Blood of an Exile

by Brian Naslund

  But if Bershad told her that, he’d have to tell her everything else, too. He wasn’t ready to do that.

  “It wasn’t easy,” Bershad said. “But now that it’s preserved, the edge has never taken a scratch.”

  Ashlyn nodded. She knew him well enough to know she shouldn’t push.

  “The rest of you has taken some damage, though.” Ashlyn motioned to his body, scars visible through his half-closed shirt.

  “Yeah.”

  When Bershad was sixteen years old, he’d spent a week’s worth of sleepless nights sitting on his own castle windowsill, wondering whether climbing higher toward Ashlyn’s bedroom was the right thing to do.

  Uncertainty wasn’t a problem for him this time.

  He crossed the room and kissed her. Put both hands on her cheeks, ran them down her black hair to the small of her back. He had kissed her hundreds of times. Thousands. But the familiar taste of her mouth after fourteen summers and fourteen winters was enough to make his hands tremble.

  They broke apart and Ashlyn slipped both palms under his shirt, pressed her fingertips into his scarred skin. “I can’t believe you’re still alive,” she whispered. “I can’t believe a world made of such cruelty would do me the kindness of letting me hold you again. I missed you.” She kissed his neck. His jaw. His tattoos and his lips. “I missed you and missed you and missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  Bershad ran a hand down her forearm and stopped at her wrist. There was a Papyrian knife the size of a thumb strapped to the inside of her wrist with a sharkskin leather thong. She’d had it since she was ten.

  “You still carry that?” he asked. There was a clear, fibrous strand wrapped around the thong that Bershad didn’t recognize, but everything else was the same.

  “You know Hayden,” Ashlyn said. “She always said it’s easier to protect me if I can protect myself.”

  Bershad touched her cheek. “I’ve carried the memory of your face to every corner of Almira. It was the only good thing I had. But now the memory feels so small, like I’ve been holding on to a pebble and pretending it was a boulder.”

  She kissed him again. Bershad could feel warm tears on her cheeks, and then the pinch of her teeth as she bit down on his bottom lip and released. She did that when she didn’t have words for whatever she was feeling.

  “Ashlyn,” he said, breaking the embrace after a long time. They couldn’t pretend forever. “I understand why Hertzog wants a seashell jammed into the emperor’s mouth—he never could abide someone fucking with his family. But this isn’t like you. When you were twelve, you rode a stallion into a High Council meeting with your face covered in mud, shouting at your father to stop issuing writs of slaying along the Gorgon because too many River Lurkers had been killed that year. Now you want to assassinate an emperor. Why?”

  “Because if Mercer is still alive this summer, he’ll kill every dragon in the realm of Terra.”

  That got Bershad’s attention.

  “How?”

  “I’ll explain.” Ashlyn motioned to the carpet in front of the fire. They both sat down near the warmth. “When the Balarians agreed to visit Floodhaven, I told the High Council that they were coming to broker a trade deal with Almira that would make them rich and finally end Balaria’s thirty-year isolation. That was partly true. The emperor and I did discuss the trade of lumber and salt, spices and opium, dragon oil and steel. But that’s not all we discussed.”

  Bershad considered that. “Marriage,” he said.

  “That’s right. My husband drowned in the sea four years ago like an idiot. Mercer’s wife died before providing any heirs. It was only logical that we consider a match. For Mercer, it was the chance to succeed where his father had failed. To conquer Almira without so much as a drawn sword.”

  “And for you?”

  “Mercer Domitian rules the eastern side of the Soul Sea with impunity, yet his true personality and goals have remained a mystery to me, despite my best efforts to plant a spy in the Imperial Palace. I needed to know my adversary. This was the perfect excuse. We used the trade negotiation as a chance to court each other, and I used the courtship as a chance to discover who Mercer Domitian really was. I didn’t like what I found.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mercer knew I was interested in the lives of dragons, so he exposed his own personal … enthusiasm, I guess you could call it. He thought it would provide us with a common ground, but he and I do not share any common ground as far as I can tell, particularly when it comes to dragons. Here, look at this.”

