Fáolan had not expected to be used as bait, much less so for it to be his own idea.

  He paced the empty corridor, pretending to attend to some important matter. His gaze kept flicking to the sides—to the small passages, shadowed alcoves and old unopened doors—though for a different reason than usual. This time he wanted Lugus to make himself known.

  Annoyingly, much as the dragonar had not had any problems finding his way to Fáolan previously, today he either could not approach, or chose not to, despite the apparent emptiness of the place. Fáolan walked the length of the corridor, more restless with each step, until he found himself at the gate to the east wing. He crossed, lest he stirred suspicion in case Lugus was watching.

  There were more dragons here, and the deeper in he went, the more numerous the crowd grew. The year was coming to a close, and with it came preparations for the Accessing Ceremonies and the following Accessing Fest. The palace was always busy this time of year, as noble families from all over Cavria sent representatives to witness the festivities in the capital or—in case of soon-to-be-accessors of the more distinguished families—take part in them.

  He gave a long sigh as he navigated the halls of this section of the palace—the east wing was a representative part, used to host visiting dignitaries and officials—trying to ignore dragonesses and dragonars pointing at him and whispering, though none approached or talked to him. Light streamed in through tall and narrow windows, the cold sun of abating winter. The palace was always warm inside, no matter the time of year, though Fáolan had heard foreign guests complain, not used to the mountain chill.

  The made-up errands took Fáolan the better part of an hour before he judged it might have been enough. He made his way back to the joint between the parts of the castle, the pair of guards stationed there letting him through without a word.

  Once more he found himself in a near-dragonless hallway. Sufficiently lit, the passage seemed impossibly bare compared to the ornamented walls and doors of the palace proper.

  He took a deep breath. One more chance.

  This time he walked more slowly, steps deliberate, overcautious. His agitation was growing with each step he took, every side corridor passed. They were empty, all of them, but it was not until he had passed the pair of guards stationed at the other end of the tunnel that it fully sank in—Lugus would not show up that day.

  Why now, the one time Fáolan wanted to see him?

  Perhaps that was exactly why.

  He waited close to the gate for a time. Where was his tail? Did they also decide not to—

  The gate opened, and through it stepped two dragonars. Fáolan allowed himself a tart smile. At least they did what they were supposed to, even though there was no one to watch out for, and no one to follow.

  ‘Well, Fáol,’ said Monny as he and Veo approached Fáolan. ‘It appears your secret admirer has elected to remain secret.’

  ‘Stop calling him my secret admirer.’ Fáolan flicked his tail as the three of them started towards his chamber.

  ‘Why?’ Monny bumped him with a wing. ‘It’s more fun this way.’

  ‘We seem to have different views on fun.’

  ‘Oh, come now.’ He turned to Veo. ‘You agree with me, Veolar, don’t you?’

  Veo almost jumped at the address. ‘Erm, I…’ He hesitated, tucking his wings closer to his body and crouching a little lower. The more time they spent together, the more Fáolan was noticing this habit of his—though already smaller than the two of them, Veo would try to appear as small as possible. Fáolan suspected that if the dragonar could disappear entirely, he would. Unfortunately for Veo Monny was still looking at him expectantly. ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘You are hopeless, both of you,’ Monny cut in, shaking his head with a sigh.

  A few more turns down the opulent corridors they reached his room. Fáolan plopped snout-first into a pile of cushions and he heard Monny lying down nearby. After a brief pause Veo followed, settling himself down comfortably next to them. Fáolan smiled. The first time he had invited him Veo sat down stiffly on his haunches on the floor across from Fáolan and Monny, tail tucked neatly around his paws. It took time, but at last, after gentle coaxing, he had joined them on the more comfortable pillows.

  For a time they lingered in a tight silence. At length Monny said, ‘That went well.’

  ‘Badly, you mean,’ retorted Fáolan. He sat back, resettling his wings more comfortably. ‘Why did Lugus not approach today?’

  ‘We scared him off.’ Monny grinned.

  Fáolan scoffed, ready to argue, but stopped before he said anything. Was Monny right? Did Lugus know they were there?

  ‘We will try again in a few days,’ Fáolan said.

  ‘You are truly invested in finding your secret not-admirer,’ said Monny. Fáolan sighed. He could not find it in himself to respond to that. ‘Hey, Fáol—’ Monny sat up on the pillows, pointing a claw to the desk— ‘is that yours?’

