“Of course, sir.”
“Clear out everyone and everything from the receiving site and leave it spotless. We no longer have anything to receive, and Gella will likely learn of its location from those captured.”
“I’ll take care of it immediately.”
“That is all for now.”
He watched Cadoc bow and leave the room, then he turned back to the map.
It was slipping through his fingers again. A hollowness in his stomach was oddly accompanied by nausea. He swallowed and grimaced.
He’d worked so hard, but like all those years ago, it might once again turn out for naught. Why? Why was it so difficult?
“I will be safe!” The quiet words hissed through his teeth.
He wiped the sweat from above his lip and relaxed his jaws. After taking a deep breath, he let it out.
Curse those dragons!
His other efforts should have kept their damn guild occupied, but that had obviously not been the case. He’d chosen the wrong people to support, apparently. At any rate, how had assistance arrived at the train so quickly? Was someone in his organization leaking information? Had Gella and her people known of the attack beforehand? Or was it the dragons? Just how fast could those damned things fly? They certainly commanded the high ground, as it were.
Hmm. He stared at the map. Perhaps that could be used.
+ + + + +
Lonato once again ran his hand over his head. The hair, stiff from being so short, felt weird but good as it moved under his palm.
Some former pesani continued to shave their heads every day, but not him. That practice had ended last week. He wanted long hair, long enough to fall across his shoulders and back. His mother had beautiful, flowing hair.
He smiled. With his hair longer, he’d feel closer to being complete. Heart lighter at that prospect, he continued down one of the many stone-floored hallways in Bataan-Mok.
For as long as he could remember, he’d felt . . . off. It wasn’t until he was nine, during his second year in the Order, that he fully understood why he felt wrong. He’d been born a boy, but deep inside, that’s not who he was. As a pesan, there was only so much that could be done about the realization. With the arrival of the Dragon Craft Guild, however, that had changed, somewhat.
Before going into the Order, his father had insisted on short hair, and as a pesan, a shaved head was required. Now that it was possible, growing long hair would be one way to take control and feel better. Not all girls or women had long hair, truth be told, and many men and boys wore it long, too. Even so, while there were things that could not be changed, this was something that could.
Unfortunately, he still wouldn’t physically be female.
He glanced down at his trousers, toward one of the things that could not be changed. Perhaps one day a spell or some such would be devised by someone, but for now, the only changes he could make were what many might call superficial.
Lonato’s gaze returned to the hallway ahead. They didn’t seem superficial to him.
Soon enough, he arrived back at Cirtis’s quarters. The Dragon Craft Guild’s purchase of the Order had allowed for many changes, but some things remained the same. He still assisted Cirtis with day-to-day tasks and still had a small space within the former Capu’s rooms.
After walking in, he glanced right, down the short hallway that led to his room. It wasn’t much, but it was a place to live.
“Lonato?” Cirtis’s voice came from further in.
“Sir?”
“Could you come here, please?”
“Of course.” He walked in the seating room and stopped in surprise. “Umeron Yiska?” His voice broke.
“Just Yiska, now, child.” The smiling former umeron sat across the low table from Cirtis.
“Oh. Yes. My apologies.”
“Please,” Cirtis said, gesturing, “have a seat. Yiska and I need your assistance.”
Lonato sat on the indicated pillow. “Of course. What can I do to help?”
“I don’t know if you’ve ever met a former colleague of mine,” Yiska said. “Her name is Fala.”
Lonato shook his head. “I have not.”
“Good. She’s leading a sort of campaign against the guild.”
“What? Why would she do that?”
“We’re not certain,” Cirtis said.
“It may be that’s she’s merely continuing my mistaken fight against change,” Yiska said, “but I suspect one reason might be that she feels I betrayed her.”
Lonato blinked. “Betrayed her?”
Yiska sighed. “Before the dissolution, she and I together fought tooth and nail against the changes that were sweeping the Order. We even fought against the Dragon Craft Guild.”
