by JD Monroe
Volir. One of Sidran’s bodyguards who had been kind to her. He left to fight and never returned, just like Themiah, Ihrel, and Ebia. For every one that fell, Sidran had another to fill their place, like cheap tools that had broken and were discarded.
Her hand shook as she wrote the next one. Khel. The man who’d been thrown from Kamina’s back. He was dead before Veraxa got to him. There was nothing they could have done, but his dark, unseeing eyes still haunted her memory.
Thirak. Nedia.
Footsteps shuffled behind her. Wreathed in the strangely pleasant smell of smoke and sweat, Kaldir stood a few feet away, placing a cushion opposite hers in the shade of the Skymother’s wing. “May I pray here?”
“That is what this place is for,” she said. Her heart thumped as she tried not to let his presence shake her. “Though I do find it curious that you chose the most secluded place in the Shrine to pray, when you had to walk by two separate entrances to the main sanctuary on your way to get here from the front doors.”
He frowned at her. “I’m not following you,” he said. “Someone showed me this place several days ago, and I enjoyed the quiet. It makes me feel closer to her.”
She sighed. He had always been devout, dragging her out of bed for early morning prayers even when she protested. “The bells have not rung for prayers. What brings you out here now?”
“I lost several men in our attack, and I have not been able to properly pray for them. It weighs on me,” he said. He reached under the pedestal and frowned.
“Here,” she murmured, sliding the wooden tray toward him.
He took out several slips of paper and a piece of charcoal. “Perhaps you could also speak for them. The Skymother may hear your voice more clearly than mine.”
A pang of sorrow pierced through her. “What were their names?”
“Khel,” he said. “Thirak. Nedia.” She held out the slips for him to read, where she had already inscribed their names. He smiled at her, a hint of pride in his expression. Creases formed around his bright amber eyes. Don’t stare. She had missed those warm eyes, always holding a hint of something deeper. “How did you know?”
“I asked your partner their names,” she said. “While you slept.”
“I do not wish to trouble you, Fal—Sohaila,” he said, shaking his head as he corrected himself. “But it will ease my conscience to pray for my men. I will come back later if you want privacy.”
“You don’t have to leave,” she said. Hesitantly, she shifted her cushion closer to him. Her heart thumped as he moved closer, until he was at arm’s reach. Even with this distance between them, she felt the tingling heat of his presence filling the cool void between them, a paltry echo of the closeness they’d once known. “Blessed Skymother, who holds us all in her ever-watchful gaze, see our mourning. Please prepare your halls, lay out the feast of victory, and welcome them home. And in your songs of rejoicing and honor, we pray that we would hear the echoes and know that our hearts need not be heavy. Instead, let our hearts join in the song and make it richer for all who hear.” She handed Kaldir the slips with his soldiers’ names.
“Khel Arrowind,” he said, placing the slip into the fire. “May we honor your memory.” The thin parchment ignited, sending a curling wisp of smoke up toward the Skymother’s upraised arms. She handed him the next one. “Thirak Darkfrost.” He continued the process, his deep voice unwavering as he placed each name into the fire.
Her voice trembled as she took over. “Danerra,” she murmured, sending the slip into the fire. “Volir.” With each name, she remembered their faces, imagining them smiling and whole. She hesitated, still picturing Aben’s pained face as Sidran’s men cut him down. He went to his death crawling toward Sohaila, determined to protect her until his final breath. “Brave Aben. May your bravery be reborn a thousand times over in the souls of all Kadirai warriors.”
With the last name sent into the fire, she let out a quiet sigh and began to hum quietly, a gentle hymn of mourning without words. Her chest swelled with the ache of emotion that needed to escape, but she didn’t dare burst into tears in front of Kaldir.
It had been so strange and magical to see him lying in that bed, blissfully unaware of her presence. But this was different. He was no longer a bittersweet memory, but a fiery presence that would burn her if she ventured too close.
