They’d reached inside of him and scooped out everything that mattered without even the decency to destroy the shell left behind.
For a while he considered doing so himself, but one thing held him back: work left undone. Sinners left unpunished. They had hollowed him out and gone back to their filth self-satisfied, false smiles wide -- their filth pooled in his home, his sanctuary, his observatory .
It was not revenge, though they had committed the greatest possible crime against him; they had stolen his lord’s gift, forever torn from him the only thing worth having.
But it was retribution, not revenge -- punishment not for any earthly crime but for spitting on the name of his god, of all gods. For taking a sacred place and defiling it, for taking a sacred soul and ripping it apart. He had to stop them. He had to end them, preferably screaming.
The clan holds a council to get to the bottom of Barholme’s attack on Elain and Achzina, and decide what’s to be done about it. Aridatha presides, with Lioska, Nesita, Bartos, Acrux, Talise, and others in attendance. // read on ao3 / read on deviantart
The pearlcatcher guard and a mirror with black scales and silver wings escorted Achzina, his attacker, and the skydancer who’d apparently come to warn him out of Pilgrim’s Rest, into the Inner Sanctum. It struck Achzina as odd that Clan Lukra would bring a would-be murderer into their fortified home, but he had more important mysteries on his mind. Once they entered the Sanctum, there came a brief period of frenzied activity around the three dragons involved in the altercation, while they remained under guard; then they were brought before Aridatha.
The clan leader and several other dragons had gathered in the same open-air chamber where she’d interviewed Achzina, built at the base and into the lower branches of one of the starwood trees. Achzina recognized Lioska from his interview. Also present were two tundras with sky-blue wings, one black-furred and one purple; a pink-winged imperial; a brown and green skydancer; a dark mirror with red markings mazing over her wings; and a purple coatl wearing bows. As Achzina, his attacker, and their companion entered, most of the dragons chatted amongst themselves; Achzina could hear the skydancer asking the imperial for news and see the mirror and coatl with their heads bowed together. A hush fell as the guards took up positions on either side of Achzina and the other … prisoners. Were they prisoners? Achzina wasn’t sure.
“Talise,” Aridatha said, into the silence. “You were the first on the scene, yes? What did you find?”
“I was --” began the tawny skydancer, the shapeshifter who’d burst into Achzina’s room.
“You --” said the silver fae, their attacker.
“Quiet,” Aridatha said, calmly but firmly. “Everyone will get a chance to tell their side of the story, but in turn. First, I want to hear from Talise.”
The pearlcatcher guard stepped forward. “It was late at night, the gates were shut, and I was patrolling Pilgrim’s Rest when I heard a commotion. Shouting, mostly, from upstairs, but as I headed towards it I started feeling something magical, too. Can’t tell you what it was; I’m no archmage.”
“Excuse me?” said the dark tundra, stepping forward. “If I may, Aridatha; since I am an archmage, and I took the liberty of briefly examining the scene of the incident?”
“Go on, Bartos.”
“From the traces left behind, it appears that someone used a spell designed to drain all the magic out of the room -- including out of any living creatures in the room, a process that would certainly be fatal.” A moment’s silence fell after that word, as all the dragons in the room took in the seriousness of the event. And it only got worse as the tundra continued: “The spell was not contained; Ammanas informed me that dragons in neighboring rooms complained of its effects, and particularly sensitive dragons could feel it from across the inn. If left unchecked, it could have harmed dragons across the inn -- perhaps more than ‘harmed,’ and perhaps further than the inn.”
Achzina felt cold, and he snuck a peek at the silver fae. He found it hard to believe that someone would go to such excessive lengths to kill him -- and he’d never even met this fae! What could he have done to engender such hate?
Barholme has a problem with shape-shifters, Ammanas had told him, but Achzina had never imagined such a “problem” would manifest itself like this.
“I don’t know anything about that,” the pearlcatcher, Talise, said as the tundra stepped back into the audience. “What I do know is that by the time I got up to the room, Barholme was just there looking -- well, I don’t know what; faes, you know? But he was there in the doorway, trying to cast, and the other two were writhing on the floor, clearly unwell, so I restrained Barholme and took all three of them into custody. That’s all I have to say.”
