It wasn’t the first cliff Xaron had climbed, but it was certainly the tallest. Strolling towards the dock so that he was nearly at the base of the cliff, he craned his neck back. The cliff was exposed for the most part, but if he continued further into the inlet, the opposite stone face leaned closer and cast part of the ascent in shadow. He smiled, thinking that Feiyan must enjoy this private view often during the day. At night, it was Xaron’s to claim.

Having circled the Servant’s compound, he’d determined that his best bet for infiltrating the estate would be to ascend the cliff. At seventy spans high, that was no mean feat. But Xaron just smiled to look at it. If he knew himself at all, he was up to the task.

And he was itching to channel.

Glancing around to make sure no one watched or followed, he made his way over the boulders towards the cove. He could have launched himself over the rough terrain with a burst of kinesis, but even he wasn’t so foolish as to waste his strength on convenience. Still, as he hopped from stone to stone, his hands and feet itched, the energy of the Pyrthae pressing at his fingertips and toes. It had been too long since he’d had a chance to properly channel beyond the little that Airene and Nomusa allowed him within Canopy.

And the things he could do if he were allowed. He’d scaled walls in a single jump. He’d performed acrobatics every bit as complicated as the men at the gymnasiums. Once, when a Shepherd had tailed him, he’d vaulted over rooftops to escape. And the tricks with radiance he could perform — juggling fire, casting simple illusions, bursts of light as distractions. He was gifted with this power, yet was told by everyone around him that he couldn’t use it.

Once, he’d lived in a place where he wasn’t restricted. After he’d left his home at seventeen for refusing to stop channeling, he’d found a commune of other feral wardens, and Graz, their leader, took him under his wing. Like Xaron himself, Graz and the others had believed that those with an attunement to the Pyrthae shouldn’t be treated as the detritus of the polis, either shooed into the Acadium to live out their days in repression and among dusty books, or made into the brutal Shepherds who forced other wardens into the same choice. No, they believed they had a right to be exactly who they were, and lived following that shared belief. For two glorious years, Xaron had seen a different future than had been promised for his whole life up until that point.

And then the Shepherds had come.

He had been out purchasing food for the coming span when they came. When he returned, two satchels of bread and fruit slung over his shoulders, he found their home blackened and smoldering. He wanted to run inside, to see if they’d died in the flames or had been taken away, but he hadn’t had the courage. Everyone in the vicinity would know that house had been blighted with the daemonic presence of feral wardens. If he was associated with it, he, too, could meet their same fate.

So instead, he ran, never to know for sure what had happened to his friends.

But even two years later, he still carried on their belief as best he could. Sure, he was cautious, or as cautious as he could compel himself to be. But he still channeled everyday, even if it was just a little. He wouldn’t let the world around press him into forgetting who he truly was. He would carry on their small rebellion for them. And hopefully, their deaths would someday not be in vain.

Xaron slipped down a large, slick stone and found where he would begin his climb: a recess in the rock that crawled up most of the cliff and was spiderwebbed with cracks perfect for toe and finger grips. Wiping his sweaty palms, he forced himself to breathe through the sudden gurgling in his stomach. He was just excited, he told himself.

He reached the lowest cracks and gingerly put his fingers in them, testing how they held his weight. He'd always known he had long fingers and toes, but suddenly they seemed far too fragile for this task. He breathed in, then out. Only one way to fix that.

He channeled. It was a test, just a few small streams of kinesis to his digits to reinforce their strength, but he felt the difference as he gripped the stone and lifted himself up. He easily clung to the handholds now. It didn’t, however, strengthen his arms and legs. He had to be careful, or he’d wear himself out. That, or he’d tear his limbs off with an erratic burst. Just as his magic conferred power, it came with inherent risks as well. But there was little point in dwelling on those possibilities now.

Before he began the climb, he studied the wall again. When he’d first had this idea, he’d humored himself with the fantasy of clearing the cliff in three jumps. Now he saw how foolish that plan had been. It was far too risky and noisy. He’d have to go the long, slow, boring way. With a sigh, he began to climb.

It was easy going at first, and the cracks were plentiful and easily within reach. But a third of the way up, Xaron realized he was headed towards trouble. Not only were his arms quickly tiring, but as he looked ahead in the low light for his next handholds, he saw they grew thinner and further apart. It should have scared him, and his upset stomach told him it probably did. But mostly, he felt the itch of anticipation. Energy flowed through him. He could do this, would do this. After all, what kind of warden was he if he couldn’t?

