping it when one of the tendrils made a mad grab he hadn't been expecting.

"Manners," Everet chided, shaking a finger in the general direction of the plant. "Serr Monteval is our guest."

Alaric glanced up with some trepidation, taking in the lattice as a whole—the plant nearly covered the wall, vines and tendrils and leaves stretching from floor to ceiling. "What is...ah, she?"

"A beezilbud," Everet answered simply, reaching out to stroke a shoot that ended in a bud. "A rare species, I think—I would be surprised if you'd ever seen one before. They flower wild on Sontifer slopes, over Starfell veins. Except my Lucrezia. She's been domesticated." He tickled the bud's clenched petals, which promptly unfurled into blossoms Alaric recognized from the bouquet in his room. He wasn't sure it was entirely tasteful to give Ambassadors bouquets of carnivorous plants, but he was quickly learning that the Eizenthley Holdmaster was not really one for taste. "Oh! I think she's fond of you." He flashed a grin. "She usually never blooms when I've company around."

"You...treat her like a pet."

"She's dear to me as any hound or feathered friend. Beezilbuds are quite long-lived for plants, and they thrive in soil rich in Starfell, which kills most anything else and turns mountain slopes barren. They're said to represent triumph in harsh climates and making the best of a bad situation."

Perhaps the bouquet hadn't been in such terrible taste after all, then.

Lucrezia fed, Everet shuttled them back out into the hallway, grabbing a lantern hanging from a sconce by the door as he locked his chambers behind them. "We'll be wanting a bit of light soon enough," Everet explained, and then casually flicked a spark from his fingertips into the lantern's heart, where it burst into a soft purple flame.

Alaric took a reflexive step back, spooked by the unexpected spark, but quickly recovered after catching Everet's smirk—just this side of smug—illuminated in the lantern's quiet glow. He leaned forward to peer curiously into the lamplight, and tapped on the glass to be sure it wasn't a trick. "It's...purple."

"It's a Fellfire lamp. No messy oils necessary." Everet traced a finger along the worked metal casing. "Burnished argentine struts and sableglass panels, all reinforced so as not to float away with the lift."

"Lift?" Alaric frowned. "That tiny flame?"

"That tiny flame, indeed," Everet confirmed with thinly veiled amusement, then held out his free hand, palm up—and snapped another purple flame into existence, anchoring it in his grasp. It crackled softly, flickering madly and fizzling away into nothingness as it rose. "See? It wants to return to the stars."

Alaric watched the flame dance, entranced, and tentatively reached out a finger, curious to test its properties—then snatched his hand back with a pained hiss when it burned him. Everet released a bark of laughter, covering his mouth and shaking his head as he fought for composure. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Why'd you let me do that?" Alaric grumbled, sticking his burned fingers in his mouth and shaking them to ease the sting.

Everet recovered, shrugging. "Doesn't every mother let her child test a candle's heat, just once, so he can learn his own lesson?"

Alaric didn't much appreciate being the butt of a joke, but Everet had already started down the hallway, swinging his lantern beside him and casting abstract shadows along the wall as evening crept in. Alaric eyed the lantern with some distrust. "...You lit that yourself."

"Hm?"

He drew even with Everet, nodding at the lantern. "You lit the lantern yourself; you created flame from nothing."

"Ah," Everet allowed evenly. "That I did." He glanced at Alaric out of the corner of his eye, clearly sizing him up, before admitting, "It's my Fell gift. All who live on the Holds have their gift—in my case, I can harness the Fellfire in my blood into a physical spark." He lifted the lantern for show. "We generally find ourselves positioned in roles best suited to taking advantage of our gifts—"

"Like the military?"

Everet drew to a stop, blinked slowly, then snorted, "Military? Do I look like a soldier?"

And no, of course he didn't—but the soldiers who didn't look the part tended to be the more dangerous ones, in Alaric's experience. "Having that kind of power at your fingertips—literally, even—would definitely make you a force to be reckoned with."

Everet rolled his eyes, taking a sharp left down the grand staircase. "Please; we'd be farmers charging in with pitchforks. Our Fell gifts aren't weapons." He tapped his fingers along the banister, nails clacking brightly. "We have no enemies; we're a peaceful people who only wish to live our lives in solitude, away from the worries of the world below."

Despite Everet peppering his speech with we we we, though, Alaric sensed the Holdmaster didn't number himself among his fellows.

"Ah—here we are," Everet announced with a satisfied nod, shoving his way past a heavy swinging door into what Alaric realized was a library—and an impressive one at that. He'd idled away afternoons in the libraries and studies of nobility before, but those had all been for show: a few shelves of dead poetry and musty histories, more care spent in choosing the bookends than the books themselves.

This, though, was truly a scholar's retreat.

The walls were covered, floor to ceiling, in bookshelves and display cases, some stacked higher than Alaric could reach and all clearly lovingly cared for. The spines were pristine, not a mote of dust to be found, and a quick glance revealed an ordered lineup.

Everet began to wander through the stacks, his lantern guiding his way as he expounded on the history of his collection. "Peace necessarily means boredom, you know. Holdmaster though I may be, there's really little for me to do beyond sign off on imports and settle minor disputes, so I occupy much of my time here, studying." He waved a hand as he rounded a corner, lamplight glinting off a case of what Alaric suspected were rarer, environment-sensitive tomes. "Histories, grammars, epics, poetry—I'm quite proud of all that I've managed to amass."

Alaric squinted in the low light as he tried to make out one of the titles at eye level, only to realize he didn't recognize the language. Nor that of its neighbors on either side. "You speak all of these languages?"

He could hear the ill-disguised pride in Everet's tone. "Indeed; though I confess, I am mostly a scholar and a student." He settled the lantern on a long trestle table occupying the center of the room, then took a seat on the bench beside it. "As I'm sure you're aware, we have little contact with lands outside our own, so I haven't had much opportunity to practice."

Alaric snorted softly at this, raking his eyes over the spines in search of a script he could actually read. "You're free to practice your Vasque on me as much as you like. I'll have you cursing like a sailor in a turn of the moon."

"A promise I shall hold you to, Ambassador." He crossed one leg over the other, relaxing back against the table.

"I will admit, your library is rather impressive. I've not seen finer outside of the Academies in Vasque." As soon as he'd made the comment, though, he heard the back-handed compliment in it and winced. They'd been getting along cordially enough, and this was not the time to be taking steps back from the progress they'd managed, so he abruptly changed the subject. "If you're the Holdmaster, then, can I presume there is also a Holdmistress?"

A chuckle seemed to catch in Everet's throat, and he shook his head. "Hardly. And if I cannot produce an heir before I die—which, between the two of us and the Stars is as likely to happen as a Dowser sounding a lode of Starfell up my—" He cut himself off, straightening. "Well, which isn't likely to happen—then Eizenthley's lands will revert to the Crown."

"Revert to the Crown?" Alaric frowned. "What would the Crown do with it?"

Everet shrugged, unconcerned. "The King may appoint another head of his choosing—or he may simply crash the entire thing and harvest it for its Starfell. Less upkeep, and I suppose the residents would be relocated to other Holds." He ran a finger over the argentine casing of the lantern, affecting an air of dispassion which muddled Alaric's read on Everet's true feelings regarding the fate of his people.

A tense silence settled between them, the topic clearly a sensitive one, and Alaric turned his attention back to the stacks, releasing a soft Ah! when he finally came across a title penned in a script he recognized. "I know this book! Our old nursemaid used to read its stories to us; they're children's tales." He raised a brow in Everet's direction. "This is probably the last place I'd have expected to find a copy."

Everet unfolded himself from the bench, rising to come inspect his find, and the lines of tension in his face eased visibly as he approached. "A friend smuggled that one in on a transport up from Layton."

"Smuggled? A book of nursery rhymes?"

Everet nodded. "The content matters less so than the point of origin; all imported literature is carefully monitored by the Crown—else rest assured my collection would be grander still." He tapped the spines of books as he passed by. "I do, on occasion, dabble in translation myself. I think..." He paused, considering, then reached for a slender volume and passed it to Alaric. "That one, the Bantam Holdmistress commissioned to be translated. Discreetly, mind you."

Alaric flipped open the delicate binding, running his eyes over the first few lines before hastily snapping it shut again to Everet's delighted amusement. It had been a book of love poems—quite explicit ones, at that. He shoved the book back at Everet, clearing his throat to regain his composure. "A bit risqué, I think. Less than appropriate for a Holdmistress."

Everet slid the book back into its place on the shelf. "You don't know Lady Bernise." He shrugged to himself. "Poetry, at least, can be imported relatively unmolested—I suppose a few bawdy verses never incited any rebellions."

He snatched up the lantern, beckoning Alaric to follow, and they continued on their tour. The sun had since set, and the hallways flickered with the soft glow of candles in sconces that burned a familiar pale yellow and not the haunting violet of Everet's Fellfire lamp. They peeked into the den and solar and took a circuit around the modest ballroom, which Everet confessed didn't get as much use as it once had. They then stopped by the kitchens which now stood dark and silent with the evening's meal finished and snuck a pair of stuffed-meat pastries from a tray cooling under a cheesecloth. "They're meant for breakfast, but we'll just blame you if Cook asks," Everet reassured. "She can't be cross with our distinguished guest, after all."

Alaric had finally learned the rough layout of the manor by the time they started down the east wing for his room at the end of the hallway and felt confident he could at least get back to the dining room on his own come morning. "Ainsley's rooms are just down the hall, should you require anything," Everet reminded. "Breakfast is served promptly at first bell, and if you're feeling up to it—perhaps we could expand the tour to include the Hold grounds? You'll want to get your bearings before the Gala, I expect, after such a long journey."

"Gala?" Alaric repeated, a note of uncertainty in his voice. He hadn't realized he'd be received with such fanfare, though he supposed he should have anticipated something of this nature. The mere thought, though, of all that the word 'gala' entailed sent a shudder of unease down his spine. Greeting the locals of Eizenthley, he could handle; donning all the frippery and finery that nobles drowned themselves in and trying to impress? That was a different matter altogether.

He couldn't exactly decline the offer, though, and Everet was clearly looking forward to it. "Indeed—you're our first Ambassador in an age. There'll be fine food and dancing, and I expect some manner of exhibition as well—"

"Lord—dancing?" Everet nodded. "Fantastic... I'm aquiver with anticipation already."

Everet favored him with a bland smile. "I haven't had much occasion to speak Vasque with a native, so you'll forgive me if I've gotten the wrong impression, but I sense you're not quite as excited as your words suggest." He cocked his head, raising a brow. "They do dance in Vasque, do they not?"

"'They' do, yes; but not me." He rubbed at his temples, feeling a headache coming on. "The only dancing I've ever done was when my nursemaid taught me the Drunkard's Waltz when I was ten. It's as elegant as it sounds."

"Oh that sounds absolutely dreadful," Everet tittered, covering his mouth to spare Alaric the shame of being the object of his amusement again. "You'll have to teach me." He then raked Alaric over with a calculating gaze. "Though...perhaps we should take tomorrow to find you something proper to wear for the event."

Alaric glanced down at himself; he was still wearing his traveling attire, though he'd taken care to ensure he wore something appropriate for his Orexa reception when they entered Layton. He considered that he ought to have changed for dinner—Everet had, after all—but he wasn't in a terrible state, he thought. "I do own finer attire than this," he assured, a note of offense in his tone. "Perhaps not...quite nice enough for a gala, but still..."

Everet reached forward to pat him on the arm, as one might comfort a small child. "Yes, yes. I'm sure you do. But really, it's best to leave such things to me." He stepped back and brought a finger to his chin, tapping thoughtfully. "Admittedly, I'd hoped to show you around the rest of the Hold and help you get your bearings, but given your dinnerwear and the way you went absolutely white at the mention of any sort of formal affair, I think a jaunt to Hollister is in order instead."

He didn't know where Hollister was, but it sounded like an excursion—which was presuming entirely too much of his host. "I—do appreciate the offer, but I think I can find something suitable in my wardrobe. I've another dress uniform which should, I think, suffice for most formal occasions—"

"Tut tut," Everet interrupted, shaking a finger. "You may be the first Vasque national I have ever encountered, but believe me when I say I have met many men like you. Come quietly, and I won't need to have Ainsley drug your breakfast tea." Alaric frowned at the threat but protested no further. "Now then, I shall bid you good evening, Your Highness."

There it was again—that title, and where earlier Alaric had thought it biting sarcasm, he wasn't entirely sure now. Was he being teased, or had it been an honest flub? His expression must have betrayed his confusion, for Everet's own face clouded over. "...Have I said something off?"

"No, no," Alaric assured, ready to shrug it off, but Everet didn't seem likely to drop the matter. "It's only...'Highness', that's...a title typically reserved for royalty. A prince, at the very least. I haven't a drop of noble blood in my veins, and even an ambassadorship is a far cry from the peerage."

"Oh." Everet's face went slack, and he brought a palm to his cheek. "Oh dear, that's just..."

"It's no trouble or anything—you only caught me off guard," Alaric tried to soothe, but Everet just shook his head.

"No no, it's just embarrassing." He groaned softly in disgust. "I haven't misspoken in other contexts, have I? You'll tell me straightaway if I do?"

"I—of course, of course."

Everet nodded, collecting himself. "Right. Stars, what was the proper title for an Ambassador again...?" He muttered to himself under his breath, biting a nail as he combed his memory, and Alaric eventually took pity.

"Look now, what say we just dispense with titles altogether? We'll be as equals, then; if I'm to become a part of this Hold, it only seems fitting, don't you think?" He brought a hand up and laid it over his heart in greeting. "My friends call me Monteval; I would ask you to do so as well." There; diplomacy was not so terribly difficult to manage, when one stopped thinking so hard about it.

But Everet's expression remained torn, and Alaric wondered if his attempt to gain some measure of intimacy had instead resulted in another cultural blunder.

Everet took a breath, clearly steeling himself for something. "...If you wish me to call you Monteval, then...I will comply. Only—I don't mean to be indelicate, but...you must understand that that name is no longer yours here." Alaric felt a frown tugging at his lips, and Everet barreled on, explanation coming quickly. "That name—it marks a family to which you no longer belong, under our laws. Eizenthley is, for all intents and purposes, your home and family now." He paused a moment, licking his lips nervously. "I say this not to be cruel or insistent, but so that you won't be caught unawares when all and sundry insist on addressing you as Alaric of Eizenthley with no regard for your Vasque heritage."

Alaric let the convoluted explanation wash over him, reflecting on what Everet was ultimately saying. He'd never been one to boast about the importance of a name or family ties, had always viewed his name as little more than a word used to address him. And yet—there was heritage to be considered. History, and all of those he looked up to who shared that name. He hadn't departed his family lands on the best of terms with his father, but if he lost 'Monteval', what would be left to bind him to his uncle Lazarus? The man had practically raised him, had bought him his first Commission even. The Monteval name felt something like a length of rope, tying him to his homeland and history. He still had his given name, which would always be his and his alone, but if he relinquished that family name...it meant he was truly on his own now, with no familiar harbor to retreat to when storms gathered.

A touch on his arm called him back to the moment, and Everet peered up at him with lips pinched into a thin line. "I do realize that this move must be trying for you. You're in a foreign land, surrounded by none who speak your tongue, asked to comply with customs that are at best unfamiliar and at worst outright distasteful, all while saddled with what I expect is a rather stressful responsibility." He looked away, chagrined. "I haven't made the best first impression, as Holdmaster or as an Oresian citizen—and for that, I apologize again and will make every effort to ensure that you are able to find some measure of comfort in what I hope you'll come to think of as your new home. If you wish to be addressed as Monteval, for whatever reason, then I will not be the one to take that from you."

Alaric glanced down where Everet had touched him—and realized with all this dithering, he was coming off overly emotional and sentimental, not the impression he ought to be giving at all. He cleared his throat, waving off the concern. "No, no need for apologies—I'm merely unaccustomed to being addressed by anything other than a family name or rank. I expect I'll adjust in good time." He offered a tight grin. "'Alaric' is fine."

Everet regarded him with an unreadable expression for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well then. Good night...Alaric." He then dipped a short bow and turned on his heel to depart before Alaric could offer similar well-wishes in return.

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning found Alaric standing in the courtyard, eying something rather strange.

He didn't quite know what to make of it—though he could guess its purpose and reflected that perhaps he should have seen this coming. Hollister, as it turned out, had been the name of another Hold, and the only way to and from these Holds was of course through the vast stretches of empty sky between them. So he should have known that getting there would require some manner of transport.

But what was sitting here in the bustling courtyard before him didn't look anything like the strong, sturdy carriage-like conveyance that had brought him up from Layton the previous afternoon. It was a far cry from anything resembling a vehicle of any sort, to be quite honest.

It seemed to be little more than a bench bolted between two large rear wheels, with a third balancing at the nose and a great trunk beneath with a flimsy fabric top providing cover. Perhaps if there had been a pair of horses hitched to the front, it would have made a fine day-riding buggy, but for traveling through open air? The idea didn't sit well with Alaric at all, and he made another circuit of the contraption, wondering if it at least had a set of sturdy straps like the restraints that had held him securely in place on the ride up.

Voices bickering near the stables called his attention, and he glanced up from his inspection to see that Everet was still going at it, arguing in clipped, curt Oresian with two coachmen. He'd already been well into his argument when Alaric had stepped out into the courtyard, but the men were clearly flagging now, their protests consistently cut off by their master, so Alaric hoped they might be on their way soon. It was difficult to tell what had sparked the argument—Alaric suspected it had something to do with a carriage much like the one Alaric had arrived in, which the men kept gesturing to in defense—but Everet appeared entirely unmoved, ending the conversation abruptly and marching off across the courtyard to join Alaric.

"Have you argued yourself hoarse yet?" Alaric greeted, once he drew within range.

Everet huffed and waved off his feigned concern. "They want us to take a proper carriage—with a driver and all the trappings. They claim the volacipede is too 'common'." Alaric assumed volacipede referred to the glorified pile of struts and casing before them, and while he hadn't the faintest idea what the word actually meant, its name did not inspire much confidence. "I'm the one whose reputation rests on your presentation—I think I would know how best to present you!"

Alaric muttered an ambivalent grunt; if he'd had his druthers, they would be piling into the carriage as the coachmen had urged. Not for appearances, mind; only because it looked like a strong breeze might turn the volacipede into kindling. Even if it did manage to hold its shape, without the securing belts and straps of the carriage, he was entirely liable to just topple out and into space. "I'm...sure they mean well," he tried.

"Of course they also claim that they fear for your safety," Everet laughed as he gripped one of the struts to haul himself under the bonnet. "As if I'd let anything happen to you while you're in my care."

Alaric felt the blood leave his face. "They—what?" He swallowed, sweeping his gaze over the volacipede with mounting concern. "Why would they fear for my safety?"

Everet waved him off. "Oh ignore them; you're in perfectly capable hands." He pulled a pair of driving gloves and two sets of goggles from a compartment, tossing one set to Alaric. "I take the volacipede out all the time on personal ventures when I don't want the hassle of calling together a full team. Now hop on in and put those on—the lenses are sableglass. Wouldn't want to lose an eye to flying debris."

Alaric whispered a silent prayer to the Lord and Lady before finally climbing in alongside Everet, noting with no small amount of concern the way the volacipede dipped slightly to his side with the added weight. "You're...quite sure this can handle the both of us?"

"Hands up, now—I'm lowering the bar." Everet settled a thin metal bar across their laps, though Alaric doubted very much that it would do them any good should the entire vehicle just rattle apart from the effort of trying to keep two grown men aloft. "Off we go!" He threw a lever at his side, and the volacipede began to roll, slowly at first before picking up speed, down a gentle slope toward an unfenced edge of the Hold. Alaric bit back several colorful curses that he was sure Everet would want to learn if they survived and held his breath when they finally just slipped over—

And into nothing. Hollister was a lower Hold, so down they plummeted—and Alaric's stomach began to crawl up his throat and out his mouth, until Everet threw another lever, and their descent became much more controlled. The volacipede bucked a bit with the abrupt shift in speed, and then they were gliding almost, rather than free-falling. Alaric swallowed his stomach back down into his midsection and readjusted the goggles that had begun to slide down his nose, keeping one hand gripped knuckle-white on an overhead strut.

"Come now, Ambassador—don't act like a child. We're perfectly fine, see?"

Alaric nodded mutely, worried that if he tried to speak, his stomach—or its contents—would make another attempt to escape from his throat. But just as Everet had promised, the vehicle leveled out even more, and their descent slowed dramatically—certainly not the gentle bobbing on the breeze Alaric might have preferred, but at least they weren't in free-fall anymore, instead spiraling on a downward curve.

He forced himself to breathe evenly—indeed, so long as he didn't look down, it wasn't a terrible ride at all, barring that initial drop. There was even a warm little bubble keeping them insulated. It was almost better than the carriage ride up, with the fresh air and bright sunlight streaming around them. He wasn't prepared to admit he might have overreacted, but—

"Oh dear," Everet blurted, a note of panic in his voice, "Oh dear, oh dear."

"Wh—what?" Oh dear was decidedly not a phrase one wanted to hear while floating a league in the air. "What's wrong?" He received his answer when the volacipede began to list to the side, wobbling unstably on the wind currents. "Everet? Everet, what—"

Everet only shushed him sharply, bending over to check a venting latch and cursing. "Our furnace is going cold, I'll only be a moment." Before Alaric could question him further, though, the volacipede pitched forward, nearly flinging Alaric from his seat, and he yelped in terror, scrabbling for purchase on the nearest strut. Everet ignored his flailing and pressed a gloved hand to the compartment beneath their feet, eyes closed in calm concentration even as the volacipede began to spin in a whirly-gig motion, out of control and reckless.

"Ev—eret—do—somethi—"

"My dear, it really is difficult to concentrate with your dulcet tones screeching bloody murder in my ear," Everet muttered with undisguised irritation as he continued to palm the compartment, and Alaric clammed up, glancing around in helpless panic as the world up-ended. He hadn't even lasted a full day—that had to be something of a record. Would the Veld Martiale send another representative? Would he be a footnote in future history texts, a joke sniggered about by bored schoolboys hoping they might one day be as great a diplomat as Monteval the Smudge-on-the-Ground?

But as he was wishing his silent farewells to friends and family alike, the volacipede's spiral began to even out again, their free-fall slowing into a gentler descent, until finally their heading had been restored. Alaric's breaths came sharp and gasping, and his gaze flicked from side to side, half-fearing to move in case they should lose their bearings once more.

"My, that was exciting!" Everet huffed. His hair was in disarray, fly-aways having pulled free from his tight plait, and his dark skin now looked a bit sickly as he flashed an embarrassed smile, all teeth and little sincerity. "Fellfire ballasts needed restoking. Easily resolved!" He brushed his hair back behind his ears and cleared his throat, directing his attention to a series of cranks and levers to get the volacipede back on course.

"Re...restoking?" Alaric blinked stupidly, glancing down at the compartment Everet had been tending—and now noticed the thing was not in fact a storage compartment as he'd assumed but a glass chamber, lit from within by a soft purple glow Alaric was beginning to recognize. "Fellfire? This thing runs on Fellfire? And it went out? But—I thought this stuff never lost its lift!" How many inattentive guards would it take for one of the furnaces keeping the Holds aloft to go cold, sending the unsuspecting inhabitants plummeting back to the ground?

"Oh, the Starfell doesn't—not once ignited. But these ballasts don't hold Starfell—just Fellfire." He snapped his finger, sending up a purple spark. "Most Holds can't spare the Starfell for transports, so we outfit our conveyances with sableglass-encased ballasts to trap free Fellfire. This way we can reserve our precious Starfell stocks for Hold lift and trade." He shrugged. "It's convenient enough—but Fellfire itself is transient and will eventually fizzle out without Starfell to feed on, so you have to keep stoking it." He tapped a boot on the ballast.

Alaric's brows furrowed in confusion. "Wait—Fellfire...you can contain it? Without Starfell? But—then, the Fellfire-charged shot we're negotiating for..." Pieces began to settle into place. "Are you telling me these weapons we're contracting for will expire?"

"Oh, Stars." Everet brought a gloved hand to his mouth, hiding a smile. "I probably wasn't meant to tell you that." He cleared his throat and shrugged. "Well perhaps that should serve as incentive to use the shot as soon as possible?"

Alaric opened his mouth, prepared to impress upon his host the very real impact this new knowledge would have on their negotiations—when the volacipede rocked unsteadily again, and words fled him. Everet remained cool this time, though, leaning over the side and waving to someone below; it seemed they were only being drawn in to land, having arrived in roughly one piece on the Hollister Hold docks.

As soon as they touched down, Alaric threw off the security bar and leaped free, eager to put his feet back on solid ground—or as solid as ground came in Orexa. He felt as if he'd aged ten years on the ride down, and he wished he had a mirror at hand, certain he'd see a few gray strands peppering his mane now. Everet, in contrast, stepped down from the cab bright and refreshed, inhaling deeply as he smoothed down the flyaways and adjusted his coiffure. With a nod and a series of muttered instructions to the dock crew, he tugged off his driving gloves and jerked his head for Alaric to follow. "Shall we?"

Alaric straightened his jacket, collecting himself, and fell into step alongside Everet as he made his way for a cobbled main street, bracketed on either side by three- and four-story buildings. The Hold was bustling with activity, bells tinkling over shop entrances and street vendors hawking their wares, and after turning down the third side-street, Alaric had to admit he was well and truly lost in what seemed a rather massive Hold, even compared with Eizenthley, relying solely on Everet as guide.

"Hollister is a lower Hold," Everet explained as they dodged a boy chasing after a runaway chicken. "Altitude reflects a Hold's Starfell stores—and thereby its wealth. Only the very wealthy could run the mines that harvested the first lodes, so they've taken the lion's share up into the clouds." He cast a squinting glance upward. "The rest of us scrabbled together as much as we could to lift our homes from the earth. Eizenthley's lands actually used to be much bigger—but we lacked the lift to support all of our lands, so we settled for the manor, a portion of the vineyards, and the attached hamlet."

"This place seems far busier—and more crowded—than Eizenthley, though..."

"Hollister was once a city in its own right, a conglomerate of merchants and markets with no lord or lady overseeing their lands, like Eizenthley. When the other Holds began to leave the ground, the merchants all pooled their Starfell stores to join their countrymen, and so Hollister remains the only Hold without a Holdmaster—run instead by a council, the members of which have of course been approved by the Crown Hold."

Their first stop on the Hold, Everet explained, would be a tailor to ensure Alaric had a suit ready in time for the Gala. When Alaric protested that he hadn't yet traded for any Oresian currency, Everet waved him off with the ease of someone secure in his finances. "I'm sure we'll manage."

The tailor was a 'Master Kerrik', a tiny old man with an equally tiny wife who had to practically scale Alaric like one of the Sontifer peaks to get his measurements. They chattered animatedly in incomprehensible Oresian while they worked, clearly thrilled to be dressing a foreign dignitary, and the tone with which they addressed Everet suggested he'd patronized them before.

Kerrik's wife on several occasions seemed to be teasing Alaric, though he couldn't hope to understand more than snatches of what she was saying. She snapped her tape measure like a whip, glancing up from beneath her lashes coquettishly as she asked him something, and when he glanced to Everet for aid, his host gave Alaric a quick, appraising once-over before responding in Oresian even Alaric could understand, "On the right." She nodded with a leer, muttering something quite suggestive, based on her tone, and Everet gently chided her as one might a naughty child.

"What was that about?" Alaric asked nervously when the couple scuttled into a back room to sort through fabrics for them to approve.

"She made an indecorous assumption about certain bits of your anatomy based on your inseam measurements."

Alaric's input was sought—but rarely considered—as they reviewed what seemed like three ships' worth of fabric bolts; brocades and damasks, knits and linens, in most every shade of the rainbow. Everet made his selections, assuring Alaric they'd suit him wonderfully, but when pressed about payment, he waved away any worry. "It is my privilege and honor to dress the Vasque ambassador. Rest assured the sight of you in Eizenthley colors alone will elevate me several rungs in society, which will be more than restitution enough." It was comments like this that left Alaric wondering who was really getting the bargain in their relationship.

Once Kerrik informed them the finished garment would be delivered to Eizenthley's Holdhelm the morning of the gala, they were off again—this time, to the Central Marketplace, Hollister's hub of business. Everet seemed to have his own agenda, darting from stall to stall with little pause to peruse the wares and leaving Alaric practically jogging behind to keep up. "These marketgoers are vicious," Everet explained, squeezing a melon to test its ripeness. "Act too slowly and you'll be left with nothing but the dregs."

Alaric nodded to the vendor tending the fruit stall they'd stopped by. "I haven't seen much in the way of currency changing hands—at least, not the currency I'm accustomed to."

Everet replaced the melon, moving on to wilting bunches of grapes and looking them over with the disdainful eye of a vintner. "Most trade on the Holds is done by way of barter—particularly on the lower Holds."

"Barter? Goods for goods, then?"

"No—through sharing of Fell favors. The higher Holds prefer trading in hard Starfell—but down here, every grain is precious." He gestured to a cart two stalls over, where a less well-to-do vendor of beaded jewelry was trying to make a sale. "For most of these people, a carriage under Fellfire power could be their ticket to a better life; it's their only way off the Hold. Of course," he hastened to add, "They're happy to take gold as well, since they can trade it in at the Treasury for Starfell."

"They'll take Vasque gold?"

"They'll take anyone's gold, my dear. Gold is gold is gold."

Alaric frowned, considering. "These 'Fell favors', you mentioned—is that like the Fellfire you command?"

Everet nodded as he waggled two fingers at a sausage vendor, snatching up a pair of kebab skewers and passing one to Alaric. "Fell Mages are of middling rarity—not unheard of, but not so common that we all flit about like a swarm of bees on volacipedes. Most have more mundane abilities—the Seiners can draw water from the air itself, a useful gift indeed, as we see next to no precipitation on the Holds; our Healers push the Fellfire from their own blood into others to accelerate healing. And then there are some with more...interesting abilities."

"Such as?" It was difficult to believe these gifts alone didn't qualify as "interesting".

"There are the Dowsers—the very foundation of our nation, without whose ability to locate lodes of Starfell we would be ruined. And Runners, who can channel the Fellfire in their blood but not physically manifest it as a Mage might."

"What good would that do?"

"Well—it means they can focus that lovely lift anywhere in their bodies they choose. Like, say, their feet."

Alaric nearly choked on a piece of goat skewer, chuckling incredulously around the mouthful. "You mean to say they can fly? Now you're just having one over on me." It was here, though, that he recalled the poor young man who'd toppled off of the Hold on his arrival, and how no one had paid the accident any mind. "...Wait, you're serious?"

Everet wiped daintily at a smudge of sauce at the corner of his lips. "Quite. They're typically charged with delivering urgent messages between the Holds. It's one of the rarer gifts as well—though not the rarest."

Alaric chewed thoughtfully on his last piece of goat meat—Runners and Dowsers and Mages and everything in between... This was a completely different world, a people and a culture far removed from anything remotely familiar, and the tiniest bit frightening for it. He attempted to subtly shift the course of the conversation, playing up his flagging confidence. "Are you sure it's entirely wise to be revealing such intimate details about your society to a foreigner?"

"But you're not a foreigner," Everet reasoned. "You're Oresian now. You may speak for the Vasque Veld Martiale, but you're as Oresian as I, in the eyes of our Crown Hold."

"I don't have any of your Fell gifts, though."

Everet shrugged, picking his teeth with the kebab skewer. "No one's perfect." They rounded a corner, slipping down a stinking alleyway that spit them out near the landing docks. "You're a member of my Hold now; you live in rooms under my own roof. You are, for all intents and purposes, Oresian—and you ought to know about your new people. Besides—" He drew out the pair of driving gloves again, and Alaric felt his stomach drop, realizing they'd soon be back in that death trap of a volacipede. "—You just accused me of lying; can you be so very sure I'm telling you the whole truth?"

It was a fair question—Everet could be difficult to read; at times he seemed a pompous princeling, at others a petulant manchild, and at still others something else altogether that Alaric was struggling to put his finger on. He had seen the man conjure Fellfire from his very fingers, though—had even been burned by that flame. He therefore doubted Everet was fibbing when he described the feats his countrymen were capable of. "You said that Runners were rare—but not the rarest. What is the rarest Fell gift, then?"

Everet smiled knowingly. "...Insight. Fell Seers—most can gather emotion, divine ill intent, but some can See further still, gain a clearer understanding of the thoughts of those around them. Seers are usually positioned as advisors to the Crown—or else as Inquisitors to interrogate prisoners or suspects." Everet waved off Alaric's visible concern. "That was ages ago, though; another era entirely. They keep to Crown Hold, by and large, retained by the royal family for use in official capacities."

"That's...comforting, I suppose..." The suggestion that there were mind-readers wandering about the Holds was more than a bit unsettling. The particulars of Alaric's mission were between himself and his Veld Martiale, and while he had no ulterior motives he might be loath to share with his new countrymen, he didn't want to be an open book. Privacy was something he valued quite highly.

"Now now," Everet consoled, "you needn't worry, my dear—they can only See through those with Fellfire in their blood. Layfolk are beyond their ken. No one will be picking through your thoughts without your permission." One of the dock workers wheeled their volacipede onto a launch pad, and Everet gripped a strut to haul himself up and into the cab—then paused, a rakish grin blooming on his lips. "...Would you like to meet one?"

❖

The Seer in question was a 'Tenneforr', living on Anheim—which Alaric despaired to learn was a Hold sitting lower than even Hollister, demanding another downward plunge through the clouds. Everet assured him before their departure, though, that he'd made sure the ballasts were properly stoked and that Alaric would arrive safe and sound, on his honor. No amount of swearing on the honor of someone he didn't entirely trust yet was going to make the journey any more bearable, but it was decidedly less harrowing the second time around, to Alaric's great relief.

Their arrival on Anheim's landing docks, though, was a world and a half away from that on Hollister, as Anheim Hold was not only lower in altitude but markedly lower class than either Hollister or Eizenthley. Hollister had been rather common, its kiosks and storefronts standing in stark contrast to the grand country estate of Eizenthley, but it had seemed well-kept, like its people cared for it. Anheim by contrast carried an air of despair and despondency, as if the very spirits of its dwellers might bring it crashing down on the heads of all below.

"You'll want to keep your head down and your purse close," Everet warned as they departed the docks. "You stand out with your coloring, and we've got three unruly sorts marking us already." Alaric resisted the urge to glance around. He hated being out of his element, and his unfamiliarity with these Holds meant he couldn't be sure of the quickest escape routes, which was a rather dangerous position to be in, for a soldier.

He kept close on Everet's heel this time as they darted quickly through the dirty streets, no pausing to gawk at the sights or take in the scenery. Twice Everet nearly bowled him over as he made a sharp about-face, presumably to dodge some oncoming foe, and just as Alaric was about to suggest they head back to the docks, as this was clearly not the place for them to be caught without weapons, Everet mounted the stoop of a ramshackle little cottage stuffed between two tenements, raising a fist to rap on the door.

Before he could knock, though, the door swung open on a cheery, cozy interior with an old man, face lined with crags, grinning at them and beckoning them inside in Vasque so flawless Alaric nearly slipped off the stoop. "Come in, come in, quickly now—you very nearly didn't make it. They get desperate in lean times, and of course you didn't bother to change into something more subtle." He shook a gnarled finger in Everet's face. "You ought to know better."

"Yes, well—I had a bit of baggage this time," Everet muttered as they slipped inside. "I see you've been expecting us, but just so we're all on the same page: Seer Tenneforr, our distinguished representative from Vasque—Serr Alaric Monteval."

"A pleasure..." Alaric greeted uncertainly; the Seer's speech carried none of the obvious Oresian accent Everet's was gilded with. "I...forgive me, it's only, I wasn't expecting..."

"For an old man in a rundown shack on Anheim to speak your tongue?" His tone bespoke mirth, though, and he beckoned the both of them into an inner parlor, where a tea kettle piped merrily over a low, crackling fire.

"I meant no offense—your Vasque is actually...quite impressive."

Tenneforr's brows lifted. "Better than Everet's?"

"By far," Alaric admitted with some relief, sinking into one of the plush but threadbare chairs in Tenneforr's salon.

Everet huffed his offense, "Ho now!"

"Well it is."

"Now now, Everet," Tenneforr chided as he shuffled in with a tray of small sandwiches and poured three cups of a weak, bitter tea. "It's your own fault you opted to focus on your grammars and shrugged off our conversations where you might have perfected your pronunciation. Serr Monteval is only being honest—and you know that's an admirable trait."

"He could stand to fib a bit," Everet muttered petulantly, but Tenneforr just shook his head in amusement.

"I'm sure you fib enough for the three of us," he returned, sipping his tea innocently, and before Alaric could consider the implications, Tenneforr continued, "I trust you're finding the accommodations on Eizenthley reasonable? Everet is, if nothing else, an impeccable host—I dare say you'll enjoy your stay much more on his Hold than Crown Hold."

"Tenneforr once held a position on the Crown Hold," Everet interrupted to explain. "Why he left it to live here is beyond me, though."

"Looks can be deceiving, Everet—and there's life and love yet to be found even in such a dreary place. Besides—" He nibbled at the crust of his sandwich. "—after seeing so much of the true nature of those at the top of the heap, you come to appreciate the simple life among those at the bottom." Everet rolled his eyes, looking far less mature than he'd painted himself earlier. "If someone wants to stab me in the back here, at least he's upfront about it."

"You great liar; you only hated the workload. They kicked you out for shirking your duties."

"I'd watch my tongue were I you; I'm happy to entertain Serr Monteval with tales of your not-so-very-distant wayward youth to pass the time." Everet ducked his head, covering his embarrassment with a long sip of his tea, and Tenneforr politely changed the subject to draw Alaric back into the conversation. "So what have you two been up to today? You've only just arrived, haven't you?"

Alaric nodded. "Yesterday; Everet's been kind enough to show me around the Holds."

"Has he? Where have you visited?"

"Oh leave off with the interrogation, old man," Everet huffed. "You can pick my brain easily enough and move on to more interesting topics."

"And miss the endearing way you dress up the most mundane outing into a tale worth adorning the shelves of that magnificent study of yours? Never."

"Ah—well, earlier we explored the mercantile district on Hollister Hold," Alaric explained, glancing back and forth between Everet and their host; it was a chore to keep up with their banter but quite amusing to watch all the same.

"To outfit him for the Gala," Everet added.

Tenneforr snorted into his tea. "You mean you wanted to show him off." He then directed his words to Alaric with a wink. "Don't let him try to convince you for one moment that it's the magnanimity of his heart that had him opening the doors of Eizenthley to you."

"It's a mutually beneficial relationship," Everet clarified stiffly, savagely biting into a sandwich. "I benefit from the honor of hosting the Vasque ambassador—and Alaric benefits from my connections and sense of style, which—" He made a sweeping gesture in Alaric's direction. "—you will agree he's in sore need of."

Alaric felt his pride sting. "You're the one who insisted! I told you my uniform was quite sufficient for any formalities I may be attending."

"And as you can see," Everet continued, ignoring Alaric, "I'm having a Stars-cursed time getting him to realize the dire straits he's in."

Tenneforr just chuckled, swirling his tea, then nodded at Alaric. "Whether you agree with his taste or not, my boy, this is one battle I fear you won't be winning. I've been trying for years to get Everet to see reason, but he's set in his ways."

"That's only a euphemism for 'stubborn'—and I learned it from you. You've been a terrible influence on me." He turned to Alaric. "He encouraged all of my little rebellions—something I'm certain my parents did not intend for him to do when they hired him as my tutor."

"Your parents asked me to turn you into a proper gentleman; I don't think I did too terribly on that account. A gentleman does, after all, need to think for himself, to be able to handle himself under pressure, and to project confidence." He tapped at his chin. "Though I may have overdone it on that last one..." He shifted in his chair to lean closer to Alaric. "Now, I'm a lifelong scholar myself, with a particular passion for languages—and it's been an age since I was able to speak with a Vasque man. Tell me, would you mind terribly if I troubled you for a conversation now and th—"

"Your tricks won't work on Alaric," Everet reminded teasingly. "You ought to know better than to try and See through a Lay man—or are we finally going senile?"

Tenneforr pursed his lips in irritation, as a parent might with a child, "No, but believe me they still work on you." He raised a suggestive brow that silenced Everet's teasing barbs. "I can tell you who everyone who's anyone is sleeping with—has slept with—or is trying to bed, and don't let anyone try to tell you that isn't the most daunting power there is."

Alaric didn't need convincing; he'd spent just enough time at court to learn that the only thing nobles valued more than wealth was knowledge. Crown Hold might rule in name, but these Seers were the true seat of power in Orexa.

"No one wants to hear your dirty gossip," Everet snipped, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Oh, suddenly shy, are we? That's a sight," Tenneforr laughed, "You, playing the blushing maiden—it's only comely on boys ten years your junior."

Alaric found himself now enjoying the barbed sniping back and forth, having finally caught on to the bantering rhythm clearly honed over years together. He'd had his own share of mentors and could sympathize with the relationship—equal parts irritation and fondness and admiration and frustration. "So you used to live on Crown Hold, then? Everet mentioned that most with your gift are stationed there."

Tenneforr laughed a rough, sharp bark. "A gift! You've already been corrupted by Everet."

Alaric flushed. "My apologies—did I misspeak?"

But Tenneforr just waved him off. "No, no—I'm only a cynical old man. But mark me: being able to see into the minds of others is no gift, for it robs you of the capacity to trust." He cast a fond smile over at Everet, who was eyeing the sandwich tray with clear intent to steal a second helping, despite their earlier kebabs. "Except for those of us too simple-minded to harbor any artifice."

"You wound me," Everet mumbled absently, picking over the remaining sandwiches.

"Perhaps that's why we're so closed off and insular," Tenneforr sighed, settling back into his chair with a knowing look at Alaric. "Once you've earned the power to read the minds of others, you fear losing it, as it means you'll have to learn to trust again. And that...can be very difficult indeed for some."

❖

Once Everet had finished off the rest of the sandwiches himself, he and Alaric finally took their leave, heading back to Eizenthley for dinner. Whatever bickering Tenneforr and Everet may have engaged in during their visit, it seemed put away entirely as the pair embraced tightly before Everet hurried Alaric down the stoop and back into the dreary, dangerous streets of Anheim.

Their trip back up was far more relaxing than the downward plummet that had brought them here, and the volacipede curled lazily into a sky washing over in deep azures and lavenders as the distant sun crept toward the horizon. Everet was in high spirits after their visit, and he was only too happy to fill the silence as they rose with animated chatting—touching on everything from the ever-fine weather to the state of Eizenthley's grapes this year to idle gossip about nobles Alaric had never met—and after learning the things they got up to in their private time, never cared to. Alaric proved a poor conversation partner, though, quite exhausted from their adventures, and after a particularly lengthy stretch of awkward silence, Everet tapped absently on the lap bar, staring down at a flock of geese passing far below, before asking, "So have you finished mapping our weaknesses yet?"

Alaric stiffened, knuckles going white as he tightened his grip on the strut overhead. He'd known he wasn't doing a very good job of keeping his former occupation from showing; indeed, it might have been more subtle to just pen Everet a full confession and detailed accounting of the campaigns he'd participated in over the years. But hearing Everet come out with it so casually, effortlessly wiping away the thin veneer of diplomacy Alaric had been trying to affect, left him feeling off-kilter, and he groped for a response that wouldn't result in Everet just shoving him out of the volacipede.

"You can relax, Ambassador," Everet smiled. "It's only a question; I'm not judging. We made no stipulation about the breed of representative we receive—only the number. I personally don't care if you were a tailor or tanner or farmer or potato peeler before—you're an ambassador now, and a member of my Hold." He cocked his head to the side, glancing at Alaric out of the corner of his eye. "I'm only curious about how we seem to your military mind."

He had no orders not to reveal himself—had only been advised not to bring it up and to avoid naming himself by rank if at all possible—and with all the talk about honesty back at Tenneforr's, he did feel a bit guilty now continuing to play a charade Everet had seen through. He took a breath, swallowing, and crossed his arms over his chest. "...The trade launch. Your supply chain."

Orexa was a fantastically well-guarded land, given its location—no cannon shot could hope to reach even the lowest of the Holds, and with their claim over the Starfell mines, no other armies could command powers of flight to launch an aerial assault. They could see for leagues in every direction, meaning no incoming forces could march on Oresian lands without their knowing, and when dropped from such heights, even a pebble could do terrific damage.

But no fortress could survive for long without food or water, and while Eizenthley's vineyards were admirable—they were not crops or pastures. That Orexa had finally broken down and agreed to parley with Vasque for access to grazing land and fields to farm showed how desperate they were to feed their people. Cut off that one lifeline, take the town of Layton hostage...and it would only be a matter of waiting. Their supply chain was a tether waiting to be either cut off or hijacked.

Everet's smile went a bit sad, and he nodded solemnly. "I expected as much." He sighed and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. "We think ourselves safe, secure—that none can threaten us from our vantage point. But really we've just backed ourselves into a well-defensible corner, jumping at shadows and imagined enemies to justify cloistering ourselves even further away from the rest of the world." Alaric stayed silent, feeling it probably wasn't in the best taste to voice his agreement. "Perhaps it's as Tenneforr said—once you've lost trust in those around you and given in to fear, it's difficult to relinquish any of that safety and learn to trust again."

Alaric couldn't deny he had a point—anyone would likely react the same way. Omniscience bred a lack of trust, and omnipotence a lack of allies. Orexa was now plagued with both—and suffering for it. "Surely it's not as bad as all that," Alaric tried lamely. "Your folk down in Layton, they do some trade with both Vasque and L'ruz caravans, do they not? Doesn't that constitute some manner of trust? Or at least a starting point?" The Izador framed most of Orexa's western border, cutting down crisp and clear from the Sontifers to carry trade and life to the three regional powers, and docks dotting her banks often served as points of entry for merchants eager to ply foreign lands for new customers. While Vasque and L'ruz were less than welcoming to one another, Alaric understood that Orexa had amicable—if strangled—trade with both.

Everet shifted uncomfortably, nose wrinkling with chagrin. "Well—yes, I suppose, but...they're Lay. They hardly count."

Alaric's brows furrowed. "Lay... I've heard that term a few times now, and I still haven't managed to grasp its meaning from context."

"Lay is—someone without Fellfire in their blood. Those of us on the Holds live and die under the glow of Fellfire—but now and then, some are born who...lack Fell abilities. Our gifts are our livelihood on the Holds—so if you have no Fell gift, if you can't offer anything to your Hold...then you're only dead weight. Space on the Holds is at a premium, so those found to be Lay move off-Hold, to live with the other Layfolk."

Alaric felt his breath hitch in his throat—Layton. A Lay town. A town full of people deemed useless on the Holds. He fought to keep his features from screwing up in disgust. "You banish your own people?"

Everet bolted upright again, eyes flashing in protest. "It's just our way—and they aren't banished; they have important roles in our society still, and they're allowed to visit with family, when requests are made through proper channels."

That hardly sounded much better than banishment, and all Alaric could picture was babies being torn from their mothers' arms simply because they couldn't conjure flame from nothing. He knew it wasn't his place to judge a society he'd only just begun to integrate into, but even those occupying the lowest rungs of Vasque society were allowed to make their home where they could, to share space with family and grow old together.

And if those without Fell abilities, if those who couldn't contribute in a meaningful way to the good of the Hold were tossed down into Layton—what did that make Alaric? He had no Fellfire in his blood, couldn't walk on the wind or draw water fr om thin air or read the thoughts of those around him. How was he meant to be anything but dead weight on Eizenthley—especially after the negotiations were finished? He doubted he'd be forced down into Layton, as that would shatter the accord between their peoples—but then that just made the Oresians hypocrites.

A tense silence settled between them, and the rest of the journey back to Eizenthley was a rather boring one—until just as they'd been drawn back in to dock, Everet lay a hand on Alaric's arm, offering a thin smile and, "Please don't think too terribly of us. I know better than you may think that we are not a perfect people. But you were honest with me, and so I would show you the same courtesy and not disguise the less-than-honorable parts of our society."

A bit taken aback by the apology, all Alaric could do was nod stiffly as Everet slipped from the cab and directed a servant to see to their bags. Dinner was another sumptuous meal served shortly after their arrival, leaving Alaric wondering how Everet managed to put away so much food, since he'd done nothing but snack throughout the day. Before dessert could be served, though, Everet suggested they retire to the cigar room for digestifs—which turned out to be a fruited brandy, another flavor Alaric wasn't familiar with. Everet's taste for sweeter liquors was starting to get to him, and he considered asking for bitters or something to settle his stomach after their jaunt on the volacipede, but given that Everet seemed determined to turn him into a wine man, he decided to choke the stuff down and save that battle for another day.

Everet slumped dramatically onto a chaise longue, touching his snifter to his forehead and resting his eyes for a moment—he was clearly more relaxed in the close, overly decorated quarters of the cigar room than the formal dining hall.

"I fear if every meal is as filling as that, I'll have to be fitted for new clothes at each turn of the moon," Alaric complained lightly as he wandered the room, inspecting the knick-knacks and portraits blanketing the wall. "Or else find some way to keep fit."

"Girth indicates wealth here, my dear. Don't you want to impress?"

"I've a feeling I'll be noticed wherever I go, regardless of the width of my waistline."

Everet waved his glass around. "Cook never gets to serve dignitaries, and she hasn't catered for parties since my parents passed—I think she's enjoying the challenge. Give her a few weeks; she'll go back to the slop she usually serves soon enough."

That comment got Alaric's attention. "Your parents—are...?"

Everet shifted upright, swirling his glass with a nod. "But please don't feel obligated to offer condolences—it was quite some time ago, and I've long since made my peace." He sighed. "There was an illness—a plague that hit Layton hard, then spread to the Holds in the course of trade. Most of the higher Holds weren't affected—since they have very little contact with any Layfolk—but..." He grimaced. "My mother was a Fell Healer, so I suppose she felt obligated to visit Anheim, Hollister—even Layton."

Not for the first time, Alaric noticed with some fascination how contrary Everet could be—affecting a detached air on the outside while, underneath, secretly boiling with emotion. He'd struck Alaric on first sight as some pampered ponce, but he was now realizing that much of this attitude came from being the beloved only child of doting parents who'd died too soon to properly prepare him for his responsibilities. Young lords were, in Alaric's experience, exceedingly over-confident and ill-prepared for running their fathers' households; why he'd expected any different from an Oresian than he might a Vasque noble, he wasn't quite sure.

Everet quickly changed the subject, though, knocking back the rest of his brandy with a flair that said he'd done it before and dipping into a bowl of nuts. "Now that you've stopped pretending you're not military, might I pick your brain for some war stories?" He raised his brows in interest, popping an unshelled nut into his mouth. "I've read the occasional epic poem and History—but I've always wondered what they're really like. Exciting battles and daring rescues and all that!"

Alaric frowned, setting his own snifter on a side table. "I never said I was military. And war is hardly something worth telling 'stories' about—it's not meant to lull children to sleep."

"Playing hard-to-get, are we? Come now, you know what I mean—surely you've got a few interesting tales tucked away that you like to drag out when a pretty lady asks you what you do in your spare time." He shifted around to drape himself over the back of the chaise. "An ambush that turned out to be a pair of drunks looking for a quiet place to couple? A final desperate rally that seemed at first hopeless but won you victory over a foe? If you don't give me something, understand that I'll just start making up tales to tell about you."

"You'll only be needlessly gilding something that is ugly and brutish at its most basic."

Everet quieted. "Then why do you do it?"

Alaric frowned to himself in thought—truthfully, not once in his career had he thought about the why of the matter. He was a good soldier—talented and promising as all of his commanding officers had told him over the years. But was he good at war because he was a soldier, or was he a soldier because he was good at war? He'd initially taken that first post, a commission bought for him by his uncle, as a way to be his own man rather than living out his days as the neglected second son to an older brother who seemed to outshine Alaric at every turn—but somewhere along the way, it had become a career. Something he took a measure of pride in doing well.

Everet shifted topics again, perhaps sensing Alaric's hesitation. "What campaigns have you taken part in, then? All our news is months if not years out of date, depending on how far afield the fighting is, and I'm ashamed to admit I know next to nothing about Vasque and your rivalries and military conquests beyond court gossip and public announcements and whatever I could glean from Histories and geography texts."

He seemed bursting with curiosity, and after a moment's consideration, Alaric decided to dole out what information he felt he could safely divulge without compromising ongoing campaigns. "I suppose the last major effort I was involved in...would be the one that landed me here: our skirmishes with the Northern Hartsvåel."

"Landed you here? How do you mean?"

"I led the battalion that ultimately broke their lines and was called upon by the Warlords to settle terms of armistice. Protocol dictated that I write to the Capitole for word from the Veld Martiale regarding treaty terms before engaging in any negotiations—but that would've taken at least a turn of the moon, likely more with the spring storms, and the Hartsvåel would've either absconded or tried to mount a counterattack and regroup while we waited." He shrugged. "I decided a poorly sorted treaty and an end to fighting was better than another winter in that Lord-forsaken tundra and parleyed with them personally."

"And you had the authority to make such a decision?" Everet probed, trying to wheedle Alaric's rank out of him.

"I did what needed to be done and damned the consequences; fortunately, the settlement proved agreeable to all parties, and so I sit here in your cigar room rather than locked up in some dank, forgotten dungeon for insubordination."

Everet hummed softly in consideration settling his chin on folded arms. "I imagine your Veld Martiale decided if she was only going to have one shot at securing promising terms in a negotiation, she wanted someone who'd already proven himself capable in solo treaty brokering." He cocked his head to the side. "You're either very lucky, to have received such an honor—or else very unlucky." He then shot up with a sharp gasp, bringing a hand to his mouth. "Ooh! Is it true the Hartsvåel ride snowbears into battle?"

Alaric had to stifle a snort at the shift in tone, Everet once again playing the wide-eyed schoolboy. He shook his head. "If so, I'm afraid they kept them stabled for the duration of our campaign. Though their mounts were as big and bushy as bears, and just as deadly when outfitted in their battle armor." Their own horses had been useless once the drifts started piling up, so they'd had to fight on foot—a deadly disadvantage until they'd managed to force the Hartsvåel lines into the mountains. "They breed them all with coats white as the driven snow—you never see them coming until it's too late."

Everet flopped down again, sighing. "You claim it's not as glamorous as it seems, but I confess I would love to see the world beyond our borders... It's no fun at all looking down on the world and never being a part of it..."

Alaric traced a finger along the rim of the snifter sitting abandoned on the side table now. "Surely you at least trade with peoples from other lands? The way you boast about your wines, I'd expect you to have several lucrative deals with merchants from any number of nations."