  Fáolan looked up and froze. In stark contrast to Taori, whose desk was at all times littered with books and scrolls, Fáolan kept his own clean. Ferrules and ink were always present on the right side, and a small stack of parchment on the left. All else was either situated on a shelf above, or on one of the numerous racks lining two walls of his room. Taori would sometimes tease him, how an empty desk spoke of an empty mind.

  It was not empty now.

  He got up and moved across the room. A rolled sheet of paper lay haphazardly across his desk, dark ink peeking from its coils.

  He frowned as he unfurled it. Written across it was a simple message in dried black ink, in precise and neat clawwriting.

  Next time come without company

  ~L.

  ‘Um…’ Fáolan turned to Monny and Veo as a chill ran down his spine, raising the scales on his neck. ‘I think we might need a different plan.’

  ‘You should tell your father about this.’

  ‘Telling the king about this is the last thing I should be doing now.’

  Monny was already shaking his head halfway through Fáolan’s reply. ‘What in “an unknown dragon broke into the prince’s room and left a note saying, “I’m watching you“ makes you think he shouldn’t know?’

  They had, of course, questioned the guards whether they had seen anyone suspicious—whether anyone had entered Fáolan’s room at all—but all of them had given the same answer: if any suspicious dragon had tried to enter, they would have stopped them.

  ‘Do you think I’ve never tried?’ Fáolan flared his wings emphatically with the last word. ‘He never believes me when I tell him about Lugus. Trust me, I have tried.’ His wings dropped as he loosed a tired sigh.

  ‘Is there someone who would believe?’

  Fáolan’s head perked up. The question came from Veo, unsure as it was, but it stirred a thought in Fáolan’s head. The king had dismissed him, and Mother stopped believing him after an extended fruitless search. Taori took his side, which, while undeniably uplifting, did not mean much for unveiling the mystery of the dragonar. But there were other routes to try.

  ‘We could visit grandfather éoghan. He knows a lot of things one would not expect. Let us—Veo, is something the matter?’

  The dragonar had stilled at something Fáolan had said. He shifted his weight from one paw to another before lifting his eyes at Fáolan. ‘éoghan?’ he asked. Then, as though to drive the point, ‘The éoghan?’

  Fáolan tilted his head. ‘I have only one grandfather éoghan, so I suppose yes.’

  ‘He… I mean…’ Veolar hesitated. Fáolan gave him time to gather his words. ‘He is the son of Cáondai the Conqueror.’

  Fáolan nodded. ‘He is. And I am her great-grandson. How is that much different?’

  That made Veolar stiffen even more as he looked at Fáolan in silence, not quite meeting his eyes, his claws twitching gently against the cushions.

  ‘I’ve met him a few times,’ Monny spoke up. ‘He reminds me of you, in a way. For the son of the late Queen Lightbringer, there is not much grandiose about him.’

  Fáolan might have been affronted by the words were they not so close to truth. ‘Cáondai did not regard her son very highly, if you recall, Veo. He was—is—a part of her supposed useless generation.’ Despite trying, Fáolan could not hide the bitterness at the descriptor. ‘She refused to take him under her wings. She much preferred Father,’ and his siblings, ‘for the throne. He… is not who you would expect of the Conqueror’s son.’

  Veo relaxed somewhat, but there was still tension in the way he stood, unmoving. He said, ‘But is it alright if I go? I’m hardly a noble and…’ The last sentence hung unfinished in the air.

  ‘Do not worry about that,’ said Fáolan, coming to stand next to Veo and spreading a wing over his back. ‘He is the last dragon in Cavria who would mind.’

  ‘Who might this fine lad be? I don’t recall seeing you with him, Fáolan, nor, in fact, seeing him at all.’

  éoghan—who had insisted on being called so, deeming “grandfather” too formal—lived outside the palace, in a large house carved into the same mountain as the royal residence, only a short flight away. The trio of dragonars left the palace through the main gate of the west wing, soared down the jagged mountain and into its part claimed by dragon claw. The winter’s chill brushed their scales, though there was no snowfall that day, and Fáolan relished the crisp air, a relief after the comparatively stuffy, if warm, castle walls.

  Despite éoghan’s status, the house was furnished modestly by royalty standards, with plain furniture of dark wood and rock, and colourful carpets, more functional than decorative. He had led them to a spacious guest room where they sat on thick beige-and-red mats around the table.

  ‘This is Veolar ál Thiamar Túirengair,’ said Fáolan. ‘A new friend.’

  ‘I have only recently moved to the capital, to my uncle, Cathal ál Niall,’ said Veolar, bowing, ‘in hopes of providing me with better opportunities than the province, Lord Lightbringer.’