He picked his way up the wall until he couldn’t find the next firm handhold, a little less than two-thirds of the way up, then braced himself. He checked the flow of the elements inside him and allowed in a bit more kinesis. He felt the rock groan beneath his fingers as the pressure from the magic increased. He looked up again for the spot he was aiming for. From where he was, it’d be a long leap. But he didn’t stop to let doubt seep in. Bracing his legs and flexing his arms, he channeled kinesis in a huge burst and threw himself up the cliff.

He flew. Lifting off the rock face, his old handholds crumbled as he exploded kinesis into them and propelled himself towards the sky. He was twenty spans from the top, ten spans, five — but he was slowing. At the moment of suspension, still a few spans from the top, the horrible realization that he wasn't going to make it slammed into him. He reached out, his hand shy of the cliff’s lip. Panic reared inside him, and he began flailing about him as if something might appear out of nowhere for him to grab. But he was too far away. There was nothing around him but air.

Xaron began to fall.

But he wasn’t out of ideas yet. Thrusting his legs out beneath him, he pulled at every bit of magic he had access to and directed kinesis towards his feet. Pure force rippled behind him as he tried to use the very air to propel him forward. His gut ached as his locus, the center point of his connection the Pyrthae, strained from channeling so much energy, and his limbs burned from directing it. But he wasn’t falling anymore, and bit by bit, he moved closer to the cliff’s edge. Xaron gritted his teeth and pushed harder, engaging his hands in it as well. An arm’s length away, a hand’s breadth—

He reached out and grabbed the stone lip of the edge of the cliff and clung to it like a drowning sailor to a rope. Fully aware of the sear from too much channeling, Xaron cut the streams off abruptly and let his body fall against the cliff. He was pouring sweat, but as he pulled himself to safety, he grinned. He’d done it. Close call regardless, he’d done it.

He flipped onto his back and looked up at the cloudy sky laced with green tendrils from the radiant winds when his breath caught at a thought. When he’d leaped that final distance, he’d channeled enough kinesis to break stone. How much noise had he made? He didn’t hear any alarms sounding or footsteps approaching, but he knew he couldn’t lie in repose for long.

Ignoring his leaden limbs, Xaron sat upright and crawled to the low stone barrier that ran along the cliff’s edge. Listening, he detected a faint whisper on the other side, perhaps two guards in quiet conversation. Xaron risked a peek over the wall. Shadowy forms littered the courtyard, but he quickly saw they were not guards, but statues and fountains and other ornamentation. Only a lone guard stood with a pyr lamp in the whole the courtyard, and he shone his beam into the darkness toward the docks. Either he hadn’t made as much noise as he’d thought, or this guard was deafer than stone.

Ducking back down, Xaron took a deep breath, then once more opened himself up to the Pyrthae. Power streamed through him, starting in his belly and spreading to his limbs. Though it hurt as it flowed, he sighed with relief. He never felt more alive than when he channeled; the rest of existence without it seemed drab and dull-edged. Sitting up and peering over once more, he saw the guard still staring out over the dock and took his chance. Slipping over the wall, he slinked across the courtyard in a crouch. By channeling a small stream of kinesis to soften his footfalls, he barely made a whisper as he passed. He moved around the curves of fountains, around the edges of gardens, behind benches and chairs so that he was soon ten paces behind the guard, the man’s mutterings plain to hear.

“Every damn night…” the man said. “Every damn night she goes out. And what’s she have to say for it? ‘What would you have me do, Eg? Stay in the house all the time?’ Like that’s a punishment. Like I don’t work every night for her to do just that. What I wouldn’t give to be home right now…”

Stifling a chuckle, Xaron slipped past the guard to the door. Opening it without the guard hearing or seeing would be difficult, but Xaron had just the trick for it. Channeling radiance, he repressed its shining properties, and instead let it spread in a thin sheet before him, covering his way to the door. If it worked as he’d practiced in Canopy — employed then to steal the last mango without his fellow Finches noticing — he’d be reflecting back a similar environment as was around him. It would look strange to the guard if he looked too closely at it, but Xaron hoped it would at least disguise his movement. As for sound, Xaron would have to trust to fate and hope that Feiyan was one of those masters who wouldn’t tolerate a squeaky hinge.

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Placing his hand on the handle, Xaron held his breath as he gently pulled. It swung silently open a crack. Just a little wider, and he’d be able to slip through with the guard none the wiser—

The hinge screeched.

The guard spun, his lamp shining straight at where Xaron crouched. Xaron froze, natural instincts urging him to hide, even though he had no better cover around than his shield of radiance. With the light on his illusion, he didn’t know whether it was better to move out of the way or not, so he froze in indecision.

