by Peter Fane
Kyla didn’t turn at the voice.
There was a reason why cloud mastiffs were so highly prized as guard dogs. Bruno’s mother, dear Lily, was no different; that old girl was just as loyal to Nana as Bruno was to Kyla—and just as deadly to any would-be assailant.
Besides, Kyla already knew who it was. So instead of turning around, she took a deep breath, raised her carbine effortlessly to her shoulder, and fired again—CRACK!
Another little jug exploded into dust.
Kyla smiled.
When she was performing for others, she could do anything.
Oh, yes.
Indeed, “performance” was as much a part of her training as anything else. The duties of a Dallanar highborn were many, but one of the most important was sustaining the image of honor, of power, of perfection. Any fourteen-year-old girl could play and dream, could try and fail, but a Dallanar princess could never miss—ever.
Especially in front of an audience.
Kyla cleared and checked the chamber of her weapon, set her gun down on the firing table, and acted as if she hadn’t heard the voice, as if her furry earmuffs had blocked the words. Then she pretended to blow her nose, wiped her face and eyes with a handkerchief, pulled her blond ponytail tight. Only then, when she’d done everything that she could do to get herself together, did she turn around.
Anna Dyer—Captain of the Sundaggers, leader of the most famous squad of dragon riders in the Realm—stood behind Kyla in full battle gear, running her hands through Bruno’s fur. Anna’s hair was dark, and she wore it loose, falling streams of black mane over gleaming silver shoulders. When Anna looked up at Kyla, her eyes were clear and bright. Merciless. The first word that came to Kyla’s mind—and the most correct. A deep scar ran along the bottom of Anna’s jaw, down her neck, disappearing below her blue riding scarf. Large circles of untanned skin ringed Anna’s eyes, weather marks from her flight goggles. You could always recognize a dragon rider by those telltale signs. Anna wore a revolver of high silver strapped beneath her left armpit, its handle worn with use. Kyla took a breath, focused on her training, on the inner workings of her mind and spirit, and willed herself calm.
On the outside, she knew it worked perfectly.
And she was glad.
Because her insides still shook. And because Anna was standing there with that kind of relaxed easiness, that kind of measured stillness that Kyla had always admired and envied. You could see it everywhere, in all the Tarn’s elite fighters. A kind of economy of movement, a kind of clarity of position. Nothing wasted, always ready. The stance of a professional soldier. And Anna fit the part—perfectly. Her armor was of the finest high silver, flawlessly fitted, worn with a kind of nonchalance that was entirely unstudied, exactly the kind of attitude that the Dallanar appreciated and honored. Indeed, both Anna’s armor and sword had been gifts, on two separate occasions, from Kyla’s grandfather, Bellános Dallanar. Rewards well-earned from the hand of the High King.
Of course, Kyla knew why Anna was there.
And Kyla knew who’d sent her.
Michael.
Checking up on her, yet again.
“Captain Dyer,” Kyla nodded. It was a very particular gesture, respectful but curt, yet completely appropriate between a warrior knight and a High Lady of the House to whom that knight gave allegiance. Like everyone else, Kyla stood in awe of Anna, in awe of her dragon, Moondagger, in awe of her entire squad. And the Sundaggers were legends, there could be no doubt about that. At the same time, Kyla recently had begun to wonder if Anna and her ruthless Davanórians weren’t part of the larger problem, this perpetual war, this endless killing.
Kyla shook her head. That she could have such a thought while practicing with one of the deadliest weapons in the Silver Kingdom—the irony of it—was not lost on her.
“Lady Kyla.” Anna Dyer bowed, the gesture filled with absolute deference. “Lord Michael and Lord Doldon will be down shortly to inspect the great cannon and to peruse arms for Colj and his squad. Lord Michael asked me to check in on you—that’s to say . . . to see if you and Bruno would care to join us, my Lady.” Anna thumped Bruno’s side. The big cloud mastiff leaned into her, his grey fur shimmering like living fog. Then Anna looked up, like she was remembering herself, and bowed politely again.
Always perfect obedience. Always perfect decorum. Everything they said about her was true: Anna was indeed the perfect soldier.