Lonato glanced at Cirtis then dropped his gaze to the table. “Cirtis told me about that fight in the plaza.”
“Yes. Well, that fight, the end of it, opened my eyes. Anaya spoke to me.”
Surprised by the wonder in Yiska’s voice, Lonato looked up at him.
The beatific smile on his face faded. “Unfortunately, Fala’s eyes appear to remain closed. Worse still, she likely feels I betrayed her when I switched sides, so to speak.”
“Perhaps if you spoke with her? Explained what inspired you to change your mind?”
“Unfortunately,” Cirtis said, “we can’t find her. We now know for certain that she works to fight against the dragon guild from somewhere in or about Bataan-Mok, but even the Lam—ah, that is, even the Observers have not been able to locate her.”
Lonato fidgeted on the pillow. “If even they cannot find her, how will I be able to help?”
“She and I used to work very closely with the Observers,” Yiska said. “We both knew most of them, so she knows where and who to keep clear of. She also knows me and Cirtis, and probably knows Polandra and Renata, too. You, on the other hand, she and her people likely do not know. Pesani were almost invisible in their ever-presence. Unlike the rest of us, you can move through Bataan-Mok and the villages and make your own inquiries, keeping your ears open for conversations, and doing your own observing.”
“Also,” Cirtis said, “I’ve been in contact with Isandath instead of going directly to the Observers, but that’s something I’d like you to do from now on instead. I don’t want Fala to learn of his assistance or the group he works with, but if I keep meeting with him, she or her people may spot us. Being a kind of go-between will be another of your tasks.”
“So.” Yiska leaned forward. “Can we count on your help?”
Lonato nodded. “Of course. I like the guild and what it’s doing. I don’t want anyone to take that away from me.”
Chapter 7
Sulday, Quartus 18, 1875.
Morning.
Are you watching?
Yes, love, I am. Hand shielding her eyes from the low morning sun, Korrie smiled as she watched Nelli. The little turquoise dragon flew a few dozen yards, then spun upside down, gliding with her back to the ground. Her giggles, though not heard, could definitely be felt through the link. The little minx was trying to lift Korrie’s spirits.
“There wasn’t much we could have done, anyway.”
Korrie glanced at Terry. He watched Tenoch, who was taking his flying practice with Nelli, Citlali, and Xoc. Frowning, she said, “I know. I just feel . . . useless, perhaps? I wish there had been something we could have done to help with the train robbery.”
Terry moved to the railing next to her and leaned on it. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
He chuckled. “There were enough there to help without us. And what could our little bundles of cute have done, anyway? They’re too little to help, and they for sure couldn’t have carried us. Besides, even without our help, everything went well for those who did go. Well, mostly.”
Korrie nodded. There was a rumor going around that Aeron had gotten an earful from the Guildmaster because of something he and Anaya had done at the train. He’d looked pretty chastise
d when they’d all returned.
She glanced up at Nelli again. “Still, I wish there was something we could do.”
“Well, there is something.” Sharrah watched them from the table in front of Korrie’s large bedroom window. She never joined them at the rail, said she didn’t like how high up the ledge was. “Have you started working out ideas for your part of the dragon show?”
Korrie stared at her. “I forgot about that.”
I want to dance!
A laugh escaped her lips. “Nelli definitely wants to ‘dance.’”
“Nelli wants to dance?” Cheddar walked out of the bedroom.
The four of them always met at her rooms for their dragons’ flying practices. The ledge suites made it easier to keep an eye on the rambunctious, winged scamps.
“In a manner of speaking.” Sharrah smiled at him as he walked over. “It’s more of a performance.”
“Oh? Where?” Cheddar sat next to Sharrah.
“The four of us,” Korrie said, “well, our dragons, are going to be in the dragon show, too.”
Cheddar blinked. “They are?”
“They’re going to do synchronized flying.” Terry smiled.
“Hmm.” Cheddar’s brows drew together. “Aerial tricks, flying in formation, and such?”
Sharrah nodded. “Exactly.”
