Reporters and cameramen flooded the venue of the funeral, broadcasting the premises, interviewing dignitaries and, as was their wont, making a general nuisance of themselves with exceeding relish. The gate, Ruban saw as their cab drove through it, was flanked by uniformed soldiers, who also brought up the rear of the venue, looking impressive in full military gear, like marble sculptures brought to life.

And then there were the Hunters. Hundreds of them, from every division in Ragah. And Ruban was sure some had arrived from beyond the capital as well; perhaps for the networking opportunity that such a gathering presented, or maybe just for the spectacle.

The Hunters weren’t in uniform, though. Every one of them was draped in some variant of mourning white. As were the politicians – grief-stricken in fashionably tailored tunics and jackets of the finest material. The who’s who of the IAW as well as the central government populated the venue – ministers, generals, diplomats – giving interviews, rehearsing speeches. Really, the only one missing was the Prime Minister himself, and Ruban had been personally assured by one of his aides that he would be arriving ere the end of the ceremony.

Subhas was to be cremated with full state honours, the media hailing him as a statesman, a hero. Flowers and letters sent from every corner of the country – and beyond – adorned the venue. Over the past few days, his face had dominated the front pages of almost every major newspaper, the story of Tauheen’s extermination aired on news channels around the world.

Had Ruban been of the inclination to be impressed, it was all very impressive.

And yet Hiya clung to him like she was drowning, clutching at his wrist with all her might as if he was all that kept her from the hordes of the underworld. Her eyes were bloodshot, face puffy and swollen from three days of constant, inconsolable tears.

She wasn’t crying now, though. She stood between him and Ashwin under a large tree near the peripheries of the funeral venue, her little body stiff under the numerous folds of her white silk frock. Every time he looked at her, Ruban half expected her to burst into tears. She looked seconds away from breaking, a rock teetering on the precipice. Indeed, Ruban hardly knew what held her back, apart from the sheer Kinoh stubbornness that ran in both their veins.

For all the relentless bawling she had done in the flat, her face buried in Ashwin’s soaked tunic, one of his wings wrapped protectively around her trembling, hiccupping form; she wasn’t going to cry in public, under the blinding flashes of a gazillion cameras.

Not even as complete strangers wept over her father’s body, some from genuine grief, others for the aforementioned cameras.

The sun had almost set by the time Ruban directed a murderous glare at another approaching reporter, sending the young woman scampering off after the Kanbarian ambassador – who happened to have wandered into her vicinity – and away from their little unit. He was too late to pre-empt the flash that went off, almost blinding them, from the other side of the venue, though. Ruban tensed, his mind flying automatically back to the fight, to the flashes of Tauheen’s devastating energy blasts.

Years of training – aside from Ashwin’s vicelike grip on his arm – was the only thing that kept him from reaching for his blade, from physically attacking the cameraman and grinding the offending device into dust.

A whimper, soft and quick, escaped Hiya. Ruban looked down at his cousin – his little sister in all but name – and felt the anger drain from his body, leaving him shaky with the sudden absence of adrenaline. And something like relief. A crying Hiya made his heart ache with helplessness, but a silent one terrified him.

The dam had broken, however, and tears flowed unchecked down her face, turning her nose red and causing damp spots to appear on the collar of her frock. She sobbed, sniffed, hiccupped, then sobbed again, the moans gaining in volume and energy with every passing second.

Standing awkwardly by, a hand pressed to her spasming shoulder, Ruban felt the now familiar dread creep back up his spine. Even after three days, he didn’t really know how to deal with this. What to do when Hiya got like this.

He had never been much of a consoler. And now, with all the secrets, all the lies, he seemed to be even worse at it than he normally was.

Ashwin dropped to his knees, his face level with Hiya’s blotchy, tear-streaked one. Ruban spared a moment to be thankful for immortal Aeriels practiced in the art of consoling distraught little girls.