“I think I will join you, yes.” Kyla nodded. “My thanks.” She turned back to the firing table, took up her carbine, and pointed it down range, one eye squinted shut, checking the breech out of habit.
But Anna didn’t turn toward the exit, and Kyla could feel the dragon rider’s dark eyes on her. It was not a new feeling. Something had changed in the last week, something that Kyla couldn’t put her finger on. Since Mother and Father had been killed a year ago, many things had been strange. But then, about a week ago, something else had shifted. Things had been feeling like they might someday get back to normal and then—snap!—everything was odd again. The hidden looks, the eyes hastily averted, covert glances passed between family members when she walked into the room. As if she wouldn’t notice. Kyla scoffed. Like all Dallanar highborn, her early training had centered on both fundamental awareness and on mental resilience, in both combat and elsewhere. And in these skills, she was a true master. The only person who didn’t act like there was something to hide was Nana, but now that she thought on it, Kyla hadn’t seen her grandmother in several days either; she could use one of her big Nana-hugs right now.
Kyla snapped the carbine’s breech shut and began wiping down the weapon. “Did Lord Michael give you other instructions, Captain?”
Behind her, Anna took a breath, as if to speak, but then said nothing. Bruno snorted and shook his big head, jowls and slobber flapping.
Kyla turned back to the dragon rider, cradling the gun proficiently in her elbow. Kyla had to admit it, Anna was a gorgeous young woman. Her perfectly fitted armor revealed a form that was well worth noting. Especially that luxurious black hair, always loose, even on the battlefield—black hair streaming behind her as she and Moondagger dove against their foes again and again, sowing fire and carnage, destroying the enemies of the High House of Remain.
Oh yes, Kyla understood Michael’s feelings about Anna.
What was not to love?
Anna was courageous. Anna was fierce. Anna was disciplined. Anna was loyal. And useful. Don’t forget utility. A flawless match, really. Kyla knew that if Anna had come from a House of even slightly higher standing, Michael would’ve married her immediately after her second triumph over Dorómy’s forces on Dávanor, just two years past. “But they’re waiting,” the silly gossips said. “True love can always wait.” Waiting until Anna came of legal age. Eighteen years old. One more year. The age of womanhood. Waiting, also—and perhaps more importantly—for Anna to achieve further triumphs, to garner more glory. After all, the honor of the High House must be upheld. Despite Anna’s loyalty, skill, and ferocity, consistent victory in battle was the only currency that could outweigh the potential value of a political alliance through marriage between Michael and some other powerful woman of another High Family. With each successive victory, Anna’s descent from a powerful but simple merchant House on Dávanor became less and less important. Because in war, winning was more important than lineage.
In war, winning became lineage.
Not that Kyla could disagree with Michael’s choice, of course. Just the opposite, in fact. Kyla truly admired Anna, as everyone did. It mattered not from what step on the ladder she came. And, as far as Kyla was concerned, anyone who served her family with such devotion would be more than welcome to join it, no matter what the snots in court might say. More to the point: Anna made Michael happy. Could anything be more valuable? Besides, wasn’t Kyla herself overly concerned with the honest eyes of a plainspoken son of a woodsman? In that sense, Michael’s regard for Anna helped Kyla’s own cause, too.
Kyla smiled, then raised an eyebrow at Anna’s silence. “Speak freely, Captain. Did Lord Michael give you any other instructions? Don’t stand on ceremony, please. Your words are valuable—especially to me.”
Anna looked back at Kyla, patted Bruno one more time, then smoothed a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Lord Michael asked me to see if you were well, my Lady. That’s all. He said you’ve been up late hours. He knows you shoot down here.” She gestured downrange.
Kyla returned Anna’s gaze. “And what will you tell Lord Michael, when you report on my status?”
“That you’re quite well, my Lady.” Anna looked her in the eye, then she grinned and cocked her head at the destroyed jugs. “And that you need more targets down here.”
It was another thing that Kyla appreciated about Anna: her wits, her cleverness. And it was a warrior’s cunning, too, a keen eye for detail—and weakness. It’s why Michael had sent Anna to check on her in the first place.
“Thank you, Captain,” Kyla said.
Anna inclined her head. With his wet mastiff nose, Bruno nudged at Anna’s hand, looking for more attention.