Everet wrinkled his nose sourly. "Would that we had the volume—but as you can see, our arable land is rather restricted. Plus, it would be difficult to manage a trading business when you can't even leave your own borders..."

"You make it sound as if you're a prisoner here," Alaric laughed, amused by Everet's dramatics.

There was a moment of silence before Everet muttered, "...I suppose in a way, we are." He righted himself and grabbed for another handful of nuts, shelling them in his lap just to give his hands something to do. "More by circumstances than law, but prisoners all the same. Our Lay brethren can travel where they please; the Crown Hold cares relatively little about the comings and goings of those without Fellfire in their blood. But the only way off the Holds is through the air, which effectively traps most of us, and the ones who can mount that hurdle—the Runners, or those with access to transportation—are either content with their lot or tethered by family ties."

Alaric frowned, bemused. "...Unless I've missed something, you seem to have no such family ties—and your pick of transports. So what is it that keeps you here?" He cocked his head, letting a suggestive grin tug at the corner of his lips. "Or is the only reason there's no Mistress of the Hold because the Lady is coy and hasn't accepted your proposal yet?"

Everet's bark of laughter nearly had him jumping in his skin. "A Lady? No—there's no Lady, and I doubt there ever will be. Though—" He cocked his head in thought, musing to himself. "I do hold out hope of some day making some Lord very unhappy."

Alaric nodded his head in sympathetic amusement—before abruptly straightening, Everet's meaning suddenly clear. "Oh—I... Well, that's..." He didn't quite know how to finish, though, and just trailed off pathetically, ears ringing with the volume of the silence stretching between them.

Everet's grin went wry. "And now I've gone and made you uncomfortable."

"No," Alaric was quick to protest—perhaps too quick, because he had to pause after to gather his thoughts. "That is to say, I'm not uncomfortable, I only...have never met someone who was so forthcoming about his, er...proclivities."

"Understandable," Everet offered, then shrugged. "But it's nothing of note here. Hold populations must be strictly controlled, for obvious reasons, so seeking other...outlets, I suppose? Isn't uncommon. Some such pairings are even encouraged, particularly among those with no obligation to continue a family line. One can never have too many lofty connections, after all."

"But—aren't you an only child?" When Everet hadn't corrected his earlier comment about lacking any family ties, he'd assumed he'd been right. "Are you under no such obligation?"

Everet set his bowl of nuts back onto the table, dumping the broken shells he'd already picked through into a handkerchief. "Mother might have pushed me, once I came of age—but then again, she was the one who caught me with a hand down the scullion's trousers my thirteenth summer, so what do I know?" He looked like he was regretting finishing off his brandy so quickly and was considering pouring himself another dram. "But I'm Holdmaster now, so I suppose when the time comes, I'll name a suitable heir and pray Crown Hold approves my decision—else Eizenthley will fall under the Crown's direction." He took a deep breath, sounding weary. "...So what of you? Did you leave behind any bastard offspring?" He forced a grin. "How many women went into mourning the day you received your marching orders?"

Alaric smiled, shaking his head. "Alas, none that I'm aware of."

"Isn't that how bastard offspring are?" His grin went a bit suggestive as he shifted topics. "You'll have your pick of Oresian wives now—everyone will want a piece of you. You'll be the talk of every Hold for the next six months at least."

"And after that?"

"Well," Everet shrugged, dismissive. "After that, you'll simply be the dirty foreigner no one wants to associate with."

Alaric feigned offense. "Surely not you as well?"

"Fear not, my dear," he assured, propping his chin up in one palm. "I rather like it dirty on occasion."

Alaric had to snort at that, wondering if it was the altitude or the grapes themselves that made Everet's wine go so quickly to his head. The implication, though, brought about a new realization that he hadn't quite accepted yet: "...I really am here for good, aren't I?"

Everet sobered a bit, clearing his throat. "It would seem so." A pause. "...Do you regret it? Accepting the mission."

"Well, it's barely been a day—I don't feel quite prepared to make an informed decision, but...I haven't seen anything yet that makes me want to take a flying leap off the edge of the Hold, so I suppose that bodes well."

"Ah, give it time," Everet assured. "Soon you'll be concocting plans to hijack my volacipede in the middle of the night, and next I hear from you, you'll be a Hartsvåel warlord's concubine."

"I would have to be desperate indeed to voluntarily set foot in that contraption of yours." He sighed vocally. "I suppose there are worse ways I could be spending my retirement, though."

"Surely you had multiple offers to be some courtesan's favored lapdog and only turned them down out of that sterling sense of duty you seem to harbor?"

Alaric raised a brow. "What sort of history have you concocted for me inside that head of yours?" He shook his head with a wry smile. "No—I imagine given the state of my arm after our last campaign, I would've been quietly pushed into some Academy position."

"Scholarship, then?"

Alaric had to laugh at the image. "Hardly. No—martial arts, likely. They'd want to get as much use out of me as they could before putting me out to pasture."

This seemed to grab Everet's attention. "Martial arts—you mean weaponry?"

"Weapons—but also strategy, tactical cartography, and some historical studies of past victories and defeats as well, I'd wager."

Everet was getting that wide-eyed far-off look again. "I've always wanted to learn to wield a sword—they do fencing demonstrations now and then, up on Jenevier, but from what I've heard, they're all bloodless and neutered of anything romantic." He swung his arm around with a flourish, brandishing an imaginary weapon. "But to do battle as the epic heroes did...!"

Alaric felt his annoyance rising again, and reminded with a chastising tone, "Didn't I tell you already that there's really nothing remotely 'glamorous' about war? The fencing a noble's son learns and that I teach my men are worlds apart."

"I know that," Everet protested a bit huffily. "I'm only going by what I've read—if you'd like to disabuse me of such fanciful notions, though, you're more than welcome to impress the gravity of swordplay upon me bodily." He lifted his brows in challenge here, and Alaric finally saw the clever trap laid out—he was being baited into agreeing to teach Everet fencing techniques.

"Now that's some downright dirty negotiating right there," he muttered, taking up his snifter again to finish off what was left of the brandy. "I certainly hope it's not you I have to see across that treaty table, else I fear we'll be paying you to take our lands."

Everet merely beamed with pride, as if he'd just received the highest of compliments.

CHAPTER THREE

The morning of the Gala dawned bright and early. Sunrises on Eizenthley were indeed fierce and unforgiving, just as Everet had warned: it felt as if the sun no longer actually rose, it was just suddenly up, bright and burning and blinding above the cloud cover. Even the thick, heavy curtains bracketing the western windows did little to block out the piercing rays, leaving Alaric glad to be an early riser by nature.

As he'd been informed the affair wasn't to begin until the early evening, he decided to take the opportunity to start up a morning routine. Three days he'd had, now, to adjust to life on the Holds, and he was quite ready to start living instead of just getting by. The first step to truly accepting that this was his new home was to establish a rhythm, something he could slide into and look forward to every day. In the field, it had been pre-sunrise hikes with his personal squad; here, he had no troops to command, so he'd have to make do some other way.

He opted for a brisk jog around the manse's borders, keeping well clear of the fence marking the edge of the Hold. Once he'd made a full circuit, he started weaving up and down the vineyard rows, snatching the odd grape off the vine for a quick burst of energy. One of his passes brought him around to the stables, though, and he drew to a halt as he watched a farrier checking the state of a stallion's shoes just inside the double doors. It was the first horse he'd seen up here on the Holds, though given how large the tracts were, he supposed he should have anticipated that the Oresians might want proper carriages—and horses to haul them—for longer trips. He took a moment to peek into the stables, checking out Everet's stock, when he was very nearly knocked flat to his back by a young stablehand rushing out into the courtyard.

The boy scrambled for an apology, coloring darkly when he realized who he'd bumped into, and Alaric had to draw on all of the Oresian he commanded to try and convince him it was quite all right and that he hadn't been injured in the collision. The sound of their conversation—such as it was—drew the attention of the head groom, who darted over promptly when he caught sight of Alaric and proceeded to dress down the poor boy all over again. After another round of stilted explanations, the stableboy was finally released, and the groom invited Alaric inside for a better look at the horses.

"Fine horse. Good horse. Eizenthley best horse. Best!" The groom rapped on his chest with pride, and Alaric offered an uneasy smile in return as he strolled down the aisle, casually glancing into the stalls and trying to ignore the heavy, expectant gazes of the groom and other stablehands watching his every move. It wasn't with any ill will—they simply were staring, and it left Alaric feeling like a bug under glass. Perhaps he would come back another time—maybe in the dead of night, where he might find some privacy. Giving up his curiosity for the moment, he turned on one heel, prepared to march back out—and nearly bumped into the massive rear end of a mare being led out of a stall.

He quickly sidestepped the animal, making for the doors, when the groom stopped him with two hands held up before him, nodding toward the mare. "You ride? Fine horse!" It was here that Alaric realized they'd brought her out for him, thinking he'd come here looking for a mount. He started to protest—until the mare began to snuffle needily at his nape when the stablehand drew near. He gently guided her away with a sigh, stepping back to look her over. She wasn't as tall as his mount back in Vasque—but few were, and she at least looked like she knew how to handle a rider. Her hide was a soft champagne and her mane and tail the same bone-bleached white as her Oresian masters', drained of all color from generations spent under the bright, blinding sun.

The groom didn't wait for his word, already calling to another hand to help saddle her properly, and Alaric nodded his thanks to the man. "I didn't think I'd get to ride again," he muttered to the mare as he scratched her long neck, patting her nose fondly. "Shall we head off-property then, my lady?"

Once mounted up, he took a few laps around the courtyard to get his seat before tugging on the reins to direct the mare down the dusty road cutting through the vines. She responded promptly, clearly having taken this trek on many an occasion, and Alaric felt himself relax with the familiar gait of a well-trained mount bobbing beneath him. The mare kicked up a bit of dust behind them as she pranced brightly, relieved as Alaric to be able to stretch her legs, and they drew stares from workers up early to tend the vines.

The hard-packed dirt road soon gave way to softly cobbled streets which clicked beneath the mare's shod hooves as they crossed the edge of the Holdhelm's lands and into the tiny hamlet occupying the far side of the Hold. It reminded him a bit of Hollister, though not nearly as crowded or cramped, and no one here hawked wares or tried to catch his eye as he rode past, instead giving him a wide, calculating berth as they openly gawked. Feeling a bit like he was on display, sitting atop the horse, Alaric dismounted when he reached an open space, keeping the mare's reins short as he walked her through the wide streets. Most of the buildings seemed to be homes or tenements, with the odd bakery or cobbler or tailor shop thrown in—many if not most of the workers at the manor probably lived here, commuting from one end of the Hold to the other in a daily routine.

He paused to let the mare drink from a public trough and found himself taken by the sight of fresh-baked stuffed pastries cooling on the open window of a corner bakery. His stomach gave a soft gurgle to remind him he hadn't bothered with breakfast before setting out from the manse that morning, which roused a soft titter of amusement from further within, and he realized the baker had noticed him eying her wares. A soft young woman, her hands white with flour and flaxen hair pulled away from her face in a handkerchief, leaned from the window to offer two of the pastries to Alaric. He hesitated—he had nothing to repay her with, and what if she wanted some Fell favor?—but she insisted, practically shoving the pastries into his hand and shooing him away so she could get back to rolling out a lump of dough sitting unattended on her counter.

He ducked a nod of thanks and greedily devoured the first pastry to sate his appetite, then took more care with the second. More bodies began crowding the street, the workday now well and truly started, until soon enough, no one spared him a second glance, minds clearly occupied with more important matters than the Vasque ambassador wandering about with meat-spiced breath and a nosy mare on the rein. Deciding he ought to head back to the estate before he wound up getting underfoot, he mounted up again and made for the main thoroughfare once more.

He arrived back at the stables just in time for lunch, famished despite the meat buns he'd received from the baker, and found Everet already waiting for him, deep in conversation with the groom who'd had the mare saddled for him. Alaric hailed him with a hand in the air. "You've some fine animals; perhaps you should consider turning some of those vines over to pasture and become a breeding Hold instead," he greeted, slipping down from the saddle as a stablehand took the reins from him.

Everet rushed over, clearly put out. "You went riding? Into town?"

Alaric stiffened, wondering what he'd done wrong now. "Only a quick trip—your groom here practically threw me into a saddle, and I couldn't resist the lure." He frowned. "Should I not have?"

"No, it's—" Everet sighed. "It's only, I would have liked to have gone as well, to show you around—I'd been putting it off, actually, hoping to time introductions well."

"I did look for you," Alaric reminded, "But you were nowhere to be found, and Ainsley couldn't tell me when you would be available."

"Oh, I was only—" Everet started, then bit his tongue, cutting himself off, and crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. "No, no, never you mind. You can't have known, and it's my own fault." He cocked his head, a thoughtful smile on his lips. "I suppose I shall simply have to scratch that itch by showing you off at the Gala this evening."

Alaric winced, groaning internally at the reminder. He'd always hated court functions—everything about them ran counter to his instincts, from the costumes to the incomprehensible and unspoken rules to the tedious chit-chat and smiles that hid knives. It was looking like he'd have to do a fair bit of bowing and scraping, though—at least until the contract was signed. Then he could relax into the role of the brutish foreigner and leave any image-polishing to Everet, since he seemed to so enjoy it.

The hour had grown late enough that brunch was in order, and the meat pastries—while delicious—had been less than filling, so Alaric was ready to dig into the meal with vigor. He devoured three rolled partridge egg omelets stuffed with sweet redcap mushrooms and vinegar-pickled thymblewort, rethinking his initial assessment of the Oresian fare as too bland for his tastes. While he'd feared Everet's single-minded insistence on making Alaric a wine man would force him to choke down a spritzer of some sort, such worries were proven unfounded when a servant marched out with a carafe of piping hot coffee to rejuvenate.

"Well, since I couldn't join you on your ride, you'll have to tell me all about it—come now, I want every gory detail." Everet was clearly still a bit irritated at being left behind, and he swirled a glass of grape juice in one hand, expression sour.

Alaric shook his head and sipped his coffee. "Had I known you were so keen to show me around the Hold first-hand, I wouldn't have left the grounds. And you must believe that I hadn't intended to go in the first place—but your man pushed a horse on me."

"And clearly you fought tooth and nail against mounting up," Everet drawled, rolling his eyes, and Alaric was reminded anew of how immature Everet could come off at times, despite the responsibilities he carried.

This was going to become another little spat if they weren't careful, so Alaric carefully reminded, "...You do realize I'm going to be here for quite some time, right? I doubt I saw all there was to see of your grounds in an hour's ride—you'll have your pick of chances to show me the sights."

This seemed to placate Everet somewhat, and he muttered, "I'll hold you to that, then."

After they finished their meal and Everet extracted an oath Alaric wouldn't go off exploring again without him, on pain of more complaining, they parted ways to start the arduous process of preparing for the Gala. Kerrick of Hollister was to deliver Alaric's new suit shortly, so Everet sent him off for a bath and a shave, though not before admitting cheekily that a bit of stubble might increase his exotic appeal, as he rubbed his own smooth chin ruefully.

"I'll send some servants down to help you dress once you're out," Everet assured. "And I'll be in to supervise once I've finished my own preparations."

"I can dress myself," Alaric protested, a bit ashamed Everet didn't think him competent enough to clean up nicely. He preferred more casual, utilitarian attire—but he'd been to his share of court functions and knew the drills.

"Just because you can doesn't mean you should, my dear."

The shaving kit Alaric found sitting near the tub full of piping hot water was put to good use; better for his first impression to be one of an elegant gentleman than the gruff, rough-hewn foreigner, he decided. After a soak to draw off the aches starting to form in his lower back from his first decent ride in a week, he stepped back into his room to find two young pages waiting as Everet had promised.

They had already lain his outfit on the bed, and through a series of gestures and nods, they managed to communicate their desire for Alaric to step up onto a small dais in the corner before a triptych of mirrors. The pages helped him into his new suit, ensuring he missed no buttons and making notes of adjustments to make on-form, but by the time Everet strode in to check on his progress and review the evening's protocol, they were still snipping and cinching and sewing.

Everet had clearly spared no effort in putting himself together, between his shimmering jacket of champagne over an aubergine vest with gold filigree bordering a watch pocket and boots that looked all about fashion and nothing about function, buckled and clasped up the shins with heels that could put an eye out. Every inch of the man had been meticulously groomed, from his pearl-white hair pulled back into a tight fishtail plait down to the brogued medallion of his boot tips, perforated in the shape of a grape bunch—and while Everet would likely have protested that every color suited him, Alaric had to admit that he was quite striking in the soft champagnes and rich plums of Eizenthley's colors.

Alaric nodded at the boots, raising a brow at the click-clack they made on the dark wooden floors as Everet strode over. "I certainly hope I'm not going to be expected to wear anything so ungainly."

"Never; we can't have you pitching face-forward on the dance floor and ruining this accord between our nations before you've even been properly introduced to your new King, after all." He raked Alaric over with an appraising glance. "Still a bit of work to be done, but progress is promising."

"Please, I'm blushing with the weight of your compliments," Alaric muttered dryly.

"Now—let's discuss the particulars of the evening." He clasped his hands together. "You may find yourself addressed as 'Serr Monteval' by anyone with the stones to test their Vasque, but at our entrance, you'll be formally introduced to the ballroom as Alaric of Eizenthley—just like any member of my Hold."

Alaric tugged on the cuff of a sleeve that was riding up. "I'm wearing your ring already, about to step out in your colors, and I've taken your name..." He raised a brow in the mirror. "Why do I get the feeling I've agreed to more than I'm entirely aware?"

"Hmm," Everet mused, reaching forward to tweak the fabric of his breeches where the material hugged tight across his thighs. "Well, you do have rather lovely child-bearing hips, and we're in want of a Holdmistress..."

"Lady, I'd be terrible at the job: my cooking is abhorrent when it comes to anything more complicated than soldiers' rations, and I usually have to have someone remind me I smell like death warmed over before I think to do any laundry."

"Oh, I'm sure I could find other uses to put you to," Everet reassured with flirtation thick in his tone. "Everyone has his talents."

Alaric snorted his soft amusement—until he caught sight of the two pages in the mirror, and the knowing glance being shared between them. They might not be able to understand the words being exchanged between their master and guest, but the tone of the conversation likely spoke volumes, and he quickly sobered, clearing his throat and straightening stiffly.

Perhaps Everet had noticed the pages eavesdropping as well, for he quickly wrapped up their chat with, "Well, we can probably discuss the rest of the details on the ride up. I'll just go check with the driver to be sure we can leave on time—I'll return by next bell."

Alaric watched him flee the room, shoulders slumping in relief once he was alone with the pages again; it was entirely too easy to get caught up in Everet's rhythm, and now that he was free from the man's thrall, he could breathe easy again. Both their behavior had been quite inappropriate, considering the situation, and Everet was clearly a flirt who knew how to use his charm to its fullest extent. It was doing Alaric no good stooping to his level.

The pages continued their pricking and cinching, polishing every button and buckle to a brilliant shine, and by the time they had finished, Alaric stood before the mirror as Everet's opposite in an iridescent plum doublet with white-gold stitching in a berry vine pattern racing down the front and more buttons than he could count holding it closed. His boots at least were sensible, though the breeches hugged him a bit more tightly than he would have liked—he really should have asked to look over the measurements himself rather than leaving it all up to Everet at the tailor's.

The pages disappeared as he stood admiring his reflection, replaced by Everet who drew up beside him with an approving expression. "My, don't we make a pair..."

"Should we head to the carriage now?"

"In a moment," Everet chided. "I just want to admire you for a bit before I have to compete with the gazes of half the country."

"Half your population is going to be at this thing?"

"The better half," was the reassurance, such as it was. Everet frowned in thought. "Perhaps we ought to fetch you a cane... You may need to beat back your suitors."

"Maybe I should have foregone a shave, since I recall some mention of my gruff foreign air being off-putting?"

"Unfortunately I don't think even that would have been enough—I mean, I knew that your novelty alone would have Gala-goers lining up to mangle an introduction, but this is truly extraordinary..." He smoothed a hand down the back of Alaric's doublet, brushing imagined dust from the shoulders.

"Well, you picked out both the cut and the colors," Alaric reminded, "so your compliments are beginning to sound like boasting."

Everet simply shrugged. "Can't they be both?"

Alaric fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead took a good look at himself in the mirror. He hardly recognized the man staring back at him, draped in golds and champagnes and aubergine plums—and he wondered if this was a peek into what his life was to be from now on. If left to his own devices, Everet would likely happily replace his entire wardrobe with all manner of breeches and vests and doublets and pantaloons in Eizenthley colors and then some, before he'd even been here a turn of the moon. And that was just the clothing; he didn't want to even think about what sort of footwear Everet would insist he stomp about in.

The distant tolling of a bell announced the hour, and Everet jerked his head for Alaric to follow; it was time to actually start doing the job he'd been sent here for, evidently.

Ainsley was waiting for them in the courtyard along with a driver and footman, and Alaric climbed into the carriage they guarded while Everet held back to deliver final instructions to the trio before joining Alaric. "Disappointed we aren't taking the volacipede?" he teased as he ran fingers through his hair to tame a few flyaways and adjusted the tight plait.

"Only glad I forewent a fourth omelet..." Alaric admitted, glancing about the cabin for a strut or handrail to grab hold of as the carriage lurched into movement.

"Probably for the best—the feast you'll be gorging yourself on shortly will leave you sated for days, I expect." He settled back, draping one leg over the other as he made himself comfortable, as if mocking Alaric's tension. "Now—you'll want to pace yourself once we're at altitude."

"How so?"

"Well—Crown Hold sits quite high, as they keep the largest Starfell reserves in their furnaces, and the air can get thin, even for Oresians. You should be prepared to feel a bit winded on the ride up. On the bright side, though, at least you won't have to fear a chill."

"That's the bright side?"

Everet shrugged. "Crown Hold burns its stores high and hot, roasting its occupants to announce its wealth and opulence." The note of disdain in his voice said he could think of several better uses to put the Starfell.

The carriage gave an unsteady jolt as a breeze buffeted the sides, rattling the overhead struts, and Alaric glanced about in panic before gathering from Everet's cool reception that this was nothing to be concerned about. "...How long will it be before I get used to that?" he mused aloud, and Everet gave him a sympathetic—albeit a bit patronizing—smile, as if to say Silly paranoid foreigner. Which was easy to do when one had spent their entire childhood above the clouds, but Alaric was still getting his bearings here.

All thought of wind shear and bird strike and loss of lift was wiped from his mind, though, when the carriage listed to the side on an upward spiral and Alaric found himself staring out over a cloudless vista spreading wide and vast just beyond the window. The setting sun gilded the landscape far below in gold and fire and icy tones as the light died and the night rose, and the twilight sky reflected in brilliant hues off of the distantly winding Izador, stretching long fingers back into the craggy peaks of the Sontifer Range.

Everet must have caught him gaping—though it would have been difficult to miss—for he leaned forward to catch a glimpse himself, admitting, "Never getting used to some things isn't always terrible." On this, Alaric was learning he could agree, and he spent the rest of the ride up using the gorgeous view to distract himself from the flight until the light eventually failed and they were alone, floating in darkness.

As they rose, though, other carriages popped up from the blackness like fireflies, a swarm of moths circling higher and higher, all drawn to the light and warmth of Crown Hold. The higher they climbed, the more carriages congregated, until after what seemed an interminable amount of time, they were finally hooked by a tether and drawn in to dock. They were shuttled from the cabin with more haste than Alaric would have expected guests at a royal Gala to be treated with—until he realized the dock workers had to clear the newly landed carriages from the docks quickly so that others just arriving could be drawn in, a steady stream of guests spilling onto the estate.

The grounds were palatial and lit up bright as day by Fellfire lamps that cast their eerie violet glow across the lawns. The sight reminded Alaric of Veld Martiale Hadryan's court—and not in a good way, as every instance of setting boot on those grounds had been for some formal function or another, each an exercise in tedium. Eizenthley, with its grand vineyards and quaint hamlet, was downright homely by comparison, but Alaric would always prefer the simple country comfort of a Hold such as Everet's to the opulent grandeur before him.

Several guests were milling about outside on the patios, taking in the night air and chatting before the great open doors, and it was only Everet's light touch to his arm that reminded Alaric he was meant to be a part of those conversations. He took a breath, remembering Everet's warning about the thin air, and steeled himself as they marched for the main entrance, drawing gazes after them like minnows in a seine net as they went.

The quiet conversations around them rose to an audible hum as he and Everet drew nearer to the shallow steps leading up the entryway, and he could feel a hundred and more hungry gazes leaning heavy against his back. They'd been spotted—but these eyes were more judgmental than the curious glances he'd earned back on Eizenthley and Hollister, and more uncomfortable than even the predatory stares of the desperate on Anheim.

A collective stillness settled over all present, and Alaric wondered if it was the altitude or the tension that was making it difficult to breathe. He was keenly reminded that he was a foreigner now, the only foreigner to ever set foot on Oresian soil; one wrong move, one break in protocol, one unintentional misstep—and the fragile new truce between Vasque and Orexa could be shattered, with dark aspersions cast on Veld Martiale Hadryan's choice in Ambassador.

Everet looped an arm through Alaric's, though, butting up close, and he kept his eyes ahead and his voice even as he reassured, "Relax, my dear. Surely you've attended court functions in your homeland, no? I can't imagine our ways are so very different."

Alaric glanced around nervously, making every effort to avoid lingering eye contact. "They aren't. That's just the thing."

"Don't be dramatic, now," Everet chided, drawing an envelope from his jacket and passing it to a doorman with a thin-lipped smile. "On my honor, you will survive this night."

They stepped through the great archway bracketing the entrance and were promptly announced by a crier with a booming voice, which prompted every eye not already fixed on Alaric to now turn and take him in. Everet didn't pause to give the gawkers time to get their fill, blessedly escorting Alaric down the plushly carpeted grand staircase and onto the ballroom floor. Tall windows lined a balcony ringing the room, and guests leaned over pearl-inlaid banisters to get a good look as Everet tried to lose the two of them in the crowd.

It was not Alaric's first time in a ballroom—but it was his first in a rather long time, and he hadn't attended so many ostentatious court functions that the sight of the Orexa Crown Hold's ballroom didn't give him pause to take a breath. The dance floor alone was the size of Eizenthley's Holdhelm, it seemed, and could easily fit the entire populace of the Hold. The ceilings stretched tall, with equally tall windows racing along the eastern wall—it had probably been quite a sight at sunset, and Alaric half wished they'd left earlier, that he might have enjoyed it. Proper lamps and chandeliers—not the Fellfire sort—provided ample illumination, though Alaric suspected the Crown had only made this concession because the glint of gold looked better under yellow light than violet.

A string quartet accompanied by light woodwind instruments Alaric didn't recognize played airy music that drifted softly around the ballroom like a warm breeze, providing an ambient background lull for conversation. The crowd parted before them, molding back together as they passed, but none dared approach them or call out greetings. Had they—or rather, had he—done something wrong? Was he even now forcing the Oresian Royals to reconsider just how badly their people needed pasture and forest and stream?

Everet touched his arm to call his attention, nodding toward a raised dais on the far end of the ballroom, atop which stood two young men in outfits more lavish than even Everet's. "The Princes are already here—that's rare. Usually the Royals arrive together." He inclined his head and dropped his voice. "To the left is Gerholt, the Crown Prince, and the sourpuss on the right is his younger brother Vizick." Alaric frowned, unaccustomed to hearing rulers spoken about so familiarly—or disparagingly. He caught himself before he protested the slight against the Prince, though, recalling that Everet was a noble; everyone here was, in fact. A soldier in the field would have never spoken so about his Prince, but the higher one's birth, the worse one's manner tended to become. And what did he know? Perhaps the man was downright intolerable and didn't deserve the coronet on his head.

Everet glanced about the room, alert. "I suppose the other Royals will be around soon enough, now that the guest of honor has arrived—probably didn't want your appearance trumping their own."

"They're welcome to any appearances they wish to make..." Alaric muttered sullenly, wishing he didn't stand nearly a head over most of the population, or at least that his coloring blended in better with his surroundings. The drapes seemed a similar shade to his doublet—perhaps he could wallflower later and pass unnoticed.

"You'd best get used to being the center of attention, I'm afraid."

"Well I'm sure you can help me out with that as well," he drawled, and Everet glowed with pride.

Their passage through the crowd was like cutting through syrup, slow and trying, and Alaric eventually grew bored with counting the number of women flashing them coy grins and men nodding suggestively. Everet seemed to thrive on the attention, delivering greetings when he passed what Alaric presumed were acquaintances (or conquests, for all he knew), though he didn't take the time to introduce Alaric, explaining that he needed to make himself known to the other Heads of Hold first, before mingling with the riff-raff.

Everet managed to sniff out the Heads Alaric ought to greet, flawlessly directing the conversation and excusing them when Alaric had exhausted his sparse Oresian, and while he appreciated the effort, he hadn't the heart to confess he would likely forget their names before the end of the evening. He was already flagging when Everet introduced the Head of Anheim Hold—a Baron Danvers and his daughter Ysme. They both looked as if they'd just smelled something foul, pinched cheeks and stiff speech their less-than-subtle way of indicating their disdain for Alaric. He tried to be as courteous as possible, but really all he could think as the pair and Everet traded small talk was the deplorable state of the Baron's Hold. He was meant to be responsible for those poor degenerates—and yet he had the time to attend a royal gala? He kept his thoughts to himself, though, delivering a sharp nod of acknowledgment when they finally moved on.

"I don't think they cared for me very much..." he murmured to Everet, watching the Baron and his daughter hail another couple. "I didn't insult them, did I? I know my pronunciation can be appalling, but if I've—"

Everet made a derisive sound, waving him off. "They're just sour you merit ball. Really, they ought to be thanking you for an excuse to get off-Hold and breathe the free air."

"It's hard to credit a man dressed so finely as the head of such a..." He caught himself before he spoke too ill of Anheim, but Everet shook his head.

"He pours everything he has into Starfell to burn in Anheim's furnaces, convinced it's merely the altitude difference keeping his people and Hold in the state they're in. He barely deserves a swift kick in the arse, much less the title of Head of Hold." He glanced around the room again, grabbing Alaric by the wrist and tugging. "Come, let's cleanse that palate."

The palate cleansers turned out to be a group of women—a matriarch and several younger women Alaric took to be her daughters, or perhaps granddaughters. Everet was instantly smooth in his greetings, the now familiar flirtatious tone thick in his voice as he spoke to the older woman, and she slapped his arm lightly before hiding a smile behind a hand fan. Everet extended a hand to invite Alaric closer. "This lovely woman is Lady Bernise of Bantam Hold—one of the highest Holds and the finest I've had the pleasure of setting foot upon. After Eizenthley, of course." He winked at the woman, and she tittered in amusement that made Alaric wonder if she actually understood his quips.

Before Alaric could deliver his own introduction, though, Everet took the Lady's hand and laid it across the back of Alaric's, nodding to the section of the floor that had been cordoned off for dancing. Bernise seemed to understand the ruse, grinning broadly as she joined Everet in trying to coax him out for a whirl around. "I—forgive me, my Lady, but—" He turned to Everet, pleading, "I don't know any Oresian dances!"

"Oh, go on, go on." He made a shooing motion. "Do that—what was it? Drunkard's waltz? She'll love it." Alaric went red in a combination of frustration and shame, and Everet eventually had to forcibly shove him out into the swaying throng. "It's tradition for the guest of honor to share his first dance with the oldest Head of Hold."

Everet's smile made it clear this was utter hogwash, but Bernise was already tugging insistently, and with a last desperate glance over his shoulder, Alaric finally let himself be dragged away.

He let Bernise lead, certain there was no way King Reinhart would parley with Vasque if the Ambassador made a fool of himself at his own Gala, and she pulled him into a meandering, simple rhythm that—to his great relief—he quickly caught on to. Bernise took him on a circuit around the floor, perhaps hoping to ease his tension, but the worry that he'd embarrass not only Vasque but now Everet as well had him clomping about jerkily. He kept casting desperate glances back over to Everet, hoping for a reprieve or some sign of what exactly he was meant to be doing besides crushing the toes of what seemed to be a very lovely lady.

Everet's attention, however, had been diverted—as several young men had sidled up to chat with him while Alaric was otherwise occupied. On each whirling pass Bernise swung him about on, Alaric noticed the men drawing closer, cordoning Everet away from the crowd and inclining their heads to speak in hushed tones that even those around them likely wouldn't pick up. Their body language spoke volumes—but no one seemed to be paying them any mind, despite the familiarity of their touches. One even had the audacity to lean in and brush a kiss over Everet's turned cheek—and was met with not a slap, but a protesting finger against his lips and a reproving glance.

Alaric could feel himself gawking, knew he was interrupting Bernise's hard-won rhythm and about to trip over his own two feet, but he couldn't suppress the sheer shock. Everet had spoken true: such pairings and attentions seemed not only tolerated...but encouraged. These men courting—for clearly, that's what this was: flirtatious wooing—the men courting Everet were not subtle at all, as they might have been in empty corridors of the Veld Martiale's palace in the Capitole or in hurried, frenetic encounters in a tent the evening before a dawn rush. This was calculated, a give and take that both parties understood and played at. Here was another side of Everet, as many-faceted as the gem crowning the ring on his finger—the only question was, which was the table facet?

Leaving Everet to his suitors, he turned his attention back to Lady Bernise for the remainder of their dance, feeling of a sudden rude for staring and ignoring his dance partner. He tried to be as gentlemanly as he could think to be without fully understanding the intricate Oresian customs, and when the music wound down, he thanked her for the dance in his best, thickly-accented Oresian, struggling to wrap his tongue around the unfamiliar vowels. She ducked him a prim nod of her own, smiling as she cupped his cheek fondly, then flicked her eyes back to the young women who had been on her arm when he and Everet had joined their party.

A weight settled in the pit of his stomach, and he could practically hear her about to suggest she introduce him to one of her companions—but when he brought his hand to his shoulder for a courteous bow to beg her pardon, she gasped softly, wiry brows lifting into her carefully tended white beehive of a coiffure. He frowned, wondering if he'd inadvertently performed a rude gesture—and followed her gaze to see it resting on the gaudy Hold ring he'd been instructed to wear.

Bernise muttered a quick, embarrassed apology, then looped her arm through Alaric's and patted his arm with motherly tenderness as she escorted him back to Everet's side. He still didn't quite understand what had just happened, but as they approached, Everet marked their return and quickly saw off his final lingering suitor—a fit youth with broad shoulders and crimped hair pulled back into a tail at the nape of his neck who cast Alaric a dark look from equally dark eyes as he slipped away. Bernise was already giving him a sound upbraiding before they'd drawn within arms' length, and Everet barked a sharp laugh, covering his mouth in mirth when Bernise chided him for 'getting her hopes up when he's already ringed'.

"What on earth was that about?" Alaric asked when Bernise moved off with her entourage, still glowering—albeit without much ire. "I understood a bit of what she was saying, but I confess the meaning in context was lost on me. Did I broach some sort of etiquette?" He glanced down at his hand, frowning in confusion. "Am I not meant to be wearing it here? They told me down in Layton I was to wear it at all times, so I assumed..."

Everet shook his head, grin still wide and bright. "No no, you've done nothing wrong—not knowingly, at least."

"Wha—so I have been rude, then?" He began to twist the ring on his finger, prepared to tug it off—when Everet reached forward to cover his hand.

"I told you—it's nothing wrong, really. You're of my Hold, so you're expected to wear our ring. It's just—well, it's...the finger you've chosen."

"I simply put it on the finger it fit best." He held his hand out, then glanced down at Everet's. "And you're wearing yours on the same finger, so I don't see what the fuss is about."

Everet's brows lifted, and his grin went suggestive and knowing. "Well, traditionally—"

Before he could manage another word, though, a roaring boom ripped through the ballroom, echoing thrice and sending the glass ceiling above shattering into a million glittering shards which rained down as the very ground beneath their feet rocked, shook, and brought chaos screaming down around them.

CHAPTER FOUR

Everet's world was nothing but dust and darkness and screaming, a horizon tilting on its axis and throwing everything off kilter.

Soot and grit flew into his mouth on each labored inhalation, and he tugged weakly at the neckerchief tucked into his collar and brought it up to his mouth, blinking blearily to try and bring his surroundings into focus.

Chandeliers angled awkwardly from the ceiling high above, half their candles dead and the other half flickering madly to illuminate the horror below. The ceiling was a skeleton of metal struts, the glass having shattered and rained down on the ball-goers, tearing through flesh and fabric. Massive columns that had supported the walls and ceiling had toppled over, crushing dozens beneath their bulk—and when Everet realized how very close one had come to taking his arm off, he glanced about, frantically seeking out a flash of champagne and aubergine, some sign of dark hair stark against the sea of Oresian white.

It was too crowded, though, too many bodies—some twitching with life, some scraping through the rubble, but many still and silent—and he took a deep breath through his makeshift mask and tugged off his Hold ring with trembling fingers, closing his eyes and clenching the bauble tight in his sweaty palm. He forced his breathing to even, tuned out the weeping and wailing and ominous cracking of the Hold's very foundation beginning to give way, and drilled his focus down to a tiny point: the polished fragment of Starfell in his palm, warm and beating and alive and his own.

He listened close to the call of his Eizenthley Starfell, memorizing its timbre, then strained to catch any echoes: far, far away, down and drifting to the west was the distant booming note of the Eizenthley furnaces, muted but vast and recognizable. Not what he was looking for. He searched for something nearer, and the Fellfire in his blood sang out for companions: the faint call of two points out on the landing docks—his driver and footman, likely. Still not what he was looking for, though, and he cursed, his voice raspy and raw. "Where are you, you great ox...?"

Focus, focus—there would be time enough for despair later, time for nothing but despair. Later; now it was time to focus, to find that last lingering bit of Eizenthley here in this melee...and to rescue the man attached to it.

A faint, muffled note rose from the rubble just there to his left—and Everet's chest clenched, breath catching in his throat as he heaved himself upright and staggered forward to begin sifting through the debris and bodies and everything in between. He found Alaric on the other side of the pillar, one leg trapped beneath a woman in green sporting a Jenevier Hold ring and already rousing with panicked confusion clear on his features. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Everet was at his side, dusting him off—for all the good it did—and explaining in a whispered rush that they needed to leave. Now.

Alaric was in a dazed shock, glancing lazily about the destroyed ballroom and listing ever so slightly to the side to compensate for the increasing angle of the floor. With some effort, Everet managed to drag the unfortunate Jenevier woman's body off of Alaric's leg—it would have some bruising, and the cuts would need disinfecting, but he could stand on it. "Come on, come on—up, man. Up." Alaric didn't move, continuing to stare at the destruction around them, and with an irritated grunt, Everet clasped both hands around one forearm and hauled him to his feet. "We need to get out."

"Get out—where? What...what happened...?"

"I am less concerned at the moment with what happened than what is about to happen." He balked when a body stirred in his path and an arm reached out to grasp at his hem, nearly sending him slipping on a slick of blood pooling on the mosaicked tile of the floor.

"What's about to happen...?" Alaric's voice was getting stronger, a wary tone replacing the blank shock and awe. It was an improvement—Everet needed Alaric terrified, or else he wouldn't flee, like he needed to.

"It's going to crash."

"It—what?"

"This Hold." Everet hopped over a headless statue that had toppled over in their path, swallowing back bile. "Crown Hold is going down."

As they mounted the staircase, heading for the entrance they'd swanned in through less than a bell ago, Everet dared a glance over his shoulder—taking in for the first time the scope of the destruction. The dais was gone—the Princes with it, likely. The explosion—for that's what must have done this; one or more of the furnaces combusting and obliterating a good quarter of the palace—had reduced the Royals' Wing to so much rubble, tearing down the very walls so that the far side of the ballroom had been scored open to the elements like an ugly scar. The dance floor was littered with survivors in every state of injury—the luckier ones attended their less fortunate friends, companions, family, and Everet thought he saw one of the Bantam Mistress' daughters wandering about in a daze, calling for her sisters in a voice weak with shock, but he hadn't the time to help her. She was as good as dead anyway—they all were.

As he practically dragged Alaric up the final few steps, the Hold groaned angrily, and a dull roar of concern began to build as those with their wits about them realized what was happening. The Royals' Wing was gone—that was at least four of the furnaces, and even if the other sixteen were still in working order, they were concentrated too far away to do any good. The Hold could survive a few catastrophic failures at random points—but not like this. Not hobbled and listing—she would go down.

Everet would make sure of that.

On reaching the top of the staircase, Everet had them racing for the launch pads, Alaric still too stunned to protest. "You'll take the coach back to Eizenthley," Everet huffed as they ran. "Do your best to let Ainsley know what's happened—and send him back for me with all haste."

"Send him..." Alaric stopped abruptly, jerking his arm from Everet's grip. "You're not coming? You just...you said the Hold is going down..." He glanced around, clearly struggling to process their predicament. "It's going to crash—and you mean to stay?"

Everet straightened, brushing his hair back from his face as he paused to catch his breath. "I have duties to see to here," was his vague response; they didn't have time for this. Already the angle of tilt was worrisome—and if he couldn't blow the remaining furnaces before the point of no return, they'd have an even bigger tragedy on their hands. He drew close, lowering his voice—though it was hardly necessary—and keeping his expression grave. "The Hold cannot stay aloft; too many furnaces were destroyed in...whatever happened, and it's only a matter of time."

Alaric paled, glancing around. "Then we need to start getting people off—how many can your carriage hold? Ten at least, I think? Perhaps twelve, if we crowd them in."

Everet wanted to laugh—Vasque had indeed sent them a military man, quick to recover from a fright and start strategizing, and it was easy to see the cogs in Alaric's mind already beginning to creak and churn, factoring in the number of coaches still anchored at dock to determine how many they might save. It would have been a hollow laugh, though, He laid a hand on Alaric's arm. "Would that I could help—and if you feel obligated...then I won't try to stop you, though I wish you would do as I ask." He grimaced, wiping at a sooty bead of sweat dripping into his eye. "But I have more important matters to see to."

Alaric took a step back, brows cinching in near disgust. "And what, pray, could be more important than helping to save these people's lives?"

"Saving the lives of the thousands more who'll die when this Hold starts to take out the others below it as it sinks." He waved an arm around. "She's already angling in her descent—she'll spiral down, slow and inexorable and unstoppable, and the sheer weight will drag others down with it, dropping debris all the while to crush any Hold unfortunate enough to be floating below." He reached for the buttons on his coat, trembling fingers struggling for purchase until he eventually gave up and popped them all loose to tug the coat off. "It needs to crash immediately. Straight down, dead weight."

"...And how do you plan on doing that?"

The coat fell with a soft whump on the plush lawn beneath his boots—Stars, these had been a poor choice to wear tonight, even if they did make him look taller. "By destroying the other furnaces and eliminating any remaining lift."

Alaric's gaze went distant as he turned Everet's logic over in his mind—and after a moment's consideration, he tugged at his own neckerchief, sending it fluttering to the ground. "All right. I'll help."

"You—what?" He shook his head, reaching for Alaric's fingers to keep him from unbuttoning his vest. "No, no—I don't need someone else getting in my way, for one, and there's no guarantee you'd come out the other side in one piece, for another."

"I'm merely doing my duty—"

"Your Veld Martiale ordered you to crash a Hold, did she?"

"—ensuring that there is an Orexa to treat with, rather. Were she here, she'd send me in after you, so let's get this over with."

Damn the man; he would not make this easy. Everet tried a different tack: "You're Oresian now, you realize; you don't have to abide by your Veld Martiale's laws anymore. This is not your problem to solve—it is mine."

"Then I'll abide by my personal honor," Alaric insisted in stubborn refusal, and he took a step forward, trying to use the head of height he held over Everet to intimidate. "You tell me there's nothing more I can do to help out here—so let me at least try to prevent further tragedy."

Everet pursed his lips, feeling his cheeks heat in frustration; he'd been so docile in letting Everet dress him up like a doll, but now he chose to stand his ground? He huffed, closing his eyes and shaking his head, then beckoned for Alaric to follow. "Don't fall behind—and don't question me."

Alaric didn't respond, but he was a soldier; he'd do what Everet told him to when asked—short of leaving, apparently. The driver was holding their coach at the docks, nearly frantic with relief when he caught sight of Everet and babbling a stream of questions Everet had neither the time nor energy to answer. "Return to Eizenthley—and send Ainsley back with a lighter coach. Stoke the ballasts as high as they'll go—siphon Starfell from our furnaces if necessary; I want him up here fast. And tell him he'll likely have to Dowse for us. We may be difficult to find."

The driver nodded, unlatching the coach from the dock as the footman hopped into the cabin, and Everet turned on his heel to direct Alaric back toward the ruined palace without pausing to see his men off. Hopefully the furnace corridor hadn't suffered too much damage; the furnaces under the Royals' wing had been destroyed—but clearly the blast hadn't done much damage to the remaining furnaces, or the situation would be much more dire than it already was. No, they'd have to bring the Hold down the hard way: black powder injection. "Twenty furnaces in total keep the Crown Hold aloft—four were destroyed, by the looks of things, that means we've got to take out the remaining sixteen..." He paused, a guilty pit forming in his stomach. "...As well as any Starfell stores."

"Stores? I thought it only gave off lift when put to flame. Shouldn't any stores just be inert rock?"

They reached a colonnade, and Everet grabbed for the handle to a door bracketed by a pair of thin columns, stumbling through and into darkness. "They should—but we can't allow such precious material to just fall to the earth for anyone to happen upon. Our Starfell-powered Holds are all that keep us safe—" Though given their current situation, 'safe' was relative. "—And we absolutely cannot run the risk of anyone else, friend or foe, gaining access to our natural resources." He counted doors in his head as they charged down a narrow hallway, grabbing for the banister of a stairwell leading deeper into the bowels of the Hold once they'd reached the furnace well. "It's my job to see that doesn't happen."

"Your—job?" He could practically hear realization dawning, wariness thick in Alaric's tone. "This isn't some rescue mission; it's a clean-up." A hand reached out, grabbing Everet tight by the wrist and jerking him to a stop. "You would die, just to keep a bunch of dust from falling into the hands of those you don't trust not to use it against you?"

Everet flashed a grim grin. "My dear, I'm expected to."

Alaric released him promptly, as if he'd been burned, and shook his head. "Well I'm not." He jerked his chin toward the landing at the base of the stairwell, beyond which lay the furnace corridor. "This isn't about saving other Holds; you're only here to see to the Starfell."

Everet felt the last of his patience snap, marching forward with hands clenched into fists at his sides. He'd thought Alaric's stubborn wariness endearing before; now, it was dangerous. "I don't have time right now to deal with your questions or to discuss the finer points of my people's paranoia, and regardless of any ulterior motives you may be convinced I harbor, this Hold must come down. Must. I can either do it with your help, or without, but I will do it. It would be a faster job with two sets of hands, but you're welcome to head back to the launch and try to hail one of the fleeing carriages." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I won't think any less of you."

Alaric flinched visibly at the less-than-subtle slight to his honor, but to his credit, he didn't rise to the bait. "...You haven't been honest with me."

Everet shrugged. "I never claimed I was—not entirely so; I would think a keen military mind such as your own would expect one or two tiny betrayals on a mission such as this."

"Tiny betr—" Alaric started, a small vein bubbling in his forehead, but he quickly collected himself. "...You'll tell me one truth, right now—one, or we are quits."

They really didn't have time for dramatics, but Everet did actually need his help if he wanted to do his duty and keep his skin. He huffed in irritation before nodding. "One; and be quick about it—or haven't you noticed we'll soon be dark smears upon the ground?"

Alaric ignored his dry attempt at humor, expression going darker. "The other Holds—they're truly in danger? Starfell aside, this thing crashing could bring them down as well?"

He must have known that the obviously loaded question would prompt Everet to respond in a way that best suited his agenda, and Everet didn't know if this trusting nature—or rather, this desire to trust, even if he knew it ill-founded—was all that appropriate for a soldier to harbor, but he reached for a button on his vest, and yanked it off in a quick snap—then tossed it to the ground and watched as it rolled away into the darkness, down the incline forming as the Hold continued to list. He pointed toward the button. "That grade will keep getting steeper, and steeper—until the Hold's weight is too much for the remaining furnaces to bear up. Shortly—perhaps another quarter bell, maybe less—the weight will overcome the lift of the Fellfire, and down she will charge. It will be slow, but it will be unstoppable, and like a juggernaut, Crown Hold will take out absolutely everything in her path, until she makes earthfall." He straightened, squaring his shoulders and daring Alaric to challenge him again. "I honestly do not know if it will strike any of the other Holds on its way down, but I have lost too many companions already tonight, dear to me as family, to risk finding out." He turned on his heel, grabbing for the banister as he started down into the furnace corridor. "That is my truth for you right now."

He was five steps from the landing when another pair of boots came clomping down behind him, Alaric calling, "I'll have the truth—the whole of it—once this is finished, Holdmaster."

Everet forced a grim grin. "Then I suggest we make sure the both of us survive in a state to deal in truths."

The landing opened up into the furnace well, a large hall in the belly of the Hold fronting the two furnace corridors. Each corridor led off to a series of Fellfire furnace rooms supporting either side of the Hold, and it was here they would make their stand. First, though—they needed to stock up on supplies, and Everet quickly spotted the store room, disabling the lock with a concentrated prick of Fellfire and stumbling inside. He had to be careful with his gift from here on out—one stray spark would end the mission before it had even begun, blasting them both to bits too small for Ainsley to Dowse for later.

Grabbing a pair of lanterns from a hanging hook, he passed one to Alaric and tossed a spark into its heart. "That's Fellfire," he warned, "And that—" He pointed now to several massive stoppered jars, "—is black powder. I don't think you need any reminding of the very real danger we're courting here." Alaric's eyes widened a tick and he shook his head, holding his lantern at arms' length and eying it suspiciously, as if he feared Everet's spark might leap out and combust of its own volition at any moment. He dug out two burlap sacks, broke the wax seals on the stoppers, and began scooping pure black powder into the sacks, praying it would be enough to seed the furnace rooms.

"You people keep black powder next to your furnaces? Are you quite mad?"

Everet shrugged, continuing to scoop. "The jars are sturdy enough and can take a beating, and they're secured so they don't go rolling about—it's as safe as any armory. Besides, we need the powder close at hand for..."

"For this?" Alaric finished sourly.

Everet passed him the bag he'd just finished filling after cinching it closed. "Starfell is terribly stable; light it, and it'll burn for ages. It's only the force of a black powder explosion that breaks it down into an unstable form. What we're going to do is seed the furnace rooms—not the furnaces themselves—with the powder. Once each room is seeded, a single spark should be all that's needed to start a chain reaction that will propagate to the other rooms and destroy the furnaces in one fell swoop."

"And the stores you're so adamant we see to?"

He finished off his own bag, cinching it tight to be sure none leaked out before he was ready to deal with it. "In each furnace room you'll find several racks of inert Starfell, cased in sableglass spheres. Upturn the racks, shatter the spheres to expose the Starfell, and the subsequent explosion will do the rest. Don't blow anything until you've completely seeded the powder and shattered the spheres. Once you've finished with the furthest room, toss in your lantern and run like you've got daemons nipping at your heels—back here, to the fork." He grabbed his lamp. "You're about to get a first-hand look at the explosive capabilities your Veld Martiale is paying for."

Alaric wiped a hand over his face. "This is madness..."

"Come now, surely you've faced worse odds?" He nodded at the bag of powder. "Do you understand what you're meant to do?"

A nod. "Seed, shatter, scurry back. Simple."

"Well done," Everet chuckled darkly, but Alaric's expression remained grim and accusing. He tried to defuse the tension, adding, "What's the matter? You act as if you've never blown up a floating castle hoping to bring it crashing back to earth."

"And you act as if you have."

Everet was instantly on-guard again, all humor fading from his voice. "...What's that supposed to mean?" Hadn't they been through this already, back in the passageway? He really didn't have time to deal with Alaric's conspiracy theories—if the man wasn't going to help, Everet would have to think of a way to accomplish the deed on his own. He reached for Alaric's bag with a frustrated grunt—but Alaric jerked it back from his grasp, clutching it close.

"...I'll take care of it."

Everet huffed, growing weary of the constant back and forth. Perhaps he should have just knocked Alaric out earlier and shoved him into the carriage he sent back to Eizenthley. Lir at least should still be about, and he wouldn't give Everet any lip (unless he asked very nicely). "Good. See that you do." Before Alaric could demand any more truths or glare another set of holes through him, Everet charged back out into the well and made for the leftmost corridor, pausing only to call out over his shoulder, "You're my first ambassador; don't die on me, or they'll never trust me with another one."

Alaric stood at the entrance to his own branch, covered in grime and soot and with hair sticking up in every direction but sporting a rather fetching expression of determination. He nodded at Everet. "Well, don't you die either; you're the only one of us with any clue as to how we're going to get off this thing once we've blown her from the sky—and I still mean to have my answers." He then disappeared down his corridor before Everet could think of a clever quip to return, and with a curse, Everet set off to take care of his set of furnaces.

He'd only been down here once—on accident, really, when he and Lir had been looking for a place to...well, for a bit of privacy. They'd been quickly run off, and he'd only caught the briefest of glimpses into the furnace rooms, never imagining he'd be back in for a proper look around under such dire circumstances. A furnace was a furnace was a furnace, though, much the same on Crown Hold as on Eizenthley or Bantam or Tremayne, and as soon as he reached the first of the eight rooms he was to seed, he set to work. The workers tending the furnaces had long since fled—as had, he suspected, most of the castle's occupants. Those who could, at least; the horses in the stables, the Queen's peafowl, servants caught drunk on their shifts who'd been tossed into the keep until they dried out...they would not survive this night.

He drove such distracting thoughts from his mind with the tinkling crash that rose up when he overturned the first racks of sableglass-bound Starfell, the shards crunching underfoot as he smashed any unshattered spheres with the zeal of a good pigeage. Sableglass and Starfell dust soon mingled with a sprinkling of black powder as Everet flung handfuls over the remains of his destruction, trying not to recall that barely half a bell ago he'd been holding court before Jenevier and Bantam's most eligible bachelors, watching Alaric step on Lady Bernise's toes and fending off Lir's not-entirely-unwelcome advances. He didn't even know if Bernise was still alive, now—had he seen her carriage on the launch pads? Or had that merely been wishful thinking?

He moved quickly on to the next room, and then the next, and on down the corridor, smashing and stomping and sprinkling until he'd reached the final room, his burlap sack of powder empty and the Hold finally starting to tilt at so awkward an angle he was losing traction. He needed to finish the job—now, if he wanted to have any hope of surviving, and back into the hall he scrambled, taking a breath as he sent a prayer up to the stars and delivered a vibrant blast of Fellfire into the final furnace room.

