Page 44 of House of the Iron Reaper

Deyanara

The roof of the House of History is joined to one of the upper tier streets, melding smoothly into the sandbrick. Ronan and I find ourselves wandering through the markets there. Much of it is shaded, with tall domed tunnels, or fabric stretched between poles. It is quieter, too, than the lower and middle tiers. Merchants do not squawk about their wares, instead they stand behind their tables with easy smiles and sweeping gestures.

When Ronan and I stop to buy two flasks of pale wine, and the vendor asks for a garnet as payment, I nearly choke. Ronan hands over the gem with watering eyes.

“A garnet for wine that doesn’t even get you drunk,” he mutters to me as we leave, flasks in hand.

“Is the wine stronger in Swordstead?” I query.

Ronan gives a hearty laugh.

“Much,” he says. “But it is not the wine you should be concerned with, oh no. It’s the whiskey.”

“Whiskey. Whis-key,” I repeat the word slowly. “You mentioned that before, with Deimos, but I have never heard of it.”

“Neither had Deimos as it turns out,” Ronan mutters. “He thought it was that wine the upper Houses use. It was nothing close to true whiskey.”

“What is true whiskey?” I enquire.

“A marvellous thing.” Ronan takes a swig of wine, and grimaces. “The wine you have here is akin to water. Nice enough in the heat, I suppose, but it doesn’t light a fire in your chest the way a good whiskey does.”

I swirl my wine around my flask. It sounds like being a fire dragon, flames licking from within.

“I would like to have tried it,” I tell him.

We lapse into a comfortable silence. Despite having no destination in mind, our feet make their way to Dragon’s Vale. We climb a few tiers, hopping from shade to shade to avoid the blistering sun, until the training grounds come into view.

The streets have emptied as everyone withdraws from the midday heat. Ronan and I come to a stop under the shade of a sweetlemon tree hanging over the pathway. The sun turns the leaves into green glass. The fruit is nearly in season, and the air is thick with citrus. Ronan plucks one free as we sit on a low wall, side by side.

“There’s no fruit like this in werewolf territory,” he says, peeling back the waxy skin of the sweetlemon.

“It is too cold?”

“Much too cold,” he confirms with a nod.

Pulling free a segment, he offers it to me. I take it, and bite in, juice exploding. It is sweet enough, with the sour edge of a fruit not yet ripe. Ronan pops another segment in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“We have some berries and such, I suppose, but nothing like you have here,” he says.

“Do you miss it?” I ask.

Ronan gives a slow nod.

“Yes. And no.”

He offers me another segment, and I take it gratefully. I sense he has not yet finished his thought, so I wait patiently. The dry leaves of the sweetlemon tree shiver in the breeze. In the distance, the shriek of sandstriders echoes from their stables.

“My home is empty. No one to go back to,” Ronan says quietly. “I’m in half a mind to stay here, if I’m honest.”

He stares down at the sweetlemon peel in his hands.

“Can I ask what happened?” I gently pry, ready to pivot the conversation at the slightest rebuff.

Ronan gives a great, shuddering breath.

“It’s my weight to carry,” he says with a small shake of his head.

“Twice the people means half the load,” I tell him, echoing his words from earlier.