Fireborne

by Rosaria Munda

  He twists harder; I inhale in spite of myself.

  Lee releases Darius, unclasps his wristband, and holds it out. Darius snatches it.

  “Hands behind your back.”

  Darius produces a length of rope, which he uses to tie Lee’s hands together. When he’s hauled Lee to kneeling on the cave floor, Darius takes a step back. Lee’s jaw is clenched, his eyes staring so hard, they’re white-rimmed.

  “That’s better. Trade, Darius.”

  I’m passed from one boy to the other like a sack of grain, then Power steps away when Darius has confirmed his grip on my arms. Power’s eyes rake over Lee, kneeling before him with his hands bound.

  “So. All these years. When I thought you were a self-satisfied, superior piece of shit—turns out I was onto something. Golden Boy is just a little too golden.”

  Lee’s teeth are gritted. “Where is the letter?”

  “Oh, I’ve got it. Ready to hand over along with you,” Power says, smiling. “But we’re in no rush to do that, Lee.”

  Darius shifts, though his grip on my arms remains firm. “Power, I don’t know if—”

  “Scared to hit a dragonborn, Darius?”

  I can feel Darius’s swallow against the back of my head.

  Lee’s eyes flit from the faces of the two boys to me. His voice comes out a growl. “You want to stay down here hashing out schoolyard grudges, fine. But you have no grievances with Antigone; let her go.”

  Power lets out a delighted bark of laughter.

  “So she can spill the beans to Atreus and cut our party short? I don’t think so. And who says it’s schoolyard grudges? Maybe I’m just feeling patriotic. Giving one last dragonborn what they should have got on Palace Day—”

  Lee twitches. Power sees it and laughs again, softly. Then he demands, like the thought is of passing interest to him now that it occurs:

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  Lee’s chest rises and falls with the sound of his breathing.

  “Stormscourge, I’d say,” Power goes on, his eyes narrowing as he studies Lee more carefully. “Must be, those eyes.”

  His gaze slides on to me, like a dragon tracking new prey. As if he senses my every nerve going on end at the sound of the truth exposed.

  “And you’ve known it all along, you lying, traitorous bitch.”

  Lee flinches on the last word; Darius’s arms tighten against mine to the point of pain, as if he’s worried I’ll be galvanized to make a renewed attempt for freedom.

  “So who is he?” Power demands of me.

  At my silence, Power nods to Darius, and Darius tightens still further. And then the ratcheting pain in my arms trips into something else.

  I can feel Aela.

  She’s almost out of reach; the aurelian nests are far down the corridor, and the cave walls are thick. But faintly, she is there. And her awareness is wakening to my pain.

  Aela, please. Hear me. Come to us.

  “Who is he?” Power says.

  Lee’s face has screwed up as he waits for the first blow.

  I raise my chin, and though it sends renewed pain through my twisted arms, I plant my feet to straighten. Because these words will be not for Power but for Lee, and right now, it’s all I have to give him.

  “He is Lee sur Pallor, Firstrider of Callipolis.”

  Lee’s eyes close, his breathing quiets, and his clenched jaw spasms as he swallows.

  But it is my face, not Lee’s, that Power watches. His smile becomes soft and cruel.

  “Remind me of your dragonlord’s name, Annie?” he whispers.

  At my silence, the corridor stills. Darius’s grip on me has gone slack.

  “Leon, wasn’t it.”

  Lee’s eyes are still closed, like he’s willing himself to shut everything happening out, but the ripple that goes through him is enough. Power’s eyes glitter with a malicious mirth.

  “Well, that’s an interesting twist.”

  Aela, please—

  Power turns from me, seizes Lee by his hair, then forces his head back.

  “Tell me, Lee. Were they punished for it? The ones who were there at the end?”

  Lee’s eyes have snapped open. They fix, with hatred, on Power’s face.

  Power’s smile grows. He leans forward, his mouth next to Lee’s ear. “I thought not.”