The explosion set his ears ringing, and the shockwave coming off the room gave Everet a sharp shove down the hallway, which he used to give himself a running start, cursing loudly as more explosions followed him back up the corridor. Each new shockwave bestowed upon him another burst of speed, until by the time he reached the fork again, he felt as if his feet were barely touching the ground. Alaric was already there, expression frantic and waving for him to hurry, and together they dodged the dust and debris being pushed into the foyer by the exploding furnaces, charging back up the stairwell with chaos on their heels.

Once they broke free of the confines of the palace, it was flat-out running straight for the launch pads, but in a stomach-churning stroke of ill luck, the remaining lift supporting the Hold finally gave way in the wake of the explosions, and with nothing to support her great mass, the Hold listed sharply, nose-down, and began to plummet with startling speed.

Alaric's expression went ashen, and Everet reached out to grab a handful of his doublet, drawing their bodies together and instructing, "Hold fast!" It spoke volumes about the culture Alaric hailed from that his immediate response to such attentions was to shove Everet away bodily, and with an irritated huff, Everet pressed, "Hardly the time to be shy, my dear! Grab on tight!" He looped his arms under Alaric's and twined their legs—pushing off just as the ground fell away beneath them.

For a heartbeat, they hung suspended in the air, the chaos around them seeming to slow to a crawl: the palace in ruins, debris and rubble and bodies tossed into the air like ragdolls, and the bulk of the Hold falling, falling. Alaric clutched him tighter, and Everet could hear, over the roar of fire and destruction, the desperate thudding of his heart.

And then they fell—plummeting back to earth in the wake of the Hold.

But before they could reach freefall, something grabbed at Everet—long fingers gripping him about the wrist and nearly ripping his arm from the socket as his fall was abruptly arrested. He hung awkwardly suspended between Alaric, wrapped bodily around him, and the welcome grip of Lir of Bantam, Everet's wrist clenched tight in his hold. Lir's brows quirked up into his messy shock of hair as he drawled, "Fancy meeting you here."

"Lord and Lady above!" Alaric cursed sharply in Vasque, his grip tightening further and setting Everet to swaying dangerously in Lir's grip. His breath caught audibly in his throat as he openly gaped at what must have seemed impossible to him: Lir's booted feet practically dancing on thin air as he struggled to control his Fellfire sufficiently to keep the three of them aloft.

The sweat beading across his forehead, though, and the subtle tremors rippling through his body suggested that it was a losing battle, and while their descent had slowed dramatically, Lir's lift alone was not enough to support two adult hangers-on. They continued to drift downward, a break in Lir's concentration all that stood between them and an earthbound plunge.

"I hope...you won't think me impertinent, Ev," Lir grunted, bringing his free hand around to bolster his grip on Everet's arm, "But you weigh a bit more than I recall." He nodded at Alaric. "Perhaps lose a bit of that baggage?"

Everet frowned at the suggestion, in poor taste considering their situation, and he administered a sharp Fellfire jolt which set Lir to yelping in pain and glaring his offense. "Your aid is most appreciated; your commentary less so."

He glanced around—it was more than a little eerie, being out in open air like this without the comforting shadows of Holds passing overhead. They couldn't stay like this forever—Lir's strength wouldn't last—but hopefully, they wouldn't need to, and just as he was contemplating releasing his hold on Alaric to risk sending a Fellfire flare up to signal their location, he caught a voice hailing them from a distance: Ainsley at last, and not a moment too soon.

His man drew up alongside them in a modest two-seater coach, and with some awkward angling and swinging, they managed to get first Alaric boarded and then Everet. As Alaric settled in, Everet leaned out the window, penitent. "I...I didn't have time to check on Lady Bernise—I'm sorry, I truly—"

"Peace," Lir clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. "You had a duty to see to, and you know Auntie would have fed you to the hounds if she thought you were shirking it just to locate her dusty arse." He shrugged, forcing a hopeful smile. "She's a Siphon; maybe she topped off from one of those Jenevier biddies and hightailed it out of there—perhaps I'll see her back at the Holdhelm, hale and whole and chiding me for my tardy return." His smile tensed, and it sounded like a breath caught in his throat.

It was wishful thinking, but they both needed these pretty lies to keep from falling apart right now, so Everet didn't bother to disabuse him of the notion, instead urging with a grim expression, "Watch your back—we can't know if this was an isolated incident, or if there are perhaps more sinister plots to come."

Lir flashed a rakish grin. "You know me; I always land on my feet." As if in demonstration, he did a little pirouette before leaning in to bring their faces close. "...Send for me if you've a need—or even if you don't. I'll come running."

Everet reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze. "Thank you; I dare say we would not have survived this night without your aid. I may need it again before this is all over."

"Well, I shall expect thorough recompense when next you're up on Bantam." To seal the arrangement, he darted forward to brush his lips feather-light over Everet's. "Down-payment."

"Get off, you," Everet chided sharply, collapsing with a huff against the cushioned carriage bench and keeping his face angled to ensure that neither Lir nor Alaric could see the stupid little grin creeping over his lips. Lir was, if at all possible, even more of a flirt than Everet—but the truest friend one could ask for.

"...You run in the strangest circles, Holdmaster," Alaric murmured as he watched Lir dance off into the night with a curious mixture of awe and mistrust, as if he couldn't decide whether to gape in admiration or punch Lir in the mouth for his cheekiness.

Everet just snorted softly, closing his eyes and willing his heart to finally cease its thunderous tattoo; they'd made it off the Hold in more or less one piece, seen to the furnaces' destruction, and ensured that there would be no chance of any untrustworthy sorts salvaging Starfell from the wreckage. He'd done his duty and more.

"Well, we survived," Alaric announced in the quiet darkness as Ainsley guided the carriage back down to Eizenthley. "Does that mean I get my explanation now?"

Stars, he'd nearly forgotten about that, but Alaric clearly hadn't, and even in the close quarters of the carriage, he could feel that dark, accusing gaze falling heavier than a Hold on his shoulders. He sighed loudly to indicate how very put-out he was with Alaric's stubborn insistence. "I said I'd give you the truths you demanded—I didn't say when. Can't I at least have a moment to catch my breath?"

"I want no further part of this—any of this—until I am properly informed of what I've wandered into. You just destroyed your Crown Hold, your royal family is likely dead, and I have no one left to treat with and no way of knowing if you're friend or foe at this point."

"You think any explanation I give you will solve those issues?"

"Perhaps not—but at least a good story will pass the time," was his dry retort. "I won't set foot on Eizenthley until I know just who her Holdmaster truly is. There is clearly more to you than meets the eye."

"You flatter me, Ambassador," Everet tried, hoping some idle flirtation might ease the tension between them—to no avail. Alaric was in a snit, and he wouldn't let up until he'd received the truths he so desperately demanded. "...Fine. As you suggest, I am not everything I have presented myself to be—but I haven't lied to you. I am Holdmaster of Eizenthley, and I am ever so much more sensible when it comes to fashion and making a grand impression than you."

He could practically hear Alaric's eyes rolling in their sockets. "The relevant truths, if you don't mind."

"I find that very relevant," Everet maintained, shrugging. "Very well. Every Hold has a security force, appointed by the Holdmaster and charged with enforcing the Master's dictates and the King's laws. The King delegates certain powers to the Holds and largely leaves them to self-govern, with control over national matters retained by Crown Hold. However, Crown Hold also likes to employ...a less overt force of its own, letting the Holds think themselves relatively independent while still keeping a steady hand on the rein. This force is the Crownswatch—its members scattered throughout the Holds and handpicked by the Crown Prince himself to see to tasks that require special attention."

"...And I take it from the tone of this lesson that you're a member of this force? This—Crownswatch, was it?"

"Member?" Everet smiled wryly. "Given that a good portion of our force likely perished in tonight's explosion, if not the subsequent destruction we just ensured...I'd wager I'm Captain now." He winced at the admission, shaking his head in self-deprecation. "Lovely."

"Then—you mean to tell me...that you're the head of the Oresian secret guard? Appointed by the Royals and set to watch over me?" He laughed harshly. "You snake."

"Come now, don't call me a snake; call me instead...a weasel. Those are rather charming, don't you think? Cute little things."

Alaric wiped his hands over his face, ignoring Everet's weak attempt to lighten the mood. "So you're a plant, sent to spy on me. At least this explains why they had me stitched to the side of a preening peacock."

"Ho now," Everet protested. "I thought we'd settled on 'weasel'." He cocked his head in confusion. "...Wait, why did you think I'd been assigned as your chaperon?"

Alaric shrugged. "I assumed you'd won a bet and someone at court owed you a favor. Gave you the chance to puff yourself up and make a name for yourself. Nepotism, that sort of thing."

Everet was grimly amused. "You flatter yourself, my dear; without me, you'd have arrived at your own gala in a threadbare uniform and mudcaked boots." He gestured to Alaric's outfit, pockmarked with burns and spots of grime and missing his neckerchief. "Even after blowing a Hold out of the sky, you still look ten times better than anything you might have thrown together yourself." He'd done a fantastic job, all things considered—miracles had been worked at his hand in the past few days. Another week and he could have had Alaric up to speed on his Oresian history; now...there were other matters to attend to.

As if reading his mind, Alaric prodded, "...So where do we go from here, then?"

"We're heading back to the Hold at present—once there, I'll send out Runners to find out who's left in charge. If any members of the Royal family survived, I'll need to see them safely squared away before anything else. Then I'll need to track down the Crownswatch members I have at my disposal—hopefully we weren't decimated. Once I've got my force...the hunt will begin in earnest."

"You mean us to start the investigation into this matter tonight, then?"

Everet blinked in confusion. "'Us'?"

"I helped bring the Crown Hold of my newly minted homeland crashing to the ground just now; I'd like to know why."

He wasn't entirely sure how politically wise—or legal—it was for Alaric to take part in any upcoming investigation, but that would be for their new King or Queen to decide, so for the time being, Everet merely ducked his head, accepting Alaric's grudging offer of aid once more. "As you will."

Outside, the quarter moon glinted off the cloud banks a league below, reflecting bright and white as they spiraled downward back to Eizenthley. He'd lived his whole life here, above the clouds and far away from the petty problems and pointless squabbles of the earth. Oresians thought themselves safe up here—but it had just been demonstrated in stark living color how easily they could be brought down into the muck. The pestilence of violence and human error would always find its way into dark corners of any society, be they on land or sea or air.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "For getting you involved in our affairs. Hardly the best impression."

Alaric merely huffed a derisive little snort, shifting back against the seat and directing his gaze out his own window. "I suppose we're even, then."

❖

The moment the carriage touched down on Eizenthley, the doors to the cabin were flung open by a pair of dour-faced men in Crown Hold colors, and Everet and Alaric were promptly rousted from their seats and marched across the courtyard. When Everet protested their rough handling, the men explained that they'd been charged with escorting the Holdmaster in for an audience.

"Escort me?" Everet laughed, incredulity thick in his tone as he donned the mantle of haughty Holdmaster—that usually did the trick in intimidating members of the rank-and-file. "Into my own Holdhelm? On whose authority—and an audience with whom?"

His squawking protests continued even as he was directed into the foyer and into the Great Room, where a sharp voice reprimanded, "Must you always be so contrary, Everet? Now get inside, before I have you thrown into sableore cuffs and dragged into your parlor bodily."

Everet felt relief steal the strength from his legs as he wobbled unsteadily, suddenly grateful for the men at his side holding him in place, when Vizick of Orexa stepped into the lamplight, a snifter of Everet's finest brandywine in one hand. "My Prince...!"

He'd never been too terribly fond of Vizick—his sharp, acerbic nature was off-putting at the best of times, and while he'd never been outright cruel, he equally never went out of his way to endear himself to others. As the younger of a pair of strong-willed brothers, though, this came with the territory; Gerholt had been the favored child as Crown Prince, the one trotted out to greet his people and stationed as figurehead to replace the aging Reinhart. Where Gerholt's views on national and international matters had been sought, Vizick's had been disdained, if not outright ignored. Gerholt's agenda would become the Oresian agenda; Vizick's would become pipe dreams and wishful thinking. It was difficult not to pity him, at least a little, and pardon his poor manners.

But just now, the sight of a Royal—any Royal—seemingly safe and sound and standing in his hall, roused such hope and relief in Everet's breast he worried he might actually weep. "I feared the worst...!"

Vizick neglected to return the greeting, instead fixing his squinted gaze over Everet's shoulder and biting out, "What is that doing here? I ordered the Holdmaster be brought to me, not...our distinguished ambassador."

Alaric stiffened at his side, on-edge and alert but either too polite to rise to the bait or too unfamiliar with the language to realize the insult he'd just been dealt. Everet stilled any response with a hand on his arm, soothing the Prince's ruffled feathers with, "Due respect, Your Highness, he's as much a victim as any of us. Your presence here suggests my parlor is the safest place in all of Orexa at the moment; does he not deserve to be present for what I suspect will be a long and arduous discussion of the evening's...events?"

Vizick's expression only soured further, but after a moment's consideration, he rolled his eyes and turned on his heel with a petulant huff to slump down into the cushions of a long couch. "As you will. Perhaps it's for the best—we'll get to the root of this catastrophe here and now." He extended a hand, offering, "Have a seat," as if it were his home and not Everet's.

The warmth of relief quickly cooled, and Everet bit back the rising bile of irritation while reminding himself that Vizick was his immediate commander at the moment. He motioned for Alaric to take a seat in a plush, high-backed lounger and settled on a settee across from the Prince.

Vizick took a sip from the brandywine in his hand—and a quick glance to the cask showed that it was not his first dram. "At a quarter to seven bells this evening, an explosion of unknown origin erupted on Crown Hold. As near as any survivor has been able to relate thus far, the initial blast stemmed from the Fellfire furnaces below the Grand Ballroom, subsequently propagating to the remaining two in the immediate vicinity." He took a breath, and his throat bobbed, the only evidence he felt any emotional discomfort from the account. "The Royals' wing was wholly obliterated."

Everet felt his stomach drop away, as if he'd just been shoved off the side of a Hold. "Then...the King...?" He hadn't yet dared confront the possibility that he truly was stuck with Vizick as his liege now. He'd never even spoken to the King directly, had always interacted with Gerholt as his superior—but Reinhart had been the figurehead of the nation for as long as Everet could recall. It seemed...surreal, that there should be another on the throne. Even Gerholt's reign had been years away, his father still hale and hearty.

Vizick nodded solemnly. "My father, mother—uncle and cousin immediately. Gerholt...in the aftermath." He stared down at the glass in his hand, gaze distant and unseeing, and Everet didn't envy him the images likely playing behind his eyes.

The Crown Prince was dead, then... Everet drew a stuttering breath, exhaling laboriously. His Prince and Captain, who'd groomed Everet as his successor when by all rights a half dozen others had seniority over him... He smiled wryly to himself, refusing to let it become a grimace; at least it was looking like Gerholt might have his wish. Much to Everet's dismay.

Vizick huffed sharply and wiped his face, quickly schooling his features and hardening his voice. "To my knowledge, none in the Royals' Wing survived, and I'm sure you saw that a great many of the Gala guests perished as well. Small fortune that many had yet to even arrive, else the toll may well have been far greater." He gestured to the men posted about the room. "My personal guard were decimated; these few I have with me now, I cobbled together in my escape."

"The...other Crownswatch members, then?"

Vizick shook his head. "That I cannot say; I don't doubt that some escaped, but I am—for obvious reasons—keeping a low profile at present, so they won't know to whom they owe allegiance or where they might pledge it." He drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch. "I confess I never imagined myself getting involved with the Crownswatch—that was always Gerholt's purview. But unfortunately, I find myself in need of a Captain, and to my knowledge, you were his second—"

"Not his second, Highness," Everet interrupted, taking care to press the matter. He didn't want Vizick overestimating him.

"His favorite, then," Vizick huffed. "Do not try my patience right now with feigned modesty. You are not my first choice, and you will likely not be my final choice—but you are here, and I will not sleep this night until I know that my Crowswatch Captain is already taking steps to track down these murderers. May I presume upon you to accept the position?"

His tone and expression made it clear this was no plaintive request—but an order, one which Everet was obliged to follow, regardless of whether or not he actually felt qualified to do so. "...If I can be of any aid, then of course," he managed, hoping he didn't sound half as unsure as he felt.

"Excellent. I certainly hope you won't let me down, Captain. You'll have to ferret out your team yourself, though; they will not come to you." Everet ducked a nod, feeling schooled; Vizick did not mince words and had no care to coddle or cajole—cool and prickly where Gerholt had been amicable and warm. This would take some adjustment. "I've sent as many Runners as I could find to take count of who we've lost. I don't expect a heartening report, but I must know the state of the other Holds." A pregnant pause followed, and with surprising delicacy, Vizick asked, "...Everet, you..." He brought a finger to his lip, tapping in nervous habit. "Tell me, Crown Hold, is it..."

It wouldn't do to force the Prince to voice concerns he was clearly struggling with, and Everet swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced down at the floor, ashamed for the first time that evening of doing what he'd solemnly sworn to see done. "She fell. I saw to it personally—all remaining sound furnaces were blown and their Starfell reserves destroyed. I watched her sink with my own eyes, perhaps a bell ago. We can start sifting through the rubble at first light, if you wish."

Vizick nodded silently, lips thin and tight, then he stood to pace. "See that a team is put together; I want half on recovery, and the other half examining what remains of the Royals' wing—with you at the helm." He shook his head. "I cannot think this a coincidence—not given the timing and the targets. A Vasque representative arrives on our Holds, and not days later, at a celebration in his honor, a great swathe of the Royal family are struck down?" He turned not to Alaric, eyes flashing in the lamplight, and in heavily accented Vasque he challenged, "Have you nothing to say on the eve of such a great tragedy, Serr Monteval?"

Everet struggled to keep his expression even, sensing that the Prince was using Alaric's Vasque nomer in an effort to exclude him and remind all present—Everet most of all, perhaps—that Alaric was a foreigner. It grated, but protesting would only paint a complicated picture of allegiances all around.

Vizick had always, for as long as Everet had known him, liked to pick fights. The nobles who attended court alongside Everet saw him as an upstart, given his outlandish, progressive ideas about bringing Orexa back down to earth and opening up more channels of trade, and he'd clashed with his own father on several occasions—many of them public. The higher Holds—including the Crown—preferred the status quo, with its security and stability, and while Vizick's ideals might have found some support among the lower Holds who were suffering most from being cut off as they were, he remained a virtual unknown among his own people. Gerholt held the attention and the praise; Vizick would be a footnote in historical texts. He was a prince of the people, championing causes near and dear to their hearts, but those people barely knew he existed—which must have been frustrating beyond measure for someone as ambitious and sharp as Vizick.

Alaric straightened in his chair, casting a quick glance around the room—and Everet could feel him taking stock of the situation. That was what these military types did: assess, evaluate, consider. The guards likely felt the same, for they all kept a watchful eye on Alaric, despite Everet's closer position to the Prince, and while none of them had weapons drawn, Everet doubted they needed cold steel to strike Alaric down should he make any false moves. Hopefully Alaric's was the cool and calculating sort of military mind and not the rash, headstrong type Vasque soldiers tended to be stereotyped as.

Alaric cleared his throat softly, speaking in a calm, measured cadence Everet hadn't known he possessed. "You would hear the thoughts of a foreigner, Your Highness?"

"I would hear the thoughts," Vizick drawled, crossing his arms over his chest, "of someone who, it strikes me, is in a rather awkward position right now." He took a challenging step toward Alaric, the soft flicker of gold and violet casting a halo about his bleached locks. "I would hear the thoughts of a man who slithered into our Holds, donned our colors, smiled at our nobles, and yet somehow escaped unscathed when tragedy struck us under our very noses."

Everet could stomach the veiled accusations no further, and he stood in place, "My Prince—"

"Your King," Vizick reminded coolly, head snapping around to fix a sharp glare on Everet.

"...Alaric was in my sights the whole evening—indeed, he hasn't left my company the entire time he's been here."

Vizick only lifted one slender brow. "Know, Captain, that his being in your company and bearing responsibility for this incident are not mutually exclusive, to my eyes."

Everet felt his cheeks heat with anger at the insinuation he was anything but loyal, but he didn't flinch. "We reached out to Vasque. Majesty. Not the other way around. And they were already getting a perfectly fine weapons trade agreement from us. To bring down Crown Hold and draw such attention to themselves—to Alaric—would be foolish beyond measure." He squared his shoulders. "It's far more likely this is a frame-up. Vasque makes an easy and obvious scapegoat—but we would be remiss if we weren't a bit further sighted."

"Very well," Vizick allowed, "if you're so adamant as to our guest's innocence, Captain: give me your theories."

"Theories...?" Everet parroted, brows cinching. Stars, he'd barely had time to get his bearings, to grasp the width and breadth of what had just happened—the sky had quite literally fallen down on his head. He had ideas, notions—had been formulating them since he'd roused amongst the rubble and hacked and wheezed the dust from his lungs. But that was all—he had nothing to base these thoughts on beyond pure conjecture.

And more so, much as Vizick didn't seem to trust him, equally so was Everet not sure he could trust Vizick.

Vizick was a Prince by blood and now the King by rights, but he was no Gerholt. Everet didn't know him, didn't have a trusting rapport, and he couldn't in good conscience offer up his blind faith to someone he'd spoken to on perhaps three occasions before now. Vizick surely knew this, for he'd always sneered at Everet for playing every facet he could and never taking sides in the courtly diversions of intrigue.

That was Everet's gift, though; it was why he'd been placed on Alaric's watch in the first place. He beguiled and charmed and played the fool and the flirt and everything in between—and in doing so, he could work his way under a man's defenses, draw out his confidence and turn him inside out.

That took time, though—he worked on a grander scale than perhaps Vizick was accustomed to and couldn't just drum up theories on who might have executed a mass murder a bell-half ago at the drop of a hat.

Alaric spared him an awkward response, cutting in with, "...Perhaps before we start discussing theories as to the culprit, we might look into reassuring the populace that they even have a ruler—that he's safe, and that we're on the hunt for the assassins? They did just witness their Crown Hold crashing aflame from the heavens, after all. And—" he added, with a raised finger, "Don't think that sight won't have gone unremarked by any Vasque border contingents—or Ruzian ones either. Anyone with a spy glass and decent night vision will have marked the crash. Your neighbors will start formulating their own ideas—and responses—if we don't direct them."

Vizick's glare could have melted sableore, and with lips twitching up into a sneer, he drawled, "Thank you ever so much for your astute contributions, Ambassador. I hadn't thought to stake my claim to the throne; how embarrassing an oversight." He turned back to Everet, switching over to Oresian again. "The Runners I sent out to take a head count will be charged with allaying any fears and settling the populace. As I said, though, I'm not going to advertise my whereabouts; I've penned personal notes to the Heads of Hold explaining the situation, and that will have to do for now. If—" He raised a brow in Alaric's direction, "—that suits our Ambassador?"

"And...our border security?" Everet prodded; he didn't want to exacerbate the Prince's already low view of Alaric, but there was a point to be made: if their neighbors sensed instability...they might march, perhaps even under flag of treaty, claiming concern. Vizick didn't have to like Alaric—but Everet trusted his military mind, always looking for the weak points to apply pressure.

"I've instructed any border agents to treat the event as a planned explosion—part of a traditional celebration or some such. I won't have any outsiders mucking up our investigation—at least no more than are necessary." He slipped back down onto the sofa he'd requisitioned, reaching for an argentine and crystal decanter and pouring himself a measure of some new vintage Everet didn't recognize offhand; at least he'd eased up on the brandywine. "So—no theories then? Captain. Too shy now to reassure me I haven't made a colossal mistake in my appointment?"

Vizick was not going to let this go, it seemed, and rather than giving Everet the space he needed to breathe and think, he was behaving rashly, demanding action where there needed to be prudent thought and consideration. "I believe we may consider any of three potential culprits: L'ruz—"

"L'ruz?" Vizick spit, huffing his incredulity. "Stars, man—I'm looking for sound theories, not shots in the dark hoping you hit something."

"They're a legitimate concern—"

"Of course they are! If I'd wanted the obvious stated, I would have taken the Captaincy myself and left the running of the country to your man-of-all-work."

Perhaps it was the hour, or the stress, but Vizick was beginning to sound a bit delirious, and not a little unreasonable. "The timing and target suggests the culprit's aim was to disrupt the treaty between our nations, possibly framing—"

"There is no treaty, yet," Vizick reminded darkly, but Everet ignored the bait.

"L'ruz has as good a reason as any to want to block an alliance between Orexa and Vasque—particularly when that union would bestow upon their bitter enemy weapons of impressive destructive capability. Vasque would be a formidable opponent indeed with Fellfire weaponry; L'ruz would lose the Izador in a season's campaigning."

"And that would be a fine bit of deduction if I'd asked you for suspects—but I didn't." He waved Everet off with an impatient scoff. "I don't want guesses; I want to know who did this!" He punctuated the demand with a fist rapping on the table. "Who pulled this off under our Seers' noses, who murdered my family, what Stars-cursed bastard—be they Oresian or Vasque or Ruzian or the Stars themselves—managed to bring down a Hold that has hung from the heavens for centuries, unassailed!"

Everet let him scream himself hoarse, closing his eyes and allowing the Prince's rage to wash over him, until the echoes finally ceased bouncing off the beamed ceiling. "...You will have your answers, my Prince. I will see justice done—"

"Oh, you will, will you?" Vizick snorted, swirling his tumbler. "Your success thus far in bringing down Beezilbud smuggling rings and seeing to the safe return of the Jenevier ladies' good argentine quite fills me with confidence."

Everet felt his cheeks heat with shame and anger, knowing Vizick to be more than familiar with his successful missions as a Crownswatch member. He was far from ready to accept the mantle of Captain, but he wasn't some green recruit. "From where I'm standing, Highness...I don't see that you have much choice. Unless you're ready to appoint a Captain of your choosing to your Crownswatch, I'm afraid I'm your man—so let me do my duty."

"Just like you did your duty on the Hold tonight?" came the challenge, but Everet had found his rhythm, refusing to be thrown by the Prince's rough manner any further.

"Exactly like that. My Captain gave me strict orders, charging we members of his Crownswatch with ensuring that Orexa's greatest natural resource never fall into the hands of her enemies. And I followed them tonight—to the letter." He drew himself up, chin jutting forward. "Give me orders, my Prince, and I shall obey them with just as much dedication. Point me."

Vizick was breathing hard, tense and quiet, and he nodded once, firm. "Find who did this. Find who slaughtered my family and my people, find who destroyed my home and nearly brought ruin to our nation. Find them—" His tone grew dangerous. "And show them just enough mercy to keep them alive until I can attend to them myself."

Everet rapped his chest once with a fist and ducked a deep bow. "As you command."

Vizick regarded him for a moment, then sighed, reaching for the decanter again; the moment of solidarity, it seemed, had passed, and he was once more the picture of disdain. "My Runners will be back by dawn—I expect to have a final death toll by then." He tipped another generous measure into his glass. "You should get some rest while you can, my Captain—for you won't be sleeping until the culprit is a streak of soot on the bottom of my boot."

Everet nodded. "We'll start our investigation at first light, then—"

Vizick narrowed his gaze suspiciously. "'We'?" He glanced over to Alaric, brows furrowing further. "You can't mean our esteemed Ambassador, surely? That I won't stand for—he's to stay here, under house arrest until we can rule out Vasque involvement. Provided—" he added silkily, "that's even possible."

"I must insist, Highness." He gestured to Alaric. "Alaric's aid was invaluable in bringing down the Hold—and he's an Oresian citizen now, as justified in seeking recompense for an attempt on his life as you or I." When Vizick showed no signs of being moved, he pressed, "And even if he weren't Oresian—he would still be a foreign national here under flag of treaty who was nearly assassinated." He worded himself carefully, being sure to speak slowly enough that Alaric might understand his insinuation. "If he were to demand satisfaction, we could not deny him."

"Don't think to play me, Captain," Vizick warned, cutting in before Alaric could make his own plea. "Fine. But he'll be your responsibility, and if he conveniently goes 'missing' somewhere along the way—it will be on your head." He stoppered the decanter, raising his glass in a mocking toast. "I would be very careful about who I climbed into bed with were I you, Everet of Eizenthley."

❖

With the Prince and his entourage needing rooms to bed down in, a bit of rearranging had to happen in the Holdhelm—and Alaric's suite was turned over to the Prince himself, as his rooms were the most spacious after the Holdmaster's. Alaric suspected Everet had been meant to give up his own rooms for the Prince's use, but Everet seemed disinclined to do more than was strictly necessary for Vizick.

Alaric melted into the shadows as Everet snapped orders to his servants and directed haggard soldiers into spare rooms, taking care to ensure the men were as comfortable as they could be made on short notice. Perhaps the Holdmaster mantle wasn't merely a front for Everet's more private endeavors, then, as he seemed in his element.

Alaric's trunk and wardrobe had been moved from his suite into Everet's, for lack of anywhere more private to bunk that wouldn't see him sleeping alongside three Oresian soldiers, and when Everet finally dragged himself into his rooms after what seemed like the rest of the Holdhelm had turned in, Alaric was rifling through his trunk to be sure nothing had been lost in the move. "I understand the Prince is accustomed to a certain degree of comfort and that he deserves the very best treatment you can offer," he grumbled as Everet wandered over to a wash basin and began scrubbing the grime and soot from his cheeks, "but why turn me out? Shouldn't you be offering him your rooms instead?"

"Oh, don't whine," Everet sighed, "Yours are terribly drafty rooms to begin with; I'd catch a chill after a night."

"Mm, they were a bit on the—" Alaric's head snapped up, eyes alert and suspicious. "You knew? And still you put me in there?"

Everet shrugged. "You were a military man; I knew you'd survive with minimal complaint."

"You had my rooms prepared before you'd even met me—you couldn't have known I was a soldier."

He raised a challenging brow in the mirror, patting down his face with a plush towel. "Perhaps I just didn't like that I'd been saddled with spying on some dusty diplomat then."

Alaric snorted in soft amusement, despite himself. "That may well be the most honest you've been with me this evening." He quickly sobered, though, wary of getting caught up in Everet's rhythm again; it was entirely too easy to indulge in the gentle give and take of idle flirtatious teasing—and far more enjoyable an activity than actually confronting the evening's devastation. "...We really did destroy a Hold, didn't we?"

"We did; you were quite magnificent at it, by the way."

"Hardly a compliment; I only followed your orders."

"And as I said—you were magnificent at it." He turned around, leaning back against the cupboard the wash basin sat atop. "...Thank you."

"I don't want your gratitude."

"I wasn't asking you to take it—I simply feel compelled to offer my thanks to the man without whose help I would have either failed in my duties or perished or both."

Loath to discuss their joint efforts in bringing down the Crown Hold—likely killing dozens who might have otherwise survived if they'd at least tried to organize rescue efforts instead of worrying about the damned Starfell—Alaric changed the subject. "Before—in the parlor, you suggested L'ruz might be behind the attack."

Everet glided over to Lucrezia's cove, uncovering a little tray of dried jerky and selecting a strip which he proceeded to tear into bite-size pieces. "I did. They're a likely suspect. What of it?"

"I get the feeling you don't quite believe they're truly behind this." He drew closer, shifting around to face Everet as he reached out to stroke a newly unfurled leaf. "Perhaps you should consider Vasque more seriously."

"Who's to say I don't?"

"You seemed quite adamant I be allowed to join the investigation."

"Maybe I believe in keeping my enemies close."

Alaric crossed his arms over his chest. "...You know, you're quite the puzzle, Everet of Eizenthley. But I'm beginning to work you out. For instance—" He let one of the vine's searching tendrils curl around a finger. "When you're worried or uncomfortable, you like to come and feed your Beezilbud and use the time to collect yourself, get your bearings." Everet stiffened beside him, fingers clenching tight about the slender argentine coffer holding the strips of jerky. "And when you don't want to confront uncomfortable truths or you're trying to avoid discussing something, you prefer to speak in words of chance: maybe, perhaps, possibly. You like to think playing coy distracts or diverts attention—and it may, for some."

Everet smiled in that coquettish way of his. "But you're too sharp for that, hm?"

Alaric's frown was resolute. "While I maintain I had nothing to do with this, just because I wasn't the one to trigger the explosions doesn't mean Vasque isn't involved."

Everet regarded him passively for a moment, then sighed, replacing the lid on the tray of jerky and slipping behind a paneled screen that Alaric quickly realized was meant for privacy while he disrobed. "Let's play out your suggestion, then. Maybe you were indeed a pawn; your death would have given Vasque reason to march on Oresian lands—to attack that supply line of ours you so shrewdly marked as our weakness. True, Vasque was getting a fine deal—but getting what they wanted for free would have been even better." The tattered remains of his overcoat were draped over the divider. "The Veld Martiale wouldn't even have to be involved; I'm sure plenty of Vasque nobles were going to have their lands carved up for our use and therefore more than reason enough to seek...alternate routes to an accord between our nations." Everet stepped out from behind the screen buttoning up a long nightshirt. "I am actually reasonably qualified for my new position, Ambassador."

Alaric straightened, almost glad to see Everet back on the offensive. "Then why didn't you share your theory with the Prince before?"

Everet shrugged. "...Perhaps...because I do like to feed my dear Lucrezia and gather my thoughts before being grilled over an open flame." He strode over to his bed and settled down on the edge of the mattress. "And because it still doesn't feel right—there are far too many variables to be accounted for. If Vasque was behind this, and if it was Starfell they were after, there are certainly more subtle ways to go about obtaining it than bringing down a whole Hold. Particularly in so...flagrant a manner."

"You've seen my attempts at diplomacy, and yet you still think Vasque capable of subtlety?"

"Granted," Everet allowed with a wry grin, then brought his fingers to his temples and began to massage, eyes slipping closed. "...Ten bells ago, my greatest concern was making sure you were up on your etiquette and could differentiate between the Princes. Now I don't quite know what to believe." His hands dropped to his lap. "But regardless of the culprit—be they Vasque or Ruzian or Ainsley even—this was, on some level, an inside job."

Alaric's brows furrowed—so they'd finally come to it. "...You're going to seriously consider your own countrymen? You think this a coup?"

"I won't label it as such just yet—but this foul deed was done with the help of Oresian hands, whether alone or in league with some outside force. I'm beginning to think we'll make quicker work of this investigation if, instead of wasting time figuring out who beyond our borders might be responsible, we consider enemies within." He snorted softly, "And don't sound so surprised that I'm willing to allow that Oresian hands are stained. For a time there, you suspected me."

"Who says I don't still?"

"I suppose we'll see in the morning—after you've had time to sneak out while I sleep to convene with the Prince and share your suspicions."

Alaric raised one brow. "You're not going to try and stop me?"

Everet shrugged, unconcerned. "The Prince is suspicious enough of my loyalties and qualifications already; I doubt you'll plant any concerns he doesn't already harbor. But before you embarrass yourself, you should know: I have been in and out of Crown Hold with regularity for quite a few years now. If I'd been plotting anything, the Seers would have ferreted me out long ago—which is precisely what the Prince will say, should you bring up questions concerning my motives."

"So I shouldn't bother, is what you're saying?"

"I'm saying you should know a few things before you go running to the Prince with your suspicions. Vizick...never really got on all that well with his brother or father."

"I can imagine," Alaric huffed, and Everet wavered, offering an ambivalent nod.

"True, there was the usual strife I'm sure you would expect between the heir in line for the crown and the spare—but it felt like more than that." Alaric frowned, not following. "They...fell on opposite sides of a rather old argument, one that's been played out over generations: Vizick was quite vocal about wanting Orexa to abandon the Hold system and return to the ground, to secure our borders and grow as a people—perhaps to even expand our nation. He wanted to reconnect with the world at large."

"And the Crown Prince and King wanted everything to stay as it was—the wealthy comfortable in their Higher holds, the poor shuffled down to lower Holds."

Everet nodded. "Vizick is hardly alone in his views—I'm sure you can imagine there are plenty who would leap at the chance to escape the Holds they're all but trapped on; especially the likes of those on Anheim. They've nowhere to go but up, as it were."

A revolutionary suggestion particularly popular among the less fortunate—and a prince in support of those ideas, suddenly thrust from the shadows onto the throne. "Sitting on the throne would certainly be a good way to see your ideals made law."

"I'm not saying he did this, mind you," Everet demurred. "For what it's worth, his outrage feels genuine."

"You're a Seer now?"

"No—but many of the Prince's own tutors were. Both princes studied under the Inquisitors, benefiting from their years of experience. They would have had to have been in on the whole thing, to not have raised any alarm as to his intentions."

"And there's no way to fool them? These Seers."

"No," Everet shook his head, then corrected, "Not that I know of."

Still, sound as the argument was—the facts of the matter didn't bode well for the Prince. "Two insurmountable impediments to Vizick assuming the crown have just been removed in one fell swoop. Surely that merits consideration and a measure of prudence."

"He's strong-willed and hardly shy about making his feelings known—but he was in just as much danger tonight as everyone else."

"And yet he escaped seemingly unscathed, despite sharing the dais with the Crown Prince." He gestured to Everet. "Plus, you've shared these suspicions with me, when if they were of no consequence, you might have kept them to yourself."

Everet shifted in place, expression discomfited. "...The Prince warned me to know who I was getting into bed with; I thought only to offer you the same courtesy."

Despite the earlier display in the parlor, it seemed Everet felt compelled to defend his ruler. Alaric could sympathize; as a soldier, he had been expected to show his superiors the utmost respect and obedience, even if he found them downright dreadful people. The rank and file, though, were under no obligation to bow and scrape when their rulers were out of earshot, and they routinely indulged, from what Alaric had seen. Everet didn't strike him as a soldier—or at least, not a tried one; he seemed as green as any cadet Alaric had ever had working under him. Maybe it was just the Oresian way, then—or maybe it was an Everet thing; perhaps he was naturally less a leader and more a follower. That would have to change, and quite quickly.

He wouldn't begrudge Everet his misplaced reverence, though, so long as it didn't interfere with the investigation. Alaric had spent all of a quarter bell in Prince Vizick's presence so far and didn't have a high opinion of the man—but being a rude, acerbic prick who insulted visiting dignitaries didn't automatically make one a murderer, and if Vizick was in a less than bright mood this evening, he could hardly be faulted.

"Speaking of beds..." Everet's muttering interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced up to find Everet wandering about the room—evidently in search of bedding. "We ought to discuss sleeping arrangements, I suppose." He yanked open the lid of a hefty chest, rifling through its contents. "There are no spare mattresses to be had, and you're far too large to camp on one of the chaise longues, but I can have the servants set up a pallet for you on the floor—unless you don't mind sharing?" He gestured now to the massive bed. "I've room to spare, though I've been told I'm a rough sleeper." Alaric raised a brow at this, wondering who'd informed him of that habit; an old lover, perhaps?

"I'll be fine on the floor," Alaric assured, quickly abandoning that line of thought; it was no business of his and rude to make assumptions. "I'm no maiden who can't sleep without three layers of down beneath her arse and her favorite hound curled up alongside her."

Everet grinned at this. "I can't imagine even a blind man would mistake you for a maiden—but as you will." Alaric didn't feel inclined to remind him that, as a soldier, he'd made a bed of far less hospitable locations than the reichwood floors of a viscount's suites—not least of all because, in some ways, the dark grain of the planks beneath his toes seemed less intimidating than the plush, goose-quill mattress he'd been offered a place upon.

Everet pulled on a cord to ring up Ainsley, explaining in hushed terms about the bedding situation, then moved off into the bathing chamber to prepare his evening toilette. They took their turns washing up, and Alaric stifled a sigh of relief at finally shedding the dust- and blood-stained clothing. A wipe-down had revealed a shallow cut to his forehead that had been hidden beneath grime and dirt, and Everet patiently helped him patch it up with a line of butterfly stitches.

"...I realized I never apologized."

"Hm?"

Everet dabbed softly at the cut, spreading a coating of a healing salve over the nasty red slice. "For...misleading you."

"You mean for lying."

"No, I mean for misleading you. You never asked if I was a member of the Crownswatch meant to spy on you and report your every move to my King." Alaric rolled his eyes. "I couldn't tell you, naturally—but I regret it now. You're a very fair man, and you seem to have come here with an open mind. We treated you with suspicion before we'd even met you."

"You can't have known," Alaric allowed, the genuine contrition in Everet's voice making the discussion more than a little uncomfortable.

"...All the same. I was genuinely enjoying the assignment, though, if that makes a difference." Alaric didn't know that it did—nor that it was necessarily a good thing, if he'd shirked his duties merely because he'd grown fond of his charge. Everet gently brushed down the edges of a plaster. "...I really am sorry for getting you involved in this; I'd wanted to show you a good time, but I suppose I haven't been entirely successful in that regard."

Alaric shrugged. "I prefer a bit of action to sitting around idle. Plus—I won't lie, I did suspect there was more to you than met the eye."

Everet drew back, frowning. "You great liar, you did not." He sniffed, "My front was impeccable."

"Hardly; you're far too free with your servants and unconcerned with your family name or Hold affairs to be a true blue-blood." Everet's brows cinched, the turn of phrase apparently beyond his ken. "You shouldn't feel offended, though—it's my job to sniff out your type."

"My 'type'?" Everet parroted, curious.

"Mmhmm." He closed his eyes as Everet applied a thin film of glue to seal down the plaster. "Little weasels."

CHAPTER FIVE

Sharp rapping on the door to his chambers woke Everet with a jolt, heart thudding a loud tattoo in his chest as Alaric voiced gruff complaints from the floor by his bed. He blinked rapidly to try and bring the room into focus, rubbing away the bleariness in his vision as he croaked, "Enter..."

Ainsley opened the door, delivering morning greetings as he rolled in a trolley covered in glinting cloches. The morning light seared Everet's eyes, and half-blind, he rolled out of bed on the side opposite Alaric—for fear he'd trample the poor man—and stumbled like a new fawn into the water closet to relieve himself while Ainsley set up.

His bladder emptied, he splashed a bit of water onto his face, running fingers through his hair and praying Alaric wouldn't judge him too harshly for looking so unkempt. He didn't have the strength this early after waking to make himself presentable—that would come once he'd put something in his belly. He'd skipped dinner the previous evening—or rather, the Hold blowing up had ruined the banquet planned for the Gala—and he'd been so exhausted after everything, he'd fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

He hadn't stayed that way, of course; he well remembered waking several times during the night, throat raw and raspy as he choked on imagined dust with vision blinded by the flare of dreamed-up Fellfire blasts. He supposed it'd been for the best Alaric had insisted on the pallet on the floor; the last thing he wanted right now was the man's pity.

He padded back into the bedroom, then passed on through to his receiving room, where Ainsley had arranged breakfast for two. Ainsley took one look at him, then huffed, "Can't you at least put on some proper clothes before breakfast, m'lord? 'Specially seeing as we've got ourselves a guest."

Everet slumped into his seat at the table. "Be glad I'm at least up and about and didn't ask you to serve me in bed—"

"I was under the impression that was Lir of Bantam's purview."

Everet shot him a warning look, waving to his cup and waiting for Ainsley to pour him a measure of mulled grape juice. "Have the Runners returned yet?"

"They have—but I thought you might prefer to dine alone rather than under the Prince's watch, so I've set Cook to preparing him and his entourage a feast they'll be up to their eyeballs in for a good bell." He tapped Everet's cup. "You should have some time to collect yourself before you need to report. Ah—" He straightened, glancing over Everet's shoulder, then switched from the Oresian they'd been conversing in to stilted Vasque. "Good morningtime, Alaric." Everet smiled approvingly at the effort; his cadence needed work, and he stressed the wrong syllables in Alaric's name, but the effort was the important part of such interactions.

"Er," Alaric hemmed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand while accepting a mug of steaming coffee from Ainsley with the other. "Quite. Good morning." Everet snorted softly into his cup of juice, amused at Alaric's clear discomfort in being addressed by a name he evidently felt reserved for intimate friends and more-than-friends. When he caught Alaric frowning at him for the slight, he sobered, busying himself with the pastry selection and feigning innocence. "You certainly weren't joking about being a rough sleeper," Alaric commented lightly as he settled into a chair opposite Everet and reached for a jar of jam.

"My apologies if I disturbed you," was his guarded response; already he could feel Alaric's gaze going worried, could practically hear the wheels turning in his head, wondering how appropriate it would be to offer an ear.

"No—I wasn't—never mind," he ended with a huff, shaking his head and snatching up a slice of toast to slather with the jam. "Are we dining here to avoid having to see the Prince today?"

"Unfortunately, there'll be no getting around having to see him eventually—he'll have the reports we need to start on our investigation, and he'll want an outline of our plan of attack as well."

"Do we have a plan of attack?"

"Perhaps not in so many words..." Everet admitted, already feeling a headache coming on; he didn't need a bell to collect himself, he needed ten of them. But Vizick wouldn't be so gracious, and even waiting this long to get started risked memories of the previous evening's events getting frazzled or stories confused. Time was not a luxury they could afford. "As the Prince mentioned last night, we can't exactly send out formal notices of his whereabouts, but we do need to ensure that the people know they still have a King."

"Just not the one they went to sleep with," Alaric remarked grimly.

"We'll keep his location as secret as possible, but whoever is behind this may be intent on finishing his job of murdering the Royal Family, so we'll want to increase security around here all the same." He snicked a grape from a bunch sitting on a tray in the center of the table, rolling it between his fingers. "The wreckage... I'll need to have a team head down to the surface and start sorting through what's left of Crown Hold. Who knows—" He shrugged. "—there may yet be invaluable clues to uncover."

"We were in something of a rush last night; it's not out of the realm of possibility." Alaric finished off the rest of his slice of toast in one bite, swallowing with some difficulty. "So—a team on the ground to sift through the wreckage, another few men performing crowd control on the Holds... What about us?"

Everet sighed, rubbing his temples. "We'll be spending the morning interrogating the Prince's guards. I think only a few of them were ever actually detailed to him; most are palace grunts or hires from lower Holds posted to Crown Hold for the Gala. They may be able to give us some clues as to potential suspects, though—especially if they were working anywhere near the ballroom. Whoever blasted the furnaces quite likely perished to do so, but that doesn't rule out accomplices in the palace or working the Gala itself. And to be thorough, we'll of course need to consider Gala guests as well—both surviving and...otherwise. I know I was going on and on last night about the Prince's ideas being popular among the people, but supposing he was the actual target? I must have read a dozen different accounts throughout history of some petulant noble or another assassinating a Royal for the pettiest of reasons—"

"Everet." His name on Alaric's tongue was soft but sharp, and a hand touched him on the arm, stilling Everet's babbling. "Breathe."

A wave of mortification washed over him—oh, this wasn't going well at all. He hadn't even been up half a bell and already he was tripping over himself trying to stretch his mind in too many directions at once. "I—forgive me, I seem to be getting a bit ahead of myself..."

"Just—take a moment to relax and get your bearings. No good can come of blindly charging into the fray. You're probably still shaken up—hardly something you need to apologize for."

Everet felt irritation flare up, burning away the embarrassment—because of course Alaric was taking this all in stride, having probably seen ten times the horror he'd witnessed last night in his years as a soldier. He'd seemed a bit dazed when Everet had first found him amidst the rubble, but all things considered, he'd recovered admirably. Now it was Everet's turn to have a fit. "Relax?" he laughed incredulously. "I just woke up—"

"After barely getting a wink of sleep the whole night," Alaric reminded pointedly. "And don't think you're the first man I've met who hasn't been able to settle down after witnessing such wholesale slaughter. It happens to the best of us."

"Well I don't have time for it to happen to me." He couldn't stomach the pitying words any longer, and snatching up a sausage length, he retreated to Lucrezia's cove, cooing her name and waving little chunks of meat tantalizingly before a tightly closed bud. "I'm sure you're quite used to scenes like this, so being a strong leader must come naturally to you—but I've unfortunately got to work at it a bit more, though I fear I'm just living down to the Prince's already low opinion of me and what must seem laughable qualifications."

"Weren't you boasting just last night that you actually did deserve this position?" There was soft scraping as Alaric pushed his chair out, and moments later, Everet felt his bulk at his back. "You convinced me, at least. And furthermore: you took a no-name Vasque soldier hailing from a backwoods villa and turned him into a proper Oresian lord in the span of only a few days. Quite impressive, if you ask me."

"How fortunate, then, that the bulk of this investigation will comprise lectures on etiquette and makeovers," Everet drawled dryly, placing the last of the sausage link within reach of one of Lucrezia's grasping tendrils.

Alaric patted him lightly on the shoulder, then drew away. "Pull yourself together, now. When I've finished washing up, I expect to see the weasel again."

Everet rolled his eyes, fighting to keep his frown as he turned to lean back against the cool stone wall, arms over his chest. "That's going to be your endearment for me from now on, isn't it?"

"Would you rather I go back to 'snake'?" With a wave, he disappeared into the bathing chamber, leaving Everet alone with his thoughts.

With Lucrezia fed and no more excuse to use her cove as a hiding place, Everet wandered back over to the table, slumping into his seat again and picking at his breakfast. The sound of Alaric puttering about his morning toilette proved surprisingly comforting background noise, but his mind was still racing, worry and self-doubt mounting. The rush of successfully carrying out his duty and the dull shock following the explosion had given him a brief reprieve, but under the harsh glare of morning light, he was beginning to see this new role for what it truly was: a sentence.

He'd never wanted to be Captain of the Crownswatch.

Accepting such a position, flattering as it had been that Gerholt had thought him remotely qualified, would have meant permanently tying himself to the Holds, to Orexa—and he'd always held out a faint, fleeting hope that some day...he'd find a way out. A way to leave behind his homeland, without qualms or regrets, and see the world as it was meant to be seen: from ground level, not up in the clouds.

He'd wanted to travel, to explore, but he'd never been able to bring himself to just abandon Eizenthley or the people who relied on him to keep them safe and secure. They needed a Holdmaster, so Everet stayed. He lost himself in histories and maps and epic poems of battles long ago and told himself he was content—and perhaps he had been, in a way. But that fragile stability had just been shattered, and here he was now, chained to a role and rank he wasn't entirely certain he deserved and was most definitely not prepared for.

He'd only joined the Crownswatch in the first place under duress—though looking back now, the threats that had been dangled over his head to force his allegiance seemed shockingly toothless. Gerholt had been a rogue and a cheat at cards, but he wouldn't have thrown an impetuous teenager off the side of Crown Hold, surely.

It had been all Lir's fault; most of Everet's problems were, after all. Lir had dragged him along to a brunch between his Great-Aunt Bernise and the Queen, dramatically professing their friendship to be at an end if Everet abandoned him to the "giggling gaggle of courtiers that flock about Her Majesty". Everet hadn't known what a gaggle was, but he suspected it referred to the entourage of Jenevier ladies that followed after Her Majesty like eager little ducklings hot on their mother's heel.

They'd slipped away, quiet and unnoticed, and taken thorough advantage of an empty parlor. Perhaps that had been the root of everything; perhaps, if they hadn't dallied in that parlor, they wouldn't have stumbled out flush with energy and excitement with confidence enough to bring down a Hold. Perhaps Lir wouldn't have then dared Everet, wide-grinned and rakish, to try and sneak into the Princes' Corridor, convinced that Everet's boasts that he could charm his way into any locked room were merely that: boasts. But Everet had been eager to prove his friend wrong, with his better judgment nowhere to be found.

Less than a quarter bell later, he'd found himself in the Crown Prince's personal library, rummaging through the shelves for a souvenir—and then the Prince had found him. Everet had been terrified, a thousand and one gruesome outcomes swirling about in his imagination; Lir was the troublemaker of their pair, with Everet usually tagging along for the ride, so how had he wound up the one about to be hauled off to the sableglass-fortified dungeons just for some harmless exploration?

But on learning the particulars of Everet's trespassing—how he'd charmed his way past not one, but three patrols—Gerholt had decided Everet's talents might be put to better use and had recruited him for the Crownswatch on the spot. It seemed skills in rooting out embezzlers and blackmailers through charm and guile alone were highly valued among the upper Holds. With little choice otherwise, Everet had agreed—though only after dragging Lir down with him.

Lir loved the job, though; he always took the riskier missions and basked in any rewards the Royals or other nobles chose to heap upon him in appreciation for his services. Everet was no shrinking violet nor shy wallflower, but his confidence and Lir's seemed to be wholly different species. They both craved attention, but where Everet flagged when tasked with responsibility, Lir flourished—where Everet longed for freedom beyond their borders, Lir made the cage of Orexa's Holds his own domain.

Everet might have had the qualifications to take up the mantle of Captain of the Crownswatch—but Lir was the one with the strength not to buckle under the yoke of such responsibility. Alaric's words had been small comfort, and fitting a soldier in a fine suit and coaching him on manners hardly qualified anyone to solve a royal assassination.

He brought his palms to his cheeks, feeling them flush as he worked himself up into a frenzy once again. Stars, he was behaving like a child! He took a swig of his juice—wishing it were something stronger—and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He needed to relax, like Alaric had said: he had to get his bearings and focus on the immediate problems—not the larger looming obligations. If he let himself dwell too much on the commitment he'd just made, he'd be done for.

Perhaps he needed to look at it from Alaric's perspective, like a commander in the field. This was a war of sorts, and no war was won in one fell swoop—to try and strike a decisive blow on a dozen fronts at once was suicide. No, victory would be gained in the little battles.

"But I've no idea how to fight a battle..." he moaned sullenly, resisting the urge to let his forehead fall forward and crack against the table.

"Then how fortunate for you to have a Commadont at your side."

Everet jolted in place, twisting around—and found Alaric leaning against the jamb connecting the bedroom to the bathing chamber. When his gaze lingered overly long on the rare flashes of bare olive skin and the silky sheen the moisture gave Alaric's hair, he discreetly cleared his throat and reached for a piece of toast, pretending to still be in the middle of his breakfast. "That was quick."

"Not really—you must have been lost in thought." He sauntered forward, mopping at his hair with a hand towel draped around his neck. Steps from the table, Everet caught the familiar scent of his own bathing oils wafting off of Alaric's skin—the floral notes of lilabells contrasting with the subtle astringency of grapeseed oil. It didn't suit Alaric—but Everet found he didn't mind so very much Alaric being drenched in his scent. "Not dressed yet? I'd hoped to see a weasel this morning."

Everet turned back to his breakfast, drawing crude pictures in his porridge with a soup spoon. "I'm afraid he's gone to burrow," he sighed dramatically. "You're stuck with me."

Alaric slid back into his chair, picking up where he'd left off with his breakfast. "I'd rather dig him out of his burrow; he may yet prove invaluable." When Everet drew in on himself, no longer up to playing their game, Alaric's expression fell, darkening with worried confusion. "...You brought down an entire Hold just last night and practically demanded you be allowed to head up this investigation—what's sapped your confidence in the span of only a few bells?"

