Krayson tried to hide his disappointment, but something of it must have shown in his expression.
"I am trying, Krayson. I just don't think it works like that."
Saveen was dressed and back in her human form. She sat across from him at a long oaken table within one of the Sanguine Tower's many libraries. Bookshelves formed a dozen aisles, with a number of quiet corners for study scattered throughout. The scent of old leather and paper filled the air. Muted sunlight streamed through a circular window high on the wall, illuminating dancing dust motes.
They'd experimented with their bond through the night. Hours later, the appearance of sunlight through the window had come as a profound shock to Krayson. It had been a long time since he'd last lost track of time in such a way. Though Saveen remained as vibrant and energetic as ever, Krayson could feel the missed hours of sleep crawling up on him like a stalking fangblade. His eyelids had begun to feel heavy, and his thoughts were growing slow.
Sudden vitality hit him like a mallet. Krayson jerked upright, then gave Saveen a furrowed brow.
"Err, sorry," she said. "You looked ready to drop off, so I tried... I'm sorry."
Krayson cleared his throat. "No harm done. It just... surprised me, is all."
Saveen's face brightened. "I'll try to be more gentle with it next time."
No use telling her I don't want there to be a next time, Krayson grumbled inwardly. Still, among all the unsavory aspects of dragon bonds, he supposed being able to freely give a little strength wasn't that terrible. Though, he'd prefer if it didn't feel like a bucket of cold water in the face.
Krayson and Saveen's table stood in the center of the sunbeam coming in through the window. That made the spot undesirable for anyone that might come to the library. Blood runners, as a rule, tended to avoid direct sunlight. Whether this was a product of their blood magic or most being irreparable shut-ins was difficult to say.
As for Krayson, he sat with his back to the window yet still felt the need to squint against the brightness. He watched his companion with a growing sense of envy. Saveen basked in the light. She practically glowed, as if absorbing the sun's brilliance and shining it back out of her. Saveen was the sort of person that flourished best in the open sun. Bright and cheerful.
Krayson tried not to hold that against her.
Since entering the tower, Krayson had Saveen try to replicate what she'd done to his hand to little, but nonetheless measurable, result. Both his hands were now adjusted, but his most fervent hope was proving more difficult.
"I could try again," Saveen offered, "but I don't think I can make you taller."
Krayson grimaced but nodded in acceptance. He just wished he could figure out why slightly longer legs were out of reach when altering the structure of his hands wasn't.
And the top shelf of my bookcase will also remain out of reach, he thought glumly.
"It's strange," Saveen said. "It's almost like I'm trying to change parts of me I didn't know I had before."
Krayson worked his hands through a few simple somatics as he listened. He avoided channeling ether through them again until he was more confident with his execution. The most basic gestures felt strange to him all over again. The adjusted structure of his hands was throwing off his somatics just enough to risk the spell failing, or even miscasting; errant spells were almost always a bad thing.
"Aha!" Saveen called out, clapping her hands. "I know why."
"Hush," Krayson admonished. "You're in a library."
"Whoops," Saveen said, covering her mouth and grinning.
Krayson drew his lips together and sighed through his nose. "What's your theory?"
"It's mass," Saveen said conspiratorially. "All things are made of energy at the basic level, right?"
"That's the prevailing belief," Krayson said, nodding. "Do the mighty study Dunnlyth's laws of thermodynamics?"
Saveen blinked.
"Or perhaps not. Please, go on."
"Dragons have a sort of secondary store of ether," Saveen continued, "separate from the real one. We can draw from it in emergencies, but it replenishes much, much slower than regular ether. It's where I store the energy left over from the mass I lose when I'm smaller than my true self. Also, a dragon could become a little smaller if they're running low on ether and in a bind."
Krayson made a noise of understanding. "Right. And I don't have something similar. Mortal polymorphy uses massive quantities of ether to create mass and stores the energy of lost mass within the Weave, which isn't accessible to use as ether like with dragons. So for this... bond polymorphy... there's no extra energy lying around. We can't increase or decrease my mass, only rearrange it."