Talise retreated. Aridatha glanced around the room for a second, and then her gaze focused on the tawny skydancer. “Elain. What were you doing there?”
“When I went to bed last night, I found a note in my nest,” Elain said. “It said that Barholme would try to attack the new Oracle tonight, because he was a shape-shifter. I don’t know who sent it, but, well, they were right, weren’t they? I went out to the inn to warn him. And then Barholme tried to kill us both! I mean, I always knew he was going to, but I figured he’d go for me first.”
The skydancer’s matter-of-fact tone struck Achzina: he wondered how long she’d lived with the knowledge that one of her own clan-mates wished her dead, like a sword hanging over her throat. And still she’d come to warn him -- risking her life in the process. Almost unconsciously, Achzina moved closed to Elain, literally standing by the other skydancer.
“What happened when you got to the inn?” Aridatha prompted.
“I didn’t have time to tell Achzina why I was there, but I did wake him up, so at least Barholme couldn’t murder him in his sleep.”
“I would have woken him,” interrupted Barholme. “Sinners must know that they are punished.”
Elain gave Aridatha a significant look, as if to say, See? Achzina muttered, “Sinners?” with a growing weight in his chest.
“Elain.” Aridatha placed heavy emphasis on the name, glaring at Barholme.
“Barholme started in on his whole ‘sinners’ rhetoric, just like he just did.” Elain’s snout crinkled in contempt. “Which was whatever, but then he started firing bolts at us. Cut straight through the wall! I tried to stop him, but he shielded himself, held me off -- and then he created that rift thing. It had us both on the ground; hurt like Shade itself. And then it just … stopped. Not sure why. I figured Talise did something.”
Talise shook his head. “Unless ‘doing something’ means ‘just showing up,’ nope.”
The two tundras in the audience muttered to each other. Achzina remembered a flash of white cloth and a claw held to crystal lips, but he said nothing. For one, it wasn’t his turn to speak; and he also didn’t feel secure enough in his place here to speak up, or to disregard the request for silence in that held-up claw.
But now Aridatha turned to him. “Achzina. What happened, from your perspective?”
Achzina took a deep breath. Tell the truth, or keep quiet? What had Clan Lukra done to deserve the truth from him, when they couldn’t even control the homicidal maniac in their midst? He felt more inclined to trust the dragon at the window, who had probably saved his life.
“I don’t have much to add to Elain’s account,” he said. “I attempted to shield us, but it wasn’t going to hold -- but I suppose Barholme grew impatient, and that’s when he released the rift. It wasn’t really necessary.”
“You don’t know what halted the rift?” Aridatha asked.
Achzina hesitated. He hadn’t expected a direct question. But then, he wasn’t lying -- he didn’t know that the mysterious dragon had anything to do with the rift closing. He only suspected as much. “No. My talents lie in divination; I’m no great expert in other forms of magic.”
Aridatha seemed satisfied, anyway, though Lioska’s green eyes bored into Achzina as if she suspected something. Or perhaps only his guilt made him see accusations everywhere. Achzina reminded himself that he had done nothing wrong, that he was the victim of Barholme’s attack.
Reluctantly, Aridatha turned to the last dragon in custody. “Barholme. Defend yourself, if you can.”
The fae raised his head. “What else was I to do? For too long, you’ve stalled me, quibbled and refused to deal with the blasphemer among us. Then I hear that you consider inviting a second beast-lover to join us, and as an Oracle, favored of the gods. Obviously I could not allow this. I spoke to you on the subject, remember? I told you not to accept this creature, and you dismissed me.”
Aridatha frowned as eyes turned to her. “I recall. I told you I’d take your concerns into account.”
“You dismissed me.” Barholme’s fins flared. As little as Achzina wanted to give the fae any credit, he had a point: Aridatha barely sounded sincere making that promise now, after the fact. Then Achzina remembered how backwards Barholme’s “concerns” were, and any sympathy he’d had for the priest vanished. “I could not let this stand. And even if you refused him, by some chance -- such a sinner could not be permitted to claim the mantle of Oracle, here or anywhere else. So I went to take care of him, to show him the error of his ways with holy fire.”
