“I’m sorry for putting you all in danger.”
The words registered on the faces of those around her, but not in the way she expected. They seemed… confused, if anything, and Hail gave that confusion voice. “Saint Isavel, you attacked the dragon.”
“I didn’t accomplish much.”
Sorn shook his head. “You wounded it, chased it off.”
Wait, why wasn’t he complaining? This didn’t make any sense. “You think that was worth it?”
“Any kind of win against a dragon is impressive as far as I’m concerned.” Sorn nodded solemnly. “People just don’t fight dragons.”
“People don’t, eh?”
Gods, he just didn’t understand. Actually feeling the ripple of dragonfire on her shield, watching her shots fly, feeling her skin meld into the world around her - that felt real , and it felt like victory in a way that plodding along with an army never could. She had to cling to that, now, because that was all she was. She clenched her fists, the thrones of her killing gifts, then relaxed them, grabbing Sorn’s jaw and pulling him closer. Her gifts itched, confused, as she stared into his eyes.
“So what, I’m not people? I’m people, trust me.” Her eyes flicked down to his lips and back up to his eyes. “I’ll have to remind you of that later.”
Then she shoved him away and pulled herself up, pointing back to the hauler.
“All right, then, if you like fighting dragons, let’s fucking fight dragons. Zoa? Get us ready to go. We’re tracking that thing down and killing it.”
Sorn stared at her in brief, arrested silence that was broken by Hail’s overly zealous enthusiasm. “Yes, Saint Herald!”
She even saluted, fist to shoulder, like some soldier in a play. It looked ridiculous, but Hail was the first back on the hauler as Zoa and Ren nervously got back into the cabin. The others followed suit as Isavel realized, in the foggy part of her brain that tried to be self-aware, that she was angry . At the dragon, to be sure, but more than that.
Well, the dragon would have to bear the brunt of it.
She hopped up onto the hauler with the others. They were looking at her with a mixture of fear and awe. Maybe this was a privilege; any normal person would be called crazy for wanting to fight a dragon in the first place, but she was Saint Isavel, Herald of the Gods. She was not expected to fear what others feared.
She slammed her palm on the cabin. “Okay, Zoa, the dragon went north-east - hell, I can still hear it. Let’s move as fast -”
She frowned. Wait a minute, the roaring and wingbeats she was hearing… they were getting closer, not further. She looked up into the sky, peering through the dense needles of the canopy, and saw wings there.
Two sets of wings.
“Oh, shit, it’s coming back with a friend. There are two of them.”
Hail’s enthusiasm faltered again. “ Two dragons?!”
She bit her lip. It was one thing to batter her angry muscles against a dragon, but two was more than she dared to handle. “All right, let’s get out of here.”
Zoa shouted something back that Isavel couldn’t hear, but her agreement was plain in the way the hauler suddenly thrummed to life, spun around, and headed right back the way it had come, dodging trees only barely enough to avoid a crash. Two dragons? This was worse than she had thought.
It also meant the ghosts were probably somewhere ahead of them.
As the hauler sped away and the dragons slowly caught up, she began to see them more clearly. To her distress, they both seemed to have all their limbs. Could dragons regrow limbs? She knew almost nothing about them. A few blasts of red-gold fire zipped into the trees, blackening trunks and soil around them and interrupting her thoughts. They had to go faster, but they couldn’t really - the dragons were gaining, and Isavel’s shield could only cover so much.
Could she shield them all, somehow?
She thought back to what little she knew of hunters, and something struck her. A travelling hunter had once shown her a dance, a slow and graceful thing where he turned his gift into something gentle and beautiful. Slow shots, drifting gently through the air and bursting harmlessly after a while into little flashes of light.
She was thrice gifted - surely, she could do one better.
Isavel closed her eyes, and reached into her gifts. The hunter’s gift could be slow and steady if she really forced it, and the warrior’s gift was powerful and protective. She could feel the threads taut next to each other, waiting to be woven. She could do this.