Carding his fingers through her messy hair, he murmured something into her ear. Almost instantly, Hiya’s sobs quieted, subsiding into tremulous little hiccups. “R-Really?” she sniffled, wide-eyed, wiping snot off her cherry-red nose with a silken sleeve.

“Yep,” said Ashwin, nodding gravely. “Everyone knows it. Didn’t you?”

Hiya shook her head, looking confounded. Then she looked up, peeking through the leaves of the shami tree at the overcast sky above. The moon was all but obscured, a few stars glimmering weakly here and there as the clouds passed over them. “Really?” she said again, her tone incredulous.

“Uh-huh,” replied Ashwin, with a confidence born of centuries of unrelenting self-assurance. “When someone dies, they become a star. They live in the sky, shining for everyone they left behind on earth, and watching over them.”

“So he’s there?” Hiya exclaimed, something like hope colouring her voice for the first time in days. Ruban’s heart clenched in his chest and he turned away, blinking back tears he couldn’t afford to shed at the moment. “Baba is looking down at me right now?!”

“Of course,” the Aeriel assured her. “And if he sees you so sad, he’d be sad too, wouldn’t he?”

Hiya nodded, determination setting into her features. “You’re right. I won’t cry anymore. I won’t. Baba was a hero. Everyone says so. What would he think if he saw me crying?”

“He’d think you loved him. Love him, dearly.” Ashwin smiled, patting her on the head in a way that would have gotten Ruban’s hand bitten off, had he ever displayed the temerity to try it. Coming from Ashwin, though, it just generated a sniffle and a tentative little smile. “But he loves you too. So he wouldn’t want you to be sad, would he? Not even for him.”

Hiya nodded fervently, running the hem of her frock over her tear-and-snot stained face; leaving splotch-marks on the expensive fabric that would probably cost a small fortune to remove.

Ruban had never been more grateful in his life.

***

Simani hugged him the moment she saw him. Then she proceeded to hug Ashwin, who seemed bemused by this turn of events. Nevertheless, he wrapped his arms – rather awkwardly – around her shoulders and gave her a friendly pat, which made Simani giggle. Bizarrely, Ruban imagined Shwaan’s wings enfold his partner as she embraced him, warm and protective.

By the time they disengaged, Vikram held a chuckling Hiya in his arms, tickling the girl into a fit as their ten-year-old son, Srikan, trailed his parents. Hiya and Sri knew each other, of course. Had known each other for almost as long as either of them could remember.

But Sri had been busy with school this past year and the two hadn’t seen each other for some months. Ruban supposed half a year seemed like a long time when you were barely out of the single digits in age, and the two children hid behind the pant-legs of their respective adults, until Vikram produced a couple of fluorescent lollipops from the mysterious depths of his back-pocket. This set off a raucous array of thrilled noises that momentarily overpowered the solemn tranquillity of the funeral ceremony, until both children were bundled off to an adjacent garden by the exasperated Vikram, ordered to amuse themselves away from the vicinity of any cameras or important-looking humans.

Simani, Ruban thought, looked beautiful in a plain white tunic tucked into an ankle-length skirt. Vikram wore a simple button-down paired with trousers in a similar palette. He put a gentle arm around his wife’s shoulder, and Ruban noticed for the first time that his partner’s eyes were red-rimmed. She had been crying.

“I’m so sorry, Ruban,” she said, her voice unsteady, reaching to take one of his hands into her own. He knew then, that her tears were not for his uncle, much as she had liked and admired him as a mentor and superior. Her tears were for him. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when all of this happened; when it all went to hell.” A corner of her mouth lifted in a wry little smile. “Not much use as a partner these days, am I?”

Ruban glared at her. “You’re the best partner I could ever want, and far better than I deserve,” he said fiercely. Honestly.

Ruban wasn’t an easy man to work with at the best of times. And these last few months had been anything but the best. Anyone other than Simani would have reported him for flouting investigative protocol a long time ago. Just because he didn’t say it often enough didn’t mean he didn’t know how lucky he was to have her.