“The Arcanist is not a god of holy fire,” interrupted the purple tundra. “He would wish us to study strange forms of magic, not destroy them on sight.”
Barholme’s neck swelled, fins extended to their full length and surface area as he hissed in rage. But others nodded in agreement: Lioska, the dark tundra, the imperial.
“Thank you for not attempting to deny your guilt, Barholme,” Aridatha said, a note of anger in her voice. “It makes this simpler.”
“Guilt?” hissed Barholme. “Guilt? What have I done? He is not of our clan, not yet; he is nothing to us. I have broken no law.”
He actually seemed to get some support on that one: the guard Talise tilted his head, considering the argument, and the mirror in the audience nodded.
“Pale excuses,” Aridatha snapped. “We will not allow murder on our grounds, whomever the victim may be.”
“Not to mention your total disregard for collateral damage,” Lioska said. “We must ensure the safety of the pilgrims who come to us for answers. What are we to tell them, if one of our number can set off dangerous magic among them with no consequences?”
“And your attack also targeted Elain, who is a clan member,” the imperial added. Elain herself looked rather surprised at that.
“You’ve admitted your guilt,” Aridatha repeated. “Now all that remains is to decide what’s to be done with you.”
Barholme’s head tilted as he looked up at Aridatha. “Kill me, then. I can think of no fate more glorious than to be a martyr for my lord.”
“We’re not going to kill you,” Aridatha said firmly.
Beside Achzina, Elain snorted, as if she disliked this decision, but Achzina himself felt rather relieved. For all Barholme’s willingness to do so to him -- not to mention the fae’s unpleasant demeanor -- Achzina didn’t want to feel responsible for another dragon’s death.
Aridatha glanced around the chamber. “I intend to exile Barholme from our clan and lands, so that he no longer possesses the privileges of a member of Clan Lukra, and nor may he approach our lair. If our patrols meet him, they are to turn him back with as much force as he makes necessary.”
“What, so he can go murder some other shape-shifters somewhere else?” Elain demanded. “So he can vent his spleen on the beastclans?”
Achzina felt much the same, and said so. “Exile does nothing to curb Barholme’s murderous tendencies, or to prevent him from enacting them somewhere else. He must be stopped, not simply made someone else’s problem.”
“If I may make a suggestion,” said the imperial, stepping forward. “I know you asked Nesita and Bartos to seal these three’s magic, to prevent any conflict from breaking out here in council.”
From beside Achzina, Elain let out a soft “oh,” and Achzina himself realized at that moment that his shape-shifting lay beyond him. That they had done so to all three dragons, not just the obviously guilty Barholme, and that they hadn’t bothered to mention it, irked him.
“I believe the first step in punishing Barholme would be to seal his magic in a more long-term manner,” the imperial continued. “That is possible, is it not, Bartos?”
“I’ve never tried it,” said the dark tundra. “But the theory certainly supports it, and I’ve heard of such things from other clans. I don’t doubt that I could work out how to do it. Permanently, if you wish.”
“You cannot take my lord’s blessing from me,” said Barholme, but he spoke quietly, as if not quite sure himself that the words were true.
“You sometimes speak as if you are the only Arcane dragon in this clan,” Bartos said, an almost contemplative note in his voice, though his pink eyes were sharp. “I think we’ll be able to demonstrate quite effectively that that’s not true.”
Aridatha turned to Elain and Achzina. “Without his magic, Barholme will post little threat to anyone. As the injured parties: does his sealing and exile satisfy you?”
Achzina looked at Elain. Elain appeared to consider the matter for a moment. Then turned to Barholme, curled her claws together, and punched him in the gut.
“That’s for all the mind control,” Elain said, while Barholme coughed on the ground.
“Mind control?” Achzina mouthed, but everyone ignored him.
Elain looked at Aridatha. “All right. You can exile him now. I’m going to bed.”
As Aridatha, Acrux, Geras, Bartos, Barholme, and Nesita try to make sense of Kelsus’ fate, Iburel appears to inform them that it was not an isolated incident. // read on dA
“He can’t be gone,” Geras said, for the sixth or seventh time -- Aridatha had lost count. No one really paid attention to the guardian anymore, huddled and shocked as she was, except to step over her tail.
