by S. J. Ryan
“Galatea, you still offering rides?”
He felt the rush of a wind behind him. The dragon flared upon the hilltop and stared expectantly at the human, tilting its head in doglike fashion.
Galatea's disembodied voice spoke: “Where would like to go, Matt Four?”
He pointed at Carrot. “Somewhere near the girl.”
“Would you prefer to ride saddle or in the pouch?”
His arms were tired from climbing ladders and he couldn't see himself securely holding onto the dragon's reins. “Uh, let's try the pouch.”
Despite his partition, he was ready to vomit by the time the dragon spilled him onto the field. His stomach settled as he stood and gained his bearings. The Romans seemed a lot closer to Carrot than they had seemed from the hill. He unslung his rifle from the dragon's neck and hurried over to the girl, whose hair seemed on fire in the afternoon sun. She motioned her bodyguards to admit him to approach.
“What's – the – plan?” he asked between breaths.
“We're going to negotiate a truce,” she replied. In a lower voice, so her men could not hear: “I saw Matt. He says that you saved him. Thank you.”
“A little question. Have you seen a woman by the name of Athena?”
“We have her as prisoner.”
“Well, that takes a load off my mind.”
Now all he had to worry about, he thought, was the thousands of soldiers in front of him clashing with the thousands of soldiers behind him. His gun didn't have bullets for them all, the dragon couldn't rescue him once arrows started flying, and he was too old to run.
“So how long are we going to wait?”
“You may leave if you wish. This is not your fight.”
“Young lady, Britan was my fight long before anyone else here was born.”
She smiled. They waited. A voice spoke inside his head: “Wizard, this is Ada. Do you hear me?”
“Go ahead, Ada.”
“Prin reports that a squad of Roman soldiers is advancing toward you.”
“Thank you.” He answered the girl's questioning stare: “Aerial intel report. Get ready for action.”
The Roman line parted at the road. The squad emerged, led by an officer on horseback wearing plumed helmet and cape over spotlessly gleaming armor. He was followed by a soldier bearing a white flag. The Roman party stopped before Carrot's party and the senior officer looked down from his mount with distaste, if not disdain.
“I am to speak to your leader,” he said.
Carrot bobbed her head. “I am the leader.”
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“She is our Queen,” said a tall, older man standing next to Carrot. “You will address her with respect!”
The officer scowled. “Barbarians! Allowing a woman to rule, and a girl at that! All right, I'll play along. I bring word from General Bivera, Vicar Commander of the Combined Roman Forces in Britan. He states that he is willing to accept the surrender of your army.”
The Britanians accompanying Carrot laughed. She smiled slightly.
“You will inform General Bivera,” she said calmly, “that we will not negotiate with his agent, but only to him personally, and not about our surrender but rather his peaceful withdrawal from our homeland under truce and treaty.”
The officer laughed mirthlessly. “Are you a fool? Surrender! You are vastly outnumbered!”
“It is true that we are outnumbered, if you count only those of us that you can see.”
The officer's expression went blank as his eyes darted to the forests north and south.
Carrot jabbed the spear onto the pavement and placed her foot near. “When the shadow touches my boot, I will order my men to set your camp on fire and destroy all your supplies. That is, unless General Bivera is here before that to speak with me. And if you attack, we will not wait for the shadow.”
The officer glared. “You think you can intimidate Romans!”
“I don't intend to intimidate Romans. I intend to starve and dehydrate them. Now, I have been to Rome, yet I did not see a statue of a general who allowed his legions to die of hunger and thirst. Perhaps General Bivera will be the first to be given that 'honor' to the 'glory' of Rome.”
She's got the queen-talk, Matt Four thought.
The officer glared some more. Carrot continued to gaze serenely back. Finally the officer looked away.
“I will relay your request to speak to General Bivera.”
As he rode off, the tall man next to her said softly, “Arcadia, I have something for you.”
In his hands was an object wrapped in white cloth. Carefully, he unwrapped. The object within was a laurel-leaf crown of intertwining silver snakes with ruby eyes.
“Father! Where did you get that!”
“Ral obtained it – too late to ask how. He wanted you to wear it, as symbol of your queenship.”
“How many times must I tell you? I am not really a queen!”
“Arcadia, look about you. Whether you want to be or not, the decision is no longer yours.”
She looked at her father. She looked at the other men in the truce party, and then she looked the length of the line of Britanians awaiting her orders. Lastly, she looked at Matt Four.
“Wizard, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About whether Britan should have a queen. Shouldn't it be a democracy, like you have with your Solar Council?”
“Arcadia!” her father said. “The Roman general will be here in a moment, and you need to speak for all Britan, and we don't have time for elections!”
Matt Four scratched his chin. “Maybe there's a compromise. When I was here in Britan long ago, I helped set up a system of government where the villages send representatives to an assembly each year, and they vote for an executive officer. Technically, he's president of the assembly, but for the sake of convenience they call him a king.”
Her eyes lit wide. “I know the place! Henogal!”
“Yeah, that's the place. Well, having a person with the title of monarch seemed to work for them.”
