by Peter Fane
She said nothing. She could feel Malachi's gaze on the side of her face.
"Consider carefully. My offer will stand as given until dawn. It's not your life alone that you hazard. Think on your friends. Think on your family. Think on your world."
She started to speak, but he raised his hand to stop her.
"I know a hero must shut her eyes, Anna. That she must 'believe,' in order to act, to fight, and to win. But you've already acted, Anna. You've already fought. And you've already won. You've already done everything that you could do. Open your eyes. Our world doesn't need a hero now. It needs a leader. It needs a savior."
He paused, looked at her closely, and cocked his head. "You've called me a traitor. Perhaps that's true. Much depends on point of view. But think on this: What do you call a warrior who lets beloved innocents die for nothing?"
She shook her head. The crow gazed at her, its dark eyes gleaming.
Malachi took up his lantern, made to go, but then abruptly stepped towards her and touched her cheek. His touch was warm, almost tender. He held his hand there for a moment. She didn't flinch at his touch.
He sighed. "I ask you, truly: is there any difference between the death of your father and the death of mine?"
She looked up into his eyes, realizing with dawning horror that she wanted to lean into his hand, to take comfort in the safety and kindness and reason that he offered, to save herself, to save her friends, to save her family—.
Are you mad?
She pulled away, put her head against the wall, and shut her eyes.
"Until tomorrow, then." He paused. "My beautiful, blind dragon."
He stepped away and tapped on the cell door. The lock clanked, the door opened, and he walked out. The door shut behind him.
The crow cocked its head and turned away, hunkering down for the night.
Anna's head throbbed. She felt slightly sick.
"I must be strong," she whispered. "For Dagger. For Mother. For everyone. I must be strong."
But her whole body shook. And it wasn't just from the cold. She took a deep breath and looked at the square of blue moonlight on the cell's floor. But it wasn't a square anymore. It was a weird, crooked trapezoid, bent by the motion of the moon, the crow's shadow hunched in one corner.
61
MORNING CAME FAST, the early light pinking a cloudless sky. The crow still sat at the window, its only movement the slow shift of weight from one foot to the other, an occasional ruffle of feathers.
Anna hadn't slept. At least she didn't remember sleeping.
But she must have. She was stiff, her hands were freezing, and her head ached worse than ever. There was a clammy hollowness in her stomach and chest, as if something vital had been removed, leaving nothing but void.
She missed Dagger. She missed him terribly. If she could just put her hands on him again, feel his smooth power under his warm scales, touch her forehead to his, look into his eyes one more time.
She shook her head. At least she hadn't dreamed. And yet even the most horrific nightmare would've been a kindness compared to what she would face today.
Is that true?
She didn't know. She did know that today would be the last day that she'd see her people alive. That today would be hell itself.
"I must be strong," she said to the crow.
The crow turned, stepping carefully, and stared at her with attentive eyes. It cocked its head, as if asking a question.
Did she have to be strong?
Did she have to be tortured? Did she have to watch her friends and loved ones destroyed in front of a crowd?
She couldn't stop imagining the sounds, the screams, knowing that they died for her plan, for her failure.
But you didn't fail.
She had to keep reminding herself of that.
So why couldn't she banish Lord Malachi's offer from her mind? Why did she want to save them? Was there even a decision to be made?
No.
For the hundredth time.
Because she'd made her choice a long time ago. When she was nine years old. When she'd put her tiny fist on her heart and made a promise to Lord David, to her Father, to her Mother, to House Dradón in front of the High Gate along with all the other dragon squires of her cohort.
That was when she'd chosen.
And that decision is the only one that matters.
"A soldier never betrays her word," she whispered. "A soldier never forgets her promises."
That was truth.
Because if everyone forgot their promises in the face of war and horror and murder, then what remained?
"Nothing," Anna told the crow. "Nothing at all."
The crow cocked its head.
Those words sound fine, she could imagine it saying.
Oh yes, they sound fine.
But they didn't help.
And they won't save their lives.
Her hands shook.
The pit of her stomach clenched with cold knives.
Were "fine words" really worth betraying Moondagger's faith and memory? Were "fine words" really worth the lives of her friends and family? Or was there more there? Was there even a choice to be made? Was there something real, something true behind the words?
The crow stared back at her silently, its black eyes glittering, its head bobbing silently, as if nodding with ancient answers—answers that it would not share.
62
THE DOOR CLANKED.
Anna looked up.
Lord Malachi walked into the cell.
A crowd of murmuring soldiers and courtiers waited behind him in the dungeon's hallway, most of them dressed in the dark green of House Fel.
Lord Malachi himself wore an emerald green tunic under a breastplate of dark riding armor along with dark leather pants and dark riding boots. A short battlesword hung from his hip. A high silver revolver was slung under his left armpit. His gear looked well cared for and well-used.
And that was the point, Anna realized. This was Lord Malachi in costume. It was his "warrior's costume." Indeed, the only mark of office the young lord displayed was a simple signet ring emblazoned with House Fel's crest, the two-headed dragon. "He's a fighter," his costume said. "He's all business. He's a leader worth following." But when she looked closer, Anna saw something else. His eyes were alert but ringed by dark circles. He was exhausted. He was sad. And he was nervous.