“Golden!” His eyes went flat a moment. “Xoc loves the idea, too.” He looked up at the four young dragons. “Time grows short, though, so what they’ll be doing needs to be worked out soon so they can practice.”
Korrie felt a little upset at herself. Her forgetting about it had lost them time. “We should start now,” she said. “There’s some time before breakfast.”
“Do you have any spare notebooks?” Sharrah looked at Korrie.
She nodded. “Sure, on my desk.”
“I’ll go grab one.” Sharrah hurried off.
Korrie and Terry joined Cheddar at the table.
“One of the things we should consider,” Terry said, “is where the show will be and the time of day.”
Cheddar chuckled. “I like how you think. The location of the audience in relation to the Caer’s walls and the sun, too, yes?”
Terry smiled. “Exactly!”
“Having them appear suddenly from either of those places could be very dramatic.” Korrie looked at him and nodded. “That’s a fantastic idea.”
Terry blushed. “I figure that because we won’t be riding them, anything we can do to make it more exciting is best.”
Korrie smiled. “True enough.”
Sharrah returned with the notebook. “Alright,” she said, sitting down. “We should probably take into account where the audience will be, so I think I’ll sketch out the sports field and surrounds first.”
Terry and Cheddar looked at each other and laughed.
Sharrah looked at them. “What?”
Cheddar scooted his chair closer and said, “Oh, nothing. Great minds think alike, is all.”
She shot him a dubious look and opened the notebook.
Korrie smiled and glanced back up at Nelli and the other young dragons. What tricks could they do?
+ + + + +
Still abed, Chanté stared at the granite ceiling. Something was wrong with him. Ever since the attempted robbery, he’d felt tight, constricted. The events at the train had been entirely too chaotic, filled with emotion and physical reaction and just . . . too damn much.
Arrows and enormous bolts had flown through the air. Dragons had swooped past overhead and shouts and screams had come from everywhere. Fear had filled him at times, as had worry, anxiety, and the feeling of being completely . . . lost.
People had died, and one less than a stone’s throw in front of him. He could still see the guard’s face, could see the—
There was nothing you could have done.
He clenched his jaws. As Ulthis, I could have saved him.
You are Chanté, and you could not have saved him. His heart was destroyed by the bolt. No human or dragon could have saved him.
He looked down at his hands—human hands—and clenched them into fists. I know you’re right, but I still . . . hurt, for some reason.
You feel loss and guilt. The former is understandable, but you have no reason to feel guilty.
Guilt? Chanté drew his brows together. Perhaps the guilt was because he didn’t think of a spell that could have helped the guard. Clearly, much of his knowledge of magic remained as evidenced by the shield he’d placed on Anaya and Aeron. So why couldn’t he have remembered a spell or thought of a way to modify an existing one to save the guard?
Thinking about that reminded him of another concern he had. In creating the shield spell, had he broken his father’s rule? He’d not been immediately ripped away and forced to begin again somewhere new, so perhaps the enchantment wasn’t too advanced. But mayhap it was because no one had yet learned the spell. He vaguely recalled the Guildmaster requesting that Aeron scribe it, however, so they would know it soon enough. Will that be when he’s whisked away?
His chest felt even tighter.
“Aargh!” He slammed his fists down on the bed.
Not being in control was beyond frustrating! His father’s rules were vague and unfair. And all these damned emotions! Fear, worry, helplessness . . . and guilt. Being made human was possibly the worst thing to ever happen to him.
He lifted his hands, no longer in fists, and stared at them again. Why did that damned guard have to die? And why did he feel so bad about it?
There was a knock at the door.
He closed his eyes. Is it someone I know? I’m not sure I want to speak with anyone right now.
It is Quillan.
Chanté leapt out of bed and ran for the door.
Quillan was smiling. “Hi! Let’s grab a shower before . . .” His smile faded. “Hey. Are you alright?”
Chanté suddenly felt even less in control of his emotions. “I . . . don’t think so.”