How to explain that the confidence Alaric imagined him to be brimming with had never really been there in the first place? That there was a vast difference between following orders based on trust in your leaders and giving orders based on trust in yourself?

He grimaced, at a loss. "It's only...I suppose I feel out of sorts, that's all."

"Out of sorts? You feel ill?"

He shook his head. "No—more like...I feel like I myself have fallen from the clouds and crashed to the earth. My whole world has been tilted on its axis, leaving me the exposed tip of a lance of justice, expected to bring down the wrath of my Prince on the heads of those who've wronged him."

Alaric frowned. "You vowed to do just that only last night—were champing at the bit to do so, even."

"And I do want to! I do. I feel a duty welling up within that compels me not to sit idly by, to leap into the fray and sort this mess out."

"I'm lost as to what the issue is, then."

"I just..." He closed his eyes. "...I don't feel entirely...ready." He felt qualified—but not prepared. And he didn't think he ever would feel ready—because he couldn't imagine a life where he'd be ready to accept this, to be content patrolling the Holds, seeing to rowdy drunks and sticky-fingered maids. Vizick needed someone bright eyed and clear-headed, ready to bring down the mallet of vengeance with vigor—not a milksop who couldn't even manage a good night's sleep.

"Oh, is that all?" Alaric shrugged. "No one is ever actually ready for a command position until they're in the thick of it. It's only through experience that you become worthy of the title—the hotter the fire, the tougher the steel." He finished off a sausage link and reached for a napkin, dabbing at his lips—he hadn't bothered to shave, clearly no longer concerned with appearances. Everet didn't mind it. "You're right where you're meant to be—committed to leading, if not entirely confident in your ability to do so."

Everet raised a brow, dubious. "And...this is how victories are won? By untried commanders? Surely you jest."

"Victories are won by the victors; even seasoned commanders will fail on occasion."

"You quite take my breath away with your inspirational speeches, Ambassador," Everet snorted, but a soft grin worked its way onto his lips regardless. Chatting with Alaric—that was something he could handle. It was comfortable, with a growing familiarity Everet feared he would soon come to crave. He knew he needed to finish his breakfast, wash up, put on some proper clothes—but just for a few moments longer, he wanted this banter.

Alaric pushed his chair out to stand, wiping crumbs from his lap. "And as for this business about feeling like you've just fallen from the sky..." He paused, giving Everet a once over, then held out a hand. "Well, as someone who's spent his whole life crawling on the ground you think you've crashed into, let me be the first to offer you a hand up."

Everet stared at the outstretched hand—the palm was calloused, and the knuckles criss-crossed with scars, but it radiated strength, and Everet didn't think he could have turned down the gesture even if he'd wanted to. He gripped Alaric's hand in his own—and was abruptly jerked to his feet, nearly overbalancing and falling into Alaric's chest. He caught himself, though, and when Alaric spoke again, his words were close and soft and sober, right by Everet's ear. "People died last night; stop thinking about how important they were, or how loud the cries for their vengeance might be—and instead focus on the injustice of it all. Don't think of this as a duty; it's a privilege."

"But—"

"When I charged into battle, I wasn't thinking about bringing my Veld Martiale glory or racking up accolades. I was thinking about how best to secure ground, how to ensure that the same men I'd shared a meal with the night before were there around the fire with me again the next evening." He brought his free hand up to squeeze Everet's shoulder. "Distill your duty down to its simplest components—whether it be blowing a Hold out of the sky...or asking your steward to bring you the reports that came in this morning. Then work from there."

It sounded simple; frighteningly so, in fact. Alaric had a curious knack for making big problems sound far simpler than they truly were, and Everet wasn't sure if this was a good or bad thing. But more importantly: Alaric had experience. He'd won before, had the bearing of a victorious commander. Everet could, at the very least, siphon some of that strength and pretend it his own. "...I think I'm glad Vasque sent us a military man now."

Alaric's brows quirked up. "Does that mean you've a use for me, then?"

Everet made himself step away from Alaric's embrace, tucking his hair behind his ears if only to give his fingers something to do besides remember the warm, solid grip of Alaric's palm. "I'll consider it. Let's see what further trouble we can get ourselves into." He turned on his heel, making for the washroom. "I'll be ready in a quarter bell—the Prince will be wanting to review the reports with us."

A sour grimace flashed over Alaric's features. "Must we? Doesn't he trust you to do the job he appointed you to?"

"Technically, he didn't appoint me—Gerholt did; he was my Captain, and I his heir, as it were." He raised a brow. "What's the matter? Not fond of our new King?"

"I'm quite sure the feeling is mutual."

"Mm," Everet nodded. "Well, if it makes you feel any better—it's not personal, to my knowledge. He simply would have rather we kept our weapons technology for ourselves instead of sharing it with potential...well, rivals, shall we say?"

Alaric went a bit pale. "You don't...think he'll march on Vasque, do you?"

And that was a dangerous question to answer, so Everet merely sighed, "One crisis at a time, my dear, I beg of you."

❖

They found the Prince holding court in the Verdant Room, sprawled out on a chaise longue upholstered in a thick woolen baize and reviewing a sheaf of parchment Everet suspected was the roll the Runners had taken in the watches of the night. "My apologies for missing breakfast, I—"

Vizick held up a hand, eyes still tracking over the parchment in his hand, and Everet was forced to stand there on ceremony, waiting impatiently to be given leave to take a seat. It was beyond humiliating—especially given that this was his home. Perhaps this was Vizick's way of getting back at him for refusing to relinquish his rooms; if so, Everet would stand until his bones snapped brittle beneath his weight. He was learning a thing or two about Vasque stubbornness from Alaric; it was brutish and brutal—he quite liked it.

"Sit..." The Prince waved absently about the room, moving on to the next page with a somber glower and a brow furrowed so deep it could have hidden a lode of Starfell. Everet nodded to Alaric, and they settled on opposite ends of a long couch.

After another few moments of pregnant, uncomfortable silence, Vizick finally handed over the parchment and rubbed at his eyes—had he gotten any sleep at all? He looked worse than Everet felt right now. "My Runners returned just before daybreak—they checked in on every Hold, from Jenevier down to Anheim, and that in your hand is their report." Everet began to piece through the documents, his own frown deepening to match Vizick's—it seemed the Runners had managed to compile a rough, preliminary list of confirmed survivors by cross-referencing Gala attendees with those they'd been successful in tracking down overnight.

It was not a long list.

"Then...the rest...?"

"The rest, we can't be entirely sure of just yet. There's the wreckage to comb through, and it's possible that—thorough as my Runners tried to be—some survivors may have been unreachable, perhaps staying with friends or family on other Holds. I'll leave such details to you and...Alaric to resolve." He directed a weak, simpering smile in Alaric's direction, and Everet bristled; this was hardly the foot he wanted to start their investigation on. The Prince wasn't even bothering to use the Vasque he apparently had an impressive command over, simply to shut Alaric out of the conversation. But Alaric showed no outward signs of feeling slighted—apparently having learned some degree of diplomacy over the past few days—and so Everet decided not to make an issue of it. He could apologize once they were quit of the room. He seemed to be doing quite a bit of that lately.

Everet nodded. "I'll have a team drawn together and sent down to start sorting through the wreckage—as for us..." He took a breath. "I'd like to interview all of the guards in your retinue, Highness. They'll have been far more attentive to the goings-on of the Gala than any attendees, and hopefully have more useful information."

"And you think they wouldn't have already come forward with it if they had anything pertinent to contribute?"

"I think you've had any Runners at your disposal up all night and unable to offer insight, and anyone else has been trying to ensure that the remaining Royal is safe and secure. Your life is their priority at the moment—not this investigation. There's also the fact that they may not know what's pertinent and what isn't."

The Prince waved him off. "Fine; I'll leave it in your capable hands." He gestured to the two men posted at the doorway. "I'll give you the room for your interviews; come and fetch me in my suite when you're done. I want to be informed of any progress."

Vizick's retinue turned out to be a mish-mash of his personal bodymen, palace guards, and guards on loan from lower Holds to supplement Gala security—though three Fell Mages, one Firestarter, and a Siphon rounded out the ones with any sort of Gift that might be useful should they find themselves under attack. They were largely untried and decidedly unfit for serving as private guard to a Royal, beyond the few bodymen, and Everet nearly despaired, convinced he shouldn't even be leaving the Hold, until Alaric reminded him, "You've a larger duty to see to—and you're the only one who can do it. Leave these men to their jobs and let's get started on yours. Distill your duty down to its simplest components, remember?"

And of course he was right, but it was unexpectedly difficult to turn over responsibility now that he'd decided he would accept it. Would he ever recover from the whiplash?

The men filed in one at a time, ranging in age from long enough in the tooth to be Everet's grandfather to barely of-age, but all seemed to be taking their duty in stride. Or perhaps the gravity of the situation simply hadn't hit them yet. The older ones were particularly intimidating to interact with, so new in his role was Everet, and he half wanted to just turn over the interrogation to Alaric, if only because the man's size and bearing invited one to sit up and take notice and be as forthcoming as possible. But to dodge his duty now when he'd made such an impassioned plea for the position the evening before would ruin him in the eyes of the Prince—especially given that he'd demonstrated no issues in charging into an exploding Hold and blowing it from the sky. He would never have forgiven himself for turning his back on his people when they were most in need simply to chase his own idea of freedom.

Most had been, predictably, stationed far from the blast, doing perimeter checks or waiting at their posts in other areas of Crown Hold. A few had taken turns on watch in the ballroom but had rotated out before the explosion. This left them with no eyewitnesses among the guards, meaning they would have to rely on likely far less faithful testimony from nobles who would be prone to puffing up their stories for the shock factor.

To Everet's great relief, though: one of the Prince's retinue turned out to be a fellow Crownswatch member—albeit a relatively new recruit who had still been training under more senior members before the evening's tragedy. He seemed to have that same nervous energy Everet felt, knees knocking as he struggled under the burden of his new role and sudden, unexpected promotion to a position he didn't feel confident in assuming. Was this what Alaric saw when he looked at Everet, now? He certainly hoped not.

"Calm down, boy," Everet chided softly when the guard nearly tripped over his own two feet in his rush to greet Everet—and he wondered if he'd successfully hid the wince that followed his address as Captain. It was one thing to hear it from Vizick; it actually helped that the Prince tended to leave behind a thick film of disdain when he addressed Everet as such. But when the guard said it, he spoke with such awe that Everet almost needed to shade his eyes from the blinding reverence. "Sit down, please. No need to stand on ceremony with me."

"Oh, yes! Terribly sorry, Captain!" He flicked a nervous glance toward Alaric, then back to Everet, ducking a nod as he settled onto the very edge of the chaise longue the Prince had occupied earlier.

Everet strongly suspected that there would be some manner of teasing from Alaric later on his bearing around sycophantic bright-eyed young things, but he had more important matters to focus on at the moment and dove right into his interrogation. "Your name, then?"

"Gideon of Hollister, Captain."

"You really don't need to punctuate every sentence with my title, you know."

"Of course, Captain—I mean, I'm so sorry, Captain! It's a reflex, Captain!" He then slapped both hands over his mouth in an attempt to stop himself from causing any further embarrassment and nodded vigorously.

"Er, yes... Now then, Gideon of Hollister: you're not a permanent member of the Crown Hold security force, correct?"

"No, Serr; my father's the Captain of the Hollister Holdswatch, and I'm one of his lieutenants." He fidgeted nervously. "I...I know the only reason I was drafted for Gala duty is because of Captain Gerholt pulling strings. I'm not so fool-headed to think a lieutenant from a Hold like Hollister would've ever been asked to work security otherwise."

He probably wasn't incorrect; he didn't have any indispensable Fell gift, nor did he have years of experience that might outweigh his low birth. This had Gerholt's favoritism written all over it. "I don't really care how high your Hold sits; you were at the Gala, and your recollection may prove invaluable. Do you have anything you can think to share? Where were you stationed?"

Gideon straightened, holding himself a bit more proudly. "I was one of a pair posted at the main entrance—I...I think the other guard...I'm not sure what happened to him, Serr—"

"Nor do I particularly care." His patience was beginning to grow thin; if the boy had nothing to add, they needed to move on. "You were near the main entrance?" A nod. "Can you give any comment on the guests? Anyone who looked...out of place? Or seemed nervous—more than just a courtier's jitters, real true anxiety."

Gideon bit his lip, brow furrowing. "I...No, Serr—I mean, not that I can recall. Everyone seemed in fine spirits, to my eyes." He cocked his head, gaze going a bit distant as if remembering something. "But...if there were anything..."

Even Alaric perked up at this, clearly having divined from the boy's body language and tone that there was something coming. "Yes? Spit it out."

"Captain—I'm...it's none of my business, really, but—" He licked his lips. "From where I was standing—it was easy to see people arriving for the Gala...and leaving it, too."

"And?" Most of Jenevier's nobles tended not to travel with less than a small army of servants tagging along with them. People would have been in and out of the entrance throughout the evening on any of a dozen different errands. There was really no way to tell who would've been leaving because of an impending explosion—unless... Everet inhaled sharply. "You can't mean—a noble left? Before the King's entrance?"

Gideon nodded. "Baron Danvers of Anheim—snuck out early with his whole entourage in tow. Perhaps...a quarter bell before...you know." He mimed an explosion.

Everet sat back, forcing his breathing to even. There was no world in which a noble—especially one with no credit he could afford to lose, like Danvers—would leave a Royal function early. Even if he'd had his entire leg lopped off at the knee, he'd sooner bleed out than leave before being allowed to kiss the King's Hold ring. Even most servants on Jenevier had higher social standing simply by virtue of birth at altitude than Danvers did running Anheim. What reason could he possibly have for slipping out of an event—particularly one so grand as Alaric's welcoming gala—before having the opportunity to pay his respects to the King?

Realizing that both Gideon and Alaric were staring at him—with Gideon fidgeting nervously, likely assuming he'd overstepped his bounds and wasted Everet's time—Everet quickly collected himself and nodded. "...Thank you, Gideon. You're dismissed for now. We'll review your testimony and see if it's of any use in the investigation. You may return to His Highness now."

"Of course, Captain. Thank you." He ducked a quick nod, then flashed a nervous smile at Alaric before scurrying out. Had Alaric's hand in the grand demise of Crown Hold become public knowledge? Or had the Prince been thinking aloud? Everet wasn't entirely sure how well it would play among the rank and file throughout the Holds, knowing that their palace had been destroyed with the aid of a foreigner.

"Baron Danvers, eh?"

Everet sighed. "You caught that, did you?"

"I'm a quick study—now your conversations only sound like they're half incomprehensible babble instead of two-thirds." Alaric glanced at the closed door through which Gideon had just exited. "That's the one who looked like he'd just choked down a mouthful of lemongrass tea when he met me, isn't it?"

"The very same; he's the Holdmaster of Anheim, I think I mentioned."

"I recall, yes." He wrinkled his nose. "I also recall he didn't seem to have much affection for me—lemongrass expression notwithstanding. And that guard mentioned he skipped out on the Gala early?"

A nod. "Though—do bear in mind that the Prince doesn't hold much affection for you either. Not falling for your charms does not a murderer make."

"So you've said—but I'll keep my options open." Everet might have rolled his eyes at another display of Vasque stubbornness, but some part of him was starting to take comfort in the familiarity of Alaric's suspicious nature, even if Everet didn't share it. "You don't mean to ignore this, though—surely?"

"No—we will indeed be paying a visit to the good Baron this afternoon." This bore looking into; and while they were down on Anheim, perhaps they might impose upon Tenneforr again for some insight of the Seer variety.

❖

Anheim was uncharacteristically abuzz with activity—though just as dreary and somber as ever. The grimy, muddy streets were filled with dozens of terrified citizens all crowding together with the same question on everyone's lips: where was their Crown Hold, and why did it no longer hang in the skies above them?

As soon as they landed at the docks, Everet instructed Alaric to keep his head down and avoid eye contact, worried some ill-minded members of the citizenry might take their angry confusion out on the first foreign face they came upon. Alaric tugged up the hood of the cloak Everet had loaned him—a size too small, for it barely covered Alaric's knees—but his bulk as they shoved their way through the crowd still drew dark looks. Perhaps they thought Alaric an ill omen, his very presence liable to bring their own Hold crashing down as well.

"One has to wonder just how much effort those Runners put into allaying fears here," Everet muttered as they darted down an alley and away from the scrum. "Ten to one they poked their head in at the Holdhelm and then scurried back up to higher ground as quickly as possible."

"Perhaps they had the right idea of it," Alaric conceded, glancing over his shoulder to check for pursuers—they didn't want a repeat of their last trip down here. "Maybe they should have just posted a bulletin of some sort and then been on their way."

"A grand idea—if even half of Anheim could read." He gestured to the right where the alley came to a junction before them. "Turn ahead; it'll spill us out into the eastern forum, and from there it's only a few dozen paces to the Holdhelm."

"Why didn't we come here last time? Am I not meant to pay my respects to the Heads of Hold, like at the Gala?"

"Because I wanted to impress you—not send you packing." When they stepped out into the forum, Everet took a quick glance around the plaza before darting across, sidestepping a fountain and mounting a stone staircase in want of a good mason two at a time. "Some Heads of Hold you chat up because their company and conversation are genuinely pleasant. Others are Baron Danvers." Even Murphrey, the head of Jenevier and with blood as blue as the sky, put up a front of propriety when he conversed with Everet as a fellow Holdmaster. No—Everet wouldn't have wished an audience with Danvers on his worst enemy, let alone a diplomat he'd been meant to entertain.

As they crested the staircase, the Anheim Holdhelm rose into view. It was a grand mansion with tall, peaked gables and an impressive fence skirting its perimeter, but rather derelict, much like the Hold itself, and steeped in an air of bygone glory and disrepair. The whole atmosphere left Everet longing for clear air and open skies of Eizenthley—which brought with it a wave of guilt. He could leave whenever he wanted—he had that luxury; the unfortunates who called this Hold home didn't. Everet dealt with emotional whiplash every time he set boot on the landing docks, and not for the first time he wondered how in the Stars' names Tenneforr could stand it.

A servant took their names at the gate, and the Baron received them in a dark, dingy parlor that smelled of something pickled and didn't seem to have been dusted in an age.

"Oh, oh! Everet of Eizenthley—you can't imagine the depths of my relief to see you in one piece!" He held his arms out, as if wishing a warm embrace, but when Everet maintained a healthy distance and offered no greetings in return, they fell back to his sides, limp. He recovered quickly, though: "Terrible, dreadful business! Our lovely Crown Hold—and worse, our King! Stars keep him burning ever high and bright."

"A tragedy of the greatest order. Roslyn's Holdmaster was made a widower, and Jenevier lost nearly a quarter of her inhabitants, last I heard—she actually sits higher now, for the loss of weight." Danvers' eyes widened in surprise, and he whispered, "Oh my...!" with a hand to his mouth—but Everet wouldn't have been surprised to learn he was calculating the weight differential needed to elevate his own Hold over its neighbors.

"I'll send my regards up to Roslyn—and Jenevier is a strong Hold; I expect she'll bounce back." It was only here that he seemed to notice Everet hadn't arrived alone. "Oh—my apologies, I didn't realize you'd brought along...er, forgive me—Serr...Montalban, was it?"

"Alaric of Eizenthley," Everet corrected coolly, beckoning Alaric to stand alongside him instead of lurking in the shadows like some mountebank.

Danvers nodded nervously, settling onto the edge of a lumpy couch. "Yes...quite. A pleasure meeting you at the Gala."

"I'm sure it was all yours," Everet responded in Alaric's place.

This got Danvers' attention, and he straightened stiffly. "...May I inquire as to how I've merited the pleasure of a visit from the Eizenthley Holdmaster this morning?" He flicked a glance at Alaric. "I believe our introductions last evening were sufficient to—"

"I'm not here as a Holdmaster—I'm here as Captain of the Crownswatch, under orders from King Vizick formerly of Crown Hold to investigate the murders of his family and several hundred Oresian citizens." The Baron visibly quailed at the string of invoked titles, and Everet felt a guilty thrill rush through him. This was no battle, but he still felt like he'd just won something, all the same.

"I...see, well then. Captain—" He cleared his throat. "I must confess that I remain confused as to why you've come calling. I already dealt with representatives from His Majesty at some Stars-forsaken hour of the morning, so I'm not sure what we have left to discuss."

"Let's try and find something, then."

Danvers' expression hardened. "While I'm sure you're eager to get to the bottom of this whole mess, Captain—as are we all, rest assured—I can't imagine that harassing Heads of Hold in their own parlors first thing in the morning is something our new King would approve of."

Everet reached into his vest pocket, drawing out a writ of probate that he waved threateningly in Danvers' face. "Would you truly like to find out?" Danvers was a bore at the best of times, but now was not the time to try Everet's patience. Nervous energy had him ready to snap, and he would gladly unleash his frustration on Danvers if he could find no other outlet.

The Baron's compliance came swift on the heels of threatened legal action, though most of his responses to Everet's questions were curt and came with hesitant, nervous glances toward Alaric. The man could be imposing enough even in his good moods, but he looked more like Everet's hired muscle than a pampered diplomat, dressed in slick blacks and silvers as he was. It wasn't quite as nice a figure as he'd cut in Everet's colors—but there was little to complain about otherwise.

Danvers could stand to sweat, though; Everet was still stinging on Alaric's behalf from the sour treatment the Holdmaster had given them at the Gala. It was one thing to demonstrate a healthy wariness of foreign powers striking up relations with their nation—but another entirely to openly disrespect Alaric at his own welcoming benefit. Such behavior was disgraceful for a Head of Hold, even from Anheim.

"You arrived at five-and-a-half bells, correct?"

Danvers nodded. "And I'm sure you can find some way to corroborate that—a man took our names at the door, mine and my Ysme's."

"Your daughter had no escort of her own?"

"It's a crime now for me to chaperon my own child?" Danvers blustered hotly. "It was just the pair of us—any servant here will vouch for it, as will the dockhands at the launch who saw us off. The doorman at the palace—"

"—is dead now and will help your case none. Peace, man. Just answer my questions and we may move on." This seemed to soothe the Baron's ruffled feathers—though only just. "As I was saying—you arrived at five-and-a-half bells. You then proceeded directly into the ballroom? No side-tracking?"

"I thought it proper to deliver our respects to the Princes first before moving on to other attendees—Ysme's very keen that we keep up appearances. Reminds me daily that we must hold our heads twice as high and comport ourselves with twice as much grace as the next Hold up, to be seen as equals." Clearly, her reminders needed to come more frequently, in that case, as Danvers didn't seem to be learning his lesson. Danvers beamed with pride, though: "My Ysme will make a fine Holdmistress some day."

"Of course," Everet demurred; she couldn't possibly do any worse, at least. "I am curious, though: I have a report here...that shortly after you paid your respects to Crown Prince Gerholt and Prince Vizick, you and the Lady Ysme departed Crown Hold."

Danvers inhaled sharply, and after taking the briefest of moments to collect his thoughts, he allowed carefully. "I...yes. Yes, that's correct. Perhaps...a bell? No more than a bell-half after our arrival." He shifted uncomfortably, then reached for an empty tumbler on a side table and made a fist over it, drawing moisture from the very air to fill the glass. "We paid our respects, though—you can take that to the King; he'll recall."

"I'm sure you did—that's none of my concern though. Please elaborate on why you left." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You must understand how it looks—you leaving the Gala only a short while before the whole of Crown Hold came crashing down."

"Are you accusing me of—"

"I'm simply asking why you left—can you explain? Or shall I make up my own reasoning? I've a colorful imagination."

Danvers slapped his tumbler back on the table with a loud crack, face gone purple with anger. "I'll not be insulted—" he began, but took a great breath to calm himself before erupting further. Alaric's hand shifted underneath the cloak he wore, and Everet wondered if muscle memory had him reaching for a blade he didn't carry—the thought was sweet, but Danvers wasn't worth the effort. "Ysme was feeling faint—she's a delicate flower, that one; not used to such crowds." Hard to believe, given the state of the Anheim population. "Plus, you ought to well know the Lay plague's making a comeback, leaving Healers hard to come by. I thought it best not to chance anything." He gestured to a door at the rear of the parlor. "I can have Ysme come down and give you her sworn statement too, if you insist on grilling a child, but you'll get nothing further from me on this point. I've told you all there is to know, and that's that." He nodded sharply, trying to affect an air of stubborn confidence and failing miserably.

But unconvincing as his excuse may have been, it was hardly grounds for arrest, and when Everet glanced over at Alaric, the man's expression and subtle shake of his head showed he shared Everet's conclusion: not enough to go on. They would have to keep digging.

He delivered pithy thanks and saw himself and Alaric out, relieving Danvers of any further awkward attempts at hospitality. The air outside was little fresher than that within, but Everet still drew in a great lungful, glad to finally be quit of the dank, cramped walls of the Baron's manse. Stars, he couldn't get back to Eizenthley quickly enough. Alaric evidently felt the same, for he tugged his hood tighter and muttered with a suspicious sweep of the perimeter, "Tell me we're done now? I think I've about had my fill of Anheim goodwill for the day."

"You and most everyone else who ever sets foot on this Hold, I imagine," Everet mused darkly. "But we have one more stop to make." He crooked a finger, beckoning Alaric to follow as he made for the stone staircase that had brought them up to the manse.

"Doesn't he ever get tired of you just dropping in, unannounced?" Alaric asked, quickly picking up on their next destination.

"As if you could 'drop in' on a Seer!"

"All right, granted—but we like to practice a thing called manners where I'm from; it's generally considered poor taste to show up out of the blue on someone's doorstep."

"Your first mistake is presuming me to have these manners of yours, my dear." Before Alaric could take another shot, Everet changed the subject: "So the Baron's story didn't ring true to your ears?"

"I don't need to speak Oresian with any degree of fluency to know when a man's lying; we tend to give off signals we're not even conscious of, across state borders and throughout every level of society we've yet managed to create."

"That I can all too easily believe."

"You certainly didn't take your time with your questioning, though," Alaric remarked evenly, carefully keeping any note of judgment from his tone. "You think him innocent?"

"Danvers is a small man from a small Hold—but having a Holdmaster arrested for little more than poor timing in making an exit would do little to reassure Vizick that I've a handle on the situation, and what motive could we possibly claim? Besides—Danvers couldn't plot his way out of a burlap sack; I suspect our culprit lies elsewhere." He could only pray that Tenneforr might point him in the right direction to find them.

❖

Before they'd even crossed the threshold into Tenneforr's parlor, he was already laying hands on Everet, patting him down and pinching and squeezing every bit of flesh he could find to confirm that Everet was indeed in one piece, standing whole and hale before him. Everet seemed to bear up admirably under the fussing until Tenneforr drew him into a tight embrace—at which point he began to squirm like a child and protested, "Enough! I'm fine, old man! Can't you see?"

Tenneforr reluctantly relinquished his grasp, holding Everet out at arms' length with hands firmly clasping either shoulder as he gave him a good shake. "You can't imagine how—" His voice caught in this throat, and he inhaled sharply. "Sitting here, watching the Hold fall...knowing you were..." He shook his head, then shoved Everet away and raised a finger threateningly in his face, relief shifting to irritation. "And not a word from you! A simple token would have sufficed! You've got plenty of servants fluffing cushions underneath your coddled arse—you could have spared one to let me know you weren't a mangled pile of bones on the ground!"

His voice grew in volume until, by the end of his rant, he'd nearly shaken the door from its hinges, and Alaric withdrew quietly over to the hearth, settling into a seat while the two worked out their differences—though taking care to keep an ear bent. In case Everet needed his support, he told himself.

Perhaps this stop would do Everet some good; he needed a bit of tough love, and Tenneforr didn't seem reluctant to give it. While Everet had performed admirably back with the Baron, he still seemed a bit gun-shy about his new position. It had been nice, seeing Everet back on the offensive—but he'd merely caught a flash of the weasel's tail, nothing more. Everet still needed time and a bit of coaxing to adjust—or, if Tenneforr had his way, a sound thrashing and a lecture to come out fighting once more.

Not even a full day had passed since the explosion—he could still detect a distant ringing in his ear, and while the cut Everet had helped patch was beginning to scab over, it still ached. He wondered if he was going about this the wrong way. Perhaps he wasn't meant to sit here trailing after an untried Oresian Captain but should instead be trying to contact Vasque, to explain the situation and receive orders on how he was to proceed. This went far beyond the mission he'd been briefed on, and while he didn't feel out of his element—quite the contrary, he felt more comfortable taking action and shaking down shady sorts for information than he did wining and dining as a diplomat—he did feel torn.

But if he sent for word from the Capitole now, he knew what he'd receive in response: orders to pull back, to withdraw the agreement and race back over the border with all speed. He had invaluable intelligence at his command now and no obligation to remain in a country being run by parties Veld Martiale Hadryan had never spoken with. If Vasque wanted him back, Orexa couldn't claim him—certainly not without risking military action, which they couldn't have afforded even before the Gala explosion.

And that was precisely why he couldn't leave. Breaking up this fragile alliance between their nations would be unfortunate for Vasque—but ruinous for Orexa, who now more than ever needed a firm measure of stability. Vasque might lose a new source of weaponry, but the Starfell-supplemented weapons had been nothing more than a novelty. Cold steel and hard iron would suffice for future military ventures, as they had for ages now. Orexa, on the other hand, stood to lose a great deal more; her lower Holds were dying, barely scraping by, and without the aid of Vasque's natural resources, the higher Holds would quickly follows. In a generation's time, perhaps sooner, there would likely be no Orexa to speak of.

To turn tail now would doom an already crippled civilization to ruin—which was all the more reason to go all-in and help Everet in his investigation through whatever means he could manage.

Everet put an end to Tenneforr's lecture by stomping into the den proper and flopping onto the low couch alongside Alaric with a roll of his eyes. "You could have offered some help."

"I thought to cheer you on from the sidelines; did you win?"

"He most certainly did not," Tenneforr supplied with a sharp glance at Everet as he passed over a pair of teacups. "He quite humiliated himself, in fact."

"Bah!" Everet huffed. "I apologized, didn't I?"

"In your own way," was the grudging admission. "This is why I said you never should have taken that commission from Gerholt in the first place! Lir of Bantam won't always be there to scoop you up, you realize."

Alaric had thought the argument finished—but clearly they'd only changed venues.

"I'm quite aware of the dan—ho now, where are those tasty little sandwiches you had last time? Let's not be stingy with the Ambassador visiting!"

"Perhaps they might be laid out on my table if you'd bothered to let me know you'd survived. As it is, how was I to know I would be expecting the pleasure of your company this morn?" He took up his own cup of tea, sipping calmly. "So—Danvers was his usual charming self?"

Everet grimaced. "You'd think he would at least put up a front for Alaric's sake—his manners fit his altitude!"

Tenneforr shook a finger. "None of that speech in my home; you know how I feel. You're no better than my neighbors for having been born at altitude; you simply benefit from a system already in place."

Everet rolled his eyes. "Fine—but his manners were atrocious."

"I'll brook no argument there, but you really are going to have to learn to practice a bit of restraint. You aren't Gerholt; you can't impress people with your title or your bearing—you know better than that." Everet looked stung, and Tenneforr scoffed. "Don't give me that; you know well what I mean. I'm simply giving you my advice; either take it or leave it."

"Are those my only options? Can I not instead shove it up your—"

"You didn't attend the Gala, then?" Alaric interrupted before the pair got off track again, brows lifted hopefully. Everet's weasel was starting to show its teeth, growling and snapping from its burrow, but that wasn't doing them any good when his remarks were directed at Tenneforr. "Being a former resident of Crown Hold and a respected Seer, I assumed."

"Former resident, certainly—but 'respected', I'm not so sure. No." He shook his head ruefully. "I believe I made myself quite clear with the Royals on why I left my position—as such, I was not extended an invitation. Though that may have been a rare stroke of good luck."

"You weren't the only lucky one," Everet muttered, gnawing thoughtfully on his thumb. "We lost over three hundred last night, accounting for both guests and palace members—but it could have easily been several thousand. A quarter bell later, and the hall would have been packed to the gills with last-minute arrivals."

"That the casualties were limited to those on the Hold itself is all thanks to you." Tenneforr raised his cup, nodding. "I'm still cross with you, but you performed admirably—and you well deserve that promotion, Captain." He then flicked his gaze over to Alaric. "Though I understand we ought to be thanking the good Ambassador as well."

"Oh—no, no," Alaric raised his hands defensively. "I only did as Everet told me to—"

"See? Didn't I tell you that was what you needed to do? Let him have his way, and you'll get along swimmingly." He took a sip of his tea. "Well, I suppose now that you're here, we may as well get this over with..." He set his cup to the side. "I know you didn't drop by to let me know you're alive—I don't need to be a Seer to know you can be quite the inconsiderate little brat at times. So out with it." He made a beckoning gesture. "Don't make me go dig it out myself. Your mind is a filthy little hole I don't dare set foot in."

Everet was clearly stifling a smile, but he quickly sat up straight and schooled his features. "During interviews with some of the surviving guards this morning, it came to my attention that Baron Danvers arrived at the Gala—paid his respects to the Princes—and then left. Before the Royals had even arrived—and well before the explosion, of course."

"Was his excuse for doing so remotely plausible?"

"The lady Ysme apparently came down with a chill—ever the doting father, he saw her back down to Anheim and of course missed all of the excitement."

"A convenient chill, then—but not out of the realm of possibility."

"Hence my warm mood." He frowned to himself. "I'm having a Stars-cursed time pinning down a motive, though..." He lifted his brows. "You haven't, perhaps in passing...read your Holdmaster recently, have you?"

"What?"

"Anheim isn't terribly large—and Danvers hardly ever makes it off-Hold, much as he seems to despise living here." He shrugged. "I thought maybe you'd rubbed elbows reaching for the same melon at morning market—and in doing so, gleaned some emotional conflict concerning the King? Or can we set up a similar situation to give you access to the Baron? How close do you need to be? I'm honestly not entirely sure how Insight works, but—"

Tenneforr's white hair practically stood on end. "Are you truly—Everet of Eizenthley, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Everet flinched, brows crinkling in confusion. "I—what?"

"I thought you'd come to me for some advice—but asking me to pry into my Holdmaster's thoughts?" He shook his head, jaw firm and eyes flashing in anger. "That is the height of insult for a Seer—a violation of the highest order!" He rapped his fist on the table. "Think before you speak, boy!"

Everet's expression now shifted from shock to stubborn offense, and while Alaric might have been pleased to see the weasel snapping its teeth under other circumstances, he didn't think it would serve their mission just now. "I did think! I thought to ask you if you'd picked up anything in passing—"

"Then ask me that. Do not ask me if I've pried into a neighbor's thoughts! Do not ask me if I've rifled through their secrets—and most importantly, do not ask me to share them with you!"

Everet's gaze went hard. "I am only asking that because of our relationship; you ought to well know that such niceties are not necessary with my promotion." He squared his shoulders. "You told me yourself I don't have Gerholt's title or bearing—but I don't really need those to get what I want."

Alaric sucked in a breath, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat; he didn't like the tension forming between the pair—but he didn't know how to defuse the situation elegantly.

Tenneforr stared Everet down for a long moment, then he opened his mouth and carefully chose his words, tone soft with threat: "If you or my King command me to do so, then I shall—out of deference to your stations. But I will not—I will not go poking about in people's minds outside of a formal investigation. I may tease you on occasion with threats to divulge your secrets, but do not mistake that as evidence that I take my Insight lightly. Ignorance is, more often than not, bliss; I have learned that at great cost and no longer go out of my way to spoil my fantasies. So you may request my aid in formal Seeing sessions, but beyond that, I will respect the privacy of my fellow citizens—I swore as such the day I joined Crown Hold, and I will continue to do so long after I have moldered away to dust and bone."

Everet was breathing hard, eyes wide and white, and Alaric wondered if he might lash out with that flame of his—this was escalating quickly, and he didn't want Everet to do something he might regret. He reached out to gently grasp Everet by the arm, hissing low but firm, "Everet."

"Don't coddle him," Tenneforr warned with a sharp glance. "He knows I'm right." Alaric wasn't so sure about that. "He's only embarrassed that you're seeing him like this." Everet instantly jerked his arm away, an angry grunt lodging in his throat—but this display only pulled a harsh bark of mocking laughter from Tenneforr. "Doesn't feel good having your secrets spilled, does it?" He shifted unsteadily, rising onto shaky knees as he shuffled from the room. "I'll make us a round of those sandwiches you were whining about—now pull yourself together and stop acting like a child."

Once they were alone again, Everet muttered morosely, "That's two for two now; I really am no good at this..." He slumped back against the couch, one arm flung over his face.

"He really let you have it..."

Everet chuckled ruefully. "That was nothing; you should have heard the lectures I had to endure in my wayward youth."

"Your lifestyle now doesn't qualify as wayward?"

"You barely know me!"

"I'm starting to form an idea."

Everet let his arm drop away, raising a brow. "So—was that your rendition of charging to my rescue?"

"Hm? Oh." He fidgeted, a bit uncomfortable with the gesture now that tempers were cooling. "I simply didn't want you blasting your mentor's head off in a fit of rage. I thought you might regret it later."

Everet slapped his knee, snorting in amusement. "The conclusions your mind leaps to! You think me that hot-headed and rash?"

"I do barely know you, as you pointed out," was his defensive response; in truth, he didn't entirely know what to make of Everet at times. He wasn't sure how much—if any—of the Everet he'd seen during his time in Orexa had been the real Everet of Eizenthley; the man was a chameleon. Perhaps that was why he'd been so good at his job.

"Five words exchanged with you is all one needs to realize you're hot-headed and rash," Tenneforr drawled, shuffling back in carrying a plate of sandwiches. Everet sat up straight, shifting to the edge of the couch to get a better look. "Now take a bite and try to rephrase your request as something that doesn't imply I'm willing to turn a Holdmaster's mind inside-out at the subtlest suggestion."

Everet refrained from making eye contact, keeping his head low as he shoved nearly half a sandwich into his mouth in one bite, using the time it took to chew and swallow to collect himself. Alaric was relieved to see the pair settling back into their respective corners, and Tenneforr at least seemed eager to put the whole matter behind them. Everet's pride would probably be stinging for some time yet, but hopefully he'd be able to set aside any bruises to his ego long enough for Tenneforr to be of some assistance.

"...The explosion was targeted—they either wanted only to cripple the Hold, or they wanted to ensure the Royals' wing was destroyed. Both is also an option—but either way, I don't think whoever did this wanted to bring the whole thing crashing down. Or at least they didn't intend to."

"What good would crippling the Hold do?" Tenneforr asked, though his tone sounded less like a genuine question and more like that of a teacher trying to lead a pupil to the correct answer.

Everet took another bite, smaller this time. "Distraction? Or an effort to force everyone to abandon the Hold? Perhaps harvesting the Starfell—"

Tenneforr scoffed. "Come now, you can't truly think that?" Before Everet could fire back some hot retort, Tenneforr continued, "Every one of our Holds has furnaces packed with Starfell—if these ruffians were after our Starfell, why attack Crown Hold? Surely there are easier targets at lower altitudes."

A fair point; if you were starving, you didn't go after the grain in the palace stores—you pilfered from the locals.

"All right, then," Everet allowed, "That leaves the only other option being assassination—a targeted attempt on the lives of the Royals."

"And now your list of suspects could stretch from here to the Vasque Capitole..." Tenneforr mused, shaking his head. "I don't envy you the task ahead, Captain."

Everet looked ready to vomit up the sandwich he'd just devoured. "...I'll manage."

"Yes, you'll have to."

Alaric cleared his throat, easing into the conversation to give Everet a moment to breathe. "What can you share with us about the general atmosphere on Crown Hold? Did you ever notice any...tension, between the Princes and either each other or their parents? Perhaps something you thought was of no consequence at the time, but in retrospect seems telling?"

Tenneforr chuckled. "You mean, did I detect any plots or subterfuge? Rumblings of rebellion?" He shook his head. "That was years ago, for one. And more to the point: No one would be so foolish as to wander about Crown Hold with murder on his mind right under the noses of the Inquisitors—they'd be sniffed out in an instant."

"Well someone managed it," Everet snapped gruffly, though he quickly quieted under Tenneforr's reprimanding gaze.

"You're under quite a bit of pressure, I know—so I'll forgive your impertinence on this occasion. But Stars, Everet—go back to Eizenthley and get yourself some proper rest, lest I be tempted to bar my door to you until you've learned some manners. And—" He raised a finger. "Resist the urge to dip into your Hold's specialty." He turned his attention back to Alaric. "I am happy to offer advice or lend an ear for bending—but I fear I am less familiar with the workings of Crown Hold than those who've spent time there more recently, and I strongly object to being asked to glean unsolicited information from the minds of my unsuspecting neighbors. I hope you'll relate that information to the King as well?"

Alaric certainly had no intention of speaking to Vizick about this matter—but he nodded all the same. Everet kept up his silent treatment as he leapt to his feet and marched for the door, leaving Alaric to share an awkward farewell with Tenneforr as they made their exit.

He delivered a firm handshake. "Thank you for your help." Perhaps it was for the best that Everet was already out and waiting on the stoop; he probably would have made another snide remark.

Tenneforr tightened his grip, though, holding Alaric back for a moment—then he dropped his voice and shifted from conversational Vasque to an obscure country dialect that Alaric barely recognized. "Look after him, won't you? He's...inexperienced, and I worry he may not come out of this whole, if left to his own devices."

Alaric took a moment to process the language, barely competent in it himself, flabbergasted at Tenneforr's linguistic prowess—before realizing that he'd likely only used the dialect to ensure that Everet couldn't eavesdrop. He responded with a sharp nod, stopping just short of reminding Tenneforr that he would have done so without being requested.

"What was that about?" Everet frowned up at the door as Alaric descended the stoop, pulling the hood of his cloak up once more. "I didn't catch it."

"Didn't you just get told off for snooping?" They rounded the corner, taking the same route back to the docks as they had their first visit, and Alaric was relieved to note he was starting to get a feel for the lay of the land. Another few trips and he could probably manage a visit on his own, if required. "He was simply warning me that you tend to get handsy when you're drunk."

Everet's expression narrowed in suspicion—but he didn't deny the accusation, merely shrugging and moving along their way.

A tense silence lingered, following them from Tenneforr's cottage back to the loading docks, where crowds still gathered to peer up at the empty stretch of sky where there ought to be the tiny speck of a distant Hold. He couldn't help sharing Everet's dour mood—that was their simple skirmish, done and wasted with little to show for their efforts. Now they'd have to start picking through the guest list looking for a more sinister pattern as well as combing the wreckage for bodies to confirm casualties and missing. Everet had claimed that he would manage somehow—but Alaric couldn't see clearly how he intended to do that.

Perhaps it was just this Hold, its dark atmosphere sucking away all positive thought and siphoning any proactivity or optimism, leaving behind a dour, listless shell. If a bell left one feeling like this, what must it be like to live here, full time?

His suspicions seemed to be confirmed when they finally parted with Anheim, launching into oblivion in the volacipede and rising slowly, lazily back into the clouds. Relief began to flood his system, spirits lifting as if buoyed by Fellfire. He inhaled deeply, and the air was crisp and clean. It was probably rude to request that he never be made to go back there...but he might beg off any trips back for a few days. Everet would probably work more quickly anyway without Alaric dogging his heels, attracting undue attention wherever they went.

"...Thank you."

"Hm? For what?"

Everet stared ahead unseeingly, gaze fixed someplace far into the vast spread of open sky before them. "For this morning. And back at Tenneforr's." He made a weak fist in his lap. "I'm sure it must be obvious—but I am...quite easily overwhelmed, and I haven't adjusted gracefully. It's thrown me off balance, being forced into the light like this when I'm so used to working from the shadows in far less obvious roles."

"As I understand it, it's far easier to take chances and shoulder responsibility when no one's looking." This drew a thin, wan smile. "Though I must confess, I'm having difficulty imagining you as anything but obvious." He traced a finger along one of the flourishes patterning Everet's garish paisley vest—quite the contrast to the drab, dull cloak Alaric had pulled on.

Everet feigned hurt, slapping away Alaric's hand and smoothing his vest free of imagined dust. He glanced down at himself in confusion. "I think I look perfectly fine; I dress like this all the time."

Alaric snorted softly, shaking his head. "You look every bit the preening peacock I initially mistook you for, not a Captain of the Crownswatch."

"Who says you were mistaken?" Everet challenged with a sniff, and Alaric paused for a long beat, taking him in with a calculating rake of his gaze. Perhaps the question hadn't been rhetorical, for Everet seemed to grow uncomfortable in the silence, asking, "...Have I said something indecorous again? I'm told I have a big mouth—though I've often hoped to find someone who'll appreciate that some day." He raised a brow, clearly hoping to elicit a smile at his bawdy joke—and Alaric obliged him with a reluctant grin.

"I simply don't know what to make of you at times—you seem...to wear a lot of hats."

Everet straightened, shoulders squaring defensively. "As long as I wear them well, what does it matter?"

The smile faded as Alaric sobered, recognizing now Everet's tactics of diverting a conversation. "I'm being serious."

"As am I," Everet returned, shoulders a bit less solidly cocked but chin still jutting out strongly. "I am all that I seem—I'm the preening peacock and the vicious weasel and the deceptive snake. I'm a wide-eyed boy who wants to go on adventures and a Holdmaster entirely unenamored of the position and an underqualified, overly self-critical Captain of the Crownswatch who will probably have to resign himself to constantly feeling in over his head. I wear many hats because they suit me, my dear—because they all contain colors that complement me to some degree." He shifted around to avoid Alaric's eyes, directing his gaze out the other side of the cabin. "Though now I worry that must make me seem inconstant. Or else capricious."

Lady save him, he'd once again chosen his words poorly and failed to treat Everet with the care the situation dictated; the poor man was foundering before his very eyes, and Alaric had gone and pushed him under again. He repressed the urge to return a sharp-tongued defensive retort and instead offered as evenly as he could manage, "...I spoke poorly; I meant no offense—I'm simply trying to understand you, that I might more effectively offer support. If I've overstepped my bounds—"

"You haven't," was the soft, mumbled reassurance, and Everet reached back to settle his fingers over Alaric's on the upholstered bench between them, still refusing to tear his gaze from the view. "I just want you to know who you're getting into bed with."

❖

On arriving back on Eizenthley, Everet sent Alaric straight to the Library, explaining that he'd be along shortly after making his report to the Prince. Alaric thought about offering to go with him—before concluding that he'd 'coddled' Everet enough for the day, as Tenneforr had reprimanded, and that even if he'd tried, Everet likely wouldn't accept much more of his pity. He had a healthy amount of pride, after all, and he'd only allowed Alaric's pep talks thus far because he'd been too new in his position and overwhelmed with the responsibility to see them for what they were. As soon as he had his legs under him again, he'd shrug off such attempts to mollify.

The Library was empty when Alaric entered, though the trestle table spanning the length of the room down the middle was littered with reports—probably the accounts the Runners had gathered over the previous evening.

He reached for a topsheet—before realizing that the reports were, of course, written in Oresian. He had enough trouble with the spoken language—the written word was right out.

Settling onto one of the long benches, he leaned over the table and closed his eyes, reflecting that this was his first quiet moment alone—aside from the occasional trip to the water closet—in nearly two days. Even his sleep had been disturbed by Everet's restless fidgeting—not that he didn't sympathize. But this investigation was likely to drag, and without at least a decent night's sleep, they were going to be useless in tracking down the culprit. Tenneforr had warned Everet against dipping too heavily into his wines, but if that was what it took to lull him to sleep, then...

The heavy wooden door to the Library swung open, bringing with it a breeze that sent a few topsheets flying. Alaric made a mad grab to keep them grounded, greeting the entrant. "I see you're in one piece."

"Barely," Everet muttered, sliding onto the bench beside him and reaching for one of the stacks. "He told me off for wasting time on Anheim instead of heading down with the crew to inspect the wreckage."

Alaric raised a brow. "And you let him?"

"...He is my Prince—King, rather. Who am I to go against his wishes?"

"You're his Crownswatch Captain—going against his wishes when he's in the wrong should be your top priority, I'd think. I'm not entirely familiar with the inner workings of your organization, but I know I wanted my lieutenants to at least voice any issues they had with my orders, even if I expected them to do as I told them in the end. You'll never get anywhere surrounding yourself with 'yes' men; if you've a better notion of how to run the investigation than he's demanding, I'd say you're obligated to make him see straight." He paused, considering a moment. "...Do you have a better notion of how to run the investigation?"

Everet shook his head. "I'm not sure I have any notion." He slumped forward, melting onto the table in a heap of limbs. "Sometimes I think you ought to be running this investigation. At least you look the part."

"You couldn't pay me to step into your boots right now." When Everet scowled at him, he added by way of explanation, "That is to say—I'm more...direct in how I like to get things done. Point me at an enemy, and I'll cut him down. Your position in this case requires substantially more finesse than I'm capable of; I'm sure I'd only muck things up."

"As if I'm not doing a splendid enough job of that already."

"You forced Danvers to cop to an alibi—if it comes unraveled, you've got your man right there."

"And if it doesn't?"

Alaric shrugged. "Then we move on to the next suspect." He tapped the nearest sheaf of reports. "Isn't that what these are for?"

Everet sighed, untwining the sheaf before him and setting aside the topsheet. "In theory; one I suppose we're going to have to put into practice."

They decided to start piecing through the lists of names for patterns, for the time being. They could begin interviews on survivors at first light, but if they at least had some hint of where to press to see what hurt, their efforts might bear more fruit. With his pitiful reading skills, Alaric wasn't going to be of much help, so Everet dug out a grammar and set him to studying the complex Oresian alphabet. He felt ridiculous for the task; Everet sat there with furrowed brows muttering to himself as he checked and cross-referenced one report with the next, while Alaric was stuck studying rudimentary grammar. This was not, he suspected, the role Veld Martiale Hadryan had imagined for him when she'd appointed him to the Ambassadorship. Then again, she probably hadn't intended him to help with a murder investigation either, so why start complaining now?

They continued their respective studies until well after sundown, the clear blue sky washing over first lavender and then into shades of violet the color of Fellfire-thrown shadows. There came a knock at the door, followed by Ainsley wheeling in a cart covered in cloches. Everet didn't even glance up at his entrance, though, and Alaric thanked him quickly for the meal, making overtures that he'd see to the handling of the flatware and such himself.

He piled a plate with a bit of everything, unsure of Everet's preferences—puffed pastry bowls filled with some kind of thick aromatic stew, a rather unappetizing mash made from an orange-colored root vegetable that smelled faintly soured, and cold cuts and a spicy condiment sauce for sandwiches should they wish lighter fare. Mealtimes were becoming something of an adventure for Alaric now; throughout his campaigns, he'd subsisted on hardtack and the occasional pigeon or squirrel if they were lucky enough to be camping near wooded areas. Since arriving in Orexa, though, he'd never eaten the same meal twice—a luxury he worried he was going to get used to. He was even starting to develop a taste for the relative lack of spices compared to the Vasque cuisine he'd grown up on.

It wasn't until he set the plate before Everet's very eyes, practically on top of the reports he was skimming, that Everet glanced up, blinking blearily as if he'd been woken from a nap. "Stars—what time is it?"

"Just past seven bells—didn't you hear them?"

Everet shook his head. "I think I quite nearly forgot you were even here."

"Deep into those reports, are you?" He tapped the plate closer. "Your man brought us dinner; why don't we take a break? You can fill me in on what you've learned."

Everet held out a hand, waiting for silverware. "I'm afraid that will be a short conversation..." He dipped a nod of thanks, drumming the stem of the fork Alaric had passed him against the table distractedly. "I keep getting hung up... It's impossible to pay any measure of attention to accounts from survivors when my eye is constantly drawn to the names of the confirmed casualties..."

Alaric poured them both healthy glasses of a red he'd noticed Everet favoring at previous meals, shrugging off Tenneforr's warning ringing in his ears. "It's only the proximity—you'll soon learn to distance yourself and focus." He set one glass before Everet, but it went untouched.

"...We've next to no violent crime in Orexa. The Holds all have their constabularies to see to minor incidents, and many nobles hire bodymen when traveling—and of course, the lower the Hold, the higher the crime rate. But something of this magnitude? It's unheard of." He rubbed his palms over his face, slicking his hair back where strands had begun to wriggle free of the thong fixed at his nape. "I'm sure that's part of why I feel so overwhelmed: I'm utterly unprepared. I was recruited for my espionage skills—the way I'm able to weasel my way into most anywhere I like." This drew a wry chuckle from him, and he glanced up at Alaric. "They almost thought me a Seer, you know?"

Alaric frowned, bringing his glass to his lips. "Like Tenneforr?"

He nodded. "It wasn't until I nearly caught the drapes aflame throwing a tantrum that they branded me a Mage." He shrugged with a rueful smile. "That's actually why I was assigned as your chaperon: Gerholt decided that if anyone could divine your true intentions in coming here...it would be me." Alaric probably should have been offended, but he'd lost the will to be angry with Everet for doing his job. He couldn't blame Orexa for their paranoia—though it clearly hadn't done them much good, given the current state of affairs.

"Send a spy to ferret out a spy, then?"

"Something like that..." He pushed his food around his plate, seemingly without appetite. "I feel...like I ought to be doing more. I'm overwhelmed enough as it is—and yet it still feels like I'm going nowhere. I've no plan of attack, no strategy beyond the very next step—perhaps Vizick is right. Maybe the investigation would be better served if I were helping comb through the wreckage."

Alaric chewed thoughtfully, watching Everet tear himself apart; he really wasn't going to last long if Alaric didn't put a stop to this line of self-deprecation and doubt quickly. He swallowed with some effort, took a swig from his glass, then spoke: "...Have you time for a short story?"

"A story?" Everet raised a brow. "Is it bedtime already?"

With a soft huff of amusement, Alaric continued, "Three winters back, in the thick of things with the Hartsvåel, my company and I found ourselves trapped in a box canyon—unwittingly—by a whole horde of some of the biggest, nastiest warriors I've ever faced. They'd set up camp for the long frozen weeks when it was too dangerous to move about, and we couldn't escape without notice. We were outnumbered, outmatched, and low on provisions—but we managed a bit of reconnaissance nonetheless. Once we'd taken a headcount of their numbers and locations of watches, though, my first letenant took the information and retreated into his tent. And he didn't come out for two days." He jabbed his fork in Everet's direction, sending him shrinking back with a frown. "And do you know what I did when I next saw him? After I'd spent those two days without warmth, without rest, manning watches and relieving my troops?"

Everet kept a wary eye on the tines that had nearly speared his nose. "...What?"

