Upon the Flight of the Queen

by Howard Andrew Jones

There was a resounding crack and she felt the ground shift beneath her even as the stone rim of the pool crumbled. All sound seemed to have departed, leaving nothing but a ringing noise in its wake.

  She sensed rather than heard the fall of the great tree behind her, and somehow managed to drunkenly crawl to one side in the swiftly draining pool as a titanic limb slammed down across it. The main portion of the branch missed braining her by a few finger spans. Smaller branches scratched her face and one struck her helmet and twisted her head, painfully.

  Still deaf, she dragged herself away. Aching terribly, she struggled to pull free the helm. She blinked in an attempt to clear her spinning vision. On shaking limbs she pulled herself up by the branch, seeking her enemy, certain Vannek would come leaping over at any moment.

  But she saw instead that the Naor general was climbing into a saddle upon the dragon, already flapping its wings.

  No. Gods damnit, no.

  She searched frantically for a weapon. After all that had gone so very wrong, the Gods smiled at last, because within an arm’s reach was the spear that had rebounded from Vannek.

  Her hand tightened around it as the dragon beat its wings and turned away, plodding into the lane. There at last, only a few blocks off, were some Kaneshi cavalry officers. Why couldn’t they be closer?

  It was up to her to stop the general. Sansyra rose, legs quivering beneath her, and hefted the spear. It was a foot shorter than those she normally used. Through blurring vision she saw the beast gaining speed, and she stumbled after.

  There might be no more energy within the stone, but there was her own magic, feeble as it was. She emptied her mind of all but form and motion, her weary feet finding the right position, advancing after the quickly receding dragon. No strike against that beast was liable to harm it, but there was the broad back of the man supporting the general. With any luck, he was its pilot.

  Her arm rose with little conscious thought, and she felt limb and weapon wobbling. It didn’t matter. She took two more steps and flung, and then threw all her energy behind the spear. It was almost as if her consciousness left her at the same moment the weapon passed from her fingers. Partly she was rooted to her fragile form, reverberating still with the blast from the dragon’s maw. And partly she was behind the spear, shaping its course through the air, whittling away the thread of friction and gravity that strove to pull it down, massaging the wind in just the proper way.

  She felt it strike the broad neck of the man, and then Sansyra’s bond with the spear was shattered. As he dropped away from the beast, limp as a sack of potatoes, she dizzied and sank to a knee. She caught a last look of Vannek’s face screwed up in anguish, half turned in the saddle to reach for the falling man, and then the dragon was up, and Sansyra was down.

  She lay there on the paving stones, a few small steps from the ruined pool and the downed tree, staring weakly at the stars and wondering which way the dragon might go, or if it might swing back around to finish her off. She wished she felt more satisfaction at killing the Naor dragon rider, but it seemed not to have mattered much, for the dragon soared on. Maybe the other figure was the actual pilot.

  A moment passed, and then another, and it occurred to her that the thunderous drum in her temple had stopped. She wished to feel for the pulse in her neck, as she’d been taught, but her arms didn’t seem to work. I’m dying, she thought, and wondered why she didn’t care so much. Was that fatalism, or mere exhaustion? Had she drained herself too thoroughly with her own magic, or was this an aftereffect of the dragon’s attack? Maybe it was both.

  The last thing she heard was the clatter of approaching hoofbeats on cobblestone. The last thing she saw was the reddened clouds, flickering a little, and she wondered why destruction was sometimes just as beautiful as creation.

  25

  Darassus Awaits

  He had raged that the pilot turn and have the dragon kill the squire, but the man confessed he barely knew the means for controlling the beast, let alone any sort of clever maneuvers. Syrik had told him their only purpose was to get Vannek out of the city safely and rendezvous with Chargan’s army. Syrik was gone now, but the pilot meant to follow his last orders, and no amount of threatening would get him to change course. The coward was determined to take Vannek to safety. The general debated holding a knife to him and forcing him down, and then he looked below and saw the Dendressi sweeping through the city with their ally, fire. He’d have never guessed that they would destroy their city rather than give it over.