Anna scratched Bruno behind his ear. The cloud mastiff closed his eyes, savoring the pleasure. “I understand that your aunt, Lady Katherine, has just returned,” Anna said.
Kyla appreciated Anna’s pivot in the conversation and nodded. “I am glad for it. I’ve missed Kate. She’s been too long gone.”
Anna said nothing, but a slight frown touched her lips. Kyla knew that Anna had never met Kate in the flesh. Kyla also knew that Anna’s initial opinion of Kate had been governed by Michael’s rage at Kate’s departure two years ago. Their meeting would make for an interesting moment.
“You two have much in common,” Kyla said. “You’re almost the same age, only a year apart.”
Anna raised an eyebrow.
“And you’re both brave, fierce, and true.” Kyla looked at her sincerely. “I admire you both.”
“Thank you, my Lady.” Anna inclined her head. “You shoot down here often with Bruno?”
Again, Kyla appreciated Anna’s ability to guide their banter.
“Yes.” Kyla patted her thigh, summoning the big mastiff. “He stays with me.” She thumped Bruno’s meaty side, then touched her high silver carbine. “My parents gave this to me last year, before they were killed. It was Nana’s—the High Queen’s—before it came to me. I come down here to shoot—and to think.”
Anna nodded. “I understand, my Lady. I’m the same way. Dagger and I go out sometimes at night, hunt boulders or treetops by moonlight. Just testing our aim. Or maybe just flying. We like the time alone. We need it.”
“Moondagger must enjoy that, too.”
Anna grinned at her dragon’s name, inclined her head. “He likes the peace, too. The stillness. Especially these days. Lots of fighting. Nice to have the solitude, sometimes.”
Kyla nodded. It was the closest thing to a complaint she’d ever heard from the dragon rider.
“Do the riders of Dávanor prepare for the coming parley, Captain?” Kyla moved to the other side of the firing table so that she could look at Anna while she finished. She picked up her kit, opened her carbine’s case, started cleaning up.
“Yes,” Anna said flatly. When Kyla looked up, she saw that the dragon rider’s gaze was dark, the barest hint of criticism in her eyes.
“You don’t approve?” Kyla asked, careful to frame the tone of the question as an honest invitation.
Anna shook her head. “Not my place to approve or not, my Lady. The High King has ordered and agreed to parley. We’ll see it done.”
“It is rather sudden.” Kyla nodded. “Surely something to do with Kate’s return. If nothing else, it’s a striking coincidence. Kate’s gone for two years, she’s back for a day, and parley is commanded moments thereafter? I haven’t yet spoken to her. Have you heard anything?”
“The High King has commanded parley,” Anna repeated.
Kyla looked at her directly. “You think Michael should contest my grandfather’s decision?”
The dragon rider’s eyes flashed, then it was gone. For a long moment, Anna looked at Kyla without a word. Kyla returned her gaze, allowing honest curiosity to show on her face, using all her skill to communicate a combination of strength and candid openness.
But Anna didn’t take the bait. “Lord Michael would never challenge the High King’s command. Not even in private. Nor would I.”
“Of course.” Kyla inclined her head. “But surely Michael sees value in a chance for peace? Or even a respite, perhaps?”
“I can’t speak for him, my Lady. He’ll always obey the High King’s orders.”
Kyla nodded, placed her carbine in its case, and continued packing the rest of her gear, taking her time. “I know that Doldon favors parley, to a certain extent at least. Can’t say about James, of course. He’s been out for a week now on some mission for Michael. I haven’t seen Kate yet, and I’m not sure she understands everything that’s happened in her absence. I’m sure Nana supports the idea—I suspect parley might be her idea to begin with. Or maybe it was Garen’s—.”
“Lord Garen’s not a soldier, my Lady,” Anna said bluntly. “And the High Queen is—.” The dragon rider stopped suddenly, looked strangely at Kyla, then shook her head.
“The High Queen is what, Captain?” Kyla’s eyebrow arched. Then, not waiting for an answer, she continued pleasantly. “And you’re quite right: Garen isn’t a soldier. Certainly not as skilled in killing as Michael, Doldon, and James are—or even as my father was. But on the issue of parley and peace? I wonder. What would a soldier recommend?”