"I thanked him. As without the battle strategy he'd spent those two days drawing up, we would have either starved or been slaughtered; instead, we took their camp and choked the supply line they'd been a critical point on." He withdrew his fork, scooping up a mouthful of the sour mash. "Your talents lie in your ability to read people, to plan—so stop trying so hard to be something you're clearly not and faulting yourself for failing to meet hopeless expectations. I wouldn't put a sword in a skilled archer's hand and throw him onto the front lines—it's a waste of a good archer and begging for a greater body count. Now—" He reached for one of the cleverly folded napkins, shaking it loose of its form (some sort of bird, it seemed) and dabbing at his lips. "If I'm going to be any assistance to you, perhaps it's best I get a crash course in Oresian society before we go any further—I'm never going to be able to help pick out patterns here if I don't know who I'm looking at."

Everet winced, finally reaching for his glass. "That's my fault...I'd hoped to give you your education at the Gala—introduce you to everyone who's anyone."

"And in doing so elevate your social standing a few rungs?"

He smiled around a swig of wine, shrugging. "I'm efficient, if nothing else."

"Oh, you're something else, all right. I'm sure I could think of a few choice words to describe you." The smile was still there as Everet swallowed, and Alaric felt the tension leave his shoulders at last, glad to see the dark cloud lifting from Everet's brow.

After another sip, Everet took a deep breath to collect himself, then pushed away from the table, studying the stacks for only a moment before drawing out a slender volume and passing it to Alaric. "Right. Let's go over the names of the Holds first, then. You may well find yourself marrying into one eventually."

CHAPTER SIX

Jenevier was, as ever, a sight to behold—rightly deserving her place as second-highest (or, in light of recent events, highest) Hold. The furnaces in her belly roared with bright, hot Fellfire feeding off of greater Starfell stores than all the lower Holds put together, and she drifted aloft on gentle breezes, well above the worries of the world. Unlike the crowded, bustling Hollister, which seemed to be a whole town scooped up and hung from the heavens, or the comfortable rustic expanse of Eizenthley, which was dominated by Everet's vineyards, Jenevier was nothing but tall, glittering mansions lined up one right after another along lazily winding lanes. The grand procession was broken up here and there by a small pond or garden in full bloom, and even the docks were immaculate, with carriages waiting in full kit, ready to receive any new arrivals and transport them in style from one end of the Hold to the other. The streets were all smoothly cobbled, with none of the refuse or runoff that simmered in the slums of Anheim, and the breeze carried fresh floral scents rather than the stench of humanity like the lower, more crowded Holds.

He always experienced a degree of whiplash whenever he had occasion to visit, particularly given that they'd spent a good portion of the previous day down on Anheim. Alaric was likely feeling it too, having traded a dark and dreary populace for one that seemed to be carrying on as if nothing were amiss. He'd tried to explain the situation in their impromptu lesson the evening before. Jenevier was where most of the well-to-do called home, largely residential in nature with almost no businesses to speak of on Hold grounds. Servants fled the Hold daily to do their shopping in lower Holds, leaving the wealthy nobles to entertain themselves with garden parties and coming-of-age ceremonies and picnics under the warmth of the blazing sun and the everlasting Fellfire summer.

This was a Hold apart, its nobles more removed from the real plight of their fellow citizens than any others. "They're frightfully dull, too," Everet reminded after they touched down on the launch pads, flashing a simpering grin at the docking crew as he waved away their offer of a small day coach. "We'll be best served getting through our business promptly and making a hasty exit. Sometimes I feel as if it's a competition for which Hold is truly the more trying to endure: Anheim or Jenevier."

"Careful; you're starting to sound like Tenneforr."

"Slander me like that again and I'll have your things moved back into the Prince's room to share—don't think I won't."

Two Ladies out for a morning stroll dipped small curtsies as they passed, their tittering chuckles muffled behind a parasol, and the occupant of a fine gilded carriage hailed Everet with a bright greeting as they passed alongside. Everet offered a wave and a polite nod; they had business to attend to, and he wasn't in a mood to trade niceties.

"You come here often?" Alaric asked after the carriage passed by.

"Hm? Not terribly—but I'm known." He hailed from a low Hold, but his status as Holdmaster—and before then, as heir—had eased his way into the parlors and receiving rooms of the Jenevier elite. Lir's introductions certainly hadn't hurt, either, though Everet hated relying on the station of friends to make his way in life. If he couldn't charm his way into a circle with gentility and grace, then they didn't deserve him. "I've helped the odd widow discover where her good argentine's disappeared to."

"Ah." Alaric nodded solemnly. "Important Crownswatch business, then?"

"It can't be murder investigations all the time." They drew to a stop before a pair of tall iron gates flanking the Holdhelm, and Everet rang a bell hanging from a post. The bright clanging summoned a doorman, who ushered them inside.

Murphrey of Jenevier was a plump man with a genial nature, if a bit scatterbrained. Everet had only spoken with him on a few prior occasions—once at Gerholt's coming-of-age ceremony, and again when Everet had stepped up to assume the Holdmaster position on Eizenthley. He was a decent fellow with no aspirations to speak of nor any taste for the tiresome gossip most of his peers enjoyed—so Everet assumed their conversation would be a quick, simple chat, in and out and on to the next home after paying their respects to the Holdmaster.

Instead, he and Alaric found themselves detained for a full bell between Murphrey and his sheet of a wife, wanting to chit-chat about the weather and prices of fabric bolts imported from Zircodian silk farms and how Alaric was enjoying their land—aside from that nasty business at the Gala, such a tragedy. Everet feared his eyes might roll right out of his head if they lingered further, and after professing urgent engagements elsewhere on the Hold—and promising to bring Alaric back for a garden party on the next full moon—they finally managed to escape.

"Honestly; they treat death and destruction like a skinned knee or torn skirt! 'Nasty business', they called it!" How they could carry on as if nothing were amiss was beyond him.

Alaric seemed unconcerned, shaking his head. "It's much the same wherever you go; wealth jades, and they're likely finding it difficult to empathize. They didn't attend, did they?"

"No," Everet allowed, directing a sour glare back at the Holdhelm as they continued on their way. "But the greater portion of the casualties hailed from Jenevier—they were his charges. There's a limit to how scatterbrained one can be!"

Alaric glanced around, sizing up the homes lining the lane. "Why are we even here?"

"What do you mean? We're interviewing—"

"I know what we're doing. I asked why." He stopped in the middle of the street. "You're Captain now, no? Shouldn't you be delegating work like this to your subordinates, instead of taking up the yoke yourself?"

Everet frowned. "Well—I could, but I don't know my force that well yet. Not enough to trust them to do an effective job, at least. I feel better doing this myself; then I've no one else to blame if I overlook some crucial detail."

Alaric sighed, marching forward again and leaving Everet to scramble after him. "You're going to have to cure yourself of that urge—or you'll work yourself to death."

This was starting to sound like a lecture, and it was too early in the morning to be discussing his leadership strategy (or lack thereof). "I said I only don't know them well enough yet to—"

"I'm confident that I'm a better fighter than most anyone under my command—or I was, in my prime. I took the laurels at the Capitole Exhibition three years running, and I'll wager I could still have most of my troops eating dirt in three strikes, even now. But I wouldn't dream of fighting a battle alone." He slowed his pace, letting Everet draw even. "I know you're new to this—and I understand that you struggle with your confidence in your position. That's what I'm here for now: to turn you into a proper commander."

Everet appreciated the sentiment but lacked the stones to confess that desperately though he needed Alaric's help...he didn't want it. He didn't want to become a proper commander—he simply needed to get through this investigation in one piece. If he bothered to tailor his technique or consider how he might earn his subordinates' respect, he knew he'd just lose his nerve and cloister himself away in his room until Ainsley came by to let him know they'd found the cur responsible. He was trying—genuinely—to do as Alaric had advised and narrowing his focus down to the battle right before him, instead of worrying if he could even survive the war.

They wasted a good portion of the day smiling and glad-handing the nobles of Jenevier—or at least the ones they found at home—and by five bells, they were both exhausted and no closer to learning any truths than they had been before. Everet's cheeks ached from bells of forced smiles, and even Alaric, who'd largely sat by silently while Everet posed his questions and endured frivolous commentary, seemed ready to take a flying leap off the side of the Hold.

Despite one in every four gates sporting a bouquet of mourning black crepe, most of the neighbors seemed happy to ignore the state of things. Perhaps their ties had been that thin, or perhaps it was simply shock that would eventually wear off—regardless, everyone Everet spoke with was only too happy to dismiss discussion of the Gala and explosion with a sad nod and move on to merrier topics of conversation.

One gentleman had neglected to attend with his wife purely because they couldn't agree on anything suitable to wear, and a hopeful mother tried to set Alaric up with her son under the guise of fencing lessons ("I'm sure Serr Monteval would be marvelous in teaching him how to handle his blade!"), while still another old biddy simply wanted to complain about her sister-in-law, a Dowser who hadn't been returning her messages since a falling out three moons prior after she'd confessed that the woman's new corset did nothing for her figure.

He'd hoped to get through the bulk of Jenevier and Bantam in a day—perhaps even address the Roslyn Holdmaster—but he'd known it to be a faint hope, so their situation was not so surprising. Nobles loved to indulge in gossip despite the seriousness of circumstances (or perhaps due to it), and these higher Holds were noble-heavy, meaning they would take longer to wade through than lower ones, which would have likely only sent their Holdmasters and Mistresses to the Gala. But it helped nothing when none wanted to discuss where they'd been standing when the explosion hit or why they'd neglected to attend despite the invitation. "I don't think I can stand any more teacakes or inquiries into your leanings though..." he muttered half to himself as they relaxed on a stone bench along the bank of a shallow-bottomed pond carved into a plot of land butting up against Adelyne of Jenevier's residence.

"If I may offer some critique?" The sting of humiliation would hurt no less for Alaric's gentility, but he nodded his consent. "It occurs to me you're going about this entirely the wrong way." Everet frowned, having expected somewhat gentler criticism, but Alaric continued before he could object. "You've spent the last two days complaining that you're not suited to be an interrogator—that you're more skilled in using your charm to draw information out through subterfuge. So why are you insisting on adopting a role you're not fit for?"

"I can hardly be subtle now; they know well what I'm here for—they simply choose to ignore it, and pulling rank on them won't work the way it did on Danvers. These people have their heads quite literally in the clouds—"

"And that's why you need to tailor your methods to the parties involved; with Danvers, you could rattle your saber a bit and bully some useful information from him. These folk are gossips largely concerned with doing their very best to ignore what's just happened. Why do you insist on rubbing their noses in it with such an interrogation technique? Just do what comes naturally."

"What comes naturally?"

Alaric shrugged. "Flirt a bit; you seem to be good at that."

Alaric's tone was difficult to read, and Everet couldn't tell if his suggestion was meant to be sarcastic or a true compliment, but he understood the idea. "...I don't trust that we'll have any more luck going with your approach, but we've nothing to lose."

Their final stop on Jenevier for the day would be with the Lady Rossa, a widow who had lost her husband to the same plague that had taken Everet's own parents. She loved a good scandal, making mountains out of the tiniest molehills, so she fit right in with her neighbors. Everet painted the visit as a social call when the butler received them, and they were shortly escorted into a lavishly decorated parlor. This time, he kept Alaric close at hand, intending to use him as a shield to deflect the good widow's attention, and they settled thigh-to-thigh on a cramped little loveseat as Rossa fussed over a tea service.

"I'm thrilled you brought Serr Monteval by, Everet dear! The commotion at the gala and everyone having to evacuate kept us from having a proper chat. I'm certain you were merely saving the best for last, though?" She lifted a brow in mock accusation at the slight, and Everet chuckled brightly.

"Come now, my Lady—if I'd started with you, I'd never have been able to drag him away, you know that as well as I."

"Indeed I do." Her smile turned fond. "You've brought him to me today, though, so all is forgiven."

"Alaric was positively distraught over the explosion—he practically begged me to bring him up to your fine Hold to ensure that all of the guests made it out all right in the wake of the tragedy." He paused for effect. "...Forgive an indecorous question, but did you, ah—lose anyone...?"

Rossa waved him off, directing a maid to pass a pair of teacups across the table. "I know it's rude to speak ill of those who've gone to the Stars, but honestly the Hold feels fresher without them!" Alaric tensed in shock next to him, and Everet half wanted to sneer You see? "No, no, I don't believe I've missed a night's sleep—though I did get myself a nasty gash on the arm." He held up her right arm, twisting it to display a fading white scar. "The Hold Healer saw to it in a flash, but it does stand out."

"Oh, my dear Lady—thank the Stars that's the worst of it you suffered." He gestured to Alaric. "Our Ambassador here was struck a blow to the head—I had to patch him up myself, since a Healer's gifts won't work on Lay folk."

"I say he looks all the more handsome for it. Scars are so much more becoming on the male form." Rossa replied with a coy smile. "Perhaps the Lady Ysme will call upon him next if her affections for the Prince fail to bear fruit."

Something tight and cold clenched at Everet's heart, stilling the breath in his chest. "I'm—sorry? I don't follow."

Rossa glanced around quickly, as if worried they might be overheard. Let it not be said that she had no flair for the dramatic. "Don't tell me you haven't heard? Oh Stars! This is wonderful—I'm never the first with the good gossip!" She lowered her voice, leaning forward. "I was right in the middle of the most tedious conversation with Lord Olbert—have you visited him yet? His youngest has been bedridden since the incident; the Hold Healer can't be sure she'll walk again, and that's such a shame. In the prime of her youth and—"

"Ah, no—no we haven't had the pleasure yet. I'll be sure to pay him my respects and check in on the young Lady Ophilia. But—you were saying?"

"Oh—yes, of course. Well, his Lordship just would not stop droning on and on about... Stars, I've forgotten! Be certain it was nothing of consequence. Regardless, so dull was the topic that I confess to letting my eye and mind wander—and I happened to linger on the dais."

"The dais? Where the Princes waited to receive guests?"

"Precisely so. And of all the guests they received, I'll wager Prince Vizick was most pleased to see the Lady Ysme of Anheim." Her smile was knowing, as if she was in on some grand joke.

Everet decided to play along, realizing he'd glean more information from Rossa if she thought him desperate for juicy gossip. "You're teasing, Rossa—all of the guests paid their respects to the Princes; a pretty face doesn't make those respects scandalous. Don't rile me up like that."

"On my mother's honor, it's true!" She placed her hand over her heart. "I'm astounded it's not the talk of the Holds yet! She traded more than her fair share of words with Prince Vizick while snubbing the Crown Prince entirely!"

Everet remained unconvinced, hoping to lure her into spilling everything she knew. "Surely you're just reading into an innocent encounter. The Lady Ysme is to succeed her father as Holdmaster of Anheim; one would expect her to try and make her presence known even from so young an age. I myself am only a few seasons her senior."

She tutted softly. "Perhaps I might yield the point—if they hadn't retired to the garden for nearly a quarter bell! Oh—if only I hadn't been caught up in conversation with Deilia, I would have snuck out to eavesdrop straight away."

"I'm sure you would have," Everet grinned slyly. "Nothing gets by you; I know just where to drop by if I'm in want of a good story." He feigned disappointment. "Would that I had been there to see it!"

"You only just missed it! Really, you ought to have come earlier; we could have had ourselves a nice chat before everyone arrived. It can't have been a quarter bell before yours and Serr Monteval's announcement." That meant that roughly half a bell after a furtive liaison in the gardens with Prince Vizick, Ysme and her father had fled the Hold—only just missing being caught in an explosion that brought the entire Hold down. Everet cursed himself now for not insisting on speaking with Ysme when he and Alaric had called on her father.

Deciding that they'd bled the Lady Rossa dry of any information she might offer, Everet offered his regrets but professed that they needed to return to Eizenthley. She was predictably loath to let them leave but eventually released them after Everet explained they would be back for the Holdmaster's monthly soirée, wrangling a promise for a dance from Alaric.

"You truly are remarkable," Alaric breathed, glancing warily at the doors to Lady Rossa's home as they beat a hasty retreat. "I didn't honestly expect things to work out that well."

"So you don't actually think me a skilled flirt?"

"If I didn't before, I certainly do now." He double stepped until he drew event with Everet's quick pace, all but racing back to the docks. "Is there a reason we're in such a rush? I've missed something, haven't I? I saw that something she said caught your attention, but I didn't—"

"I fear we're being played, and I am in no mood for games." Either Rossa was mistaken in what she'd seen—entirely possible, though she wasn't so far along in her years that her sight should be going bad—or Vizick was holding out on them. If the latter...then his reasoning would dictate their next move.

❖

Had Alaric not been sharing the volacipede with him, Everet might well have drained the Fellfire ballasts and dropped as dead weight most of the way back to Eizenthley. Instead, he had to endure what felt like an interminable return trip, positively champing at the bit to corner Vizick and get to the bottom of this matter involving the Lady Ysme.

He didn't pause to wait for Alaric to climb down once they landed safely in the courtyard, marching straight through the entryway and up the stairs to the Prince's room. A dark glare and a brusque, "Privacy. Now." was enough to see off the pair of guards stationed outside the room, and the second pair inside quickly followed after receiving a curt nod from their master.

"Everet. You're looking in fine spirits. Am I to take it from your dour mien and sourpuss frown that you've brought me glad tidings?" He had the chair he occupied tipped back so that it balanced on only the rear two legs, with his feet propped up on a low coffee table as he reviewed a pile of missives.

Alaric eventually found his way into the room, shutting the door behind them, and once they'd achieved a level of privacy Everet was satisfied with, he let loose. "Alaric and I just finished a round of interviews up on Jenevier—they're taking the tragedy quite well, in that they're all but denying it even took place. Our conversations were less than informative, but we did have a lovely little chat with the Widow Rossa. She was aching to share the juiciest bit of gossip, and lucky us—we turned up at just the right moment." He took a few measured steps closer, boots scuffing softly over the plush throw decorating the center of the room. Ainsley would surely hear about dirt tracked into the manse from the cleaning staff, which meant Everet would hear about it from him—but he could honestly give a fig about the carpeting right now. "She claims that she caught the daughter of the Anheim Holdmaster exchanging private pleasantries with Prince Vizick on the eve of the Gala." He lifted one foot to brace against the legs of Vizick's chair, carefully guiding it back down to sit properly on all fours. "You wouldn't happen to be able to corroborate her tall tale, would you?"

"Not glad tidings at all, then." He huffed dismissively, tossing the letter he'd been reviewing back onto the pile. "I quite talked myself hoarse at the Gala—as one does at a court function—and unlike my brother and father, I make it a point to be congenial with all of my people, regardless of altitude."

"Yes, I'm sure that many a guest shared a few words with you that evening—but only in the course of also paying their respects to Gerholt." He swallowed thickly, reminding himself in a cool, silent mantra to keep calm. "As I heard it, though, the Lady Ysme shared some private words with you apart from the general niceties—and more telling, she and her father left the Gala only a short while after. Just in time to miss the explosion."

"If you expect me to have any insight into the whims of young courtesans, then—"

"I'm not asking about some random courtesan; I'm asking about a woman you exchanged words with—words clearly not meant for others' ears. And know that the longer you insist on feigning ignorance, the deeper my suspicion grows."

Vizick shoved his way up from the chair, drawing nose to nose. "You will watch your tone with me, Captain. I'll answer your questions after they've been framed with the proper respect."

At this distance, Everet had no difficulty seeing the way his eyes were dancing with tension, and he bit back further quips, instead trying another tack—going right for the throat: "Are you courting her?"

Vizick pulled back from his face with a sharp laugh, reaching for a tumbler he'd evidently been nursing. "Hardly."

"Is she courting you, then, if you insist on splitting hairs?" He would not be thwarted by evasive answers this time. "You reprimanded me for visiting the Baron yesterday—and now I find out you joined his daughter for a private conversation a bell before Crown Hold exploded?"

Vizick's patience with their conversation was visibly thinning. "I reprimanded you because you rushed down there without consulting with me first and therefore had nothing to show for it! You exacerbated already strained relations between the Crown and Anheim simply because you could think of nothing better to do."

Everet felt his cheeks heat with shame and frustration, feeling the keen cut of a blow striking true. Alaric's warning yet rang in his ears, though: Going against his wishes when he's in the wrong should be your top priority. "You accepted me as your Crownswatch Captain and asked me to bring you the head of your family's murderer on an argentine platter. How can I do so when you yourself stand in my way?" He forced his tone to even, reining in his temper. "I am not asking for a blow-by-blow account of the conversation, nor am I asking you to malign the good lady of Anheim in any way. But I will have the details—or else I'll get them from her myself." Vizick's frown deepened from one of irritation to just this side of angry, and in retaliation for the earlier jab, Everet added, "I can be very charming."

Vizick's chest heaved as if he'd just run the circumference of the Hold, and Everet knew he was similarly working to keep his temper in check. "...Lady Ysme is quite precocious; she knows she's meant to take up her father's mantle upon his retirement, and she isn't shy about working to ease the transition as early as possible. She cares a great deal for her Hold, and while I will grant that she's ambitious, she is altruistic to a fault."

"You're fond of her."

"I care for all my people."

"Then you care for her perhaps just a bit more than is appropriate—are the feelings mutual?"

Vizick rolled his eyes, swiftly side-stepping the accusation. "If the lady favors me, I am confident it is only because she hopes to secure my support in the plight of the lower Holds, as I've made no secret of my dissatisfaction with the state of derelict Holds such as Anheim have fallen to. But courting her?" He scoffed. "No. I couldn't court her even if I'd wanted to. My father would never have allowed it."

"Convenient that you no longer need fear his disapproval, then." It wouldn't have been criminal for Vizick to take up with Ysme of Anheim, but the political turmoil would have been difficult to manage, despite Gerholt being the one in line for the throne. Royals kept their blood and their wealth firmly concentrated in the higher Holds. If a Prince—even a second son—had married someone of such low-altitude birth, Crown Hold would have suddenly been all but obligated to start intervening in Anheim's affairs. She wouldn't rise a head higher than she already sat, that much was certain, but the quality life would doubtlessly improve several-fold.

"...If you've something to accuse me of, then out with it; I may not be flitting about from Hold to Hold all day like you, but nor am I printing an impression of my arse into your cushions while I'm locked away inside your drafty rooms." He tapped the pile of missives. "The Heads of Hold grow anxious for word of our progress—and I cannot claim the throne publicly until I can be assured that any new land I claim won't also be blown from the heavens."

"Perhaps we might have more progress to report were I not denied information vital to this investigation!"

"A conversation of no note is not 'vital to this investigation'."

"Let me be the judge of that—unless there's some reason you insist on avoiding my requests? How many times must I ask you what you spoke of before you'll give me a straight answer?" He could feel a rising tide of panic clawing acidly at his esophagus. The longer Vizick balked, the greater the likelihood that he had good reason to, and that was not a possibility Everet was yet ready to deal with.

But again, Alaric's soft tenor bubbled up from the recesses of memory, reminding him that he was no master interrogator, that nobles could not be bullied like the occupants of lower Holds, and he closed his eyes, shaking his head to clear it. He kept miring himself in the same sucking mudhole every time he barreled into a situation without pausing to think, and it was going to cost him dearly one of these days. Days that were not looking too bright at this rate.

He sank into a chair opposite Vizick. "...She left the Gala early, Majesty." He locked their gazes, taking care to keep his eyes as plaintive and open as possible. Vizick wanted a show of piety and respect, so he would have it. "She didn't escape, she didn't survive by some Stars-blessed miracle. She left—shortly after conversing with you, and before His Majesty or the other Royals had even arrived. If the two of you had a falling out, if words were exchanged that might have given her cause to leave, then please tell me now. Let me put this matter to rest—else I will have to pursue it."

Indeed, he should have pursued it when they'd interviewed the Baron; instead, Everet had hoped to rely on a quick and easy fix by way of Tenneforr. He'd wanted out of this role and this investigation as quickly as possible, so he'd foregone the legwork and in doing so had set them all back, possibly tipping their hand.

Vizick sighed dramatically, glancing away. "We exchanged pleasantries, nothing more."

"Pleasantries required a walk in the gardens?"

His lips thinned in annoyance. "She inquired as to my plans to attend a forum on Tremayne next month concerning proposed increases in the grain tax which would disproportionately burden members of lower Holds."

"And your response?"

"I hadn't made up my mind yet—while I sympathized with their plight, to show my face at the forum would undermine my father and brother. I may not always agree with their priorities, but I would not outright defy them."

"Was that what you said?"

Vizick paused, looking uncomfortable for the first time in their conversation. "...I told her I was still considering, and that if I could not make it, I would appreciate a report from her desk on the outcome of discussions. She said she hoped to see me there all the same, and then we parted ways. That was the extent of our conversation." In a final effort to reinstate his veneer of confidence, he added with a thick layer of derision, "So sorry I couldn't be of more use to you."

"I'm sure you are..." Everet muttered under his breath, wiping a hand over his face.

"Feel free to put me before a Seer, if you think I'm hiding anything," Vizick challenged, crossing his arms over his chest.

Before he could stop himself, Everet returned, "I may yet, at that."

Vizick's brows cinched in confusion before realization dawned. "...Ah yes, Tenneforr. He's still kicking around, is he?" He waved Everet away. "If you're quite through grilling me, I have missives to return. Corroborate my story with Ysme of Anheim, if you like, but you'll only be wasting your time. Oh—" Everet had just risen, ready to slip out to lick his wounds. "And the next time you think to accuse me of colluding my way onto the throne...try to come at me with evidence a bit more substantial than a peeping gossip's fodder."

❖

Everet had worked himself up into a snit again by the end of his conversation with the Prince, though he at least had the good sense to wait until Alaric had bolted their door shut behind them before unleashing his pent-up irritation as he paced the room.

"The nerve! Lecturing me on dragging my feet, all while keeping important and quite relevant information to himself! Directly undermining me! I ought to have his own guards lock him up—" He drew to a halt, eyes going wide with realization. "No—no I really ought to, shouldn't I? Is that what I'm meant to do now? If he's—"

Alaric brought both hands down to rest on Everet's shoulders, giving him a little shake to bring him back to his senses. "Calm. You're babbling again."

Everet closed his eyes, grimacing. "I do that quite a lot, don't I?"

Alaric guided him over to a plushly cushioned chair by the fire grate, encouraging him to sit. The man could do with a drink. Or a nanny. Or both. "You do; it's not necessarily a bad thing, though—you simply need a proper outlet for all that energy."

"Are you offering?" Everet leered a bit loopily, and if he was comfortable enough to be flirting again, then he was comfortable enough to discuss what had just happened with an even-keeled mind.

"I know I advised you to speak your mind with the Prince, but..."

Everet nodded. "Yes, yes, I know...I did take it a bit far." He clenched a fist. "It's only, he can be so infuriating! He seemed more offended that I would ask him about what amounted to an innocent conversation than encouraged that I finally had something of note to report!" He shrugged. "Albeit, something he already knew...but I was clearly doing the job he tasked me with!"

Alaric shook his head, stifling a smile. "There he is."

Everet straightened, brows cinching. "What? Who?"

"The weasel."

He'd been starting to think that maybe the flash of fang and fight he'd seen up on Crown Hold had been nothing more than a diversionary tactic—clever camouflage that he'd likely never see again. But no; Everet was not beaten, not laid low just yet. He'd tamped down the temper he thought he ought to be displaying and instead gone for the more subtle, charming route he was accustomed to. Even with the Prince, where charm was next to impossible, he'd put on an exemplary performance. Indeed, Alaric didn't think he would've been capable of the same.

"Oh—quiet, you." Everet slumped deep into the chair's cushioning, raising a hand to the cold grate and sending purple sparks leaping from his fingertips to set a pale violet fire roaring before them. He inhaled deeply, releasing a long, beleaguered sigh as he glanced out the window—the sky was washing over with the same lavender hue as the fire crackling before them. "I'd hoped to get through Bantam today..."

"Bantam," Alaric parroted, sifting through his memories; that was one of the Holds, he recalled from their earlier lessons. "Wait—isn't that where that sky-dancing fellow hailed from?"

"Hm? Oh—Lir?" Yes, that had been the name matched to that pinched, prissy face; he could practically feel those dark eyes still tracking his movements with clear suspicion. His distaste must have shown on his features, for Everet chuckled, "I get the feeling you aren't very fond of him."

"Well he did call me 'baggage'."

"Oh, you caught that, did you?"

"I was clinging to his trousers in mid-air; if he was trying to be discreet, he did a poor job of it."

"Perhaps he likes you; he does tend to tease terribly when he's courting someone, and it's been known to backfire."

Alaric wasn't sure what was more unsettling—the suggestion that Lir of Bantam had feelings for him or that Everet knew the signs. He couldn't divine the relationship between the pair, and for whatever reason, that unnerved him. "...You seem quite familiar with his techniques."

"Now now, my dear, jealousy is very unbecoming on you."

Alaric rolled his eyes and promptly changed the topic. "...Bantam, though... Isn't that also the home of Lady, ah..." He wracked his mind for the name. "Ber—Bernise?"

Everet instantly sobered, a dark cloud settling over his brow. "...Yes." He didn't elaborate, and Alaric wondered if he'd undone in an instant all his efforts to get Everet to calm down—until at length, Everet continued in a more somber tone, "...Most from the higher Holds would balk at the notion of letting members of lower Holds—even Holdmasters or their heirs—onto their property..." He shook his head. "But she welcomed me with such grace and gentility. I suspect Lir helped pave my way, but she was never anything but lovely to me..."

Alaric had known his share of loss, but to suggest he felt anywhere near the loss Everet did at Bernise's passing would be rude beyond measure, so he simply offered, "...She was kind to me when she had no obligation to be—I think it showed how much she cared for you, that she'd put up with my horrendous language skills and lack of dance experience simply to please you."

Everet chuckled, his voice thick with emotion. "When you put it like that, she must have loved me immensely indeed."

Everet wore smiling masks and flashed glittering grins to many he encountered, but Alaric didn't doubt that the affection he'd felt for the Bantam matriarch had been genuine. Her loss would be felt keenly for quite some time, and even solving the mystery of her murder would do little to soothe. Still, he owed Everet the kindness of keeping him focused, not letting him linger; it was the best he could manage, under the circumstances. "And perhaps there will be time to mourn her properly later...but for now, we do her the greatest honor by bringing her murderer to justice."

"Quite a bit easier said than done," Everet reminded with a wry grin.

"Only if you aren't a weasel."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Alaric woke the next morning to find himself alone in the bedchamber. Everet's sheets were still rumpled and messy, meaning he hadn't been up long enough for the servants to be by, but it was too quiet for him to be at his morning toilette. Pulling on a robe to make himself halfway decent, Alaric shuffled with a sleep-drunk gait into the receiving area—where he finally found Everet, already poring over a stack of notes despite the early hour. Sunlight bright as noonday streamed in through a tall window, turning the spill of Everet's white hair down his back into a flaxen cascade that was difficult to look at straight-on without wincing.

He reached for one of the missives littering the table, frowning as he tried—and failed—to make out the contents. "This henscratch is actually meant to make sense?"

Everet didn't glance up from a letter he was penning. "It takes a mind of a certain aptitude to decode our alphabet; tough luck, my dear. Perhaps we can find you a book of nursery rhymes in the Library to start with."

He dropped the paper back onto the pile he'd retrieved it from, quirking a brow. "Someone's tongue is sharp before it's been blunted by breakfast..."

Everet speared the inkwell with his quill, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his temples with a grimace on his face. "Then sharp it shall likely stay, as I don't see any breakfast in our near future."

That didn't bode well; Everet was usually quite chipper in the mornings, something that baffled even an early-riser like Alaric. "Has there been movement?"

A nod. "The foreman heading the team sifting through the wreckage has found something, apparently. I've told her we'll be down to assess the situation as soon as possible."

The Oresians had been digging through the mangled corpse of their Crown Hold for over two days now; some progress was welcome news. "I don't suppose it's something as mundane as identifying a body, then?"

Everet shook his head. "I almost wish it were."

"You wish we were identifying a body? I thought you'd be happy we're looking at a potential lead."

"I would—but the foreman seemed quite reluctant to share details about what they'd found, saying I'd have to see it with my own eyes."

"...Meaning this 'find' will only mire us deeper in confusion and false trails than we already sit?"

Everet offered a thin-lipped grin. "You can see why I let you sleep in."

❖

Serious as their business was, Alaric still took some small measure of amusement in watching Everet struggle to keep from radiating palpable excitement at the prospect of their trip down to the surface. "Travel between the Holds isn't restricted, per se—but that between the Holds and Layton is. Quite strictly, at that." He squirmed in his seat as he pressed his face against the thick-paned carriage window, squinting to get a glimpse of the ground still far below. "I've never actually been surface-side."

Alaric all but gaped. "Never? In all your life, you've never touched solid ground?"

"Never," and Alaric could hear the smile in his voice, freed for a few moments from the pressure and responsibility of his station. "It's always been something I've read about in books, or seen through a pair of oculars from altitude... To be able to walk and feel the solidity of earth beneath my feet, to be turned out of the shelter of the Fellfire summer..." He rested his forehead against the glass, and Alaric caught him closing his eyes in the blurred reflection. "I won't deny I'm actually looking forward to it."

He wasn't alone, either; Alaric was also looking forward to heading down to the surface, albeit for altogether different reasons. He just couldn't get used to living amongst the clouds and would be glad to have his feet back on solid ground, if only for a short while. The Oresian countryside was nothing spectacular, admittedly, but he still drew small comfort from the knowledge that he could not trip and fall to his doom, no matter how far he ran or how unsteady his gait.

As they drew nearer to the surface, Everet grew even bolder in his attempts to get a good look at the approaching ground, even going so far as to unlatch the window so that he might lean out. Alaric had to grab him by the collar and yank him back in, reminding him to stay seated properly or risk unbalancing the carriage.

Once the wheels had finally settled, though, Everet was the first out, taking a brisk little jog about the stretch of ground marked out for launching and landing. Alaric was more cautious in exiting the vehicle, but he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when his boots touched the hard-packed dirt, and he gave a little stomp, just to be sure. It was warm, but not sweltering, and there was some limited cloud cover blocking the sun in patches—a sight he felt he hadn't seen in weeks, though it had only been in reality a few days.

Everet openly gaped at their surroundings, and Alaric took a moment to try and see the world through his eyes: rolling plains of dry, dead grass that hadn't seen proper rainfall in who knew how long, a lonely emptiness that stretched toward a distant horizon, a strong wind blowing fine dust into the eyes. It was a dreadfully depressing land to Alaric, but Everet seemed utterly delighted.

Left to his own devices, Everet might have dawdled longer, so Alaric cleared his throat to grab his attention, nodding pointedly at a group of Oresians who looked like they'd been expecting them. Everet instantly sobered, his elation quashed as he smoothed down his coat and marched over to greet their reception.

While Everet worked out their travel arrangements, Alaric glanced around, taking his bearings. Just a few stones' throws away, he could make out the town of Layton—and wondered briefly how Henrick was holding up. Altavio and the others had surely made it back over border by now—had they seen the explosion? The Prince had mentioned offhandedly that their border agents would be trying to pass off the incident as part of a celebration, all planned and calculated, but how well would that hold up?

He couldn't exactly receive any orders in his current situation—circumstances which had prompted his appointment to the position in the first place. The Veld Martiale had placed full faith in Alaric to see that Vasque received promising terms in the negotiations, and while Alaric was still committed to that end, he was starting to wonder if those negotiations would ever even take place.

What was to become of him, once all was said and done? Everet joked that Alaric might marry into a Hold some day—but would Hadryan insist on his return, once the disaster Orexa had suffered came to light? Vizick surely couldn't expect to keep this a secret for long; sooner or later, their neighbors would notice the number of Holds had dropped by one and demand an explanation, demand to speak with a King who no longer ruled.

Orexa was being held together by spider's silk and hope at this point, vulnerable and ripe for the picking. But Alaric wasn't here to engineer a takeover; he was here to negotiate a weapons agreement—no more, no less. The Vasque Veld Martiale might have seen things differently, had she been in his boots and with the full force of her armies to command, but Alaric was one man. A foreigner on soil that, while not exactly hostile, was not wholly friendly either. He would act in accordance with his conscience, because it would take a strong and united Orexa to parley effectively with Vasque.

He needed to take his own advice at this point and focus on the battle before him instead of worrying over the larger war. He wasn't a commander leading a troupe; he was the troupe, down in the muck doing the dirty work. His ends were clear—the means less so; he would therefore take whatever path best suited him, and so long as he achieved the goal he'd been assigned, the trek he took to reach it would matter little. Diving into the midst of an Oresian murder investigation may not have been what the Veld Martiale would have done, or even what the Veld Martiale might have approved—but he hadn't been sent here to be her lackey. He was here because he was her man, a trusted agent that she believed would, one way or another, bring her the greatest win she could hope for out of these discussions.

Altavio had teased him for the affectation, but Alaric could think of no greater honor than to be relied upon so unconditionally by one's ruler. In that, he pitied Everet, who clearly still struggled under the bite of Vizick's disdain.

A proper carriage was waiting for them, fitted with sturdy wheels and a driving team to haul them over the barren terrain to the crash site. The journey would take the rest of the morning and had to be completed overland, as regulations apparently prohibited Starfell-powered vehicles from traveling far from the safety of the Holds' shadows, which meant a long, bumpy ride ahead of them. Everet seemed thrilled with this turn of events, clearly still eager to gawk and gape at the scenery, but all too quickly, even he grew disenchanted with the never-changing view, eventually slumping inelegantly against the wall of the carriage for a short nap as they bobbed along.

Alaric nudged Everet awake when one of the Oresian field agents knocked on their window to let them know they'd arrived at the site. Everet stretched like a cat, rubbing at his eyes blearily, but by the time they unfolded themselves from the carriage, he was poised and alert once more, looking every bit the confident Captain. As their guide led them along a well-beaten path, Alaric realized with an unsettling turn of his stomach that they were cresting the rim of an exceptionally large crater.

Standing at the lip of the rim, he brought a hand up to shade his eyes and looked down on the carnage. Tents had been erected to cover rows of bodies laid out on tarps for identification, and teams of oxen and mules worked together to drag debris out of the way, allowing human workers to make some headway into sorting through the crash. It looked as if an entire mountain had crashed down around them, heaps of stone and dirt and sod and metal piled up all about. Tunnels had been dug here and there to facilitate movement, but navigation remained difficult, and Alaric wondered how anyone avoided getting lost in the wreckage. Their guide jogged down the steep incline just over the lip of the crater, bringing them down onto the floor—and when Alaric glanced back, pacing out the distance from the rim down to the center, he wondered at the magnitude of the crash.

"A crater this size...from Crown Hold alone?" he muttered, low and soft but ensuring that Everet could hear him. "It was little more than a few buildings and some sod..."

"Indeed... The palace was grand, to be sure, but it paled in size to Holds like Hollister and Roslyn. If one of them were to ever fall..." He trailed off, likely envisioning the same carnage as Alaric. From time to time, great rocks hurtled to the earth from the heavens, creating craters such as this—but the largest he'd ever heard of had been the size of a house. If one the size of Hollister were to plummet from where it hung so precariously...

They ducked under a twisted heap of metal that blocked out the sun—a huge, pockmarked dome spacious enough to corral Everet's whole herd, with its belly split open and folded back like one of Lucrezia's blossoms. "This is..."

"One of the furnaces," Everet clarified, tracing a finger along the keen edge of one of the metal 'petals'. "Blown apart when...when the Starfell combusted." The knowing look he gave Alaric suggested that their involvement in the Hold's crash was not meant to be public knowledge, and while there was little chance their guide or any of the other workers knew more than a smattering of Vasque, it was best to be safe.

Alaric nodded his understanding, and they continued on, deeper into the wreckage, until they reached an area that had largely been cleared of debris and was now occupied by several makeshift tables and a group of workers arguing over a crudely drawn map. At their guide's whistle, one of the workers glanced up—a tall, sturdily built woman with crows' feet around her eyes and tight skin that suggested she spent much of her time outside under the open sky. She muttered something in hushed tones to the two other men hunched over the table with her, and from their deferent postures, Alaric gathered that this was the foreman they were meant to meet with.

Everet hailed the woman with a curt greeting, not even bothering to introduce Alaric, and she obliged his obvious desire for brevity by extending a hand, beckoning them to follow her. After several twists and turns, Alaric was sure he'd be lost if left to his own devices, so he double-stepped to keep pace with the pair. Their convoluted route spit them out behind a row of tents back near the crater's edge, where burlap sacks were piled up three high. The foreman gestured to the sacks, then reached for a small dagger sitting in a belt at her hip and sliced one open, shoving her hand inside and drawing out a palmful of its contents.

She held her hand out, ensuring they got a good look, and while Alaric was far from an expert on minerals of the region—he was certain he knew what filled the rest of those burlap sacks now.

"Starfell...?" Everet breathed, voice thin and tense as a harpstring. "That's..." He shook his head, stepping back. "Impossible, it should have all been..." He then cast a wary glance Alaric's way that distinctly stank of suspicion, and had they been in a more private setting and free to speak, he might have voiced his offense that Everet would dare suggest he hadn't done as instructed and combusted any Starfell he could get his hands on.

The foreman stopped any potential accusations, though, by shaking her head and stepping around them out of the shade, letting a long beam of sunlight fall squarely on her palm. In the full light, now, Alaric could see that something was off. Whatever she held in her hand, it didn't have that deep violet heart, didn't spangle in pastels and lavenders. It was dull and dark and far too coarsely grained to be Starfell—at least, not the dust he'd noticed in the furnaces.

When Everet voiced his confusion, the foreman explained something Alaric couldn't quite catch—there was some sort of negation, that much he could grasp, and Everet repeated the foreman's words several times for clarification before grabbing a pinch of the mineral himself and rubbing it between his fingers curiously.

He then gave a sharp snap of his fingers, igniting the stuff in a flash of Fellfire, and stared into the heart of the sputtering, dying flame with a steadily deepening frown. The foreman nodded grimly and adding something along the lines of tried that too. They continued to converse in grave tones that Alaric eventually gave up trying to understand, and he crossed his arms over his chest, waiting impatiently for Everet to finish as he paced the length of the crater wall.

Everet caught up with him a few moments later, having dismissed the foreman back to her post, and he beckoned Alaric to follow him back to the path they'd entered by with a jerk of his head.

"Finished already?"

"Not by half—which is why we're leaving." He held his tongue on any further explanation until they'd climbed back into the carriage, settling in for another long ride back to the launch pad near Layton. Alaric didn't know what he'd learned that had unsettled him so, but Everet seemed positively buzzing with nervous energy. It wasn't the side of the weasel Alaric had been hoping to see, but at least he wasn't cowering in his burrow.

"I take the fact that I'm sitting here beside you rather than locked in some cell to mean that you've concluded I was not responsible for that uncombusted Starfell?"

"You have to admit, it didn't look good."

"I don't have to admit anything." He leaned forward, dropping his voice even though he was certain they couldn't be heard over the sound of the carriage rolling along. "What happened back there? I couldn't catch more than every fifth word."

Everet glanced down at his fingers, still smudged with a bit of the mineral. "That wasn't Starfell."

"...I gathered as such, though I wasn't certain—have you any clue what it is, then?"

A nod. "It wouldn't ignite, and it killed my Fellfire...we've only one mineral that can do that: sableore."

Alaric felt like he'd heard of that before in passing. "You've mentioned—what was it, sableglass? I'm not familiar with it."

Everet pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away the residue. "It's actually quite abundant—I'm sure there are veins all over the continent, though perhaps it goes by a different name in Vasque. Sableglass is the paneling we refine from the raw ore; it's terribly inert, so we use it mainly in housing for things like transports and furnace linings, or for insulating our lanterns and lamps, though some in the higher Holds have laced their doors and fences with the stuff."

"Doors and fences? Whatever for?"

"Security, of course. Didn't you see how it killed my Fellfire when I tried to combust it? Alloys made with sableore are quite effective in..." He trailed off, just as Alaric realized he'd unwittingly revealed a key Oresian weakness. Sableore-fortified swords and shields, cannon shot that couldn't be deflected by Fell Mages like Everet—an army outfitted with such weaponry could march on Orexa heedless of the fantastic powers her citizens wielded. "Well, I'm sure you get the idea."

He filed the information away for later review. "And you keep this sableore just sitting around?"

"Of course we don't keep it sitting around."

"Well you kept the black powder just sitting around; how was I to know?"

Everet waved him away. "We've no use for the ore in its raw form; refined into sableglass, we use it as I mentioned—but you typically only find the raw mineral in forges and dig sites of mines."

"Then how did it get here? In quantities great enough they had to start filling sacks? You don't think it was thrown up in the crash, do you? Perhaps there's a vein running under?"

Everet bit his thumb in thought. "No...not like this. The raw ore is great hunks of rock, black as night. This...this was ground up, fine as anything—in fact, at first glance, it looked just like..."

"...Like Starfell," Alaric finished, following Everet's uneasy train of thought. "I assumed it was just my untrained eye not recognizing it for what it was—but even you thought so?"

"We deal with Starfell dust daily—it's essentially our national currency. I'd wager even the Treasurer General would have mistaken the contents of those sacks for legitimate Starfell." He shook his head. "Why would anyone grind sableore into dust and try to pass it off as Starfell, though? It's useless and would be quickly proven counterfeit."

"Any chance it was an accident? Mixed in with proper Starfell during grinding?"

"Not likely—none of the refineries that I'm aware of work with both; and even if some had been mixed in by mistake, it certainly wouldn't equate to the stacks we saw back there. A few handfuls, perhaps—but whole sackfuls? No, never."

"So...we're operating then under the assumption that this was malicious." Something occurred to him here, and panic clenched at his chest. "This stuff—this sableore, it...it didn't cause the explosion, did it?"

"What? Oh—no, no. It's utterly inert, didn't I say? At worst, it would have killed the Fellfire in the furnaces."

"Wouldn't that have brought the Hold crashing down, all the same?"

"Well, yes—but you only asked if it caused the explosion." Despite the cheekiness of his response, his expression remained clouded, and he muttered rhetorically, "What good would sableore do any Hold?"

"What if it wasn't the good it might do—but the bad it was covering up? You mentioned that Starfell is essentially your currency—perhaps someone was raiding the coffers, so to speak? Replacing good Starfell with sableore cut to look similar?"

Everet grimaced, clearly finding the idea unsettling. "That would be difficult indeed; all Starfell, regardless of its ultimate destination, must pass through Crown Hold before being delivered to the Treasury for dispensation or stored in the furnaces. Crown Hold had five Seers on staff; any one of them could have sniffed out such a plot in no time."

"Could they have been involved themselves? These Seers."

Everet shrugged. "I...supposed anything's possible—but five? If they turned, they certainly didn't live long enough to profit from their treason; three of their bodies have already been dragged from the rubble, and I wouldn't hold out hope the other two found freedom and fortune elsewhere."

Alaric mulled this over. "In my experience, the best kept secrets are those no one knows about. Clearly the Starfell has gone somewhere; so if it hasn't been stolen, then could the mines have gone cold?" Perhaps it wasn't that the Starfell was gone, but that it had never been there to begin with. "You can't be in on a plot no one knows about, after all, so your Seers would never have been the wiser."

"But someone would know—the Dowsers would have raised a fuss if the veins had gone silent!"

"Dowsers?" Everet had mentioned those before—but he couldn't recall their ability. "Are those the, ah—they top off your water reserves, right?"

"Oh—Stars, man, we really must get you versed on the Fell gifts once we're back on Eizenthley. The Dowsers can sense Starfell—they're mostly used to locate new lodes to mine, up in the Sontifers.

That sounded like a useful talent indeed. "It seems to me they're who we ought to be speaking to, then. Start from the beginning and work our way down the supply line—that way we can see where the switch is being made."

Everet made a face. "Quite a bit easier said than done. The Dowsers all live in a settlement quite far from the Holds' purview, deep into the Sontifer range—ostensibly so their senses aren't fouled by the Starfell in the Holds' furnaces, but also because, well, as I said: Starfell is our currency, a precious resource. The Dowsers know where each and every vein is; you wouldn't want to keep the key to your safe where anyone could stumble across it, right?"

Alaric followed the logic—though as with the Lay folk, he couldn't agree with it. "So you banish them, too, then?" he tried, keeping his tone just this side of challenging.

Everet didn't rise to the bait this time, sighing, "I never claimed to condone our paranoia. You asked—I explained."

"So you have—but that leaves us with a problem, then, as I take your explanation to mean that the location of this settlement isn't public knowledge?" Orexa blended into the lower peaks of the Sontifers on her northwestern borders, but to explore every nook and cranny of the range would take a lifetime. "The Prince wouldn't happen to know where the settlement is, would he?"

"...He would," Everet allowed, lips thinning. "And that is perhaps something we should consider."

Alaric blinked, thrown. Was he suggesting...? "Wha—three days now you've been reminding me that there's no way any sort of plot could have been kept secret on Crown Hold with those Seers scurrying about, that the Prince respected his father and brother even if he didn't agree with them. Now you're advising caution in tipping our hand on this find?"

"Caution—nothing more." He turned his gaze out the window, staring unseeingly at the dry, dead landscape. "It's only—how likely can it be that the Hold was receiving routine shipments of counterfeit Starfell with none the wiser?"

"I can't imagine very..." Alaric allowed. "Very well—then if we cannot obtain the location from the Prince, how are we to find this settlement and discover what's become of the Starfell that ought to have been stored on Crown Hold?"

He glanced back at Alaric, one brow raised. "That, my dear, I have covered."

Alaric settled back, sensing a grand tale—now he finally understood Tenneforr's comments about how Everet seemed to delight in dressing up dull events. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at this point."

"Oh don't deny me the pleasure of your continued astonishment at my accomplishments so soon!" Alaric motioned for him to get on with it, praying he might be spared the dramatics. "I earned my appointment to the Crownswatch after I was caught sneaking into the Royal Wing to steal a book from the Crown Prince's personal library."

"You got caught—and they thought that a testament to your skills that merited hiring you?"

"Do you want to hear the tale or not?" Not, Alaric wanted to respond, just to ruffle his feathers a bit more, but he held his tongue, and Everet continued. "Gerholt was so impressed with the stunt that he actually let me keep the book I'd palmed, as a souvenir—it turned out to be an old atlas."

Alaric nodded. "Outlining more than the odd mountain range and river delta, I presume?"

"He must have had thousands of books, and at least a dozen mapbooks alone; I doubt he realized what he was giving up—and of course I've only ever used it for scholarly ventures, but..." He squared his shoulders, nodding to himself. "Perhaps it's time it served a new purpose."

"And now we need not involve the Prince," Alaric mused, taking care to keep his tone even. "...If you're beginning to have doubts about his leanings—"

"I'm not," Everet snapped, a bit more sharply than Alaric felt was merited. "I'm not," he repeated more calmly, "I'm merely taking care to remain open to all possibilities and avoid spooking potential suspects into running to ground."

Which meant he was still stinging from the Ysme affair. That the Prince had failed to so much as mention his garden walk with the Lady of Anheim did merit concern, but Alaric worried that Everet was responding to the lack of transparency out of spite, rather than out of genuine suspicion. He was new to his position, and could be quite capricious—which meant he would blow small issues out of proportion and ignore larger ones, too emotional by half to make proper judgments. They needed an unbiased ear, if they were going to start seriously investigating the Prince. "Perhaps now is the time to enlist Tenneforr's aid?" he offered. "I can't imagine he would object, on hearing our reasoning—and he may have valuable input on Lady Ysme as well."

Everet made a fist, clenching and unclenching it in succession as he mulled over the suggestion. "...If we ask Tenneforr to question the Prince, and he truly is innocent, then we're in the same straits as when we started while having sacrificed Vizick's trust."

"And if he isn't innocent? If he did have a hand in murdering his own family?"

"Then unmasking him in the middle of my parlor with only a few of his personal guard and Tenneforr as witness will likely do little good. He could very well order the both of us—and Tenneforr too—put to death on the spot. I doubt he would surround himself with unfriendlies, after all, so we should assume that either way, his guards will act as per his orders, regardless of his innocence."

Which meant if they were going to drag the Prince through the mud, they needed to have irrefutable evidence before they so much as hinted at an accusation. The Holds as a whole would need to bear witness, or their case could crumble beneath their very boots. "...We probably ought to see to these Dowsers of yours, then. This entire discussion may be moot if there's another explanation for all this."

Everet stiffened, expression going slack. "...You mean to come along?"

"Of course," Alaric replied with a frown; had Everet intended on going alone? "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well—it's only...I've relied a great deal on your experience and advice thus far, but...this is quite beyond your call to duty, is it not? I can't ask you to do something that might reflect poorly on Vasque when you've come here to earn our trust and respect. If I haven't made myself clear: what I'm suggesting is quite illegal and could well find me in sableore cuffs, even if my Prince is no traitor."

Alaric snorted softly. "You can't seem to go a bell without boasting about the trouble you got yourself into in your misbegotten youth. I can't possibly let you run off unescorted."

Everet regarded him for a moment, gaze narrowing as if he were trying—and failing—to figure Alaric out. "I honestly thought you would balk at the notion of going behind a commander's back; it seems so...unrefined. Barbaric."

"If you think me refined and not the least bit barbaric, then I fear I've done a terrible job of presenting myself."

"No, I do think I've found you barbaric on a few occasions, but I suppose I thought you'd cured yourself of those bad habits in the past few days. You seemed to be learning some measure of diplomacy, and this threatens to sweep it all away."

"I don't think I need to remind you I had no use for diplomacy to begin with; perhaps it's for the best. And in case you've forgotten: it was the very fact that I chose to ignore my Veld Martiale and work out treaty terms on my own that got me appointed to this post in the first place. I do what's needed, whenever possible, and that may not always work out to doing what I'm told or what is 'right'."

Everet nodded slowly, finally giving in, and he sighed, "Reconnaissance seems to be our next course of action, then..." He raked a quick glance over Alaric, with a lopsided grin. "At least you're sure to look fetching in black."

❖

It was pitch black when Everet finally set the volacipede down at the edge of the Dowser settlement following their madcap flight through night skies from Eizenthley, and Alaric practically threw himself out of the vehicle, kissing the ground and promising to never leave it again.

He'd—perhaps naïvely—assumed that the most difficult part of the evening would be sneaking off-Hold, suspecting that any movement on their part would be closely questioned by the Prince. But Everet had sent Vizick all but running back to his rooms in tears after explaining that they'd been called down to the crash site because the Queen's body had been found. The Prince put up a gruff exterior, but daily Alaric was learning he could be dangerously emotional as well—a weakness in a new ruler. Yet more observations to file away for future consideration.

Their escape from Eizenthley had been nothing, though, compared to the terrifying ordeal of traveling through the inky night sky strapped into Everet's volacipede. The waning moon overhead cast feeble beams that helped nothing, and it felt like every little jolt and shear was going to be the one that sent them tumbling end over end until they crashed, blind, into the ground far below. Everet's attempt at some grim humor by way of, "Relax, my dear; if we crash, it will be into a Sontifer peak, not the ground," had not lightened the mood whatsoever.

