“Everything would have been fine if I’d stopped the titration. But he caught me by surprise. I left the thread in the basin and locked the laboratory. Told one of my wardens to guard the door and let nobody inside. Mercer was waiting in a chamber one floor below. A moment after I entered the room, we heard the explosion. It sounded like a bolt of lightning. When I got back to the tower, the door to the laboratory was gone. And inside, there was a power unlike anything I have ever seen. The stones were glowing blue—lightning sparked across the room in vaulting arcs. The rocks melted like candle wax. I was so excited, so amazed at my discovery, that I didn’t realize the warden guarding the room had been destroyed along with the door. His body was reduced to black cinders and sprayed against the outer hallway.”
Ashlyn looked down at her hands.
“Did the emperor see inside?” Hayden asked.
“Yes. I can still remember the hungry look in his eyes as he watched the reaction. I knew that I needed to get rid of him as quickly as possible, before he saw the source, so I went into screaming hysterics until he ran down the tower for help. When he was gone, I yanked the dragon thread out of the tray, which stopped the reaction. When Mercer returned with help, it just looked like a bad fire. I lost track of Emperor Mercer in the confusion, and by the time things calmed down, he’d left Floodhaven.”
“And Kira with him.”
Ashlyn nodded. She wrapped the thread tightly around her wrist and pulled her sleeve down. “Mercer might not understand exactly what I did, but he knows it’s powerful.”
“You should have told me earlier,” Hayden said. “This gives the emperor enough cause to want you dead.”
“I doubt that,” Ashlyn said. “He wants the power for himself. If he kills me, the secret is lost. That’s why he kidnapped Kira—to ransom her in exchange for the thread. Or the thread’s secret, at least.”
“But he hasn’t asked for it yet.”
“No. I’m not sure why. Perhaps he’s waiting until rumors of Kira’s kidnapping have spread and I’ve become desperate.”
Hayden chewed on that. “Three hundred widows is enough to turn this tower into a fortress, at least.” She touched the back of her bun. It was the only nervous tick Hayden possessed, and something as unsettling as the thread’s power was the only kind of thing that could bring it out. “Do you have any more Gods Moss with you?”
“I keep a vial locked in that chest over there.” Ashlyn pointed to her alchemy station in the corner of the room. “I’ve already treated it with the necessary reagents, but I can’t control the thread’s power yet. Even the small tendrils of lightning get away from me half the time. If I used it again, I could melt another tower. Turn my legs to cinders. Or kill everyone in the castle.”
“Then I suggest you practice. You have discovered something extraordinary, my queen. A magic that will move the tides of the world. You cannot live in fear of it.”
Ashlyn looked at the thread.
“I know.”
* * *
Ashlyn stayed up late into the night, checking the math in her ledger and writing letters that would be lashed to pigeon legs the next day. It was a few hours before dawn when she sealed the last message and set it aside. She would bring them to Godfrey herself in the morning. That was the only way to be sure they weren’t read by anyone else before taking flight.
Ashlyn tamped out the candles on her desk and moved to the small bedroom that was attached to the observatory. She preferred the chamber’s simple solitude to the lavish apartments below.
She took a few deep breaths, enjoying the smell of the extinguished candles—piney and fresh like the depths of a forest. Ashlyn sat on the edge of the bed and unwound the dragon thread from her wrist. Hayden was right—she needed to be ready to use it if necessary. Behind a secretly dispatched dragonslayer, armies of wardens, and ships of Papyrian cedar, the thread was her last resort. She would sail to Balaria herself with a barrel of Gods Moss if that was what it took to stop Emperor Mercer’s cull.
Ashlyn stretched her neck and dug her thumb-knife across her palm, pressing just deep enough to draw a teardrop of blood. She stroked the thread three times so the lightning crackled and wrapped around her fingers, then allowed the bolts to cascade up her arm and across her shoulders. She took another deep breath, which pulled the current beneath her skin, where she could feel it welling inside of her like a storm. It made her lungs hot and her pulse quicken. She released her breath—which allowed the lightning to seep from the surface of her skin—but kept the current close to her chest and head like a cowl. There was a balance to commanding the power—not unlike running across a fallen log that had bridged a river. If you kept an equilibrium, crossing was simple. If you teetered, you fell into the torrent below.
