Sharoani rarely come down to the town.” He didn’t expect a general of the Valreus military would take well to the knowledge that Kalai had both brought a dragon to Kykaros, and that it had killed a man.
“And what brings you to Valreus?”
“A change of pace, I suppose,” Kalai said, more truthfully.
General Falka hummed. “You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a job, by any chance?”
Slowly, Kalai smiled. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
General Falka extended a hand to him once more. “In that case. If you’re interested, you’re hired.”
Kalai shook the general’s hand for the second time. Finding a job had been easier than he’d expected. “As what, exactly?”
“Archivist. In service of the Valreus Sky Guard.” Falka mirrored his smile. “We found ourselves without an archivist a week ago. I ordered all these books and documents moved to the Sunrise Tower for safekeeping, but if you’re up for the job, I suppose we don’t have to.”
Kalai’s smile grew. If that wasn’t the fanciest thing he’d ever heard. “Then you’ve got yourself an archivist, General.”
General Falka’s smile creased the corners of his eyes. “Of course, some of these documents are bound to hold sensitive information. I’ll be posting a guard outside the archive, just as a precaution. How does a one week trial period sound?”
“Sounds fair,” Kalai agreed. “I suppose I’ll get unpacked.”
“Make yourself comfortable, Mister Ro-Ani, then we can discuss details.” To the other men, Falka said, “Get those books back inside.”
CHAPTER 3
Tauran woke early to the sound of a knock at the door. He sat, eyes narrowed in the bright sunlight, and fumbled for a pair of trousers. Dragging them on, he waddled to the front door, flicking through an annoying amount of locks before pulling it open.
General Falka stood before him with his hands folded behind his back, looking as if he never slept.
“It’s early,” Tauran said in greeting, and retreated to the kitchen to pour himself something strong, only to realize his cabinets were empty.
“It’s nine in the morning.” Falka sounded mildly amused. He took a seat at the table.
“Early,” Tauran repeated, settling for a completely inadequate glass of water, instead. “You really aren’t wasting time, huh?”
“How do you like the apartment?”
“Could use some curtains in the bedroom.”
“I’ll have that taken care of.”
Tauran sat and cleared his throat, sobering. “Sorry. Mornings aren’t really my thing.”
Falka chuckled. “I’m not offended.”
Tauran took a sip, then leaned back, crossing one ankle over the other. He had some things to set straight. “General, I’m not here to fly. Not today, not tomorrow, not a year from now. And if that’s the price of this apartment, I’m afraid you’ll have to evict me again.”
“I understand,” Falka said slowly. “And I’m not asking you to fly. All I’m saying is, you were a damn good rider, and the guard has suffered without you. If you want nothing to do with the Sky Guard right now, that’s fine. I’m sure Emilian could use your expertise on the ground.”
“Emilian?” Tauran asked, interest piqued.
“He’s General of the Ground Guard now.”
Tauran whistled. “He dusted himself off well.”
“Kalesta’s death was hard on him, but he’s strong. So are you, Tauran.”
Tauran looked away, the back of his neck prickling. He crossed his arms. “I don’t know, General. I’m not twenty years old anymore, and I can’t fight with this leg.”
“He could still use you,” Falka insisted. “You’re good with weapons and you’re trained in combat. Your Sky Guard training is still useful on the ground.”
Tauran looked out the window. Already, the sounds filtered from the guard grounds below. He didn’t want to set foot there for another million years, and he definitely didn’t want to fight, but despite himself, he said, “I suppose I could make myself useful.”
Falka smiled. “Whatever you want to do, we can make it happen.”
“I’ll think about it.”
* * *
The archive was incredible. Like a living creature, with organic forms and old scars and evidence of decades, if not centuries of age. The first thing Kalai did was clear the desk, placing pens and quills back into their proper boxes, returning an old walking stick to its holder by the front door, and organizing the papers strewn across the bloodwood tabletop into piles based on content. At the center of the desk, the wood dipped faintly, no doubt from countless hands and hard work wearing away at the surface.
Whoever had lived and worked in the archive before Kalai had left one serious mess, as if they’d one day simply walked out with the