She had come to the Shrine with a conflicted heart; hopeful for the divine destiny that lay before her and broken-hearted by the pain that lay behind her. If Kaldir had asked her, she would have turned her back on the Marashti. She would have ignored the divine calling to stay in Ironhold with him.
But he didn’t ask. He left.
It was easy enough to put it out of her mind back then, but with him here now…she could smell him, the smoky essence that defined all Kadirai but also the uniquely Kaldir smell that reminded her of nights of passion, when his smell would be all over her skin, soaking in to mark her as his. Fifty years, and she could still feel the ghost of his hands on her, tracing her spine until she melted into him.
“Sohaila,” he said quietly. “I am angry that Sidran eluded my grasp. I want to hunt him down.”
She glanced at him, but his amber gaze was still downcast. “I believe that would be wise.”
“We captured several of his men at the Silent Orchard. We also captured his generals here in Greenspire. They’re all hybrids.”
“So you couldn’t compel them to answer questions,” she murmured.
“We’ve questioned them but they are swearing they know nothing, even under torture.” He was so matter-of-fact, it sent a chill down her spine. “Back in Adamantine Rise, we have an ally who was one of Sidran’s Aesdar and defected.”
“Marlena,” she murmured. “Is it her?”
His head snapped toward her. She caught the motion out of the corner of her eye and turned to regard him. “You know her?”
“Sidran cursed her name. He swore they would kill her if they saw her again,” she said. “She’s with you?”
Kaldir nodded. “She can question them and determine what they know. But you worked with the Aesdar. Are any of them friendly to you?”
“Most of them,” she said. “I took care of them.”
He flinched. “Could you convince them to question our prisoners?”
“I won’t hurt them,” she said.
“I didn’t ask you to. I just want you to ask them,” he said. “It’s worth a try.”
“Then I’ll do it. Show me the way.”
When Kaldir Dawnblaze left the familiar walls of Ironhold months ago, he never expected that his path would lead him into the ruined streets of Greenspire, tailing after Falmina Flamewrought.
Nestled in the dense forest of the Iveron, Greenspire was a strange, beautiful city of wood and stone. Spiraling towers and graceful arches twisted around the ancient trees, as if the buildings had simply grown from the ground.
Unlike the cold stone of the Stoneflight lands, or even the hard-baked mud brick of the Stormflight lands, the Ashflight dragons favored natural beauty over sturdy fortifications. Their beautiful, delicate architecture was not built to withstand the destruction of war.
Entire towers and dwellings had been ripped from their heights and shattered on the ground below. Smooth, golden wood was streaked with the spindly burn marks of lightning strikes. Jagged points of tree trunks jutted up toward the sky like broken teeth, and the once-famed stained glass of Greenspire was shattered across the ground.
The entire city was gripped in stunned silence. As Kaldir walked past a fallen residential tower, he saw several Kadirai climbing what remained of the spiraling foundation and gesturing to one another, as if they were planning how to fix the destroyed building.
Kaldir didn’t want to say it aloud, but the city was a loss. The survivors would be better off going somewhere else and starting anew. Yet, he knew if Ironhold was destroyed, he would spend the rest of his life rebuilding it stone by stone, no matter how insurmountable the task seem
ed.
In the days since the Scalebreakers left for the Silent Orchard, the grim work of recovering the dead and injured had been completed. Since then, the denizens of the city had hung white flowers in the doorways to indicate that someone had been lost. Nearly every door was marked.
In what had once been a bustling marketplace, two large merchant’s tents had been connected and converted into a hospital. Crates of food were stacked just outside the large green tents, with several city guards distributing bundles to a constant flow of people. Children and adults alike milled around the tent, where healers in blue circulated to inspect their injuries and offer words of comfort.
Sohaila walked ahead of Kaldir, with her bodyguards, Virnan and Enalah, close behind. Dressed in leather armor, the Shrine Wardens were well armed, and each carried a large pack with her supplies. She glanced back, beckoning to them to follow.