She continued breathing in and out, allowing the lightning to expand and contract around and inside of her body, careful to rein it back anytime it strayed from her command. If Ashlyn ever had to combine the thread with Gods Moss again, she knew that control would be extremely difficult. She remembered the way the lightning had arced across the walls, melted stone and metal as if they were wax. Those bolts would kill her if she didn’t practice with the weaker current first.
She closed her eyes. Tried to steady her heart rate and calm her mind. Then she started to count her breaths. In and out. Anytime she lost control of the lightning’s ebb and flow, she started her count at zero.
After dozens of tries, Ashlyn reached a count of one thousand breaths. She opened her eyes, then opened her palm to face the wall and began guiding the lightning back into her fingers. It was a difficult and strange process—almost as if she were goading the lightning to follow the currents of her bloodstream to a specific point on her body. Once it was all corralled in her fingers again, she took careful aim at the wall. One finger at a time, she fired a miniature bolt at the connecting mortar of the stones. Each snap of lightning left a scorch mark the size of a cat’s eye. She hit her target three out of five attempts. Not good enough, but getting better.
She wondered what the high lords would do if they saw light ning cascading from her fist. Plenty of Almirans already believed she was a witch who made pacts with demons. They were closer to the truth than they realized.
She cracked her knuckles, then activated the thread again. It was too late to get much sleep. Might as well practice until dawn.
12
BERSHAD
Ghalamar, Town of Argel
Bershad and Yonmar were marched back to the docks by Adelon and another soldier. The town was empty except for a few patrolling soldiers—the citizens of Argel were still down by the river, washing their sins away.
Felgor was pissing off the dock when they returned to the Luminata. He gave them a smile and wave, but Adelon shoved him roughly back onto the ship.
“Hey, easy!” Felgor yelped, adjusting his pants as he stumbled onto the deck.
Adelon grunted, then motioned for Bershad and Yonmar to get aboard, too.
“Trouble in town?” Rowan asked from his spot on the ship.
“Trouble with the baron. You and I are free to move inland, but they are ordered to turn around and head home,” Bershad said, motioning to Yonmar, Felgor, and Vera. “Grealor’s papers were about as useful as a pile of the donkey’s shit.”
“Where does that leave us?” Vera asked.
“Fucked, I’d say,” Rowan grunted.
Adelon leaned against a dock post and began eating an apple. When he saw the entire group glaring at him, he stopped chewing.
“I’m to wait until your mast is a toothpick on the sea,” he said, sucking a piece of apple from between two of his teeth. “Baron’s orders.”
Bershad sighed. They could split up here and reconnect in secret along the foothills—he’d shown Vera where the entrance to the pass was on a map of Ghalamar. But the baron of Argel would probably have him followed all the way to Cornish and arrest him if he strayed from the main road. The plan had gone to shit in an impressively short p
eriod of time.
“Tide’s waiting,” the other soldier added.
Bershad was about to take everyone down into the hold of the ship—where they could figure out another plan—when an old and familiar sensation hummed along his bones like the pulse of a secret drum. He didn’t get the feeling very often, but it always meant the same thing.
Bershad turned to Rowan. “Let’s have the dagger.”
Rowan pulled the knife belt from a canvas sack and tossed it to Bershad.
“Impressive-looking weapon,” Adelon said through a mouthful of apple. “That a dragontooth?”
“That’s right,” Bershad said. “Made it from the seventh lizard I killed.” Adelon nodded absently. Bershad took a step closer. “It’ll cut through chain mail or steel as easy as a cleaver through tenderloin.” Bershad glanced around the dock. Empty.
“Good for the dagger,” Adelon said, straightening up a bit as Bershad got closer.