  Alantris was lost to him. And so was Syrik.

  Tears flowed, but the rage plugged Vannek’s throat. He shook but made no sound.

  As they climbed into the cool night sky, the tears streamed away, and he gripped tight to the saddle as he turned, watching the ever smaller figures lit by fire. His ear throbbed, as if someone struck him over and over again in the side of the head. It didn’t matter.

  If he’d had just a little longer, he could have ruled that city properly. The failure wasn’t his, but his stupid brother’s. It was the fault of Chargan, for if he had come to the city, no amount of fae cleverness could have toppled them.

  He tried to tell himself that he was weak for feeling this way, that Syrik had probably been a toy of Chargan’s. But, he didn’t believe it. Syrik had always liked him. Vannek. Even as all other allegiances became those of station and power, the mage’s affection had been true. It had been tempered by lust, a lust that should have shamed him, but it had been real. Syrik was the closest thing to a friend that Vannek had known. In the future there might be other advisors, and other mages, but there could be no other whose bond stretched so far back in time.

  A warrior, his father had taught him, must practice making his heart a stone.

  This grew easier over the course of their flight, for it felt as though that transformation was underway already. All feeling seemed to leach out. The problem was that all care leached away with it.

  It took long hours before they saw Chargan’s encampment, in a little east-west valley in the very southern section of The Fragments, fairly close to the border with Erymyr itself.

  It seemed a smaller army than he’d supposed. Perhaps that was because there were few campfires. Under the starlight he guessed there could only be a few thousand men at most.

  “Did you see that, General?”

  The reedy-voiced pilot had said very little over their journey, but there was a note of caution as they circled down and he pointed.

  “What is it?” Vannek’s voice was gruff, dry. He realized how very thirsty he was.

  “Those hills are moving.”

  Vannek started to say that the mage was an idiot, but then he, too, saw that one of the many similarly sized hills on the landscape crept slowly forward. Even as he peered the hill drew to a stop and he wondered if he’d imagined it.

  They flew on toward a cluster of tents. Below lay the prostrate forms of seven dragons. Seven. With those beasts they could have held Alantris for the ages!

  Guards ran up the moment they approached the ground, and stood warily at attention as Vannek dropped from the saddle; they appeared unsure whether he was friend or enemy.

  The pilot’s voice cracked as he barked at them behind her. “At attention for General Vannek!”

  The delivery might have been less than desired, but the reaction was pleasing. The five guards formed themselves into a long line, spears upright at their shoulders. Vannek strode past them without meeting their eyes. He realized he ought to praise the pilot, but he hated the pilot almost as much as he hated the dragon and the guards and the camp. He wished all of them were gone, that he himself was far away from all this nonsense. He would very much like to be somewhere where he didn’t have to gird for more battles and shout more orders and sit down across from his odious brother and listen to more of his grandiose schemes.

  Somewhere with Syrik.

  But it was with Chargan that he found himself. Chargan, who ushered him into a tent after Vannek had gruffly
accepted a healer’s care and refused the offer of a bath. His brother pointed him to a cushioned chair under the high canvas ceiling, where a pretty Dendressi slave presented a platter with wine and bread and various cheeses and dried fruits.

  Chargan didn’t look as ridiculous as he probably should have. He wore soldier’s gear from the Blue Fire clan. Fit and stocky, his beard closely trimmed, he even looked a soldier, although he’d left off his breastplate. He bade the servants leave and sat down on a matched chair across from Vannek, the table with refreshments between them. A perfumed lamp stood on a camp table to their right, and an actual bed, with a frame and mattress and sheets, sat tucked in a corner to the left. From its size, Vannek strongly expected Chargan did not sleep alone, and wondered if the Dendressi woman would be there tonight.

  “You should be careful whom you go to bed with. You might not make it to morning.”