Simani smiled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders as she leaned into Vikram for a long moment. “Well, I better get going, then. Have a speech to prepare for and all that.” Extricating herself with some reluctance from her husband’s embrace, she turned back towards the centre of the venue, which to Ruban looked more like some bizarre, all-white wedding than a funeral. “You done with yours?”

“Kind of,” said Ruban noncommittally, as Simani and Vikram set off for the central dais hand-in-hand.

***

Ruban pulled at his collar. “Gods, I hate these clothes. Why couldn’t they just let us attend in uniform? Wouldn’t that be more appropriate? The man literally died Hunting.”

“Appropriate, perhaps,” Ashwin agreed, resting his back against the tree, hands tucked into his pockets. “But not spectacular enough for the press, I suspect. Besides, this is a once in a generation opportunity. Not every day a country gets to claim the slayer of the Aeriel Queen herself as one of its national martyrs. You can’t begrudge them the pleasure of advertising it.”

Ruban shook his head, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “You know more about this stuff than I do, and I’m actually paid by the government of this country. Should I be concerned?”

“Indeed you should. But not about me. Not at the moment, anyway.” He nodded at the dais, upon which a mic had been set up, surrounded by bouquets of white lilies. “It’s about to begin. Have you thought about what you’ll say?”

Ruban chuckled. It came out more bitter than he had intended. Not that there was any real point trying to hide these things from the Aeriel now. Ruban half suspected Ashwin could read his mind. It certainly would explain a lot. “Not really, no. I’m not good at these sorts of things.”

The Aeriel’s lips quirked. “I noticed.”

The speeches began. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, the silence stretching out long enough for the much applauded conclusion of two dragging monologues.

Finally, it was Ruban who broke the spell. “How did you know about the stars?”

“Hmm?” Ashwin lifted an eyebrow, which Ruban felt more than saw, his eyes still fixed on the dais.

“The story. About people becoming stars when they died. It’s from an old legend or something. I only know because it was one of Baba’s favourites. The man was up to his temples in the classics. He used to tell it to me whenever I asked about Mummy. For an embarrassingly long time, I actually believed my mother was a star. A real one. I’d scan the skies every night to see if I could find her.”

“And did you?”

Ruban shrugged, turning sharp eyes on his companion. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Ashwin sighed. When he spoke, there was a tinge of something in his voice that Ruban couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t sadness, exactly. It didn’t have the freshness of sorrow. It was too old – an ancient scar scabbed over to the point of invisibility. “It was a popular myth with the humans, back when I was…” Ashwin trailed off. Shaking his head, he allowed a small smile to soften his features. “Back before the Rebellion. I think after, it fell out of fashion because there weren’t enough stars to account for all the dead.”

Turning slightly to face Ruban, he continued, a faraway look in his eyes. “We’d found a pup just outside the palace gates, my sister and I. She lay abandoned in one of the garbage heaps by the main road. She was starved, dehydrated, barely breathing. Perhaps her mother had died, I don’t remember now. Anyway, we took her in, brought her home with us.

“Maya…she was what you might call our governess, I suppose. She fed the pup, washed her and tucked her in with us at night to keep her warm. We were chivalrous children, but we didn’t know much about the practicalities of nursing mortal beings near death.

“It worked. For a while, at least. Piku lasted almost a whole year. We loved her, everyone did. The servants were all to bits over her. But her lungs were a mess. The cold, those first few nights after she was born, before we’d found her; it had done her in. In the end, there was nothing we could do but wait for the inevitable.

“I wouldn’t stop howling, when she finally died. I was a snotty kid. Pampered. And it was my first real encounter with the concept of mortality. I didn’t much understand what had happened. I just wanted her back. And I wasn’t used to being told I couldn’t have something I wanted.