"I see neither of us slept well," Malachi said, as if reading her mind. He tried to smile, but it came across as a frown. His eyes were haunted, and for a strange moment, Anna found herself pitying the new lord of the House of Fel.
Outside in the hallway, someone snickered at some jest.
"Quiet," Malachi ordered softly.
All sound ceased.
"Forgive me, Anna." He stepped to her and knelt at the edge of the rock slab. "Have you decided?"
"Yes," Anna said. "I agree with what you said last night."
His face brightened.
She shook her head. "I agree, my Lord, that you and I could have been friends, had the circumstances been different."
"What does that mean?" he asked so that only she could hear him.
She paused, then lifted her chin. "It means that the circumstances are not different. It means we're at war. It means that I must refuse your offer, my Lord. It means that my word is not for sale."
He closed his eyes for a moment, looked at her, and nodded. "I understand. I'm sorry."
She returned his gaze. Her voice was utterly composed. "We've each made our vows, my Lord. The only difference is the people to whom they were sworn. In that, there can be no apologies—especially between soldiers who honor their duty."
"This doesn't feel like duty."
"Sometimes," she heard herself say, "that's what duty feels like."
He cocked his head for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. Then he nodded, turned, and walked out the cell door.
"Take her."
63
HER WRISTS WERE locked beh
ind her back in iron manacles. Those manacles, in turn, were locked to an iron bar that ran to a chain between her ankles. The position and length of the bar forced her back into an unnatural arch, making it hard to breathe and to walk. She could take small, awkward steps, but it was challenging. She was barefoot, and she kept stubbing her toes against the cracks in the stone floor. She tried to keep pace with the soldiers around her, but sometimes they would just pick her up and carry her for a stretch. They were not unkind. A huge sergeant with fresh burns on the left side of his face even stopped the procession to adjust the iron bar at her back so that her posture was a little more natural. When he was done, he lifted a clay cup to her lips.
"Drink," he said soberly. His horrible burns didn't allow his mouth to open fully. It seemed to pain him to speak. "Drink."
Anna didn't hesitate. Cool, clean water.
"My thanks," she said wetly, emptying most of the cup. She couldn't remember ever tasting anything so good.
The sergeant nodded and gently dabbed her chin with the back of his glove. His eyes were pale grey, his left eye totally bloodshot, its corner sealed by freshly scorched flesh. He did not wear the dark green of House Fel, but rather wore the maroon of House Tevéss.
"Let's go," he said. They moved out.
They made their way out of the High Keep's dungeons, up towards the High Square and the High Gate, up stone staircases, through corridors and passages, across bridges, and under colonnades. The men of House Fel were everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. Dark green banners, adorned with Fel's two-headed golden dragon, hung from almost every gate. Soldiers in dark green livery stood at almost every intersection. Green clad riders and their dragons perched on almost every lookout.
House Dradón had fallen. That much was clear. But how badly had they been defeated? What had happened after she'd had flown from the High Square? If word had spread to the loyal minor houses, then they'd come with more than half of Dávanor behind them. Yes, it would be bloody, but these traitors would receive the justice they deserved. But at what cost?
You can still change your mind.
The thought came to her unbidden. She cringed at it.
And there was something else, too. Something strange.Every so often, she would see herself at a distance, as if time skipped moments, as if she looked down at their little procession from some high vantage, as if she was not in her own body. The crowd of Fel soldiers around her, the low mutter of their voices, the click of armor and buckle, the tread of boot on stone—all had taken on a dream-like quality, blurry at the edges, sharper at the middle, her own mind centered and luminous above it all. She could no longer feel the manacles at her wrists or ankles. She could hear her chains, the jingling scrape of iron against pavers was as steady as her steps, but their weight was gone.
And then, quite suddenly, she realized that she didn't resent the men who now led her to torture and death. How could she? They were her enemies. And she was theirs. Yet they were the same. Something had been twisted, somehow. They were alike, but yet they fought. An image from her nightmare, from the strange, silver factory, flashed before her, a cold talon on her heart.
The work must be protected. The promise must be kept.
She stopped walking abruptly and almost fell on her face. The big, burned sergeant caught her just in time, bringing the entire crowd clattering to a halt.
When the sergeant had righted her, she asked in her most commanding voice: "Give me your name, soldier."
"Lodáz," he replied, an automatic response to her order.
Anna started with recognition. The big Tevéss sergeant from the High Gate. She'd thought him dead, killed by Dagger's flames. His left eye could not see, she realized. Destroyed by dragon fire. She regained her composure.
"Thank you for the water, Sergeant Lodáz," she said.
"You are welcome, dragon rider." The big man nodded professionally. There was no malice in his voice. None at all.
"Come," Anna said. "Lord Fel waits."
64
THEY WALKED UP a set of dark steps towards an arch of light.
She could hear the crowd out there, thousands of voices, but hushed in that way you hear before the beginning of a play, the low murmur of a hundred soft conversations. Her procession stepped into the open, and the murmuring stopped, as if cut off by a knife.