“Only problem is the length. Can’t reforge a tooth, so you’re stuck with this range.” Bershad stepped closer, then spoke a little softer, as if he had a secret just for Adelon. “So you have to get real close before you can use it.”
Adelon frowned and let his mouth hang open, revealing a bite of chewed apple rind. His eyes darted to the handle of Bershad’s dagger. He tightened his grip on the ash spear.
“Hey now,” Adelon started to say, “I said you’re free to—”
Bershad drew the dagger and cleaved the top of Adelon’s head off, slicing just above his eyebrows. Adelon’s steel cap flew through the air—a billowing ribbon of blond hair still attached—and splashed into the water. Disappeared into the murky blue.
Adelon’s eyes turned into two huge, white orbs of surprise. Apple chunks dropped out of his slackened mouth. Bershad slammed his open palm into Adelon’s chest, sending the body into the water behind the skull. There were a few ripples, and then nothing. It was the first man Bershad had killed in fourteen years.
Vera drew both of her long daggers before anyone else reacted. She stabbed the other watchman in the neck with one dagger while slipping the other blade between his chest and back-plate, directly into his heart. He was dead before he hit the dock.
Bershad moved over to Alfonso and started checking his saddlebags, looking for his horn and armor. “We need to get out of this city in the next five minutes.”
“You’ve killed us all,” Torian growled. “We’ll all bite down on seashells for this.” He spat. “Bastard!”
“Don’t go grabbing a shell just yet,” Bershad said. “You’ll be fine if you set sail right now.”
“You’ll be dead before you reach the gates of the city,” Torian said. “And I’ll be sunk by a Ghalamarian warship before I’m halfway across the Soul Sea.”
“There will be no warships summoned today,” Bershad said.
“Why not?”
Bershad felt the tremor in his bones again—stronger this time—and looked toward the mountains in the east. Pointed. A massive dragon swooped down along a cliff and headed toward the city. Its head was colored deep red where the black scales receded and exposed a cap of crimson bone. “Because that Red Skull is about to attack Argel.”
“Black skies,” Torian muttered, backing up onto the Luminata.
“Here,” Rowan said, yanking Bershad’s breastplate out of a wooden crate and passing it to him.
“It’ll head for the keep,” Bershad said, pulling the breastplate on and cinching it tight. “If we’re going to get out of Argel, it needs to be right now.” Bershad took his jaguar mask from Rowan and slipped it over his face. Felt the familiar pressure against his cheeks.
Vera grabbed a pouch full of shot for her sling and tied a long rope around Felgor’s wrists. She wrapped the other end around her wrist as if it was a leash for a dog.
“What are you doing?” Felgor asked.
“Keeping you within reach, Balarian.”
Yonmar was frozen in place, watching everyone else prepare to run through the city.
“Grab that pack,” Rowan growled at him. “Food’s in there.”
Yonmar picked it up, struggling with the uneven weight. Bershad found his horn buried in the bottom of the crate and slung it over his shoulder. Picked up a spear and checked the point. When he turned around, everyone was looking at him.
“Follow me,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask.
* * *
The Red Skull attacked Argel as they were moving through the main square. The dragon was almost twice as large as the one strung to the keep. Definitely a female. She tore out a large chunk of city wall and sent it careening into the keep, demolishing the upper section of the tower. When the soldiers saw the breed, half of them dropped their weapons and ran.
“I warned those bastards not to hang a fucking Red Skull,” Bershad muttered as the beast hammered its tail into the roof of a stable and sprayed shingles across the square in an explosion of sharpened chaff.
Bershad had slain two Red Skulls before, but even in the morning they were bastards. One had nearly torn his head off and the other had broken every bone in his foot. At full strength, they were flying atrocities. Not only did this lizard have a body full of hot blood, but she’d come down here with revenge on her mind. If the dragon spotted the townspeople down by the river, she’d kill every last one of them.
The soldiers in the town garrison who hadn’t run away were preparing the defense—armored men poured out of the barracks on the far side of the square. They carried crossbows and halberds. Sergeants were shouting and waving men into positions with good cover. It was an organized effort, but that didn’t improve their odds much.
