The Greeneyes had departed for Hyacinth. The rescue party was left to huddle around the fire against the gathering desert chill. As she waited for the kettle to boil, Arinel made a poultice with desert herbs she had picked and dried during her trip across the Sands. A mixture of acacia, brittle bush, desert lavender, yellow bells and whatnot, sure to soothe the nerves and the bowels.

Once the kettle had begun to sputter, she slipped it off the spit and poured scalding water over the poultice into wobbly tin cups. She carried the first two to Baron Hadrian and Simon—they spared a moment to nod in thanks before returning to their grave discussion over a letter. The next she offered to Christopher, who had just returned with more firewood and gratefully warmed his dusty hands around it. She set one down before Jerald, who refused to acknowledge it, left one behind on the gravel to cool for Coris alongside her empty cup, and made her way to the tent with the last one.

She lifted up a half of the cloth-door. Zier was lying on his side on the carpet. He hadn't bothered taking off his boots. He flinched away from the sliver of light as it slithered up his crumpled silhouette, burrowing his face deeper into his arms.

"Zier? I brought you tea."

Zier flipped onto his tummy, trembling. She knelt down and caught snippets of a sob leaking from the crook of his arm.

"Zier!"

Arinel bent down and gathered him onto her lap. He pushed himself up and into her embrace, nestling his face into her chest.

"I'm sorry. I just can't do it." He blubbered, shaking his head in a desperate plea for mercy. "I don't want them to hate me. I don't want to die."

He repeated over and over as he clung tighter to her. Arinel pressed her nose into his hair and dried her tears. In this moment, a soothing hand down his back, and a listening ear, were all she could think to offer.

⏳

By the time Arinel reemerged from the tent, Coris's tea had gone ice-cold. She replaced half his cup with freshly poured tea, then cast her eyes about for the Hadrian heir. She found him stationed a little way away from the clearing, his back to the light, his eyes on the wedge of darkening sky visible behind the gaping mouth of the valley.

Arinel approached him, tin cup in each hand. So deep was his concentration, he only started at the sight of her hand entering his field of vision. He whipped around, eyebrows raised. His sharp gray eyes were emotionless, constantly calculating—just as they were all those years ago.

"Tea," was all Arinel could manage to break the awkward silence. Coris's eyebrows crept closer together.

"Thank you."

Arinel felt his eyes upon her as she gathered her skirt and settled down. He blinked, then unfurled a smile which did not reach his eyes.

"Interesting. What inspired you to seek my hated company, Lady Crosset?"

"You were supposed to be my husband. Just thought I'd see what could have been." Arinel cocked her head.

"Ah. So, are we going all the way?"

Arinel felt a rush of heat on her cheeks. She shot the cheeky lad a withering look.

"No, thank you. I'm regretting it now."

Coris chuckled.

"Shame." He heaved a dramatic sigh, then succumbed to the call of the earth and slumped down by her side, "Perfect timing, nevertheless. I've been meaning to ask—How's your research going?"

Arinel seized up under the pressure of those intense, eager gray eyes. She'd just meant to persuade him to relent and look in on Zier, actually. She guessed he'd be preoccupied with rescuing Meya, and had prepared thus. But it was impossible, it seemed, to predict just exactly what—and how many things—were going through Coris's mind at any given time.

She had no countermeasure. And, having served as receptacle for the anguish of others, without a chance to pour a drop out of her own overflowing bowl, Arinel realized only then how desperate she was. It hardly occurred to her she was about to divulge her secrets to her mortal enemy—a known manipulator.

"Nowhere." She propped her arm on her knees and rested her forehead against her hand, "It started off well enough. I've got Dineira to help. We've refined Tyberne's method to be more efficient, but—we're having difficulty finding volunteers to test it on."

"What if you offer a handsome reward?" Coris suggested. Arinel pressed her fingers on her closed eyes.

"I tried, but—Gold? Illegal? Death? It attracted all the wrong sorts of people for all the wrong purposes. And we can't get funding from Lady Jaise. She could get in trouble with the king."

"How about prisoners? Those scheduled to be executed? Castrated?"

Arinel froze, then sighed. Ask Coris, and of course she'd get solutions like these—use any means possible, morals be damned. But what irked her most was that she had considered it herself. And perhaps—was even briefly tempted.