She looked up. Squinted against the sunlight. It was blinding but also warm, almost luxurious, against her skin. She closed her eyes and turned her face into its heat, the light red against the inside of her eyelids. She took a deep breath. Felt the crowd watching her. Heard their shuffling silence. Saw herself from far away. A fourteen-year-old girl in torn white silk surrounded by a dozen men in green and black and maroon; a white light at the center of darkness.
And she could save them all.
Gentle pressure against the iron bar at her back. She opened her eyes and the sounds and the scene came in.
From every wall of the High Square dark green banners hung barely moving in the faint morning breeze. Green-clad soldiers were everywhere, on the Square's walls, on the ramparts, on the tower tops. And then there was the crowd. A silent, motley mass of all sorts—men, women, children, merchants, servants, and nobility from House Fel, House Tevéss, and House Dradón—filling the four sides of the High Square, a kaleidoscope of peasants' wool, court finery, and everything in between, packed onto the low, wooden benches used for pageants and celebrations.
On the Square's northern side stood a large contingent of House Tevéss soldiers and nobles, all in dark maroon. Lord Gideon Tevéss stood in front of them, surrounded by his high guard. He was tall, slightly fat, with a reddish face, thinning, grey-blonde hair, and a thick, grey beard. He wore velvet leggings and a velvet doublet of rich burgundy. A dress dagger, pommeled with a maroon stone, swung from his belt on an ornamental chain. Both his ears were clasped in elaborate gold casings. A rich amulet decorated with maroon stones hung from his neck, shining in the sunlight. He looked at her curiously.
Behind Lord Gideon—in the stands, in the surrounding buildings, on every balcony, in every window—people watched, their faces an amalgam of interest, scorn, and sympathy. And above them all, high on the ramparts' tallest peaks, a dozen of House Fel's and House Tevéss's largest dragons waited. Captain Corónd was there on his bronze, its pale green eyes curious and alert. And there was the great Irondusk, looming at the Square's highest point, his rust-colored claws sunk into the wood of a massive perch. His saddle was empty. His black eyes smoldered with unfettered hatred. His growl was a steady rumble of low thunder. He had not forgotten his rider's killer.
The High Gate stood at the center of the High Square. It was a pointed arch, five times the height of a man and crafted of the eternal high silver. Its luminous surfaces reflected arcs of sunlight across walls, faces, banners, and dragons. Five Fel adepts, wearing the dark green robes of their High House, tended the Gate. Four of the adepts were hooded. These knelt at each of the Gate's legs on dark green cushions. Their eyes were shut, their palms flat against the Gate's surface, their lips moving silently with the Gate's sacred descant. Their leader—the head adept, a young woman no older than Anna herself—stood at the Gate's center. Her dark green hood was thrown back from her head, and her arms were crossed protectively across her chest. Her mouth barely moved as she whispered the mystical counterpoint to her sisters' ancient song.
It was truly over, Anna realized. With the High Gate controlled by House Fel, they were truly alone. No one could save them.
Lord Malachi stood in front of the High Gate. He looked at her, but his eyes were strangely blank. Behind him and to his left, on their knees, Master Khondus, Master Zar, Master Borónd, Mother, Penelope, Wendi, and a couple dozen wounded House Dradón riders and soldiers waited in two ragged blue lines, their arms chained behind their backs.
When Anna entered, many of the Dradón soldiers looked up to her, their faces shining with hope and dread. They knew she could save them.
Master Khondu
s didn't look up. And he could not, Anna saw. They'd cut the iron head off the stable hammer and had hung it around his neck, the weight pulling his head towards the flagstones. His long, grey hair had been shaved to the nub, his scalp lacerated and bloody. His right eye was swollen shut, his nose broken. A fresh line of blood ran from one of his ears. Blood pooled on the flagstones in front of him. His good eye stared glassily at the ground, watering and unseeing. He nodded like a dotard, a spider thread of red spittle running from broken lips.
Master Zar knelt at Master Khondus's right. His stout Anorian frame leaned against that of his friend, barely able to stay upright. Both his eyes were black, swollen shut. His lavender skin had gone pale and sickly. A dirty bandage was wrapped loosely around his forehead. The front of the bandage was stained deep red. Anna cringed. A weird, torn patch of purplish skin had been pinned to Master Zar's chest—its shriveled surface marked with a white Dallanar Sun.
Beside Zar, Master Borónd looked at the ground, his destroyed hands held before him, his head bowed. Mother knelt beside him. She was unharmed, thank the Sisters. She stared directly at Anna, chin up.
"Honor," she mouthed to Anna. Her eyes flashed fearlessly.
Anna gave her an almost imperceptible nod.
Little Wendi leaned against Mother's side, dazed, her tiny right hand wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. Penelope knelt next to her, head up, one of her eyes blackened, her nose broken, her eyes on Anna, absolutely defiant.
Malachi wasted no time getting started. When he spoke, his voice was resonant and commanding, his words echoing from the Square's ancient walls with the irresistible force of a High Lord of Remain.
"We gather this glorious morning," he began, "to celebrate our victory, to mourn our dead, and to dispense our high justice."