“You have no idea what this is?” Repetition seemed in vogue today: it was the third time Aridatha had asked that, too, nominally directed at Bartos and Nesita but really beseeching anyone who might have any idea what was going on.
“Don’t touch it,” Acrux said, also a repeat, as Barholme’s gaze -- and claw -- strayed towards the rainbow swirls still emerging from Talva’s quarters, where Kelsus had … vanished. “Talva didn’t even touch him and she’s still got it.”
That was something new, something that got Aridatha’s attention -- a way to move forward. “You handled Kelsus, Acrux. Bartos and Nesita too. Does that mean … ”
Acrux frowned. “Telyn said I would probably survive. She said some of us were definitely going to make it, but half … lost.”
“This is our lord’s punishment for suffering a filthy beast-lover to live,” Barholme said, quietly, almost to himself. Perhaps Aridatha was only projecting smug satisfaction onto his monotone voice.
Geras whirled abruptly to face the silver fae and roared, a savage sound that Aridatha had never heard from her -- or any dragon -- outside of battle; the force of her breath blew Barholme back a bit. He picked himself up with an offended air, the pink light of his magic beginning to form around his talons as if he anticipated a fight, but with her piece said, more or less, Geras curled back into herself, head hidden under a wing.
“Barholme, unless you have some truly helpful insight to offer, please leave,” Aridatha said. “It’s probably unwise to have any unnecessary dragons near the site of this … contagion.”
“I did offer helpful insight,” Barholme said, unblinking pink eyes fixed on Aridatha. “Kill the shape-shifter and we may beg our lord’s forgiveness.”
“This … phenomenon … does not bear the signature of Arcane magic,” Bartos said, distaste in his voice as he side-eyed Barholme. While they shared an interest in complex, theoretical magic, Barholme’s fanatical, apparently senseless devotion did not endear him to Bartos. “I find it unlikely to be a divine punishment.”
“Barholme, why don’t you go pray to the Arcanist for insight,” Aridatha suggested. Under her breath, she added, “I think we’ll need all the help we can get.”
“Do not mock me, spark-stealer,” Barholme said, fins pinned back; but he left, and Aridatha forced herself not to wonder what she’d just been called, as there were more important questions at hand.
“Right,” Aridatha said instead, refocusing. “Bartos, you stay here and study this thing. Try to figure out how to stop it, would you? Nesita, check on Talva, from a distance.” They’d placed the snapper in a quarantine of sorts, sending her to wait outside the lair and avoid contact with other dragons. “Acrux, can you make sure no one else has it, and that everyone knows to stay away from here and Talva? Rope in Cypress, and Isildur, and anyone else -- ”
“Now, you would not deprive a dame of her darling, would you?” the deep voice came from behind Aridatha, inside the impacted area, and Aridatha felt ice run down her spine as she turned to see the shining eyes of the ridgeback standing right in the center of the web of rainbow light.
“Iburel … ”
How many dragons had Talva encountered, spoken to, before her eyes had started glowing -- before anyone had known that there might be something wrong with her? At least one, apparently, her own mate … Or perhaps there was another means of transmission …
“Iburel, you need to go join Talva in quarantine.” Aridatha looked around, thinking of the lair’s layout, trying to calculate the quickest way to isolate Iburel, how to minimize exposure …
A toothy grin spread across the ridgeback’s snout. “No.”
“No?” Acrux stepped forward, putting himself bodily between Iburel and the smaller dragons. “Iburel, you’re sick. You’re contagious.”
“Perhaps.” Iburel shrugged. “But I’m afraid I feel acutely alive, and I reject restraint.”
Iburel reached out and picked up a cauldron, one of those he typically used for his brewing -- the cold iron of which, Aridatha noticed distantly, had not been infected with the terrible light, despite its proximity to the site of Kelsus’ disappearance. Then Iburel lifted the cauldron to his face and spat into it, and the glow starting to trace its way across his skin from his eyes filled the cauldron. He held it out to his clanmates, grinning, his teeth shining like cruel stars.
“Won’t you experience my elixir? It animates, I assure.”