"Anesthesia is supposed to save lives, Coris. It's supposed to be safe. Testing it on dispensable people, people who are meant to die or suffer—I don't want the public to associate it with that."

She met his gaze and shook her head. A streak of annoyance flitted by in Coris's eyes—not at her, but at the shallow reservations of man at large.

"An image problem, eh." He stroked his chin as his eyes roamed, "Proving your mother's death to be murder rather than alchemical mishap might help to soften the Council—if only they weren't occupied with the resources crisis." He muttered sullenly, then his face lit up—

"Have you considered experimenting on yourself? A noblewoman putting her own life at stake for her cause. If that didn't boost the public's confidence, nothing would."

Arinel's heart skipped a beat. An unbidden flash of anger tore through her. She couldn't help it; it was second instinct. She was a woman—a noblewoman, no less. How dare he suggest such a thing, as if her life was disposable? But just as soon, shame flooded her, humbling her, as she remembered the Famine and Gillian's ambush. She swallowed her pride and forced herself to focus.

"I have, but Grandma and Sir Bayne wouldn't allow it. And I can't ask Bishop Riddell or Dineira, either. After all, it's my mother's life work—it's my work."

"And how does that make you feel? Frustrated? Or relieved?"

His question sunk like a blade of ice into her core, chilling her from within as the truth seeped out of her. Arinel trembled, then hung her head.

"Relieved," She breathed. Coris nodded.

"That's the true problem, Arinel." He betrayed a small, triumphant smile, "If even you aren't fully at ease with it, no one will be. And it's not your fault."

He tilted his cup as if to salute her, then took a sip. Arinel's breath caught as realization hit her. She glared down at the gravel at her feet as her heart pounded. Her cheeks flushed from both embarrassment and rage.

He'd lured her in with his charming wordsmith. She'd confided in him in her most vulnerable moment, and he'd wasted no time in wielding that knowledge against her. She remembered now, why she had once loathed him so ardently.

"Is this why you wanted to talk? To convince me to give up?" She whipped around and glared, seething through gritted teeth, "I don't play your games, Coris. Just be frank with me. What—are you—after?"

Coris sat frozen, blinking, pale as parchment. Arinel frowned. She'd never feared Coris, of course, but she hadn't expected she'd ever scare him into being human for once, either. He looked away, out into the valley. A charged silence stretched between them.

"I want you to research Lattis—how to nullify it—and recreate The Rota."

It became Arinel's turn to blink and gape. As the notion dawned on her, her heart shuddered with both sorrow and gratitude.

This scheme, this negotiation—had ultimately been for Zier. She'd come in hoping to ask his forgiveness, and it had been utterly unnecessary. She'd had no clue what was in his brain—and still didn't; somehow, all this time, he'd been thinking of Zier and little else. He'd always paved the shortest path for every conquest, yet now he was willing to walk the longest roundabout to spare his brother the fear of death.

If only Zier could've seen.

"What about The Axel?" Her voice was so hoarse it surprised her. Tendrils of grief rolled off Coris's shoulders even as he creaked up his empty little smile.

"I know. It's a dilemma, isn't it?" He chuckled feebly, "You know Zier the best. What would you do?"

He turned to her, looking so simply, so truly lost, it threw her for a loop. Arinel leafed through memories fresh and faded. She remembered how Coris would leave her crying alone by the pond, haunted by his devilish smile, his voice whispering that Mother resented her, that Father was disappointed she wasn't a boy—and Zier would sit down beside her and ask about her dolls. He couldn't stop her marriage to his brother—but he promised he would be there to protect her. It made the thought of marrying Coris tolerable—perhaps even hopeful.

"I'm not giving up on him." Arinel finally said, quiet but firm. "Please. Don't give up on him just yet."

She shook her head slowly, pleading through her eyes. Coris's eyes widened before he broke his gaze. Sighing, he massaged his temples.

"Why is it so difficult for him to confess? He knows we're not killing him for The Axel. I've told him dozens of times."

"But do you really feel it, Coris? He's a Hadrian—and a man. People expect him to sacrifice his life for the greater good. Even you and your parents. You're his example of how to be a man. And he feels he had no choice but to follow you but he couldn't."