“Maya…” he closed his eyes, breathed out. When he opened them again, they were resolutely fixed on the blinking stars above. “Maya told me she was in the sky. That Piku was a star now, and that from now on she’d be watching me from above to make sure I went to bed on time.” He chuckled, “We didn’t need to sleep, of course. But it pleased Maya to get us to bed on time. That, and to feed us. Made her feel she had earned her pay.

“At the time I’d had no doubt in my mind that she was telling the truth. That Piku really was a star now. I believed her enough to fly off one day to meet Piku in her new empyrean abode.”

He laughed. “Safaa was furious. Scared, really, but she’d never admit that. I don’t think it had occurred to Maya that I would actually try to verify her assertion. She hadn’t really considered the practical implications of telling stories about the sky to a kid with wings.

“After that, it was all about the underground gardens and palaces for departed pets. Didn’t have quite the same ring to them, though. Didn’t feel quite real.”

“You loved her,” Ruban said simply, his eyes fixed on the Aeriel’s profile, watching for the slightest shift in expression.

Ashwin closed his eyes, turning away from the overcast sky. “She was the closest thing to a mother I ever had.”

A few minutes passed. More speeches, more lamentations intertwined with adulation for the departed, followed. Subhas’s achievements – both professional and otherwise – were listed, repeated and exaggerated in every permutation and combination conceivable, multiple times over. The Minister of Urban Development announced a statue in Subhas’s honour on the premises of the IAW headquarters. The Minister of Education, not to be outdone, announced the addition of a chapter on the life of Subhas Kinoh in the high school history curriculum.

Ruban almost smiled, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the expression any justice. This sycophantic fawning would have made Subhas laugh, had he been here to see it. But he wasn’t. Because Ruban had watched him die in his arms less than four days ago. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to forget that.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” asked Ashwin after a while, his eyes on the dais. He might have been talking about a new recipe he had learned, for all the emotion his tone betrayed.

Ruban thought he knew what was coming, but he made himself ask anyway. “Tell them what?”

“About Subhas. About what he did. What he really did. About the letter from your father. In the villa itself, you’d have found evidence enough to support your claims – your accusations – if you’d made them.” There was no judgement in his tone one way or another, only idle curiosity. Ruban didn’t think Ashwin really cared if he answered him or not.

Which, strangely, was exactly what made him want to tell him everything; more in an attempt to justify his decisions to himself than to the Aeriel. There were times when hiding the truth felt like a betrayal of his own father, of Miki. And yet, in a way, it was better to betray the dead than the living. He sighed.

“And what would it have achieved? He was a traitor, yes. And a murderer – in intent, if not in deed. Had he been alive…” Ruban shook his head, trying to bring some order to his thoughts. “But he’s not, is he? He’s dead. Dead men don’t care if people call them a hero or a villain. It wouldn’t matter to him, not anymore. The only person it would affect is Hiya. The public would want revenge, the media a scapegoat. And they wouldn’t have him. Who do you think they would go for instead?

“Perhaps it might have been me, if they didn’t think I was the one who killed Tauheen. But they do. So who’s left?

“Oh, they’d pretend to pity her, to absolve her of her father’s crimes. Say she was as much a victim as anybody else. That would’ve been the official line anyway. But it wouldn’t be real. Wouldn’t be true. Not in the public opinion, at least.

“She’d be branded as the traitor’s daughter. Grow up being told that her father betrayed the country, that he sold himself to the Aeriels and killed his own brother. She’d carry that stigma with her for the rest of her life.

“Hiya deserves better than that. Her father loved her. And she loved him. Whatever he did, she deserves to have those memories untarnished. She deserves to grow up with her innocence intact; not shunned and stigmatised by society, betrayed by her own family. Punished for crimes she never committed. I would rather make my uncle a hero than his daughter an outcast.