He took a few moments to collect himself once they landed, taking several long, deep breaths and listening to the comforting crunch of gravel beneath his boots and the solid dull thump reverberation when he tapped the sod with his toe. Heights, he could handle; flying blind through the night with no power over his fate, not so much.

Everet had brought along a lantern to give them some light to work by, but he kept it shuttered as they started for the settlement. Alaric tracked Everet's movements by the soft lavender glow seeping from the seams, managing his way around the volacipede to Everet's side with no small amount of effort. "Can't see a damn thing..." he mumbled sourly, rubbing at his eyes and willing his night vision to improve. His eyes might have adjusted on the flight over, had he not had them clenched so tightly shut he'd given himself a headache.

Everet released a disembodied chuckle, and a hand reached out of the night to link their fingers together, tugging insistently. "Come along then, Ambassador." Alaric quickly shook him off with an irritated huff, but this only served to further amuse Everet. "Suit yourself; I offered."

The blackness was more than just inconvenient, though; it was telling.

The settlement, as Everet had explained it, should have been several score strong, bustling even at this late hour. There should have been lanterns hung on poles lining the streets to see wayward stragglers home from taverns and shops, the sounds of hushed conversations or night watchmen making their rounds. There should have been all the sounds and sights of civilization—but instead, it was all dark and dead, not a soul in sight.

As they passed from dry, yellow grass onto the well-worn path of a proper town road leading into the heart of the settlement, Alaric was glad for the weight of the sword hanging at his belt. Everet had offered him his pick of weapons from the Eizenthley armory, but they were all too short and light for Alaric—more suited for fencing matches really—and he felt steadier with the familiar weight of his uncle's blade in his hand. He was, however, starting to regret not doing more drills with his uninjured arm, given that their evening was looking to be more than the uneventful peek they'd hoped for.

There'd been a moment of concern when Everet had crawled into the volacipede with no obvious weapon on him, but Everet had merely waved him off, reassuring with bright confidence that he was perfectly capable of fending for himself. Alaric had heard similar protests from plenty of cocky men of Everet's make before, though, and silently resolved to keep a close watch on their surroundings with the care he was certain Everet would lack. That had of course been before he'd realized there'd be virtually no illumination to guide their way, natural or otherwise.

He heard the crunch of gravel beneath Everet's feet as he darted ahead when they came upon a row of lodgings and followed the pale swinging glow of the lantern to a window, peeking inside. It was too dark to make out anything, though, and Everet quickly dashed over to the next house across the street. After several houses, Everet bit back a soft curse and came marching back. "Nothing."

"Nothing? What—nothing of note?"

"No—I mean precisely that: nothing. They're all deserted."

Alaric frowned, squinting through the window he was waiting by to try and make out the house's interior. "Perhaps they're just asleep? The furniture seems undisturbed."

"Undisturbed, indeed—there's a layer of dust on every sill. Plus, this early in the evening? Surely at least the hearths would still be warm, even without Starfell to burn." He tapped his chin. "This place hasn't seen inhabitants in quite some time, I'd wager..."

That much he couldn't argue with. "What are the chances that map of yours is out of date? Perhaps they moved on and established another settlement near new lodes?"

"It's not impossible," Everet allowed, "But—all of their furniture and belongings are still here. This reads less like 'left voluntarily' and more like 'were forced out on short notice'."

Something felt very wrong with the whole situation, and a chill ran down his spine—the same sense of foreboding that preluded an ambush, that innate knowledge that he'd walked into a trap from which there was no escape.

He was therefore less surprised and more resigned when, only a moment later, a trio of men rounded the corner where their lane teed into another, carrying bright torches in one hand with short swords at the ready in the other. Everet spotted them too, spitting out an oath in Oresian and tossing his lantern aside. Alaric reached for the sword in his belt, palm sweaty on the hilt, when Everet stilled him with a tugging grip on his sleeve and, "Retreat, you fool! We've no need to fight them!"

The men were already charging them, though, and just as Alaric was about to protest that retreat was hardly an option now, Everet slipped around in front of Alaric, blocking him off, and flashed his palm at their attackers—before sending out a burst of Fellfire that scored the ground right at their feet. Dust and stonework exploded in a choking cloud, providing cover, and this time it was Alaric who grabbed Everet by both shoulders to steer him away from the chaos.

They cut into the narrow alley between the tenements, hoping to use the confusion of Everet's blast to slip away undetected—but another pair of well-armed men waited for them two doors down, hailing their fellows loudly when they caught sight of Everet and Alaric.

Everet froze in place when he realized they'd been spotted, still as a cornered buck, and Alaric had to loop an arm around his waist and practically throw him over his shoulder, heading back down the alley for the main lane. Perhaps the men there would still be disoriented by the blast.

All too quickly, it was becoming quite clear that they'd walked into an ambush, their arrival expected, and they would soon have to stop their running and start fighting back as all available avenues of retreat were cut off.

Alaric cursed loudly when he nearly went sprawling forward after tripping over Everet's discarded lamp, and he barely managed to stay on his feet, kicking the thing away with a loud clatter. "I can't see a damn thing!"

"At your service, my dear." Everet lifted one hand into the air, pointing a finger and sending a lilac bolt screaming into the heavens. It whizzed and spiraled before exploding into a blossom of Fellfire with a loud crack. "I don't suppose we need the element of surprise anymore, at least." The explosion of blazing light cast their situation in stark relief, though, and Alaric wondered if they hadn't perhaps been better off scurrying about in the dark.

Their three initial attackers had recovered their wits, sidestepping Everet's gouge in the ground and advancing with more caution and less swagger but just as much confidence—which was well merited, given that the pair round the back of the tenements was sidling up the lane, corralling Everet and Alaric into a pincer trap between them.

Alaric doubted these were all the men skulking about the settlement, which left them with only one hope of escaping with their lives: make it back to the volacipede and gain some altitude, while praying that their pursuers weren't equipped to give chase.

He eased in close to Everet, keeping his voice low. "...I'll distract our friends here while you bring the volacipede around; see if you can't swoop down low enough on a pass for me to grab hold, and we'll be free and clear."

"If only that were the case." He nodded to the buildings on either side. "They've got archers up on the roof to pick us off if their men on the ground don't finish us; we'd be just as easy targets in the air."

Of course they did, because this couldn't be a simple smash and dash. "...Very well, then; you see to the archers, and I'll take care of this lot on the ground."

"Surely you jest! Five men—with more on the way—and you with a busted arm? Don't take this the wrong way, Commadont—"

"I can't take it the wrong way if you never say it—now go on, shoo." He shoved Everet out of the way, drawing his sword, and ran through a few stretching stances as he casually advanced. The pair from the alley seemed torn as to whether they ought to go after Everet or Alaric, so he gave a sharp whistle and crooked his finger, beckoning them to join the fray. Everet's pretty blasts could do some damage to gravel and crumbling sod, but they likely wouldn't hold up against cold steel aimed at his heart. Alaric needed to draw the attention of all he could to give Everet a chance to sneak up on the archers.

He rolled his shoulder, working the kinks from it, and swung his blade around into a ready stance, advancing unsteadily and cursing himself a tenth time for being lax in training up his non-dominant arm. Too late to do anything about it now, though, and after picking out his man, he leaned into a charge, grunting angrily when steel met steel with a deafening clang.

His target wasn't built nearly as solidly as Alaric and crumpled backward with the force of the collision, crying for his fellows to help him, but Alaric had already reoriented himself before the remaining pair could properly assess the situation, and he shouldered his way through the second while beating back the third with a mighty swing of his arm.

With each blow, Alaric cast worried glances over his shoulder to keep an eye on the other pair of men, not wanting to wind up run-through from the back, and he despaired when he realized they'd given up Alaric as too difficult a target and turned their sights back to Everet.

Which was their poor choice—since Everet looked to actually be holding his own, directing Fellfire blasts at exposed limbs to incapacitate while scurrying for cover when he'd successfully dispatched his assailants. A few of the archers on the roof tried to pick him off, but quick and clever as a weasel, Everet managed to avoid being skewered.

Fresh forces were rushing in to engage, and what had been a difficult fight before was now devolving into an utter melee. While some rushed off after Everet, the stouter newcomers crowded around Alaric, and each man he sent to the ground was soon replaced by two fresh arms. He could feel himself being carefully backed into a dead-end corner, and with Everet nowhere to be found, a fine thread of worry was beginning to spoil the battle high he'd been riding. It felt good, being back in the thick of things with sweat dripping into his eyes and the blood singing in his veins, but this was no friendly spar or situation where he could rely on the support of his troops should things get too hairy. He was out here, in the middle of nowhere, alone but for an untried Oresian sprite who could probably singe a few eyebrows but was nowhere near battle-ready.

He dodged a lunge toward his bad side, side-stepping the clumsy swipe with a shake of his head—then went sprawling down arse-first when he tripped over a fallen foe, landing hard enough on his back to have the wind knocked out of him. The man he'd been fending off seized the opportunity, lunging hard and fast to drive the tip of his blade through Alaric's padded vest and into the meat of his shoulder.

A blond head blocked out the still-spangling light of Everet's blast riding high overhead, and Alaric could make out a toothy white grin as his attacker placed a muddy boot squarely on his chest, stamping down to brace himself as he pulled his blade free again at an angle that dangerously widened the gash. Alaric bit back a painful groan, turning his head to the side and blinking until his vision steadied. He could still hear the far-off sounds of Everet tearing up the turf, but with the man leaning on his chest crushing the air from his lungs, he couldn't muster his voice to cry out for aid.

"Lucky man..." drawled his attacker in thick, garbled Vasque as he wiped Alaric's blood from the tip of his blade. "Escape one time. But not—" He shifted his boot from Alaric's chest to his shoulder, grinding his heel mercilessly into the fresh wound, and Alaric seized in pain. "—Again." He spit savagely, then drew the tip of his blade even with Alaric's sternum, bracing his grip against the hilt to drive it home. "For Stars and King!"

"ALARIC!" Everet's shrill cry split the night, accompanied by a violent blast of fire and light that drilled through the circle of onlookers and sent Alaric's would-be executioner flying back into a stack of firewood. The men scattered, weapons at the ready, but Everet tore up the ground with a sweep of his arm, setting their jerkins alight and sending them fleeing for the nearest undisturbed trough. Everet sank to his knees at Alaric's side, eyes wide and white and complexion far paler than usual as he muttered to himself in hushed, frantic Oresian, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed.

"Get—out..." Alaric grunted, struggling to lift his injured arm enough to push Everet out of the way, but Everet just shook his head and grabbed his good arm, bracing himself to haul Alaric to his feet. Another blast gave them just enough cover to hobble out of the commotion, and they made for the volacipede with all possible haste. With each loping step, Alaric's shoulder was jostled painfully, but there would be time enough to see to a proper patch-up job later. He'd seen far worse, in far more dire circumstances. "Should've gone for the volacipede...'n the first place..." he grumbled, wincing.

"And left you there to get run through? I knew it was foolish to leave you to your own devices; look at the trouble you've gotten yourself into." His words were curt and sharp, but there was evident relief in his tone, and he was clearly fighting back a loopy little smile. "I suppose I'll have to keep a closer eye on you from now on."

They doubled back the way they'd entered the settlement, meeting no further foes but with plenty on their heels as the dust settled and singed jackets were doused. On reaching the volacipede, Everet helped Alaric inside, then proceeded to raid a nearby brick pile, adding weight to the compartment as Alaric gingerly strapped himself in.

"I'm going to fire the ballasts enough to get you hovering just off ground with this extra weight—but if you think you're about to be overrun, then I want you to dump the bricks and get as high as possible. Not so high as to get light-headed, mind you, but high enough to be out of range of their arrows, all right?"

"Wait—what?" Perhaps he'd lost too much blood, but Everet wasn't making any sense. Dump the bricks? What were the bricks for?

Everet ignored him, tugging on Alaric's strap to verify its security. "I've left instructions with Ainsley to come look for us if we're not back by sunrise, so you won't be left floating about forever, don't worry."

Everet hopped back down from the volacipede, pulling away, and Alaric made a desperate grab for his arm to stop him, grimacing in pain when he remembered he'd just been run through. "What the—get inside! Why are you telling me what to do?"

"I'd love to, but there's still those pesky archers to take care of, and they'll take us down before we've gotten to safety if I don't see to them."

Alaric reached for the straps, fumbling to unhook himself again. "Then I'll come help. My arm may be busted up, but I can still—"

Everet placed his hands over Alaric's, stilling his efforts. "Quite unnecessary, my dear. Unless you have some Fell gifts I'm not aware of?"

Oh. He meant to do something grand, then. "...You'll... That's..." He didn't need to remind Everet of the dangers of running back into the settlement alone and unarmed, but he felt compelled to try.

"Your worry is most appreciated—but this peacock has preened enough. I think I'll let the weasel have a go of it." He pressed his palm to the furnace beneath Alaric's feet, filling its heart with the soft glow of his Fellfire. The volacipede's frame creaked as it lifted free again, hovering unsteadily just off the ground, and Alaric glanced down in alarm. "Now, do you understand what you're to do?"

Wait here, helpless and feeble, while Everet ran into battle; dangle a few heads over the ground and toss any extra weight to save his skin if anyone came calling; wait, wait, and wait some more to be rescued. He squared his jaw, swallowed, then gave a single nod.

Everet smiled, relieved. "Good man," he breathed—then snapped both hands out to grab Alaric's vest and yanked him forward, pressing their lips together in a kiss that was deep and quick and over in an instant as he whispered, "Just in case I don't make it back," before darting away into the darkness.

Alaric was left gaping stupidly as he watched the flash of Everet's hair disappear, and when he finally found his voice again, he strained to be heard with, "Wha—don't make it back? What if the ballasts die again?!"

He glanced about frantically, squirming in place. He couldn't just sit here, no matter Everet's logic. Yes, his shoulder was a bloody mess, and yes, he'd likely hurt Everet more than help if he charged to some imagined rescue, but all the same, he wanted to dive back into that fray. His fidgeting had the volacipede starting to tilt as he leaned over the side, though, and he quickly scrambled back into his seat before the whole thing toppled over. Hadn't there been a release valve somewhere? Everet could always fill the ballasts again, but that would require he lived through—

Another brilliant explosion lit the landscape, the echo of its boom following quick on the heels of the flash, and plumes of smoke and dust were discharged high into the air. This could only be the diversion Everet had spoken of—gaudy and flashy as ever—and Alaric leaned as far as he deemed safe from the volacipede, squinting into the dimness to try and pick out flashes of white and purple fire.

Everet burst from the cloud of dust, running at full tilt with several angry sword-swingers hot on his tail. "Toss the bricks, toss the bricks!" he shouted, faint voice growing clearer as he approached, and Alaric moved quickly to comply. He heaved the bricks overboard, and the craft began to lurch into the air, unsteadied now by the uneven weight distribution. Just as Alaric despaired he was about to send the volacipede tilting over, though, Everet leapt up and latched himself onto the side, clinging tight and steading the vehicle. He pressed one hand to the ballast, red-faced with effort, and they began to rise slowly at first and then more swiftly with the influx of fresh Fellfire.

Once they'd reached a safe altitude, their pursuers tiny specks below, Everet scrambled over the side and onto the bench, letting Alaric strap him in as he struggled to catch his breath.

"See?" he huffed with a smile, chest heaving. "Told you I could fend for myself."

❖

The pain in Alaric's shoulder was a pleasant distraction from the harrowing ride back to Eizenthley, and before he realized it, Everet had set the volacipede down in an unused corral behind the barn. Ainsley was waiting for them with a shuttered lantern, and under his supervision, they snuck back into the Holdhelm and made straight for the baths in Everet's rooms.

Ainsley had a bath already drawn and a healer's kit waiting on the bath side bench, and after fussily directing Alaric into the herb-infused waters, Everet set to work tending to the nasty wound.

"I'll see if I can't sneak in a Fell Healer tomorrow," he reassured as he dabbed a stinging, astringent disinfectant over the wound. "I can't honestly say how effective her gifts might be on a Lay man, but it won't hurt to try."

"You really needn't go to the trouble—this is far from the worst I've ever suffered."

"Brave words from a man who flinched when I dabbed him with a cotton swab." He dipped a rag into a bucket of clean, warm water to wipe the wound clean and began preparing a poultice. "I feel a measure of responsibility for getting you hurt; let me at least soothe my own guilt, won't you?"

"You had no hand in me not watching where I was stepping; I tripped and paid the price for my poor judgment of my surroundings. Hardly your fault."

"You shouldn't have been there at all—or else, I should have sensed something off about the settlement sooner. Instead, I wanted to investigate, and look where that landed us."

"I would have liked to have seen you try to stop me from going. Besides, we did at least learn some valuable information from our little excursion, I think."

Everet nodded, unspooling a length of linen bandages. "I doubt a group of armed guards just happened to be waiting around an abandoned Dowser settlement in the middle of the night; clearly we were followed."

"Someone from the Holds tracked our departure, then?"

Everet wavered, lips pursed. "...I'd like to say so, but the men we fought were all Lay."

"Wait—Lay? Not from the Holds? How can you tell, just at a glance?"

"Their coloring, for one." He tugged on a lock of his hair, and Alaric recalled the richer blond of the man who'd run him through. "Plus no Hold member would fight with sword and fist unless driven to it. Oresians aren't soldiers, and if cornered, we'll lash out with our Fell gifts first, before resorting to punches and thrusts. The only swordplay most of us ever engage in are fencing matches on the higher Holds. Even the Prince's guards—I'd be surprised if half of them knew which end to stick someone with."

That presented an interesting quandary. "Well, I can assure you those men were certainly trained in martial arts. They didn't strike me as soldiers by trade, but most were quite handy with their weapon." He rolled his injured shoulder ruefully. "Much to my dismay."

Everet unstoppered a vial containing a pungent salve and began to massage the bruised flesh around Alaric's wound. "I will admit, though, it was quite thrilling seeing you charging into battle. I felt like such a neophyte, scurrying for cover, and you just..." He mimed a few swipes through the air with an imaginary rapier. "And without even using your dominant hand!"

Alaric snorted, sensing Everet's battle romanticism coming back full force. Best to divert his attention. "You held your own quite nicely, from what I saw; I must confess, I assumed your little blasts to be all spark and no bite, but I think you singed your share of hides back there. Though—" He shifted to look Everet in the eye. "It did seem like you were...holding back? You'll need to break yourself of that habit—those men we faced certainly weren't holding back and would have skewered the both of us given half a chance."

"They half-succeeded," Everet reminded with a wry grin, beginning the process of wrapping the wound. "You'll have another scar now..."

Everet had side-stepped the lecture and was avoiding the subject entirely now, it seemed, but Alaric had said his piece and would press no further tonight. "Better a scar than funerary laurels." He winced when Everet tightened the bandage. "...One of them spoke to me."

"Hm?" Everet seemed to be only half-listening, tucking and pinching at the bandage to keep pressure on the wound. "Who?"

He lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. "The one who gave me this." Everet froze, barely even breathing, and Alaric continued. "In Vasque—not competently, and...and I might have misheard, but—"

"But?"

"...He told me I'd 'escaped' once—which I take to mean, I survived the attack on Crown Hold—and that I wouldn't again." He thinned his lips, adding, "...Then he invoked the Stars. And the King."

Everet inhaled sharply, pulling back to collect himself. "...You're certain? You said you might have misheard—"

"Certain enough to share this with you, at least. He was grinding a boot into my shoulder at the time, but..."

Everet grimaced, rubbing at the little furrow that formed between his brows. "This evening just keeps getting better and better..."

"There's no chance he might have meant the late King, is there? Perhaps he deemed me responsible for not dying in a blast I manufactured and sought revenge?" It didn't necessarily mean he'd been the sole target—or perhaps he just wanted to keep believing this was all an internal affair and that he'd been unintentionally caught up in an assassination attempt. It was easier than accepting the alternative: that Orexa was, on some level, courting war with Vasque, leaving Alaric the spark to this whole powder-keg of a mess

"Were this an isolated incident, I might consider that—but we were ambushed in an empty Dowser village, with some three score of my own people missing. Vanished." He shook his head, going back to the binding. "You. The Prince. The Dowsers. Counterfeit Starfell... My head aches trying to piece it all together." He tied off the ends of the binding, smoothing down any loose edges. "...Perhaps things will seem clearer come morning. We should go to bed—oh." He brought a hand to his lips, eyes wide. "I mean—I didn't mean—Stars." He scrambled to his feet, stepping back and nearly toppling the stool he'd been sitting on, both hands raised in defense.

Alaric slowly turned in place, watching him scramble back with some amusement. He hadn't forgotten the kiss—but he'd put it out of his mind back at the settlement, as there had been certain death and destruction demanding his attention at the time. Now, though, sitting naked in Everet's massive tub with his dignity assured only by the thin film of soaps and infusions clouding the water, he was starting to recall things. The warm slip of Everet's tongue against his lips, the tug of his grip on Alaric's vest to deepen their contact, the rush of adrenaline flooding his system when Everet had pulled away and run off into the night. It had been too much to process at the time, but now...

He cleared his throat. "...About earlier..."

Everet waved his hands, shaking his head. "No—really, you don't have to." He began sorting through the healer's kit, placing everything back to rights. "I just—wanted to try, that's all. Just to see. Spur of the moment thing, nothing more." He forced a nervous smile, then glanced away—leaving Alaric wondering how on earth he'd gotten a reputation for being a flirt, if he fell apart like this after every idle kiss. This was hardly the man he'd witnessed being openly courted in the middle of the Crown Hold ballroom.

Alaric rolled his shoulder, testing the give of the bandages; Everet had done a fine job patching him up. "...And did you? See." Everet froze in the middle of rolling up the remaining linen strips. "Or does it bear further investigation?"

Everet licked his lips, slowly lowering the lid on the kit and fastening the clasps, then turned to face Alaric and—

A knock at the door sent them both bolting upright, and Everet released an exasperated, "What?" that trembled just the tiniest bit. The door eased open, and Ainsley poked his head inside, relaying a message to Everet—something concerning the Prince, apparently.

"A summons?" he asked after the door shut again, and Everet nodded, running his hands through his hair.

"We should be along promptly—though if you aren't feeling up to it..." he hazarded, and there was a hopeful note in the suggestion.

"I've been physically skewered once already this evening; may as well make it a pair with a verbal skewering."

"Right." He snatched up the healer's kit, giving it a shake. "I'll just...put this away, while you finish up." He didn't wait for Alaric's response before clutching the kit to his chest and making for the door connecting to the bedroom.

"Everet," Alaric called, and Everet paused at the door, one hand on the jamb, glancing over his shoulder in question. "...I'm glad you didn't die; you're my first Holdmaster, and if I'd lost you, they might never have trusted me with another."

❖

"You scold me before my own men for keeping information from you, rail against me for neglecting to divulge everything I know about the events leading up to the explosion, and then go haring off in the middle of the night without so much as a by your leave, returning bloodied and bruised?"

Vizick's rant escalated in volume, until by the end he was all but screaming the walls down, but Everet kept himself straight-backed and staring ahead, focusing his attention on a point on the far wall. When he seemed to have shouted himself hoarse, Everet carefully explained, "You charged me with leading this investigation. As such, it's one thing for me to expect a source to be upfront with all relevant details, and quite another to be hounded regarding my investigation tactics—"

"Tactics!" Vizick laughed, a bit madly. "This is you displaying your tactics? It's a tactic to spout lies to my face about my mother? To slip off-Hold, behind my back, clearly keen to avoid detection—and to nearly get your head taken off for it? To nearly get the Vasque Ambassador slaughtered on my watch? Have you any idea—" He caught himself, closing his eyes and taking a breath. "...Three days it's been now. Three days—since my childhood home became so much debris littering the ground, three days my family's bodies have been mouldering amongst the wreckage." He drew close, voice gone soft and grave with threat. "Three days, Captain. And what have you to show for it? A head I can parade around on a pike? Damning evidence? A single, solitary suspect I can drag your Tenneforr from retirement to cross-examine?"

Everet hesitated; true, he'd been less than forthcoming about their findings outside of his outbursts with the Prince, in large part because he couldn't entirely shake the suspicion that the Prince was involved in this whole mess one way or another. If he brought up where they'd been or what Alaric had heard or what they'd discovered in the wreckage, who knew where they might find themselves once this conversation had concluded. Better to have the Prince think him incompetent or unfit to lead than to tip their hand and risk the entire investigation—and possibly their lives—if things went sour.

He quietly forced the weasel back into his hole for the time being, drawing out the peacock to flash his plumage instead. "Highness—while I would have liked to have informed you of my intentions, I needed to question a sensitive source and time was of the essence. As for the Ambassador, while I regret his being injured, I was under the impression we'd already agreed that he had a stake in this investigation and was justified in taking part. He has been—"

"The Ambassador is our guest, not your second-in-command—you ought to have left him behind if you were going to go foolishly gallivanting off! And that is not what I asked. I asked what you have to show for your investigation."

"...As you say, Highness, it has been only three days—"

"The Stars take your three days!" He began to pace in frustration, and from the worn-out state of the carpet, this clearly wasn't the first time he'd done so. "If I can't trust you to give me a straight answer and see justice served promptly, then I'll simply have to appoint someone I can trust." He dismissed the both of them with a wave. "Apparently if you want something done right, you must do it yourself. You're confined to the Holdhelm for the foreseeable future; I'll not have you mucking up my investigation any further." He gestured to the guards at the door. "My personal guard will continue the investigation, under my lead."

Everet felt his stomach churn in panic; he'd taken his feigned ignorance too far. "My Prince—you can't! You mustn't! If you leave the Hold, you're certain to be a target!" In truth, he was more worried about taking Alaric off-Hold now, given recent suggestions he was the true target of the assassination attempt, but Vizick didn't know that, so he had to play the worried Captain for a bit longer. "I'll bring you this evidence you demand at first light, I swear by—"

"While your concern is most touching, I am quite confident I can take care of myself and don't need to be coddled and sheltered." He raised his brows to grab the attention of one of the men at the door. "See the both of them back to their suites in the western wing." He then directed his gaze squarely back at Everet. "Your services are no longer required, Holdmaster of Eizenthley."

He'd dropped the 'Captain', and Everet could almost hear it clanging against the stone floor beneath their feet.

❖

Everet could feel frustrated rage heating his face near to boiling, every emotion on the gamut vying to be released in a stream of vulgarities and raving rants. "This is beyond the pale," he ground out, slamming the door behind them when they finally arrived back in their rooms. "He has the nerve—the nerve to suggest that I haven't been doing my best, utterly unprepared as I was and with limited resources and experience, to get to the bottom of this plot? When he may well have—" He caught himself before he started bellowing accusations against the Prince and brought down the guards on their heads. The stress of the past week had drained him of any composure now, leaving him bubbling just beneath the surface and ready to go off in an instant. Vizick had just tossed black powder onto his Fellfire flame, and he was ready to explode.

Alaric, of course, remained cool and composed, letting Everet rage himself hoarse just as Everet had just done with the Prince. "...Giving him the benefit of the doubt and assuming he isn't involved in this—surely you can see things from his perspective. This whole affair has put a substantial amount of stress on everyone involved; he's been holed up here for days, unable to lend a hand or even offer his people the smallest measure of reassurance. I know I'd be going out of my mind if I had to sit idly by, protected and coddled, while my men risked their lives."

Everet was quickly reaching the point where he no longer wanted to imagine Vizick innocent. "Defending him now, are we? I thought that was my job."

"Don't give me that—and I'm not defending; I'm only trying to offer perspective. You don't need to tell me how hard you've been working. I've a wrecked shoulder to prove it, now."

"Then you are among a lucky few." He staggered over to his chair by the hearth, tossing a flame into the grate. "Say you're right and he's not involved—does he think I'm deliberately hampering our investigation, then? That I like running myself ragged from Jenevier to Anheim and every Hold in between?" He scoffed. "What could I possibly stand to gain from all of this?"

He was barely maintaining any confidence in himself these days; he certainly didn't need others tearing at his carefully constructed walls and undermining him.

Alaric slowly approached the hearth, expression troubled, and stared into the heart of Everet's wildly flickering flame. "...Nothing."

"What's that?" His comment had been mumbled too softly for Everet to be sure he'd heard right.

"Nothing," Alaric repeated more firmly. "You stood to gain nothing." He turned to face Everet, a suspicious certainty shining in his eyes. "We've been operating under the impression that the attack on Crown Hold was meant to disrupt the treaty, right? My being the target doesn't change that theory, so supposing it holds true." Everet gave a hesitant nod; this was hardly new information. "What if we're looking at this from entirely the wrong perspective? What if it's not a matter of looking for the ones who stood to lose the most with such an accord...but the ones who stood to gain the least?"

"...I don't follow—gain the least?"

Alaric drew up a low ottoman, squatting down across from Everet. "You insist that all Oresians stood to profit from this weapons contract, right? But—in truth, wouldn't it be those in the higher Holds who reaped the lion's share of the benefits?"

Those Holds with more Fellfire to spare would naturally benefit more on the whole, but that was to be expected and certainly didn't mean the lower Holds would be left out in the cold. He dismissed the suggestion. "The influx of wealth would be a boon for the nation as a whole, with all Holds benefiting in time."

"I'm not so sure I agree with you—and after seeing the state of Anheim and the overcrowding of Hollister, I don't find it difficult to believe some of them might not have the faith in their futures that you seem to."

What was he getting at? "Wha—are you suggesting we have a mass revolt on our hands? That my own people would cut off their nose to spite their face? This treaty was a real chance for some recovery, to stem the tide of poverty!"

"Perhaps they saw a clearer route out of poverty than what might have amounted to little more than a stop-gap measure. It's not a far-fetched notion, Everet."

"No." Everet shook his head. "I refuse to believe this is the will of my people." A few rebels, perhaps—but civil war?

"Your people are prisoners in their own lands—and you banish those you can't control; what do you know of their will, truly?" Everet felt his cheeks heat in a mixture of shame and fury, and his hands clenched into fists in his lap, but Alaric wasn't intimidated, continuing to press at the wound he'd opened. "A coup may have seemed their only option—and you said yourself it was the Lay folk who ambushed us back at the settlement. Your people are cornered and desperate and have lashed out—"

"How dare you." He'd heard quite enough; Alaric had an irritating habit of picking apart every aspect of their society—which had served them all perfectly well for generations—and holding them up for judgment, when he was the odd foreigner here.

Alaric just laughed, a harsh bark lacking any semblance of mirth. "How dare I what? Pray that this is the work of a downtrodden populace, rather than the machinations of its leaders?"

Everet tried for a dismissive laugh of his own, though it only sounded pathetic, given the tremulous note in his voice. "Machinations? First you defend Vizick, and now you try to paint him as a master plotter? Do pick a side, my dear!"

"Fine." Alaric steeled his jaw. "Understand what I'm saying: I'd much rather believe this was all the plot of a group working wholly on its own, with its own agenda and own goals...than that of a prince—the very figure with whom I'm meant to treat. If this is an insidious infestation creeping through Layton and Anheim and Hollister and the like, then let us root it out and be done with it. But if this goes further, if I am a pawn in the plot of a man aiming for a power grab, head of a nation with enough force at her literal fingertips to ruin her neighbors ten times over...then I shall have to act on that knowledge. If Orexa is being taken down by her own people, then I feel obligated to help as one of her citizens—but if she is rotting from the head, then I must default and do what's right for Vasque." He hunched forward, fingertips brushing Everet's breeches. "It is not a matter of defending; it is looking for any option other than the one that will force me into action I don't wish to take."

Everet directed his gaze into the fire, keeping a resolute frown, though his face no longer steamed with fury, and he could feel the rage subsiding. Alaric was a good man, that much seemed clear; he wasn't terribly tactful, nor entirely fit to be a diplomat of any sort, but Everet did understand that he wasn't saying these things simply to pick a fight. Quite the contrary, he was saying them in the hopes of preventing one.

But they still had so many other options to explore—why was Alaric set on civil war? "...You truly think this a coup?"

"I hope it is," was the guarded answer. "We haven't yet explored the potential involvement of outside forces, and by all rights, L'ruz would have plenty reason to want to destroy any chances of this treaty coming to fruit, but there've been no reports of troop movement, nor any action to take advantage of the lowered defenses and disarray. If they're involved, they're leaving the bulk of the action to informants on the inside—Oresian traitors. But you said yourself it would be next to impossible for the Prince to be involved, given the Seers he was surrounded by."

"The Seers could have been turned, though—"

"All of them?"

Everet hesitated, allowing, "...It would be difficult. But not impossible."

"Let's go with the more likely scenario that Seers living in luxury on Crown Hold probably wouldn't go out of their way to destroy such a lifestyle."

"But the Hold was still destroyed—if not by the Prince or Seers, then who? This coup you're proposing? Three days since the crash, and no uprising has occurred, no one has claimed responsibility. That's our whole problem."

"Because it didn't go off how it was meant to," Alaric explained, clapping a hand to his chest. "I'm not dead yet—though not for lack of trying." He shrugged his injured shoulder ruefully.

And now they came to the crux of the argument, something that had been nagging at Everet since the baths. "...If these conspirators were clever enough to sneak onto Crown Hold, bypass the Seers' notice, and flood the stores with counterfeit Starfell...how is it they missed that assassinating an Ambassador would be absurd, just to stop a weapons trade? The treaty might have been abandoned, yes, but your death would have sparked all-out war, one which I'm sure you can see we are far from prepared for." Murdering the King and Crown Prince alone would've done the job equally as effectively, with no risk of riling up Vasque.

"I might have been a warning—a sign of regime change, an Orexa keen to position herself as a power to be feared rather than ignored."

"To what end? We sit here, bothering no one, content to live our lives in ease and comfort. We've never been interested in dominion or expanding our borders—far from it! It's like pulling teeth just to open up new trade routes!"

Alaric nodded, then countered with, "But...your new ruler is, by your own words, eager to open borders and reclaim your lands below. Vizick hates the Hold system."

"The nobles would never have agreed to it—he'll have to blow their furnaces to bring them down if he wants us all back on the surface."

"How convenient then, that whoever the culprit is doesn't seem to be above doing just that."

Everet slumped back in his chair, biting his thumb in nervous habit. "So that's what this is all about? Puffing ourselves up?"

"Well you aren't exactly helpless in battle—you claim your countrymen would merely be farmers with pitchforks if ordered to fight, but you acquitted yourself quite nicely earlier. With some training up, you could be a force to be reckoned with."

"Indeed?" Everet laughed dryly. "Won't Mother be proud..." He massaged his temples, grimacing.

After a worrying pause, Alaric added, "...And just so we're clear, while I would like to believe that this is a conspiracy among certain members of your populace with reason to push for reform via violence... I can also think of more than a few new rulers who cemented their claim to a throne or post through a manufactured war."

Everet frowned. "...A manufactured war?"

"That is—these theories don't absolve the Prince of—"

"No, no," Everet waved him off, stopping his explanation. "I didn't meant that, I meant..." He licked his lips, leaning forward. He could feel his heart thudding loudly in his chest as his excitement began to rise. "A war—our war—would require munitions. We've still no idea what's happened to that missing Starfell, so what if the mines aren't cold? What if the Dowsers were abducted to ensure that any Starfell they mined was funneled not into the Crown's coffers, but the revolters' own?"

Starfell was equal parts currency and weapon—anyone who controlled the Starfell controlled the Holds. Controlled Orexa, really. It seemed all of the paranoia throughout the ages had been for nothing, if all it took was a coordinated effort to kidnap the Dowsers and keep the location of any veins secret, for personal profit and plotting.

"That would certainly resolve your issue with farmers and pitchforks—who needs military minds when you've got natural military might?"

Everet nodded. "...I think it's time to speak to Tenneforr again." He stood up and made for his wardrobe—he'd lost his cloak in the skirmish back at the settlement and would need substantially greater stealth now. "He's been living on Anheim since before I was even born—he could have easily picked up mutinous thoughts without realizing they were anything more than the usual grumblings. With the evidence we've gathered now, surely he'll see the very real need for his assistance. Plus—Layfolk historically tend to come from lower Holds, so Tenneforr's neighbors may have friends or family involved in this whole affair, if they're not up to their ears in it themselves."

Alaric eased up from the ottoman and sauntered over, leaning against the wardrobe as Everet rifled through it, looking for something he hadn't demanded be edged in gold or silver embroidery—did he own anything like that? "And the fact that the Prince confined you to your rooms and removed you from this investigation isn't going to stop you?"

He finally settled on a heavy mantle—an heirloom from a time when such garments meant the difference between a comfortable walk through the woods and freezing to death. "You think I don't know ten different ways off my own Hold?"

"I suppose you would," Alaric chuckled, leaving Everet to his preparations and making for his area of the room, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

Everet watched him go with unguarded interest—then realized he was staring and snapped, "What are you doing?" He gestured to Alaric's half-buttoned shirt.

Alaric glanced down at himself, then up again. "...Changing shirts; we're meant to be sneaking out, are we not?"

"No—no, you're going to stay here." Alaric's brows lifted dubiously. "They have their weapons, they have their ruler—now they only need their reason to start a war. I can't let you be involved any longer, not knowing you're a target."

Alaric snorted and went back to his buttons. "Don't be absurd; I'm not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs while you run off possibly to risk your life."

"If you die, though, Vasque will march—and then we'll be fighting a war from both within and without. I can't risk you getting killed in the crossfire and finishing their work for them!"

"Many have tried, and none have succeeded thus far." He unlatched his trunk, digging out a dark linen shirt to match the one that was mostly blood and tatters now. "Plus I have you to protect me—unless you don't feel up to the job?" He offered Everet a rakish smile. "You were quite gallant before, charging to my rescue."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Everet grumbled, turning away—but he stopped insisting Alaric stay behind.

❖

It was still the murky gloom of pre-dawn once they landed on Anheim, the sun in the distant west throwing up warning rays from the horizon, but nothing more. The darkness shielded them as they slipped along the now-familiar path to Tenneforr's cottage, and while a Hold of such disrepair likely never fully slept, Alaric couldn't help noticing how remarkably calm and quiet the streets were at this early hour, with only a few wayward drunks staggering home.

Perhaps there would come a day when they wouldn't have to scuttle about under the hoods of their cloaks, glancing every which way for tails or suspicious sorts, but that was not today, and they hastened down the grimy streets, praying they wouldn't meet with any trouble.

Unlike with their previous visits, this time Everet had to knock on the door to gain entrance, repeating his sharp, insistent rapping until a sleepy Tenneforr fumbled with the lock and urged them inside. His face was lined more deeply than usual, and his white hair poked up at an awkward angle in a cowlick. He made some effort to pat it back down as he motioned them toward their chairs by the fire grate, yawning loudly and making overtures about putting a kettle of tea on to steam.

"I'm afraid we've no time for such niceties—"

"It's not for you—it's for me. The first bell hasn't even sounded yet; I'm going to need something warming these old veins before you lay into me with whatever ails you this morning." Alaric didn't need to be a Seer to sense Everet's irritation with his mentor's habits. "Unless another Hold's going down, your story can keep for a few moments more." He gestured to their cloaks. "Hang those up; you look like a pair of mountebanks out to fleece me blind."

Everet rolled his eyes, tugging angrily at the laces of his cloak and releasing a huff of irritation when his efforts only tightened the knotting. Alaric eventually had to gently bat his hand away and see to it himself after he'd hung up his own cloak, and Everet muttered a curt Thank you before settling into what was apparently his chair, as he'd chosen the same seat on both previous visits.

Once Tenneforr had finished pouring himself a cup of steaming liquid that didn't look or smell at all like the now-familiar bitter Oresian tea or even a dark coffee, he motioned for Everet to speak as he settled into his comfortable chair. "Out with it; no use dancing around your worries when you've already pulled me from my bed at this Stars-cursed hour."

"We're here for information—to see if you've picked up anything of note from your fellow Anheim residents. Traitorous murmurings—but more than the usual grousing, mind you. Plotting and planning of the murderous sort. Anything of note, really."

Tenneforr paused in mid-sip, slowly setting his cup back on its chipped saucer. "...I believe we've already had this discussion, Everet—and I thought I'd made myself quite clear that I've no useful information on machinations among the nobles or Crown Hold and that I won't—"

"I've still got the bruises from your verbal strapping; I haven't come to beat my head against your brick wall again, so don't think to accuse me of being stubborn before you've heard the meat of my request." Tenneforr's expression looked strained, but that was hardly surprising given the stress of arguing with Everet—Alaric could attest to that firsthand now. "I'm asking specifically about the common folk—your neighbors. Residents of Anheim—and any other lower Holds you might have visited in recent memory."

The strain lining Tenneforr's face gave way to wary confusion. "...You have reason to suspect these atrocities were committed by lower Holders? Last I heard you were ready to fit Danvers for a pair of sableore cuffs. Has there been such a shift in the investigation that you're actually expanding your suspect list instead of narrowing it down?"

Everet shifted forward in his seat until he was nearly ready to slump off and onto the floor. "...Someone's stealing Starfell. They've refined bits of sableore to the consistency of Starfell dust and mixed it in with the stores up on Crown Hold to replace the real stuff, and we happened to come across it while sifting through the remains of the Hold. Then last night, Alaric and I took a little trip out to the Dowser settlement in the Sontifers to see if we couldn't find out what had become of the real Starfell—only to find the settlement dead as anything, not a soul to be seen."

"You—Stars, you went out there, alone? You took the Ambassador outside of the safety of the Holds? Tell me you at least told Vizick of your plans—"

"Hah!" Everet barked. "Quite the opposite—but it seems to have done little good, regardless. We were ambushed when we reached the settlement."

"Ambushed? Everet, you know I enjoy your tales, but speak true."

"I do! Alaric will show you the wound he suffered—"

Tenneforr's face went positively ashen. "He came to harm? On your watch? Everet!"

Everet held his hands up in defense. "He's here and whole, isn't he? It was only a flesh wound."

"Speak for yourself," Alaric grumbled, his shoulder smarting as if sensing it was the topic of conversation at present.

"Alaric's injury is hardly the point of note, though—the identity of our attackers is what led us here this morning."

Tenneforr's throat bobbed, and his tea grew cool, neglected on the sidetable at his arm. "...You claim to be speaking of serious matters, but you're certainly drawing this out like the juiciest bit of gossip."

"You're not too far off—they were all Lay, every last one of the men who attacked us. They came at us with sword and fist, not a Fell user among them."

"Lay men? In the Dowser village?"

"The empty Dowser village," Everet reminded pointedly, raising his brows. "A fair little mystery our investigation has spawned, wouldn't you say? And while I know you couldn't help us even if we'd brought one of them back for you to interrogate, there's a strong chance these men had family or sympathizers on Anheim, seeing as she's sent so many of her folk down to Layton over the years."

Alaric had to look twice, certain he was seeing things, but Everet seemed almost giddy; perhaps it was the lack of sleep and the adrenaline surging through their systems. He was looking at Tenneforr like a dog might watch his master, waiting for approval after retrieving downed game, and Alaric could sense as Tenneforr surely must Everet's longing for praise, to be told he'd uncovered something foul and rotten indeed and that they would the three of them root it out and see justice served.

"If we can find someone to lean on, perhaps we can locate the Dowsers," Everet continued, pressing his case. "I feel strongly that the Starfell is the linchpin to this entire affair—find the Dowsers, find the Starfell, and we'll find our culprit and unravel their plot." He made a fist and punched his palm, nodding.

Tenneforr straightened, reaching for his tea again but not yet bringing it to his lips. "By unravel—you mean to rush in and confront these cads? Alone?" He turned to Alaric with consternation wrinkling his features. "Surely you can't condone this; a military mind such as yours must see a dozen ways this could all blow up in our faces if we rush in unprepared."

Alaric felt his stomach drop—his position wasn't meant to be public knowledge; perhaps Tenneforr had gleaned it from Everet in passing? The remark stung all the same, though, as if he'd been chided by a commanding officer; his uncle had long made a habit of putting Alaric in his place when he got too full of himself, and while he'd thought those days behind him, clearly that was not the case. "Condone it, no—but I do agree with Everet's read of the situation and must admit that, given our findings, it seems those we can trust at the moment are few and far between. Certain relationships we've been made aware of have called into question Prince Vizick's own loyalties, making it difficult to determine if he's a part of this plot or merely a pawn himself. So..." He shrugged. "We're left to do our own reconnoitering."

Tenneforr gave them both long, conflicted looks before easing to his feet and shuffling back over to the stove with his cup in hand to pour a refill. After a moment's consideration, he dipped into a rusted tin tea container, depositing a handful of leaves into his cup and then drowning them with more water from the steaming kettle. He warmed his palms on the cup's belly as he let the leaves steep, closing his eyes in concentration. "I suppose if you're intent on doing this...you'll need to know where they're hiding the Dowsers?"

Everet stiffened in surprise. "Wha—you've an idea where they're being kept, then?"

Tenneforr looped a finger through the cup's handle to steady his grip, reaching with his free hand to trace the spines of several dusty volumes stacked in a corner bookcase. He muttered to himself in a voice too soft for Alaric to catch before finally deciding on a thin folio, drawing it out for closer examination.

Everet was on his feet in a flash, already halfway across the room to meet him before he'd even turned around, and he eagerly accepted what turned out to be an old atlas, the cartographs inked into its yellowing pages seemingly from an age past. Everet began gingerly piecing through the plates, holding the book at arms' length for Alaric to look on as well and taking great care not to muss the pages.

Tenneforr brushed past them, heading back for his tall, comfortable chair and settling down again with a sigh. "I ought to know. I sent them there."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Everet's vision went dim, and his ears felt like they'd just been stuffed with cotton—everything slowed to a dull drawl and filtered through a film of molasses. He felt like a voyeur of his own present, a powerless onlooker who could only watch events unfold but not influence them in any way.

Tenneforr was still speaking, droning on in a monotone. "...There's a tapped out Starfell quarry tucked between a pair of peaks along the northeastern ridge of the Sontifers—hasn't been used in decades, but there's space and privacy aplenty, which is what they care about most for the time being." He took a sip of his tea, making a face at the bitter flavor and swallowing with some difficulty. "They're building themselves an armada—your traitors. Harvesting Starfell to fill the bellies of great airships and power their terrible weapons."

An armada. Under Starfell power. Warships that could command the skies and rain down death and destruction enough to turn the continent into cinders thrice over.

Everet's breath caught in his throat when he opened his mouth to speak, and a faint tremor ran the length of his body, sapping his strength. When he finally found his voice, forcing his tongue and lips to cooperate, his words carried a quaver. "...What are you saying?"

Tenneforr just took another sip, ignoring the question and launching off on his own tangent in a manner some might have mistaken for senility but which Everet recognized as a winding, meandering confession. "I never imagined you'd get yourself involved this deeply; you must trust that. I truly care for you, and had I known your life might be risked in this whole mess—that you'd take that damned Captaincy so seriously..." He wiped his face, hands trembling with more than just emotion now. "I would have advised differently." His fingers spasmed in quick little palsy bursts as he reached for his cup again, seemingly compelled to finish it. "I didn't want a civil war—it's messy, too many casualties—but the young ones..." He shook his head. "They're so ambitious, so impatient for change. Then, when Serr Monteval's arrival was announced, well...they leapt at the chance to finally have their war..."

Everet's fury boiled over, and he slipped into Oresian as shock shoved him back into his native tongue. "You knew? You knew they were going to try and murder Alaric? To destroy Crown Hold?"

"I knew they wanted Vizick on the throne—and that they planned drastic measures to achieve their ends. I naively assumed they would only remove those directly blocking their path, not take a quarter of Jenevier down with them." He waved Everet away. "I'm hardly part of their inner circle, though—I'm merely...an advisor. Consulted when my skills can be of use but otherwise ignored."

"...Your skills? What have you done?" Everet's voice was small and tremulous, and he felt as if he stood at a precipice he could see no way off of but down. Nothing made sense—Tenneforr was speaking, but Everet couldn't understand a word he was saying. It all flowed in one ear and out the other, meaningless.

Tenneforr reached for his teaspoon, calmly stirring the dregs pooling at the bottom of his cup. "I was born on Anheim, you know? It wasn't called 'Anheim' then, of course—that was the work of a Holdmaster several generations back, hoping to restore the Hold's image with a new moniker, like a fresh coat of paint on a rusted water trough. But I was once and ever am Tenneforr of Anheim. I managed to escape, for a time; I rose to Crown Hold and tried to start fresh, with a new image, fancying myself better than those below me for my Fell ability. But eventually I was called home again, unable to bear any longer the suffering of my people and the insidious methods employed by Crown Hold to keep them under heel." He shook his head. "All of the wealth, all of the power...and they spared not a thought for the well-being of those below." He brought his cup up to inhale the steam still rising. "And you can't tell me you wouldn't have resorted to less than ideal means to help suffering wretches, were you in my shoes."

Fury flared hot and bright in Everet's heart, shaking him from his stupor. "Stars strike me down here if I would have ever—"

"Oh, Everet." He smiled fondly to himself, tracing the lip of his cup with a finger. "I can feel it, you know—the revulsion, the confusion. The betrayal. You think I've fallen from grace—but your mistake was ever thinking me anything to aspire to. I know you, boy: I know your deepest, darkest fears, and I know how you struggle to overcome them. Any shock and horror you may think you feel right now is merely reflex. It's how you think you ought to be feeling—when you would have done the same as I. You claim to have no love for your Hold, but..." He tapped his temple knowingly. "One picks up on these things. You play the flighty flirt, but you could never bring yourself to be so callous as to abandon them for the adventures you've always pined after. You are a Holdmaster, through and through, whether you like it or not."

"And as Holdmaster I hold myself to a higher standard than murder! Than treason!"

Tenneforr scoffed—and it turned into a throaty, hacking cough that he covered with another sip of his tea. "Please. You've been coddled and shielded by the likes of Bantam and Jenevier, true, but you are not one of them. Had you witnessed the atrocities and injustice I have, seen into the minds of those in the highest and lowest Holds alike, you would have brought the full force of your abilities to bear in every effort to aid their cause." Before Everet could protest, he added, "And you're furious because you know that I'm right—even now you struggle with the bits of your conscience that sympathize with my ends, if not my means."

Everet brought a finger to his cheek, where a small white scar was healing. "Your means nearly killed me—your means did kill scores, killed my friends!"

"And as I have said: I don't condone what they've done, and if I could have convinced them to take less drastic measures, rest assured I would have." He closed his eyes, a pained expression flashing across his features before he quickly recovered. "I've merely used my abilities to aid their cause, working from inside the Crown Hold through old acquaintances in every capacity I could." Here, he extended a gnarled finger in Alaric's direction, and Everet felt his stomach roil wondering how his Ambassador figured into this web of lies. "Like writing a petition to the King and my fellow Seers insisting that, rather than welcoming an entire delegation, they allow Vasque to send only a single representative. We can't read Lay folk, after all, and any larger a faction would be impossible to keep in line—or easily eliminate, if the need arose." His thin lips stretched into a wan smile. "You've done an excellent job in taming him, by the way, Everet."

Everet felt pressure building up behind his eyes, and he wanted very much to lash out—to deliver some physical demonstration of his fury. "All this time, I've been running around, questioning everyone in the Stars-cursed country, risking my life—and Alaric's—even going so far as to accuse the Prince of parricide...while you've been pulling strings and whispering secrets to traitors? You just let me?" Tenneforr was meant to be his mentor, his rock, the one constant in his life who could see through him and explain to him how he truly felt, when Everet couldn't untangle his own self-spoken lies. He'd always relied on Tenneforr to be exactly what he was: a Seer. To see things for what they were and help Everet see them too.

This, though, he couldn't conscience—not Tenneforr, not a thousand Seers could convince him that there wasn't a better way to change Orexa.

Tenneforr leaned back in his chair, eyes turned upward. "I don't expect you to forgive me—or even to understand my reasoning. Not right away, at least." Everet wanted to laugh Good. "I only hope that you'll remember what I've said—and perhaps reflect on it after everything is said and done..."

"Said and..." Everet parroted, brows furrowing in concern—and he glanced down at the tea cup sitting neglected on the side table. Only the dregs were left now, and Tenneforr's hands sat limp and dead in his lap. He snatched up the cup, bringing it to his nose for a hesitant sniff—then threw it to the floor where it shattered against the planks. "Mortwort? You—no!" He snapped his hands out to grip Tenneforr by the collar of his robes, yanking him forward. "No! You'll not be taking the easy way out of this, old man!" He gave him a shake, stomach roiling in revulsion at the way the man's head lolled—the poison was already compromising his muscle control. In a fit of desperation, he clenched Tenneforr's biceps, fingers digging into the meat of his muscles as he growled, "I'll burn this poison from your blood if I have to!"

He summoned his strength and what little focus he could muster to force Fellfire into his fingers, intent on searing Tenneforr from the inside out—but all he received in response to what must have been excruciating pain was the tiniest of spasms and a soft grunt of discomfort. Tenneforr's nerves were shutting down, and in a final show of strength, he glanced to the side, focusing his attention just beyond Everet—on Alaric. "...Do remember...m'request, Serr Monteval..." he rasped in Vasque, gaze going distant, and Everet squeezed harder, feeling the drain on his Fellfire as physical exhaustion but nonetheless intent on burning the poison from his system.

Tenneforr was too far gone to be moved, though, and Everet bit out a curse, winding up and delivering a sharp slap to bring him back to his senses. When Tenenforr just sagged under his grip, listless, Everet raised his hand for another—when a firm grip found his wrist. "Everet," Alaric hissed in soft command, tightening his hold in case Everet got any ideas about trying to shake him off. "Everet, enough. He's..."

A raspy, rattling breath announced Tenneforr's expiration as the mortwort set his dead muscles and organs to seizing at once—and Everet just stared down at him in mute shock. His grip slackened, the fabric slipping loosely through his fingers, and he stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet until Alaric steadied him. A long beat of silence passed—and he might have stood there indefinitely, just gaping, had Alaric not given him a rough shake, urging, "We need to get out of here—your shouting has no doubt roused the neighbors, and this doesn't strike me as a Hold where everyone keeps to himself when there's violence being done..."

His assumption couldn't be further from the truth, but Everet still allowed himself to be shuttled out onto the streets. Alaric had to practically drag him back to the docks under a graying dawn as Everet stumbled along, listless and mute, mind still reeling from...everything. How had he missed it? When had Tenneforr turned? Or had he always been that? Someone willing to do murder to see his ideals made reality? Because deny though he might that he condoned the assassination, he hadn't taken a single step to stop it. At some point, somewhere in that addled brain he'd made his peace with war—decided that it was better to engage in a coup, to lie to the face of those he claimed to love and respect, and turn the world on its head, than to seek less violent alternatives.

