Dragonstorm: A Dragonhall Chronicles novel (The Reasoner Trilogy Book 2)

by Mirren Hogan

  "We should go."

  The memory melted away, leaving Dashka standing on the rooftop, hand on Nehko's neck. Her head swam from what she'd seen. The Dragonwar had changed the face of Dargyn, and its influence continued to this day. All because of a few seemingly harmless words from an unwitting draakin. And General Sandvaal, he'd begun the ostracism of the dragons. His hand was still present amongst them, just in a different form. That much was evident as she remembered what Nehko had said about Gallanor's death. Even as she experienced a joy she'd never imagined, she felt a chill.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After days spent ensconced in his room, Del finished cleaning out everything he wouldn't take with him. In the end, he didn't have much to pack. A few shirts, trousers, a jacket, underclothes and three or four pairs of socks were squashed under several books and his notes. The rest of his books and his latest pieces of work went into different cases for the reasoners to pick up and deliver. He suspected they'd look through them even as he clicked them shut. He wanted to lock them, to keep people from touching his work, but they might be broken open. It wasn't worth wasting precious locks.

  Tossing aside another sock which had no pair, he saw a hint of paper underneath. Assuming it was another random scrap, he pulled it out, only avoiding tearing it in two when he saw the scribbled lines on the page. He leaned back against the wall and exhaled. Tears prickled in the corner of his eyes.

  The picture was of him, Kaida, and Daven, drawn by his son at the age of four or five. Each of them had disproportionately long legs, arms only slightly shorter, round bodies and tiny heads. Daven had depicted himself only a head shorter than his mother, and with wild hair and huge eyes. They all wore smiles from ear to ear. Above them, the sun was a circle with lines coming out at all angles. On the opposite side of the page were the moons, each the same size as the sun.

  Del smiled, remembering when Daven had given him this artwork. He'd been so proud of himself and explained every aspect of the picture in minute details.

  "Mother is happy 'cause it's sunny. See, here's the sun. And I'm happy 'cause I like the moons. They look so pretty, like eyes. Maybe I should give them eyeballs?" He had scratched his head and shrugged.

  "I think they're nice just as they are," Del had replied. "So why am I happy?"

  "Um, you're happy 'cause you're standing next to me and mother. That's why your smile is bigger than the rest. See?"

  Del thought they looked the same, but he nodded, regardless. "I see why that'd make me happy," he said, "plus look at the size of my feet. How could anyone not like those?" They were so big he doubted he'd be able to walk if they were real but seeing his son beaming was worth it.

  "They're big so you can dance," Daven had said. "The bigger your feet, the faster you can dance."

  "Is that so?"

  Daven had given a vigorous nod. "Yes. You can dance very, very, very fast." He giggled.

  Del smiled at the memory. He couldn't help the feeling of nostalgia for the days when dancing quickly was the most important thing in life.

  He tucked the picture between the pages of a book and put it into his suitcase. It was too precious to leave it to anyone else. No doubt Kaida had dozens of them hidden away somewhere, but he just had one. After that, Daven had begun to read and write, and time to draw became less and less frequent. Del had often wondered about that. Schools gave children the skills to find professions, but unless a child showed rare talent for anything creative, it wasn't fostered. Perhaps more people in Dargyn should enjoy such activities, even if they weren't proficient in them. Drawing might be a better pastime than spending the evening in a tavern.

  In the end, the point was moot. The school system wouldn't change just because he thought it was flawed.

  Tapping his foot on the floor for a moment, he had an idea. He grabbed up a sheet of blank paper and sat down at his desk. He'd found a dozen writing tools scattered around the room as he'd been cleaning. Half of these he'd left in a container. He picked up one now and considered what to write. He wanted to be honest, but he had to consider that other people might read his words. He imagined himself speaking them and blinked away a tear. He might never get the chance, but he'd put them down, regardless.

  He took a breath and began to write.

