by NS Dolkart
Phaedra nodded, noting how different both Narky and Hunter sounded from the young men she had met last year. They seemed to have taken up each other’s sides of the argument.
“You don’t believe in Criton’s vision?” Phaedra asked Hunter.
“I do believe him,” he said. “But going near Ardis means death, either for us or for a lot of Ardismen. I don’t want to be a part of it.”
“We may not need your sword, with Salemis there,” Criton said hopefully.
“My sword broke,” Hunter reminded him. “I don’t plan on taking another.”
The others all stared. They stared, but Phaedra was proud. The last time she had spoken to Hunter about his calling, he had been full of despair. His place as the islanders’ protector was a constant burden on him, and yet when Phaedra had said that one day he might be able to lay down his sword, he had responded, “But I don’t know how to do anything else!”
Now that despair was gone. He had made the decision to build himself a new life, and whatever it might turn out to be, he already looked happier for it.
“The army the red priest raised is gone,” Criton pointed out. “There’ll be no scouts to watch for us when we near Ardis, and nobody who sees will dare confront us. They’ll have heard stories by now.”
“That’s true,” Phaedra said, weighing in. “As long as we don’t go through Ardis itself, we may well be safe. Especially if Salemis meets us there.”
“We can go,” Hunter said. “Just don’t expect any more killing out of me.”
* * *
There had been a time when Phaedra loved to travel. Now her ruined ankle turned her pleasure sour; made her legs uneven, her hips disjointed, her back stiff and achy. She wished they still had a horse, and felt selfish just thinking it. They all still had their lives, didn’t they?
They spent weeks slogging northwards in the dry heat, sleeping in the open with only clothes for pillows: the straw mattresses were too hard to carry, and all the tents that had gone up around Silent Hall had been burned when the dragon Salemis came to the islanders’ rescue. They did not bother asking for shelter at the houses they passed along the way, for these were the families whose menfolk had died in the fire. It was a miserable journey in more ways than one.
They chose to give wide berth to the city of Anardis, a move that was as necessary as it was disappointing. Phaedra desperately wanted to know whether the Great Temple of Elkinar still stood, and how its high priestess had fared in the months since they had last seen her, but Anardis too had citizens who would blame the islanders for their misfortunes. In fact, the entire region of Hagardis had cause to hate them. Phaedra dearly wished Criton were leading them somewhere else.
They were deep in the territory that had belonged to the God Magor – but was it still His? Phaedra wondered whether the loss of the red priest’s army had been enough to break Magor’s power in the region. If so, who would benefit? Magor’s worshippers respected power, and His defeat had been the work of God Most High, yet it seemed highly unlikely that the people of Hagardis would turn to the dragons’ God. There was too much bad blood.
There was no doubt the islanders were getting noticed as they traveled north, but it seemed no one dared confront them. They foraged as they went – stealing, really – but nobody who saw them did anything but stare. It made Phaedra feel like they were somehow not a part of the world they traveled through.
When they reached the southern outskirts of Ardis, the people’s reactions to them grew stranger still. Men and women gasped, and children pointed. “O see, the prophet speaks truth!” one woman cried.
It was not the reaction they had expected.
They grew bolder. At the next tributary village, they stopped and asked for food. Far from the aggression they had dreaded, the people there treated them as exalted guests, fed them a feast of lamb and dates and sweet wine, and offered them lodging in the house of an elder.
“The prophet spoke of your arrival,” the elder explained. “Whether you’re angels or men, you’re welcome here.”
“Thank you,” Phaedra said, leaving the half-asked question unanswered. “When did you see this prophet?”
“Ten days ago. She appeared out of a cloud of dust, black of hair and white of skin, and said that you would be coming from the south to herald the beginning of a new age. A one-eyed man, she said, with skin black as night and four companions as dark as himself, speaking words of truth. Have you any words for us?”
