“Wait, don’t kill me,” he spoke quickly, before she could laugh or scream or even give a growl at the coward’s attempt to barter for his life. “Don’t kill me, Arianna. I can give you something better.”
“Once a traitor, always a traitor,” she snarled. Arianna swung backward, pulling on his wrist, feeling the bones pop. She curled herself and brought her feet forward, kicking out his other wrist.
“Yes!”
Her blade stopped a second time, now of her own accord.
The man’s face moved oddly as he spoke. His visage was horribly scarred with markings that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. Arianna watched his bones knitting before her eyes. Envy bubbled up at whoever had maimed him so effectively; jealousy was quick to follow that somehow she found herself lacking in doing the same.
“Yes, I am a traitor. But it is not you I am betraying now. I can give you something better, more satisfying than my death.”
“You have no idea how badly I want this.” Her hand had finally given to shaking.
“I betrayed you, Arianna, but I was nothing more than a puppet. If not me, it would’ve been someone else. What do you get from my death? Nothing. There will be more like me who creep up from the shadows. Kill the man who pulls the strings.”
“You’d betray your own King?”
“Once a traitor, always a traitor.” He grinned darkly.
A shiver of malice raced down her spine. She wanted to kill him. She had wanted to kill him for years. But he was now a low-hanging fruit. She had him and she could slay him any time. She knew she could overpower him and best him in any fight—that much had already been proven in their short encounter thus far.
Yes, killing him would serve her personal vendetta. But it would mean little for any beyond her. If she killed Yveun… She would cut off the head of the snake.
“I can take you to him, right to him. I can get you in his room before the sun even wakes. No one else can give that to you, no other Dragon will.” Rafansi panted softly, continuing to eye her dagger. “It’s a fair exchange, my life for the life of the Dragon King. Don’t you think?”
Arianna stood, glancing to the window. If she killed him in the manor, she’d have to contend with the other Xin. She could let him take her to the King, kill Yveun, then take Rafansi’s life in turn. Arianna flipped her dagger in her palm, once, twice, before sheathing it.
The mere idea, even if it was a farce, of working with him again made her feel soiled. Eva, forgive me. But she was going to cast the die and gamble for it all, or nothing.
“Take me to the Dragon King.”
40. Florence
Why?
The word seemed to linger on the tongue of every survivor. Why?
They were adrift in the world, separated by the distance of train lines and the bleeding wounds that had been carved deep into their hearts. So the train continued in the only direction it could, on to Ter 1.2. No one objected. No one suggested otherwise. There was nowhere else to go.
An entire guild, an entire people, homeless and adrift.
Florence had wanted to live to see a world where people weren’t tethered to their guilds, but she hadn’t wanted it like this. She’d never wanted this. She would sit and listen to the wailing tears that were only smothered, not soothed, by time. She rocked silently with the train.
Powell looked equally shell-shocked, numb. The truth of what he had been saying since he had woken her two days ago echoed in her mind, underscoring the parted lips and drifting eyes that now made up his face. She waited for it to wear off, but she could only wait so long before her burning questions threatened to immolate her fragile sanity.
“Powell,” she whispered, hoping to get his attention without disturbing any who dozed around them.
“Florence?”
“You said the Dragon King ordered the attack.” His silence was affirmation enough. “How did you know?” She didn’t ask him why. If the man knew why, his state over the past two days would’ve been different. He would’ve been angry, frustrated, regretful. But he seemed as confused as her in that respect.
“There was a whisper.” His voice mirrored the word. “From the Revolvers’ Guild. It was a warning that the King’s Riders had taken over. That they demanded explosives en mass. That the Harvesters were to be the first example.”
“‘The first example’?” Florence repeated. “You don’t think the King means to attack the other guilds, do you?”
“I don’t know.” Powell’s shoulder rubbed against hers with the swaying of the car. “And we have no way of finding out now.”
All the Chimera with whisper links in the Harvesters’ Guild had been killed. It had been an impressive hub of communication, one that could rival even the Ravens’. Florence’s stomach turned sour. A guild had been destroyed, possibly the first of many, and the world didn’t even know. Injustice and pain that went unknown hurt all the more, she had discovered.
Nora and Derek tried to ease her into sleep, but Florence refused. She sat on the edge of the train car, watching the world go by and the distant mines appear and vanish along the dawn-colored horizon, none the wiser to the fact that their world was burning. She envied that distant point, a place beyond the edge of the world where she now lived.
They were the fourth train to arrive in Ter.1.2. That was a relief to all. The people who greeted them on the platform were already equipped with knowledge, and prepared to manage the survivors. They were shuffled along, unburdened by the need for thought, into various inns and temporary encampments that had been set up throughout the too-quiet city.
“I think this is where we part.”
Florence was startled to attention by the sound of Powell’s rough, solemn voice. She grabbed Derek’s arm, preventing him and Nora from disappearing ahead in the flow of people. Florence turned her face up to Powell’s, demanding an explanation.
He sighed heavily. “The Vicar did not survive. So there must be a vote for who will assume the mantle. Only four Masters seem to have made it out, however.” Pain flashed hot on Powell’s features. “The Master Harvesters were all called in on my behalf, to vote.”
“This was not your fault.” Florence gripped the man’s forearm. She tried to push magic into him, despite the fact that he was a Fenthri. She tried to push in her truth—that she, too, stared survivor’s guilt in the face regularly. “Powell, look at me: This wasn’t your fault.”
“No…” He sounded unconvinced. “Anyway, seeing how four isn’t enough for a quorum, they voted to grant me my circle and make me a Master for the vote.”
“You would have been awarded it anyway.” Florence couldn’t imagine being awarded Mastery under the current circumstances. It made her heart ache for the Harvester before her.
Her effort brought a small smile to his mouth. “I like to believe that’s true.” She knew he would always wonder.
“Powell.” The other Master Florence had met on the train, Max, called from a short distance away. The circle emblazoned on his cheek around the Harvester’s sickle seemed almost like an omen of sorrow now.
“I’m coming.” Powell turned to leave.