  Dear Daven,

  I know you may not believe this, but I miss you. I was never the best father in Dargyn, but I have always loved you, and I've never stopped being proud of you. You grew into a fine young man, strong and compassionate. The circumstance under which you left Tsaisa is something I think about often.

  Del considered his next words carefully. He wanted to say he regretted what he'd done, but he couldn't risk putting that into words others would see. He might be viewed as complicit somehow. Being arrested wouldn't help him, or Daven, even if he wasn't held long. Having turned his son in would—ironically—hold him in good stead under such circumstances. Still, it might lead to a withdrawal of the offer to take the position, which he didn't want. Being forced to stay here in Tsaisa would be detrimental as far as he was concerned.

  He continued.

  We sometimes make choices we have to live with, and they aren't always easy, but we do what we have to do. That includes me working so many hours when you were young. At the time it seemed like the most important thing in the world. I was working hard like I'd been told and making braids to support my family. Now I know it wasn't that simple. Spending time with you, and your mother, was something I should have done more of. Sometimes, I remember things you liked as a child and I realise I don't know how you feel about them now.

  He stopped and rubbed his hand, his mind going back to those days, and the how Daven would chatter for hours about his day, his friends, likes and dislikes. Del would listen for a little while, but his mind would wander to some new idea. He missed a lot by just responding with a nod every few moments. He wished he'd taken the time to listen more closely. He'd give anything to have his little boy talking to him now, stopping only here and there to take a breath.

  One thing did spring to mind and he went on writing.

  You hated cow liver. I remember you giving yours to Risper when you thought no one noticed you slip away to go and see him. Your mother always knew, but she never minded. Maybe you like it now?

  I'm sure you still like to dance. I wish we had spent more time dancing. I remember you trying to dance as fast as you could, because that was important to you. Your hair would be so wild afterward, and you'd have to sit patiently while your mother brushed out the knots. Even sitting still, you'd still be singing whatever song you'd been dancing to.

  I know you probably think I wasn't paying attention to any of this, but for all the things I missed, I saw a lot too. I wish it was more, but reason tells us not to wish for things, because it doesn't work that way. If we want something, we must work hard. If we ever have time together again, I promise to work hard to make every moment last. It won't make up for the past, and for that I'll always be sorry.

  He put down the writing tool and rubbed his face with his palms. There was a distinct possibility that if he ever saw Daven alive again, it'd be before he was executed. The idea stabbed Del through the heart. He'd been naive. No, more than naive, it had been foolish.

  In his mind, he relived the day Daven had saved the burning cook. The flesh had melted, exposing bone. The man's screams had been terrible, sheer agony tearing through him as the flames destroyed his body.

  And then in a matter of moments, his skin knitted, healing, soothing. The screams stopped. The man fell unconscious. To Del's knowledge, the man bore scars, but had otherwise healed and returned to work. It … defied logic. He was a practical man. He believed in things he could see, touch and fix. Magic and the dragon bond were strange and ethereal. Creatures joined at the mind—he could hardly even imagine it, and he'd seen dragon talk through their draakin. Perhaps he should have tried harder to accept these things. He added that to the long list of things he regretted.

  He
picked up the writing tool and added only a few words to the bottom:

  I love you,

  Father.

  Del read the letter again, corrected an error and then folded it and put Daven's name on the outside. He leaned it against the writing tool container and put the tool back inside it.

  "You might never see it, but I needed to say it," he whispered. He hoped Daven would have more sense than to return to Tsaisa, but if he did, maybe he'd read the words and understand. Maybe he'd hate him a bit less. Del wouldn't blame him for every bit of loathing he must harbour toward him. It was probably at least as strong as he felt about himself.

  He rose from the chair and cast a last look at the letter before stepping away. For all he knew, the next occupant of the room would throw it away.