“But you haven't answered my question. What do you recommend we do now?”
“Well, you need to present a united front to your enemy, or the only government you'll be allowed is their occupation government. So how about you call yourself a queen and act as provisional executive for now, and validate the legitimacy of your rule by holding elections as soon as possible.”
She nodded submissively, and her father placed the crown on her head.
That, however, was only the beginning. Her father shook his head at her blood-stained dress, and called upon the men to donate gold jewelry and a multi-colored patterned blanket that if not regal, at least covered her grime.
“Wizard,” the tall man said. “Anything you would suggest as to her appearance?”
“I've been told posture is important.”
The girl straightened. As she did so, the crown slipped and plopped onto the ground directly before her feet.
“Well,” she said. “That is portentous.”
“Let's do it officially this time,” Matt Four said. The crown had landed by his foot; he stooped and picked it up and held it over her head. “With the powers vested in me as Wizard, I crown thee Queen . . . are we going with 'Carrot?'”
She glanced at her father. “I suppose we should go with 'Arcadia.'”
“So be it. I crown thee Queen Arcadia of the United Tribes and Sovereign Realm of Britan.”
He lowered the crown onto her head. The men in her bodyguard clapped and gave assent. The rest of the Britanian army, behind her back and out of earshot, was absorbed in watching the Roman line and did not react to the battlefield coronation. Matt Four hoped that wasn't portentous.
Ada issued another aerial report. The Roman line parted again. The officer who rode toward them wore armor just as dirty and bloody as the girls' dress had been, and he lacked both cape and helmet.
Matt Four asked, “So is that him? The commander
?”
“I have no idea if that is General Bivera,” the girl replied. “I have never seen him. And we don't have internet on this planet, so it's not like we can do an image search.”
Matt Four raised an eyebrow.
The officer halted his horse and dismounted. He nodded to his men to stay, and he approached the Britanians alone on foot. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't sneering either.
“I am Bivera, general and acting field commander,” he said. “I understand that you are the queen of these people.”
The girl bowed. “I am.”
With the tilt of her head, the crown slipped off again. This time, she caught it and stuck it on firmly herself.
20.
Bok awoke, once again with a start. The last he remembered, he had been flying the glider. It was spinning out of control, tumbling, crashing, and then there was pain, and the Lady Carrot was speaking to him and he apologized, and then . . . blackness.
He opened his eyes and stared into a blue sky fleeced with clouds. Am I dead?
It seemed the logical progression of events. The drawing that Archimedes had left in his notebook, the operating of hoses and valves, the inflating balloon cell, the somber expression on Mirian's face – and then every pulse pounding moment as the glider rose through the open roof of the hangar up to its fateful meeting with the airboat and the firing of the rocket and then – and then the crash and the Lady Carrot.
Then, here. He was flat on his back and covered with blankets and there were wooden boards at his side. He didn't feel pain, or at least not that much compared to some of his other crashes. He did feel hungry, though. That argued against an afterlife.
He sat up and saw that he was in the back of a horse-drawn wagon. There were tents all around the wagon and he first thought that he was on the field at Ravencall. But these tents were bigger than those of the Britanians, uniform in size and shape, and arranged in a grid pattern that spoke of rigid discipline.
There were, however, no people.
Tossing off the blankets, he gingerly eased off the wagon. As his legs gained strength, he wandered among the tents, and gradually suspicious details accumulated in his visual survey: spare short swords and javelins and metal pieces of armor, poles sticking out of the ground in front of the tents with flags bearing the same repeated eagle pattern.
Contemplating the eagle, he arrived at a conclusion he didn't like.
How did I get here? Perhaps he had been taken prisoner. But if so, then why had he been abandoned, unguarded? (A minor question: why did everything smell faintly of rum?)
Perhaps, he thought, while unconscious he had been taken prisoner and brought to the Roman camp, and just then the Leaf had attacked and the Romans had retreated, leaving their camp and him in the tumult. If so, then there was a battle ongoing somewhere, and he was missing it.
Bok felt it his duty to find it and join, but he also felt strangely reluctant. The battle he had fought in the air had frightened him of the possibility of death, more than all of his crash landings put together. For the first time since the death of his parents, he harbored a selfish thought: he didn't want to die. At least, not today. Let someone else fight the Romans today.
He heard voices. He trotted back to the wagon. The voices were coming from inside the adjacent tent. He identified a man and a woman speaking, and he recognized who they were: the Wizard and Senti. But then a third voice spoke, and it troubled him because it also sounded like the Wizard, only deeper, slower, and more measured.
“Kid,” the older voice said. “I don't think there's anything we can do here anymore.”
“You don't understand!” the Wizard said, his voice quivering.
“I understand that he meant a lot to you.”
“He was like a father to me!”
“I know where you're coming from, but – we've been at it for over an hour. He's not coming back.”
“Don't take your hands off! We've got to keep trying!”
“No, kid. Ivan is telling you what I'm telling you. He's gone, kid. I'm sorry.”
Standing outside the tent, Bok could not make anything of the conversation, save from the tone of anguish in the Wizard's voice. With trepidation, Bok stepped inside.