  Ashlyn unrolled one of the maps she’d brought with her. It was an atlas of every warren on the eastern shore of Terra.

  “For decades, there have been rumors that Balaria has aggressively hunted their dragon populations to slake Burz-al-dun’s deep thirst for dragon oil. But I never knew how far they’d truly taken things until two months ago. According to Mercer, there hasn’t been a dragon sighted within a week’s ride of Burz-al-dun since the last Great Migration, five years ago. There is only one warren left inside their borders where dragons still come to breed, but it’s the largest in the realm.”

  She pointed to a triangle-shaped mass in the east that was outlined in green ink.

  “They call it Tanglemire. The area has always been inaccessible to men because of a massive mangrove field that surrounds it on all sides. Every five years, thousands of dragons come to that patch of land to hatch their broods at midsummer, when the waters reach their warmest. But Emperor Mercer has spent the last three years cutting a road through the mangroves, while also mass-producing a new type of ballista that can shoot a dragon out of the sky from a thousand strides away. He showed me the plans—there are more gears and locking pins in the winch lever alone than I’d have thought possible, and he uses a mechanism powered by dragon oil to reload them incredibly fast. I suppose innovation is the inevitable result of a country that’s worshipped a machine god for the last five hundred years instead of mud statues.” Ashlyn shook her head in frustration. “When the summer solstice arrives and the dragons of Terra return to Tanglemire, Mercer is going to drag hundreds of those machines to the edge of the wetland and eradicate them.”

  “Why would he want to kill so many dragons all at once?”

  “Simple economics. Burz-al-dun burns more dragon oil in a moon’s turn than Almira uses in a year—they rely on it to power their entire city. Mercer’s found a way to refine dragon oil so that it provides a far stronger and longer-lasting source of energy, but he still needs more oil with each passing year. Accessing the Tanglemire warren and harvesting dragons slowly would guarantee enough oil for generations. But culling them all at once will give Mercer a near monopoly on the most valuable commodity in the world. He’ll set the price and dole out the supply to his empire, and every other nation in Terra, as he wishes.”

  “Why did he tell you all of this?”

  “He thought I might be interested in doing the same thing to the Dainwood warrens after we were married. Then, instead of a near monopoly, he’d have a real one.”

  “That was pretty terrible judgment on his part.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you get into this back in the dining hall?”

  “You didn’t exactly give me a chance, Silas. And I never told my father about Mercer’s offer. To be honest, I was afraid he’d have accepted it. I’m the one who brought up the idea of killing Mercer, but Hertzog thinks I want him dead because I’ve turned into the ruthless and cold monarch he wants to see inherit the throne. And he’s proud of me for it. Thinks I’ll guard the Malgrave line with a wet blade when he’s gone.”

  Ashlyn paused. Stared at the map for a moment.

  “The dragons of Terra are more important than nations and wars and dynasties. They keep our entire world in balance. Most of Balaria is already a wasteland because of overhunting. There are famines in Ghalamar and food shortages in Lysteria, too.”

  “It’s not your responsibility
to help countries on the far side of Terra.”

  “Maybe not, but half the breeds in Almira fly to that Balarian warren during the Great Migration. Gray-Winged Nomads. Snub-Nosed Blackjacks. Needle-Throated Verduns. Ghost Moths. I don’t know why they travel halfway across the realm instead of breeding in the Dainwood, but it’s always been that way. Same as the salmon who abandon the depths of the Western Sea and swim a hundred leagues up freshwater rivers to spawn each summer, I suppose.”

  “Ashlyn, look.” Bershad swallowed. “I know how much you care about dragons, but you’re the heir to Almira’s throne. You’re supposed to protect her people. Not her lizards.”

  “I am protecting Almirans.”

  Ashlyn unrolled another one of the maps she’d brought. This one focused on eastern Almira. She’d probably drawn it herself.

  “You just came from Otter Rock, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pointed to the village on the map.

  “Did you notice a rather absurd number of mud statues on their riverbanks?”