Saveen chewed her lip, considering. "I see how this helps a wizard, but do you think dragon bonds can help out other kinds of arcanists?"
"Well," Krayson said, "we could run a few experiments. I can dabble in alchemy and runes, but you'd want a true master to explore all the possibilities." He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "Come to think of it, do you remember those sigils I made in our shelter the night before last?"
Saveen nodded.
"I dismissed it as a trick of the mists at the time, but now I wonder." He leaned forward and ran his hands along the underside of the oak table.
"What are you doing?" Saveen asked.
"I bet there's probably one around here. Initiates prefer to study without distraction, and they often use a little spellcraft to help out." His fingers found a smooth pattern carved into the underside of the table. Krayson made a soft sound of triumph and dropped to his knees to peer underneath. As he'd hoped, there was a sigil carved into the wood. It was a simple ward using just a few circles, lines, and first-tier runes, exactly the kind of sigil that either a scrivener or a wizard could use.
Saveen crawled under the table to join him on hands and knees. "What's that?"
"A privacy ward. This rune at the center is Seph, the most basic essence of wind. The circle around it is a stabilizer, and these symmetrical lines add rigidity. The smaller runes around the circumference are called allowances. Without them, no air at all would pass through the ward, and anyone inside would suffocate."
"Oh," Saveen said, her face paling. "Not much room for error in spellcraft, is there?"
"It's why you don't hear about self-taught arcanists beyond the occasional hedge wizard. The smallest mistake can make even a simple spell deadly." Krayson noted the anxious way Saveen was biting her lip. "Which is why apprenticeships are so important. Don't worry, Saveen. I'll do my best to keep you from exploding yourself once you start learning in earnest. At least until you can learn from this Storyteller Kimpo talked about."
She smiled at him.
Krayson cleared his throat and tried to keep his blood from rushing to his face. "As I was saying, the allowances limit the scope of the ward. It won't block air, but it suppresses vibrations within the air. Namely, sound. Those inside the ward can't hear things outside, and vice versa." Krayson placed his hand next to the sigil and forced his ether into the lines. "While I don't mind a little privacy, I really just want to see if I'm right about this."
As etherlight began to glow within the sigil, Krayson had his suspicions confirmed. The light shining forth from the runes wasn't white, as it had always been for him and every other arcanist he ever heard of, but a pale blue. More curious than that, he found that he needed less effort to invest the sigil than he was used to. Generally, wizards had to strain themselves to place ether into sigils, but this time, the sensation was almost like running a finger across an oiled surface. Krayson could channel more ether through the sigil than before.
With a growing sense of excitement, he pushed even more through. The little sigil flared, the blue etherlight bursting from the lines like tiny fires. The border of the privacy ward expanded to twice its previous area.
Saveen gasped at the surge of etherlight. "That's amazing."
"No," Krayson said in wonder. "That's impossible. In the entire history of the magocracy, no wizard has ever managed to flare a sigil. That's always been an ability unique to scriveners."
Krayson drew back his ether and locked the sigil into a more subdued glow. He pulled his last silver penny from his coin pouch and began scratching a new rune into the wood, using the etherlight to see what he was doing. He gouged into the table with the coin's edge until he'd written Hotan, a second-tier rune of wood.
"Second-tier was always my limit. Let's see."
Again, the rune glowed blue. The rune wasn't part of a sigil and therefore didn't have any effect other than to glow when it contacted something of the rune's essence. Krayson even managed to give it a bare spurt of a flare.
"Now, the real test." He scratched a third-tier rune, one of fifteen lines. It took him five minutes to complete, as his knowledge of runes of this level was rudimentary at best. Fortunately, Bavak, a more specific rune of hardwood, was relatively easy to remember, as it was made entirely of parallel and perpendicular lines.
