Joren led the way through the village lanes. The crowds were thick with foreigners, along with all the population of Faltara. No one missed the Festival of the Fading Sun anymore than they would the Ascension. Though less sacred in nature, the Fading Sun was like the more lively extension of the celebrations, with no death or solemn history hanging over it. The streets of Yerida were alive like no other time of year.

Joren and Campos made small talk as they walked. The Consul General was accompanied by a tall and impressive Attican shield maiden, obvious even without her armor. Urla Pelasius said little, though her eyes were watchful, and her spirit betrayed a suppressed inner turmoil.

A mixture of loss and hope, Joren recognized.

Malik, too, was hiding something, ever since Joren had told his son the truth, and unlike the shield maiden, he was more practiced in putting up walls against his father’s shaman sense. Whatever Malik hadn’t understood immediately, he’d certainly figured out over the past hour. And Joren, of all people, understood how that knowledge weighed on one’s spirit.

As they neared the eastern edge of the village, Campos spoke at a whisper. “I do apologize for the increased guard this year, old friend. War time in the empire, you know.”

“I was told you secured a victory in Siga,” said Joren, images of his own time at war rising up anew.

“It’s always war time in the empire,” Campos said with a laugh. When no one else joined him, he offered an addendum. “There is some lesser acknowledged uncertainty regarding an Elyan runeship that fought in the final battle, outside the Sigan capital.”

“Leone,” said Joren.

“You know it? Ah, yes, I forget you sailed the world for a time. Forgive me.”

Joren sensed a tension in his son at the mention of his Wandering. He patted Malik on the shoulder.

“You’ve heard of the runeships of Elya, then?” Campos asked.

“Only trader’s tales,” said Joren. “Were any of your Mounts harmed?”

Campos spared a momentary glance at the shield maiden, grimaced, then resumed. “We lost one dragon and her rider a couple weeks before. Not from the runeship. Just a damn lucky shot from a restored wing-render bow.”

Joren had heard tales of the wing-renders, enormous crossbows fixed to parapets that fired bolts of iron with razor tips the size of skulls, and enhanced with rune magic for farther and faster flight. Most had been used in the ancient wars of the empire. Most were destroyed during the Golden Age.

“No kingdom in their right mind would fight Attica without a few wing-renders up their sleeves,” Campos continued. “But a runeship… that is the first I’ve heard this side of the Dornin Sea in a decade. And the first to be used in battle. Of course, the Elyan ambassadors claim it was stolen, and we’ve no proof, but…”

“So, it wasn’t piloted by…”

“The Elyans?” Campos finished. “Gods, no. Bloody mercenaries is all.”

“What does it mean, then?” asked Malik, suddenly jumping into the conversation.

Campos raised a brow and grinned. “What do you know about the Elyans out here in the wilds, boy?”

Malik shrugged. “They ignored the warnings of the World Before, just like Attica.”

Campos straightened up at this. “That so?”

“Excuse my son, he means no offense,” Joren said.

“None taken, old friend,” Campos retorted. “We all have a different tale, don’t we? The Crossing. Where we came from. Why we left. What it means. It is an interesting thought, all of us coming from some distant shore, long lost. All sharing some distant common ancestry. Even the Elyans, I suppose, no matter how long they’ve cut themselves off from the rest of the world.”

“You fear them,” said Malik.

“Son…”

“No, he’s right,” said Campos.

“They pose a threat to your power. If only one of these runeships causes such fear.”

Campos shrugged. “We all fear what we don’t understand, don’t we? The runeships are real. And they might serve a mighty weapon for an empire that thinks nothing of magic. Thinks it should be taught and shared widely.”

“Why shouldn’t it?” asked Malik boldly.

Joren kept his thoughts to himself. It was not like his son to be so forward. He was probing for answers about the nature of this agreement, between Faltara and Attica.

On the island, every person practiced magic. Of course, that was because they were blessed by the gods, and they were good stewards of their gods-given gifts. But Joren had seen the might of kingdoms and empires, and he shuddered to think of an empire founded on such power. Few had the restraint of the Faltari.

Campos smiled. “Young man, you said we Atticans never learned our lesson from the World Before. I’ll forgive this as a slip of ignorance, but I would contend that you are wrong in this assessment. Very wrong, in fact. We Atticans learned the lesson that power in the wrong hands, or even simply in too many hands, leads to chaos. And utter destruction. Power must be tended carefully. I daresay that you Faltari believe something rather similar when it’s all said and done. Thus, our accord, yes?”