“Besides, whatever he did, he was manipulated, lied to and misled at every turn by Tauheen. She used his dead wife’s memory to control him, and then when that didn’t work, threatened his only daughter to reinforce that control. I can never forgive him for what he did, but neither can I be absolutely sure I wouldn’t have done the same thing under those circumstances. Eight years ago, back when Baba and Miki died…” he looked down at his feet, fists clenched in his pockets. “If Tauheen had come to me; told me she knew who had done this. Told me she could help me get revenge. I wish I could tell you I wouldn’t have been tempted. That I would have known she was lying. But the fact is, I don’t know.

“I was a mess, jumping at shadows, lashing out at anything and everything in front of me. To be honest, back in those days, I would have been glad to have a real target, an outlet for all that anger, all that frustration. I’d have been glad to be told, in so many words, who my enemy was. Who had done this to me, to my family. And then, to be handed their head on a silver platter. To be told I could get my revenge if only I did as I was told,” he shrugged. “Perhaps I could have resisted it, walked away. Perhaps, but I can never be sure of that. Maybe it’s just a matter of chance that it’s me standing here now, and not him. Maybe the only thing I did right was to not be powerful enough, useful enough for your mother to want me.”

Ruban closed his eyes, fighting back unexpected tears. Awkwardly, Ashwin put a hand on his shoulder. The gesture wasn’t particularly comforting to Ruban, but it was painfully sincere. Well, he supposed it wasn’t Ashwin’s fault he was a centuries old immortal demigod with the emotional capacity of an autistic Chihuahua.

“He died protecting me, Ashwin. Died fighting her. Maybe it’s a weakness, but I can’t forget that. Can’t condemn him as completely as I know I should, even in my own mind.” He groaned. “Dear God, I’m turning into Baba. If only he could see me now. He’d be in fits.”

Stuffing his hand back into his pocket with a grateful sigh, the Aeriel turned solemn eyes on him. It wasn’t often that that word could be used to describe anything about Ashwin, and Ruban raised a brow, curious.

“He’d be proud of you. Your father. If he could see you now, if he was half the man you say he was, he would be proud.”

Ruban felt a half-smile creep onto his face, and lifting his eyes heavenward, he turned away from the Aeriel. “Guess it must be a happy day for the stars then, huh.”

***

Camera flashes blinded him as he walked up to the dais. Every fibre of his being screaming at him to fight-run-fire-attack, it took everything he had to maintain his composure, the illusion of solemn gravity, when memories mingled with nightmares and all he really wanted to do was to duck under the nearest piece of furniture and curl up into himself.

Adjusting the mic, he cleared his throat, trying to buy himself some time. At his approach, the press corps had gathered around the dais like bees surrounding a pot of honey. They practically buzzed with anticipation, setting up tripods, readying recorders and notepads. Their excitement had stirred the rest of the gathering, and even those few who had not previously known or cared who he was were now whispering and speculating with animation, grabbing their phones to snap pictures over the heads of their peers.

Ruban opened his mouth to speak, but something heavy caught in his throat and he swallowed. Tried again.

An expectant silence descended upon the crowd before him and Ruban felt a vice crushing the air out of his lungs. He didn’t know what he had expected, but somewhere in the back of his mind he had thought – had hoped – that he would have peace after this was all over. After she was dead. After he had had his revenge.

He did not think this was what peace felt like.

“He was a great man, my uncle,” he said at last, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, to turn his face away from the cameras. “Subhas Kinoh. Perhaps one of the greatest men of his generation, as I am sure everyone gathered here would agree.”

Murmurs of assent went up into the night air and Ruban heard himself continue. “A great Hunter, a visionary administrator and an exemplary patriot; he was good at everything he did, and exceptional at most. He was an inspiration and a role model to all those around him, and a great mentor and friend to all those whom he was charged to guide.”

Ruban swallowed, looking out over the sea of faces before him. At this point, he didn’t even know if he was lying or telling the truth, or perhaps grasping for some tenuous balance between the two. He pressed on: “Perhaps more important than his numerous talents and achievements, however, were his intentions. Gifts are easy. After all, they are given. It is our choices that make us who we are.

