and went to see if Aket-ten might be awake at this early hour. She had always been used to going to the Temple for Dawn Rites—was she still waking that early anyway?
She was.
He found her in the courtyard of her chambers, and with her, Heklatis.
“Toreth came back,” he said as they looked up, and gave them the gist what the prince had said.
Heklatis heaved a sigh of relief. “They looked at him and saw a handsome, muscle-bound fool,” the Healer replied. “Good!”
Aket-ten looked almost faint with relief.
Kiron felt a stab of that same emotion he’d gotten at the thought of anyone else riding Avatre. This time he knew it for what it was.
Jealousy. He was jealous that Aket-ten should be that concerned for Toreth. It shocked and surprised him to the core.
He covered it by going in and sitting down. “I don’t think he’s safe—” he began.
“Neither do I!” Heklatis said firmly. “I will be doing what work I can to safeguard him. This is not over; the Great Ones could still die. There are always accidents, illnesses. Now that they know that he knows—he is not safe. Fortunately, it only takes a little magic, properly used, to defeat greater magic.” He grinned mirthlessly, showing a great many teeth. “And I have the advantage over them. I know how they are schooled; they do not know how I am.”
Kiron took a deep breath. “I came here to ask if the two of you can do something. I want to find a way to remove the Jousters from both armies.”
They both looked at him, as if wondering where in the world that idea came from, and why he would ask them to help with it.
“Both armies? That is no small task you set us,” Heklatis admitted reluctantly, “But I believe I see what your point is. Remove the Jousters, and it is army against army, in which we are equal. Remove the Jousters, and you remove the reason to send storms—which, unless they can concoct some better spell to use against the Tians, also removes the overt reason for the support of the Magi.”
Leaving only the stolen years, which even the Great Ones dare not admit to. If that is not forbidden magic, it is perilous close.
“It was Toreth’s idea that, eventually we could negate the Tian Jousters,” said Kiron. “But I fear that we may not have the time, now. If the Magi dare to use the Eye against dissenters—”
“Then they have grown too powerful, and we should look for other ways to take some of that power from them.” Heklatis nodded. “Well, we can do that. We can also look for ways to armor the Winged Ones against being used. And we can look for allies.” He raised one eyebrow. “The Bedu, do you think?”
Kiron had to shrug. “I do not know. I do not know that anyone knows the Bedu well enough to guess what they will think or do.”
“But they have a use for gold, and they might well feel threatened by our Magi,” Heklatis persisted. “Yes?”
Kiron nodded after a moment. “Yes to both, I think. They have their own magics, and the Magi cannot help but see that as a rivalry, if not a danger.”
“Then Aket-ten and I will pursue the first path together, and I—and eventually you—will pursue the second. Agreed?” asked Heklatis.
Oh, yes, the Magi should be shivering in their beds, Kiron thought cynically. A half-trained Jouster, a Winged Fledgling, and a foreign Healer. We shall defeat them and send them packing and still have time for breakfast!
But, “Agreed,” he said anyway. Because it was that—or despair. And he was not yet ready for despair.
FIFTEEN
KIRON was not ready for despair, but despair followed its own laws, and arrived on tattered wings.
It came on the wind, spreading in a sound that no one in all of Alta had ever heard before, a keening wail of a cry that broke the heart before anyone even knew the cause. It engulfed them, took them, shook them.
The sound struck all three of them like blows of a lance; all three of them gasped as one. Kiron rose, but it was Aket-ten who was halfway to the door before he was halfway to his feet.
The wail led him to the source, hard on her heels, with Heklatis not far behind, to the dragonets’ pens—to Toreth’s pen—
—to where Toreth’s dragon Re-eth-katen stood, blue-black head pointed skyward, silver-blue neck outstretched, wailing her unbearable loss to an uncaring sky.
—to where Toreth lay,