“I’ll just be a moment,” she said to Kaldir. Walking with a regal bearing he’d never seen in her, Sohaila slipped through the crowd and ducked to enter the tent.
Inside, a dozen cots were tightly packed into two lines. Several women dressed in the blue garb of the Marashti moved among them, tending to the wounded. Incense burned somewhere in the tent, but it couldn’t cover the heavy, thick scent of blood and sickness.
Sohaila walked from cot to cot, speaking quietly to each of the healers. Halfway down, she paused to inspect a patient. Gesturing in a circle, she placed her hands on his chest and closed her eyes. A familiar, hazy yellow glow emanated from her hands as her healing energy poured into him.
He had no claim to her gifts, but immense pride swelled in his chest as he watched her. Fifty years ago, Falmina Flamewrought was intelligent and utterly irresistible, but flighty and headstrong, with a smart mouth that often brought her trouble. Though she occupied the same body and had the same burning fierceness in her eyes, this was not the woman he remembered. This woman was confident, mature, and incredibly talented.
Sohaila cupped the man’s cheek gently. Her lips moved, and he just caught the familiar words of a prayer. “May the Mother always keep you in her sight and bring your wings back into her endless skies.” She glanced up at the other healer and made a circling gesture over the man’s belly. “Keep an eye on this wound. It will get infected if you’re not watching it closely. A paste with crushed snowthorn will keep it clean without causing him any more discomfort.”
“Yes, sister,” the other woman said reverently. “Right away.”
After a final circuit around the tent, Sohaila returned to him. “Thank you for waiting,” she said. “We can continue.” He joined her side, and her two bodyguards fell in behind her.
An evening in familiar surroundings had been kind to Sohaila. Like most of the Marashti, she wore robes of blue, though her flowing robes were more ornate than what the healers in the tent wore. Airy blue silk was embroidered with fine silver designs, and she wore a beautifully tooled leather belt around her narrow waist. Still, she looked too thin, which worried him about how she’d been treated in Sidran’s custody.
Her auburn hair was braided in an elegant style and secured with simple silver combs. But much to his chagrin, she still wore a veil. Pinned into her hair, the blue silk concealed everything beneath her eyes. He could see the faintest hint of puckered skin near her left eye.
Concealing it only made him more curious. He didn’t care if she had a scar. Both of them looked different after fifty years apart. But he feared what cruelties she’d endured while in the captivity of the Chosen, and he was afraid to upset their tenuous peace by asking.
“I saw only mundane injuries,” she said quietly. “Mother Akshas made it sound like there were many left soulstruck by the white dragons.”
“The main hospital here has been filled to the brim with the soulstruck,” Kaldir said. “There were many in Arvelor, and even back in Farath. The Marashti have yet to find a cure.”
“That’s not true. I know how to cure it,” Sohaila said, eyes narrowed.
He frowned at her. “Really?”
“Yes,” she said. “It was one of Sidran’s top priorities after creating the Aesdar. Even his own people got caught in the crossfire a few times. The amulets can protect you to an extent, but a direct hit will still be devastating.”
“Then we should stop by the main hospital to help,” he said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” she replied, her voice taking on an acidic tone. She glanced up at him. “But it requires a touch of blood magic, and Mother Akshas disapproves.” He sucked a sharp breath through his nose. Before he could speak again, her thin brows arched. “And clearly, so do you.”
“On principle, I cannot abide the use of blood magic. Our people have been killed for their magic,” he said.
“How easy for you both to determine what you will tolerate when it’s not your life at stake,” she said. “I thought perhaps I was just not smart enough to figure out another way. But it seems that in my long absence, my sisters were unable to do it either. And if dozens of brilliant women couldn’t figure out a solution, then perhaps a cleaner way doesn’t exist.” She shrugged. “I understand your objection, but it isn’t your choice to determine whether they may live.”
“And they cannot speak for themselves,” he said. “Perhaps they would not want to be cured by those means.”
She threw up her hands in frustration. “Then by all means, inform their families that you disapprove of a cure that would have them restored in a matter of days.”