  And then he slams his fist into Lee’s gut.

  Lee grunts. The force of the impact makes him lurch sideways. But before he can fall, Power seizes his shoulders, steadying him. Then he hits Lee again.

  And again, and again. Lee begins to wheeze and splutter, not given enough time to breathe between blows—Power is laughing as he begins to pant from exertion—Lee dry-heaves—

  Then, from above us, comes a blaze of light.

  Aela.

  Dragonfire fills the cavernous corridor, illuminating its soaring ceiling. The source of that fire is Aela, her wings outspread as she descends. She lands to my right.

  Power freezes; I wrench myself free of Darius’s slackened grip and he doesn’t attempt to regain it.

  My voice is shaking but strong.

  “As Alterna of the Callipolan Fleet,” I tell Power, “I command you to unhand Lee. Make a move to summon and Aela will fire on you where you stand.”

  As Power releases his grip on Lee’s shoulders and Lee slumps, disoriented from pain, I catch him with one hand.

  “The letter,” I demand, from Power.

  Power produces it and I pocket it, not taking my eyes off him.

  “Wristbands.”

  They hand us back our own, and then I say: “And yours.”

  Power balks. “You can’t be serious.”

  “For assaulting a fellow rider and a superior officer? For obstructing justice? I’ll have both of you court-martialed.”

  “They’re not going to court-martial us for mistreating a dragonborn,” Power spits.

  Aela bares her teeth and inhales, and Power decides not to argue further.

  The bands click softly as they’re unclasped; one by one, Power and Darius hand them over to me. I reach down, find the knot in the ropes binding Lee’s hands, and yank it loose. I fit my own wristband back on my wrist, then Lee’s on his. But he’s still too winded to stand and remains on the ground, gasping as he leans against me. It’s unnerving to feel the weight of his head, his shoulder, against my thigh.

  I look down at this boy, vulnerable, at my mercy, and think, To the ends of the earth I will protect you.

  “Lee,” I murmur. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  Tell me if you want to run.

  My fingers are in his hair, feeling his shaking.

  But his voice, when he speaks, is sure. The tone of someone issuing a final command.

  “Take me to Atreus.”

  * * *

  ***

  Aela escorts the four of us to the Palace entrance to the caves. I support Lee, my arm hooked tightly against his, Darius and Power in front of us. After we’ve left Aela and the caves behind, we make our way through the near-empty Cloister to the Inner Palace. In the anteroom of the Protector’s office I turn to the two members of the crimson-clad Protector’s Guard, stationed on either side of the door.

  “Please ensure that Power and Darius do not leave this room.”

  Then I remove my arm from Lee’s side, steady him as he sways, and hand him Julia’s letter.

  I follow him into Atreus’s office.

  Atreus is waiting, seated, at his desk. He takes in Lee’s disheveled appearance and our harrowed faces. Even though Power and Darius landed no blows on exposed skin, the indications of a recent beating are apparent enough. Atreus straightens at once.

  Lee crosses the office to the desk, his movements still a little stiff. He hands over the letter and stands silently
while Atreus reads it. When Atreus looks up, his face rippling with confusion, Lee speaks. For the first time in my memory, he uses fluent, colloquial Dragontongue.

  “I am Leon’s youngest son. Ten years ago, you spared my life.”

  Atreus’s eyes widen ever so slightly, then his expression smooths again. But the emotion that is left on his face is, unmistakably, pain.

  Lee sees it, swallows, and plows forward.

  “For the past few months, I’ve been in contact with my cousin, Julia Stormscourge, Firstrider of the Pythian Fleet, who has repeatedly sought my support for the Pythian cause. I have repeatedly refused her. You have in your hands our most recent correspondence.”

  Atreus’s eyes flicker down to the note in his hands, then back to Lee.

  “Why do you confess this?”

  “To ask for mercy, and to plead my case.”