"You've never used a rune that complex before?" Saveen asked.
Krayson shook his head. "Few wizards have. Only a hierarch or two, as far as I know. Let's see."
Etherlight poured into the outermost edges of Bavak, crawling inward. Krayson pressed his lips together, and sweat began to bead on his brow. He pushed himself to fill the lines, but it felt like he was trying to walk through a locked door by leaning his head against it. Krayson let out a breath, and the etherlight faded long before the rune could invest fully.
"Drat," he said. "It won't work."
"So you aren't able to be a scrivener, too?" Saveen asked, sounding genuinely disappointed.
"No. It appears that my upper limit with runes hasn't changed. But within those limits, I have a lot more power than I did before we were bonded." He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "But just imagine what a dragon-bound scrivener could do with their sigils. Fifth-tier runes flared far beyond what any other arcanist can achieve. That would be something to see."
Saveen shrank away from him, eyes downcast, and got back to her seat. Krayson unlocked the privacy ward and returned to his own. He was confused by Saveen's change in demeanor.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Ban Karst," Saveen said.
Krayson furrowed his brow. "I recognize the house name. Wait, you don't mean the prince regent of Altier Nashal? Lord Bannlyth?"
Saveen nodded, still staring at the table top. "He was Kimpo's Ruby Knight. She told me of him. He's a scrivener. She said that when they were bonded, he once did exactly as you said."
Krayson blinked. Setting aside the shock that Kimpo's Ruby was a member of an elder bloodline, Krayson couldn't comprehend why that would send Saveen into a depression. The blue dragonet being morose struck him as incongruously... wrong. He didn't like seeing her saddened by something.
"Kimpo," Saveen said, wiping at her eyes. "Do you think she's still alive?"
Krayson looked away. His impressions of Kimpo had been less than ideal, but he recognized that his opinions weren't the ones that mattered right now. "I don't know. Elise was angry, and she isn't forgiving. That said, I feel like she needs Kimpo. I think she'll keep your friend alive, at least until she can acquire more dragons."
That hadn't helped Saveen's mood. Her lower lip trembled. "She won't stop. Elise will keep enslaving the mighty until she has all of us." Her eyes grew bitter. "Some of them won't even see it as slavery. Like Trell."
"That's why I'll take you south," Krayson said. "Kimpo's empress might be able to take our bond away and find a Sapphire Knight worthy of you. Elise and Trell won't be able to touch you ever again."
She met his eyes. "And you'll teach me more about magic along the way?"
Krayson nodded. "I will. I promise. Who knows. Maybe your eyes will go back to normal when our bond is severed."
Saveen winced and touched near her eye socket, though her irises were presently brown due to her disguise. "Flames, I keep forgetting about that."
"If they don't," Krayson went on, "there are a few things I should tell you about blood magic. The costs and effects."
Saveen's expression grew anxious.
"But that must wait for the moment," Krayson said, rising to his feet. "I've delayed too long. I must speak with the masters."
"What about me?" Saveen asked.
Krayson held his chin in a thoughtful pose. "It might not be wise for you to remain here. Sooner or later, someone will come by and want to know what you're doing."
"I could become something small and stay with you," Saveen suggested hopefully.
Krayson winced. He'd rather avoid that. There were inevitable matters of penance waiting for him that he didn't want her to see. Unfortunately, he didn't see another option. He sighed and nodded his assent. "Very well, but you must be silent as a..."
"As a mouse?" Saveen had that mischievous grin about her again.
Krayson grimaced. "As you say."
They left the library together, Saveen riding within a pocket of Krayson's robe. She would peek her head out on occasion, but would retreat back into hiding when a brother or initiate came into view. Krayson went to an alcove of steam lifts, and they rode one to the upper levels of the Sanguine Tower.
