15. Yveun

Yveun tapped his quill mindlessly upon the desk as he looked out over the wide balcony to his left.

The world had been quiet, almost quiet enough to give the illusion that all was right within it. But Yveun knew better. He did not appreciate the silence from his guild advisers down on Loom. He certainly knew better than to think the relative silence from Petra meant the woman had given up on her foolishly grandiose ambitions.

But those were two areas over which he had no control. His advisers on Loom were doing the best they could, considering the current climate within the guilds. The one he’d sent to get a hold on the Alchemists had been put off time and again, enough so that Yveun was nearly at the point of applying force. And Yveun had never boasted a measure of control over Petra, which was part of the problem.

He looked back down at his papers, rubbing his temples. If he looked at the balcony, he saw the ghost of Leona, reminding him of his immense failure in losing one of his greatest assets. If he looked at his work he was reminded of the guilds on Loom and all their troubles.

It all left only one frustration for him to focus on: Fennyr.

The elder brother of his enemy had been given what Yveun considered a simple task. Sniff out some information, any information. It couldn’t possibly be difficult. But his lack of results reminded Yveun why, despite being older than Petra, Fennyr was not the Oji of House Xin.

Still, Yveun had cause for hope. Fennyr had finally been invited home by Petra. The Dono rarely let his wards return to their respective islands, but he was all too eager to make an exception in this case.

He had been patient, but his patience was finally running out. The man had been gone for three days now, and Yveun wondered what could possibly be taking so long.

He tapped his quill again.

He lamented over the state of Loom.

His mind tortured him with the need to find a suitable replacement for Leona.

He could even smell the stink of the Chimeras House Rok kept deep below from where he sat, wafting up to his wandering mind like a foul potpourri that perfectly complemented his rotten state.

The distractions were unkind and it took Yveun nearly twice his usual time to attend to the resource allocation of both Loom and Nova. It was a delicate balance, one that was getting marginally easier with time, albeit no less tedious. Now that Fenthri were raised and kept in the guild they were born into, there were more exact counts on what each guild needed to sustain itself. Enough years had also passed that it was becoming clearer how many would survive, on average, the guild tests at Initiate and Journeymen to then become part of the general population.

Before, the land below was running through resources like wildfire, uncontrolled and unabashed. Had contact with Nova not been made, Yveun doubted they would have been able to sustain themselves for much longer before reaching their limit. And yet the Fenthri remained ungrateful to the good changes he was trying to implement.

Yveun stood from his desk, gathering his monthly updates. Not much changed with each cycle of the moon, just small shifts in how he wanted to see trade managed. But year after year, progress was made.

Lossom, his current Master Rider, waited outside his room. Yveun had yet to allow the man into his space.

“Tell me of the happenings beneath Lysip,” Yveun demanded as they walked. There were precious few hours in the day to waste any. He had yet to grant the young man quarters in the great Rok Estate and, for the time being, it meant he would also serve as Yveun’s eyes to the underside of the island.

“There was a dispute between some no-titled and some Bek.” Such was par for the course. Two of the lower rungs of society fighting tooth and nail. “A Veh chose to involve himself.”

“A Veh?” Yveun was actually interested now. “Why would a Veh bother with no-ranked squalor?”

“Because the no-titled slew all the Bek and proceeded to feast on them before their families.”

Yveun considered this. When Lossom had originally said “some no-titled” he had assumed his Rider to be speaking of multiple people—not a single person whose name he merely did not know. That made it all the more interesting.

“And did the Veh put this no-name to rest?”

“The Veh was killed, Dono.”

Even after feasting on the hearts of fallen foes, for a no-name to defeat a Veh… This no-name had Yveun’s interest. “What does this no-title go by?”

“I do not know.” Admitting as much made Lossom nervous. Nothing pleased Yveun more.

“Find out,” Yveun commanded. “Or better, bring him to me.”

“Her,” Lossom corrected.

Her.

All the better. In Yveun’s experience, women were fiercer fighters than men. He had a list of theories longer than his claws on the why, but it made no difference. All he had to look at was the evidence around him: Coletta, Leona, Petra, Camile, and a handful of other Riders he’d seen come and die. Women approached every battle as though it was their last, and they had nothing left to lose but everything to prove.

“Bring her to me.” Yveun would be truly impressed if the man could. It was likely a matter he would pass to Coletta and her quiet flowers, whose unassuming roots ran deep.

“As you wish.” Lossom bowed, holding his position as Yveun entered the Hall of Whispers.

It was a long corridor with doors on either side. Emblazoned on every door was a plate that bore two names. The first was the occupant of the room; the second was the person with whom the occupant shared a whisper link. The Hall of Whispers served as the main communication hub for Nova and Loom, and it was entirely under Yveun’s control.

Yveun first went to the whisperer who had a link with the Harvesters’ guild, explaining the message that was to be delivered down to Loom. He repeated the process for every guild but the Alchemists. Yveun had been hoping that by throttling their resources, he would finally force the guild’s hand into accepting his advisement and oversight, but they remained as persistent as ever. They would not relish the alternative methods he would employ if forced.

He was halfway back to his quarters when a slave of House Rok stopped him with all the etiquette that could be mustered for one so lowly.