  * * *

  ***

  I wait outside, in the anteroom with Power and Darius, while Lee tells Atreus the rest. Lee doesn’t emerge until late morning. When he does, he speaks to me without acknowledging the presence of Darius or Power at all.

  “I told him everything. He wants to question you now. I’ll find you after—”

  And then Lee looks down: One of the Protector’s Guard has placed a hand on his arm. The arm with the summoning whistle on its wristband. Though the guard doesn’t exert pressure, the gesture conveys a clear meaning.

  Lee begins to shake again, this time violently. Looking at him, I find the memory of an old lesson from Callipolan history class returning to me, unbidden: that when, toward the end of the Red Month, the revolutionaries made their dragonlords hand over their summoning whistles, it was the beginning of the end.

  We were always taught to think of that moment as a glorious turning point, but now I realize how differently Lee must remember it.

  Lee unclasps his wristband and offers it to the guard. Power and Darius, seated across the room, look on avidly. The guard takes it, and his hand remains on Lee’s arm.

  “If you’ll come with us, now,” the guard says. And then he adds, more softly, as if some paternal urge overtakes him as he regards Lee’s trembling: “It’ll be all right, son. Just protocol.”

  Lee stands frozen for a moment. Then he raises his head to look at me.

  What hollow comforts were they given, I wonder, when this happened ten years ago, that I will unwittingly echo if I give comfort now?

  So instead, all I tell him is: “I’ll find you as soon as I can.”

  Lee allows himself to be led away.

  Power, sitting on the opposite side of the anteroom, catches my eye. “See?”

  Instead of answering him, I raise my fist to knock on Atreus’s door.

  * * *

  ***

  Atreus sits across from me, still and silent, while I speak. I start at the beginning, with the fact that Lee’s father killed my family and that I’ve known about it for years. I tell him about Albans, everything I can remember, including the things Lee said that day we fought. He shows brief surprise, then, the faintest raised eyebrows, and they rise again when I describe our reconciliation.

  I describe the months afterward, before the Choosing ceremony, when Lee took care of me—protecting me, feeding me, even holding me. The words come clumsily: I’m describing memories I’ve never discussed with anyone.

  I tell him about our years in training, every detail I can think of to vouch for Lee’s character. I speak of Lee’s untiring efforts to coach the others, to keep Power in line, to prevent patrician kids from bullying lowborn riders, back when that was something anyone tried. I tell him about the care Lee has taken with his studies, the attention he pays to ideas of justice and virtue and all the things Atreus speaks about in class. The lines deepen around Atreus’s mouth and he nods, as if he, too, has seen this.

  I tell him that for the past few months, Lee has been solicited by his family repeatedly and has, at each turn, refused them.

  And then I tell them about going to see Holbin Hill with Lee this morning, how he asked to go, how he told me about Julia’s final offer, how in the caves we were confronted and assaulted by Power, and Lee asked not to be allowed the chance to run but rather to be brought to Atreus to make a confession.

  Finally, I pull my mother’s necklace out of the neck of my uniform, show it to Atreus, and explain how I got it. It feels like I’m undressing before him. Surprise shows on his face again. It is unclear if he is surprised more by what I am telling him, or by the fact that I’m telling it.

  “Your account is as remarkable as Lee’s,” Atreus says. “He described something incredible, and you have confirmed it.”

  “He’s loyal to you,” I say. “He believes in you.”

  “I’m not sure it’s me he believes in,” Atreus says. “In any case, thank you.”

  As we rise, his tone becomes businesslike. “For the time being, please tell those who ask that Lee has been apprehended following charges of misconduct. Whatever more you choose to disclose to your fellow Guardians should remain within Cloister walls. Effective immediately, you are promoted to acting Firstrider and fleet commander.”

  A month ago, it would be a promotion I dreamed of, and a month before that, one I didn’t dare to dream of. Today, it comes as a blow.

  Acting, I reassure myself. He said “acting.”

  “What about Power and Darius?”

  “I will speak with them next.”