On the ninety-third level, Krayson stepped off of the lift. Ahead was a long hallway, lined with elaborate doorways into the solars and studies of the masters. A grand set of double doors fashioned from polished steel stood at the far end of the hall. Krayson had stepped through those doors only three times in his life. Once as he was first brought into the tower, second upon his formal initiation into the Order, and lastly as he was sworn in as a full brother. On the other side of the doors lay the Blood Council, a name for both the chamber and the five masters who presided over it.
The Blood Council had one sitting master, more formally called an anointed father, for each of the five disciplines of magic. The masters hadn't quite known what to do with Krayson at the start. They knew something of twinborns, but the Order wasn't exactly organized to accommodate them. In the end, Krayson's education continued under both the Father of Wizards and the Father of Witches.
Before Krayson took three steps out of the steam lift, he was confronted by three men in crimson, sigil-engraved plate armor. These were sworn brothers, but not blood runners. All three were scriveners trained in battlefield spellcraft and swordplay. However, unlike the paladins of the south, the Red Clerics weren't knights. They were guard dogs, half-rabid and kept on a long leash. Each was personally responsible for a particular master.
The clerics' red eyes were unblinking as they watched Krayson approach. Still as statues, they didn't reach for the barbed swords and bladed maces that hung from their hips. Nonetheless, Krayson kept his hands visible. Brutal and ruthless, the Red Clerics would rather see a sworn brother dead at their feet than risk a threat to the masters.
Just three, Krayson thought. Two of the masters must not be in the tower.
"Brother Joshuan," Krayson said, "on current contract for King Cathis the Algara and seeking guidance from the masters of the Sanguine Fraternal Order."
A sigil on the shoulder of each cleric's plate began to glow with white etherlight, but they gave no other indication that Krayson had been heard. Silent and eerie. One by one, the sigils went dark. As soon as a cleric's sigil faded, he turned his back on Krayson and walked away as if he wasn't there. The third and final cleric didn't leave, however. He remained where he stood, and Krayson was positive the man had yet to blink.
Sympathetic sigils, Krayson deduced. The cleric lights the one on their armor and its linked partner near their master lights as well. Clever, but there must be simpler ways to announce a visitor.
From up the hallway, there came a sound of a door opening and closing. A red-robed figure strode towards the lift alcove, his feet silent on the lush carpets. Though the master's hood was pulled low over his face, Krayson recognized him. His stooped posture and wiry build were unmistakable. None other than Ranton Taveau, Father of Wizards, came to receive Krayson.
Despite himself, Krayson felt a measure of relief. Father Ranton had presided over all three of Krayson's visits to the Blood Council. He was first and foremost an educator, often seeing to the tutelage of the initiates personally. The greatest wizard in the Order, Ranton's name was synonymous with patience and wisdom within the tower. Krayson admired this man as much as any other in the world.
"That's quite enough, Brother Tam," Ranton said as he drew near. "Winds, but you should know Joshuan's face by now."
The remaining cleric bowed reverently to the master, then withdrew.
Father Ranton lowered his hood as he watched Brother Tam's back disappear through a concealed doorway. He shook his head. "I hope they didn't overstep their duties, my child. The clerics have been on edge with what's been going on."
"The clerics are experienced within the Order, master," Krayson said while bowing his head. It was as good as saying "they've been blood mages so long that there's little humanity left to them".
Ranton pursed his lips and sighed. After a moment, he turned to regard Krayson. "True enough, my child. The days have been troubling, so it does me good to see you well."
Father Ranton was a small man, even for an elderly Althandi. He stood two hands shorter than Krayson, and what hair remained on his balding head had turned white long ago. Though in his seventies, Ranton's face didn't bear many wrinkles. His pale skin was like that of a man twenty years his junior. His red eyes had a depth to them, as if there was little he hadn't seen in his lifetime. Though he was among the longest serving blood runners in the Order, he managed to keep a ready smile on his lips. Ranton appeared all but immune to the costs of blood magic. The brothers often believed him to be the most stubbornly human blood mage who ever lived.