He'd been just as two-faced as the nobles he disdained, and he'd died believing himself in the right for the murder of scores of his fellow citizens who'd done nothing to deserve a death sentence. The same man who'd taught him his Ruzian syllabary and which fork to use when dining with the Royals and how to read the tells to know when someone was lying to him had been up to his elbows in ruin and rot, plotting the destruction of their very way of life in a manner that would sacrifice countless innocents and foment war with otherwise peaceful neighbors. Everet had shared everything with him—and Tenneforr had eagerly accepted it...with nothing offered in return.

The din of the Hold waking filtered through his thoughts, leaving him wondering—guiltily—if perhaps part of the reason he felt so betrayed was because he was angry that Tenneforr had locked him out. Had never even tried to involve him, to seek his counsel.

Maybe if he had, maybe if he'd opened up to Everet the way Everet had to him, they might have between the two of them found some simpler solution, a way to work together and stem the tide of poverty that was slowly but surely drowning Anheim and her Holdmembers.

Or maybe Tenneforr had simply seen that Everet hadn't had it in him to do what needed to be done when all of the cleaner, less desperate options were exhausted. Maybe he knew that Everet was confident and headstrong but not callous or ambitious enough to be of any real use. Which now made him both untrustworthy and a milksop.

He glanced down at his palm, still red and stinging from the sharp slap he'd delivered, and he clenched it into a fist. Then he shoved his hand into the weasel's burrow and yanked him out, scratching and snapping. He dug his boots into the mud-crusted path, jerking his arm free of Alaric's grip and turning on his heel to head back the way they'd just come. "The atlas—we have to go back."

"Wai—what? Everet?"

He didn't stop, head down and shoulders squared. "I left the atlas—we need it, if we're to find the Dowsers." Alaric grabbed his shoulder, and he angrily shrugged it off. "We have to—"

"Peace, man. I have it here." He patted his jacket pocket, letting Everet march ahead a few more steps to place some buffer between them while Everet struggled to clear his head. "...But I'd advise against any hasty decisions. You've just—"

"Don't," Everet snapped, closing his eyes, and he brought fingers up to massage his temples. He wasn't ready yet for words of pity—pity was for when he was ready to mourn his closest friend and confidant, and he did not expect that day to come for quite some time. Lir was a treasure—but Tenneforr had been invaluable, perhaps the only person who'd ever truly understood him, because he'd never had to try. He began to pace, kicking loose cobbles that had been pried up from the street by rowdy children looking for game stones. "I can't understand him. He tried to explain it—but all I can see is the ballroom, and the dust and blood. The flash of explosion. Lady Bernise. I can't see beyond it—I can't see what could have pushed him to—"

"I can." Alaric's tone was soft but steady, and Everet opened his eyes to see him focused on the launchhands helping tow in a transport. The Hold was starting to come alive for the day, and already they were being joined in the street by Runners out on early-morning errands. "These people feel trapped. You say you come from a lower Hold—and yet you pilot your own transport, under your own power. You mingle with nobles and fellow Holdmasters, and the Prince himself sought refuge in your own home when under attack, appointing you Captain of his Crownswatch. If you wanted—if you truly wanted to—you could leave this place, start a new life somewhere fresh. You have wealth, youth, power, and a gift for tongues—you have the world at your fingertips. But this—" He gestured to the docks and the shambling shanty houses dotting the courtyard. "This is all these people have, and I don't need to tell you it's not much at all. Is it so very difficult to imagine they've reached a breaking point? That their lives are so dark and dreary that any bit of hope, even hope at a great cost, might seem worth the sacrifice?"

Everet felt his chest tighten with guilt—he didn't want to understand, because that was the first step on the path to forgiveness. And he needed to hold on to this anger for just a bit longer. He couldn't afford understanding right now—nor could Alaric.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "You must think us very naïve. Presuming ourselves unassailable, only to have rot creep into our Holds through those we least suspect." He flicked a glance at a pair of launchhands eyeing them sourly, as if they could smell the altitude on them. "Least respect."

"Naïveté is only a sin when you wallow in it."

It felt like an attempt to make him feel better—and he was still not yet ready for anyone's pity. He needed to do something—to pour all of this anger and energy into a productive task. For the first time, he felt the urge welling up within to take responsibility. The weasel was alert and ready for action, gnashing its teeth and straining at the lead.

"The quarry—you've got the map? Tenneforr said that's where the Dowsers are." Of course, Tenneforr had been a traitor; there was no telling what that map led to—they might be walking into a trap, and Alaric probably knew that well.

"Then that's where we need to go."

There it was again—that we. Everet stood firm this time. "Give me the map."

"What?" Alaric's hand went to his coat pocket, likely out of reflex. "I can manage not to lose it."

"You've been run through on one side, have a useless sword arm on the other, and no Fell gifts to speak of—plus these rebels apparently thirst for your blood. You may have convinced me to let you come along on what was meant to be a simple, quiet reconnaissance mission, but I'll burn to ash before I let you just go dashing off to certain death!"

"And what exactly are you planning on doing if you find these Dowsers—all alone, in the heart of the Sontifers, leagues from aid?"

"I...well I don't quite know. But I am compelled."

"Horseshit—Vizick removed you from your post. He's probably sending out a search party for us as we speak." Frustration etched deep frownlines into his features, evidence of how trying it could be arguing with Everet when he'd settled his mind. "What about your men? The rest of this Crownswatch? You may not be their Captain in name, but surely there's some loyalty you can rely on? Or what about—" He searched his mind for a name, snapping his fingers. "Lir? You're—er, companions, no? Let him and his like do the dangerous work now. I told you: you've got to learn to delegate."

"And I will, when it's something I can delegate. But as I said—we're all farmers with pitchforks, remember?" Had Lir ever thrown a punch in his life? Running was a defensive, passive skill; hardly all that useful in an offensive strategy.

"Believe me when I say I have rallied many a farmer to take up his pitchfork or learn to wield cold steel when needed, and I think that you too often underestimate your own people." His tone carried a note of warning against poor judgment that was not lost on Everet, as if reminding him that he should take care not to misread those around him again.

He considered his options—Tenneforr was dead now, and even if he hadn't been deeply entrenched in the plot, as he'd claimed, his co-conspirators would soon learn of his demise. The window for action was very narrow indeed. "...I'll send Runners back to Eizenthley to notify the Crownswatch members there of my location." That would at least ensure his absence would not go unnoted.

Alaric nodded his approval. "A decent enough plan, for short notice—though I'll be missing my sword." He flexed his arm, wincing. "I don't have the rotation or strength I'd like—but I'm not helpless." He glanced around. "Anheim doesn't have an armory I can raid, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," Everet reminded with a frown. "And even if it did, you wouldn't need it—because you're not coming." He looped an arm through Alaric's and began marching back toward the docks. "You're going to go back to Eizenthley and tell Ainsley what's happened; he'll know how to get word to my men."

Alaric angrily shook him off, straightening up to a height he likely thought intimidating—but which Everet only found disturbingly alluring, and at a time when such thoughts were most inappropriate. "I'm not going to leave you to go haring off on your own—I promised."

"Promised? Promised what? And—to whom?" They hadn't been apart for more than a night's sleep since Alaric had... Realization slammed home, and his tone took on a suspicious, wary edge. "Tenneforr said to remember what he told you."

A nod. "He told me to look after you—and you should know by now that I'm a stickler for duty."

❖

Alaric immediately regretted his rash decision to join Everet on his hunt.

Unarmed and with a shoulder wrapped in bloodied bandages, he could do little more than hang on for dear life as Everet piloted the volacipede at breakneck speed for an uncertain fate. The tint to their goggles kept the glare of the morning sunlight to a minimum, but he kept his eyes clenched shut nonetheless, only daring the occasional glance down at the earth flashing beneath them to be sure it was still far enough away for comfort.

The soft browns and golds of Orexa's holdings soon gave way to the hard dark grays and whites of the Sontifer bedrock, the taller peaks still snowcapped even as spring was waxing into summer. He'd never traveled very deep into the heart of the range, keeping largely to neutral territory, so the sight was a pleasing distraction as Everet guided them through the clouds with occasional references to the atlas in his lap.

He'd considered broaching the topic of Tenneforr after leaving Anheim; at the very least, he felt obliged to say something. But any condolences would likely fall on deaf ears right now—or else see him shoved out of the compartment—and even a discussion on what precisely had been exchanged between Tenneforr and Everet when they'd slipped back into Oresian didn't seem appropriate. Furtive glances out of the corner of his eye showed Everet's mien to be serious and focused, as if the task before them was all that was keeping him together—and Alaric could believe it. Soldiers all too often were forced to derive the strength to press on through adversity by focusing on a single, solitary task in the moment. Embracing anything more, losing focus and taking everything in, could ruin the battle high and mean the difference between a swift victory and a dragged-out defeat.

Everet needed to talk about things—eventually. But that didn't have to be right now, and Alaric was probably the last person he should be having such a conversation with anyway. He could—and wanted to—help with this task, though, so he hunkered down, gripping the lap bar tighter, and tried to urge his stomach to calm its worrisome roiling as Everet banked into a hard right.

"Look—there, beyond the slope with the spur." He extended a finger, directing Alaric's attention to a narrow valley bordered on either side by spiny peaks and craggy cliffs. Everet dipped the nose of the volacipede down, and they flew in low and fast to avoid detection, Everet's navigation impeccable and focused. He brought them down on a low butte, and they quickly hustled down the shallow slope to the valley floor, taking care to loose as little scree and debris as possible. Alaric squinted into the distance of the empty valley, still not seeing whatever it was Everet must have spotted, and when their boots were safely on solid ground, he muttered, "Are you quite sure you read that map right? Perhaps I should take a look at it."

Everet lifted a brow. "You doubt my ability to follow simple directions?"

"You've not demonstrated to me yet that you can do so, so yes. I do."

"Ho now, who's the one who defied my orders to return to Eizenthley, Serr Stickler-for-Duty?" This shut Alaric up. "We'll almost certainly have been sighted coming in, but hopefully my attempts to lose their tracking have been somewhat successful and they've missed our landing."

"Is that what all that whirling about was for? I thought you were just trying to lose me over the side."

Everet ignored the shot, checking his map once more and then taking off into the brush. The scrub was low and sparse, barely tall enough to cover their shins, and Alaric was now sorely regretting the hasty retreat they'd beaten from Tenneforr's cottage, abandoning their cloaks in the escape. The belly of the valley was sparser still, so they kept to the more densely carpeted sides as they made for the far end, where the valley butted up against one of the more intimidating peaks in the immediate vicinity and where, Alaric suspected, the tapped-out quarry lay.

The steep slopes on either side slowly began to converge as they trekked across the desiccated valley floor, everything beneath their boots dead from the work of the Oresians who had mined the area decades back. Here and there they passed the crumbling skeletons of single-room homes, all that remained of what had once apparently been a flourishing Dowser settlement back when the vein had been active.

The valley walls grew steeper, forming near-vertical scarp faces that loomed tall enough to block out the sun at their angle of approach. Alaric thought for a moment that they'd reached a dead end and would need to find some way to scale the walls if they wanted to continue forward—until they rounded a bend, and the valley opened up once again into a space so large it likely could have fit the entirety of Eizenthley Hold inside its walls.

Two steps out, and they instantly scurried back around the bend, peeking around to assess the situation; it was a shipyard—that was the best word Alaric could manage to describe it. A shipyard leagues from any ocean or waterway, churning out vessels that would sail not the seas but the skies. Alaric inhaled sharply, dislodging the breath that had caught in his chest—it was just as Tenneforr had warned; they were indeed building an armada out here.

Massive skeleton-like frames supported equally massive hulls, cradling the bellies of the boats like great ribcages, and workers swarmed as ants over the masts and rigging of at least a dozen ships in various states of completion. Three looked ready to set sail at any moment, likely undergoing finishing touches on the outfitting, while others were little more than keels and carlins, with workers scrambling up and over and through, balancing on scaffolding as they hammered and sawed away.

"Stars...he was telling the truth. An armada under Fellfire power..." Everet nodded to a line of portholes along the forecastle. "And studded with cannons I wager will be firing more than mere black powder shot..."

This was more than just a construction operation, though; refinery stations had been established opposite the shipyard, and great mountains of what Alaric now recognized as raw Starfell stood alongside hand-churned grinders and larger grindstone contraptions meant to pulverize the raw ore into the fine dust he'd seen exchanged atop the Holds. Given that this quarry was supposed to have been tapped out long ago, there was little doubt the miners had simply "happened across" Starfell in such quantities. The unfortunate Dowsers must have been pressed into service to a cause they may well not have supported.

"Some of these ships look as if they could take off at any moment; their furnaces likely need only to be lit and stations manned. If that happens..." Everet trailed off, clearly not wanting to consider the outcome of such an event, but Alaric had no difficulty imagining how things would play out. There would be no treaty—there would be no need for a treaty, not when one could just take whatever lands or supplies they might wish with little fear of backlash. Even the combined efforts of L'ruz and Vasque would have trouble taking down one of these ships in a well-timed assault; a dozen was out of the question.

"...I think we can safely say that the treaty between our nations may need some revision..." Alaric reminded grimly; this was beyond the scope of his authority. The Veld Martiale would absolutely need to be involved in any negotiations now—if Orexa even bothered with such trivial legalities.

"And you thought diplomacy would be a tedious affair," Everet teased wryly, then sobered. "...We need to destroy these ships—or at least cripple them. I feel we're sitting on a powder keg, and I don't want to chance these ships being launched the moment it blows."

"You'll hear no argument from me; it's Vasque who'll suffer the poorer outcome of any hostilities, by my read." He took another glance at the sheer size of the ships. "Do you actually have any idea of how to do that, though?" They couldn't exactly rush in and start hacking away at the hulls with sword and axe; they'd be on their bellies eating dust before they made a dent.

Everet hummed knowingly, brows quirking. "Those three on the end must be undergoing final preparations—her furnaces are likely already stocked..." He glanced at Alaric, a thin smile on his lips. "How good a shot are you with a bow?"

"A bow?"

Everet nodded toward a small shed—the old armory that had serviced the Dowser settlement ages back and had apparently been repurposed. Its location, set far away from both the Starfell heaps and the shipyard, suggested it could only be storing one thing: black powder. "...You people do like blowing up your natural resources, don't you?"

"Let's see if they've left the door unlocked for pop-in guests."

A quarter bell's observation showed the armory to have no permanent guard—only a sentry making periodic rounds—and after the guard's next pass, they slipped from their blind around the back of the shed and forced the lock to gain entrance.

Most of the shed had been given over to black powder stocks, though a few bladed weapons and gardening implements hung from pegs along the back wall. Everet began tearing apart strips of empty burlap sacks to make small sachets that he stuffed with charges of black powder while Alaric surveyed the weapons, eventually slipping a short sword into his belt. At Everet's dubious glance, he protested, "I feel better when I've got a sword at my hip—even if it won't be that much use to me."

Everet shook his head, sighing as he turned back to the powder, and Alaric rooted out a collection of shortbows that looked like they'd once been used to hunt mountain game to feed the settlement. He held one up, testing the draw, and frowned. "This seems to be all they have."

"Can you manage it?"

"I can manage it fine—but I worry it won't have the range we need, and if I draw too far, I might snap the string." He held off mentioning that he hadn't fired a bow in years, and that the strength in his drawing arm wasn't half what it had once been.

"Well it's all we have," Everet huffed, tying off the last of the sachets and holding a hand out for the clutch of arrows Alaric had uncovered. "If nothing else, this should provide a nice distraction for us to slip in closer, should the range be too short."

Alaric helped him fix the sachets of black powder to the shafts of a dozen arrows—already a generous quantity, as Alaric doubted he'd be able to fire off more than a few before the quarry workers pinpointed their location. "Do you need this much powder?" he asked, testing the weight. "With this much weight added, I worry they won't fly true."

"They don't need to, really," Everet clarified, using his teeth to snip a length of twine. "Just hit the hull, or hit near enough that I can blow a hole through to the furnaces with a shot of Fellfire. Hopefully the explosion will propagate, as it did on Crown Hold."

"Hopefully?"

"If you've a better plan, then by all means share it."

He had none—not one he could pull from the aether on short notice, at least, so he kept any further doubts to himself and followed Everet's lead back out the way they'd entered, keeping low to the ground until they'd safely retreated back around the bend.

"Now's your last chance to bow out, Ambassador," Everet reminded, eyes flicking to and fro as he marked the guards' and workers' positions. "Once you loose that first bolt, we'll either have to see this resolved well and truly—or die trying."

"I believe I mentioned something about a promise I made—which I intend to keep."

Everet's features grew strained, but his voice remained remarkably steady and light. "I doubt Tenneforr intended you to take that as compulsion to follow me as I rush into a snake's den and risk your life alongside mine."

"Quite the contrary, I have a feeling that's exactly what he wished." Uncertainty settled like a cloud over Everet's brow for a moment, and Alaric regretted the timing of his words—though not the words themselves. "You'll not put me off, Everet. I'm doing this, with or without you."

"My dear, you can't do it at all without me—I'm the combustive force between the both of us."

"Then I suppose our decision is made." He tugged one of the arrows from Everet's grip, nocking it on the string. "It's been a while since I did this; sharp end into the target, yes?"

"Most amusing," Everet muttered, straightening up and holding a hand out—palm forward, ready to ignite the payload once it struck the hull.

Alaric took his draw, sighting down the shaft, and though his shoulder complained under the strain, he bit back any discomfort, aiming for the nearest of the finished trio of ships, inhaled—and released.

The arrow snapped free with a hiss, whizzing through the sky to land square on the bowside hull with a dull thunk. A man seated on a bench scaffolding who'd been in the middle of painting the figurehead stared down in confusion at the arrow sticking out of a plank just below his knee, then glanced about in mild concern, trying to pinpoint the source. He called out to several of his fellows passing below, but before any of them could raise further notice, Everet wound up and hurled a great bolt of Fellfire at the arrow, where it met the sachet of black powder and exploded violently. The echo ricocheted off of the cliff walls around them, followed by an even grander explosion as the powder-infused Fellfire sparked the dormant Starfell in the furnaces and set off a chain reaction.

Alaric jolted back with a start, not having realized quite how massive an explosion such a tiny fistful of black powder could induce, but Everet was already tugging on his sleeve and hissing at him to hit the next nearest targets. "Now, you fool! While they're confused!"

He nocked his second arrow, sighted—and sent it flying, where it hit nearly as true as the first. His third, though, landed oddly and clattered off the hull onto the ground, useless. Everet didn't seem concerned with his poor marksmanship, though, sending Fellfire bursts at both and igniting them in violent purple plumes that propagated through the hulls and proceeded to jump from ship to ship, destroying decks and frames and masts of at least half of the armada. This shipyard was buzzing with panic as some rushed for trenches to haul buckets of water up to douse the flames while others scrambled for weapons—true and makeshift alike—on the hunt for the archers who'd just dealt them a devastating blow.

Alaric's fingers were shaking, adrenaline firing his nerves, and he struggled to nock another arrow—when Everet tugged insistently on his sleeve. "We need to get out of here—now."

"What? Why?" Too late, he realized they'd been sighted, and two squadrons of rather rowdy looking sorts were already converging on them at full speed.

They turned back to head for the volacipede still hidden on the butte, but more men had scaled the walls and were racing down into the valley to block their retreat, calling for their fellows to join them in cornering their prey.

The quarry was chaos, and black, billowing smoke from the smoldering Fellfire-stoked flames began to fill the air as smaller explosions continued to echo off the walls when the fires found new Starfell to feed on. Workers threw bucketfuls of water onto the crackling flames, hoping to douse them entirely or at least bring them under control, but it didn't seem to be working. "Water won't do it," Everet noted with a proud if strained grin. "Only a good smothering with sableore dust will help now."

"Well you'll have plenty of time to educate them on the finer points of fire management when we're captured."

Everet pointed to a group of lighter vehicles the size of longboats that seemed meant to be piloted by groups of six or so. "Let's not be captured then; I'm really not in a chatty mood." And then they were off like a shot, racing full tilt for the quickly narrowing space between the two squadrons converging on them from inside the quarry.

As they passed unmolested between the groups, Alaric pulled one of the remaining two arrows from his quiver, jerkily nocking it in his bow and letting it fly—where it landed in the keel of a ship that was mostly framework and planking. "Everet!" he called out, pointing to his handiwork, and only a moment later, a new explosion rocked the quarry, the dust and debris it kicked up giving them the tiniest bit of cover.

Alaric was the first to reach the platforms supporting the longboats—but before he could mount the first step up, an arrow thudded into the ground at his feet, its shaft vibrating violently with the force of its impact. He jerked back in shock, nearly toppling to the ground when Everet slammed into him from behind. They struggled to keep on their feet, glancing around to see who'd fired at them, and Alaric tugged out the short sword he'd pilfered from the armory, grip going white-knuckled about the hilt. He couldn't effectively wield it—but perhaps he could bluff well enough to buy them some time.

The men circling them now all carried swords—but that just meant the archers were better hidden. There was no more running to be done—just fighting, for whatever it was worth. Vastly outnumbered and outmatched, the only bright side left to be found was that they'd succeeded in destroying a good half of the armada, dealing this movement a heavy blow.

"I suppose this wouldn't have happened if we'd strategized as you suggested?" Everet offered, back pressed against Alaric's.

"Likely no—but I will admit that you struck quite a figure firing off those blasts. Responsibility suits you; perhaps you should consider wearing that hat more often."

Everet beamed, an expression altogether out of place considering the direness of their situation. "Not bad for a peacock, eh?"

Alaric stabilized his stance, tensing in his starting form. "I believe I promised you a demonstration of my skill with a blade... I suppose it will have to be now or never." He could already feel the muscle and scar tissue tugging at old wounds; this would be over quite quickly—unless the archers picked them off first, in which case it wouldn't even start. He ran his eyes over the group, picking out what he took to be the least experienced of the men—he could break through their circle there and slice the legs out from under them once he'd gotten behind them. The angle might give him some cover from any archers up high, and from then...

"Halt," came a new voice, the single clear Oresian command intelligible even to Alaric's untrained ear. He straightened, relaxing his stance, and watched as the crowd of angry faces parted to reveal a familiar one:

Ysme of Anheim.

❖

It took a second glance for Everet to recognize the woman parting the crowd of menacing soldiers—as the Anheim Holdmaster's daughter had traded her usual gowns and fineries for the common threads favored by her lessers, all heavy boots and starched breeches and white hair tucked into a tight braid, stained with soot and smoke. Her expression was tight and confident, though, and from her belt hung a sword on one side and a deconstructed bow on the other—clearly meant to fire the arrows that rattled in the quiver strapped to her back. These were not displayed for show; they matched the kitting of most of the guards crowding in around them, and Everet wondered if she hadn't been called from a patrol to deal with the chaos he and Alaric had just caused. Was she even in charge?

Ysme shook her head, pacing before them with a pinched smile. "I knew Tenneforr would prove too weak for this," she sighed, lip curling up in disgust. "Always tripping over his morals while the rest of us marched forward. Seems he couldn't even die without mucking things up on his way out. More trouble than he was worth, that one. Much like you." She extended an arm, gesturing to the ruined airships still smoldering and belching black smoke into the sky. "Three years of work there, more Starfell than I'd wager you've ever laid eyes on. Destroyed now."

"Pray give us another quarter bell and we'll gladly finish the job, Lady."

Her smile grew less pinched, until it seemed almost genuine. "So clever, Everet of Eizenthley. Quick wit, quicker tongue." She cocked her head just to the side, considering. "But blind to the plight of your brothers and sisters sitting below you. You've spent so much time with your head in the clouds, you actually think yourself one of them. When you ought to know better." Her expression frosted over. "That is not only ruined work, it is shattered hope. The hope that we might finally find some way out of this Stars-cursed cycle of living, breathing, and dying apart from the earth with no control over our lives. No chance for betterment. So by all means—" She stepped back, arms spread wide. "Take the good Ambassador and finish the job. You will not douse our will or destroy our commitment. This will not end with us—though you might."

She nodded to her men, and the circle widened, but Everet didn't make a move, and perhaps sensing that they weren't being granted their freedom, Alaric held his ground as well. When he found his voice, it was razor-thin but steady. "I will tell you as I told Seer Tenneforr: true as your intentions may be, resorting to murder to accomplish your goals is a sign of desperation and nothing short of madness—"

"Desperation! Why, that is at the very core of our movement. And murder? There's no such thing in war—am I incorrect? Commadont?" Here, she addressed Alaric, chin jutting out in provocation, but Alaric remained silent and stony, pretending not to understand though he'd likely gathered her meaning.

"This is scheming and slaughter—you'll not dress it up as a war and claim yourself justified."

"Just because you refuse to acknowledge it as such does not make it not a war—rest assured you are on the front lines, Holdmaster, like so much cannon fodder." She clapped a fist to her breast. "We are united in a common cause against our oppressors, committed to revolution through any means necessary to help reunite our country and free our people from the prisons known as Holds. Orexa is our home—these lands, these mountains. Not strips of soil floating in the sky—not at the cost of our liberty, our families."

Somewhere in a memory, Everet could hear her words parroted through Alaric's lips, calling the Holds prisons trapping Oresians high- and low-altitude alike. Acidic gall chewed away at him as he was forced to admit that yes, the Holds were not perfect—but truly, what alternative was there?

"Prisons, Lady? I'll grant you that half a bell on Anheim is less enjoyable than being run through with a sableore spear, but surely you exaggerate. You cannot claim to speak for the likes of Jenevier or Bantam—or even Hollister. And I know first-hand you do not speak for Eizenthley."

"The prettiest cage is still a cage, Holdmaster. More so when you have not chosen it for yourself."

"You would free us from these lovely gilded cages, then? And what exactly do you expect us to do once we abandon the Holds and obtain this freedom you speak of? Till barren fields? Pump dry wells? Or will we just pop over to Vasque or L'ruz and help ourselves to their resources using the fine ships you've prepared?"

Ysme stared at him for a long moment, studying him curiously, then covered a smile with dainty fingers, tittering in amusement. "Oh—oh how lovely! You don't actually know!" She clapped her hands. "I naturally assumed—given how close you were with Tenneforr and how you're practically married into Bantam already. Stars, the King has taken refuge in your own Holdhelm—and you really don't know?" Her laughter dropped to something just shy of pity. "Forgive me; I misspoke. You're not coddled; you're just ignorant."

Everet felt his cheeks heat, not following her logic and decidedly uncomfortable with the implications she was making. She remained cool and confident and certainly didn't sound like she was blowing smoke. Everet, by contrast, could feel the weasel inside of him angling for his burrow again now that the action had died down.

Ysme drew close in a sultry saunter and took his chin in her hand. "You fool," she chuckled. "We don't live on the Holds because our land is dead. Our land is dead because we live on the Holds."

Before Everet could catch himself, he'd already blurted out, "What?"

She shoved him away, marching back to a safe distance. "Don't you ever wonder why it doesn't rain? Or snow? Why the drought and blight that plague our lands seem to stop at the borders? Why Vasque remains green and verdant, and the reichwood forests of L'ruz stretch tall and proud, when Orexa is dead and dry as old bone?" She held a hand up, gesturing to the Holds leagues away. "The Holds! Seiners steal water from the very air we breathe before it can restore the land, and our Fellfire summers are pleasant enough, but what life-giving storms can mass with great hunks of rock standing in their way? We were once a nation of farmers, ranchers, land-owners—until paranoia drove us into the heavens to live apart from the earth, an experiment in security that has taken over our lives and ruined the land far below, trapping us. Our own rulers conspire to keep us in line, spinning tales of safety on the Holds and certain death should we ever try to leave. This is the cage they've prepared for us: not beautiful, merely one from which we fear to escape."

He wanted to curse her assertions as ludicrous, to suggest she be locked away for her own safety. But that was quite impossible to do when he owned an atlas, pilfered from the Crown Prince's own study, that painted a picture of an Orexa lush and green with farmland and streams. He'd once assumed it an artist's fancy—now, though...

Ysme began to pace again. "And don't think this is some hare-brained scheme patched together on the fly in a fit of desperation, no: this revolution has been brewing for years, simmering just under the surface of the placid picture you've convinced yourself is reality. It has spanned generations, malcontent passed down from heir to heir, and with the passage of time, views grow bleaker, the higher Holds deafer. Some, such as yourself—" She nodded to Everet. "—have distracted themselves with commerce and trade, vinting and viticulture, and call themselves content." She crossed her arms over her breast, cocking her head in challenge. "But can you truly claim that you've never once despaired of the Hold system, never longed to be free from it, to leave and never look back?"

The contents of Everet's stomach turned to lead, and he was suddenly glad for the comfortable security of Alaric at his back, worried he might otherwise struggle to keep on his feet. He wanted to fight—to focus on nothing more than a few good punches and lashing out with Fellfire and fury. He didn't want a lecture; he still did not want to understand.

"You could leave, of course—if you truly wanted to. But others are not quite so blessed." She glanced over at her men, all still leveling hard gazes on Everet and Alaric and waiting for her go-ahead to slash them to ribbons. "And then...there are those of us sitting at the bottom of the heap, quite literally. Torn from our families, banished to the cold, dry earth below never to feel the warmth of the Holds again, simply for lack of Fellfire in our veins." She shook her head. "Refuse dumped as easily by the wayside as leavings from the latrines of Jenevier."

Something in her wording unsettled him, and he stiffened in realization. "Wait...our veins?" His brows furrowed in confused shock. "You're Lay?"

"Indeed!" she announced, chest puffed out in pride. "Not a flicker of Fellfire to speak of. My dear father, of course, couldn't bear to be parted from me and helped pass off his own Gift as mine—thereby forcing me to live a lie just so that I might not be dumped over the side of the Hold like the unfortunates without the weight of a Holdmaster behind them." Her pride deflated like air from a bellows as she spoke, replaced by anger and resentment, but she collected herself remarkably quickly, snapping her heels smartly. "I hated it, at first—the secrets and anxiety, fearing I'd be found out and sent to Layton. But then I realized I'd been granted a great boon: my position meant that I could move about freely, mingle where I would otherwise be unwelcome or forbidden—and my Lay status meant no Seer could ever feel me out. I had the Hold standing to grant me respect and the ear of sympathizers—and no way for my efforts to be discovered. I could plan and plot under the very noses of my oppressors—so I did. Decades of resentment and mistrust, it turns out, are quite helpful in rallying others to your cause."

"Put flame to powder and it will spark, of course—but few would argue the resulting explosion beneficial."

"Sometimes a bit of destruction is necessary to set things aright. A simple poultice won't help a rotting, fetid leg—you've got to chop it off whole and move on." Her lips thinned into a confident grin. "Perhaps you were right to fear us; it's only natural to fear what you cannot control, after all. Now we'll give you good reason to be afraid. This generations-old cycle of poverty and subservience ends now—one way or another, we'll all be equals with the land solid beneath our feet."

"While I sympathize with your ends, Lady, I'm afraid I cannot abide your means," came a new voice, faint with distance but growing stronger, and a low hum of interest began to build as the crowd erupted into murmured conversation. Ysme glanced around in curiosity, lifting onto her toes to try to spot the speaker—and she let out a chirped gasp as the crowd parted with ease, and the Prince stepped forward. He met with no resistance as onlookers simply slipped aside like oil off a hot skillet, and even flanked as he was by a quartet of his personal guard—Gideon looked both honored and terrified to be accompanying his King—Ysme's men didn't seem moved to treat him as a threat.

Ysme instantly sank to one knee as if she'd been struck between the shoulder blades, one arm crossed over her breast in respect and with eyes downcast. She spoke boldly of throwing off yokes and setting aside subservience, but she seemed quite ready to swear fealty to one of the same Royals she disdained.

"My liege..." she breathed, and Everet could hear the rapid flutter of her pulse in her voice. A pit of uncertainty roiled in his stomach; had they just been rescued—or had Ysme's commander finally arrived? "This is...an unexpected honor. I'm afraid we're entirely unprepared to receive you—" She dared a glance up, eyes wide and bright. "Though not unhappy in the least..."

Vizick clasped his hands behind his back, making a slow circuit of the scene. In the distance, the smoldering remains of the ships Everet and Alaric had destroyed continued to swarm with workers trying to bring the flames under control while others beat buckets in clanging alarm to call more of their fellows to help move the untouched frames and lumber to a safe distance. Perhaps even now the Dowsers working the mines were being rounded up to ensure none escaped in the confusion of the attack. "Indeed; and you greet all your respected guests with steel and leather?"

Ysme's shoulders slumped a hair, and she straightened back to her full height. "An unfortunate precaution, given the state of things." She raised a brow in warning to her retinue. "I trust my men knew better than to give you any trouble, though."

"Of course they knew better; these are my lands—why shouldn't I feel free to walk where I please, unmolested?"

Her fawning smile tightened with nerves. "No reason whatsoever; I do wonder, though, how you came by this place?"

He gestured now to Everet. "I've been having my guards track Everet of Eizenthley since I took refuge on his Hold. He tends to wander, so I thought it only prudent." Everet sputtered his offense—the gall! He'd opened his doors to Vizick, turned Alaric out of a fine guest bed, and taken up the heavy yoke of Crownswatch Captaincy—and Vizick repaid him with suspicion? "Though I think given recent events, I might have found your little hideaway with little more than a good pair of oculars..." He eyed the thick black smoke turning the clear skies overhead into a hazy mess. "My my, you have been busy, Ysme of Anheim..."

She drew herself up, shoulders straight with pride and an utter lack of fear. "Hardly a chore at all when it's for a worthy cause, Your Majesty: for the good of Orexa."

He nodded solemnly. "And—you know what is good for Orexa?"

Ysme's cheeks darkened, and her expression hardened when she realized she wasn't going to get the doting praise she clearly felt she deserved. "I know what is not good, Majesty—and that is the status quo. Our people confined to their Holds, peddled lies leaving them fearful to even attempt to return to earth as the gap between the high- and low-Holded grows ever more vast. The wealthy and powerful pass comfortable lives while the poor and destitute struggle to scrape by, feeding only on the leavings of those above. But no more." She shook her head. "All that I have done, I have—"

"You have ruined us!" Vizick snapped, voice echoing around the quarry and sending a collective shudder through all present. Even Everet, who thought he'd witnessed the Prince's fury on several occasions before, jolted in surprise—and Alaric probably couldn't even understand the reason for the outburst, but he too shifted uncomfortably.

When Vizick spoke again, he'd brought his tone under control, voice soft and deadly. "You murdered my family—and several scores more—and smiled at me as you did so. You sent our oldest and grandest Hold—my home—plummeting to its destruction. You forced me into hiding, made me fear for my life, and terrified these people you claim to speak for. You stole from our coffers to fuel your own schemes, and you ruined a treaty and threatened the life of our newest countryman, nearly sending us spinning into war." He took a measured step forward. "And you dare to claim it was for the good of Orexa?" He leaned in close, nearly brushing noses with Ysme, who firmly stood her ground. "You claim as such, here to my face?"

To her credit—or perhaps, speaking to her foolishness—Ysme remained unbowed in the face of the Prince's rage. She steeled herself, knuckles white where she gripped the hilt of the blade at her hip, and bit back, "So we should have satisfied ourselves with any meager crumbs that might have rolled off the tables of our betters? We should have continued to bow and scrape, sent our children away and turned our eyes from the misery surrounding us? Swallowed the lies and kept our noses down?" Emotion began to tinge her voice, raw and frustrated. "I marked you an ally! I knew that you—you, if no other—would understand. Would sympathize—"

"And as I said," Vizick cut her off before she could pluck more heartstrings. "While I admire—and yes, sympathize with the ends you strove to achieve, I cannot abide the means you would use to reach them!"

"You would place the lives of a paltry few over the good of your people as a whole? Revolution is not seamless and slow, it is sharp and bloody and quick to arrive! It exists because those willing to work for it make it so!" She swept her arm around the quarry. "And if you object so to our methods, then let their sacrifice not be in vain—take up this mantle and wear it with pride! You are finally free to remake this nation in your image. To return our people to the surface, to open our borders and welcome trade—"

Vizick released a harsh bark of dry laughter. "You imagine our neighbors will leap at the opportunity to trade with us as we level cannons in their faces?"

Ysme's response was cool and frosty, and Everet could hear any remaining awe and respect she might have harbored for the Prince quickly draining away. "I imagine they will respect us, instead of deeming us cloud-bound feather-heads who think themselves above the folk who crawl about on the ground. I imagine they will fear us, as they well should—we will be treated as equals, and when required, teach any foes their proper place."

"Ah yes—teaching fear, through force. An excellent idea to foist upon a nation who's not warred in an age or more. Tell me—am I expected to lead my people into a battle they've no idea how to fight myself, or am I allowed to delegate the honor of sending them to the slaughter?"

The tension across Ysme's shoulders visibly eased, as if she'd been waiting for this question and was eager to educate. "We stand, as ever, ready to do your bidding, Your Majesty." Another salute, and she snapped her heels again—an action mirrored by many around her. "All gathered here dream of a brighter future than the one we've been relegated to and have trained for just such an occasion."

Vizick raised a brow. "Even the Dowsers you kidnapped to find you Starfell? Or are they unfortunate sacrifices as well?" He stepped back, glancing around at the soldiers clearly eager for battle. "While your intentions are admirable and your patriotism astonishingly forthright—I will not condone rampant violence and cold-blooded murder to achieve this brighter future you speak of. Even less so when such actions are committed in my name."

Ysme seemed through expressing her disappointment, having accepted that she and Vizick were at an impasse. She shook her head in fond if reluctant acceptance. "Oh, my King. It's attitudes like those that have kept us hovering milk-sops for centuries now, can't you see? Noble as you may think it to stand your ground against...harsh measures to see change brought about—know that history will mark you for dragging your feet when a revolution was dropped in your lap." She sighed dramatically. "Ideally, our means would never have come to your attention—a dirty business, I will admit—and you would simply have taken advantage of this opportunity presented to you on an argentine platter, seen the good we strive for, and assumed the throne to formally command our troops." She slowly drew her blade and began inspecting it, testing the edge. "But we are not without...alternative plans, should you prove reluctant to be the King we need you to be."

"My Lady, I think I would slit my own throat with that blade of yours before I'd consent to be the King you need me to be."

Her grin widened, glittering with knives. "I was quite fond of you, you know. You're your own man—unbowed by your position as second-in-line. We are kin, you and I: ever so much more than those around us deem us to be. That desperate fight you keep bottled up inside was alluring indeed—but perhaps Orexa needs someone...untethered to the old ways to shepherd her into a new era."

Vizick's tone grew frosty again, and Everet could see the tell-tale signs that he was growing weary with Ysme. He tensed, knowing that their fates would be decided in the next few breaths—and pressed his back more firmly against Alaric's. As Vasque's representative, he was a target, and Everet couldn't let Ysme have her war—not while he still had life in him.

"By which you mean someone Lay. Such as, perhaps...yourself?"

She played coy, giggling with the feigned gentility her position as daughter of a Holdmaster had instilled in her. "Oh Stars, I wouldn't presume, naturally—but if asked..." She cocked her head in consideration. "I think you know well that the circumstances of one's birth do not ordain how fit they are to rule or how attentive they are to the needs of their people. We've been dealt a setback, to be sure—but under the proper guidance, we can rebuild within a few turns of the moon, have our armada complete again, and then take what we have long been denied."

Vizick lifted his chin in challenge. "I should think you would find that quite difficult, Lady, when I have you strung up and hanging from—"

Several things happened at once.

Ysme cocked her head in a nervous tick—and something flashed in the sunlight, and there came the hiss of wind parting before a loosed shaft. Everet's heart leapt in his throat, stomach clenching in shock—when the arrow collided sharply with a solid force invisible to the naked eye and ricocheted away, splintering into kindling.

A strike—an attack on the Prince, and they were outnumbered and outmatched but Everet would not stand idly by while murderers and assassins worked to finish the job they'd started.

Acting on raw instinct, only half-conscious of his actions, Everet's hand shot out, fingers spread wide and palm open, and the Fellfire in his blood sang at his unspoken command, jetting forward in a sharp bolt—to strike Ysme square in the chest. Frustration and anger and fear poured into the white-hot Fellfire, and she staggered back under the force of the blow.

Her eyes flared wide and white for only a moment—before she instantly dropped like a sack of bricks, her heart now a useless lump of dead meat in her chest and black scorch marks marring her breastplate to show where she'd been struck.

Little spangles of Fellfire licked at the tips of his fingers, flickering wildly, as Everet processed what he'd just done. His lungs hurt, struggling to meet his heavy breaths, and his skin vibrated with adrenaline. He was certain there was shouting going on around him, soldiers swarming in confusion, but it felt like sound through water—like he was floating deep beneath the surface, receiving reality through a thick film—

A pair of hands came down on his shoulders, and he jolted sharply, scrambling away—but the grip firmed, holding him in place, and Alaric's familiar face floated into view. He was asking Everet something—his lips were moving—but Everet couldn't process his words. Was he even speaking a language in Everet's repertoire?

He whipped his head around, frantic to lay eyes on the Prince; someone needed to attend him, to see to his wounds, to form an escape plan and get them back to the Holds, because—

"Breathe, Everet," Vizick ordered, slapping his cheek lightly as Everet's vision lost the soft blur it had taken on and he realized that the man standing before him wasn't a hallucination, but the Prince: hale and whole and entirely undamaged. He raised a brow in concern, as if Everet's well-being were the most pressing matter to oversee at the moment.

"My...My Prince," he breathed, tongue feeling limp in his mouth and lips nearly mangling the greeting. He took a staggered step forward, from Alaric's steadying embrace, and reached out a trembling arm, grateful beyond belief when Vizick met him halfway, gripping his hand firmly. "But you..." He swallowed thickly, running his gaze over the Prince, not sure he could quite credit his eyes. "The archers..."

"Were well trained, but Running is—as you well know—a defensive Gift. Don't let Lir of Bantam's disdain for training convince you that all we're good for is being messenger boys." He tapped a finger to his nose. "Focus your Fellfire enough, and its lift will push most anything out of your path."

Like an arrow; he'd managed to pull together a physical shield of Fellfire. Relief washed through Everet's veins, cool and soothing and sapping him of all strength as the adrenaline quickly dissipated. He needed a drink—and a nap. And probably a few other things, but those could wait until after the drink and the nap.

Ysme's men were crowding around her body, looking quite lost—and while they were still outnumbered several-fold, Everet could see now that, without a leader, these men would prove little challenge in bringing to heel. Especially since most of them seemed quite fond of their King and may have even been laboring under the assumption that he condoned Ysme's attempts to bring about revolution.

Vizick released Everet's hand, nodding to Alaric behind him to see that Everet stayed upright—which Everet thought entirely unnecessary, until he began to wobble woozily. He'd used up quite a bit of his Fellfire in the destruction, and it was now taking its toll on him.

As Vizick made for a raised dais serving as a construction platform, clearly intending to address the remaining workers and guards, he called back to Everet, "Perhaps next time you'll think before sneaking off on your own without my leave."

CHAPTER NINE

"Shut the door behind you," Vizick instructed, not bothering to glance up from a missive he was penning. The quill scritched loudly across the parchment, and after ensuring they had their privacy, Everet was forced to stand at attention, awkwardly waiting for his Prince—no, his King; he was really going to have to get used to that—to address him.

At length, Vizick finished his work with a swirling, gaudy signature, then proceeded to stamp and seal the letter in its envelope, placing it in an outbox to be delivered by the next Runner. He held a hand out, gesturing for Everet to take a seat, which grated no small amount, given that this was Everet's own home. How magnanimous, to be allowed to rest his arse on the soft cushioning of a chair he himself had commissioned be built.

Vizick leaned back in his chair, eyes closed and fingers gently massaging his temples. "You've no idea the mess I've had dumped on me with this whole fiasco..."

Everet could only imagine and certainly didn't envy Vizick the long road ahead; predictably, most of Ysme's men had surrendered on sight, not realizing that they hadn't actually been operating at the behest of their ruler. The few hold-outs backing Ysme had been quickly brought under control, and after leaving behind a team to see to the safe return of the Dowsers to their settlement—for debriefing at a later date—Everet and Alaric had joined Vizick and his guard in returning to the Holds.

The rebellion members had been remanded to the custody of the Layton mayor for the time being, and Everet wondered how Vizick intended to handle the matter. There was no telling how deep the infestation ran, and if rot was not dealt with quickly and promptly, it would soon ruin an entire vintage, Everet well knew. He hoped Vizick hadn't called him in here hoping for advice on the situation; he couldn't promise he wouldn't suggest just banishing the whole of Layton altogether, to be safe.

Vizick shifted upright again, leaning over his desk and tapping the envelope he'd just sealed. "I'd like you to see to it that this reaches the Layton mayor; send your fastest Runner—as I'll want a response promptly."

That's why he was here? He'd been demoted now to errand boy? "I...of course; I'll see to it right away." He pocketed the envelope; Lir was up on Bantam, seeing to family matters—perhaps Prescott? Or was he still visiting his mother on Hollister?

He braced his hands against the arms of the chair to stand—and noticed Vizick staring out the window, seemingly lost in thought. A lot had happened in the last ten bells; one could hardly be blamed for drifting off. Still, he felt compelled to help set things straight between them—especially given that he'd quite misjudged the man. "...May I be so bold as to inquire about the contents?"

Vizick continued to stare out the window, expression blank. "...I'm going to have to grant amnesty to the Lay folk."

Everet stiffened. "Wha—amnesty? You're forgiving them?" A pause, as he considered the phrasing. "All of them?"

Vizick nodded, shifting around to rest his elbows on the desk between them. "The ones who raised arms against me personally, I'll see punished—but it will be next to impossible to ferret out loyalties, and I refuse to widen the divide between the Holded and the Lay any further by punishing the citizens of Layton for the actions of a few of their brethren."

"But—they tried to kill you. Many were likely directly involved in murdering your family, even!"

"And if you can bring me proof of which ones those are, I'll split them nose to toes myself. But I cannot act as an orphan son in this matter—I am a King to a country divided, and this is the only way I can see to bring my people together again. This..." He licked his lips, then sighed. "...and bringing the Holds back to earth."

Everet inhaled sharply, stomach sinking. "You...would finish what Ysme of Anheim started?"

"Do not forget that the reason she and I were on such fine terms is because I quite agreed with her position on many issues."

"That—may be, but surely something so drastic..."

"Is exactly the jolt the country needs to set us on a new path. We don't need a devastating army to terrify our allies; we need to look inward, to heal ourselves, instead of relying on good will and tentative treaties."

Everet thought of Alaric—what would become of him, then? If a treaty was no longer needed. "...Jenevier won't like it," he warned.

"Nor will Bantam or Roslyn, and a fair portion of the student body on Tremayne, but they'll deal with it. I intend to start preparations to bring the Holds down one by one within a moon's turn. I can't well stand before my people preaching unity and prosperity without doing a Stars-cursed thing to effect the same changes I champion."

No, he couldn't—because difficult as he could be at times, Vizick was not a hypocrite. Or at least, he tried not to be one. Still, Everet balked at the notion of so radical a change to their way of life—surely there ought to be some sort of referendum, and they had the treaty with Vasque to fall back on still. Alaric would vouch for them, Everet was certain. Unless... "Stars—she was right?" Vizick didn't respond, tracing the grain of the desk distractedly. "The Holds really are responsible for the state of our lands?"

He hadn't wanted to credit her, even if he'd seen little choice but to believe her tales of Crown Hold's lies and deception regarding the need to live apart from the land below. But if Vizick was sitting here seriously considering bringing the Holds back to earth and living on solid ground once more, then that meant he understood it to be something physically feasible; he wouldn't send his people down to crawl about in the dust and scrub for no reason.

"It would seem so...and before you rail against me: yes, I knew. And yes, I disapproved—but I saw little recourse. Gerholt was to assume the throne, and he sided with Father, adamant that we maintain control and cause as little disruption to the lives of our people as possible. I had my pet projects—petitions to open new trade routes, an increase in the numbers of public-funded transports between Holds—but they were all stopgap measures. I didn't have the power to order the sweeping changes we needed—"

"But you do now," Everet reminded coolly, feeling suspicion worm its way back into his heart again.

"Indeed—at great price." Vizick smiled to himself—then finally glanced over at Everet. "And though I know it may undermine my authority in your eyes...know that I would trade that power in an instant for the lives of my family. Because while I care for my people—I loved my family. They could not see a way to bring our crumbling country together again and so they fought with all they had to keep it from falling apart altogether. I cannot fault them for trying to make the best of a terrible situation. Even the greatest among us can be undone by blind ideals, after all."

Everet had driven all thought of Tenneforr from his mind—and in only a few words, Vizick had brought those thoughts screaming back. So many people he'd once trusted beyond fault were now tarnished in his eyes, and it was growing increasingly difficult to continue to hate and despise them for their black-and-white treachery when all and sundry insisted on showing him the grays of their morals.

He opted for diplomacy, taking a leaf from Alaric's book: "...If you deem it best that the Holds should come down, then Eizenthley will be the first to comply."

"Wise words, Holdmaster." Vizick offered him a rare smile, just a curve of the lips really. "I was quite impressed with your performance, by the way—not just in the quarry, but throughout this investigation." Everet blinked stupidly; had he heard right? "Now—not your skill really; your methods leave much to be desired. But your tenacity, the way you took action once you finally found your legs—that I could admire."

Everet groped for words, confusion miring his thoughts. "I—I'm sorry? Admire? I...was quite certain you were frustrated with me half the time and furious with me the other." He grimaced in remembrance. "You even stripped me of my title, after all..."

"Oh—right. Your Captaincy." The smile faded into something a bit more beleaguered, though not entirely unhappy. "Had I known you'd wind up giving me this much grief, I never would have posted you to the Crownswatch in the first place." He shook a finger in Everet's direction. "You have quite tested my patience these long years, and I have not yet decided if my gamble paid off."

"Posted me...?" He felt as if he'd missed something, come into the conversation at the wrong moment. Had he drifted off? "I'm—sorry, Your Majesty. I don't quite follow..."

Vizick rolled his eyes. "You didn't honestly think Gerholt was the one who petitioned for your appointment, did you? Stars, I had to practically physically restrain him from having you thrown into the furnaces; he was furious you'd rifled through his private study. Did you truly believe he would have just foisted a commission upon you as reward for breaking and entering?" He reached for an untouched tumbler of what Everet strongly suspected was his favorite red. "Honestly, Everet; have some sense. Ignorance loses its charm once one comes of age."

The suggestion behind his explanation finally hit, and Everet leaned over the desk, gaping. "Then—you were Crowsnwatch Captain?" Vizick just shrugged, hiding what seemed like a smug smile behind the lip of the glass in his hand. "But...all these years, everyone thought Gerholt was our Captain!"

"Naturally—we both wanted you to, after all." He set the glass back on the desk, tracing the lip with a finger. "There's safety in secrecy—and Gerholt was too busy to properly manage the organization anyway. But I was always on the lookout for promising talent, and I'll confess I've a special fondness for those with skills in charm and subterfuge."

Everet slumped back in his chair, letting the revelation wash over him—he'd thought of Gerholt as...well, not a friend, really, but a mentor of sorts. He'd modeled himself after his Captain in many ways on the surface and respected the way he could command the attention of a room with a smile and a clever quip. Those were the attributes he thought a Captain ought to possess—and it was precisely why he thought himself so undeserving of the position. He wasn't inspiring, and he didn't have the raw confidence to demand respect—so what business did he have leading anyone?

But Vizick was sitting here, telling him that he'd pulled Gerholt's puppet strings from the shadows, doling out commissions and working behind the veil to direct the men and women working under him. He'd employed secrecy and subterfuge—though perhaps not charm; that didn't seem his style—to keep the attention focused on Gerholt: the bright glittering ideal of what a Captain ought to be. Freed from the burden of the public eye, Vizick could do what needed to be done; what the Crownswatch was meant to do.

It was quite genius, and Everet felt a bit ill, realizing that he was every bit the successor to Vizick that he'd never seen himself to Gerholt. He could slip seamlessly into the role Vizick had prepared for him—and that scared him. Now that the rush of murder and conspiracy was over, he felt the responsibility of the Captaincy looming ominously overhead once more.

Before he could dwell overly long on this prospect, though, Vizick changed the subject. "Oh—when you have the Runner deliver that letter to Layton, see to it that they ready a pair of pack animals and a cart for the Ambassador as well. We'll be sending him back to Vasque on the morrow, and I'd like his departure to be a bit more smooth than his arrival."

Everet didn't quite follow. "I'm sorry?" 'Ambassador' meant Alaric, right? "Back to Vasque?"

"Well we can't keep him here—Vasque will want him back promptly, given everything that's happened. I doubt we'll be able to keep it secret once the Holds start coming down. Which means we'll need to prepare for blowback from L'ruz as well..." He shook his head. "If we don't release him, Vasque will raise a stir and demand him back, since the terms of the treaty will have changed—not to mention the ruler they'll be treating with. We want to seem forthright in the matter, else we'll risk them refusing to parley with us again in the future, and we'll still need access to a portion of their lands for the short term, until our weather patterns realign."

Of course; it made perfect sense. Orexa's needs had changed entirely—and Vasque would want to regroup and discuss if they even wanted to treat with Orexa now. A new ruler, unknown to them, was not an ideal partner in as historic a venture as this, so it was best to send Alaric on his way, as a show of good faith, and hope he delivered a favorable report.

Everet licked his lips, heartbeat a frantic flutter in his chest. "Alar—the ah, Ambassador..." He furrowed his brows in feigned concern. "We haven't been shy about exposing him to our culture... If he were to take the knowledge he's gained of our Fell abilities—our weaknesses, then there could be trouble down the road."

Vizick sighed, and Everet felt a twinge of pity; he always seemed to be causing his Prince—his King new headaches. "Yes, yes—but what are our options? Keep him prisoner, when his Veld Martiale has every right to demand his return? It was one thing to mandate that he live on our Holds as a permanent resident as part of the terms of our treaty—but given circumstances..." He shook his head. "I think we'll have to rely on his good will and pray we can convince Vasque they've no need to make use of any sensitive information the good Ambassador has been made privy to."

Everet didn't like the sound of that—Alaric struck him as a good man, a fair player, but he had a responsibility to his ruler, and when that ruler was once again the Vasque sovereign, where would that leave him? Everet might lose respect for him if he didn't march right into Hadryan's court and start outlining Orexa's weak points in stark detail.

"...Did you have any further objections?"

Vizick's question startled Everet from his thoughts. "Oh—apologies, no. No, I'll...see that our border agents deliver word of the Ambassador's impending arrival to the Capitole; perhaps his people can meet him halfway. He traveled here with a retinue of his companions; he shouldn't have to return without a company of sorts."