“What in the high heights of the ‘Thae…?” the guard muttered, walking forward and staring at where Xaron crouched. What he saw, Xaron didn’t know. Perhaps it looked like a piece of wall floating disembodied from it. Or perhaps he couldn’t see the door at all. The shield drew its images from the environment around, but what exactly it drew, Xaron hadn’t refined his magic enough to know.

The guard was only six paces away, his hand outstretched toward Xaron’s radiance shield, when Xaron finally willed himself to move. Just as he did, the guard flinched. Xaron cringed; the wall must have moved in the guard's eyes. There was nothing for it but to move quickly and slip through the door, then quickly close it behind. Blessedly, as he escaped while the guard still stared in confusion, the hinges were quiet this time. Just before the door shut, he heard the final gasp from the guard as the illusion shifted once again, then the sealed door shut out all sound.

Walking quickly, Xaron dispelled the radiance shield and slunk his way through the nearly complete darkness. If the guard decided to come through, casting another radiance shield would likely only provoke further curiosity. Xaron needed to truly disappear. He blindly felt his way along the wall, his pounding blood the only thing he could hear. His fingers drifted along an open doorframe, and Xaron, breathing a prayer to any god who would listen, moved behind it.

No sooner had he done so than the outside door opened. “Hello?” the guard called softly. Xaron heard him take one step in, then two. Light flickered on the doorframe. His stomach churned, and he waited for the guard to step through and spot him. But after a few quick breaths, the man just muttered to himself, and his retreating steps echoed in the room. The door closed once again.

He let out a heavy sigh. He was inside and undiscovered. But the worst was still to come. Now he had to sneak through the grounds — and get out — without being detected.

Nothing for it but to keep moving.

Channeling a tiny tongue of fire for light, Xaron navigated his way through the dark rooms, half-bent over just in case he needed to hide or bolt. Twice he nearly bumped into a fragile vase or other decoration, but he corrected himself just in time. He had no idea where he was, or even where he was trying to go. As this thought rattled around his head, he became more and more uncertain of what he was even trying to do here. Had he infiltrated her compound just to prove to he could do it? Was this about upholding what Graz and the others had believed, or just making himself look good before his accomplices?

Xaron shook his head and focused back on his current predicament. There’d be time enough to contemplate his motivations later if he made it back out. He had nearly reached another closed doorway through a room that looked to be an entertainment hall when the door opened. Xaron immediately extinguished his light and ducked behind a table. He didn’t have much cover. All it would take was a glance from the guard to be caught.

But it wasn’t a guard who walked through. The woman who entered the room looked to be little older than Xaron was, and though her eyes were shadowed, Xaron thought they had the distinctive narrow shape of his people, the Qao Fu. From the way she strode across the room, walking in front of the man who was with her, he knew this must be the matron of the estate, Servant Feiyan herself.

“It seems like common sense,” Feiyan observed mildly to her companion. “I didn’t think I needed to tell her explicitly that making sculptures of other people’s ponds is rude.”

Sculptures from ponds? Xaron didn’t know what to make of that. He kept listening as they were hidden from view behind the table.

“Perhaps she believes she did you a service,” the man next to her offered. “After all, it is quite a nice sculpture.”

They stepped around the table, and Xaron was almost as surprised at the flippant tone he used with the Servant as he was at his appearance. From his shaved head and tin spiral earrings, this man was an honor, one of the caste in Oedija relegated to servitude. This honor, however, wore rich robes far beyond his station, and had none of the submissiveness of other honors Xaron had met. He knew little what to make of it all.

“Quite,” Feiyan replied sourly. “Just what I wanted: a feral sculpting her image in my garden.”

Now his heart was pumping. Feral, she’d said. He had a strong suspicion he knew who they were referring to as well. Suddenly, his unease doubled at the task before him.

“Truly, who does she think she is?” the Servant continued to gripe. “Coming with her commands, as if I were nothing but a common honor.”

“Ouch,” the honor said mildly.

The smile she shared with him seemed that of friends. Bewildered, Xaron wondered just who this honor was.

Feiyan faced forward again and exhaled noisily. “Time to be the Servant again. Try not to let me say something that might get myself killed.”

“Isn’t that why you keep me around?”

They entered through another doorway.

Xaron knew he had to hear more of this feral. Summoning his courage, he darted forward on silent feet and caught the door just before it closed. He held his breath, waiting for either the honor or his mistress to notice. But they must have been too absorbed in their conversation, for neither raised an alarm. When he thought enough time had passed, he exhaled and slowly, ever so slowly, opened the door to peer in.