  He finished packing, closed his case, and looked around his small room. It was all but empty now, without years of mess hoarded on and under every surface. Doubtless someone would move in soon, and the manufactory be used for making something else. Train parts perhaps, or scissors. Everyone needed those, didn't they? They were useful. He knew Kaida had several pairs, each with a different purpose he'd never fully grasped. Weaver secrets, he supposed.

  He carried his suitcase out of the door and closed it behind him before stopping in his tracks. The manufactory was a cacophony of noise, with people bustling this way and that. Whatever they were doing, it would no longer involve him. No one so much as gave him a glance. That he'd never seen so many people in here was disconcerting to say the least. Whatever they were doing, it looked to have been planned a while ago. The governor must have been certain he'd accept his new position. He couldn't help but feel slightly annoyed at that. What would they have done if he'd said no?

  Making his way toward the front entrance, Del reminded himself that refusing was probably not an option. They'd have done everything in their power to get what they wanted.

  Stepping out into the sunshine, his eyes were drawn to the Dragonhall. Ignoring such an imposing structure was impossible on a normal day. Today, however, the rooftop looked to be covered with dragons.

  He frowned. He'd heard something about a draakin dying. They must have coerced some poor unfortunate soul into bonding the dragon. Was it Nehko? He knew it wasn't Risper at least. Squinting, he made out the movement of people up on the rooftop. He thought he caught a glimpse of Kaida but saw no sign of that draakin man. Rather, she was standing beside the young woman she'd taken in, unless he was mistaken. He knew nothing about Dashka, but if she had any sense she'd leave the first chance she got.

  He turned away with a shake of his head and walked toward the train station. The sooner he was gone from Tsaisa, the better.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "What is this place?" Daven kept his voice low, speaking almost in Emmin's ear. His legs ached from crouching for so long. He shifted slightly and winced as his limbs protested. She gave him a dark look, as if he'd made too much noise, and turned her attention back down the hill.

  From their vantage point, Daven could tell the building was huge. It might be as large as the Dragonhall itself, if the hall's levels were laid end to end. This side had few windows, but those it had were barred with thick lengths of steel. Nothing was getting into those. Or out.

  In the centre of the building was a set of double doors. From this distance he couldn't make out a keyhole, but he was sure there would be one. No one would bar windows and then not lock the front door.

  The whole structure was made of dark brick; each course laid with precision as if the bricklayers took pride in their work and wanted the building to withstand the rigours of time.

  He must have spoken louder than he'd thought, since it was Bakel who answered from the other side of Emmin.

  "Anje Holding," he said, his voice low but harsh with emotion. His eyes snapped with anger Daven hadn't seen in him before. Of course, he'd guessed at some sort of significance: they'd traveled for weeks to get here. They'd left Hoza on horseback, riding for three days before they'd reached Karmale. From there, they'd caught a train to Kobaz, on the northern border of Alvarios. They're they bought horses and made the long trek into the mountains.

  They'd left the horses tied up under a stand of trees a day ago and made the rest of the journey on foot. While Daven relished the chance to see Mount Aerius, the tallest peak in Dargyn, walking uphill was exhausting and his legs had protested strongly, but he'd pushed on, regardless.

  "Ah, I see," Daven said, not understanding,

  "It's where they keep magin," Bakel supplied, "against their wills."

  "And other dangerous criminals," Emmin added. "If we're caught, we'll end up locked in there too." She shot Daven a look as though she planned to blame him if that happened, regardless of whether or not he got them caught.

  "So we won't get caught," Bakel said, grinning as though the matter was so simple.

  "What are we doing here?" Daven asked. They hadn't come all this way just to hide in the bushes. Of that he was certain. They might be a little unhinged at times, but they weren't foolish.

  "Observing," Emmin said ironically.

  "And then what?" Daven pressed.

  "Really,f she replied, turning her face to smirk at him. "Unless you feel like killing yourself some reasoners." She shrugged. No doubt if he did, she'd support the idea.

  "Not particularly.The idea of killing anyone doesn't appeal to me."