He's a good man, Krayson thought. The other masters would have turned a Teulite half-breed away. They'd have given me to the Algaras once they learned my mother's name, but not him. I owe Father Ranton everything I've become.
"I apologize for my tardiness, master," Krayson said. "I assume you've been told of what has happened. My newest contract has proven as difficult as expected."
Ranton snorted and folded his hands behind his back. "Yes, I suppose it has, my child. This is ill business for us all, but I fear you've born the brunt of it. Winds and storms, but the Merovech's bloodsong is no small burden for a young brother to carry." He gestured for Krayson to follow him down the hallway. "Come. I would hear your side of everything, and there are things you need to know of. Also, I've a visitor I'm certain you wish to see."
Krayson furrowed his brow as he fell into step just behind and to the left of Father Ranton. "A visitor, master?"
"Before we get into that," Ranton said, "I feel as if I owe you an apology. If I'd known what the late Lady Tarlen's contract would lead to, I'd never have sent a brother to her. You, least of all."
"It was my duty, master," Krayson said. "I am a blood runner. I am owed nothing."
"Well, that's not entirely true," Ranton said. He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes had a wry gleam to them. "You completed House Tarlen's contract, but the old bat never ponied up the coin in the end."
Krayson looked down, hiding the small smile that threatened to spoil his dour image. "She could hardly pay me from the Beyond, master."
Ranton chuckled, then his face grew serious. "Nonetheless, her loss comes hard. We knew one another once, Oma and I. There was a time before I considered initiation that I thought she might make a fine match for me."
Krayson blinked. "You courted the Lady Tarlen?"
"Well, courted is a bit strong of a word," Ranton said. "Better to say that she was a beautiful young woman, and I was a gawky string bean of a lad lacking the sense spirits gave a snail.
Krayson had difficulty accepting it, solely because he couldn't imagine Father Ranton as being anything other than as he was. He was old and always had been. Would always be. Immortal as the Sanguine Tower itself.
"I hope you were fed after you were released," Ranton said. "The sustaining spells can only go so far."
"Yes, master. Princess Maya saw to my medical needs."
Ranton shook his head. "Unconscionable. Imprisoning a blood runner? Oma's death by a wilt curse raises uncomfortable questions, so I could understand a brief detainment and questioning, but the Highest King went too far."
"It wasn't for the lady's death that I was imprisoned," Krayson said softly.
"No, I suppose not."
"Has anything more been learned?" Krayson asked. "It was certainly a blood mage that killed the Lady Tarlen, and the details of her contract have left more questions than answers."
Ranton let out a long breath and came to a stop. He regarded Krayson directly. "The Order is giving all due assistance to the city guard's detectives. All that we are capable of in these times. That mammoth of a guard captain, Falar, and even royal assassins have visited the tower to look for answers. Not only about Tarlen, but the attack that took the Merovech from us as well."
"Was Heron Algara here?" Krayson asked.
Ranton nodded. "She was indeed, and she mentioned that she'd been in contact with you. I can only imagine the manner of trouble you've been running into?"
"I don't know where to begin, master," Krayson said honestly. "Half of it is unbelievable, and the other half is impossible."
Ranton blinked in bemusement. "From any other, I would take that kind of talk with a grain of salt. Time and again, you've proven that bringing you among us was the correct decision. Your intelligence and ambition alone make you invaluable, and your twinborn nature marks you as a treasure of the kingdom, whether that blustering king of ours sees it or not." He placed a hand on Krayson's shoulder. "Hear what I say, my child. I've no doubt you will one day rise to the Blood Council."
"There's a problem with that vision," Krayson said.
Ranton raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Krayson looked up and smirked. "Will I stand as anointed father of the witches or the wizards?"
Ranton laughed, a genuine sort of laugh that was seldom heard within the tower. "One mustn't limit themselves before they've even begun, my child. Why not both?"