Malik quietened at the general’s admonition.

“Again, I apologize,” said Joren, shooting Malik a stern look.

Campos waved him off. “I welcome the challenge. The earnestness of the young is a strength. It is good to question. Good to defend your reason. But like magic, like dragons, and yes, maybe even like runeships, that earnestness must also be harnessed and contained. Wielded with precision and restraint. That’s where real strength lies. But I suppose some of us must unleash some destruction before we can learn.”

Campos patted Malik paternally on the shoulder. “And that is why I fear Elya, young man. Why we all should. Our dragons decimated that lone runeship with little trouble. But should those heathens decide to truly meddle in our corner of the world, well… we might learn the full lesson of the World Before too late.”

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They stood at the edge of the village now, outside the shaman’s hall. It was ornate for a longhouse, as was true in every Faltari village, with steps made of runemarked stones and a portico with intricately carved pillars made of socha wood.

Joren led the way through the large foyer, where dozens of small shrines were erected, where any Faltari villager was welcome at any hour to weave prayer cloths or meditate. Incense smoke hung thick in the the air, an aroma that had always felt like come home to Joren. No matter what turmoil might reside outside this hall, or even in his own spirit, it slowly drifted away with a few focused inhalations of that musty scent.

The interior walls were etched with mantras, both in runes and in the Common Tongue. On one side of the chamber, life-size graven visages of the All Mother and All Father were set in nooks. The rear wall was lined with fine-woven tapestries depicting each of the sacred beasts of Faltara.

They passed through an arched entrance and entered the back hallway, which stretched past several smaller chambers. Healing chambers. The inner temple, where sacred texts were made available to the people, though few could actually read them. It was the same in the villages of all four clans, though Yerida was the largest.

Near the end of the temple hall, Joren paused outside a runemarked door, much like the one in the sacred crypts at the base of the Spires. Joren pressed his palm against it, spoke the ancient words, and reached for hish, threads of magic connecting his spirit briefly with the spiritual power sealing the door. Recognizing his resonance, threads of magic untethered, thick iron mechanisms released at the edges of the door, and they entered the inner shaman’s sanctum.

There were no windows here. The walls were lined with shelves, mostly filled with ancient scrolls—Faltari histories and lineages, runic spells, sacred rituals, prayers and mantras and incantations, recipes for tinctures. All the knowledge the shamans of Faltara had accrued regarding spiritual matters over the generations.

There was a small desk and a couple of chairs where Joren had spent many hours in study, and behind the desk, there was a graven chest etched in runes.

Malik, Campos, and the shield maiden, Urla, all followed him inside. Joren sealed the door behind them and activated the locking spell with a surge of hish.

“The way you Faltari work runes,” Campos said. “With no channel. I’ve seen it half a dozen times, and every time, I remain impressed.”

“Channel?” asked Malik.

Before Joren could explain, Campos continued.

“In Attica, few practice magic, young shaman. Only an Alchemist of Peroia may learn runework. They train at a sacred and mysterious school to learn the use of sorcerous instruments, called channels, that allow them to harness the forces of the Other.”

“The Other?” Malik asked, brow furled. Every question his son spoke was laced with suspicion. Joren was tempted to shut down the conversation, but he feared that might only further the agitation in Malik’s spirit.

“Here, we call it the breath of the gods,” Joren clarified. “Hish, because that is the sound of an intake of breath. Malik, would you help me with the chest?”

His son nodded, and took the leathern handle on one end, while Joren seized the other. The small chest itself was not terribly heavy, but Joren’s back played tricks with him of late, and it was good for Malik to be involved rather than an observer during this exchange.

Whatever Malik’s fate after the Festival of the Fading Sun, it was important that he understand it all.

They set the chest upon the desk, and once the seals were disabled, Joren opened it, as every shaman had done for countless generations. Urla drew a sharp breath at the sight of the three dragon eggs. Both she and Campos drew closer. Malik stood behind.

“Remarkable,” Urla murmured.

“Outside the residents of this island, you are one of only a handful of living people privy to this experience,” Campos said. “Few people see a dragon egg in their lifetime, let along the land of their origins.”

Malik fought back a smirk, but it was not lost on Joren.