  ‘Hey there, lad, no need to be as formal.’ éoghan smiled, though Veo, bowing as he was, could not have seen it. Fáolan’s grandfather moved to one of the wooden cabinets lining the wall. ‘éoghan is enough, really. I’m not a Lightbringer in anything save for my name.’ He turned to them again, a tray of sweets in one paw, a wing open for support as he approached. ‘You don’t visit often, Fáolan, much less without the rest of the family. What brings you to the lair of this old ‘nar?’

  Fáolan wondered where to start while Monny was happily munching on a cookie with red jam filling. With some uncertainty, Veolar took one as well. Before Fáolan managed to find his words there was a soft wingbeat and a thud from the landing platform at the entry, and soon followed steps, almost entirely muffled by the thick carpets.

  ‘Welcome home, love!’ called éoghan. ‘We gave guests.’

  ‘Oh, do we?’ came a voice, and in a moment grandmother úna stood in the doorway to the guest room.

  Where éoghan was almost a splitting image of Fáolan’s father—shining white scales with scant golden patterns studded with accessing gems, straight horns and the Lasthúir eyes of mat gold—Grandmother was almost vibrant. Her golden patterns had hardly any regularity to their spacing, and they glittered intermittently whenever she passed by a source of light. Her scales were a dirty beige, marred by a couple of lighter discoloured patches, a remnant from the bright fever pandemic when she had been a hatchling. Contrary to Cavrian custom she had no gems on her, but instead had her horns painted a colour somewhere between maroon and gold, and her claws were the purple of sunset. Her nose and one ear were pierced with gemless silver rings.

  It was a small wonder their marriage had come through—éoghan was calling it his only victory against his mother. Fáolan was not sure of the details, but Queen Cáondai had not been pleased with her only son’s choice of a partner, at one point coming close to banishing úna Sundancer from the court, but éoghan had threatened he would follow her even out of Cavria if need be, and the Conqueror Queen, having no other heirs, had been forced to accept his decision.

  ‘Fáolan, dear!’ Grandmother beamed as she entered the room. ‘I’m glad to see you away from that wretched palace.’

  ‘It is good to see you also,’ said Fáolan, knowing better than to argue.

  ‘Why did you come? You don’t visit your crumbling grandparents very often.’ Even though she said it cheerfully enough, Fáolan did not miss a slight accusatory note in her voice. She settled on a mat next to éoghan’s and set her gaze on Fáolan and his friends.

  ‘I was just asking him that,’ said éoghan. He ruffled his wings. ‘So, lad, do tell.’

  Fáolan breathed in, then out. ‘Have you ever heard of a dragonar named Lugus?’

  ‘Lugus?’ éoghan frowned. ‘I don’t believe I have. Why?’

  Fáolan clenched his jaw, looked to the side. Despite living away from the palace, éoghan used to make a point of knowing the dragons of the court, and while newcomers sometimes evaded his careful watch, Fáolan was hoping for something conclusive.

  So he told them it all—who Lugus was and how Fáolan had met him, of his strange double voice and glowing white eyes, of his parents' dismissal and the fruitless search. All the while they listened carefully, and Monny was busying himself with emptying the tray of cookies.

  As he told his story, úna and éoghan shared a look, one that Fáolan did not like. Veo shifted nervously and even Monny slowed his consumption of jam-filled sweets. ‘Are you sure,’ asked éoghan, ‘that all of it is true? You didn’t make it up, didn’t mistake what you saw?’

  Fáolan hesitated before shaking his head. ‘If it happened once, then perhaps. But we have met… more than I would have liked.’

  éoghan turned to grandmother úna. ‘I think you can help him more than I, love.’

  Fáolan looked between the two of them, tail swiping against the floor. ‘So you do believe me.’

  ‘When you’re our age you’ve seen a lot of things, and heard of even more,’ said éoghan. ‘One time may have been a phantasm, but as it is… Well, úna, dear?’

  ‘Now,’ said Grandmother, a little less certainly than she had thus far, placing her forepaws flat on the table, ‘I haven’t been dealing with this kind of thing in a while, so forgive me if I misremember some details, but I have heard the name Lugus before. Sometimes he’s also known as Lugh, but as it is—he is one of the Old Gods.’

  Monny choked on a cookie.

  ‘But that’s heresy!’ said Veo, and immediately shrank as Fáolan and the others looked at him. He hesitated, then continued, albeit more quietly. ‘I mean, the… Old Gods are not true, lady Lightbringer. They’re just stories, right? Unity is the only truth.’