The islanders looked at each other. Whoever this prophet was, it was not Salemis.
“The dragon Salemis has been freed,” Criton said, “and God Most High has defeated Magor in battle. As the Oracle of Laarna said, the Gods Themselves will be judged in the coming days.”
The elder and all the other villagers nodded meekly and asked no more questions. Phaedra wondered who this mysterious prophet might be, and why she had singled out Narky, but she did not have to wonder long. When the islanders left the village the next morning, their walk took them past a Temple of Magor, closed and abandoned. Some vandal had chalked an enormous sigil on the wall beside the door, an artless pictograph of a bird in flight.
A symbol of Ravennis.
3
Narky
“It’s the Oracle.”
Only two of the three priestesses that had made up the famed Oracle of Ravennis had been executed when Laarna fell to the Ardisian army. The Graceful Servant, the one in the middle, had survived somehow. Now she had resurfaced, and was being hailed as a prophet. Narky had been right: Ravennis still lived. But in what form?
The battlefield outside Laarna had been riddled with the bodies of crows. They had believed Ravennis dead, or whatever passed for dead among the Gods. Was it possible He had recovered already? His servant was certainly wasting no time converting the men of Hagardis to her religion. How quickly Magor’s triumph had been erased!
The next town they came to treated them just as well as the first. After the Oracle’s visit, their very arrival seemed to prove her God’s power to them, and even the most devout of Magor’s worshippers began to doubt their own God’s might. After all, wasn’t Magor supposed to have defeated Ravennis for good? If Ravennis remained and Magor’s high priest did not, who could argue that the God of the Wild was as strong as ever?
When Narky asked, nobody knew exactly where the Graceful Servant had gone. North, many thought, but to where? At the next town, however, the people pointed Narky west, to Ardis.
“The prophet said that the one-eyed man would follow her to Ardis while his companions traveled on,” an elderly woman told him. “She said her God had marked you as His.”
Narky nodded. “She’s right,” he said.
It was Phaedra who objected the most. “I don’t understand,” she said that night. “I’m as curious as you are about Ravennis, but don’t you think we should stick together? We know now, from both Salemis and the fairies, that God Most High really is supreme among the Gods. He’s been our protector more than Ravennis has – Salemis is the servant who really saved us, and he said to meet him at the Dragon Knight’s Tomb. Bestillos might be gone, but Ardis is still the city of our enemies. Why don’t you stay with us, at least for now?”
Her argument was weak, and she knew it. He could see the pleading in her eyes. The five of them had been together for over a year now, the lone Tarphaeans in a sea of pale angry faces, and parting had begun to feel unnatural – that, and inherently dangerous. He understood, and he felt the same way, but his God had spoken.
“Criton’s God might be the biggest and the strongest,” he said, “but Ravennis owns me. His mark is on my chest, Phaedra. If He says I ought to go into Ardis alone, that’s what I’m going to do.”
“We may never see you again.”
The truth of her words struck him hard. She was afraid of losing him for good.
“The Dragon Knight’s Tomb isn’t far from Ardis,” he said, but it was a feeble answer. He looked at his friends, friends he had never th
ought he would have, and his heart ached. When he had first met them all, he could hardly wait for them to part ways. But parting had been impossible – first Ravennis had held them together, and then Psander, and now the others felt like a part of him. Yes, they had separated before, but always with a plan to regroup afterwards, and Narky had never been truly alone since he’d first stepped into that fishing boat in Karsanye, hoping to escape justice. This time was different. This time his God wanted him alone.
What awaited him in that city? He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t terrified of being away from the others, of being at the mercy of his enemies, in Ardis. Could Ravennis even protect him there? He hadn’t protected the Youthful Servant or the Venerable one.
But he had no choice. He dared not defy his God. Ravennis had spared him from His wrath once, but that had been for an honest mistake. Or a dishonest one, really, but a mistake nonetheless. In any case, Narky doubted his God would forgive open defiance.