Krayson felt his smile begin to fade. A part of why he needed to return home refused to be put off any longer. "Master, before I tell you all of what's happened, I must confess transgressions."
"Ah. I should have expected as much, given what happened at your trial. Please continue, my child."
"I have taken two lives," Krayson said evenly.
"In defense of your own?"
"Yes, but I took them regardless. Two of the Merovech's attackers, one by steel, another by spellcraft. Additionally, my actions led to a man being maimed. He lost his right arm."
True, Krayson wouldn't have felt regret for Trell's injury even if he were capable of it, and the black dragon had likely grown it back by now. However, Krayson didn't take the Order's laws lightly. A lost arm was a lost arm, no matter how much of a bastard the one who lost it was.
"I will see the transgressions recorded," Ranton said. "However, that will have to wait at least until the end of your contract. The Order has too few blood runners to waste one of our finest young brothers on penance. Winds and storms, my child, but exacting a toll is liable to kill you after your imprisonment."
Krayson opened his mouth to protest, but Father Ranton wasn't having any of it.
"No, and that is my final word on the matter," he said. "We'll discuss this Merovech business, and only once it's settled in full will I hear talk of penance."
Ranton turned to a nearby door and put his hand to the latch. Krayson stopped him with a word. "Wait. Master, what do you mean by the Order having too few blood runners?"
The father's shoulders sagged as if under a terrible weight. "You've been gone from the city for a long time, my child. There is much at work in the Five Kingdoms that you aren't aware of."
"If you speak of this new Dragon Empress, then..."
"No, my child," Ranton said. He rounded on Krayson, and his voice carried a passion that was all but unheard of in a blood mage. "Of all that troubles the Order, Enfri the Yora hardly makes a spell echo. We face apotheoses unlike any we've faced since the death curse fell."
Krayson was taken aback. "What do you mean?"
Ranton closed his eyes, as if just speaking of it was too taxing for him. "Brother Dorna isn't the first of our blood runners to fall as of late. Not by a thousand leagues. Brother Skoer was murdered by Kastus Valdar, the very hierarch she was contracted to preserve. Brothers Tcha, Hiram, and Gandyn were lost in Nadia. More than a dozen sworn brothers have died within the Spired City in the past month, and just as many more throughout the Five Kingdoms."
Krayson felt cold. "So many..."
"Nearly half of us, my child," Ranton said, his tone grim. "As far as I can tell, there are no more than thirty blood runners still alive. Almost all that remains of the Order is here within the Sanguine Tower."
Krayson looked over his shoulder, towards the lift alcove where he'd been confronted by the Red Clerics. Three of them, not five.
"Your suspicions are correct, my child," Ranton said. "Fathers Dulvyn and Nacht are not away on errands. They, too, have fallen."
"All seven thunders," Krayson murmured. The anointed fathers of alchemists and scriveners, too. "Master, what is happening? With so many killed in so short a time... Is this an attack on the Order?"
"Attack?" Ranton asked. "Dorna was collateral damage in an assassination attempt on the Highest King, Skoer a casualty of a civil war, and as far as we can tell, most of the deaths were of similar natures. Tavern brawls turned deadly, accidental fires, random violence, and any number of 'coincidental' happenings with blood runners left dead in their wake. Winds, but Dulvyn, Nacht, and their clerics were killed when a Northrun walkway gave out underneath them. If this is an attack, my child, it's being carried out by Fate himself."
In his robe's pocket, Krayson felt Saveen shift. She'd remained quiet and unnoticed so far, but this dark news drove her to fidget. Strangely, Krayson thought she might have been putting her little paw against him to give comfort.
"This is why there weren't more blood runners in the throne room," Krayson said. "It was only me and Dorna. Thunder, but the only reason I didn't lose my head is because..."
Ranton nodded his head slowly, his crimson eyes troubled. "I'd not have allowed Dorna to go either," he said. "We are reeling from this disaster, this... calamity, and that is why you received no help from the Order during your imprisonment. I am deeply sorry, but we had no help to give. Dorna, regardless, was desperate to see you returned to us. We need you at home, my child."