“Sohaila—”
She shook her head. “Enough people have died.” Her voice was sharp and dripping with anger. She looked up, surveying the ruined city around them. “I had no idea it was this bad.”
“You should have seen Arvelor,” he said. “I had only seen it once before its destruction, but…it looks as if the earth opened up to swallow it.”
The devastating attacks of the Aesdar had left cracks in the ground and filled them with the rubble of buildings that had stood for centuries. The soaring farzira, the spiraling towers that once housed large Kadirai families, had been toppled, shattered like broken teeth. The city reeked of death, where hundreds of citizens had been crushed under tons of debris.
Kaldir had been glad to break the Chosen hold on Arvelor, but he was secretly relieved when the Broodguard moved on to liberate Greenspire. He would rather fight until he was battered and bloody than pull another crushed body from beneath the rubble, knowing there was nothing he could do but offer empty prayers.
“And what exactly are you doing here? Besides leading daring missions to rescue hapless Marashti healers?”
“The Chosen have been moving for some time, but when they attacked Arvelor, all the queens finally took notice. Queen Udezari was taken into the human realm, where she and the Exile Queen called a Conclave.”
She paused and stared up at him. “Really?”
“A very strange one, with magic of the human realm I have never seen,” he said. “Not long after, the surviving Arik’tazhan met in the human realm. The next thing I knew, Viraszel told me I would be going to Adamantine Rise with her. At her command, all the queens dispatched forces to create an army they’re calling the Broodguard.”
There was a hint of amusement in her eyes. “And how do you feel about taking orders from your mother?” The weight on the word mother told him Sohaila had not forgotten Viraszel’s blatant dislike for her as a young woman.
He raised an eyebrow. “I have taken orders from the Firestorm since I was old enough to understand language. This is nothing new for me,” he said wryly. “Though it has been strange to work so closely with her. Training with the Arik’tazhan has felt a bit like trying on someone’s much larger boots.”
“I’m sure you’ve done well,” she said. “Or she would have made her disappointment quite clear.” Though it was subtle, the vote of confidence made him proud. It was high praise from the more reserved Sohaila.
He chuckled. “Indeed, she would have.” And she had,
at least when he’d first begun training with the Scalebreakers. Marlena had put them all on their asses more than a few times, and Viraszel had been quite vocal about her disapproval. But their results in the field spoke for themselves.
“Are you leading the army?”
“No. General Iceborne commands the Broodguard,” he said. “I command the Scalebreakers. We target the Aesdar so the rest of the army can fight.”
She glared at him. “You know they’re just people like us. He’s manipulated them into weapons.”
“I know that,” he said. “All of the Chosen are people just like us. If the Aesdar are raining destruction on our cities, I don’t care who they are or why they’re doing it. If they threaten my people, I will stop them.”
Her eyebrows arched, and she turned away from him, keeping her eyes fixed ahead of her. Her silence hung heavy in the air. They soon reached the Queen’s Stroll, which had once been a lovely landscaped garden leading up to the palace. The manicured flower bushes and trees were charred and broken, littering the ground. A narrow path had been swept clean in the center.
The great wooden doors to the palace at Greenspire stood open, one hanging from its frame like a loose tooth. Sohaila touched his arm lightly, sending a warm thrill down his spine. “Please let me speak to the prisoners first,” she said. “They know me. No threats, no violence.”
“I’ll accompany you, but I won’t say anything unless it’s necessary,” he said. “Reasonable enough?”
“I suppose it has to be,” she said.
The green-clad guards at the entrance bowed politely to them as they approached. For a moment, he stiffened, ready to give them the subtle nod of recognition. But the male guard on the left murmured, “Blessings upon you, sister.”
“May her gaze fall upon you, an-kadi,” Sohaila said warmly. The guard smiled as he straightened, his shoulders thrown back with pride. “We’ve come to see the prisoners brought in yesterday.”
“Yes, ma’am, of course,” he said. “I’ll take you.”
“Thank you,” she said.