He said his goodbyes the next morning and set off at a brisk pace, afraid that if he didn’t hurry it would give his fears the chance to paralyze him. He tried not to wonder what the God of Fate had in store for him. He wondered instead what it meant to be the God of Fate when another God, the dragons’ God, reigned supreme in the heavens. The fairies had convinced Narky well enough that God Most High really did live up to His name, so what was Ravennis’ role? Did He not command fate, but instead guard it somehow; watch over it; decide what to reveal and what to keep hidden? To what purpose had Ravennis angered Magor, if He knew that His Oracle’s words would lead to the destruction of His city of Laarna? Had it been some kind of trick?
He should have discussed it with Phaedra when he had the chance. Even when she didn’t have answers, discussions with her were always clarifying. He hoped she didn’t waste too much time writing the islanders’ story – her talents were wasted on recording the past. He wondered what she would make of herself. He hoped he didn’t die before he saw her again.
But back to Ravennis. After seeming to lose to the God of the Wild, He had instead outflanked Magor and was now stealing His followers. Narky had always thought himself unworthy of his God’s favor, but these new developments presented another possibility: perhaps Ravennis had chosen him because he wasn’t righteous; because he was the sort of man who shot his enemies in the back. Did his refusal to fight fair make him a more suitable tool for the God of Fate?
He hoped it was not too blasphemous a thought, but whatever this maneuver against Magor had entailed, it was devious. Surely the Keeper of Fates had an unfair advantage over the other Gods, even if it was only greater knowledge and not actual control. After this trick, what would be his God’s next move?
Whatever it was, he was now a part of it.
Ardis rose in front of him, walled and imposing. Was he even going to be able to get in? If the guards at the gate were less reverent than the villagers in the outskirts, his journey was about to come to a sudden and disappointing – if not at all unexpected – end.
Two guards stood rigidly outside the gates of Ardis, their short spears and shields at the ready. Narky wished his friends were still beside him. It wouldn’t have made him any safer, but it would have made him feel safer.
It was hard to breathe. If he didn’t do this now, his panic would take hold of him. With a silent prayer to Ravennis, he walked up to the nearest guard and forced himself to speak.
“Um,” he said. “I assume you know who I am. Can I enter, then?”
The guards stared at him silently. They probably couldn’t believe that he had delivered himself like this. A few seconds dragged by, and Narky couldn’t bring himself to meet their eyes. What was taking them so long? Were they dumb? Were they trying to decide what to do with him? Maybe they just liked to see him squirm.
Or maybe they hadn’t heard of him. “My name is Narky,” he said. “I’m one of the Tarphaean islanders who fought against Ardis at Silent Hall – that is, at the wizard’s fortress. I’m sure you heard what happened there, or maybe even saw…”
Even at the gates of Ardis, the towering Yarek was just visible on the horizon. Narky waved his arm in that direction and kept right on talking, letting his nervousness spill across his tongue.
“The prophet of Ravennis left a message for me to follow her here,” he said.
The guards still did not move, and when he looked up, he saw the fear in their eyes now. Terror, even. Something was very wrong here – were these men even alive? They seemed incapable of motion, besides the frightened little movements of their eyes.
“They’re paralyzed,” said a voice from up ahead, and a plump middle-aged woman strode toward him. Her hair was as black as his, though there were many gray strands mixed in, and her skin was as white as any mountain clanswoman.
“Not to worry,” she said, “it’s only temporary. Many of the Ardismen have not yet converted, but Ravennis guides and we follow. In the case of these men, He guided me to poison the wine they drank with their noonday meal.”
Narky stared much as the guards were doing. “You’re the Graceful Servant,” he said dumbly.
The woman smiled. “Welcome to Ardis.”
