“You said the Dragon King ordered the attack.” His silence was affirmation enough. “How did you know?” She didn’t ask him why. If the man knew why, his state over the past two days would’ve been different. He would’ve been angry, frustrated, regretful. But he seemed as confused as her in that respect.
“There was a whisper.” His voice mirrored the word. “From the Revolvers’ Guild. It was a warning that the King’s Riders had taken over. That they demanded explosives en mass. That the Harvesters were to be the first example.”
“‘The first example’?” Florence repeated. “You don’t think the King means to attack the other guilds, do you?”
“I don’t know.” Powell’s shoulder rubbed against hers with the swaying of the car. “And we have no way of finding out now.”
All the Chimera with whisper links in the Harvesters’ Guild had been killed. It had been an impressive hub of communication, one that could rival even the Ravens’. Florence’s stomach turned sour. A guild had been destroyed, possibly the first of many, and the world didn’t even know. Injustice and pain that went unknown hurt all the more, she had discovered.
Nora and Derek tried to ease her into sleep, but Florence refused. She sat on the edge of the train car, watching the world go by and the distant mines appear and vanish along the dawn-colored horizon, none the wiser to the fact that their world was burning. She envied that distant point, a place beyond the edge of the world where she now lived.
They were the fourth train to arrive in Ter.1.2. That was a relief to all. The people who greeted them on the platform were already equipped with knowledge, and prepared to manage the survivors. They were shuffled along, unburdened by the need for thought, into various inns and temporary encampments that had been set up throughout the too-quiet city.
“I think this is where we part.”
Florence was startled to attention by the sound of Powell’s rough, solemn voice. She grabbed Derek’s arm, preventing him and Nora from disappearing ahead in the flow of people. Florence turned her face up to Powell’s, demanding an explanation.
He sighed heavily. “The Vicar did not survive. So there must be a vote for who will assume the mantle. Only four Masters seem to have made it out, however.” Pain flashed hot on Powell’s features. “The Master Harvesters were all called in on my behalf, to vote.”
“This was not your fault.” Florence gripped the man’s forearm. She tried to push magic into him, despite the fact that he was a Fenthri. She tried to push in her truth—that she, too, stared survivor’s guilt in the face regularly. “Powell, look at me: This wasn’t your fault.”
“No…” He sounded unconvinced. “Anyway, seeing how four isn’t enough for a quorum, they voted to grant me my circle and make me a Master for the vote.”
“You would have been awarded it anyway.” Florence couldn’t imagine being awarded Mastery under the current circumstances. It made her heart ache for the Harvester before her.
Her effort brought a small smile to his mouth. “I like to believe that’s true.” She knew he would always wonder.
“Powell.” The other Master Florence had met on the train, Max, called from a short distance away. The circle emblazoned on his cheek around the Harvester’s sickle seemed almost like an omen of sorrow now.
“I’m coming.” Powell turned to leave.
Florence held fast to his forearm. “I’m coming with you.”
“What?” It came from Powell and Nora at the same time.
“This was what we came here for,” she explained to the Alchemists. “To speak with the Vicar Harvester about the rebellion.”
“The Vicar Harvester was undecided,” Nora reminded her.
“That Vicar Harvester is dead. And in light of recent events, I think we have a better case to make.” Florence squeezed Powell’s forearm. She wanted him to feel her strength and certainty. She wanted to be as strong as Arianna was when the woman had pulled her from the depths of the Underground and told her everything would be all right. “Powell, we would like to request this of the Masters.”
He looked back to Max who was halfway to them, no doubt having heard the better portion of the conversation. He was tall for a Fenthri or Chimera, nearly Arianna’s height. His sharp blue eyes assessed her.
“The vote won’t be a place for a Raven.”
“I’m not a Raven,” Florence replied on instinct.
“What are you, then?”
She stopped short of her usual response of “Revolver.” Instead: “I’m Florence.”
The man raised his eyebrows. But his response was interrupted by a solemn bell toll from a nearby assembly hall. He pulled out his pocket watch, inspecting the time.
“Very well, come along. But they sit in the back,” he cautioned Powell, as if the man was now solely responsible for the three of them. Judging from the train, it wasn’t an unfair assessment.
Usually, a filled hall would seem like a joyous occasion. The rising of a Master, the appointment of a new Vicar. Every seat was packed with journeymen and handfuls of initiates.
But nothing had ever looked sadder than the three men and two women who were seated in the center of the floor. No one spoke for a long minute. The room was as still as a tomb.