“We don’t want what you have,” Acrux said curtly. Then, under his breath: “Aridatha, Nesita, you should go. Bartos too, and Geras. I’ll deal with him.”
“Don’t curtail our company!” Iburel’s laughter was too loud and bright, and Aridatha saw Nesita and Bartos slip away, but she hesitated, unwilling to leave Acrux to deal with this.
“Go! If I’m busy here, you’ll have to warn the others,” Acrux said, pushing Aridatha slightly. When Aridatha didn’t move -- simply wondered if by “busy” he meant “potentially dying” -- Acrux turned to Geras, whose presence Aridatha had almost forgotten, she’d been so quiet. “Geras, get Aridatha out of here. We can’t let this happen to anyone else.”
Acrux seemed to have hit on the key phrase to wake Geras up; in a single, quick motion, the guardian snatched up Aridatha, who could manage no more than an offended squawk, magic and combat never having been among her skills, and crested the treetops with great heaves of her wings.
From above, Aridatha couldn’t distinguish the light twisting through Iburel and through the tree itself from the usual flickers of the Starwood.
Anyone paying close attention to Barholme might have seen some significant changes in him lately ... too bad no one’s actually spotted the priest since his exile.
Barholme’s familiar will be Awakened soon so note to self: drabble about that particular longneck returning to the unclaimed familiars and Barholme picking a different familiar for his creepy mind-control shenanigans.
For something so small, Elain’s harpy form certainly had a strident voice. Her shouting roused Geras from an afternoon nap, just when everything seemed to be going so well. Sighing, Geras got to her feet. Technically, Elain wasn’t a familiar, but since she spent so much time in beastclan form – and apparently preferred the beast-folk’s company to that of her fellow dragons – Geras felt responsible for her.
Geras found Elain standing in the little beastclan camp she’d helped build, facing off against a longneck. No, not the longneck – it was the beast’s burden that drew Elain’s ire. The silver fae, Barholme, perched on a satin pillow carried by the longneck.
“What’s wrong?” Geras said. Elain was in harpy form, feathers ruffled. Several other harpies and centaurs – real harpies and centaurs – watched the scene, although they looked away when Geras caught them looking.
“Elain should be stoned to death,” said Barholme.
“I’m sorry?” Geras thought she must have heard him wrong.
“Shape-shifting is blasphemy,” the fae said. He ought to have sounded furious, full of religious fervor, but no: his tone was as flat as ever. “She rejects the form the gods shaped for her, for us. She consorts with godless beasts, dirtying her entire race. Our entire race. She must repent or die.”
“Um,” Geras said, filled with the conviction that she did not have enough authority for this discussion. And Kelsus wasn’t even here to explain fae body language to her.
Elain darted forward and grabbed the longneck’s shoulders, shaking the creature as a startled Barholme tumbled off his cushion and caught himself in the air. “What have you done to her? You’ve got her magicked to the eyeballs! She’s not a puppet for you to just – ”
“Wait,” Geras said, gently nudging Elain away from the longneck. “Can we take this one thing at a time? Barholme, have you discussed your … concerns … with Aridatha? She’s in charge.”
“Aridatha said she would look into the matter,” Barholme said. “I believe she was putting me off.”
“So you came here to personally harass me,” Elain snapped. “I’m glad! Nobody else was going to tell me, apparently!”
“Elain, I don’t think that’s … I didn’t hear anything of this either. I’m sure Aridatha doesn’t intend to take any action without consulting you.”
“Aridatha is a Lightning dragon,” Barholme said.
“Yes?” Geras had absolutely no idea where he was going with that statement.
“The Stormcatcher is the Arcanist’s natural rival.”
“Uh, what?”
Barholme clung to a low-hanging branch, head head twisted around on his long neck. “I would expect Aridatha to follow the central tenets of the Eleven, but not my lord’s specifically. There are many Light and Lightning dragons in this clan – too many.”
“Why is it too many, exactly?” Geras said.
“Nature is scarcely any better, and Lioska has Aridatha’s ear.” Barholme’s claws twitched. “For an Arcane clan, we have gone terribly astray.”