“And above all that can be said of Subhas Kinoh – both good and evil – it can be said, with absolute honesty, that he was a loving man. He was, more than anything, a man who loved his family, his country, his daughter. Everything he did in life, right up to his last breath, could be attributed to that fierce, unbending love for those that he considered his own. And to his tireless devotion to that love.”

His vision blurred and something warm trickled down his face, past the corners of his mouth and into the hollow of his neck. Flashes of hazy light went off somewhere in the distance, but what did it matter? It wasn’t like there was much they hadn’t already written about him. For once, he might as well give them something true to write about. Something that mattered.

“He wasn’t perfect. Perhaps not even close. But whatever he did, even the mistakes he made, were born of love, and of an unceasing commitment to those whom he loved. A commitment that led him to sacrifice his own life for his country, his people. For the hope of a better future, and the promise of a vindicated past.

“If we remember nothing of the man who died to protect us all, I pray that we shall remember that love which led him to do it, and cherish it wherever it can be found.”

Later, he had a vague memory of thunderous applause, and the cheers that rang through the venue. Ashwin told him his address had been well received, extraordinarily so.

But all he really remembered was the press of charred flesh against his fingers and pain-dazed eyes gazing into his own. The taste of copper on his tongue and the bitterness in his throat as his uncle gasped out his broken apologies. And all Ruban could do was to hold him and pray for it to be over – too selfish to forgive the man he was too weak to condemn.

***

Rifles fired into the air as Subhas’s sifblade was placed upon his chest, his hands folded over the weapon one last time. Finally, followed by hundreds of mourners – most of whom were stopped at the gates by uniformed soldiers – his body was carried into the crematorium. Ruban followed the pallbearers out of the grounds, leaving Hiya in the care of the Vaz’s.

He was going to bid a final farewell to the doting uncle he had known all his life, not the traitor he had met less than a week ago in that nightmarish house.

It was past midnight by the time the place had finally cleared of mourners. Hiya was all but asleep on her feet, leaning heavily against Ashwin as they walked towards the cab together. Ruban couldn’t really say he felt much better himself, though he had far more practice at hiding his exhaustion.

It was a skill that came in handy at times like these. Ruban schooled his features into an expression of placid solemnity as a young man with a press card around his neck and a recorder in his hand intercepted them, moments before they had reached the waiting car.

“E-excuse me, sir.” The man wore large, thick-rimmed glasses. In the darkness, Ruban could just about make out the dark-circles under his owlish eyes. He looked tired and dishevelled, and less interested in Ruban than Ruban was in him. It quelled some of the instinctive anger that had flared in his breast at the sight of the intruder.

“Yes?” he raised an eyebrow. “How may I help you?”

“I-I just had a few questions, sir,” the youth stammered, apologetic, looking as though he wanted the earth to open up under his feet and swallow him whole. “If you could just give me a few minutes of your time…”

“Go ahead,” Ruban’s eyes found the press card dangling from his neck. “Mohit.” He wasn’t really in the mood, but a part of him felt bad for the boy. He was obviously a rookie, possibly some hapless intern plunged into the deep end by incompetent management. But another part of him was aware that he would have to do this, sooner or later. And better to get it over with here, with a cub reporter barely old enough to grow a beard, than face the likes of Casia Washi with her incessant, incisive cross-questioning in a studio full of analysts and seasoned newsmen.

The boy – Mohit – looked like he hadn’t expected the acquiescence, and fumbled for a few seconds trying to find his notes, mumbling incomprehensible apologies along the way. “I-um,” assembling the papers in his hands in what Ruban supposed was the proper order; “I mean to say, I’d like to ask you sir, now that Tauheen is dead and her followers have scattered, has the IAW recovered the missing formula? Or if not, do they have any knowledge of where Tauheen might have hidden it?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. We didn’t find it when we killed her. And I am not actively involved in any of the further investigation, so I am perhaps not the best person to answer your question. But so far as my knowledge is concerned,” he said, his tone grave. “The reinforced sifblade formula stolen by Tauheen from the SifCo facility is yet to be found. Of course, I am sure that even as we speak, the IAW is doing everything in its power to get it back.”

