“Florence, do not think of them as creatures with emotions or will.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to both stabilize and soothe her to no avail. “They are magic farms. Think of them as organs and parts. Their bodies just help keep them fresh.”
“No.” She stepped away, shaking her head. Her mind went to Cvareh, the sometimes comically clueless Dragon whom she had given her life as a Fenthri for to see across the world. The good man who had answered the call willingly to make the blood in her veins black and give her life anew. “They are not. They are just as you or me!”
Powell arched his eyebrows. “I would not expect Dragon sympathy from someone such as you.”
“What?”
“A self-proclaimed Revolver, dedicated to tools of death and destruction. One who clearly fights against Dragon systems. Coming from the Alchemists’ Guild… it’s not a stretch to imagine why you and your friends are here. We’ve heard the rumors.”
Florence glared at him. She hated the truth that was bleeding beneath her and she hated the truth that flew from his mouth. There was nothing but contrasts now in her heart and they were all being brought to a head.
“I don’t have all the answers,” she admitted, as much to herself as to him. “But this—” Florence motioned to the rooms below her, and the carvers who continued their work upon the helpless Dragons. “This is not right. This is no better than the mining practices you told me about yesterday.”
“No, the mines when depleted will not replenish. So long as the Dragons are forced nutrition and not over-harvested, they can remain for decades—a century, even.”
That only served to spark further outrage. “Four generations’ worth of carnage forced on a single person to endure.” Florence shook her head violently, as if she could rattle the images and truths out of her ears. “No, no. This isn’t right.” She pushed past Powell for the halls behind him.
“Florence—”
“This isn’t right!” She wanted to hear no more, see no more. There was no justification. All reason and logic betrayed what sense of morals and heart she had clung to. She wanted to believe in the good in people, but what good was there in this?
Loom survived because of the Dragons, if Powell was to be believed. They curbed Loom’s wasteful practices and lessened the tax on the earth. But a new tax emerged: blood. To make the gold that powered the world while the environment recovered, Dragons paid what Florence now saw was a terrible price.
The Dragon King may have been the catalyst for the Harvesters to uncover the problem of Loom’s rampant over-production. But the solutions had damaged Loom’s culture and ways of life, and required that he give his own people over to darkness and pain.
Florence may not have a neat solution, but she knew she had settled on one thing: She didn’t see eye to eye with Ari. That much had become apparent. Ari wanted the past without question, the days of deregulation and progress burdened only by the gates of the mind. Florence knew now that she didn’t want that, not after speaking with Powell. But her teacher remained her friend and ally in both heart and principle.
The door to Derek and Nora’s room slammed as Florence stormed in without apology. The two were still slumbering, wrapped in bed. Startled awake, Florence sat herself at the foot of their bed, comfortable in both their presence and various states of undress. Her eyes only saw the Dragons, still bleeding.
“I have decided something,” she announced before either could speak. “At all costs, we must see the Dragon King dead.”
32.Cvareh
The bocos were kept in stables below, where slaves tacked them and brought them up on command. But he didn’t want anyone but himself touching the seat in which Arianna would sit. He was doting upon a passion most tender and new. But love felt good, especially reciprocated love. Arianna had yet to say as much, but he’d felt it.
He had been with women before, never so intimately, just enough to cross exploratory lines. But that—thatwas what it felt like to mate. They sung the sweet chorus of passion in perfect harmony, a performance that could never be denied. He’d known hands on flesh before, but it was so vastly different when one had truly found the person he was to be with for the rest of his life.
Until she was ready, Cvareh would treat the blossom of their affections with delicacy. He would see it nurtured. He’d move forward, and wait until she removed one of his toes to let him know he’d crossed a line.
So long as she didn’t, he would relish every new and crisp feeling. He would do all she allowed for her, to her. He would memorize every crease and curve of her body and do it again should he ever find his memory lacking—which would be often.
He knew the feeling would eventually dull. But for now it was as sharp as a freshly forged blade and, for the first time, it was a weapon he was willing to allow Arianna to use to carve out his heart.
“Cvareh’Ryu, you stink.”
He stopped, his hands on the slightly longer saddle he’d been selecting. Cvareh’s fingers tensed, but he kept his claws sheathed. He would not draw them on a friend. But that tone would only be forgiven for so long, and the timer was counting down.
“Cain’Da.” Cvareh squared his hips and shoulders, the tacking of the boco forgotten. “Mind your tongue.”
“You coupled with her.” Cain scrunched his nose, marring the line of his scowl. “You reek of sex.”
“Who I choose to lie with is none of your concern.” Cvareh added a cautionary note to his words. “Watch your words, Cain. We may be friends, but I am still the Xin’Ryu.”
“Then act like it.” Cvareh had never seen this sort of boldness from Cain. “You are endangering not just our House and future, but all of Nova with this tryst.”
“Cain—”
“Cvareh, I am coming to you as your friend.”
