Darnuir contemplated the sword being freely handed to him. The Guardian’s Blade was as beautiful as his own weapon, the otherworldly metal of the Blade flowing like molten gold, the white opals bright as stars.
Had this been his secret fear all along? Had he sought to reinvigorate Blaine not out of loyalty or an attempt at familial bonds, but from fear that this might happen. And a fear that he could never hope to be a normal dragon again; never mind a normal man.
Darnuir reached his free hand towards it, hesitating just above the hilt.
“Do you, Darnuir, accept the mantle of Guardian? There are many duties I could list but only one that matters. Will you take the Guardian’s Blade and rid this world of the Shadow?”
“I shall.”
Behind Blaine, Chelos made a shuddering sigh and sat down, clutching at his heart. Darnuir shared his shock. He couldn’t tell how fast his own heart was beating, and could barely manoeuvre his numb fingers onto the Guardian’s Blade. But he did. His free hand grasped the hilt and he squeezed to be sure it was really there; feeling how perfect it was in his hand, as though it had been made for him. A second doorway appeared in his mind, already open.
Power thundered into him.
Lira – The Lower City
Watching the spearmen break was grim. The reds waded into the humans, chopping and cleaving at will. Lira faced away, unable to witness the butchery. It would come for them all soon enough, she supposed.
She redoubled her efforts to hold down the flanks of Raymond’s company as they began their rotating fire. With her shield raised, she took blow after blow, fearing her arm would snap under the strain. Each chance she got, she stabbed downwards, looking for the softer feet between the joins of their spiked armour.
One grabbed her shield and hauled her with it, sending her spinning in the air. Her back hit a wall with nowhere else to go.
Three reds lay between her and the rest of the Guard.
A treacherous, exhausted part of her didn’t want to resist the inevitable.
Then she saw Raymond breaking out of the formation, running her way.
“What are you doing?” he cried. “We must save her.”
A red dragon turned and swatted him, knocking him to the ground with a clang.
“No!” cried Lira, emptying her lungs, all thought of giving up now gone.
She kicked off the wall, leaping for the creature over Raymond and cut into its softer back. Pivoting, she faced the second; blocked, blocked, and then struck so madly it was beyond thought. After enough beatings, she snapped the red dragon’s shard of a sword near the hilt and it didn’t raise its armoured arms in time to save itself. The third, however, would get her. That she just understood.
A pistol fired and the last red stumbled, its leg gone. Lira staggered up and ran her sword through its roaring mouth.
She didn’t bother to watch it fall, but ran to Raymond. He’d managed to roll over, a smoking pistol shaking in his hand. As Lira pulled him to his feet, she suddenly felt overwhelmed with anger.
“You idiot.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Why? Why must you always act the bloody hero?”
“Because I came back for you,” he said, almost exasperated. She met his eye and her fury snapped into delirious relief. She yanked his head to her own and kissed him.
Now her heart really did feel like it would explode. His hand found her hair, he kissed her back, and for a blissful moment the whole world stopped.
Then she remembered they were in the middle of a war.
They pulled apart, but she resisted looking on the horror of the battle for a moment, trying to savour the last good thing she was likely to know. When she did, there was fresh yelling from their troops.
“The King,” they cried. “It must be the King.”
About time, Lira thought, looking everywhere for Darnuir. But she couldn’t see him.
“Look up,” Raymond said, pointing wildly.
Lira did, unsure of what to expect. But there he was. Darnuir was soaring overhead from what must have been the most intensely powered Cascade jump she’d ever seen him make. He’d most certainly break from this much magic. Yet something was different. At this distance it was hard to say, but that needle of fire must have been the Dragon’s Blade, and the luminous strip of light, well that must be—
No, she thought. It cannot be.
He soared past and she lost sight of him, then something hit the bulk of the red horde with more force than a dozen cannonballs. Red dragons parted, dead or fleeing before two radiant pillars of swirling fire and golden light.
Chapter 32
AFTER THE STORM
“How does it feel to wield that much power? We’ll never know.”