4
Bandu
Things got quiet after Narky left. The pack had lost a member, and everyone was too sad to speak. It was not like when Four-foot had died. Then the others had closed around Bandu out of sympathy, but they had hardly known her and had seen Four-foot only as people had always seen him: a wolf, a wild animal, a monster with teeth. Losing Narky was more shocking to them, even though he wasn’t dead.
Not yet, anyway. Maybe his God would protect him, maybe not. Bandu had a low opinion of Gods. Even Criton’s God Most High did not impress her as He did the others. So, He had created the world. So, He was more powerful than all the other Gods. So what? Was He kinder than They were? The fate of the dragons spoke otherwise. So what if He had defeated the Yarek, built the mesh that separated the heavens from the earth, made a world that could sustain her existence for a time? It had to all be for something, and if it was not for kindness then it was no good. Bandu did not worship things just because they were big.
She wondered if Criton really understood how she felt about his God; how she hated the way it consumed his thoughts. But then, it was wrong to blame the God for that: Criton was the sort of man who could only really care about one thing at a time. That wasn’t his God’s fault.
It was Criton’s fault. He hardly knew a thing about this God of his, but now it was all that mattered because the God belonged to him, to the part of his family that he wanted to call his own. That was what really bothered her.
She knew he loved her, of course, and that he loved Goodweather too. Just not enough. If he lost them he would tear his hair and mourn, but he would heal one day and do his best to replace them, just the way he had replaced his father with a dragon half the size of a mountain.
Maybe that was forgivable. After all, she had tried to replace Four-foot too. But she had failed, she realized now. Criton was no replacement for Four-foot. The wolf had wanted only to live and to be with her; Criton was more complicated.
She still missed Four-foot terribly. The wizard Psander had offered to help Bandu tear her way into the underworld to retrieve him, but she had not done anything about it for months, and now she was gone. She had moved her fortress into the world of the elves and left the islanders to their troubles. Bandu almost hoped the Kindly Folk would eat her.
They traveled northward in subdued silence, all but Goodweather. Goodweather still cried, still scratched when nursing, still breathed sparks when she hiccupped. Bandu tried binding her hands so that she wouldn’t scratch so hard at least, but the girl had a way of wriggling out of the bindings and finding flesh to press her razor-sharp claws against. Bandu had wanted the pregnancy, and wanted Goodweather still, but she had to admit that she hadn’t really considered those tiny claws when she and Criton had mated.
At last they came to the foot of the mountain in whi
ch Salemis had once lived, in a cave now called the Dragon Knight’s Tomb. The climb was not hard – at least, it was far easier than it had been when Bandu was still pregnant. Yet as they came nearer the cave, they began to hear voices up ahead.
“Who could that be?” Hunter asked, automatically reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. He frowned at his empty hand for a moment and put it behind his back. “It sounds like a whole crowd.”
“This is where Salemis said to meet him,” Criton said stubbornly. “There’s nothing for us to fear up there.”
Nobody responded. They were all quiet, feeling the emptiness where Narky’s voice should have been. Bandu did not know what he would have said – she had found some time ago that she could ignore him half the time without missing anything important. Still, his absence felt wrong.
They trudged the rest of the way up to the mouth of the cave, listening to the sounds that drifted down to them. Whatever the argument was about, it ceased when they reached the entrance to the Dragon Knight’s Tomb, as those inside turned to look at them and fell into silence.
There were some thirty people in the cave, and they were all Dragon Touched. They were disguised as Criton so often disguised himself, but Bandu could see through such things. Their pale continental skin melted into golden scales beneath her gaze, and their frightened eyes turned an almost radiant yellow. Even outnumbering the islanders more than seven to one, they could not conceal their terror. How long had they hidden in the shadows of Ardis? Did they expect the islanders to turn them in?
Criton stepped forward, and Bandu was suddenly afraid. Her mate was not the last of his kind after all. Would he abandon her for this new family?
He cleared his throat and let his hands turn back into claws. “My name is Criton, the son of Galanea. We are here to meet Salemis.”