The Price of Survival

by Meagan Hurst

  Nivaradros had a third glass of his alcohol, and then a fourth. “You don’t really want to know.” A fifth glass disappeared before he spoke again. “But it wasn’t just the Shade, I spoke at length with the Mithane as well. No, I will not tell you what he said either.” The Dragon fell silent again for a time before he sighed. “You should head back to Midestol,” he told her quietly. “I will continue to hold things together here.”

  “I’d like to fight at some point, Nivaradros. I am a Ranger.”

  “Right now, this is more important,” he argued firmly. “If you ever expect to heal from your past you need this—please listen to me on this—and Midestol seems to be interested in spending time with you without trying to kill you, so take advantage of it.”

  “And just overlook everything he’s done?” her voice dropped several degrees.

  “No, but don’t dwell on it either. You overlook my past,” the Dragon pointed out cruelly. “All I am asking you to do is get to know him as family. You need it, Zimliya, you really, really need it. Everything I do is supposedly only pushing you back towards the brink of insanity you fought to escape when you originally fled Tenia. Maybe this is the only way you can get over some of it. Not everyone close to you is out to get you—most of us aren’t.” His eyes were bright and slightly furious. “Go,” he added quietly. “Before I do something even more foolish and make things worse.”

  She didn’t argue. Putting her glass down, she moved into the shadows with ease, but she didn’t return to Midestol. For one, she was early, but the main reason she didn’t want to return to Midestol now was the bitter taste in her mouth she wanted to shake before meeting up with a man who was always looking for her weaknesses. Standing in the lands she had created and she controlled, Z began to work on mastering it. She would take lessons from Islierre at some point, but until then she wanted to learn what she could on her own.

  “You fear for the Dragon,” a familiar and unwelcome voice said from her right. The being behind her immortality was seated on a boulder and watching her with calm, crystal eyes.

  Glancing over at her uninvited visitor, she scowled, but declined to answer immediately. “I am worried about him, yes, and what his relationship with me has done to him.”

  “It has made him better,” the being replied. “He is as he is for you alone,” the figure continued as he stood and slid off the boulder with grace. “You are balking at your duty. Zimliya, you must step up and shoulder the burden I asked you to take.” He approached her and touched the side of her face with an open palm. It was much like how Nivaradros touched her. She didn’t like it. But she didn’t shy away from his touch either. Instead she accepted it and bowed her head to his judgment in silence.

  “You shouldn’t have chosen a human,” she told him.

  “But it was a human who could do what was needed and, Zimliya? You are what I need. Once you get past this small thing you will be everything I could have hoped to have achieved through a creation, but it takes time to heal, and your wounds are deeper than even I suspected.”

  “I warned you,” she reminded him.

  “That you did.” He moved away from her and returned to lean against the boulder he had been sitting upon. Glancing around at her world, he smiled mockingly. “You could have banned me from here, and yet you have allowed me access. You wanted to speak with me.” He eyed her with a raised brow. “I am here at your disposal.”

  “If I knew what I wanted to discuss, I would.” She closed her eyes and waited; he didn’t disappoint.

  “Spending time with Midestol will help you in the long run. Spending time with the Dragon is one path of the future that leads to the continued existence of the worlds.”

  “He wants me to rule.”

  “And you will.”

  She jerked, and her eyes flew open as she pressed her lips together in anger. “I never sought that,” she whispered.

  “No. Which is why you must. You are the only being who can rule multiple races on this world without the wars that would start up if anyone else attempted it.”

  “There are other worlds where several races have been united under the control of one being. I’ve been to them after all.”

  “It is not the same, but it is similar. This is your world—you can, and must, rule it. Take all the time you require, but stop fighting the Syallibion, and stop pushing the Dragon away. He is a balance you need, and he will put aside much at a word from you. You taught him how to soften his anger and intolerance towards others, now it is your turn to learn; learn to let go of your anger at something you did not cause, did not deserve, and should no longer be bound by. I cannot help you. Your Shade—any of the Shades—cannot help you. The Alantaion is likewise incapable. Nivaradros, however, is. And he wants to help.”

  “That is the part that is concerning.”

  His laughter was softer than the calmest snowfall. “He hasn’t changed all that much, Zimliya—just with you. On his own he is still the same arrogant, short-tempered, dangerous, and murderous Dragon he was before.”

  She smiled faintly but exhaled sharply and added a stream instantly to their surroundings. “Do you know his power level?”

  “Yours will be the greater of the two. If the two of you were to battle at this time, Nivaradros’s experience would give him the advantage. You are equals in how you think when it comes to magic, but Nivaradros has fine-tuned his power to a level you have not.”

  “Didn’t want to know that.” Giving up, she fell silent again, focusing on her shadowland instead.

  “You fear growing attached. You fear others becoming attached to you.”

  “It is well known,” Z snapped. “What is your point?”

  Her visitor sighed and shook his head. “Will you never attempt it?”

  She whirled on him with Kyi’rinn drawn. “You damn well know the moment I do something will happen to him!”