— Author Unknown
Darnuir – The Plaza
DARNUIR WALKED UNDER the purple pre-dawn clouds. He’d driven the red dragons off, sending them in a furious retreat north to their Master. One final confrontation remained.
His Blades were sheathed; the Dragon’s Blade at his waist, and the Guardian’s upon his back like a quiver. With each step he took, he felt as though he might launch into the sky. Flesh and bone caged him, his body now a hindrance, unable to react the way the power within him desired. It was well he was restricted. No one was meant to hold two Blades. In other hands this would be the end of them. Of everything.
Rectar could not be allowed to take a second Blade, Darnuir understood that now, truly understood it; beyond the notion that the enemy had to be thwarted. It was a good thing Castallan never got his heart’s desire to control the Dragon’s Blade, and a better thing still, that he – Darnuir – had only received his second in dire straits when need demanded it. And that is was with Blaine’s insistence, rather than from pride or greed.
Knowing now what it was like, he would never have been prepared for this in his first life. He spared a thought for Draconess, and whether he would be pleased with the man he’d become. Even if it had taken far too long to get here.
Out on the plaza, he found himself inexorably drawn towards the Basilica. A force, light yet unassailable made him drift towards it like liquid in a groove. The feeling reminded him of old memories in the Dragon’s Blade pulling on his mind, only this power was drawing him forwards, rather than back. And perhaps it was merely that his senses had gained new strength, but it seemed the dome radiated a glow it never had before; dim as a low candle and yet still there. Song notes drifted from the doorway to the temple, faintly as a lullaby from the earliest of memories.
It wasn’t long before a lone figure exited the Basilica, carefully taking the stairs down. Yet Chelos could still move briskly enough, coming to meet Darnuir as bidden. The old steward had wrapped himself in a thick grey cloak against the morning cold, something Darnuir could no longer feel.
“Blaine still sleeps,” Chelos said. “He took rest the moment he heard the city had been made safe, and he sleeps so deeply I’d ask you not to disturb him.”
Darnuir nodded, taking in Chelos as a whole. The old dragon; Blaine and Draconess’ confidante in their plans’; Cassandra’s carer and tutor. He’d never seemed so small. Perhaps because he was hidden beneath that cloak, or that his skin now matched the colour of his hair, leaving only puffy eyes apart from the grey, and that was a telling sign in itself.
“I have no desire to wake Blaine,” Darnuir said. “Let him sleep, and may he have pleasant dreams for once. It is no longer his duty to bear the burdens of our people. I dare say you too could do with more rest as well?”
Chelos grimaced. “I have not slept well of late.”
Darnuir was not surprised. “These last months have been harrowing. I find a walk can help clear the head. Will you walk with me, Chelos?”
“Of course, my King.”
Darnuir did not lead the old man far. He made for the vantage
point where he had first met Fidelm after waking, and insisted there that Chelos sit on the ancient stone bench with him. Darnuir joined him suffering small jolts of pain for his efforts. All his senses were heightened, every nerve on edge. Even sitting felt uncomfortable. He heard Chelos’ slow breaths as if they were heaves of great struggle. He even heard the low beat of his heart. Blood and the sweetness of human fear hung in the air, as did the seaweed from the ocean and the sourness of spent powder. He smelled it all, heard it all, could see beyond the sight of hawks and swore that he saw the outline of a great mountain far away. This ought to have overwhelmed him, but it didn’t. His mind felt expanded, wider, and yet more collected all at once.
There they sat, overlooking the smouldering city and spoke for a while on small matters; on the bravery of those refugees still huddled within the plateau itself, of the remaining victuals and how the city might be remade. When Darnuir asked him what he thought of the humans’ new weapons, Chelos admitted quite plainly that he was afraid. When Darnuir did not respond immediately, the old dragon asked if that would be all.
“No,” Darnuir said with a heavy heart. “That will not be all.”