Geras decided to stop asking for clarification, since each of Barholme’s answers only confused her more. Instead, she stepped forward, putting her considerable bulk between Barholme and Elain. “Barholme, if you have a problem with Elain, you’re going to need to take it up somewhere else. You’re upsetting the familiars.”
That was not a lie: Geras could see nearly half of the sentient beasts watching them. The longnecks were whispering, and she didn’t speak Longneck. Geras’ own familiar, Fee, leaned against the fence, ostensibly paying attention only to her own hair. More likely she was noting the rumors that passed among the beast-folk in several languages. Geras was not sure, exactly, whether Fee’s loyalties lay with her people or her dragon – but Geras’ desires usually aligned with the Serthis’ anyway.
“He’s upsetting me,” Elain said. Her body shuddered, wings lifting up along her back, short nubby arms growing from her chest. Geras looked away; she found the shape-shifter’s transformations rather disturbing, and Elain didn’t like to be observed at that vulnerable moment, either. By the time Geras’ gaze returned to her, Elain was back in centaur form. She had trouble holding her beastclan forms very long – but she spent as little time as she could in her own natural shape. “That longneck …”
“Elain?” Geras said, breaking her own no-more-questions rule, which had barely lasted five minutes.
“She’s bewitched!” Elain said, putting an arm around the shoulders of Barholme’s familiar. The longneck had not moved since Barholme’d flown away; she still held the cushion on which the fae had perched stiffly out in front of her. “Some kind of mind control – he’s turned a proud hunter into a soulless puppet. And then he has the nerve to parade her in front of us like he’s proud of what he’s done!”
“I am proud of what I’ve done,” Barholme said. The longneck moved, rather jerkily, to approach him, and he dropped back down onto the cushion. “It was a difficult enchantment to master and requires skill to maintain. A spell well-cast shows devotion to the Arcanist.”
With a wordless snarl, Elain lunged at him, shedding her centaur form as she did. Dragon-Elain’s claws tore at the air as Geras hurried to gently restrain her.
“Barholme, go away,” Geras said, with all the authority she could muster. She was getting better at it, she thought. “Elain, you and Barholme will have to take up your dispute elsewhere, with other mediators. I suggest you both speak to Aridatha about your problems with each other.”
“He wants me dead!” Elain cried, a harpy again, slipping between Geras’ claws and reaching for Barholme’s familiar. “You can’t let him do this!”
“You will be perfectly safe here, I promise you,” Geras said, giving Barholme what she hoped was an intimidating look. “Barholme understands that to harm a guest would have him stricken from the clan and driven from our lands.”
“ ‘Guest,’” Barholme muttered.
“But he can harm a longneck and that’s fine, isn’t it?” Elain said bitterly.
Geras looked at the creature. Accusations of mind control aside, it looked healthy, uninjured and well kept. She wasn’t sure if her role as beast-keeper gave her the jurisdiction to interfere between Barholme and his familiar. “I’ll bring the subject up with Aridatha. If we find that Barholme mistreats his familiar, it’ll be removed from his custody.”
With a frustrated shriek, Elain threw herself into the air and disappeared into one of the harpy nests on the ridge. Geras was too large to follow her there; instead she watched the beast-folk turn away, murmuring. They didn’t seem much happier with the outcome of the discussion than Elain was. Geras wondered how many of them, besides Fee, spoke Common and had followed the discussion. Perhaps she was imagining it, but the longnecks seemed particularly ill at ease.
By the time Geras turned back to Barholme, his familiar had carried him away.
If Barholme ever actually meets an Arcane-touched dragon his response will be something like: “You have been greatly blessed by our lord the Arcanist. May I cut off one of your limbs and keep it as an object of worship?”
Geras was impressed. It had taken only a quick word to Lioska for the wildclaw to make the best of the situation. Of course, there was only so much the wildclaw could do to make them ready to receive a guest, but she certainly tried. She managed to arrange a little sitting area in the shade of a tree, away from the current noise of construction. Barholme perched on a forking branch that Lioska had planted in the ground, and Nesita lay on an elk pelt, the silvery fur rather complementing her own blue and purple coloration. Geras stood by, rather screening the rest of the lair from view, which she thought was why Lioska had pointed her to this particular spot. And Kelsus leaned on her horns.
