The room continued to fill and Arianna watched nonchalantly as various masters took their seats.
“You always preferred the back.”
Arianna’s eyes swung to an elderly man, smartly dressed in all black that blended with his coal-colored skin and accented his steely eyes and closely-cropped silver hair. A thin line of stubble covered his sagging cheeks.
“You always preferred being clean-shaven,” Arianna pointed out.
“Well, the end of the world can do a number on one’s hygiene.” Willard chuckled and held out a hand. “Let me see you, Arianna.”
She suddenly felt nine years old again. But this time there was no Master Oliver to stand by her side and do the talking for her. Arianna stood on command, walking down to the man whose filled and circled Rivet tattoo was nearly invisible.
“You have hands, now.” He inspected the thin line around her wrists where her ashen Fenthri skin stopped and the steely blue of Finnyr’s Dragon flesh began.
“A recent acquisition.”
“How many organs are you missing?”
Arianna thought about lying. She didn’t want to bare herself to the world. But Florence’s attention was on her. Even while keeping up a conversation with Powell, she observed their exchange periodically; Arianna could feel her eyes on her face like a warm breeze.
“Now . . . only lungs.”
Willard whistled low. “Only lungs . . .” He eyed her up and down, finally letting go of her hands. “It appears the Alchemists were right, too, about their postulations on Dragon magic affecting a Fenthri’s growth. When did you get the blood? Seven?”
“Yes, seven.” The memory was seared into her recollection with the fire of magic hitting her veins for the first time. Killing her. Resurrecting her. Time and time again until her blood ran black.
“And when did you become a Perfect Chimera?”
“Eighteen.”
“Was it Oliver’s work?”
Arianna couldn’t stop a small grin. Willard and Oliver had always been friendly rivals of a sort, two who enjoyed mentally sparring with each other almost a little too much. They had needed each other to thrive, but couldn’t stand the other’s existence in equal measure. A perfect set of counterweights.
“No, no, the final box was not his work.”
“Your own.” Willard reached out a hand, resting it on the pin Arianna had affixed to the edge of her white coat by her collarbone. “And he gave you the circle for it.”
“Just before he died.”
For all the rivalry and competition, there was genuine sorrow to Willard’s eyes at the memory of his deceased friend. “How did he die?”
“I killed him.”
Arianna expected the reaction. She expected the look of shock, the probing stare for a lie where he would find none. Willard said nothing, no doubt expecting her to fill in the blank of the circumstances that led her to such an extreme action. But that was one line of history she wouldn’t fill in, one unbroken stretch for the unrelenting passage of sands in the great hourglass of time to wear away.
They would have her knowledge, her schematics, perhaps even her body for their studies. But she would never give them that memory. She would never share the final moments she had with those she had truly loved. Other than her pin, and the box that pumped away within her, it was all she really had left.
“Well.” Willard dropped his hand from the pin. “If what you say is true, then I expect you had a very good reason.”
Arianna’s mind was blank. She wanted him to rally against her. She wanted to see Willard rage for the death of one of the greatest minds of the last generation.
“Knowing Oliver, he likely commanded it.” Willard shook his head with an ironic chuckle, heavy with sorrow. “There would be no way you could’ve done it otherwise.”
She wanted to refute him. She wanted to tell him he was wrong. But it was the most truthful thing anyone had said in a long time, and betrayed the depth of the man’s familiarity with her. Before Arianna could find any words, he dismissed himself, taking the seat on the lowest tier—the space reserved for the vicar.
If the Dragons’ notion of gods were true, Master Oliver would be in some infinite beyond, watching Willard achieve all the goals they had ever competed over. Oliver would also be looking upon her. Were her achievements enough to bring a smile to his face?
By the time the Vicar Tribunal was called to order, the room wasn’t even half-full. No guild, at any point, ever had more than about fifteen masters. The Ravens were almost at capacity; twelve lined the seats behind the vicar. The Rivets had seven, counting Arianna—all fresh faces she didn’t recognize. The Alchemists had about the same count.
The most sorrowful sections were the Revolvers, who had four, led by a new vicar who very clearly had no idea what he was doing. And the Harvesters, who had five, including Vicar Powell.
Arianna looked around the room at the tired and unwashed faces. This was the best they now had. This was all they had.
“I suppose we should begin with introductions.” Florence made her way to the center of the room when none of them did anything more than stare at each other. It seemed no one quite knew what to do at a Vicar Tribunal.
“Vicar Powell, Harvesters.” Powell stood first at Florence’s motion. The room went around clockwise after him.
“Vicar Ethel, Alchemists.”
“Vicar Gregory, Revolvers.”
“Vicar Willard, Rivets.”
“Vicar Dove, Ravens.” The woman with the long black braid put her hand on her hip, tilting it to the side. “And before any of you ask . . . Yes, the name is really Dove. Always has been. Was born before the family law. No, I didn’t choose Ravens because of it.”
Arianna leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees. Dove was the only one among them who had an ease about her. She was also the only vicar to survive the attack. Willard was the next-most acclimatized to his role. But even he hesitated with a too-long pause when it came to using “Vicar” in association with his name.
Loom was a candle that kept being sliced into pieces from the bottom as it burned from the top.
“Excellent. Well, then . . . Since we’re all introduced, we should begin by focusing on the issues of highest priority.” Florence grabbed a ledger she’d been carrying all morning. Arianna wondered how many hours the girl had spent preparing. “Foremost, Vicar Powell informed me of concerns with regards to feeding such a centralized population on ground that has no natural resources. I shall concede the floor—”
“The issue of highest priority is the Philosopher’s Box.” Vicar Dove stood.
All eyes were on Arianna. Unflinching, unwavering, Arianna stared down at Vicar Dove who stared back at her, trying to draw whatever height she could in intimidation.
It wouldn’t work. Vicar Dove may have every experience in functioning as the leader of the Ravens’ Guild—the most reckless and freewheeling guild of the five. But the room had turned into a battleground, and no one had the gift of combat quite like Arianna.