  “You sound terrible.” Chargan handed over the wine. “And you look terrible. Is that any way to greet me?”

  The wine was strong and cool and it felt good on his throat. The sharp taste was like a kick to his senses. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and set down the goblet with a clunk. “How do you think I should greet you?”

  “You should be impressed at my speed. Did you see how far I’ve come? How close I am to the heart of the Drendressi holdings? Did you see my dragons?”

  “You haven’t asked what I’m doing here.”

  Chargan pushed dirt out from beneath his fingernails and flicked it onto the rug.

  Vannek suddenly noticed his brother traveled not just with a bed, but with an actual rug. The front legs of his chair were even standing on it.

  “I judge by your quiet that it’s very bad news. Were you deposed? Which of our petty little kings did it?”

  “The Dendressi did it.”

  Chargan’s eyes flipped up at him. “Are you saying that the city has fallen to the fae?”

  “Yes.”

  Chargan took a long, slow breath, glared at her, then let out a disgusted sigh. “I suppose it won’t matter in a few more days. There can’t be more than a handful of soldiers left within Darassus. There’s also the new group of mages, but I don’t think they can move mountains like I can.” Chargan smiled.

  Had he taken leave of his senses? “You’re still going through with it? If we turn back now, we can surprise the Dendressi—”

  “No!” Chargan smashed a fist into his palm. “I will destroy Darassus!” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I’ve built monsters of titanic power. Our army may be small, but with my creatures, Darassus will fall before us! I’ve fashioned great magics that will not only see us through the shifts between, but most of the way through the realm itself, without detection.”

  “For what?” she demanded. “The invasion has failed, unless you turn back now. Use your … spells of transport to take us back to Alantris! We could take it back and hold it.”

  Chargan’s lips curled. “I’ve been very patient with you, and your limitations. And your failures. Whereas I have nothing but success behind me. You were once a useful ally to me but…” He snapped his fingers. “What are you now? I assume your own forces are dead or dying in Alantris. What do you have to bring me? Is it strength in arms? Because there are many warriors at my call who are stronger than you, and at least as skilled. Is it loyalty? I have thousands who would lay down their life on my order. Tell me, brother”—he said this last with a sneer—“are you of such use to me that I should tolerate your insults?”

  Vannek felt his own face flush, knew his jaw tightened, and for some reason that made his bandaged ear throb. But all anger swiftly drained away as would water from a bucket full of holes. Why should he care when it was so patently obvious that nothing here was very important? He sank back in his chair. “You might as well just kill me,” he said wearily.

  He stared at a sagging spot in the canvas ceiling.

  Chargan was quiet for a long time, and then broke into a low chuckle. At first it sounded forced, but after he reached across the table to slap Vannek’s knee and he flinched, the mirth sounded genuine.

  “I wouldn’t kill you!” he said. “You’re the only one left who’s not afraid of me! Grandfather always said you needed a trusted few who knew you from when you were human. You and me, we have to stick together. Because we’re going to rule as gods!”

  26

  The Alantran Road

  The shortest route between The Fragments and Erymyr lay along the Alantran Road, which extended from Alantris to the Shifting Lands at the closest point to Erymyr. Rylin and his small party made good use of the outposts stretching west from the city, stopping to exchange their animals for fresh ones every fifteen to twenty miles so they could press on at speed. All of the staff they met were desperate for news, but their group had little additional information to share.

  They spent their first evening at a way station, and after they dined and shared news with the small staff, Rylin, Lasren, and Elik adjourned to the square roof of the station’s two-story signal tower which commanded a nice view and offered cool evening breezes. Governor Feolia eventually retired to one of the clean, tiny rooms below.

  A few wooden slatted benches were set against the walls of the tower, and the staff had loaned them the same cushions they used when posted up top awaiting signals. A bronze mirror used as sun telegraph rose from the tower’s center, along with a raised stone platform by which less complex but urgent signals might be sent by night. No signals had come from Alantris since the night of the invasion, although they had been passed along through the working stations east of the city in the days since.