  His words sounded more like a recited formula than true belief. The Old Gods—or spirits, as modern stories tended to call them—were a difficult subject in Cavria. Most knew about them from the folk tales hatched from beliefs prior to the Unification of Cavria, but faith in them was frowned upon—illegal, even.

  ‘Every story has a seed of truth in it.’ Grandmother smiled at Veo. She rapped her painted claws against the table, cocked her head in thought. ‘It is up to us to sieve it from the lies and omissions.’

  ‘You’re saying some wicked spirit is tailing Fáol?’ asked Monny, having recovered from his coughing fit.

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Grandmother lifted a claw. The silver bands around her ankle jingled. ‘A name in itself means little—anyone could claim to be called anything—but the whole thing seems weird, and the white eyes don’t help the case.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘Do you know whence he comes? Have you tried following him?’

  ‘I have. All I got was this,’ Fáolan said, producing Lugus’s note from a bag strapped to his harness. He told his grandparents about the failed plan earlier that day, Monny interrupting from time to time, adding details from his and Veo’s side.

  ‘So, what you mean to say,’ said éoghan when Fáolan finished the tale, snout creased with worry, ‘that this stranger managed to sneak into the central palace, then into the suite of the prince, leave this note, and then make himself scarce, all without being noticed by a single guard?’

  ‘I know it sounds impossible, but I cannot see any other reasonable explanation.’ Fáolan said.

  ‘Yes, they are too well-paid for that…’ éoghan wondered. Grandmother flexed her claws in thought.

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  ‘Then… how? Was it really…’ Fáolan hesitated, unable to bring himself to even suggest such a thing.

  Grandmother was already shaking her head. ‘Much as I believe you, Fáolan dear, I don’t think you met one of the Old Gods. There is definitely something the matter with him, what with the white eyes, but the Old Gods have not been known to manifest in flesh.’

  ‘Could this not have been an image created by one? A way to trick me he is a dragonar? He never touched—’

  ‘You seem to have taken a liking to this idea,’ Grandmother said, and Fáolan’s maw clicked shut. A wave of warmth rose to his snout, but Grandmother sent him a reassuring smile, her nose-ring glinting. ‘I don’t think it’s true. I didn’t have any such encounter myself, but from what I’ve read… Let us say, had you met an Old God, you would have known.’

  From the corner of his eye Fáolan could see Veo’s claws twitching uncomfortably. Even Monny had halted his consumption, eyes wandering. He could not say he blamed them. Spirits were not a welcome topic of conversation among Cavrians, much less so speaking of them as anything more than mere stories of old.

  Fáolan leaned back on the thick mat. ‘What should I do, then?’

  éoghan tapped a claw against the table. ‘I assume you have spoken with Aodhan about it?’

  ‘Father does not believe Lugus to be real,’ said Fáolan, politely ignoring how his grandfather had referred to the King Lightbringer. Though, he supposed, being the son of Queen Cáondai and the father of the current king gave one a different outlook on the monarchs. ‘He thinks I am making it up to cover my—’ he mock-coughed— ‘inadequacies.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’ Grandmother asked, her eyes and voice taking on a new sharpness.

  ‘No, no.’ Fáolan lifted a paw as though to shield himself from her ire. Though he probably thought that, he did not add.

  ‘We will talk to him. If what you’re saying is true, it is too serious to ignore.’

  ‘But what should I do?’ Fáolan pressed, leaning over the table, supported by his splayed forepaws. I cannot stand idly while he keeps watching me. I must learn who he is, what he wants.’

  Fáolan’s grandparents exchanged another silent look. At length, Grandmother said, ‘You could try the library. This Lugus has taken the name of an Old God. Find something about them. Old Gods, Old Faith, spirits, folk tales or Tír nAill. Anything you could find.’ She did not sound quite convinced as she said it. Fáolan nodded regardless. This might not bear useful fruit, but he welcomed a way to make his talons busy.

  ‘Oh, yes, this one is excellent.’ Fáolan took the tome and placed it on a nearby table with a thunk. ‘Thank you, Veo.’

  From the corner of his eye Fáolan saw Veo smile as he turned his head to the side. It was small, uncertain, but honest, and it struck Fáolan how rare a sight this was. His already seldseen smiles seemed guarded, cautious things, as though he were afraid showing joy might cause Unity to take it all away.

  Fáolan turned back to the book in front of him. It was large, bound in light brown leather with a title embossed in dark golden script. It read: On the Strange and Elusive Beings of Tír nAill. The spine said much the same and, aside from scant floral patterns and the author listed merely as M. ál M., that was all it presented.