Coris glared down at his boots. Arinel leaned closer.

"He doesn't want to die, but a man isn't allowed to fear death, is he?"

Coris pursed his lips into a mere line. His hands curled into trembling fists on his knees.

"I agree that he must confess on his own. I'm grateful that you've waited so long to give him the chance—but seeing you suffer in his place only makes it harder. I know what he did was treason, but did he deserve to die?"

For a moment Coris considered it, then his jaw clenched in distaste. His eyes blazed.

"So, you're saying—he must believe our parents would forgive him before he'd confess?" His lips twisted into a cold sneer. He bolted to his feet.

"We can't wait to do what's right when it's convenient. You sacrificed your father's love and your titles. Crossed the Sands with your worst enemy for Meya's sake! My brother is a coward who doesn't deserve your sympathy—and frankly, I'm ashamed of him!"

Coris rounded on her, then caught himself. Arinel noticed his wide-eyed horror, and realized she had flinched back, a hand clutching her chest. Pathetic, really. She was a tern's flight away from home, yet a raised voice could send her back to her room in Crosset Castle ringing with Father's outbursts.

Coris gingerly knelt down by her side, as if creeping up on a rabbit.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I say we set this aside for now and focus on the rescue?"

Arinel drew in a deep breath and willed her wire-taut limbs to unravel. She nodded. He was right, she grudgingly admitted. They'd have to deal with Zier later. Coris couldn't afford to lose his calm now.

"I shouldn't have brought Gillian into this. I'm sorry." She hung her head in shame.

"Don't be. It's a great opportunity." Coris waved it aside without a breath's pause, "It would be more beneficial for the cause if we could bring him to negotiations. That's your plan, isn't it? That's why you cooperated with him?"

Arinel resurfaced to find Coris staring at her, eyebrows raised, and felt her cheeks flush. He could still read her like a letter. It was as if she hadn't improved the slightest in a decade.

"I just needed the fastest way to cross the desert. And I—I have this feeling that he'd never harm Meya." Arinel stared into the remnants of her tea, thinking back, "The way he relented and went along with her childish plan. Even after she betrayed him, he retreated when he could've just—burned us to ash and collect The Axel. It was as if he'd made a vow to himself to protect every single dragon and Greeneye he came across."

"Meya said so, too." Coris nodded, jaw set with determination. "We have to take a chance."

Arinel blinked, astonished. She'd expected him to spin that vulnerability to his advantage. Crush his enemy permanently. Perhaps he had changed. A little.

"I feared you wouldn't be able to forgive him for Beau. Then I remember it's you." She hitched up a wry grin, then bit her lip in dismay, "Still, he killed five of my men. I'm not looking forward to facing their families."

"And that decoy entourage he mentioned?"

"It was a bluff. There was no decoy. Sir Bayne confirmed."

"And what did Gretella and Sir Bayne say about all this?"

Arinel jolted, unprepared for that sudden reminder. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tilted her head,

"Sparing Dineira's life was understandable. Letting her help with the research is too much for Grandmother. Just when I thought I'd still have Sir Bayne—"

Arinel stole a glance at the campfire behind, only to accidentally meet Jerald's gaze across the divide. For perhaps the first time, he was the one to break away. Arinel's heart shuddered at the sight.

"You're the one thing he has left of your mother. Naturally, he's overprotective." said Coris.

"But I'm not my mother." Arinel shot back, then muttered morosely. "And he's not my father."

"You've put him in a confusing position. Perhaps if you made it clear what you want him to be? A cousin? A friend? A servant? A father?"

Arinel started at the stab of agony in her chest. Realizing he had overstepped, Coris abandoned the pursuit, but he wasn't silent for long,

"Can you see yourself reconciling with your father?"

"Not unless he pardons Meya, that's for sure." Arinel said brusquely. Even so, she felt her whole body trembling. She closed her eyes against the bubbling tears.

"I can't stand it. Knowing what he did to Mother. To me. And now Meya. Without a shred of remorse. We're too—different. Perhaps it was just a matter of time. Perhaps it's for the best. I don't know."

She hid her face in her hands. Coris allowed her some time to grieve, then broke the vigil,

"Perhaps he'd be placated if we bear him an heir?"

