Chapter One: Day Terrors
Jezaia leafed through the papers in the drawer. Her husband was sleeping like he usually did after sex, so she had plenty of time. Arrest warrants, gaol orders, limited powers of the crown, orders of knighthood, but no manumissions. She had assumed that Owain would have a few pre-signed manumission forms, gods knew he had enough of all the other forms that the palace used.
It dawned on her that she had wasted her time seducing her husband. Owain wouldn’t free a slave no matter how much it had pleased him. Therefore, it stood to reason that he wouldn’t keep pre-signed copies of that form. Jethain, on the other hand…Jezaia closed the drawer and flounced out of the king’s suite.
Half an hour later, Jezaia held up the manumission form with triumph. Her son had four pre-signed copies of it in his desk. It was the work of moments to fill in Essina’s name and slave number. Virien would not profit from going behind her back. She folded the form, dripped wax on it, and sealed it with Jethain’s personal seal that she’d found in his desk drawer.
Jezaia slipped into the Library, which wasn’t a single room, but an interconnected series of rooms that seemed to grow with every passing year. Bookcases lined the walls while tables, desks, and a large assortment of chairs cluttered the floor space. Towards the back there were smaller rooms set up for the scribes that industriously copied manuscripts before the originals faded to illegibility.
Each scribe had an assigned working area with their name neatly engraved on a small brass plate that was nailed to the left hand corner of the desk’s edge. The Librarian claimed this practice reduced territorial squabbles among her workers. Jezaia thought that chaining the slaves to their chairs would work as well, but at the moment, the name plates were very useful to her. It took less than five minutes to find Essina’s desk. She set the sealed manumission scroll on the empty workspace.
* * * *
Scorth sat on the couch in the parlor. Rak was in his lap, and he stroked his rider’s back and wings, offering what comfort he could. The pain made sleep difficult for Rak, and every time he did fall asleep, the dreams would wake him up again, screaming about Xaethien, chaos priests, Narvain, the Unmaker…it was enough to unnerve even Scorth.
The dragon had given up on sleep, or on Rak sleeping, and had brought his rider out here, and here they stayed. Inspiration dawned, and with a quick mental effort, Scorth summoned Jisten. It didn’t matter to him that it was late watch, an hour before dawn. Scorth soothed Rak again, for the priest had caught the edge of his sending to Jisten. Scorth wasn’t able to totally shield his soul-bonded rider from his broadcast thoughts.
“Jisten is coming,” said Scorth, soothingly. He could sense Rak’s acceptance of that. He could also sense the Valer Captain’s rapid approach. It wouldn’t be long before the man came, and then he would work his magic on Rak, and Rak would be content and happy again. Scorth totally approved of the Valer’s effect on his Loftoni.
“What’s wrong?” Jisten asked as he strode in, not even breathing hard, though Scorth knew he’d run the whole way. He pushed back stray hair that had escaped from his careless ponytail and straightened his untucked shirt.
Scorth studied the Valer and then gestured to Rak. “He’s not having a good night.”
Jisten slid into a sitting position next to them and stroked Rak’s near wing. “Night terrors? Or day terrors that haunt your nights?”
“Do not let Xaethien have me,” Rak pleaded, only half in the real world. He turned his head towards Jisten.
“He shall not,” Jisten declared. “Remember him ablaze. Remember the light from the sky.”
Scorth slid the unresisting Rak onto Jisten’s lap now that the Valer had the Loftoni’s attention.
“Do you remember? The column of burning fire up to one of the heavens?” Jisten stroked both wings once he could reach them, and settled the smaller man against himself.
“I ‘member,” said Rak, his speech slurred from the morphea Scorth had given him. “But he was there. Yes’erday. Hurt me ‘gain.”
“That was his lesser child,” Jisten said. “Soon to be as dead as his elder.”
“He is dead?” Rak blinked up at Jisten trustingly.
“Xaethien is dead,” Jisten said as he stroked the wings more. “Remember the fire?”
“Pretty fire,” murmured Rak. “A col’mn of gold’n flames up to the sun.”
“Yes, yes. Scorth and I are here now. You should always call us when you need help. Promise?” Jisten soothed. “Promise your dragon? Promise your Valer?” Jisten propped up his legs. Scorth could tell that Rak was comfortable, with his head on Jisten’s shoulder, pressed torso to torso, wings easily accessible to the man.