Saveen shifted again, and Krayson heard her make a distressed sound that Ranton thankfully missed. Krayson put his hand over her in his pocket, as if he were holding a hand over his heart out of grief. He understood Saveen's worry. If Krayson remained in the tower, he would be unable to fulfill his promises to her.
The ghosts in Krayson's heart writhed, and he could feel their confusion. They didn't know what to think any more than he did. A blood runner's word was binding, but the Order was his life. If the master needed him, how could he refuse?
We're falling like wheat before the scythe, he thought. Sworn brothers face danger every day, but at this scale, it can't simply be coincidence. What, then? Who could orchestrate circumstances in such a way? To what end?
"Dark times," Ranton reiterated. "Which is why I'm making the fulfillment of all outstanding contracts a priority so that we may deal with this crisis. Come in, my child. Let's do what we can to put yours behind you."
Ranton opened the door and led the way into his solar. It was a finely furnished living space with upholstered sitting chairs, a well-stocked liquor cabinet, bookcases, and a number of oil paintings on the walls. Gaslights with crystal housings hung in the corners, though they were unlit now that it was morning. Amusingly, there wasn't a single hint of red in the room. Father Ranton must have been one of those blood runners that had grown weary of the color.
The master's apartment and study would be on the level below, and a broad spiral staircase with bronze railing and accents led downward. Muted sunlight came in through a massive window on the wall opposite the door.
"Is this the Krayson?" a woman asked in a Gaulatian accent. Her voice was a melodious alto with a clear timbre, a voice destined for song. "I hope he is worth the wait."
Krayson nearly startled. He hadn't noticed the woman, though now that his eyes fell on her, he couldn't imagine how that could have been.
A ward? he thought. Like the one I used on the train?
She appeared young, but her eyes obscured by a sheer, black veil held a depth to match Father Ranton's. Her skin was exceedingly pale, and she had pure white hair worn down around her shoulders. An Irdish woman, perhaps, despite the accent. Her features were angled and elegant, with cheekbones that seemed sharp enough to cut the hand of anyone who tried caressing them. The woman's lips were painted a deep red, and her smile was hanging between friendly and predatory.
Krayson kept still as the woman rose to her feet, and he examined her dress. It was black silk with a deeply angled neckline. The cut left her arms and shoulders bare in addition to a generous amount of cleavage. The skirt was scandalously short, exposing her ankles. But the strangest detail was her shoes and how they had long stems on the heel that forced her to walk on her toes. Thundering odd what passed for footwear nowadays.
A brief glimpse with Krayson's witch sight revealed that her ether didn't wave about untethered. She was an arcanist, and a relatively strong one judging by the way it pulsed within her in time with her steady heartbeat.
"This is Brother Joshuan Krayson," Ranton said to the woman. "I'm certain you've already sensed, my lady, but he carries it."
"Excellent," the woman purred, gliding towards Krayson with a sway in her step. The sound of her heels clacking against the hardwood floor had a distinctly unnerving quality. She stopped within reach of him and traced a pointed fingernail down the center of his chest, settling over his heart. Behind her veil, her eyes stared into his. "So this is the blood runner carrying my master's bloodsong."
By reflex, Krayson stepped back from her. His hands were halfway to starting a somatic before he stilled them.
The woman laughed and made no further aggressive moves. "You're on edge, Blood Runner," she said. "I suppose that's to be expected.
Krayson's eyes flickered to his master before returning to the woman. He kept his knees slightly bent, his stance ready to become a retreat or an attack as the situation required. "You're one of the Merovech's apprentices," he stated.
She gave a shallow curtsy, arms held wide from her body. How she managed in those heeled shoes was a mystery. "His most recent, in fact."
"This is Lady Starra Nolaas of Japax," Ranton said. "She currently resides at the Merovech's estate, and I asked her to come as soon as I learned of your contract."