He made sure he faced Chelos, to meet his eye and attempt to read his true feelings there. The twitch of Chelos’ cheek, the way his gaze darted away and back, told Darnuir he was right.
“I know what you did. I know it was you.”
A gulp of choked fear bulged in Chelos’ throat but his jaw was set.
“I never meant for them to kill.”
“That does not make it right.”
Chelos sniffed. “What made you suspect?”
“Honestly, I found it odd that Bacchus would have been so brazen, yet with all that was happening I let my doubt slide. When Damien returned to warn of the red dragons he also brought another message, a plea from Bacchus to consider more carefully what had happened. How you were the one who recruited those men. You even had him convinced that he’d accidentally wrought those crimes. It makes me sick just to think of it. How could you?”
Chelos’ face had turned to stone, with a dozen new lines chiselled into his brow.
“Because I felt it to be right. You’ve never seen our people strong Darnuir, but if you had, as I have, as Blaine has, then perhaps you wouldn’t have ignored our faith so easily. I remember when our people were great, when our belief was strong, and we stood above all, not begging for scraps nor stooping to placate others. You also won’t remember watching Draconess fall, and back then I think you were happy to see him diminish; pushing you one step closer to your prize.”
“A feeling that disgusts me now,” Darnuir said. “I think Draconess was right to change as he did. I thought – well, I hoped – that you would have felt the same.”
Chelos shook a little, though more from anger than fear. “You have not spent your life in servitude to them and their failed plans. All failures. Again, and again, and again. Every time I held faith in them, but that may have been misplaced. All my faith, all my loyalty should have always been with the Gods. Not in Blaine. Not in Draconess. Even after the Nail Head, even after Blaine heard their voices as so many did, he still doubted, he still stressed caution. And he did not act,” his last words were spat through gritted teeth. “I wasn’t even there to bask in the Gods’ presence. I was stuck as I’ve always been, in Blaine’s shadow, tending to his trivial matters back at camp and even I have more clarity than he on this.”
“It sounds like you are jealous?”
“Jealous?” Chelos barked. “Yes,” he growled. “Perhaps I am. A lifetime of service, Darnuir, all to those I was told knew better, but they didn’t. A lifetime of faith and I was not granted their blessing that night.”
“So, you thought killing some humans might earn that?” Darnuir asked. “Have Blaine’s warnings about the folly of Norbanus taught you nothing?”
“I told you, I never desired deaths,” Chelos said. “I only thought to drive the humans and fairies out of the city. You cannot understand,” he added, in a tone as though speaking to a young child asking tough questions. “Our race was at its finest before these alliances. I only sought to take us back to those days. The Gods are on our side, Darnuir – why is that so hard to comprehend anymore?”
“I think because people like you act as you do,” Darnuir said. “I do not think you are right, but even if you were, I still would not change my mind. If our so-called Gods are pleased by what you did, by what Norbanus tried to do, then they are no Gods of mine. Real or no. As it stands, they seem to have no opinion on it, and so I reserve my judgement on them.”
“I never expected you to understand.”
“I doubt I ever will. It saddens me that you chose this path right at the end. I think Draconess would be heartbroken to know it.”
“I don’t care what Draconess would think.”
“You’re lying,” Darnuir said, his tone firm. Chelos lifted his head. Whether he was feigning indifference or not Darnuir wasn’t certain, but if Chelos did not react to the next question, then he was truly lost. “Cassandra would be horrified. I know you care about what she thinks.”
Whatever defences the old man had raised, shattered. He slumped further into his cloak, hanging his head to his chest.
“Well, she isn’t here,” Chelos said to his toes. “So luckily I did not have to think about her much in this.” He gave another choked gulp and turned his attention towards the precipice of the plateau, as though contemplating the drop. “Will you tell Blaine?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Will you kill me?”