  Tír nAill. The Other Land.

  It surprised Fáolan how difficult it was to find anything relevant to his search. Though belief in the “Old Gods” had been popular before Cavria was unified under Dúlamán, these days it was a subject of stories told to hatchlings to make them behave, or tall tales of heroic conquests into the world of spirits. Most of what they had found had been no more than fictitious imaginings, but looking at the tome that lay before him, he got the feeling M. ál M. believed what they wrote.

  He opened the book onto a faded table of contents, the writing so small and tight as to be almost illegible. He was right. This was no story book.

  It was an old thing—written in ferrule and claw as opposed to the modern inking press—but it was surprisingly well-preserved for its age. The library card indicated rather infrequent use.

  Fáolan turned back to Veo. ‘Where did you find this?’

  Monny resettled his wings and approached, peering over Fáolan’s shoulder at the book. Veo rubbed a claw against his foreleg. ‘Libraries like this one are too big to keep everything shelved. There are always books hidden somewhere. I figured what we wanted would not be in the open, so I asked the librarian if I could take a look.’

  ‘And she let you?’ Monny asked, sceptical.

  ‘No. But she agreed to look there herself. She… did not seem keen on the topic of our research, but came back with this.’

  Monny nodded. He turned back toward the book. ‘Should we take it to your room, Fáol?’

  Fáolan considered this briefly. ‘No. Lugus… I hope he is not watching now—’ a chill ran down his spine at the thought— ‘but he might if we go back. I do not want him knowing what we are reading.’

  Monny chuckled. ‘Are you that scared of him now?’

  ‘After he knew you were watching, after he bypassed the guards and left the note in my own room? Yes. Yes, I am.’

  Monny grew serious at that, and nodded. He went to search for other tomes, Veo in tow, while Fáolan focused on what Veo had found.

  The book’s pages were yellowed, and Fáolan traced the contents with a claw, careful to hover it above the paper. At times he had to squint to make out the words, and even then he was not always sure he read correctly. Aside from the tight script, it was made harder by its somewhat archaic language. The table of contents did not yield any clue as to where he could find information about Lugus, so he leafed some pages forward and started reading. Eventually Monny and Veo returned, each with two smaller books, and set them down on adjacent tables.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Monny.

  ‘I… think there is something here,’ Fáolan said. ‘Not much, and I am not sure how much it helps us. Lugus was once a minor deity of commerce, merchants and—’ he grimaced— ‘of messages.’

  Monny stifled a laugh. ‘Isn’t that convenient?’

  ‘It might be a coincidence.’ Fáolan turned the page. ‘Or someone with the knowledge and a particular sense of humour.’

  ‘Or an Old God come to haunt you,’ Monny said grimly. Fáolan scoffed, though a part of him could not stop worrying.

  The book did not offer much more by way of Lugus himself, though after leafing through it for a solid hour or two Fáolan felt as though his knowledge about the spirits expanded more than he would have expected it to in his whole life—which, admittedly, was not much. M. ál M. seemed to have a fondness for making digressions of digressions, writing in circles and vaguely referencing things Fáolan had never heard about. There were mentions of some ritual, though even the book itself did not agree on its spelling, calling it either spiritbinding or spiritbonding, much less explaining what its purpose was or how it was performed. He encountered names he recognised too—Morrigu and Aengus, Old Gods who wound their way into many stories, refusing to be forgotten.

  They were roused from their research by the growling of Monny’s stomach. He sent Fáolan a pointed look.

  Fáolan stretched and yawned. It took him a moment to work the stiffness off his muscles. ‘How was your reading?’

  Monny cocked his head, flicked an ear. ‘I would have loved to say I found a story where a little prince gets eaten by a wild Lugus, but sadly, no luck.’

  ‘Veo?’ asked Fáolan, ignoring Monny. Veolar only shook his head. ‘We should get going then. There is little more we can glean from this, and even so, soon someone’s stomach will get so loud we will be made to leave either way.’

  Monny grinned. His dark yellow eyes bore the promise of mischief. ‘I have an idea how to silence it. Come.’

  ‘Are you sure we want to do this?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ Monny said, turning to Veo as they marched in the direction of the palace kitchens. ‘We could, of course, turn back. If you really don’t want to come.’ He tilted his head. There was a challenging note to his voice, and Veo hesitated before answering, drawing into himself. If Monny noticed the effect his words had on the smaller dragonar, he gave no indication of it.