Mohit nodded, scribbling something on a piece of paper. “Could it have been…” he paused, as if searching for the right words. “Is it possible that the formula might have been destroyed during your, ah, your battle with the Aeriel Queen?”

Ruban nodded. “It is very possible. Indeed, I would say it’s the likeliest possibility. Tauheen, after all, would not have kept something as precious, as dangerous as the sifblade formula lying around while she wandered the country. It’s very possible that she had the disk on her person when she arrived at the villa. And as I’m sure you know, the battle that finally killed her, killed my uncle…it was very destructive. She nearly burned the house down before she died. The fire destroyed what was left of her body, and half the hall. I wouldn’t be surprised at all, if the disk was destroyed in that fire. Though, of course,” he went on, just in case he had been too enthusiastic about the prospect, “I hope as much as anyone else that it’s still intact and will soon be recovered.”

Mohit didn’t seem to care one way or the other and was scribbling away with an abandon that amused Ruban. “Anything else?” he prompted gently. Thunder sounded in the distance and Ruban felt a few drops of rain hit his face. They needed to get back home.

“Umm, just one more thing, sir,” the boy said, his voice gaining in confidence. “How will the IAW deal with the recent revelations of the murders, abductions and other atrocities carried out by Tauheen and her confederates in their bid to coerce and influence high-ranking officials and lawmakers? And how will they investigate the allegations of corruption within their own ranks?”

“Well, Tauheen is dead. She has paid for her crimes in the only way she could. And as for the rest,” he sighed, feeling fatigue creep into every fibre of his body. “We have a long way to go yet, it’s true. But we won’t get there by being afraid of the journey. We took one step today. Tomorrow, we’ll take another. It’s not much, but it’s all that I can promise you.” He held out his hand. “And for now, we better get going before we end up getting ourselves stuck in a thunderstorm.”

***

“Why did you lie to him?” Ashwin asked once they were all inside the cab, the rain-drenched city rushing by them at a hundred kilometres per hour.

Ruban adjusted the sleeping Hiya more comfortably by his side, then tapped the driver on the shoulder. The man raised the partition between them, giving his passengers what little privacy could be had within the confines of the vehicle. “I didn’t really,” he said, looking out at the pouring rain. “The formula really hasn’t been recovered. And to the best of my knowledge, the IAW doesn’t have the faintest idea where to find it.”

“Why don’t you tell them, then?”

Ruban shrugged. “There’d be no point. It’s gone.”

“Excuse me?” Ashwin’s eyes widened.

Ruban smirked. It wasn’t every day you got an opportunity to surprise the Aeriel prince, after all. “I burned it with your mother’s body back at the villa.”

“You…what? Why?”

“To avoid unemployment? Sifblades that efficient would make half the Hunter Corps redundant. Not all of us have royal coffers to draw from in a pinch, you know.”

Ashwin looked like the only thing keeping him from swatting Ruban across the head was Hiya, who was curled up comfortably between them, snoring softly.

The Hunter sighed. “What do you want me to say, Ashwin? I was wrong, I know that now. Not all Aeriels deserve killing – though I’m still conflicted about a certain annoying princeling.” The princeling in question glared. Ruban ignored him. “And not all humans deserve the life they have. But that’s not gonna matter once people have that powerful a weapon in their hands.

“It’s been six hundred years since anybody’s seen an Aeriel that wasn’t trying to kill them. The world barely remembers a time when things weren’t the way they are now, when we weren’t all trying to kill each other. Once they have the power, humans are going to wipe the earth clean of Aeriels, and they’re going to be indiscriminate about it. And not that most of your earthbound kinsmen don’t deserve a good stabbing; but not all of them do. It took me a long time to realise that, but I do realise it now.