“This way,” Bershad grunted, skirting the far wall of the square so they were as far away from the fight as possible. The Red Skull was surrounded by soldiers who were winding crossbows as fast as they could.
“Loose!” one of them screamed. “Shoot the fucking thing!”
The clatter of crossbow bolts hitting the dragon’s scales sounded like a hailstorm. The dragon screamed and broke the stone roof of a blacksmith’s forge with a violent swipe of her claw. A ruined soldier’s body landed a few strides from Bershad, his head twisted so violently that his spine had popped out the back of his mail shirt.
“Make sure Alfonso doesn’t step on that,” Bershad said over his shoulder. He didn’t want the donkey hurting his ankle.
After they cleared the square, they rushed down an empty avenue toward the eastern gate of the city. The sounds of violence grew faint behind them. The gate was about twenty strides high—a massive door painted white and set in a stone arch made from red brick. Yonmar saw the path to freedom was clear, dropped the bag of food, and broke into a flat-out run.
“Idiot,” Bershad muttered.
When Yonmar was ten strides from the gate, the Red Skull landed on top of it, cracking the brick arch. Her claws dug into the alabaster wood of the gate for support. Countless crossbow bolts stuck out of her armored hide like thorns.
“Fuck!” Yonmar cried, trying to turn around but falling on his ass instead. He started to scuttle backward, but froze when the dragon howled at him—spreading her wings and hunching forward in an attack posture.
Alfonso twitched with fear, then shat all over the road. Rowan cursed and strained to keep the donkey from bolting. Vera dropped the rope tied around Felgor’s wrists and rushed forward in a low crouch. She reached Yonmar just as the dragon lurched forward, jaws open wide. At a full run, she grabbed Yonmar by the shoulders and yanked him to the left, barely getting them both clear of the Red Skull’s teeth. After missing her prey, the dragon rose high over the walls, heading back toward the keep.
Felgor’s eyes were darting between Vera and a narrow alley to his right. Bershad walked over and clamped a fist on the Balarian’s shoulder.
“You’re not skipping out on us that easily,” Bershad growled.
Felgor glanced at the alley one last time, then nodded. “Can’t blame a guy for giving it some thought th
ough, can you?”
“Fucking hell,” Yonmar gasped. “That was … that was…”
“There’s no time,” Vera said, grabbing Felgor’s rope again. “We have to keep moving.”
Outside the gate, there was a river to their right and steep mountains to the left. Straight ahead, a wide road made from crushed seashells cut through a long open meadow that turned to thick forest. “We need to reach those cottonwoods,” Bershad said. “Then we’ll use the forest’s cover to reach the pass.”
Nobody wasted any time getting down the road. When they were about halfway between the gate and the tree line, Alfonso and Rowan started lagging behind. Bershad stopped to wait for them, checking the sky for the dragon. She was still circling around the keep and shrieking every few minutes.
“He’s about tapped,” Rowan said, trying to pull the beast of burden along.
“Leave the animal and let’s go!” Yonmar hissed.
Bershad grabbed Yonmar by the front of his shirt and yanked him close.
“Listen to me very carefully, Grealor. Hertzog and your father can’t protect you out here. And I don’t care if you’ve got a flying fucking carpet that’ll spirit us across the Balarian border, I will cut your lungs out of your chest if you threaten my donkey again.”
“He’s slowing us down.”
“So are you,” Bershad said. Then he moved toward Alfonso and cut the heaviest pack of equipment off his back. “Now let’s keep moving.”
“Uh, guys?” Felgor said, pointing toward the river.
Hundreds of Argellians were huddled against the riverbank, trying and failing to stay out of sight.
“They need to run,” Bershad said. “They should have been running this entire time.”
“Well,” Felgor said, “they’re not.”
Bershad looked back at the dragon. She was still circling the keep, but her arcs were getting wider and wider. It was only a matter of time before the Red Skull fanned out far enough to see hundreds of helpless humans trapped against a riverbank.
Blood of an Exile Page 17