Darnuir considered, bringing his fingers together in a steeple. “That would be a greater waste. Bacchus already died in your stead, and I see no way to fully right that injustice. Nor do I wish to be the one to explain to Cassandra why you are dead, and that it was by my hand. She has suffered enough. No, you will not die for this Chelos, but you are done. Blaine is no longer the Guardian and I have no use for you. Should we survive the coming weeks you will leave to the west in exile. The excuse will be that you wish to return to Cassandra, who you dearly miss, and who I’m sure misses you, and frankly it’s far more than you deserve.”
He reached behind his head, drew the Guardian’s Blade free and placed it on his lap. He pressed on the top opal on the hilt and it fell into his hand, weighing more than any stone had a right to and yet it was a feather compared to the ruby he’d held in Val’tarra; before he had unlocked the memories within. Perhaps this was because these memories were not his own, not his failures or troubles or woes, they could never feel as heavy to him as they did to their owners. In time he might explore all the memories of the Guardians, but for now, he had a task at hand.
“In time, I may tell Blaine,” Darnuir said. “But, if I may venture, I think you still care how he thinks of you, more so than even your Gods. I wonder whether it was their approval you were seeking or his? Whatever the case, I shall store this memory of your confession as evidence should the need arise. Stay well-behaved in your exile or I shall tell Blaine, and he will no longer think of you as a lifelong ally, follower and friend, but only as another failure.”
Chelos looked upon the gemstone in fear. “Blaine gave me that stone so that I may relive parts of his past. It was strange to see myself through his eyes. To see the absolute reverence I once had. The follies of youth.”
“Youth did not cause these tragedies. Youth is not to blame.”
Chelos grumbled. “I also found the memory of the night that Kroener, well, Rectar, returned to the city. You might study it to find a weakness in him.”
Darnuir lifted the opal higher, feeling its weight grow as he imagined that fateful night. The familiar tugging sensation on his mind grew as the memories sought to reveal themselves, but for the moment he resisted them.
“I may well do that,” he said. “Now, return to the sanctum and do not give me cause to ca
ll upon you again.”
“Yes, my King.”
Chelos shuffled away so painfully slowly that Darnuir almost felt ashamed of himself. The truth truly was worse than the lie this time, to know Chelos had fallen so very far.
Darnuir remained on the bench, playing with the opal between his fingers. He had forgotten that Blaine had hid many memories away in the gem that weren’t purely about his duty as Guardian. He’d even buried happier thoughts away in them as well, so they would not rise to haunt him nor decay over time. A notion came over Darnuir to find one of those first.
The tapping on his mind grew like an eager guest at the door and Darnuir let it in. His vision abandoned reality, whirling instead through blinding colours as he sought for the feeling he desired. It didn’t take long before joy burst all around him, the wheel of colours blooming in orange and yellow, and so he let that memory of Blaine’s form.
Yet, for a few seconds, he wondered if something was wrong. He felt the warmth of a fire but could not see it, heard the laughter of a woman but could not see her.
“Can I open them now?” Blaine asked.
“Not yet,” came the high voice of a very young girl. “Mummy is still painting me.”
“And if you sat still it wouldn’t be so difficult.”
Darnuir swore it was Kasselle’s voice, though far lighter and happier than he had ever heard it in this life or his last.
The girl squealed with laughter. “But it tickles.”
“Arlandra, hold still for your mother,” Blaine said, repressing a giggle in his own voice. Darnuir had never heard such a sound come from Blaine before. He also felt a desperation he’d never felt before; that was his mother, albeit young, but still that was her voice. He wanted to see her.
“Almost there,” Kasselle said. “Just this last one.” A few moments passed and then, “There, all done. Go show daddy.”
“Open your eyes now,” Arlandra said in a sing-song voice.
At last Darnuir was able to see. Painted patterns on silver bark walls showed they were in the Argent Tree, with only the canopy between them and the night sky. Starlight shone between the leaves, giving an illusion of a diamond-studded roof. A small fire crackled in the middle of their group as though they had made camp. Kasselle sat on her knees with her legs tucked underneath her, beaming brightly at him, well, beaming at Blaine. Other than her mood she didn’t appear any different than she was in the present.
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