“And that too would be the lesser of two evils. The other possibility is that some of Tauheen’s lackeys would take it upon themselves to finish what she started. If Tauheen could get my uncle to back her in her war against Vaan…well, what’s to say there aren’t others who could be manipulated the way he was? Considering the hostility most humans feel for Aeriels at present; if they had the means, somebody somewhere would inevitably think that waging war was a good idea. And the absolute last thing we need now is a war between earth and Vaan.”

Leaning back into the leather backrest, Ashwin grinned. “My hero! I hope you realise, though, that whatever reprieve you’ve bought us by this act of uncharacteristic brilliance, it’s at best temporary. It wouldn’t take them very long to reassemble the formula and start work on it again.”

“It’ll take them long enough. A few years, at least. If Dr. Visht was right, the formula is stored in fragmented pieces around the country. For the next few months, they’ll invest all their energies in trying to find the original. When that doesn’t work, they’ll start the reassembly effort, which if we’re lucky will cost them a few years at the very least. And besides that, there’s the question of raw material. Enhanced sif isn’t easy to manufacture; or cheap, for that matter. And Tauheen’s little conspiracy depleted quite a bit of their stock. Precious ore that they’re never getting back again.

“Restocking, reassembly and all the rest of it should keep them busy for half a decade at least. And call me an irredeemable optimist, but I was kind of hoping your sister could be prevailed upon to invest in some public relations efforts in the meantime. You know, just to make sure that she doesn’t have an unwinnable war on her hands so soon after being finally rid of Tauheen.”

The Aeriel giggled. “If only Safaa could hear you talk. Well, my friend, it looks like you’ve saved me the trouble of having to steal the formula again. Which is very nice, because after everything, that would have been awkward.”

“What?” It was Ruban’s turn to gape.

“You didn’t think my sister ever intended to allow the formula to be developed into a viable weapon, did you? That’s part of the reason I was sent to earth. Neutralise the formula, and flip mommy dearest the finger while doing it – that was the mission in a nutshell.”

“Well, you flipped her the finger all right. And what a finger it was, too.”

“One laced with enhanced sif, if I remember correctly,” Ashwin smirked. “But there’s no unmaking what has already been made. Not with humans, anyway. To the last man, you’re stubborn as mules.” He sighed, “All that remains to be done is to try and be friends again.”

“And an easy task that’s gonna be!”

“Well, to look on the bright side, my sister’s already made it her new agenda to improve relations with earth ASAP. And nothing deters Safaa once she has decided she really wants something. She’s like a bloodhound with a scent.”

“And you?” asked the Hunter, glancing sideways at his companion. “What do you plan to do? I suppose you want to go back home, now that the job’s done.”

Ashwin shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet, really. But I think I’d like to stay on a bit longer. Explore the planet; see the sights, so to speak. It’s sure been a while. Besides,” he grinned. “Vaan is nowhere near as exciting as earth.”

The taxi left them at the mouth of the lane leading up to their building. At this time of night, the city looked like a ghost-town: dark, deserted and utterly drenched. Far from abating, the rain had only gotten worse, and Ruban was almost up to his knees in water. The Aeriel, being shorter, was worse off, and was submerged to his waist in the muddy liquid. Only Hiya snored on peacefully in Ashwin’s arms.

Together, through the biting wind, they began the short walk home. The rain lashed down on them with a vengeance, and drenched to the bone, Ruban cursed himself for not thinking to bring an umbrella. The faint light of the outer gates beckoned to them with the promise of shelter and reprieve.

His wings folded protectively over the sleeping Hiya, sheltering her from the elements, Ashwin quickened his pace and all but ran the last few yards into the building, followed closely by a laughing Ruban. Moments later, soaked and panting, they stumbled into the flat.

They were home at last.

***