  Veo looked between the other two. ‘No, I…’ He trailed off, then sighed. ‘Let’s go.’

  Fáolan frowned. ‘Are you sure? If you do not feel up to it—’

  ‘It’s fine, Fáol. He said he wants to go with us. Didn’t you, Veo?’ Monny cut in, bumping Veo gently in the side with his wing.

  ‘Let him speak for himself,’ Fáolan said flatly, the beginning of a growl forming in his throat.

  ‘Oh, come now, he did.’

  Veolar, if possible, looked even more uncomfortable. ‘No, your highness, it is no problem. The Lord Sundancer is right. I will go.’

  A silence hung between them, a brief but heavy thing. ‘Veo?’ said Fáolan, unable to hide his concern. ‘We have talked about this. You need not address us like that. And you don’t have to agree to all we say.’ He sent Monny a pointed look, which the dragonar pretended to ignore. Fáolan would have to talk to him again. For now, though, they were with Veolar. He would not have Monny coercing him into things he did not want. Turning back to Veo, he said, ‘At this moment I am not a Lightbringer. I am Fáolan.’

  Veo breathed deep, his tail swishing idly. ‘Yes. Right.’ He looked up to meet Fáolan’s and Monny’s eyes. ‘I want to come with you.’

  The way he spoke made it feel as though he meant a follow-up, but none came, and before Fáolan could ask for it, Monny said, ‘That’s the spirit! Come, quick,’ and the conversation drifted into the topic of their little heist as the three of them turned into the final corridor, slowing down and taking care to tread on silent paws.

  Honey drops were an elusive thing—a special kind of sweet made only for the Accessing Fest. Few knew the recipe, and even fewer were able to prepare it. Fáolan had had the chance to try them in years prior and, even as a prince of Cavria, it was the most exquisite thing he had ever tasted.

  The Accessing Fest was approaching and before the festivities the honey drops were in abundance, kept hidden in one of the palace kitchens. Surely no one would notice if three disappeared. Or six.

  Monny leaned in closer to the two of them. ‘Alright,’ he whispered. In the corridor’s scant light his scales were almost pitch-black. ‘Fáol and I will go inside, look for the honey drops, and you, Veo, will stand guard and alert us of any danger.’

  ‘Why am I standing guard?’ asked Veolar, hesitating near the end of the question. Fáolan could not help a small smile at the dragonar’s objection.

  ‘We need someone here,’ explained Monny. ‘Fáol and I have been to the kitchens, we know where to look, and how to get there. Can you?’

  Veo looked to the side, rubbing one paw against the other. ‘No.’

  ‘It is settled, then,’ said Monny and, casting a glance at Fáolan, then Veo, he added, ‘Come now, don’t look so glum. We will bring you some. And we do need someone out here—we need to know if someone is coming, alright?’

  Veo seemed to try to smile, but failed. ‘Alright.’ He moved along, doing a decent impression of not standing watch, and Fáolan and Monny slid into the kitchen.

  Even though they had expected it—hoped for it—it still struck Fáolan how empty the place was. The previous time he had been here the kitchen had been bustling with activity. Near the Accessing Fest, though, while other kitchens were busier than ever, this one was devoted exclusively to the master confectioner, lest any prying eyes glean the mystery of the honey drops. A little paranoid, in Fáolan’s opinion, but she did deliver on the promise of making the sweet every year, and so the king accepted her conditions.

  And yet it is so easy to get in while she is not here, thought Fáolan as he and Monny navigated the space. Aside from its new emptiness it was largely unchanged—long rows of countertops with cabinets underneath, a station for washing paws and ingredients, another for measuring them. The wall opposite was lined with stone ovens, now cold. The room lacked its typical warmth, and it seemed almost cool even though it was little different from the rest of the palace.

  One other thing was different about this place—the smell.

  While never not smelling of food, gone were the scents of cooked meat and fresh vegetables, of baking bread and mushroom pastries and fried, salted, buttered potatoes. Instead, the room was bathed in a soft overlay of honey, vanilla and nutmeg. It was not much—not enough to carry outside, but the sweet fragrance was unmistakable.

  Monny sniffed the air and sighed contentedly. ‘Ah, honey drops, here we come,’ he said, setting out to search the place. Fáolan made to follow, but hesitated.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, and the black dragonar stopped to look back at him. ‘Why are you treating Veo like this?’

  ‘Like what?’ He turned to Fáolan fully. ‘He agreed to come, did he not? Or do you mean having him stand guard?’