Anna lifted her chin. “A soldier will do as she’s commanded, my Lady. Always.”
“Come, Captain,” Kyla said charmingly. “I don’t test you. I ask only for your honest judgement. Surely you can give it without fear?”
Anna looked at her directly. When she did, Kyla realized that the dragon rider fully understood the veiled challenge in her words.
A different approach, then.
“Please, Captain.” Kyla cleared her throat. She cocked her head at the high silver carbine lying open in its case and rubbed the wrinkly grey fur on Bruno’s head. “We’re both trained in arts of war. We’re both loyal. I ask only for your opinion. I have my own ideas, of course, which I’m happy to give. I find these days that I listen to my own thoughts far too much. I would hear yours, if you will share them.”
Anna looked at her for a long moment, as if weighing Kyla’s request.
Kyla kept quiet, not dropping her gaze, allowing her own authority to fill the space between them. It felt slightly wrong, to assert herself like this, almost ordering the dragon rider to speak on the matter.
But she wanted to know.
In two days—suddenly and for reasons Kyla didn’t yet fully understand—Garen would meet in ceremonial parley with High Commander Vymon Ruge, the Lord of the Siege, her great uncle Dorómy’s most respected field commander. It would be the first formal ceasefire in nearly two years of siege. And even though it had seemingly come from nowhere, even though Kyla was certain it had something to do with Kate’s mysterious departure and return, Kyla could sense Garen’s and Nana’s careful machinations behind it all. Which meant that Michael wouldn’t like it, almost by default. But what of Anna? Did their best warrior approve?
“Very well.” Anna nodded and looked Kyla in the eye, almost as if reading her mind. “My opinion is that placing Lord Garen at the end of the Long Bridge in front of those treacherous dogs for the sake of ‘peace’ is a waste of time and an indefensible risk. It’s a trick. Lord Garen will be fired upon. He could be killed. And the war will continue just as it has these last five years, but with one important difference: Our most knowledgeable scholar and healer, a High Lord whose understanding remains unmatched in the entire Kingdom, one of our most valuable tactical assets, will be dead.” She touched two fingers to her temple. “A traitor’s bullet in his skull.”
“Michael won’t let that happen,” Kyla said automatically. But her blood ran to ice. She tried to say the words with confidence, but they sounded strange in her own ears, and she felt her carefully constructed posture begin to buckle. Once again, as if on cue, her hands began to shake. She breathed it out, tried to let her training come to the fore. “Michael would never let that happen,” she repeated, rubbing her cold hands in Bruno’s fur.
Anna smiled, a glimmer in a knife’s edge. “Lord Michael is a force of nature, no doubt. But he can’t fight enemies he can’t see. And he can’t protect Lord Garen when the High Laws demand a protocol that’ll keep him behind the walls, three hundred paces distant from where death strikes.”
“You won’t let that happen,” Kyla said.
“I’m honored by your faith, my Lady.” Anna inclined her head. “We will be there, ready to serve.”
Kyla nodded. “And you won’t be alone. If I understand correctly, Michael has given you another ten squads and that Master Khondus comes through tomorrow with five more. A mighty force of dragons, the likes of which has not been seen in recent memory.”
Anna nodded. “Nearly all of Dávanor’s best will be committed.”
“See?” Kyla interrupted her with a smile, trying to keep her cold hands from shaking. “You will protect him. Vymon Ruge and Dorómy don’t have dragons.”
But the smile didn’t work.
Anna was looking at Kyla’s hands.
In fact, the entire conversation felt like it was no longer under Kyla’s control. Kyla had asked Anna Dyer for her honest opinion—her soldier’s opinion—and she’d received it.
A sudden vision flashed in Kyla’s mind: Garen dying on the Long Bridge, bright blood spattering white marble pavers, snow swirling, the slow pump of a mortal wound, his silver spectacles hanging cock-eyed, one lens cracked, soulful eyes staring vacant at Kon’s winter sky, a bullet hole in his throat, a tiny tunnel burrowed by the black worm of war. One more beloved slain by her great uncle’s treachery.
Your family is killing itself.