  “Must have missed them. I was a little preoccupied with the Needle-Throated Verdun your father sent me to kill.”

  “Well, they’re there. The people of Otter Rock make them obsessively because these villages have been plagued by disease and famine for the last five years.” Ashlyn tapped her finger against four villages that were all upriver from Otter Rock. “The sickness is spreading farther downriver each day. At this rate, the plague will reach Otter Rock in a few months.”

  “What does this have to do with dragons?”

  She put her whole hand over the map.

  “The Blakmar province used to be a rich hunting ground for Gray-Winged Nomads, but my father liked Crellin Nimbu’s father—they fought together in the Balarian Invasion. So Hertzog sent dozens of dragonslayers there over the years. By my count, thirty Nomads alone have been killed in that region in the last twenty years.”

  Bershad nodded. He’d killed eleven of them himself in the early part of his exile. Although before that Verdun, it had been a long time since a writ had brought him that far north. “But they’re gone now.”

  “Nomads are clever,” Ashlyn said. “Eventually they abandoned the Blakmar province entirely, much to the surprise of the Nimbus. They should be one of the richest families in Almira given all the dragon oil they’ve taken over the years, but they spent most of it on priceless gems for their mud statues. Foolish.”

  Ashlyn shook her head.

  “Anyway, the Gray-Winged Nomads were the only predators in that region that threatened the Almiran black bears,” Ashlyn said. “When the bears no longer had to watch the skies and scurry off the riverbank every time a dragon’s shadow swooped through the valley, they started gorging themselves on otter meat before each winter. It only took two seasons before they’d nearly eradicated the whole population. You can ride that river for weeks without spotting a single otter.”

  “We’re still talking about animals, not people.”

  “I’m getting there. The otters ate fish. Insects. Worms. Whatever they could find, really.” She licked her lips. “But they also ate a rare type of red-shelled snail that only lives in that province. The snails are poisonous to most creatures, but the otters were immune. Without a natural predator, the snails’ rate of reproduction went out of control. There are stretches of river north of Otter Rock that are so choked with snails you can use their shells as a bridge to cross the current. The toxin is harmless to humans in small doses, but it causes rashes, boils, seizures, and hallucinations when consumed in large quantities.” Ashlyn pointed at the villages north of Otter Rock again. “Those are the exact afflictions that have plagued these areas for half a decade. I strong-armed Nimbu into hiring an alchemist to try and find a cure, but the alchemist might as well be one man trying to beat back the evening tide with a paddle. The villagers farther north refuse his help—they’d rather hunker down in their sickness and build mud statues, hoping their gods will save them from the forest demons. And even if they wanted his help, he doesn’t have much to give. Master Mollevan has made no real progress toward an antivenom in five years of research.”

  Bershad decided not to tell Ashlyn that her alchemist got killed by a dragon. Didn’t seem like a good time.

  “If Almira’s dragons leave for Balaria this summer but don’t return, every city and village and holdfast in this country will have a problem like this. And the Dainwood will be one of the worst.”

  “Why?” Bershad said.

  “The jungles of your homeland are unique. The root systems of Dainwood trees are all intertwined below the ground—they stretch on for leagues and leagues. And they’ve been infected with a toxic flakey-white fungus for thousands of years. The trees remain healthy despite the fungus because Snub-Nosed Blackjacks burrow beneath the trees and spend half their waking hours gnawing the fungus away without damaging the roots. The fungus is toxic to trees, but it relieves the sinus problems that plague Blackjacks, so they love it.”

  Bershad scratched his chin. “And if the Blackjacks don’t return…”

  “All those leagues of lush forest will turn to rotten wood. Without the trees to hold the soil in place, the rainy season will bring floods. Mudslides. Thousands will die. Within a year or two, the Dainwood rain forest will be gone, along with every man and animal that lives in that jungle.”

  Bershad looked down at the map she’d sprawled across the floor. There was a single red circle and dozens of notes scrawled in the margin about one specific Ghost Moth. Ashlyn thumbed the edge of the map, but didn’t explain it.