  “That is not true, Zimliya. You base it off—”

  “Nivo, Nicklyn, the Shades, some of the heirs, my adoptive parents!” she snarled. “Don’t tell me it isn’t true—don’t you even try!”

  He backed off. Eyes apprehensive and locked on her weapon, he kept even her slightest of movements in his vision. “As you say,” he agreed softly. He watched her, and when she turned and stomped away cursing, he began to follow her. “Zimliya,” he called at long last.

  “Get the hell out of my lands,” she hissed.

  “Not until I finish speaking. I will give you this—because you are correct in a fashion—I will keep the Dragon alive.”

  “You cannot promise that.”

  “I just did.” He vanished before she could reply, but she replied with colorful language anyways.

  Only after she was certain he was gone did she seal and hide her shadowland from detection. Frowning briefly until a path appeared, she stepped upon it and began to walk—letting everything else fall from her thoughts. It was, she knew, a cheat—a false fix—but with how poorly she was handling things, she knew she need to avoid dwelling on her fears. Self-diagnosing was supposed to be one of the worst things you could do, but Z was harsh enough on herself that she felt she could do a decent enough job. She was, in her mind, weaker than she had been in years. Mentally weak enough that she was just a shade better than her eight-year-old self after fleeing Tenia, but that was only because time and training kept the worst of it at bay.

  Shoving the rest of her evaluation away, she closed her eyes and just let her senses guide her—without dwelling on their improvement. Her visitor’s words both struck home and stung, but even his acceptance of the fact she wouldn’t just magically wake up fine didn’t help. She found herself considering discussing the whole thing with Midestol of all people, and opened her eyes as she started cursing at the very thought. Of all things she would not do, that needed to be near the top. But she couldn’t make herself put it there.

  And unfortunately, her face gave away her annoyance when she finally slipped out of the shadowland and back into t
he room she had left Midestol in. To her surprise, he was already waiting. Looking far better than he had when she had last seen him, Midestol was dressed in his fighting attire, and the amount of magic woven into it made Z feel slightly queasy—moving clothing did that.

  “You have returned early,” he commented as she arrived.

  “As have you,” she retorted shortly.

  His brows rose. “What did I do now?”

  “Nothing—it’s not you.” Turning away then, Z grabbed a dagger and vented some of her frustration on something she could: herself. She shortened her hair until it was cut short in the back with the top reaching midway to her ears. Midestol was watching her in astonishment as she brushed off the cut strands from her shoulders. “Do you have a mirror?” she wanted to know. While she was mostly certain she hadn’t made a mistake, she would feel like a moron later if she had.

  Midestol gestured wordlessly to a spot on the wall, and as she approached it the wall lost its solid color until it was reflective. Neat trick. Of course, she had forgotten she hadn’t looked in a mirror in months—hadn’t looked in a mirror since her change. Freezing as her eyes caught her attention, Z just stared at them in the mirror in silence for a time.

  “What color are they when I am worried?” she asked in a hushed tone. Anger, she now knew, was a deep jewel purple—a very, very deep purple. She figured it could be taken as black in the wrong light by those with inferior vision.

  “I think they’re silver—you are not the most open on your moods, so I could be mistaken,” Midestol said quietly as he approached. He approached her as if she were a rabid animal that could turn to attack him at any point. Since the latter part of that was true, she tried not to hold it against him. “You haven’t seen yourself since your alteration?”

  “No.” She shook herself and turned to look at her hair. To view the back, she held up a hand and used water as a mirror in her palm—forcing it to be still and working the angle of it to make it correct. Closing her hand over the water when she was done, she turned around with care and glanced at her grandfather. His hair was still shorter than hers now, but only because it was level all the way around. “What do you think?”

  “I think you should keep the bangs, and therefore trim them slightly,” was his even reply. He offered her a cautious smile, visibly touched she would ask him.

  Since she had asked, she followed his advice. “Bangs,” she told him with a hint of disgust, “are a pain in the ass to keep up.”

  “Some things are, but they are worth it in the end,” he replied with a shrug. His smile was still there, and it grew slightly when she turned back to him and raised a brow. “Maybe not bangs,” he conceded, “but other things.” He watched her for a time and then nodded towards the bed in the room that had previously contained him. “I took the liberty of having some clothing made for you while you were away. Your clothing is fine enough but wearing this—especially with that hair cut—will help you blend in, and I would like it very much if you were not restricted to this room.”

  She wanted to argue. Didn’t. And in the end, she headed over to the bed. Loose fitting pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and a tunic were laid out for her, and the color was a black that could have been at home in the shadowlands. It wasn’t a normal color, but the magic woven into the thread wasn’t powerful enough to irritate her.

  “Thanks,” she told him despite her pause. Pulling her current shirt off, she slipped the new one on, followed by the tunic, and then did the same with the pants. On the floor beside the bed was a set of light weight, but high ankle boots, and she switched hers out for them despite the fact hers were better made. It was, she knew, a gift Midestol had gone to lengths to create, and since they were supposed to be ‘bonding,’ refusing to wear the clothes wouldn’t aid her.

  “You are the only person I know who strips in front of anyone—regardless of who or what they may be,” Midestol mused thoughtfully.