Senti, the Wizard, and an older bearded man were gathered around one end of a cot. Bok instantly knew that the older man was the Wizard's long-discussed brother, but that fact held no interest for him at that moment. On the cot, beneath a blanket, lay a tall, lean form. Because of the intervening bodies, Bok could not see the face. He could, though, see a hand that rested atop the blanket – an ancient hand, wrinkled and spotted, one that he had often watched drawing figures on paper and in dirt.
Senti heard Bok gasp and shepherded him outside. “Bok, you shouldn't see this.”
“He's dead, isn't he?”
Senti looked down. “Yes, Bok. Even the Wizards can't bring him back.”
Bok burst into tears. “What did the Romans do to him?”
“Nothing. He was very old and frail. He was going to die soon.”
Weeping bitterly, Bok turned and ran. He stopped after a few steps when he realized he had nowhere to go. He felt Senti's arm on his shoulder and wiped his tears.
“Archimedes didn't suffer, Bok. There are no signs of torture, and that comes from the word of the Wizard. He died last night, Matt says, in his sleep. I'm sorry, Bok. I know you cared about him.”
“Just . . . leave me alone.” He pulled free of her hands.
“Bok. Please understand. Death is part of the cycle of life. As a healer, I've had to accept death, but life goes on and that is what makes living worthwhile. Archimedes would want you to live.”
Bok muttered, “Where is the army? I should help them to fight.”
“The fighting is over, Bok. Carrot is negotiating for the Romans to leave Britan. Stay here, please.”
Without responding, he wandered away aimlessly and gazed across the field. Beyond the rows of tents, far in the west, a throng of men crowded on the field outside the encampment, spears waving randomly. No one was fighting.
He stopped crying and tried to think of the future. He could live with Senti. Would she let him fly, though? Probably not. Would she train him as an assistant? She already had several. If he wasn't careful, she would have him attached to some farmer's family, spending his days tending a field. He supposed there were worse fates. Yet after sailing the sea and soaring the sky, a life tied to a patch of ground seemed confining.
His thoughts drifted back to Archimedes. He wondered what they would do with the body. Bury or burn it, he supposed. Either way, he might have to hurry if he wanted to pay respects.
He headed back to the tent. It was vacant and the body was gone. He went outside and realized that the wagon was missing too. The freshly-pressed tracks in the grass were plain, however. They curved east onto the Oksiden Road. He would have to catch up. But how could he catch a wagon?
The answer came immediately – indeed, it had been going on all along while he had been preoccupied by other thoughts. Somewhere among the tents a horse was neighing.
He came to the corral. There were only a handful of horses. They were lean and swift and looked like they were intended as couriers. One mount, a mare, was already saddled. He clucked at her and stroked the bridge of her head and she bobbed in reaction. Confident that she would not throw him, he unhitched her, cast off the mail pouches, climbed onto the saddle, and trotted after the wagon tracks.
Perhaps he was gaining confidence as a rider, or perhaps it was because she was professionally trained; her ride was smooth and she kept a good pace. There was no other traffic as he trotted east along the Oksiden Road. Soon he spotted the wagon well ahead. It veered north off the road and headed toward a pond.
When Bok arrived at the pond, he gaped at the perfectly round, looming ball resting among the reeds. During his stay at Ravencall, he had listened to every fireside tale being told, and was certain that this was the craft that the Wizard had ridden from
the sky. Any other time, Bok would have loved to investigate.
The wagon was hitched nearby. Bok followed the trail into the woods. He almost walked past the steps leading down into the underground chamber. As he set onto the first step, the Wizard blocked the entrance.
“Bok,” the Wizard said. “You really shouldn't see this.”
“I know he's dead, I know what dead people look like and they don't scare me. I just want to see him one last time. Please!”
The Wizard was taken aback. Before he could reply, the Elder Wizard called from inside. “Let him come. Maybe this will give him hope. Isn't that what this is supposed to be about?”
The Wizard bowed. Bok descended the dew-slicked steps one at a time. The interior of the underground chamber was dark, but then the Elder Wizard said, “Lumos,” and chamber filled with soft light. There was no definite source for the illumination, it was as if the entire ceiling glowed.
The walls were stone. The only 'furnishing' was a bare stone pedestal. Bok knew instinctively that a Box had once rested upon it. Before it, as if in sacrifice, lay a blanket-covered stretcher. The blanket followed the contours of the slender adult body.
“Senti told me a little about you, Bok,” the Elder Wizard said. “She said that you shot down Athena's airboat all by yourself. I saw the wreckage. That was pretty brave.”
Bok bobbed his head.
“We were in the middle of your healing when we got called to the Roman camp to take care of Archimedes. That's why we had to bring you along. How are you feeling now?”
“I'm fine.” His eyes were fixed on the stretcher.
“Then let's do this.” Facing the wall to Bok's right, the Elder Wizard uttered, “Say yoho.”
A segment of the wall pivoted open on its own, like a door. The second chamber gleamed as brightly as the first. The Wizards carried the stretcher over the threshold Mesmerized, Bok shuffled after.