by N M Zoltack
54
Garsea
The time had come. Although this had never been done before, Garsea knew it must be feasible. The dragons had been able to resurrect themselves before. Only by the three being killed at the same time had they not been able to. Now that he had the last bone shards to make one complete dragon skeleton, the time was at hand.
The dragons would rise once more.
With careful ease and deliberate car, Garsea lay out all of the bones before stepping back and admiring his handiwork.
Their handiwork, he reminded himself. The other two Keepers had helped tremendously, of course. The previous generations of Keepers had collected and gathered the bones, most likely seeking the aid of outsiders to locate the bones and bring them here. Whatever the reason, those Keepers had kept the bones in a massive pile. Only Garsea, Ximeno, and Velasco had the presence of mind to separate the bones into the skeletons of the dragons three.
One of the claws was backward, and Garsea rushed to fix it and stood back again.
Gathering the bones had not been enough, a realization that Garsea had figured would be the case. He would need to perform a ritual in order to guide the spirit of the dragon back to the bones so that the flesh and muscle and fire of the dragon might breathe life once more.
It took the Keeper some time to locate both white and black candles. After much deliberation, he settled on the locations for each one, but he did not light them, not yet.
Incense. He should burn some. Anything and everything that might help should be done.
He departed the room and rifled through their spices and herbs before settling on frankincense, fire thyme, and sorrow root. Once in the room housing the skeleton, he started burning the incense and then lit the candles, the black ones first and then all of the white.
Once he stood by the skull of the dragon, Garsea tossed his staff to the side, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands in front of him. Slowly, he breathed in his nose and out his mouth, doing his level best to calm himself and to clear his mind.
Would this be enough? He could not merely communicate with the dragons’ spirits but rather bring them back and tether them to the bones so that they might be reborn again.
He must stop allowing the voice of fear to hinder his progress!
But who had killed Ximeno and why? Who had ransacked the monastery? Garsea still could not ascertain if anything had been stolen. And then there was the matter of the wraiths and Velasco turning into one. How had that happened?
If the dragons were able to create and send out wraiths, perhaps they could influence people as well. Mayhap the dragons had realized that Velasco's faith was lacking to the point of interfering with Garsea's plan to resurrect the dragons, and so, they had him dealt with. Perhaps only because he had served for decades as a Keeper did they turn him into a wraith rather than kill him outright.
The ransacking… When had Ximeno been killed? Was it possible he himself had done the ransacking? If he had seen the wraith that had been Velasco and recognized him as Garsea had, perhaps Ximeno would have been desperate enough to comb through their libraries in an attempt to see if he could change Velasco back.
That alone would have meant tampering with the dragons’ justice and would cause the dragons to lash out and kill the guilty party.
But this was all conjecture, all a hypothesis, and Garsea had no means to uncover the truth, no time to waste on the pursuit of answers.
Unless he could bring back at least one dragon and ask him or her what had happened to the other Keepers…
A few more deep breaths and Garsea was ready.
He hoped.
"Dragons three, come to us. We need your light. Without you, we have fallen into darkness, a darkness that only you can banish away. Humans have always been weak. We have always faltered, but with your guidance, with your love, we can change. We can shine for the world. We can become worthy of your attention once more."
Garsea waited for a sign, a sound, wind, for the candles to blow out or the flames to burn brighter, but he dared not open his eyes, and nothing seemed to change.
“Dragons three, heed me, your humble servant. I will tend to you all. I will help you in any way that I can. I will do all I ask of you. Tell me what to do. Guide me.”
He hung his head, a silent tear slipping down his cheek.
For hours, perhaps even an entire day, Garsea stood there and beseeched the dragons to return. The incense long ago burned out, the candles melted away to nothing, but still, he droned on and on until his throat was dry, and he could merely move his lips with no sounds coming forth.
His eyes opened for the first time since he had started the ritual, and he blinked. Outside, the world had fallen to darkness. Night had come and inside? The monastery was dark as well, the bones glowing faintly, or perhaps he was imagining things as the bones remained very much bones without tendons, without muscles, without blood and scaly skin.
The ritual had failed, but that did not mean Garsea would give up. No. It merely meant he was missing something.
Perhaps a gift of life from death would be required.
Or a gift of death for life…
55
Prince Marcellus Gallus
The Prince of Vincana was pleased, very pleased. Things were going well. Yes, that there had been an ambush awaiting the ships had been unfortunate. Marcellus had sent out a Valkyrie-led platoon to see what the Tenoch fleet had been up to. The ships had been posted along the shoreline, but there were several significant gaps where they hadn't enough ships to go around. Marcellus had sent a bird to allow the ships to know of the largest distance that was closest to Atlan Castle.
And that location had been bolstered by, of all people, peasants dressed in some armor. Knights had come to help defend the beach. Had the other ship-less areas also been fortified by footmen?