  “I spend much of my life on a battlefield. I don’t have time to be modest. Not to mention I also spend time in dungeons—eventually my clothing becomes something that the term doesn’t apply to or is removed in the vain attempt to embarrass me. It alarms a lot of people, but no, I don’t really care who sees me naked most days, and you’ve already seen me fully naked, so why should I have left the room?”

  He shrugged but didn’t answer. It was obviously a problem for him now. Family relationships were confusing. And hard. “You look fairly exhausted.”

  “The Dragon decided to beat me senseless over something stupid. I’m fine.”

  “As you say. Are you fine enough to spar?” At the last word Midestol’s eyes brightened with delight, and Z realized this was possibly the only thing the two of them really had in common; their enjoyment of a good, solid fight. She had never sparred with Midestol. Nearly killed him and been killed by him, yes, but never before had they clashed blades in anything but a serious battle, and she found the thought of trying it now enticing.

  Her answering smile was more than enough for him. Eyes dancing in return, Midestol headed for the door without another word, leaving her to follow in silence. They ran into no trouble on their way down the halls or the stairs, but in the courtyard, Z found herself the center of hostile attention. Midestol, however, handled it in his normal fashion. Hostile glances turned into smoldering ashes. After about the third scorch mark on the ground, those glances ceased to be open, although Z could still sense them.

  “Apparently, you are too female to hide it,” Midestol sighed irritably with a glance at her chest. “I should have had that made slightly looser.”

  “Your men can probably sense I am female,” she retorted. “This shirt covers everything.” And it did. It wasn’t like she had much to hide to begin with either. Running her right hand through her much lighter and shorter hair, she glanced sidelong at him. “Where in the world are we going?”

  “To the practice courts. The outmost ones, since I am getting tired of having to incinerate my own people.”

  “If you changed the way they looked at anything female, you might not have to kill them as often.”

  “Women are for breeding or pleasure, Zimliya. You are the exception, not the rule.”

  “And if I wasn’t your granddaughter, or as hard to bring to heel, I wouldn’t be such an exception?” She was not even going to touch his previous words. They were infuriating, but she knew Midestol; he would never see things her way. But if things went in her favor, one day he would be dead and the world would be safe from him; she wasn’t foolish enough to hope no one else would have the same view point.

  “Something very much like that yes, but given your undeniable talents with magic and weapons—and yes, I know you have a wide range of other talents, but those do not interest me—you are still a solid breeding candidate.”

  She started laughing then. She couldn’t help it. Laughing until she could barely breathe, she glanced sidelong at Midestol’s furious face and started laughing even harder, if that was even possible. “I’m sorry,” she gasped at long last, “but of all the conversations families generally have, I don’t think this is one of them.”

  His face was priceless with his frustration at her amusement, but eventually that furious mask began to crack, and Midestol started to laugh softly himself when it was clear she wasn’t about to recover immediately. “True,” he admitted when she managed to catch herself. “But that is one of the reasons I have always liked you, despite the annoyance you are. I don’t have to worry about offending you. Upsetting you, yes, but offending you? No. You might not agree with me, and you might not approve, but you are not hell bent on revenge over anything I do either.”

  Shaking his head at her in apparent bafflement, he continued to lead her on a walk for another twenty-two minutes until they reached a grove of trees. Z paused and regarded Midestol skeptically when he turned around to see why she hadn’t followed. “This is a practice court?”

  “Remember my views on the opposite sex, and then reca
ll I had a daughter whom you are frighteningly similar to. We were training often in hiding, and when I commissioned this place I had a practice court put in on the off chance you turned out to be like your mother. There was no way to know what sex you would be after all.”

  It made sense, but the magic she could pick up even from here did not. “Is it a challenge to get into?” she questioned with care.

  “No, I shielded it so that it appears that way to outsiders. Come, Zimliya, let me show you.” He stepped forward into the grove between two trees and when he did not reemerge, she had no choice but to follow.

  The grove of trees vanished before she had finished passing between the first two trunks. Now she stood in the center of a sandy circle that was three times the size of a normal practice court. Midestol was awaiting her with ease and his smile was relieved when she approached him. Inclining her head politely to him as she reached him, she managed to keep her hands away from weapons—it was an automatic response to him in this arena—and she likewise managed to wait patiently for his next move. This was his court and they would probably play by his rules.

  “What weapon should we use?” Midestol wanted to know when it became clear she was leaving the reins of power in her hands.

  “Preferably something with direct contact, so no bows,” she answered as a small sense of delight emerged at the impending match. “Swords, axes, daggers, or hand-to-hand would probably be the best choices.”

  Midestol grimaced. “Axes are not my specialty. Daggers are overrated, and hand-to-hand can be limited. Swordsmanship, on the other hand, is a delicate dance when against a skilled opponent, which I assume you think I am at the very least?”

  “Very skilled,” Z rushed to assure him with a smile.

  “Thanks,” he replied sarcastically.

  Flashing him a disarming smile, Z called Kyi’rinn to her hand, and then firmly explained to the sword that this was not a battle before stepping into a readied position and watching Midestol. He called his own sword—Swyante—to his hand as well and then began to circle.