“Dono, Fennyr Xin’Kin To has returned,” the prostrating man reported.

Yveun’s triumph spread across his face. Finally, Fennyr had returned and he would have some answers. The slave held his reverence the entire time Yveun was visible. If he hadn’t, Yveun may well have killed him in a fit of delight.

The wildflowers of Lysip were in their second bloom. Their potent scent masked all others, effectively clouding magic and blood alike. It was one of the many reasons why the old Donos of House Rok had chosen this spot on which to build the estate. All manner of horror could be hidden behind the lovely petals of dragon snaps, lavender, honeysuckle, and the magical properties of Lord Agandi’s Flowers.

He entered Finnyr’s home without so much as a knock. The man nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of the Dono. Finnyr was pale, almost Fen-like in his overall pallor. Even his muted gold hair seemed to lack some of its luster. More disconcerting were the bruises that dotted his skin.

Yveun closed the door slowly behind him, assessing the frightened man-creature. He wasn’t concerned for the man’s well-being out of any friendly obligation. Finnyr was a tool in a greater game, a useful pawn and a powerful player when deployed properly, which meant Yveun cared about the picture all the signs added up to make. Some kind of trauma had clearly occurred, and Yveun wasn’t about to let any more of his chips be taken from him by unknown sources.

“Does Petra know?” Yveun asked foremost. If the rival Oji had ascertained Finnyr’s true loyalties, much would change.

“K-know?” Finnyr shook his head, pacing. “No, but her continued belief in my loyalty despite sleeping under your care has come at a new price.”

Yveun didn’t care what Petra charged her kin for their loyalty. “Did you find out the truth of Cvareh’s trip to Loom?”

“Not quite.” Finnyr spoke hastily as Yveun began to vivisect him with his eyes. It would be mere minutes before he was doing it with his claws. Given Finnyr’s generally depleted state, Yveun wasn’t sure how long the other man would survive. “She is suspicious of me, of my loyalty still. She tests me still. She doesn’t want me to return home often because she says I am more valuable to her here. But she does not give me any information on what is happening in the Xin manor.”

“Finnyr, I am not a man who has time for excuses,” Yveun snarled.

Finnyr wrung his hands, over and over and over again. “I know one thing.”

The fact the Yveun had yet to gnaw on his sinew and bone was encouragement enough for Finnyr to continue.

“She demanded my hands.”

“Your hands?” Yveun narrowed his eyes.

“Mine, specifically. She said she needed them, for the glory of the house.”

“You mean…?”

“To harvest,” Finnyr clarified weakly.

Once more, Petra affirmed what Yveun knew to be a fundamental truth about women: they did not hesitate. They waited for none to spoon them their desires. They took what they deemed theirs gratefully, forcefully, unapologetically, gracefully, or viciously. It didn’t matter so long as it rested with them when the day was done.

He admired them for it. Not a dawn rose that he didn’t envision how he could be more like his wife in that respect.

“Why?” Yveun asked himself as much as he asked the Dragon before him. Finnyr had magic in his hands, but so did many other Dragons. Many, no doubt, under Petra’s direct supervision. She didn’t need to call back her brother simply to harvest a pair of hands.

“Because it’s Petra and she delights in my displeasure?”

Yveun was loath to admit that he and the Xin’Oji had anything in common, so he let the remark fade. “That’s not enough for Petra. She called you from under my care… She wanted your hands.”

“Cvareh told me nothing else quite matched their specific ends.” Finnyr scowled at the mere mention of Cvareh’s name.

Yveun had no doubt the careful phrasing was chosen by Petra herself, so he turned it over again and again in his mind, trying to make sense of it. Matched. That was the odd word out. “Did you smell a Chimera on him?”

“On Cvareh?” Finnyr clearly couldn’t fathom why Yveun would even ask. “I doubt my younger brother knows even the first thing about Chimera.”

They were getting nowhere. While Yveun wasted time trying to turn Finnyr into something he wasn’t, Petra was clearly unfurling more banners to lay claim upon the edges of Yveun’s control. He had stalled enough.

“No more half measures,” Yveun muttered to himself.

“Dono?”

“How long has it been since the last Crimson Court?”

Finnyr blinked at the sudden shift in conversation, but recovered quickly. “Perhaps four years? No more than six…”

“I think it is time I summon my nobility together.” Yveun grinned with malicious glee, a new plan unfolding before him. There was one way Petra could not keep Finnyr out, or him, or half the noble Dragons upon Nova. “Contact your sister. Be thrilled that you will be the first to tell her that I am holding a Crimson Court.”

“When should I tell her this will take place?”

“A fortnight.” Yveun wanted to waste no time. He started for the door to return to the Hall of Whispers; there were preparations to be made. “But you did not ask the most important question, Finnyr. It is not when it will take place. It is where.”

Finnyr was slow on the uptake, but his eyes widened as he suddenly understood the source of the King’s mirth.

“Tell her that she has the delight of hosting the Crimson Court on the Isle of Ruana. And I expect every man, woman, and child under House Xin’s care to be in attendance, regardless if they are usual Court members or not.”

He would root out the truth himself. He would see the blood of every member of House Xin stain the ground if that was what it took. He was Yveun Rok’Oji Dono, and he did not operate in half measures.