A hallway lined with pyr lamps extended for several dozen spans. From it came a steady, cool breeze. It had to lead outside, he reasoned. Xaron smiled at that. Outside he’d have a much easier time moving around, and less chance of being surprised. He itched to bolt down the hall at that moment, but the receding figures at the end of the hall pressed caution on him once more. He slipped through and softly let the door close behind.

Xaron kept low as he slunk down the hall after Feiyan and the honor. Though his back ached and his legs cramped and he could barely refrain from panting, he knew how easy it would be for them to look back and catch him. Not that crouching would hide him, but it couldn’t hurt his chances.

They moved around a bend, and Xaron took a quick moment to stand and stretch his abused muscles, then peered around the corner after them. The entrance to a garden between sections of the estate lay beyond, but so did Feiyan and the honor, who had stopped at the exit. Xaron silently cursed and pulled back, and listened as their conversation drifted down the hall.

“She has no respect at all,” Feiyan hissed. “Sitting atop a statue of herself in my garden. Unrefined arrogance, it is.”

“Perhaps we should reconsider this relationship,” the honor observed.

“You speak as if I have a choice.” Bitterness tinged the Servant’s words now. In sharp clarity, Xaron suddenly saw how vulnerable Feiyan felt before this woman. “I tell you, Kako. These people… I fear very little in my life, as you know. Fear has always been the tool I’ve best employed, but never had used against me. But her and her master — these, I fear. For all the power and influence I’ve gathered, nothing I can do could touch them.”

“I know,” the honor named Kako said simply. “Let us never forget that then, and not let them use our fear against us.”

Xaron heard them proceed further into the garden and followed after. Ducking behind a row of manicured laurel shrugs, he glimpsed between the leaves the statue the Servant had referred to, and blinked in surprise. A statue of ice rose from the pond in the middle of the garden, a woman’s features formed into it with unnatural smoothness, as if the water had frozen in exactly that shape rather than been carved. Perched atop it was a silver-haired woman in a dark tunic and trousers. Xaron stared at her, wondering at what she had wrought. He thought he knew much of channeling, yet he had not the first idea of how he would create such a thing, as he knew she must have. Magic was supposed to work by using the energies of the Pyrthae to create effects. Radiance, kinesis, magnesis — these were the tools a warden had to work with. And none of these could create ice that Xaron knew of. A creeping sense of awe came over him.

“You’re late.” Her silvery blue hair flashed through the darkness like broken ice bobbing down a mountain river as she leaped down from her statue to approach the Servant and her honor.

“My apologies,” Feiyan said as the woman stalked up to stand before her. “What a beautiful sculpture you formed for me.” Her tone had utterly changed, from barbs to oily placation. Xaron liked this side of Feiyan even less.

The silver-haired woman smirked. “Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? And just like beauty, its existence will be fleeting.”

The Servant inclined her head a fraction. “Just as swiftly opportunities come and go. I understand you have news of our arrangement.”

“Yes.” The silver-haired woman turned away to trace a finger along the statue. “Our apothecary has fled, it seems. Until we discover where he has gone, we cannot proceed with our plans. Any assistance you might provide in this area would be of great appreciation to my master.”

Feiyan bowed her head. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Once he is found, and I’m sure he will be soon, then I trust you remain capable of delivering the expected concoctions from the apothecary. My master is eager to have his designs move forward. He has been waiting a very long time for results, and feels he is growing very near to them now.”

The Servant bowed again. “Of course. Though I must admit, my confidence has been somewhat shaken following the unfortunate death of Agmon of Iris. It is strange that he should die so soon after breaking off his relationship with your master.”

The silver-haired woman smiled a cold smile. “Yes. It is.”

“But of course you have nothing to fear of that from me, Iela,” Feiyan continued smoothly. “I remain at your master’s disposal.”

Xaron wracked his memory for any mention of an ‘Iela’ before when he’d lived in the feral commune, but came up with nothing. While he thought, he shifted his feet to relieve his aching muscles.

A twig snapped beneath his foot.

He froze as Iela whipped her head towards his hiding spot. “What's that?”

His heart hammered in his ears so that he couldn’t make out Feiyan’s response. But it didn’t matter. Whatever she said, Iela didn’t listen, but slowly began to walk toward his hiding spot.

Xaron thought highly of his abilities, but he'd never fought with them. This Iela, on the other hand, looked like she knew her way around a fight. But there was nothing he could do. If he tried a radiance shield, she'd see through it in an instant.

Xaron closed his eyes. There was only one thing he could do. He reached into his pocket and gave the signal, only hoping that his companions’ aid wouldn’t come too late.