  Fáolan huffed. ‘We both know it is not about standing guard. You as well as made him come.’ Monny opened his maw to speak, but Fáolan went on, neck-scales flaring briefly, ‘And do not try to spin it tail-side. Are you still bitter he is stealing me from you?’

  ‘I’m trying to integrate him more into what we do,’ Monny said innocently, though his frame was tense. ‘Is that not what you want?’

  ‘Not in a way where he has no choice.’ Fáolan sighed, closing the distance between them, looking into his friend’s unbudging eyes. He tried to smile. ‘Veo needs us.’

  Monny mumbled something, too quiet for Fáolan to hear, and said, ‘Come. Let’s look for the honey drops before the confectioner is back.’ He turned away and made down the aisle between the countertops. Fáolan clenched his claws, and reluctantly followed. Monny was right, they were short on time, but this conversation was not—

  A shape shot into the kitchen, a blur of light and darker brown, and Fáolan almost crashed into a cabinet before he recognised it.

  Veo.

  ‘Hide! Hide!’ the dragonar was whispering loudly as he rushed toward them. Monny turned sharply, a frown on his snout.

  ‘What is happening?’ asked Fáolan as the three scrambled to hide. One of the cabinets down the aisle was half-open and almost empty, so they quickly moved the pottery to another one and squeezed inside. The space might have been enough for one, even two of them, but with all three inside it was a tight fit, their sides and paws and wings hugging close, tails intermingled. Fáolan struggled to close the cabinet doors behind them.

  ‘Someone is coming,’ said Veo. Fáolan felt his breath against his neck. ‘I think she might be heading here.’

  ‘You think?’ Monny asked. ‘You didn’t check? Why didn’t you warn us?’

  ‘I am warning you now.’

  ‘You were supposed to do that from there.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With the cue.’

  ‘You didn’t give me any cue.’

  Steps.

  They went quiet. In the small space each breath and heartbeat sounded loud enough to wake the dead.

  ‘Did she see you?’ Fáolan whispered.

  ‘I… don’t know. I think—’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t seen you,’ a voice came from the doorway, loud and resonant, and its owner entered the kitchen. Her steps were slow and deliberate, a predator stalking her prey. ‘Stop hiding you little scamp, I know you’re here.’

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Veo.

  ‘Hide, I assume,’ Monny said flatly.

  ‘Try to think of a better plan,’ retorted Fáolan.

  ‘We would not be in this mess if someone kept watch.’

  ‘Eamon. He stood guard. And he did warn us.’

  ‘For all the good it did.’

  ‘Now is not the time for—’

  Fáolan was cut short by a movement against him. It was Veo, and Fáolan tried to turn his head to look at what the dragonar was doing. Veolar pushed open the door to their hiding spot and clambered out.

  ‘Veo,’ Fáolan whispered, ‘what are you doing?’

  Heedless of Fáolan’s words, Veo continued on his way out.

  Fáolan did not manage half a move himself before Monny stopped him. He tried to break free of the hold, but his friend did not budge, watching Veo intently.

  Veolar, meanwhile, moved not away, but toward the stalking dragoness. They could not see him after a few steps, but heard loud and clear when he said, ‘I am sorry. I should not be here.’

  What was he doing?

  The dragoness huffed. ‘Then why are you?’

  ‘I…’ A breath of hesitation. Then, ‘I came here for the honey drops.’

  ‘A thief, then,’ she snarled. ‘Where are your friends?’

  Fáolan’s heart thundered.

  And Veolar said, ‘I came alone.’

  Fáolan gasped so loud he feared the confectioner might have heard him. But she said, ‘Alone? In that case, you will—’

  ‘He is not alone!’ said Fáolan, jumping out of the cabinet and stepping towards the two dragons. Soon after he heard Monny follow. ‘He came with us. Indeed, it was our idea.’

  ‘Fáolan…’ said Veo, whirling on him, light yellow eyes wide. The master confectioner towered above them. Fáolan sent Veo a small smile.

  The confectioner levelled her gaze at Fáolan and Monny. Aside from her size, she looked unassuming—bulky form, pallid yellow eyes, sandy scales with tiny golden stripes, grey horns and claws, the latter dulled at the tops. She wore an almost speckless white vest with a multitude of pockets on its sides, some empty, others bulging.

  ‘Prince Lightbringer, Lord Sundancer.’ She gave as shallow a bow as she could without being disrespectful to the Cavrian prince, and Fáolan smiled. Had he known it would be as easy to get out of— ‘This is no place for intruders, including yourselves,’ the dragoness said, her eyes and voice hardening. She pointed a claw to Veo. ‘He is with you too?’