  Bakel chuckled. "Give it time. When you see how things really are, you'll change your mind. Perhaps it's time for a little demonstration." He grinned and started forward down the hill, moving slowly through the bushes without a sound.

  "Oh haze," Daven muttered. "Please tell me you're not . . ." But Emmin had already moved out of her spot and started after her father. "And you are." He sighed. A sensible man would head back out of the mountains, find his horse and get as far away from here as possible. Instead, he inched out of his hiding place and headed down after them.

  He'd barely moved more than a few steps before seeing movement to the west of the building. Ducking back down, he watched a group of three or four reasoners walk around the corner. Between the leaves, he saw them glance around, then move on. Even at a distance he saw their disinterest. They'd probably done the same inspection for months and never seen a thing out of place. He wondered what sane person would come all the way up here? It was likely that only Bakel's group of magin and the reasoners knew the place existed. And anyone locked inside. If the inmates had relatives, they probably thought them dead, executed for their crimes.

  He startled at the sound of a whistle and the reasoners hurried away. Of course, there must be a train line to this place. How else would they get people in and out? He peered around, but wherever the line ended, it wasn't visible from here.

  "That'll keep them busy for a while," Bakel remarked, speaking from the bushes in front of Daven. "Come on." He rose and resumed his slow walk down toward the holding. Daven grimaced but did the same.

  He slid the last couple of steps down the slope and had to windmill his arms to keep his balance. He winced at the noise he made but landing flat on his face would be louder. He caught a glare from Emmin and shrugged. If anyone heard, no one came running.

  The whistle came again, and the sound of shouts from the other side of the holding. The grinding of metal on metal announced the arrival of the train. Hopefully Bakel was right and they had some time before anyone bothered to patrol here again.

  They reached the door and Bakel pushed on it. It didn't budge.

  Now the keyhole was visible, embedded in the right-hand door. Unlock that and they both must swing open.

  "What now?" Daven asked.

  Emmin turned to give him a smile. "Now we unlock it."

  "I can't help noticing this isn't observing," he remarked dryly.

  Emmin snorted and put a hand on the lock. Although he saw nothing, he heard a click and the door swung open. "Magic isn't just for healing, " she said, smiling over her shoulder.

  Bakel g
rinned at him and stepped through the door into the holding, Emmin on his heels.

  Daven sighed and followed them inside.

  Inside the holding was cool and darker. Daven's eyes took several moments to adjust. When they did he half wished they hadn't. The walls were all dull, grey brick, the exact colour of the floor. Doors in the same shade lined either side of the corridor. The temperature here was several degrees lower than outside, adding to his discomfiture.

  He shivered. There was nothing in here but gloom and misery. It permeated into his core in a matter of moments.

  "Don't let it get to you," Bakel said. "This place is built to suck the life out of anyone in here. You'll get used to it."

  "Are you sure?" Emmin asked. For the first time since they'd met, she looked rattled.

  "Of course I'm sure," he said, "have I ever led you astray?"

  Daven choked back a laugh. "Only all the time. How do you know so much about this place anyway?" he asked, giving Bakel a dubious look.

  "I was born here," Bakel replied in a tone which drove the breath from Daven's lungs for a few moments.

  Silence fell between them. Daven had no idea what the man might have seen or been through, but it was clearly traumatic. The jovial look gave way to one as haunted as the healer had ever seen.

  He opened his mouth to ask a question, although one hadn't formed in his mind. Emmin gave him a look and it died before it even came to him.

  His teeth clicked as he closed his mouth and looked down at the floor. One thing became obvious—they weren't here to observe, or for them to show him the truth behind the reasoners. No, they had a mission of some kind here, and whatever it was, they needed him, and were willing to die or be incarcerated for it. A voice in the back of his mind told him it wasn't too late to run, but he held his ground. The day they'd pulled him from the train had had some purpose, and this was it. Everything they'd said to him, or shown him, was leading to this place. Whatever was here, was vital.