"He already has an heir—Sir Bayne!" Arinel shot up with a retort. Coris gawked, spooked. "He's just afraid Sir Bayne's father will surface and rule Crosset through him. He thought, if I had a son with you, and you died young then left the birthright to Zier, your line would end and my son would be a full Crosset. Then Crosset might have a chance to be free from Hadrian's influence."

"What about Klythe?" Coris suggested. Arinel shook her head, striving to remain nonchalant amid the dull pain in her chest.

"You know Klythe. He's not interested in ruling—"

Arinel broke off. She heard a whistle—a voice—blowing from deep within the valley. As the blasts of wind thickened, she could make out the words to a familiar song—

Over the peaks of Neverend Heights.

Where birds of a feather they circle up high.

⏳

"Meya—"

Arinel scrambled to her feet, but Coris was already three steps ahead, toddling blindly towards the siren song, staggering in the lambasting gale.

"Coris, wait—!"

Arinel lunged for his arm, but he parried her off and soldiered on. As she gaped at his retreating back, astounded, crunching footsteps drew up behind her. She spun around to find four men lumbering towards her, hulking shadows backlit by the fire they'd abandoned. Baron Hadrian, Simon, Christopher, Jerald—even Zier had ducked out of the tent and joined the eerie procession. Their eyes were fully open, yet void of a soul.

They say Mum's voice can charm birds, beasts and barbaric men.

Arinel's hands flew to her mouth as she recalled. The pounding of her pulse in her ears threatened to drown out Meya's deadly song. She whirled back—she could hardly make out Coris's silhouette in the darkness anymore. She must act now.

I'll fly like an eagle, so graceful and proud.

I'll fly like a dove, so gentle and free.

Arinel sidestepped Baron Kellis and dove for the fire. She dragged out the fattest log in the pile and sprinted back, overtook Coris, then held it out to him. He paused and stared, mesmerized by the light. Then, much to her relief and surprise, he took it before venturing on to the dragoness's beckoning.

I'll dive like a hawk, and dance like the swan.

Sail fast as a swallow. Soar high as the chough.

The wind petered away into a whistling, bone-searingly icy breeze as they scrabbled up the scree blanketing the valley's entrance. The valley was two walls of sheer stone, shooting out of the earth itself. The light from Coris's torch glanced off their countless scales of gray stone, flashing white as moonlight. They confronted each other, slanted back as if sizing up the other, frozen forever in an uneasy truce.

I'll glide with the geese, for a glimpse of green grass.

I'll travel with the tern, yearning for warmth.

The no man's land between them was padded with clumps of short, hardy grass fighting for dominance with piles of sharp gravel that kneaded the soles of their feet like dough. The men didn't seem to register pain nor tire, though—lulled as they were by the Song of May Day. The valley was wider than it appeared from afar. Arinel estimated all seven of them could probably have walked shoulder to shoulder—had they been lucid enough to decide to, that was.

I'll sing like a song thrush home for the spring.

I'll sing like a blackbird when winter blows in.

Deeper and further they plodded, as the wind ebbed and raged, like the river that had once carved through these stones. The terrain, as well, rose and leveled then dipped, making for overall a gentle climb.

Each time they stumbled, Meya's voice urged them back to their feet, riding on the wind whenever it picked up, ricocheting on the stone whenever it died, cajoling the leaves of stubborn saplings hanging sideways from the valley walls.

I'll scatter the sparrows, and send out your prayers.

I'll circle with the crows, and guard you in sleep.

The song was weaved to be neverending, and never once the same—having as many different verses as there were mothers and birds. Yet, Arinel knew it was coming to an end when the firelight illuminated a sliver of pure darkness wedged between glinting gray stone on the valley wall to their left—a cave.

I'll jeer like a jay and chase off the night.

I'll lilt like a robin and call on the dawn.

As they hastened towards the crevice, Meya's voice became less unearthly, the men's footfalls less clumsy on the treacherous path. Coris staggered against the valley wall—his poor health had finally caught up to him as the enchantment waned. The sight snapped Baron Hadrian out of his trance—he swooped in and caught the torch before it fell, then helped his son on his way.

I'll whisper in your ear, and wake you come morn.

I'll sing you to slumber, and see you in your dreams.