No matter. Once they had secured the beach, Marcellus had sent out a few of his warriors to see how the attack on the marketplace was faring. It had ended already, the marketplace destroyed, although every Vincanan had been either killed or captured. The warriors Marcellus had sent returned with the news as well as a few prisoners, mostly merchants or peasants unlucky enough to have come to the marketplace at the wrong time.
One of the captives was a servant from the castle. A knight would, most likely, have been much harder to crack, but this servant, a boy really, not much more than a decade old, was so terrified of them that he blurted out that he would tell them anything and everything. It wasn't until later that Marcellus learned they had also captured his older sister, and he had hoped that by cooperating, they would not harm her.
Which, of course, they hadn’t. They were warriors, not barbarians. Marcellus hated the fear he saw in the eyes of their captives. How would the people of Tenoch feel once his father claimed the throne? Will their fear persist? If so, Father would have a difficult time keeping his people in the northern continent happy, especially if the throne his father sat in was back in Staston.
But the servant had not only given them details about the castle. He had also drawn them crude maps of each floor. He hadn’t been down to the dungeons ever, or the other deepest portions, but he had a wealth of knowledge that he was all too eager to share, and Marcellus saw no deceit in the boy whatsoever.
The dungeon. There were a few of his warriors who were unaccounted for among the dead or the living, and Marcellus figured the queens had captives of their own. Without a doubt, Marcellus was certain his people could withstand any punishment and not talk. Those from Tenoch had no presence of mind to realize that another wave of Vincanan ships was to arrive within a week. More ships, more warriors… and from what his scouts who had traveled west had said, no armies were marching toward Atlan to give aid.
A siege. Marcellus kept returning to the idea. A siege during the wintertime would not be ideal for his people, but those inside the castle would fare much worse, and the besiege would not last nearly as long as one conducted in the spring or s
ummer.
Horatia approached Marcellus. They had been hiding in one of the new ships, and she leaned against the balustrade on the deck. "Well?" she demanded. "You already know the layout of most of the castle yourself. What is it you hoped to learn from the boy?"
Marcellus grinned and removed the parchment maps from inside his tunic. He flipped through them and then pointed to an area that had not been drawn. “There. I believe that is the location of the steps to the dungeons.”
“You wish to mount…”
“I do.”
Horatia whistled. “They still have their castle fortified to a perilous level.”
“Because of the wrong intelligence we allowed to leak.”
Marcellus grinned again. He had been the one to think it possibly necessary to have those from Tenoch mistakenly believe the Vincanans planned an assault on the castle. The hardest part of the plan had been recalling how many days he had said until the attack from the previous day in case they had sent more than one spy on separate occasions.
“If only two or three of us go—” he started.
“Flavius and I will go,” she said immediately.
“Me as well,” he insisted.
Of course, the Valkyrie leader argued with him, but Marcellus was her prince, and his word was almost law. Almost.
But then another thought occurred to Marcellus, and he rubbed his chin. “Actually, we might need more than just the three of us…”
Shadows were the allies of all those on rescue missions, and Marcellus clung to them as well as to the bush he was crawling underneath. The bush shifted, and he stilled, righting it. He and the other Vincanans were all wearing bushes on their backs to hide their approach from any sentries.
Just because the day they were supposed to attack the castle had passed didn’t mean the queens had abandoned their bolstered defenses for the seat of their power. In fact, Marcellus assumed it likely that they would never allow their castle to be what they deemed vulnerable again.
There was more to Atlan than just the castle, though, and the Vincanans had already proved that twice over with the beach and the marketplace. Until enough warriors arrived for a siege, perhaps they could remind the queens of that fact again and again until they were drawn out.
Shovels were their main weapons for this operation, and they walked around most of the perimeter of the castle, noting where the sentries were located before Flavius pointed to a spot.
Most of the Vincanans just lay down, using their bushes to shield the ones who used shovels to dig. Their bushes they used as timber supports for the tunnel, and they worked in shifts so that the tunnel could be completed as swiftly as possible. The space they dug was small and tight, enough for them to crawl through, but that was all they needed.
Once they were inside the castle walls, they had to share some of the bushes to maintain their cover, and they crept along to the back of the castle. There, they located the door the servants used to enter and exit the building, and they made their way inside. It wasn’t that the door was unlocked, but the hinges were worn, the door old, and they pried it open relatively easily and noiselessly to boot.
One by one, they discarded their bushes and slipped inside, Marcellus last of all, but then he took the lead, bringing them to where he thought a stairwell should be.
And there it was.
Down, down, down, they descended into the bowels of the castle. Two guards were down there, and Flavius tossed a lightly packaged smoke device. The moment it landed, the smoke dissipated out. The guards and prisoners alike began to cough, and Horatia raced ahead, choking hopefully to the point of unconsciousness and not death the two guards.
Once the smoke dissipated, they moved forward. Horatia used the keys she had secured from one of the guards to unlock the cells, and they replaced the Vincanans they were rescuing with different ones. The intel the captured Valkyries had was much too valuable for them to rot away in cells.