No, son, they don’t know everything.

All Faltari were oathbound, even those who left the island. From the village of Yerida, the Spires looked like nothing but high mountains peaks, until you reach the valley itself. Atticans knew little more than that the Faltari Ascension festival occurred high in the mountains. And when they returned, the shamans brought a fresh supply of dragon eggs for their heathen lottery.

“Three this year,” Campos said. The best in some time. The Consul General leaned over the chest. The crimson egg shimmered at the seams between stone-like scales, as though brimming with the potential of life. The general inspected it, picking the egg up gingerly with his hands. It shone brighter than the others.

“Is only one of them any good?” asked Urla.

Campos glanced at Joren with raised brow. “Shaman? Don’t think I’ve never seen one of your eggs bonded before the exchange.”

“Bonded?” Malik asked.

Joren cursed silently. It was Riese’s egg. “Potential to bond,” Joren clarified.

“You’d have seen this yourself had we waited till the lottery,” said Campos to the shield maiden. “When an egg encounters a potential bond, it makes it known. This egg was handled by a potential Dragonmount.”

“Dragonmount?” Malik asked, turning to his father, anger barely held back.

Joren nodded. “It is rare. But not the first time this has happened for an Ascendant.”

“First that I’ve seen,” Campos restated.

“Yes, well, you’re rather new to the post, aren’t you?” Joren said with a condescending smile.

Joren tried not to think of the last time he’d seen an egg glow like that. All eggs that survived the trial of flame glowed for a time. But they dimmed by the time they were delivered to the imperial consul. Unless they’d been handled by a possible mount.

“Just as the potential for sorcery extends far and wide, so, too, does the potential for bonding,” said Joren.

“Which is why we ensure both fall into the right hands,” said Campos, grinning at Malik, despite the boy’s evident suspicion.

“The glow will fade,” Joren said, “with distance. Don’t worry, there are many Atticans who could potentially bond with this dragon.”

“That is the entire principle behind the lottery. Why your son is here to begin with,” Campos said to Urla. “A chance at forming such a link before the true lottery.”

The woman nodded, but remained silent.

Campos handed the egg to her, while he retrieved a large rucksack. Carefully, he took the egg, wrapping it in a thick cloth, and stowed it within. The general proceeded to handle each egg the same way, until all three were secured within. He slung the pack over his shoulders with ease, looking like he was hauling supplies, as he had when he’d entered.

“Well, shamans, it’s always a pleasure,” said Campos. “We’ll see you around the festival.”

Just like that, the exchange was over, and Joren and Malik were alone, for the first time since they’d unearthed the eggs at the pyre.

The door shut, and Joren sealed the runes again. When he turned, Malik was shaking his head.

“She’ll never know, will she?” Malik muttered.

“Riese believes her dragon egg was consumed, just like all the others. So no, she will never know. And it is important she does not.”

“She could be a Dragonmount?” Malik demanded.

“Potentially.”

“She deserves—”

“You’ve just come of age, son! You know nothing of what Riese, or anyone else needs or deserves.”

“And you do?”

“Do you understand what just happened? What has gone on for generations?”

“Let’s see. We lie to our people. We sacrifice our own lives every damn year to get these eggs, so the Attican Empire can rule the world. Yes, I think I understand just—”

“No,” said Joren, his voice flaring, grateful for the runic wards in this room. “You are so full of your own thoughts, you haven’t even considered why we do this. Our entire livelihood depends on this. Don’t you see? The safety and sanctity of this island, of our very people, depends on this agreement. Have you any idea what would happen if the world discovered what’s on this island?”

Malik threw up his hands in fury. “You believe that’s worth lying to our people? Sacrificing our own children?”

“Yes!”

“Worth Uncle Pender’s life? Derrin’s?”

Joren pounded the table. “Yes, I believe it’s worth our entire lives! Our entire tradition! Yes! Gods damn it!”

The words hung in the air, all Joren’s guilt and frustration and bitterness rising up all at once.

Malik stared at him, fire in his eyes. Rage, confusion, bitterness. And Joren didn’t blame him.

“I don’t know who we are anymore,” Malik said.

The words pierced like claws into Joren’s heart, digging and wrenching, but there was nothing he could do.

“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” said Joren softly.

His son’s next words seemed inevitable. “Well, maybe I should.”