  * * *

  ***

  I set a meeting in the oration room for the evening, before dinner, where I’ll debrief the corps. In the meantime, I cross-reference schedules, and at the hour I know everyone I need will be free, I round up the ones I’m most sure I can rely on: Crissa, Rock, Cor, Lotus, and Duck. In the classroom that’s become the fleet commander’s office—which I refuse to think of as mine—I tell them the full version of what happened, rather than the one I’ll present to the corps later today. That Lee’s been apprehended, that Power and Darius made an attempt at vigilante justice and are currently being questioned by Atreus, that Lee is in the stockade, because—

  “Because Lee is the son of Leon Stormscourge,” Rock repeats.

  “Yes.”

  Here’s where they’ve grown incredulous. But I’m determined to talk it through with the riders I rely on most. Not just for their loyalty to Lee: for their standing in the corps. And I want to give as much time as I can for them to grow accustomed to this truth.

  “The dragonlord Leon Stormscourge?” Rock presses.

  “Yes.”

  The office feels crowded with so many people inside it, the low ceiling beams even lower. I’m standing behind the desk, Lee’s chair vacant beside me; the five of them are gathered in a loose ring around it, some leaning against the walls, some sitting. Rock sinks down into a chair, curses loudly and then, to my surprise, says, “This explains so much.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Rock’s calloused hands open in a shrug. “He was always just so—”

  “Good at everything?” Lotus suggests, from where he leans against the locked door, his arms folded.

  “Yeah . . .”

  Cor is hunched in the other chair, bent over his lap. He speaks for the first time since I’ve told them. “And now we know why.”

  I feel the beginnings of frustration prickle.

  “Don’t do this,” I tell them. “Lee earned his place, just like the rest of us.”

  “Yeah,” says Rock dubiously, “but it must have been—easier for him.”

  Although it’s a thought I’ve been grappling with for years, I’ve no patience for it now. “It wasn’t easier for him.”

  “Yeah, really? Name one thing that wasn’t.”

  Crissa has been standing with her back partly turned to the group as she stares out the narrow window at the Cloister court
yard. “Palace Day,” she murmurs.

  Panes of glass cast small squares of light across her face. It takes the rest of them a moment to understand her meaning. Cor lifts his head. “He wasn’t . . . ?”

  I nod. “He was.”

  “Oh, dragons,” says Cor quietly, placing his thumb and index finger against his forehead. “So all those nightmares—they were of—”

  Cor’s bed has been next to Lee’s since we got here. It’s the first time I’ve considered what that would mean. Cor’s never spoken about it; none of the boys have. “Yes.”

  It’s a moment before anyone speaks again. And then Lotus murmurs, “I always thought his Dragontongue was a little too good . . .”

  It seems Lotus couldn’t resist remarking this aloud. Crissa, still looking out the window, allows a watery smile, like she appreciates the moment of levity. Rock just snorts.

  “That’s what you’re thinking about, of all things?” Rock puts his head in his hands and lets out a groan. “I just realized . . . I taught a Stormscourge how to do collections. Lee’s uncle killed people I know.”

  A noise of impatience escapes me, and I realize immediately afterward I shouldn’t have let it. It’s enough to catch Rock’s attention. He lifts his head from his hands and looks at me.

  “No,” he says. “Leon—that wasn’t the one who—”

  I nod.

  “What’s going on?” Lotus says, looking between Rock and me.

  Crissa exhales slowly but sharply, so that it makes a small sound: like the realization she’s made has caused her pain. Cor’s eyes narrow, like he too understands. I look past them all to Duck. He has eased himself onto the floor, his back against the wall, his knees drawn to his chest. He alone of them all doesn’t look surprised. I remember his expression, on Palace Day, as we listened to Lee vomiting and he asked nothing.

  “Did you know?”

  Duck stirs.

  “I didn’t . . . know, exactly. But you and him, you’ve always been a little strange around each other.”

  Crissa lets out an appreciative, shaky snort.