She pictured it, sculpted the shield-shot in the strange recesses of her mind that were home to her gifts. Two cultures and traditions, fused together to become something more than they ever could have been in isolation. It felt so natural, like they should never have been kept separate to begin with.
The shield in her hand was broad, and when she let it go into the sky above them, it tore energy from her - enough to weaken her, not enough to knock her out. They all watched as the white hexagon cruised into the sky and exploded above the canopy in front of the dragons, filling the air with slow, ponderous hexagons like so many shields. Dragonfire splashed against the floating shields but didn’t destroy them, and the shards blocked the dragons’ path, forcing them to swerve around, allowing the hauler to gain ground.
They were losing them, and the next time the dragons started to close she did the same thing, frustrating their attacks and their forward momentum. With a roar of frustration, the dragons turned and veered off, even as Isavel felt sweat starting to bead on her forehead, and her mind starting to swim. This was still too much exertion.
She collapsed back against the hauler’s cabin, and felt hands on her, checking and cushioning her.
“Food.”
Hail produced a ration and Isavel bit eagerly into it, tasting sweet fruit and dense nuts. Figs, almonds, walnuts, dates. Hail looked at her in awe, as though the mere act of her eating was a surprise. “How did you do that?”
Isavel wasn’t sure what she was talking about. How had she eaten? But Sorn glanced at Hail and her question. “She’s the Saint Herald - she can do all kinds of things.”
It wasn’t that far from the truth, at the very least. Her head slowed its swimming, the food settling comfortably in her stomach.
Zoa pushed the hauler out of the forest and back onto the more open road soon enough, and Isavel got back onto her knees, feeling better soon enough. People in the army spread out wide to let them pass, some even bowing when they made eye contact with Isavel, and it wasn’t long before they found their way back to Dendre and his guards. She was feeling her strength returning, now, and stepped off to meet the Bulwark’s eyes.
Dendre was smirking at her. “People saw flashes out there. Some hunter said he saw a dragon? Doesn’t sound like your mission was all that stealthy.”
Zoa and Ren stumbled out of the hauler cabin at that point, and Zoa briefly met Isavel’s eyes. The coder girl was red-cheeked and looked nervous, but when she realized Isavel was looking at her she smiled, letting out a tired sort of laugh. “Gods, Isavel, I guess you saved us out there didn’t you?”
Isavel smiled back, trying to bury the part of her that knew she had put them in danger first before pulling them back out. They either didn’t notice, didn’t care, or were too scared to bring it up - all unsettling possibilities. She turned back to Dendre.
“We met a dragon, I blasted the front leg off of it, and two more of them came after us. That means they have three dragons - which means we need more of Hive’s drones in the air, watching the skies. The ones with guns, too.”
Dendre’s smirk disappeared at the count of three dragons. “The ghosts can’t be far ahead, then. But we haven’t run into them, so either they’re about to approach us...”
He let the words trail off, but Isavel nodded. “Or they’re heading for the shrine too.”
Dendre scratched his beard. “If they know where it is, they must have spies.”
Isavel thought back to the scene in the Mayor’s hom
e, to the fact that somebody - an angel, according to Aren - had already accessed information on the shrine before her. Of course it might have been Ada, but at this point, it might well have been a ghost instead. Ada wouldn’t have reason to share her information with the ghosts.
Still, the idea of spies seemed plausible enough that she didn’t debate him. “They might. We need to pick up the pace, or they’ll get there first. We can’t allow that.”
Dendre sighed. “I’ll get some real scouts together to see what they can find. In the meantime, Herald, keep poking dragons when you get the chance.”
She smirked despite herself at that, but when she turned to see the others, they didn’t look all that amused. If anything, they just stood there with anticipation, as though she were about to launch them off on some other mission. She was too tired for that, though, and the idea that the ghosts might somehow be connected to what had happened in the Mayor’s suite...