“I’m sorry that we’ve disturbed you,” Nesita said. “We didn’t realize that anyone lived here. It … would be difficult to relocate, but I imagine it could be done, if you object considerably to our presence.”
“We’ve already built so much,” Kelsus said. Geras wondered if there’d been hope in Nesita’s voice. The tundra hadn’t wanted to move here; if Barholme kicked them out, she could argue to return to the lair she loved. And yet Geras doubted that Aridatha and Lioska would consider a single, very small prior resident adequate cause to uproot their entire venture.
“You say you are an Arcane clan?” Barholme asked. “You have the eyes for it, at least.”
Nesita nodded. “We are Clan Lukra, lately of the Crystalspine Reaches.”
“I’ve never heard of you.” Barholme’s frills were folded against his head, twitching slightly.
“I imagine not,” Nesita agreed genially, not offended by the statement. “We have always been a quiet clan, never ambitious or fame-seeking. We lived quietly in our caves, keeping to ourselves and trading or traveling little.”
She didn’t sound ashamed at the unimpressive resumé. Geras imagined that Nesita rather missed that quiet life.
“But you serve the Arcanist?” Barholme asked. Geras got the impression that he was not very interested in subjects other than his god and his worship.
“Yes.” Nesita folded her claws thoughtfully before her. “We have sent many dragons to serve at our lord’s side.”
Geras hadn’t thought about her long-ago nests for ages, but she wondered suddenly how her daughters were doing in the Arcanist’s care. She had found that she didn’t really like breeding and stopped. Bartos had done the same thing after their nest. Brenna had been gone for so long that it felt strange to think they had a child together. It was as if she’d never existed at all.
Barholme’s flat voice called her back to the present. “But how does your clan worship him in the here and now?”
“I’m not sure I understand your meaning,” Nesita said.
Barholme waved a wing at the valley behind him. “I see no shrines, no tributes to his glory. I sense no rituals, just a gaping emptiness.”
“Rituals?” Nesita said, puzzled. “I don’t know of any rituals.”
Barholme’s head bobbed. “You can’t see the patterns in the stars, telling you what to do? And you call yourself Arcanites.”
“We’ve never called ourselves that, actually,” Kelsus chimed in. Barholme’s fins flared.
“If we’re so remiss, why don’t you show us what we should do?” Geras inserted quickly. She was getting the hang of some fae body language, after hanging out with Kelsus so much, and she was pretty sure that gesture wasn’t friendly. “If we’ve neglected the Arcanist’s due, it’s from ignorance, not malice.”
Nesita nodded slowly. “We never wished to disturb you and have no wish to drive you from your home. You could join us and show us the way. We have resources – I’m sure we could make a more fitting tribute to the Arcanist together than either of us would separately.”
Barholme’s head twisted. “I need crystals. To replace the ones this lumbering giant stepped on.”
He flicked a claw towards Geras on that last part. I did? Oops.
“We have them,” Nesita said calmly. “Most remain at our previous lair site, but I’ll send word to Aridatha and we’ll include them in the next shipment of supplies.”
Geras wondered who’d be carrying that one. She had come to the Starwood Strand with great amounts of timber and stone hanging from her shoulders.
“I wish to plant sacridite and celestine together, perhaps with some kunzite and chalcedony.”
“Chalcedony is toxic to dragons who aren’t Arcane-born,” Nesita said. “Do you intend to try to neutralize it with rhodochrosite? Last I heard, that technique was still experimental.”
Barholme’s fins twitched. Kelsus leaned into Geras’ ear and whispered, “He’s impressed.”
“I intended to use morganite, actually.” Barholme then launched into a long explanation, most of which went completely over Geras’ head – quite a feat, at her size. Nesita seemed to follow it, though, and nodded thoughtfully, adding the occasional comment or question. Geras could understand just enough to tell that they’d wandered into a technical discussion of magic and, therefore, out of the scope of her interests. She turned and saw Acrux beckoning to her, presumably for help with the wooden platform he was currently securing to one of the large trees.
“I’ll take my leave of you,” Geras said. Barholme didn’t seem to hear her, but Nesita looked up at her, smiled, and mouthed “Thank you.”