As a way to offer his silent gratitude, Marcellus touched the bars of each cell as they were locked to bar the new prisoners. Then, silent as thieves, the Vincanans rushed out, back up the stairs and to the door of the servants. Once more, they donned their bushes and slipped across the landscape to reach their tunnel. Dawn was beginning to break as the last climbed out of the tunnel, and they quickly shoved back the dirt into place before sneaking away.
No one said a word until they reached the ships, and even then, Marcellus merely ordered food to be prepared for the freed captives.
Only after they ate did Marcellus eye the Valkyries.
“A few died, poisoned by some kind of drink a queen forced on us,” one said, her hair blond streaked with silver.
“Any Valkyries?” Marcellus asked.
“No Valkyrie died, but the ones who had… they spoke some,” the other Valkyrie admitted.
“They suffered for their failure,” the first hissed.
"Poison, you say?" the prince asked.
“I think it was meant to force us to talk and answer her questions,” the second said.
“Which her?”
“The blond queen.”
Ah. Sabine. He might have guessed.
“What else did you learn?” he asked eagerly.
“The other queen does not want to wait around for us to decide the next field of battle,” the second said.
“Where has she chosen?”
“A field where two rivers meet.”
Marcellus nodded. He had crossed one of the rivers on his initial trek through Tenoch, when Rufus had been by his side. The two had laughed and joked, wondering what might await them at the castle.
Only death and misery.
Suddenly, Marcellus was weary to the bone. If Rosalynne wished for that location to be the sight of the next major battle, well, he would have to go and see this location, determine if it might be suitable or not.
And if not, then he would force her hand elsewhere.
56
Rase Ainsley
The days had passed slowly. Leanne would eat if fed, and she would ask for water when thirsty, but she would not speak otherwise. It pained Rase to see her like this. All he wanted was for her to be happy, but how would that be possible? Her parents were both dead, her best of friends too, the baby… the attack… all of it was far too much for her to handle, and he could not blame her for wishing to retreat inside herself.
He could not bring himself to be happy either. The last time he had been laughing and smiling had been the day of the attack and murder. Now, Rase wondered if he would ever smile again. As for laughing, he doubted it.
Unless he was standing over Radcliff’s dead body…
Rase lifted the fork to feed his sister another bite of the porridge, but her eyes were closed, her breathing even. She had fallen asleep, and for once, she wasn't thrashing about. Maybe the potion from that alchemist was starting to work.
Or maybe that alchemist was a fraud.
Either way, Rase leaned forward, kissed his sister’s forehead, and stood. He removed his dagger from his belt, pricked his finger on the tip, and smirked at the droplet of blood that formed.
But he tucked the blade away as he left the house. He would much prefer to humiliate Radcliff Snell. If he could find evidence that the earl’s son had killed his ma and attacked his sister, well, even the crown would have to act. The queens could not afford to allow the nobility to do as they wished, or else they might have a riot on their hands. Out-of-control nobles on top of the war? No, the queens would make an example of Radcliff but only if they had no choice.
Although he had grown to hate the trek to the Snells' manor, Rase marched along the route. He hardly saw anyone at all, but that did not surprise him. Far too many were cowards, but Rase was not. He would do whatever proved necessary.
When he arrived, Rase checked the stables. The horses were all gone. Radcliff was out, and it seemed his pa was as well, perhaps had taken the carriage.
There would still be servants in the house, tho
ugh, and Rase wandered around the side of the house until he located a window low enough for him to climb onto the ledge. He might’ve done this before when he had visited Maxene here before, but he couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t getting a lot of sleep lately, and his mind sometimes made him think things weren’t as they truly were.
Rase climbed inside the house and went about searching it room by room, avoiding the servants and maids. Perhaps in his haste, he failed to notice any evidence of the crime, but Rase did not give up. He did not leave. In fact, he returned to Radcliff’s room and waited there, hiding in the trunk at the foot of his bed.
The street rat was a lot of things, and patient was one of them. He waited and bid his time until the earl’s son returned, but even then, Rase waited. It was hard to hear through the trunk, but it seemed to Rase that Radcliff might have consumed too much alcohol. His words, when Rase could hear them, seemed to slur.
Gradually, Radcliff ceased talking, and loud snores sounded. Still, Rase waited, needing the nobleman to be in the deepest sleep possible.
Nobleman. Bah. There was nothing noble about the young man in the bed.
Under ideal circumstances, Rase would wake Radcliff and let him feel terror and horror before Rase would kill him, but his pa might be home, and there were the servants to consider too. If Rase merely wished for revenge, he would not care what might happen to him after he killed Radcliff, but Leanne needed her brother, and so, Rase would have his revenge, even if it lacked a little luster.
Finally, Rase decided enough time had passed. His limbs were stiff, but he lifted the lid of the trunk and climbed out. Hiding there had been a gamble. If the servant had come to fetch Radcliff clothes, Rase would have been discovered, but Radcliff lay on top of the blanket on his bed, still dressed in his attire from earlier in the day.