“I’m really glad none of you got hurt.” She glanced off into the army that was slowly marching past them. “I need to talk to Elder Tan right now - go off, relax, eat something.”
They started walking away, dismissed. Ren and Zoa were talking quietly and pointing to the hauler - hopefully because they were discussing the ancient relic, rather than how close they had come to death. Hail stood nearby, awkwardly shuffling around on her feet, while the others headed off together, drifting away in the press.
Back to whatever they had been doing before she took their time, and their safety, for herself. She felt the sting of that in her chest again, the surprising ease with which she had put them all in danger just to get a closer shot at a dragon. She needed to be careful - she didn’t want to become the person they seemed to assume she was, a Herald who would sacrifice anything for her cause. At her core, wasn’t she still just Isavel?
She moved through the army to the hauler where Elder Tan and Mother Jera were travelling, and hauled herself up. Venshi was there, too, that eyeless white face somehow staring at her intently. She sat next to Elder Tan, ignoring Glass Peaks’ religious representatives, and the elderly coder looked at her with a gentle smile.
“Elder Tan, I want to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“The ghosts - it seems they know where the shrine is. The night the Mayor was attacked, somebody had broken into the Mayor’s home and found information on the shrine.”
Elder Tan was already frowning, nodding his head. “Ren told me earlier that you are familiar with Ada Liu, and that she was seen in the building last night.”
Isavel nodded. He seemed to be drawing his own conclusions.
“She is dangerous, and cannot be trusted. She would undo the very work of the gods, break it into pieces and destroy its value in the process. She tries to corrupt those around her - it would not surprise me if she somehow had a hand in this.”
“What, working with the ghosts?”
“Perhaps not, but who’s to say? She is reckless. She embraces mistakes and breaking rules. If she is entangling herself in this conflict, it would be no surprise to learn that her actions have somehow helped the enemy of all that is good.”
There was a dangerous glint in his eye, something angry. Like Ada herself might be one of the enemy. Isavel couldn’t imagine what Ada had done to these coders to inspire such dislike - yet Elder Tan was, well, her elder. To question him openly would be glaringly disrespectful, and she couldn’t afford to lose the confidence of her allies. “As you say, Elder.”
If she met Ada again, perhaps she should ask for her side of the story.
She looked past Elder Tan to Venshi, who was continuing to stare at her from the other side of the hauler’s flatbed. Venshi, who had been a servant of the temple in Glass Peaks for as long as anyone could remember. She did not retire - nor, it seemed, would Mother Jera, who was herself greying and rapidly approaching her final year.
Servants of the gods, it seemed, served until the end. Would Isavel be granted the luxury of retiring from their service, or would she be like them, a part of these things until the day she grew old and died again?
As night fell, the army settled into a camp - they did not want to risk clashing with the ghosts in the middle of the night on the move. Isavel had recovered already though, eating and resting on the hauler, and now she had energy she wanted to burn. She needed to remind herself that she was still just Isavel, at heart - still just a human.
Where was Sorn? She had told him, rather heatedly, that she wanted to see him. She should follow up on that.
She walked through the camp that had grown scattered out from the road into the woods beyond. Sorn usually camped with the guards of Glass Peaks, but even that was a large contingent in the army. As she approached, she heard the unmistakable sounds of nocturnal revelry. Laughing and drinking, to be sure, but the tents of the army were spread-out enough for more intimate ways of spending the night. With pathfinders and their ears about, people simply accepted they would be heard.
She cautiously put one foot in front of the other, walking along the edge of the area used by the Glass Peaks guards, until she heard an unmistakable voice. Sorn’s.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her. I don’t know what she wants from me.”
She froze. He was talking to someone else.
“She wants her lover.” That voice - it was Marea’s.