"That would be a lonely journey indeed." He nodded, waving Everet away. "Off with you, then; I've a score of well-wishes from Holdmasters and Mistresses and nobles of all sorts to ignore."

Everet stood, ducking a quick bow, then turned on his heel to depart with all haste—his emotions were likely splashed across his face for all to see, and he needed a few moments to quietly collect himself and readjust his mask. "Thank you; I'll find a Runner right away and...deliver the news to the Ambassador."

"See that you do," Vizick allowed, turning back to his work. Three long strides later, Everet had one hand on the burnished door handle when the King called out, "Oh, and Everet? See that the Ambassador enjoys his final evening in Orexa. I wouldn't want him thinking us poor hosts."

Vizick's head was down, scritching away with the quill again, so Everet couldn't make out his expression—but he could have sworn the tone he'd used sounded almost sly.

❖

It was funny, in a way, how in less than a fortnight, Alaric had learned to keep his stomach from roiling nauseatingly every time he glanced over the side of a Hold. Perhaps it was because he'd nearly fallen to his death so many times he'd become jaded to the idea, or perhaps it was because there were so many Runners crawling all over Eizenthley, delivering messages high and low, that he was certain if he tripped over the edge, one of them would swoop down to catch him.

He'd found a bench situated in a private outcropping, bracketed on all sides but the Hold's edge by tall bushes. It looked to have once been a gazebo for stargazing, but time and lack of attention had it overgrown with weeds and vines now. The sun was setting, night creeping in with long, violet fingers from the east, and Alaric settled down on the narrow stone bench to stare out at the expanse of sky and earth far, far below.

After a few moments' quiet reflection, his privacy was disturbed as Everet squeezed through the prickling bushes with hissed curses, tromping over and flopping down beside him in a huff. He began to smooth down his clothing and pick leaves from his hair, trying to affect composure. "Found yourself a quiet little enclave, have you?"

"It was quiet," Alaric smiled, removing a stray twig that Everet had missed. "All finished with your debriefing?"

Everet listed to the side, slumping against Alaric's shoulder. "He made me feel like quite the fool."

"That's not very difficult to do, I'm discovering." Everet pulled back, cutting him a glare with a frown that pinched his features not unattractively, and he chuckled. "Did you get your position back at least?"

"I suppose—he didn't reinstate me in so many words, but apparently he groomed me for the position in the first place, so it stands to reason." He leaned forward, propping his chin up in his hands. "All these years, he let Gerholt play the Captain, when he was pulling the strings all along—you'd think a second son would leap at the chance to gain some measure of attention. It certainly might have elevated his standing in the eyes of a fair few."

"Yourself included?"

"I..." He frowned in thought. "...Perhaps I wouldn't go that far."

Alaric shook his head. "After all that, learning he wasn't actually responsible—or even involved, not knowingly at least—and seeing the way he stood up against Ysme of Anheim with his convictions intact, you still don't like him?"

"I don't! He claims I was his pet project, and yet he was never once cordial with me—even went out of his way to show he didn't care for me. He's always been rude, like he's just swallowed a sour grape, and now I find out he's been lying to me for years! Plus, one can never trust someone that sly; you can't be sure what they're thinking."

"Yes, yes," Alaric nodded solemnly, fighting back a grin. "I can see how that would be off-putting. You've nothing in common whatsoever."

Everet pointed to the drop-off, just a few paces ahead beyond a low hedge. "I'll push you off—don't test me."

Alaric raised his hands in surrender. "I yield, Holdmaster. All right, you don't like him; you don't need to, in fact. You only need to trust that he'll rule fairly." He paused, raking a glance over Everet's features to try and divine his feelings on the new King. "Do you?"

Everet seemed to consider this for a moment, then sighed dramatically. "...Yes, he will. Or do his best, I suppose. He isn't rash or short-sighted, and while apparently a pretty face can trip him up, he seems committed to real change in Orexa, for better or worse."

Alaric frowned, concerned by the phrasing. "For better or worse?"

Everet waved around them. "The Holds...he's going to order them brought back to earth. No more furnaces, no more Fellfire. The whole of Orexa rejoining Layton, a country renewed—or at least, that's how he's painting it." He wrinkled his nose. "I have my doubts things will proceed so smoothly."

"Jenevier's going to give you problems, you think?"

"I suspect even Anheim will give us problems—there's as great a gap in social standing between Layton and Anheim as between Anheim and Jenevier. To ask us all to stand on the same plane and get along...well, I'll believe it when I see it."

The Holds—back on solid ground. No more transports necessary, just a good horse or carriage—perhaps, in the end, Ysme of Anheim would get her wish: an Orexa forever changed. Changed in such a way, though, that her neighbors might not recognize her. "...The treaty isn't happening, is it?"

"...I'm afraid not. I can't imagine Vasque would want to just leap into bed with an Orexa she's unfamiliar with anyway, so I suppose it can't be helped." He paused, eyes fixed on the ground as he kicked a pebble off the edge of the Hold. "...I'm to tell you you'll be released from your commitment and asked to return to Vasque on the morrow. They'll have horses and supplies waiting for you in Layton, and my man will see you shuttled down in the morning."

Alaric stared blankly ahead, letting it all wash over him: returning to Vasque? Released from his commitment? Certainly, he'd understood that the treaty terms would need to be renegotiated, and he should have realized that meant he could no longer act as the Veld Martiale's voice but would need to confer with her personally, but...somehow it hadn't registered that this meant he would be leaving. That he'd be Vasque once more—Alaric Monteval, Veld Martiale's Commadont. "...Tomorrow morning, you said?"

"Mmhmm," Everet grunted softly, then shifted back, fixing his eyes on the horizon as the sun became little more than a bright golden point, flaring in a final burst, before slipping away. "I suppose you'll be expected to report back your findings—explain the situation, delicately enough I hope."

"I'll leave out the part about Lir of Bantam suggesting I was useless baggage, shall I?"

This brought a reluctant grin to Everet's lips. "I'm sure he'll miss you most; you'll have to write."

"Can he read Vasque?"

"Not at all. Feel free to call him whatever names you like, and I'll make something up when I recite it to him."

Alaric chuckled softly, but his own mood was now thoroughly soured. Once back at court, he'd likely be prodded into revealing all of the sensitive information he'd been made privy to during his short stay on the Holds—information that he doubted would help Orexa's case. He would want to paint the new regime in as warm colors as possible, but he could already hear his words being twisted and seeds of doubt being sown: the new King was an usurper, he couldn't even hold his country together, he didn't have the backing of most of his populace. On and on the arguing would go, and Alaric wasn't looking forward at all to the months and months of diplomacy and politics he'd have to deal with—especially since, all the while, Orexa would be struggling to put herself back together.

He doubted he could be impartial in his position any longer, not after all he'd been through in his time here, and if the Veld Martiale deemed him too biased to be trusted, who then would be left to speak on behalf of these people?

But Everet was likely dealing with the same doubts and concerns—so bringing them up would only sour the mood. He would deal with them in good time; for now, he would enjoy this sight. He likely wouldn't get to see it again, after all.

Everet settled against his side again, looping an arm through his own as he rested against Alaric's shoulder. "Thank you for not dying. We would've had a horrible time trying to explain to your Veld Martiale that we'd somehow managed to get you killed, and then she never would have trusted us with another ambassador."

Alaric raised a brow, then snorted. "I am not so easily gotten rid of," he assured—though hanging between them now was the knowledge that Alaric would indeed be leaving come sunrise.

Everet inhaled deeply, releasing his breath slowly, and Alaric let himself relax a hair, trying to block all thought of transports and border crossings and what he had left in his wardrobe that wasn't singed or sliced to ribbons, instead focusing on the dying rays of the setting sun and the skies above washing over from soft lilacs to deep, dark navies.

Something occurred to him here. "...We made it back."

Everet shifted next to him, pulling away to stare up in confusion. "What?"

"You said before: 'in case I don't make it back.' But you did. We both did." He hadn't truly understood what Everet had meant when he'd delivered the breathy explanation behind his spur-of-the-moment kiss, nor did he now—but he was certain it must have meant something. To Everet, at least. "So now what?"

Everet took a moment to process the question, drawing in on himself in thought before finally admitting, "I...honestly hadn't thought that far ahead."

Alaric let the words stand, turning back to the sunset, and after a long moment's hesitation, Everet settled back against him again, though Alaric could feel his heartbeat had quickened, and his skin felt just a touch warmer where his body heat seeped through layers of clothing. "Perhaps you ought to."

He really was going to miss this view.

❖

Alaric wiped away the condensation fogging the mirror in the bathing chamber, staring at himself in consternation. He brushed fingers over the newly wrapped binding covering his shoulder wound; it was still sore—the skirmish at the quarry certainly hadn't helped matters—but he'd just changed the linens and wasn't expecting to strain it again any time soon, so hopefully he could stave off any infection or further damage at least until he reached the Capitole. With both arms now thoroughly ruined, it was safe to say his sword-swinging days were over, but he supposed it had been a fine final hurrah. Perhaps in time, with some recuperative therapy, he would eventually manage some simple drills again, but for now...well, he had to hope he didn't run into any bandit nests on the way back to Vasque.

He rubbed ruefully at his chin, frowning at the stubble peppering his jaw, and wished he'd been able to find the time to shave before his impending departure. Shaving on the road would be a difficult business, so perhaps he'd pass a night in an inn before he hit the Capitole outskirts to make himself at least somewhat presentable for court.

He sighed, dousing the lamp hanging from a hook by the washroom door, and wandered back into the bedroom. The lamps in here were already low, their pale purple light casting dancing shadows over the walls. Everet's massive bed took up the bulk of the chamber, with Alaric's pallet tucked beside it against the far wall. Everet had finished his evening toilette some time ago and was already curled up under his sheets, his tanned shoulder dark against the crisp white linens and facing the wall so that Alaric couldn't tell if he was still awake or had fallen asleep.

Alaric was no Seer, but he didn't need Insight to tell that something had been...off with Everet, ever since the quarry. He seemed a bit quieter, more guarded, and but for the odd excited outburst—like the business with discovering that Vizick had been behind his appointment to the Crownswatch—he seemed not quite himself. But Alaric didn't feel they were close enough by half to broach the subject, so he held his tongue. Still, he didn't want to part on melancholy terms, and after a moment's hesitation—and a quick glance to the door to Everet's suites to be sure they might have some privacy—he eased back the top coverlet and quietly climbed into Everet's bed behind him.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence and the gentle rhythmic shift that suggested Everet was indeed already asleep—until Everet eventually drawled coyly in a voice heavy with feigned sleep, "Invading someone else's territory? How positively barbaric, Commadont."

Alaric smiled to himself in the low flickering light of the lamps on either side of the bed, reminding pointedly, "You invited me into your bed once; I thought to see if the offer still stood."

He could practically hear Everet's heart skip a beat as he rolled over just enough to catch sight of Alaric out of the corner of his eye, one brow raised. "...And if it does?"

"Then I mean to take advantage of it."

Everet threw back the coverlet, grinning ear to ear, and shoved Alaric down flat on his back, immediately setting to work as he leaped to straddle him in one smooth motion. One hand slid up to his bandaged shoulder, applying pressure to keep Alaric from struggling to unseat Everet, and an awkward twist had him hissing in pain.

Everet let up, releasing him like a hot pot handle. "Stars—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine, it's fine," Alaric grit out through a wince, forcing a reassuring smile. Everet looked stricken, clearly horrified he'd forgotten Alaric's injury in his excitement, so he tried to lighten the mood a bit. "And just when I'd gotten passable at jerking off left-handed..."

Everet's eyes widened—then flashed in the light of the Fellfire lamps as a slow leer worked its way over his lips. "Well that is a pity. If only there were someone around willing to..." He began to trace the muscle seam splitting Alaric's pectorals. "...Lend a hand."

"Indeed." He feigned consideration. "Perhaps Lir of Bantam might be up to the challenge?"

Everet's leer widened into a playful grin as he realized he was being teased. "No no," he shook his head. "You don't want him anywhere near your bits. He's terrible at it."

"Ah, probably for the best—I wouldn't want to get his hopes up, since I have it on good authority he's going to miss me so."

"Perhaps you ought to be exploring his uncharted territory tonight—not that he really has much of that left."

"I've already finished preparing for bed though; I don't want to have to hire a lift up to Bantam at this hour..."

Everet shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "Suppose we'll have to make do here, then..." He shifted back to settle suggestively across Alaric's groin, teasing the tie to his braies. "But we do seem to have a problem."

"Do we?"

"Mm, yes—you aren't yet naked, and I am." He began to unlace the tie. "Have you an explanation for that?"

And here, Alaric's flirtations failed him, as he confessed with a self-deprecating smile, "I...didn't want to presume. Plus, if you'd turned me down..."

Everet laughed, covering his mouth quickly when his outburst echoed off the walls. "Turned you down? Stars, man! I can't imagine how you missed my affection for you." His bright grin dimmed, going shy. "I haven't exactly been subtle about it."

Alaric felt his cheeks heat, explaining gruffly, "It is a bit difficult to credit the flirtations of a spy skilled in worming his way into people's good graces."

"Am I in your good graces then, Serr Monteval?" The question was teasing and seductive though not without a note of melancholy behind it. He'd used Alaric's Vasque nomer on purpose, already trying to steel himself to the coming departure—but Alaric wasn't quite ready to allow that just yet, and he reached up, sliding his palms over Everet's collarbone and then around to the nape of his neck, holding him in place.

With a firm tone and eyes locked, he reminded, "I am still Alaric of Eizenthley," before tugging Everet down into a soft, languid kiss that he hoped would mellow the mood. Everet seemed more than willing to let the matter drop for the time being and responded with gentle eagerness. The kiss warmed Alaric from the belly out, feeling as if Everet was using him as his own personal Fellfire furnace, that he might just float away.

Keeping one hand steady on Everet's neck to guide the kiss, he reached around with the other to tug loose the thong holding Everet's hair in place, and curtains of white splashed down around them as Everet leaned over him. The strands tickled where they brushed over his skin, and he slid his fingers through them, massaging Everet's scalp and taking great pleasure in the way he hummed happily into their kiss.

"Your hair is beautiful," Alaric murmured against his lips, idle thoughts slipping out as the kiss sapped his mental faculties quicker than one of Everet's wines. It wasn't a lie, though, so he didn't walk it back.

"Only my hair?" Everet teased with a roll of his hips, and Alaric swallowed thickly, glancing down for only a moment before fixing his eyes back firmly on Everet's face.

He wasn't embarrassed exactly—it was only, he wasn't accustomed to lingering gazes on a lover's body, and while he didn't doubt Everet would welcome a roving eye, he still couldn't bring himself to stare long enough to offer comment. "...Perhaps I'll be able to answer that honestly after I've become better acquainted with other parts."

"Shall we start introductions, then? I feel I've failed you as a host, to keep you strangers this long..." He didn't wait for Alaric's response, nimble fingers quickly seeing to the knot on his braies and dipping under the hem to grip with all of the elegance of a farmer testing the ripeness of a cucumber. "My oh my, Commadont," he grinned, giving an experimental squeeze. "I see Vasque is as fertile as we'd hoped. That's quite a weapon you've got stowed in your sheath."

Alaric shifted uncomfortably—though Everet straddling him with one hand on his member kept him fairly well locked in place. "Your turns of phrase sound like something out of a harlot's bawdy love letters..."

Everet frowned. "Well they don't exactly discuss such matters in any of my grammars... If I've said something entirely off-putting—"

"You speak too much, period," Alaric interrupted gruffly, pulling him back down for another kiss, and his hands migrated down to cup Everet by the hips and guide the slow, lazy roll he executed as he rubbed himself against Alaric through the thin linen of his undergarments. He was quickly learning that Everet could be rendered quite pliable through a kiss, arguments ended instantly and without further quarrel, and he might have filed this information away for future reference had he seen any need, but as it was, he merely mused thoughtfully on the matter.

Everet took the kiss and ran with it, though, ratcheting up the intensity and pouring every trace of pent-up desire and frustration built up over the course of the investigation into the gesture. Alaric allowed Everet to bleed himself dry for a stretch—but when he resorted to nipping needily at Alaric's lips, he could lie there and take it no more. He braced a hand against Everet's chest, breathing ragged, and licked his lips. "This is beginning to feel a bit one-sided..."

A look of confusion flashed over Everet's features when Alaric broke their kiss—before melting into a slender slip of a smile. "I'm not quite so generous as my congenial nature may have led you to believe; I'm afraid if you're dissatisfied with my technique, you'll have to resolve the issue yourself." The quirk to his brows suggested he was very much hoping Alaric had plans for how to achieve said resolution. He didn't. But he was a quick thinker, and strategizing on his feet—or on his back—was something he prided himself upon.

"If you'll permit me, then..." he began, running his hands back up along Everet's sides—fingers tracing the soft bump of ribs—before coming to rest just at the crook where neck met shoulder, massaging the knotted muscle he found there. Everet winced, clearly unsure about the initial discomfort, but shortly dissolved into breathy encouragement along the lines of Stars-touched fingers.

Alaric indulged him for a few more moments, quite enjoying the view—Everet's head lolling to the side with his unbound hair streaming down over one shoulder, lids fluttering and lips parted—before seizing his chance and grabbing Everet by the shoulders to give a great shove.

Everet toppled to the side with the force of the blow, landing on his back with a wide-eyed huff and blinking stupidly up at the ceiling. "What the—" Before he could mount any protests—or try to regain his seat—Alaric sat upright and slung a leg over his midsection, promptly reversing their positions.

He settled comfortably on Everet's thighs, careful to avoid crushing anything sensitive, and drew himself up, jutting his chin forward. "Have I broached my complaints directly enough?"

"You might have been more gentle," Everet groused, though the curl to his lips betrayed his true feelings on the matter.

"I'm not quite so generous as my congenial nature may have led you to believe. But I am not unmoved by begging—if you'd like to try."

"Beg?" Everet arched a brow. "Why on earth would I want to do that? When there are other ways to ply you..." He angled his hips to work a thigh between Alaric's legs, rubbing him through his braies. "I simply took point because you were so dreadfully slow to act—look, you've still got these things on..."

"Easily remedied," Alaric reassured, then glanced around the room, wondering where the medical kit had gone to. He was certain there had been some of that greasy salve left over from when Everet had patched him up, and they could probably make good use of it. "The ah, the kit? The one you used to bind my shoulder. Where did you put it?"

"Kit?" Everet frowned, worried. "You're not in pain, are you? You really ought to have said something—perhaps we shouldn't strain—"

Alaric held up a hand. "Not what I meant—no, not in pain." He laid a hand over his shoulder. "I've suffered far worse, trust me. It's only...I thought I remembered seeing some cream we might be able to..." He raised his brows suggestively, hoping Everet was as experienced in such matters as he came off and would be able to divine his meaning. If it turned out he was all talk and no action, this evening wasn't going to go at all how either of them hoped.

"—Oh! Oh. Yes. Yes we'll—" He cleared his throat. "We'll be needing something along those lines." He shifted around, gesturing to a bedside table. "In the top drawer there, my dear. Fetch it for us? I'm indisposed." He gave a little buck to his hips for show.

"I suppose I'll be expected to do everything now, will I?" Alaric grumbled in amusement.

"I offered to take the lead, but you insisted." Everet shrugged. "Don't dawdle, now."

"Aye aye, Captain." He crawled over Everet's body on hands and knees, awkwardly straining to reach the drawer to the dresser on the other side of the bed—and was startled by deft fingers dipping under the hem of his braies. He glanced underneath himself to find Everet taking advantage of the position to merrily tug the undergarment off, clearly thrilled they would at last be on even footing. "Ho now, can't you wait a moment?" he huffed, ears pinking when everything tumbled out as Everet helped him shimmy out of the braies.

"Is it not obvious I can't?"

"Little weasel..." he muttered under his breath, making a concerted effort to ignore how his nudity was on display and instead focusing on his task. He tugged open the top-most drawer to the little bureau, amused—and a bit concerned—to find a rather assorted array of oils and essences in stoppered jars. If Everet had a preference, he kept it to himself, so he drew out a vial of honey-colored liquid, giving it a shake to test its viscosity.

Everet's hands began to snake up the back of his thighs, kneading the flesh insistently. "They all serve the same purpose—just pick one."

"This won't have me smelling of rosewood or yellow dandies, will it?"

"It's only lanolin oil; I can be quite utilitarian when occasion calls."

"Imagine my relief." He crawled back into place, lifting up onto his knees and palming the vial to warm it in one hand as he laid the other to himself, working up from the half-hard state he'd been in since resolving to join Everet in his bed tonight. Everet watched with unguarded interest, pupils wide in the dim light and lids half-lowered, and his fingers twitched against the bedding, betraying how desperately he wanted to touch himself—or Alaric, or both.

He thought about offering the vial to Everet and letting him have his way, but he half feared that would be signing his death warrant, sure to have him spilling embarrassingly quickly if he gauged Everet's skills accurately, so he unstoppered the jar himself and dipped his fingers inside. The viscous liquid was slick and smooth, coating his fingers and leaving behind long clinging threads when he pried them apart.

He recapped the vial, tossing it to the side and praying it didn't roll off and shatter on the floor in any ensuing enthusiasm. As he coated his shaft, now plump and flush enough that he didn't so much mind Everet's heated staring, he raked his gaze over the man splayed out beneath him, finally allowing himself to appreciate the view.

Generations under the open sun had toasted his skin a rich caramel while draining his hair of all color, such that even the thatch between his legs shone flaxen under the light of the bedside lamps. One could spot an Oresian even in a pitch-black room, Alaric suspected, and he smiled at the thought of Everet wandering through a field on a summer's night with hair glinting in the darkness like the flashing of a firefly calling for a mate.

"Do I amuse you, Ambassador?"

"Not quite the word I'd use." And then he wondered why there needed to be words at all, leaning down for another kiss, with Everet meeting him halfway. Everet's arms looped up to wrap around his neck, drawing them closer to pull Alaric flush against his body.

He executed a few experimental thrusts, drawing his slickened shaft alongside Everet's and swallowing the delicious little breathy moans this evoked. Everet's hands didn't seem to know what to do, first threading fingers through Alaric's short-cropped hair and then sliding down to grab him by the shoulders before bracing against his chest as if to shove him off—he was a mess of contradictions, and this fired Alaric's blood even hotter, scorching his very veins like he was made of Fellfire himself.

He arched his back, leaving space enough between their stomachs to slip a hand between them, and after a cursory pass of his fingers over Everet's shaft, he fondled his sack with a gentle squeeze before slipping two fingers around behind, probing curiously.

Everet instantly pulled back, breaking the kiss with a bemused frown. "...Looking for something?"

"Hiding something?"

"Hardly," Everet smiled, though still with a hint of confusion. "But you're awfully quick to go right for the goods—already at your limit?"

'Right for the goods'? Alaric's fingers stilled—had he broken some strange Oresian custom regarding bedroom activities? Had he survived multiple assassination attempts, helped foil a coup d'etat, and managed to keep their countries from going to war—only to trip here at the finish line because he didn't know the right protocol for sticking his cock in a Holdmaster? Lord, had he read the situation wrong entirely? Everet was nobility—perhaps he wasn't accustomed to sitting on another man's—

"Calm down, my dear," Everet laughed in an effort to reassure, brows cinching in worry. He laid his hands along the back of Alaric's neck, stroking comfortingly. "You just seemed like you were skipping all of the fun parts—and I wondered at the rush."

"Oh. I just..." He groped for words, feeling the fool now. Perhaps he hadn't misstepped, but he certainly had shown himself as far more utilitarian than Everet could pretend when it came to such matters. He was no green virgin, but his encounters thus far had been largely quick trysts: maximum passion, minimum lingering—for the morning might bring more than could be conquered by promises whispered across a pillow. There was a reason romances that burned bright and hard but never lasted were called soldier's fancies, and Alaric had to admit he couldn't imagine a relationship much removed from the brief liaisons he'd indulged in on his campaigns.

But time seemed to move more slowly on Orexa, the days lazier—and the bedroom activities even more so. Everet had probably never even broken a sweat in bed, let alone snuck off for a quick pull behind the mess tent while his fellows were filling up on dinner rations. His bed could sleep five comfortably, he had his pick of suitors, and he kept oils and essences in every color of the rainbow in the top drawer of his bedside table. Of course he had expectations—and Alaric had, in one move, shattered them.

"Peace, I said." Everet shook his shoulders insistently. "I meant no offense—it's only that I'm accustomed to a more...drawn-out experience." Alaric opened his mouth to apologize, hoping to explain himself and perhaps find an opportunity to slink off to the water closet to relieve his aching member—but Everet continued, "Perhaps it's time I embrace change." He lifted his brows playfully. "I may enjoy a rather rough, straightforward campaign."

Alaric had learned by now that Everet often used humor to divert his misgivings and hedged, "If you're not ready, I can—"

"I've been ready for quite some time now, Commadont," was the smooth reassurance, and Everet slid his palms down over Alaric's chest, giving his nipples a playful tweak. "Now brandish that blade of yours and split me open. I've exciting new fronts just waiting to be explored."

"Are you going to insist on using military terms the whole time?" Alaric grumbled, stifling an amused smile.

Everet's eyes sparkled in the low light. "Not if you find a way to keep me quiet—"

Alaric cut him off with another kiss, delighting in the way he could feel Everet's smile through the connection. It made him feel giddy, half his age, and he shifted his weight to press Everet deeper into the mattress.

He resumed his ministrations with the distraction of the kiss, and Everet keened soft pleas against his lips, spreading his legs as Alaric inserted a finger, massaging gently. He wondered first at Everet's clear lack of concern for keeping quiet before recalling that there were no fellow soldiers sleeping one tent over—and that Everet didn't have a whit of modesty. Alaric might have complained, but he was never going to see these people again, and Everet had been waiting a while; he could stand to let loose.

Everet bucked up against his fingers insistently, clearly serious about wanting that 'rough, straightforward campaign', so Alaric obliged him with another finger—and another quickly after that, slowly drawing them out and sliding in again as promise of what was to come. "I won't break," Everet reassured throatily.

"Shall we test that theory?"

Everet released a sparkling bark of laughter—which quickly died in his throat when Alaric crooked his fingers. It was relieving, on some level, to realize that Oresian men were built like any others. He'd half worried their bits and bobs might be in entirely different locations—or they wouldn't have any at all.

"Let's," Everet mumbled into another kiss, squeezing Alaric's thighs with his own like a rider urging his mount forward.

Alaric leaned back onto his knees, straightening, and gave his shaft a final cursory tug before taking his position. Everet lifted onto his elbows to watch, curious, and he suddenly felt quite shy. "Lie back; I can't perform with an audience."

"Then you're not half the man I thought you were," he returned cheekily, and Alaric resolved to just make him comply, since Everet seemed to respond to more direct action than idle requests.

He paused, though, just with his tip brushing Everet's entrance, to reflect on the scene—Everet, splayed out before him, hard and waiting. Sheets already rumpled, vial of lanolin oil lost somewhere in the disarray, and two ankles now locked behind him, urging him forward with insistence bordering on irritating. He'd seen Everet drink to his health, coyly fend off suitors' advances, and nearly blast a hole through a grown man twice his size—a dozen different facets, and here was a new one, glittering and glinting bright enough to blind.

Everet reached forward and cupped a palm along the line of his jaw, drawing his attention back to the moment. "Take me. Alaric."

And as he had no further excuses not to, he did.

Agonizingly slowly, he eased in, and Everet's fingers scrabbled against his shoulders for purchase, digging into the meat of one but still retaining the presence of mind not to bruise the other. Alaric braced his arms against the mattress on either side of Everet's chest, canting his hips forward and sliding in until the bony knobs of his hips brushed flush against the backs of Everet's thighs. He released a long, slow breath, eyes clenched shut and all his will focused on not peaking too quickly. Everet could forgive a lot of things—but he didn't strike Alaric as finding an early release all that amusing. Perhaps he should have gotten himself off at least once before starting this venture, just to be sure he had enough self-control to see Everet enjoyed himself.

It was too late for second-guessing now, though, and when his lids fluttered open again, he was somewhat pleased to find Everet similarly incapacitated, breath coming in short gasps and head thrown back. He'd given up on Alaric's shoulders and had clumps of the fabric coverlet clenched in either fist, tugging and twisting as he tried to control himself. His thighs twitched, skin vibrating, and clamped tighter against Alaric.

"You said...you wanted a rough...straightforward campaign..." he reminded Everet with some effort, licking his lips and forcing his breathing to even. It had been too long since he'd done this; he felt like a boy in a harlot's bed for the first time, ready to pop with the slightest encouragement.

"And I told you...I wasn't going to break..." he returned, though not nearly as convincingly when his words were broken up by huffs and pants and his expression screwed up in concentration. "I'm still...your Holdmaster—so do as I've instructed."

"Of course, Serr," Alaric responded in his best Oresian, confident he couldn't mangle such a simple phrase, and he angled his hips to draw back out, glancing down between their bellies to be sure he didn't fall out. Everet squirmed beneath him, voicing simultaneous protests and encouragements, and hissed when Alaric let himself slide back inside with the weight of gravity. He kept it slow and inexorable, drawing out the experience if for no other reason than to glimpse the range of emotions flickering across Everet's features: longing, frustration, desire, ecstasy. The snap of the weasel's jaws, the ruffling of the peacock's feathers—and then Everet, just Everet. Genuine and playful and aching for nothing more than to enjoy Alaric to the fullest in their final few bells together.

He leaned down, hesitating only a moment to flick a glance across Everet's features—asking permission—before letting his jaw drop open a hair to pull another long, languid kiss from Everet's lips as he drew out with a new rhythm, sliding back in and out again in a pistoning motion. Everet gasped joyfully into their kiss, wrapping his arms around Alaric's neck to tug him even closer and hugging tightly.

He felt a fool, letting his mind fill with romantic notions and getting carried away in the moment—but Everet had that effect on him. In only a matter of days, and under the stress of an impending treaty and assassination investigation, he'd successfully chipped away at Alaric's rough exterior and drawn out something almost domestic, and what he'd meant to be nothing more than the culmination of days of unresolved tension was quickly—and dangerously—turning into a much more meaningful encounter.

Which he didn't mind at all.

It wasn't just his last few moments with Everet, but Everet's last few moments with him, and they both of them deserved to have the best they could hope for. He hooked one arm under Everet's thigh, adjusting the angle to try and slide in deeper, and Everet responded by canting his hips upward. He stepped up his rhythm here, drawing out in short, shallow strokes before driving back in, not pausing until he'd crushed himself against the back of Everet's thighs. Instinct pushed him to seek deeper and deeper release, and Everet's keening encouragement fired his thrusts more punishing still. They weren't quick, but they were powerful, and Everet still had the presence of mind to chuckle when the crown of his head brushed the backboard to the bedframe. Perhaps he wouldn't break, but his furniture might.

Alaric had been dangerously close to the edge before they'd even really gotten started, though, and too quickly by half, he felt himself about to peak. He warned breathily, "S-sorry...too close...going to..." He only prayed Everet wouldn't think him a cad and resolved to see to Everet's own pleasure as soon as he recovered his wits. Maybe he could offer to go back to the 'fun parts' Everet had accused him of thoughtlessly skipping.

"Oh good," Everet huffed, voice strained and rough, "—perhaps...I'll join you..." He then took himself in one hand and began furiously stroking to meet Alaric's peak. Hips snapping with less delicacy and more on instinct now, Alaric continued his punching thrusts, losing himself in a messy, unguided kiss. Everet's knuckles brushed his stomach on each pump now, until they were stroking in time together, matching thrust for thrust, and Alaric dreamed that it was Everet's own grip tight around his shaft, warm and inviting and clenching in time. His own name filled the loud silence in the room as Everet painted the walls with Alaric, Alaric...! until everything was heat and fire and light.

Everet released his hold on himself, fingers scrambling to grip Alaric's hips as orgasm rolled through him—and Fellfire spangled from his fingertips, leaving behind tiny stellate burns that Alaric knew would have him grinning loopily when he caught sight of them in baths to come. The sharp sting spurred Alaric to his own peak, and he grunted his completion into Everet's mouth, tongues twining. His hips snapped against Everet's thighs, trying to drive deeper still, until he sagged with the exertion and collapsed into languid, lazy kisses that lasted long after he'd stopped pulsing.

Everet draped his arms around his neck again, running his fingers through his hair, and tightened his grip when Alaric moved to withdraw. "Just a little while longer..." he muttered against his lips, and Alaric could do little but oblige him, waiting until the nips and pecks faded away as Everet slipped into a light doze.

Seizing his moment, Alaric carefully extracted himself from Everet's embrace, padding as quietly as possible over to the wash basin perched atop a mirrored dresser. He dipped a cloth into the basin to soak it, then wrung it of excess moisture and gave himself a quick wipe down. He repeated the process once more, then fetched a fresh cloth to soak for Everet before returning to the bedroom. Everet was just as he'd left him, still lazily dozing, but he winced in irritation when Alaric began to gently brush him over with the towel.

"That's cold," he mumbled sourly, doubling over to shield himself from Alaric's mothering.

"It's not—you're just burning up. Now let me wipe you down—you can't sleep like this."

"I'll do it myself," Everet huffed, batting him away, and then he rolled onto his back to expose his stomach. Clearly, the duration of Everet's afterglow was short indeed.

He brushed a hand over his chest and down to his navel, a wave of flickering Fellfire following in its wake, and any evidence of their coupling burned away with a sizzling snap, leaving him clean and fresh. His eyes were still closed, but his grin was bright and smug. "See? Good as new." He extended an arm, beckoning. "Now come back to bed."

Alaric shook his head, placing the towel on the bedside table before slipping back in behind Everet, who squirmed back against him until they were flush, drawing one of Alaric's arms around him and twining their fingers like a fresh maiden with her beloved. Alaric would likely look back on the gesture with mortification, but he couldn't summon the energy to refuse Everet—or explain his discomfort—just now, so he inhaled deeply and settled close.

After a few long beats of silence, he wondered if Everet had drifted off again—he wouldn't blame him, given their hectic past few days and very little sleep, and was eager to indulge in some well-earned rest himself. But it seemed he'd only been recouping his strength, for he was off at the mouth again shortly. "So how do I compare? With your other lovers."

Alaric snorted softly into the back of Everet's head, feigning sleep. "Fishing for compliments, Holdmaster?"

"I never claimed to be tactful."

And no, he certainly hadn't—quite the contrary, he seemed to prize his cheeky nature, wearing it like a badge of honor. Alaric sighed, mulling over the question and choosing his words with the last remaining shreds of diplomacy he could muster. "...I can't say that I've ever had anything you might consider a lover before, in all honesty."

The silence that followed the confession had him worrying he'd misspoken, but then Everet gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. "That's a pity. You deserve one." He paused for a moment in consideration, then added in a lighter tone, "Though I suppose that makes me incomparable, and I can't say I dislike that."

Alaric stifled another chuckle, settling for a silent grin that he was glad Everet couldn't see from their position. He wasn't sure anyone deserved a lover, and he'd never had the time or desire for one before. Then again, it had been difficult to work on building anything resembling a relationship in the field, especially when everyone around him was either a superior or subordinate. Fraternizing could get messy, and while no one looked askance at the occasional quick, desperate fumble before a morning rush, anything more long-term was unseemly in a commanding officer. Better to focus his energies on his campaigns than pleasing a bedmate, he'd always thought.

Something caught his eye, a glint in the low light of the lamps still clinging to life. He glanced down at their twined fingers, noting the way the Starfell gems in their Hold rings reflected the flickering Fellfire. "You never did tell me what these are for."

"Hm...?" Everet's voice was heavy with real sleep this time, and Alaric winced. "What's that?"

He tapped Everet's fingers. "These rings. You were about to tell me at the Gala before...well, before. But then I suppose everything went pear-shaped and we moved onto more important matters."

Everet's rumbling chuckle reverberated through his chest, tickling Alaric's ribs. He traced the prominent veins along the back of Alaric's hands, a soothing gesture. "Every Hold ring is unique to a Hold—with its own design and Starfell plucked from the Hold's own furnaces. All members of a Hold wear them—not just for identification, but for safety."

"Safety?" Were punishments meted out upon those caught without their Hold ring?

"Indeed; when you live on a Hold, you're born and raised in the warmth and comfort created by that Hold's Fellfire. We don't merely derive lift from our furnaces, but life. It flows in our blood and permeates everything we touch, consume, breathe. Only Dowsers can detect the raw Starfell deposits, but everyone born on a Hold can 'feel' the tug of their Hold's Starfell, innately." Everet slipped the ring from his finger, clutching it tightly in his fist. "If ever a member of my Hold were to go missing, so long as they kept their Hold ring on their person, I could find them, simply by listening for the call of the Eizenthley Starfell in their ring."

"So...by 'safety', you mean tracking, then?" Alaric mused, a bit cynical; Everet painted the rings as key to a rescue mission, but Alaric couldn't help seeing all of the fouler ways such power might be abused.

"I won't deny there's potential for misuse...but I've seen my fair share of children reunited with their parents after being separated on excursions to foreign Holds."

Alaric chose to let it go, loath to get into another dragged-out discussion on the shady morality of Oresian customs. "Then—why did the Lady Bernise comment on its placement?" He held his hand out, trying to catch the lamplight more fully on the gem.

"Because," Everet explained, voice tinged with amusement as he reached out to point at the ring on Alaric's finger. "You wear yours on the finger traditionally reserved for the Holdmaster or Mistress and their blood relations—including marriage partners."

"Wha—I only put it on the finger it happened to fit! Why didn't you tell me before?"

Everet shrugged. "I'm simply explaining our customs; if your concerns were truly pressing, you ought to have broached them sooner."

"Now you're telling me the whole of Orexa thinks we're..." He frowned, searching for a delicate way to describe their relationship. "Well, doing what we've just done?"

He didn't need to be able to see Everet's face to hear the smug smile in his tone. "You're welcome to be rid of it, if it bothers you so." He was every bit the weasel that Alaric had deemed him, even now—perhaps he was just getting in a final little nip before Alaric set off.

He twisted the ring on his finger, mulling over the suggestion. "...Well I'm used to it now." There was no point in moving it to another finger, when the damage to his reputation had already been done. If indeed there had even been any damage; Everet seemed well-regarded enough, so perhaps he'd benefited from the assumption.

Everet let his hand drop, curling back in on himself and reminding, "...But you're not Oresian anymore. Not come sunrise."

Alaric felt a wall start to go up—then picked up a sledgehammer to start tearing it down. There'd be time enough for moping later; he couldn't let it start so soon. "Well that's come sunrise; as I said: I'm still Alaric of Eizenthley for now. Stop being so contrary."

Then again, perhaps this was more than being contrary; a smattering of hectic days together wasn't nearly enough time to learn the ins and outs of Everet's ever-changing moods, and it seemed at times that the slightest thing could turn even the brightest of his smiles into a sour frown. He recognized well by now that the front Everet put up was not always his true face—was rarely his true face, in fact—so what struck Alaric on first glance as a pouting jag might be more than it seemed. "...Are you so very torn I'll be leaving?"

Everet twisted around, brows drawn together in concern. "You're really going to ask me that?"

He couldn't help the tiny smile, apologizing, "I don't mean it like that—it's only, you can be quite difficult to read at times, and you've seemed...well, a bit distracted since we returned. I thought perhaps it was my coming departure, though I know it sounds presumptuous..."

Everet seemed to wilt again, shifting until they were facing one another and tracing the faint white outline of an old scar across Alaric's chest—he'd gone flying into a firewood heap during a mock fisticuffs bout against an older and far more experienced opponent, early in his commission, and had nearly been run through. "There is that, but..." He shook his head, pursing his lips, then sighed. "...I've never killed someone before. I—didn't even know I could." He glanced up, searching. "My skills are subterfuge and charm, my wiles are my weapon—not my Fell gift. But when I saw that bolt loose...when I saw it strike the King..."

Alaric's eyes widened a tick with realization—this wasn't petulance, it was guilt. Completely removed from Alaric, in fact, and leaving him feeling the fool for assuming himself responsible for the dour mood. "You acted on instinct—instinct which, I may remind you, likely saved all our lives. Just because Vizick came prepared to defend himself doesn't mean the violence would have ended there; Ysme of Anheim had the blood of dozens on her hands and would have gladly stained them darker. You acted promptly, in an effort to save someone—and that's nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the contrary, you ought to be praised." And he likely had; perhaps that was what had brought about this wave of guilt. Not everyone flourished under praise for such actions; Everet was no soldier, no matter how Alaric tried to make him one. Farmers and pitchforks, all over again.

Everet reflected on this for several long beats, before meekly asking, "...Have you ever killed anyone before?" Alaric balked, thrown by the question, and his surprise must have registered on his face, for Everet laughed dryly. "What am I saying? Of course you have—and you probably didn't mope over it."

"There's no shame whatsoever in regretting taking a life," Alaric reminded before Everet could engage in further self-deprecation. "The moment you stop feeling that way, you become the evil you imagine yourself fighting."

Everet smiled, a bit sadly this time. "Pretty words."

"...I'll admit they're not my own, but my uncle's. A man of great character and quite possibly the person I respect most, over all others."

"Were I you, I'd take care in trusting and loving so blindly," Everet warned, bitterness thick in his voice. "That's a sure way to wind up hurt."

Alaric shrugged, unconcerned. "Lazarus Monteval has been dead for many a year now, and so he cannot easily disappoint me." This silenced any further protests, and Everet turned away again—though not, to Alaric's relief, to leave the bed. Instead, he shifted back against Alaric again and drew his arms tight around him, like a familiar, comforting blanket.

"...I would like it very much if you would keep the ring," he offered once he'd finally settled down. His voice was already growing thick with sleep, and Alaric wondered if this time he would doze off for good.

"The Hold ring? But—isn't it against the law to remove Starfell from your lands?"

"Quite—but I really don't give a fig about the law at this point, and I want you to have it."

Alaric settled his head back against the pillow, burying his nose in Everet's hair where it spilled down his back and inhaling deeply. "You just want to be able to keep tabs on me from afar. I see through your ruse."

Everet snorted dismissively at the accusation—but didn't deny it, and in short order, his soft, rhythmic breathing had Alaric drifting off into the dark.

❖

Alaric stretched, working the kinks from his back and wincing at the bright, searing sunlight as he stepped from the shadowed comfort of the porch out into the Holdhelm courtyard. He stifled a yawn, silently chiding himself for over-indulging; he ought to have rested after exerting himself, knowing how long the road back to the Capitole would be, but Everet had been most convincing when he'd roused—twice more—in the watches of the night.

Everet was already up and about, snippily directing servants loading a transport with Alaric's belongings—even the half-charred gala outfit and blood-soaked vest would be joining him on his return trip, as a token by which he might remember his brief Oresian citizenship. Everet had wrinkled his nose at the idea of commemorating a venture that had nearly gotten him crushed, blown to bits, and run through; Alaric hadn't reminded him there were other aspects of his time in Orexa he wanted to be sure he carried back with him.

The Prince—or King, as Alaric supposed he now was—had abandoned his rooms to see off Alaric. He didn't think Vizick had any deep love for him, and was more than likely glad to see the back of him, but he had developed something of a grudging respect for Vizick over his time with the man, as one leader to another. Heavy hung the yoke of responsibility, and he bore it remarkably well for someone who hadn't been prepared to wear it. Better, at least, than Everet.

Vizick hailed him with a nod, and Alaric approached, shading his eyes with one hand. "You slept well, I hope, Ambassador?"

Alaric nearly tripped over his own feet, paling. "I—yes. Yes, quite. As well as ever."

"Hm." If he hadn't known better, Alaric might have thought the King was smirking, but he dismissed it as a trick of the light. "The Holdmaster is seeing to the final arrangements of your packing—so while I have you here, I thought I'd take the opportunity to deliver my thanks."

Alaric blinked, a bit taken aback by the unexpected offer of gratitude; he'd thought the King might blame him, given that he'd been the driver for the entire affair. "Oh—quite unnecessary. I ought to be the one thanking you; Everet saved my skin on several occasions, after all. If I've been of any aid, then it has benefited both our nations. What's good for Orexa is good for Vasque, in the end."

"Modest and diplomatic—but not incorrect."

Alaric raised his brows. "Then you're open to future negotiations?"

Vizick nodded, clasping his hands behind his back and strolling over toward the carriage where Everet waited. "I hope I've made myself clear that I do not, in any way, condone Ysme of Anheim's means, and had Everet not dispatched her in the quarry, I likely would have given her a much less kind execution myself. However—we were close because we shared a dream for the future, a vision of how our home might be better than it was. And I plan to see that dream made reality."

Alaric hesitated to respond, wondering if he was even meant to be privy to the information Everet had shared with him. "...I've heard you'll be bringing the Holds down."

Vizick snorted, a derisive note in his voice, "Everet's pillow talk will be our undoing, I suspect." He sighed. "Yes; I plan on having our Cartographs start plotting landing sites as soon as I've notified the Holdmasters and Mistresses. It will be a massive undertaking, but a necessary one."

"I don't imagine you need me to tell you it'll likely take an immeasurable amount of convincing to get the Holds to—"

"There will be no convincing necessary, Ambassador; they will come down—I have so ordered it." There was a cold confidence to his voice, and Alaric corrected himself that while Vizick might not have expected to ever be called upon to rule—he was most certainly ready for it. "This all happened because we have been too insular, too untrusting. While we cannot let our guard down unflinchingly—nor can we expect to prosper when we keep our neighbors at arm's length." He pursed his lips, grim. "I don't want my people to feel like they must resort to murder and intrigue to escape a cycle of poverty."

Alaric nodded. "An admirable goal—and one which I confess I don't envy you."

Vizick's grin was wry. "Nor do I blame you. But Orexa will be a relatively young nation in comparison to her sisters on either border—unused to open trade and diplomacy. I think she could benefit from a strong alliance... Do you think your Veld Martiale would be so amenable?"

Alaric hedged, wary of making promises he wouldn't be able to keep. "...I'm not sure, in this case, that I'm able to speak on behalf of Her Grace..."

"Oh, I think you can," Vizick challenged. "I dare say that's what you're here for."

And indeed, he had been charged at the outset with getting Vasque her Fellfire munitions—whether the King was Reinhart or Vizick or Lir of Bantam. Hadryan's wishes had not changed, and so long as he didn't go signing away the Capitole treasury, surely he could settle this matter to a satisfactory degree before departing. "Vasque still has her dreams of a northern port—and that will require a bit of force on our part. Plus, I cannot see the Veld Martiale turning down opportunities for joint mining ventures in the Sontifers." He nodded. "So yes, I think she would be amenable, though I cannot promise she'll agree to anything without meeting with you personally."

"She was willing to negotiate second-hand with my father."

"Due respect, Your Majesty: your father had been on his throne since before Hadryan ascended, and the negotiations leading up to my arrival had been going on for years." He then added, by way of conciliation, "I will speak for you in her Court, though; it's the least I can do for the hospitality I was shown here."

Vizick's grin grew, and he stifled a chuckle, shaking his head as if they were both in on a grand joke. "Let us hope your Veld Martiale will show me more courtesy should I visit than you have suffered under my watch." He glanced over at the carriage. "For now, though, I should probably return you to your Holdmaster—he has been throwing me the nastiest of glares for occupying you so."

❖

Everet eased upright after checking a knot holding down a tarp atop the carriage and wiped away a bead of sweat forming across his temple. His hips and back ached in a familiar though not at all unpleasant way, making preparations for Alaric's departure that much more difficult, but the physical discomfort was a welcome distraction from more emotional worries he wasn't yet ready to deal with.

As he directed the last of Alaric's luggage be hauled up and fixed in place atop the carriage, he kept a close eye on Vizick and Alaric conversing just at the edge of the courtyard. He was too far away to catch their words, but Alaric looked remarkably comfortable conversing with the King, no longer stiff and awkward under the weight of a diplomat's duties. Soon he'd be back on the solid ground he so clearly missed, beating a hasty retreat for the Vasque border.

Vizick caught him staring, beckoning him over, and Everet stiffened guiltily; he still hadn't quite brought himself to accept that the King had been on his side (in a way) all along, and it somehow grated even more harshly seeing him chatting almost amicably with Alaric, when he'd been so rude to their Ambassador for most of his visit.

He climbed down from his perch atop the transport, delivering orders that the entire vehicle be checked and the ballasts stoked with fresh stocks of Starfell before Alaric boarded. One of the footmen looked like he very much wanted to bring up the incident involving the volacipede and Everet's own oversight regarding transport safety, but he wisely kept his mouth shut, and Everet flounced off.

"You're all packed; I took the liberty of including a sampling case of some of our wines—I hope you'll do me the honor of sharing them with your Veld Martiale."

"And in doing so spark a demand for imports from the Eizenthley vineyards?"

Everet shrugged innocently. "I aim to please." He cut a cool glance at the King, who was distracted for a moment by one of his men delivering a message. "...I hope he hasn't been rude to you—he owes you his life, you know, and you no longer owe him any degree of allegiance."

"While my pronunciation may leave something to be desired," Vizick cut in, dismissing his man with a wave, "Rest assured my Vasque is quite capable, Holdmaster."

Everet felt his cheeks heat, muttering a quick apology, "Of course, Your Majesty—I meant no offense..." There was no excusing his comment, nor getting around the fact that he'd been rude in the face of his King, who he ought to have well recalled had some command of Vasque.

Vizick's stony visage suggested the apology had not been accepted, and he clapped his hands behind his back, drawing back a few steps. "A moment of your time, Everet." He'd switched back over to Oresian now, and Everet despaired that he was about to be given a dressing down, here on his own front lawn before Alaric's very eyes. How humiliating.

Everet cut Alaric a glance, wincing at the note of pity he saw etched there, and followed Vizick a few paces away. "Your Majesty?"

Vizick drew himself up, taking a breath as if steeling himself for something. "I thought now might be a good opportunity to let you know that I've decided to take Eizenthley as my new Crown Hold." Everet felt the blood leave his face, pooling in his ears and drowning out the King's words. "The vineyards will be kept intact, activities continuing as they always have, but the Holdhelm I'll require for my own use, and my personal guard will be barracked in the guest rooms."

Everet's throat tightened, and everything suddenly seemed dim and far away—but he didn't protest, letting Vizick drone on as he would. Why should he protest, after all? It was only a rock in the sky; a stretch of sod that he'd never really cared for. Certainly he wanted to be sure that the King did right by the people living here, but beyond that, what concern was it of his? If Vizick threw him out of his rooms, at least Lir would take him in. He took a measured breath, try to affect an unruffled exterior. The last thing he wanted was Alaric asking him what was wrong. "You honor the members of Eizenthley Hold with your decision, Majesty."

"I'll be taking your rooms as well—seeing as I'll be Holdmaster, for all intents and purposes. That suite you set me up in is dreadfully drafty, too, so I'll need to have my men look into moving my affects in straightaway."

Oh. Perhaps he'd need to call on Lir sooner than expected. He felt at once both blank and void of energy and seething with emotion—too many changes, too much upheaval, and he wasn't ready by half to deal with any of it, yet he couldn't show himself weak. At least not until Alaric was Layton's problem—then he would scream Lir's ears off with rage and frustration. No; he and Vizick were not going to get on well at all, Captain or no.

Vizick cocked his head slightly to the side, trying to read Everet and failing. "As King, I can do this without your leave, as your Hold is already my own to do with as I please, by all rights. And yet you haven't asked me what's to become of you."

Everet swallowed, fixing his gaze on the empty expanse beyond Eizenthley's drop-off. "...It's not my place to question your decisions, Majesty."

"No, indeed it isn't." A grin curled at his lip. "But do. Just for fun."

And he clearly was intent on humiliating Everet, right here in front of his own servants. Perhaps it was for the best he would be leaving Eizenthley; he didn't want to imagine the gossiping tales that would spread about him after this display. 'Run off for gross negligence on the job', 'exiled for sleeping with a foreign diplomat and damaging ties between countries', or perhaps just 'looked at the King funny'.

"...What about me?"

Maybe exile wasn't the worst he could expect, though. Maybe Vizick was more devious than that—maybe he was going to have the Captaincy foisted upon him permanently. Now there was a chilling thought. It was one thing to take on the role when he had vengeance burning in his blood, but now reality was settling back in, and the idea of assuming such a position was once again intimidating and frightening, a chain he could never hope to break free of.

"You are formally relieved of your position as Captain of my Crownswatch." Something snapped, right in two, and Everet wasn't sure why his heart felt like it was sinking, only that it was. "Not, let it be known, because you have failed me—for you have not. But because you cannot hold two posts at once and you will not be able to adequately serve me as Captain from your new position as my Ambassador to the court of Veld Martiale Hadryan of Vasque."

And then his heart sank right through his stomach and into his toes, nearly sending him toppling over in shock. "I...Am-Ambassador...?"

"You will leave this Hold—leave Orexa—and travel as my representative to Vasque to formally apologize to Her Grace on my behalf for risk to Vasque life under flag of treaty. There, you will petition for consent to reopen negotiations between her court and the new Oresian government under my rule, an alliance I feel will be mutually beneficial."

Everet's tongue felt like lead in his mouth, and all at once, the blood that had drained from him seemed to rush back in, the Fellfire singing in his veins as it finally sank in what was being granted to him: not exile, but release. Freedom. Permission to leave his country's borders, without regret or worry or guilt, to travel to lands he'd never seen before and speak a language he'd long thought only useful for reading faerie stories and old romantic poetry.

Oh, the ocean! He would see the ocean! He would see beaches and smell forests and hear brooks babbling through glens. He would feel the kiss of rain and the chill of snow and hear thunder rattle his bones. There was a whole wide world waiting for him, just beyond Orexa's borders—welcoming.

He whirled around, glancing wide-eyed and hopefully towards Alaric, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest and a ruffian smile on his lips that said he'd heard—and understood—the King's decree. "I'm leaving in a quarter bell, with or without you, so were I you, I'd make my departure preparations with all possible haste."

Everet's chest felt tight with some new emotion, as if his lungs were filled with Fellfire and might lift him to the Stars, and he blurted out with unabashed excitement, "Can Lucrezia come along too?"

fin

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Blayre Delecour has been playing in other people's sandboxes for quite some time now, but this is her first experience digging a pit for herself, and what an experience it has been. She keeps a Lucrezia of her own in her tiny high-rise, but hers is rather more black and white and furry than Everet's, and a great deal more vocal too.

Reach her through twitter at @blayredelecour and let her know how you liked the book!

COMING SOON...

In accordance with King Vizick's decree, the Holds are slowly being brought back to earth, though the task is an arduous one met with resistance from all sides. But while talks proceed well with Vasque to the east, tensions are mounting with L'ruz to the west, and when a Crownswatch member stationed along the border suddenly goes missing, Lir of Bantam is charged with tracking her down—a task he can't hope to complete alone.

~ Argentine Winter, out in 2016