  Veo looked back, unsurely, at the two of them. Even from a few steps' distance Fáolan could see Veo’s paws shaking slightly, his tail swishing back and forth. Fáolan said, ‘He is.’

  A silent pause followed, and then the dragoness breathed, long and hard, through her nose. She brought a paw to her temple. ‘You lot will be the end of me.’ She nodded to the doorway. ‘Out. And, my prince, do not think the king will not hear of this. Same with you, Lord Sundancer. If I see you here again…’ She lifted a claw at them. ‘You do not want to be seen here again.’

  The three quickly scrambled out, leaving the master confectioner behind, a hulking sentry in her culinary abode.

  ‘What a grump,’ said Monny when they were out of her earshot.

  ‘She was right,’ Fáolan said. ‘We should not have been there.’

  ‘Well,’ said Monny, ‘we didn’t get the honey drops either way.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Veo, casting his head down. Fáolan turned to look at him, but before he could speak Veo said, ‘I was supposed to keep watch.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  The words surprised Fáolan. Not because of what they were—he knew them to be true—but rather the fact it was not him who said them.

  It was Monny.

  Veo looked up at the black dragonar, now little more than a shadow in the scant light, but Monny did not offer much by way of a follow-up, and for the span of several moments they walked in silence.

  At last, Monny said, ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Do… what?’

  He looked at Veolar, his voice urgent and uncertain, eyes keen. ‘Why did you lie to her? Why did you tell her you were alone? Why did you try to take the whole blame on yourself?’

  Fáolan did not dare intrude in the conversation, and another silence followed. At length Veolar said, ‘I was supposed to keep watch. To warn you if she was coming. I failed.’ Monny tried to say something, but Veo cut him off—louder and, Fáolan noticed, on the verge of tears. ‘Because of me you couldn’t get the drops and then you were arguing and…’ He hung his head again. ‘I didn’t want you to get in trouble because of me.’

  ‘Veo…’ said Fáolan.

  Monny, on the other paw, said nothing. Instead, he closed the distance between himself and Veo and extended a wing over the smaller dragonar, pulling him closer.

  Together, the three of them followed the corridor out into the guest part of the palace, and then back into Fáolan’s room.

  To say the King Lightbringer was not pleased was to call the sun “a little bright”.

  ‘What, in the name of Unity, do you think you’re doing?!’

  The king had summoned him to one of the rooms he admitted guests—a comparatively small space, lavishly furnished and decorated in the Lightbringer shades of white and gold. Paintings and tapestries lined the walls, all gold and green and burgundy, depicting the Lasthúir of old. Fáolan was not sure if it was to be a trial or a different matter, but the absence of both his sister and mother was as clear a message as they came.

  ‘First you make up this “Lugus” and refuse to admit to your lies.’

  ‘It is not—’

  ‘Then,’ said the king, ‘you tell the guards he broke into your room. Then you send my parents after me. And then you try to sneak into the kitchens like a thief, and for what? A couple sweets? You are not a hatchling anymore, Fáolan. How do you want to rule Cavria if at thirteen you go about stealing honey drops? You are a prince. Act like it.’

  Rule? Fáolan thought. You have already made your choice, and it’s not me. Aloud, he said, ‘I am sorry, Father. It will not happen again.’

  The king levelled his gaze at Fáolan. ‘It better not.’ He kept his eyes trained on Fáolan, with little in them that spoke of warmth. ‘Dismissed.’

  Fáolan made haste to leave the room.

  ‘I know you are here.’

  Fáolan said it quietly enough, but even so the empty corridor carried his echo along its length. He came alone, not even telling Monny and Veo about his plan. The place had been busy lately with the Accessing Fest underway, but he had managed to find a pocket of respite.

  ‘That I am,’ said Lugus from behind Fáolan. There it was, that unmistakable two-layered voice. The other dragonar was close, only a few steps away, but Fáolan did not turn around. ‘I see you have come without a tail this time.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Fáolan asked, feigning calmness. ‘Perhaps they are watching us right now.’

  ‘We both know that is a lie. So, tell me, young Lightbringer, why did you seek me out?’

  Breath in. Breath out. He could still walk away from this. Leave the matter be.

  He knew it would not do.

  Everything thus far had led to dead ends. He was done with it.

  He turned to look at Lugus, and sure enough there he was—same grey scales, same white eyes. Watching him. Expectant. Curious.

  Fáolan steeled himself before saying, ‘I have come to learn what you have promised to teach me.’