  “How can you be sure killing Mercer will make a difference?” he asked. “If there’s money to be made from killing dragons, the next Balarian emperor will try it, too.”

  “Maybe,” Ashlyn admitted. “But when Mercer dies, the Balarian government will be thrown into turmoil. His brother Ganon—the heir apparent—is young and foolish and, from what I can gather, primarily concerned with elaborate parties to worship Aeternita, their goddess of time. Transporting the ballistas to the warren will require a massive logistical operation and cooperation from hundreds of bureaucrats. Ganon couldn’t execute the cull this summer even if he wanted to. That buys us time. The dragons will migrate back around the realm of Terra before Balaria recovers from Mercer’s death and the next chance to kill all of them won’t come for another five years, when the next Great Migration occurs.”

  Bershad remembered Ashlyn as a bookish and shy girl—someone who didn’t like ordering stable boys around, let alone ordering an emperor killed. The years between them had hardened her. “Seems like you’ve thought of everything.”

  “Nobody can think of everything, but I see the whole world now.” She stepped toward him. “Dragons are dangerous predators. But they do more than kill livestock. Their impact cascades down to every plant and animal in their environment, including the people of Almira. Without dragons, the natural order of this world will fall apart. Everything from otters to algae to entire forests hinges on the presence of dragons. If Mercer succeeds, there will be more sicknesses. More famine. The Gorgon Valley will become a toxic swamp. The Dainwood jungle will be turned to a lifeless, muddy wasteland. But you can help me stop it.”

  Bershad tightened one fist into a ball. Relaxed it. A few hours ago, he’d planned on dying in a food hall with the king’s blood on his face and twenty-five swords jammed through his chest. Everything had changed so quickly.

  “I believe you, Ashlyn. And I’m sorry about earlier. I thought you’d become someone different. I was wrong.” He paused. Tried to find a way to explain the feeling in his guts. “But I am different.” Bershad pulled up his sleeve. “Sixty-six dragons are dead at my hand. Fourteen years of wandering and killing and nothing else. The connection I felt to the great lizards when we were younger is broken. The conviction I had is lost. And whatever you loved in me went to rot a long time ago. I can’t help anyone.”

  Ashlyn studied his tattoos before speaking again. Eyes mo
ving over the atlas of scars across his arms and chest and stomach.

  “Silas, I know you’ve had to do terrible things to survive. I don’t blame you. But those things don’t have to define you. My father is old and sick. Soon enough, he’ll be dead. What will you do when he’s gone? Who will you be?”

  He’d survived on his hatred for Hertzog for so long, he wasn’t sure there was anything left underneath. Part of him was afraid to look.

  “I don’t know.”

  Ashlyn let her map roll closed. Set it aside.

  “Your father threatened to kill Rowan and Alfonso if I refused to go. What will you do?”

  “I have two ships in Floodhaven harbor right now. One can take you to Ghalamar tomorrow. The other will take you, Rowan, and your donkey out of Terra and across the Great Western Ocean. Right now.”

  Bershad was stunned.

  “The journey across that ocean is almost as dangerous as the Razors,” Ashlyn continued. “But if you make it, you’ll be free. Your blue bars don’t mean anything on the far side of the ocean. Nothing from this realm does.”

  Ashlyn left the last part unsaid. He would never see her again.

  “I need help, Silas. But I won’t force another burden upon you. You’ve carried enough of them for ten lifetimes. Whatever debt you owed for Glenlock Canyon, you paid it a long time ago. If you leave this realm, a part of me will never be whole again. But I’ll understand why you had to go.”

  Bershad swallowed. His mouth was dry.

  “I want the life that was taken from us. But all these years. All the things I’ve done, and had done to me. I don’t know if I can go back. I just…”

  He trailed off. Couldn’t find the words.

  “You don’t have to know,” Ashlyn said. “And you don’t have to decide right now. There’s time.” She reached for his tattooed hand and intertwined her fingers with his. “But whatever you choose, there’s one thing we definitely need to do before the sun rises.”