"Why?" Krayson asked sharply. Japax was near to both Irdruin and Gaulatia, which might account for her appearance and accent, but he couldn't picture a woman like Lady Starra coming from such a rural and agrarian setting.
"As you can tell by his reaction, Father," Lady Starra said, "Ambrose did not name me as his heir. Of course, I hadn't expected him to." She turned and walked towards the window, letting the sunlight wash over her.
Krayson relaxed slightly as Starra got further away, and he looked to Ranton. "Calling this irregular would be generous, master."
Ranton held up his palms in a placating manner. "I know, so you needn't quote tenants to me, my child. Long before he passed, the Merovech made arrangements for the divestment of his bloodsong. Very specific arrangements, I'm told. Summoning Lady Starra to the tower immediately upon the Merovech's death was my part in them. Brother Dorna was meant to be the one standing here, but..." He swallowed back sudden emotion before continuing. "Lady Starra will explain, Brother Joshuan. My lady, you have the use of my chambers. Brother Joshuan will escort you from the tower once your business is finished."
Krayson's heart began to beat faster and at a very specific rhythm he'd come to loathe. The Law of Five was manifesting again. Twice already, he'd been close to having the bloodsong ripped from his veins, and that was from just one apprentice to the Merovech. He didn't relish the thought of being this close to another, nor for Father Ranton abandoning him to her.
Judging by what Krayson had seen, the Merovech had alarmingly poor taste in students.
"Master," Krayson whispered, nearly pleading.
"I haven't been told what the arrangements are, my child," Ranton said. He walked towards the solar's door and put a comforting hand on Krayson's shoulder as he passed. "Nor can I be. I'm sorry, Joshuan. I know this isn't like other contracts, but Brother Dorna agreed to the terms when she became the Merovech's preserver. As her replacement, it falls to you to carry out his wishes in her stead."
Without another word, Father Ranton left the solar, leaving Krayson and Lady Starra alone.
At least I have a mouse in my pocket, Krayson thought wryly. One that can turn into a fangblade in a pinch.
He turned to stare at Starra's back. She was rolling her shoulders as if stretching sore muscles while looking out through the window. Starra let out a drawn out sigh before turning back around. "You have an unpleasant smell about you, Blood Runner," she said with a smile.
"I've been in Fellowton," Krayson said in explanation.
"Oh my, not that," Starra laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "A more degenerate sort of stink that I'm sorry you've had to be exposed to."
Krayson frowned.
"Garret," Starra said with a slight sneer. "I take it he's still alive?"
When stunned silence was her answer, she rolled her eyes and blew the bottom edge of her veil out. "If Ambrose had a fault, it was that he loved unconditionally. He was always blind to what that evil cockroach really was."
She put her hands on her hips and looked Krayson over. Her flippant manner was fast disappearing, and something more studious— more severe— was taking its place.
"My master gave you a name?" she asked.
Krayson nodded, wary.
"The daughter of a particular acquaintance of his," Starra said. "No, don't say anything. I've nothing but faith in your Order, but I've lived as long as I have by always assuming the walls have ears."
"You... know?" Krayson asked, his voice feeling hoarse.
"Of course I know," Starra said. She reached behind her head and lifted up her hair. The veil over her eyes shifted as she worked at its ties. "My master wasn't one to act without all due preparation. You see, Ambrose the Merovech was many things in his lifetime— knight, wizard, teacher, general, grand marshal— but more than any of that, he was his king's man. Whatever you may think or have learned about his chosen heir, never forget that all of this is and always has been for the good of Althandor."
The veil came off, and Lady Starra looked up at Krayson. Her eyes were red.
"You're a blood mage," Krayson whispered.
"Not quite," Starra said with a knowing smile. Her lips parted, showing white and perfectly straight teeth. Also, the sharp points of her fangs. "But I really should apologize for killing the last person to hire you."