  The way station stood by necessity on a hilltop and was therefore exposed to a chill wind as the night settled in. Still, it was lovely there above the countryside, with the forested Kelistrin Mountains under moonlight a few miles north and the more rounded Mervil Range farther south. The stars gleamed in the firmament. Those in The Fragments were the same Rylin had grown up watching in Erymyr, and as he and his companions sat in the darkness, he picked out familiar constellations as though they were old friends. There was The Lantern, and The Lost Queen, and, almost directly overhead, The Winking Cat, with its one bright blue eye and the flickering white one and its long, long tail hanging down onto The Stairsteps.

  Lasren had brought up a wine bottle, and he passed it over to Rylin. Though not really thirsty, he took a pull and handed it off to Elik, wishing this brief moment of silence might extend for a little longer. But there were important matters to discuss. Wide-shouldered Lasren looked at him expectantly. Elik passed back the bottle and scratched his head, fingers shaking his curly brown hair.

  Rylin cleared his throat and launched into a detailed talk about what he and Varama had found, and how the queen had attacked and killed squires on the way out from Erymyr. And he emphasized that they were walking into enemy territory. “I know that may be difficult to contemplate,” he said, “because these are Erymyrans. We have to practice deception among them. Especially me, but you may have to do your share of misdirection as well. Perhaps even outright lying.”

  Neither man looked especially comfortable with that.

  “You can stick mostly to the truth. You really are coming to return the shield and ring of Decrin to places of honor, and to escort Governor Feolia to speak with the council, and one of the things she’s going to be doing is pleading for assistance for The Fragments. No one but the councilors need to know that she’s going to present a letter from N’lahr.”

  “What should I say if they ask me about Denaven and N’lahr and everything?” Lasren asked.

  “I’d keep silent about that until you speak to the councilors. So far as we know, none of the Erymyrans have learned what’s happened to Denaven yet. Once behind closed doors, you can bear witness to all that you’ve seen.”

  Elik shifted, looked uncomfortably at him, then blurted out a question. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what will you be doing?”

  �
��The squire’s got a point,” Lasren said. “Are you ever going to tell us why you’re traveling in disguise?”

  Rylin wished he could, and slowly, sadly, shook his head no. “If something goes wrong, and you’re captured, and I’m not…” He shrugged rather than finish the sentence.

  “You’re saying the exalts could use magic to force the answer out of us,” Lasren said.

  “Yes.”

  “Even with the ring?” Lasren looked down at one big hand and the darkened gem upon his finger.

  “Maybe. But they’d probably relieve you of it first.” On that dire note, he turned to Elik. “The commander told me you were sent from Darassus to Alantris with a message and a small force of soldiers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Elik frowned thoughtfully. “Exalt Thelar’s been placed in command of the Altenerai. He’s the one who sent me.”

  “Thelar?” Rylin repeated the name in disbelief. Thin-skinned, humorless, and priggish, Thelar had clashed with Rylin as they rose together through the squire ranks, until Thelar had jumped over to the Mage Auxiliary. Rylin hadn’t been at all sorry about his departure. When he’d last seen him, Thelar had been lying in the hall of the Mage Auxiliary with a broken limb. Varama’s doing as she and Rylin made off with a cache of hearthstones and compelling evidence of the queen’s treachery.

  “How’s his arm?”

  “I wasn’t aware there was anything wrong with it,” Elik replied, and Rylin felt foolish. The exalt would have been healed immediately by some of the finest mages in the realms.

  “Forget about the arm. Thelar sent you? What were his instructions?”

  “Yes, sir. The Alantrans had sent a plea for help because the Naor were invading—well, you know that part. Thelar told me to request volunteers from different units, as swiftly as possible, then to depart without fanfare.”

  “How many men did you take?” Rylin asked.

  “I ended up with twenty-five.”

  “So Alantris asked for help, and he sent twenty-five people?” Rylin was aghast.