“The battle at the train.”
Chanté nodded.
“Let me make some coffee and we can talk about it.”
“Okay.” He turned and headed back to the bedroom.
The door closed quietly and sounds came from the small food preparation area.
He sat on the side of the bed. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened out there.”
“I–I’m sorry that I didn’t go with you.”
Chanté wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the floor, but suddenly, Quillan was in front of him.
“Here.” Quillan held out a mug.
Reaching up to take it, Chanté said, “It was complete chaos. At least it felt that way to me. Guildmaster Millinith and the others, though, they all seemed to know what they were doing. I just did what she told me, too overwhelmed to do anything else. So much was happening and I couldn’t seem to keep track of it all.”
Quillan sat next to him on the bed. “I heard that you also helped Aeron and Anaya with some kind of spell?”
“Oh. Yes. A modified barrier to protect against arrows and such.”
“When everyone came back to the courtyard out front, I thought I’d meet up with you but you weren’t with them.”
Chanté shook his head. “After returning those people to Stronghold, Nantli and I came right back here. I was so . . .” He frowned, unsure how to describe the strange feeling of hollowness he’d felt since the attack. “. . . exhausted, I suppose, that I just lay on the bed. I didn’t even go to dinner.”
Quillan mumbled, “I knew I should have come to see you after I ate.”
“I don’t know that I would have been able to even talk with you.” Chanté took a sip of coffee. “I was in a kind of stupor from everything that had happened. Thankfully, when the questioning of the prisoners began, most of the other dragons helped with that. Nantli was too distracted by my mental state to have helped. I couldn’t even think well enough to explain that spell to Guildmaster Millinith.”
A great
deal happened, none of which was your fault.
I know, lovely. I know.
“I heard the injuries from the exploding tree were pretty gruesome,” Quillan said. “Of those who lived, all will bear scars and some will be maimed from needed amputations or from nerve damage.” He lifted his hand up and flexed it. “I don’t know what I would do, if—” He shook his head. “I heard several people died, too.”
“Yes.” Chanté looked down at the warm mug. “A few of the attackers did die, and there were two from our side. A scout, I think, and a guard. I saw the guard.”
His next words came out almost as quiet as a whisper. “I saw him die.”
“I’m sorry.”
He drew his brows together. “I–I’d seen people who’d been killed in battle, people who’d been murdered out on the road or on a city’s streets. But all from afar, in a kind of detached manner. I’d never witnessed someone actually dying up close, like that guard.
“I saw when all that he was . . .” He looked up to Quillan, who was almost too blurry to see. “. . . went away. He was there, talking to that girl, and then he was gone—dead eyes and dying flesh encased in armor.” Something fell from his eye and ran down his cheek. “And I could do nothing.”
“Hey.” Quillan grabbed his shoulder. “From what I heard he’d been shot with a kind of ballista. That’s a siege weapon. No one could have done anything.”
That is what I told him. Nantli lay in the passage to the den, staring at them.
“She’s right,” Quillan said. “Listen to your bond-mate.”
Chanté felt the love through the link, and nodded. He sniffled, his nose was stopped up for some reason, and wiped at something tickling his cheek. He stared at his fingers. Why were they wet? “My face is . . . leaking?”
“You need not be ashamed of crying,” Quillan said.
Chanté raised his brows. These were tears.
“Anyone would be upset at seeing someone die. It just proves you’re human.” Quillan put an arm around him and squeezed a little.
Chanté stared at his damp fingers.
He’d been trying not to think about it, shoving thoughts of it aside in his desire to gain some measure of control over his circumstances, and also, perhaps, to bury the fear. For he was afraid. Not only was he human, he would be one for years and years to come. Yes, he had Nantli. She wasn’t human, however, and had never even met one before him. He’d not been entirely confident of her insights. But there was Quillan. Mayhap being human wouldn’t be too terrible if he were around.
Of Gods, Trees, and a Sapling: Dragonlinked Chronicles Volume 4 Page 24