“But she’s the Saint Herald! I don’t get it. It’s like she doesn’t realise it. One minute she’s throwing me at a dragon and the next she wants me in her bed, and I just - I can’t stand it. This isn’t what I signed up for. I never realised she was going to turn into a - some kind of hero. It’s too much.”
Too much? Isavel felt anger well up inside her chest. What did he know of too much? He was talking like she wasn’t even a person - like she was something inconvenient, some wild bear crashing through the woods and ruining his day. And he couldn’t even talk to her? What was he doing here, anyway?
There was a short and soft wet sound, and Marea spoke again. “Shh. She’s not here. Don’t worry. Come here.”
More soft sounds. Kissing, rustling, quiet gasps.
The knot inside Isavel’s gut was punching the insides of her ribcage.
Of course.
The feeling radiated up her neck and into her jaw, and she clamped it shut, trying to burn and boil the feeling away. The heat and ash of it gathered in her fists, and she felt the ripple of energy coursing through her palms, a gift eager to be used. She caught herself, stepped back, bit down hard and suppressed it, eyes wide at what her hands were doing. He didn’t understand her - he didn’t care. He thought she was a burden, a duty, and now he was off cooling his frustrations with someone he could be himself with.
She could no longer escape this. This was it. Isavel knew, now, who she was in the eyes of others, and it was not the person she was in her own mind. She was their fearless commander, their dragon-fighting hero, their gods-blessed Saint Herald. She was no longer a lover, a companion, even a friend. She could expect no more honest warmth or intimacy - not from anyone who viewed her as their superior.
She turned and left. Hands flexing, lungs ragged.
So this was what she had become, then. Isavel the leader, not the friend. Isavel the Saint, the Herald, untouchable.
She left the camp, walked into the woods, breathing short and quick. Towards the ghosts and their fucking dragons. She had a duty to fight them, and that was all she was, it seemed. Nothing more. So she should fight them, get everything over with either way.
She had a duty.
She heard rustling and walking behind her, turned around. Hail stood there, not far behind her, looking caught. “Hail? What are you doing here?”
Hail froze for a second, then took a few steps closer. “Protecting you, Saint Herald. It’s my duty.”
Isavel looked at the hunter, softly glowing in the light of the ring and stars and moon. She was a pretty girl, golden hair and lightly bronzed skin, icy blue eyes glinting in the nig
ht. She was a murderer, broken by her past, her remains turned to sharp edges that were deeply stained with blood. She was lost and afraid, too confident in her faith and not confident enough in herself. Those icy eyes were home to some kind of kinship. Isavel stepped forward, put a hand around Hail’s cheek, and pulled her in, kissing her lips.
Hail tensed up immediately, briefly raising her hands as though in self-defense. Isavel let go, stared at the hunter’s face, and saw only flustered panic and confusion. Hail immediately started blabbering apologetically.
“I - I’m sorry, Herald - I don’t mean to -”
Isavel took a step back, eyes wide, gazing down at herself. Her heart was pounding, and she was shaking. What was she doing?
“I thought… I’m sorry, Hail.” She took another step back, her legs shaking. “Of course not.”
Hail looked even more terrified. “It’s not - it’s - Herald - I’m just - you’re… How could I possibly… you’re an - an angel -”
Isavel felt something drowning her heart and her brain, a sloshing river of panic pulling her into herself. She was broken. She wasn’t doing anything right. She was too much for this role - too human. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t breath, her lungs were squeezed, her chest was cracking.
“Go away.” She tried to sound firm, but it came out as a croak. There was no room for words in her throat as she tried to breath.
Hail took a step back, then paused, took a step forward again.
She shook her head. She couldn’t do anything. “Go away.” She didn’t have the strength to yell. She called up a shield on her arm, shielding herself, trying to hide, but it was just too bright. She couldn’t breath. She was broken, this was what it felt like to be broken, she couldn’t even -
“Isavel -”
“Go away -”
The shield shattered in her face, sucking the life from her, and Isavel collapsed onto the ground.
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