Liberator

by Bryan Davis

  “I think so.” He added a quick nod. “Thanks.”

  After sloshing to dry ground, Jason, still dragging the raft, collapsed with Elyssa and sprawled across the grass, panting. As their breathing eased, they rolled to their backs and basked in the mid-morning sunshine. Elyssa turned to Jason and grinned. “I can’t believe you brought the raft!”

  “I thought we could use it on the way back.” He shrugged. “No use wasting it.”

  “I’m not complaining. I just think you’re amazing.”

  Jason returned the grin. “The girl who pushed a mountain of water upstream just called me amazing. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  After resting a few minutes, Jason helped Elyssa to her feet. She shifted from side to side as if still riding the raft.

  “Can you walk?”

  She nodded. “I think so, at least for a little while.”

  “Let me know if you need to rest again.”

  “I will.” As a warm breeze blew past, she looked to the north. “How close are we?”

  “It’s still pretty far. Quite a few hours, I think.” Jason took Elyssa’s hand and walked back to the river. Water gushed southward and overran both banks.

  Now on the eastern bank, they could walk through the meadow and look for signs of an approaching army in the distance. At the speed they had traveled on the raft, they hadn’t been able to search for any marks Adrian had made, so it was impossible to tell how far ahead he might be.

  As they walked northward, mist began to fill the air, then a light drizzle fell. Clouds to the north thickened and blew their way, like a rolling wall of gray fog that veiled the horizon. A breeze kicked up, driving the icy wetness into their faces.

  Elyssa tied her hair back in a quick knot. “I’m feeling better. Let’s hurry.”

  They jogged side by side, Elyssa to Jason’s right. Ice pellets mixed into the rain, forcing them to blink, and droplets began trickling from their hair down their cheeks. Soon Jason’s tunic and Elyssa’s vest grew wet in front, adding to the chill, though his cloak stayed fairly warm and dry.

  After a few minutes, a dark line appeared in the midst of the fog, too blurry to tell what it might be. Jason glanced sideways at Elyssa. Her furrowed brow proved that she was already probing the mystery.

  “Marching men,” she said, puffing vapor as she spoke. “I can’t tell how many, but I think they’re about three miles away.”

  Jason reached out and guided her to a stop. “We might as well rest. They’ll get here eventually, and when they do, we’ll probably have to march with them.”

  “Only if they found Koren. If they have her, they’ve already been exposed to the disease. If they don’t have her, we have to keep looking for her, and we can’t let them just walk into the Southlands and catch the disease.”

  They sat together in the midst of the tall grass and flowers, facing the oncoming soldiers. With their clothes already damp, the moist ground mattered little. The fog thickened, hiding the soldiers, but the sound of tromping feet pressed onward. They would arrive soon.

  As the cool wind bent the grass blades against their shoulders, Elyssa scooted closer to Jason, touching hip to hip. “Do you know what this reminds me of?”

  He turned toward her. With wet hair plastered over her forehead and down her cheeks, she posed in a familiar way. When she emerged from the dungeon, her hair was matted and her face gaunt, though her eyes sparkled with delight. At the time, her eyes had raised images of verdant meadows, the color of life. Now, with her entire face aglow and a verdant meadow providing a sheltering embrace, the moments they sat under the roots of a toppled tree came to mind. “I think so.”

  She rubbed her arms. “A lot has changed since then.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Her brow lifted. As she shivered, her eyes sparkled in the same way they had that evening. “Do you really?”

  Jason pulled his cloak off and spread it over her shoulders. After he had tucked it in around her, he smiled.

  “Yes, I do.”

  She lifted her index finger. He looped his with hers, then recited the chant they had shared as children. “We’re hooked by these fingers together, as brother and sister forever. Like gander and goose, we’ll never break loose, no dagger or dragon can sever.”

  As they stared at each other, Elyssa whispered, “Brother and sister forever?”

  Jason switched to his ring finger and hooked it with hers. “If we both survive, we’ll talk about changing the lyrics.”

  A tear slid down her cheek. She drew her finger gently away and leaned against his shoulder. The fog continued to thicken, and the stomps of heavy boots grew louder and closer, making the ground vibrate. The thunder of war had arrived, and one way or another, deadly battles would soon begin.

  “If we both survive,” she said softly. “That’s a step no one can skip.”

  Randall stood with Frederick in the clearing, searching the sky for Xenith or Fellina.

  “My cabin is in that direction,” Frederick said, pointing to the south. “Flying by dragon should take only a few minutes.”

  “Then Fellina and Tibalt could have returned by now.” Randall scanned the forest floor. The debris appeared to be in the same chaotic mess he had left it — scorch marks, ashes, and blood—and the drone’s carcass still lay in the same position. “Maybe the children already have the disease, and Fellina is arranging a way to transport them.”

  “Or there is trouble afoot.” Frederick kicked the dead dragon’s tail. “I have never seen a patrol drone this close to my cabin. If others are around, they might have noticed Fellina and followed her.”

  “Good point.”

  The beating of wings filled the forest. A dragon dropped through the canopy at a sharp angle, breaking branches as it fell. With a louder flurry, it landed in an awkward slide, its forelegs digging into the leaves and underbrush as it slowed to a stop.

  Randall whipped out his sword and stepped toward it, but Frederick pulled him back. “Don’t worry. It’s Xenith.”

  Wagging her head, Xenith turned toward them, breathless. “I think I eluded them.”

  “Them?” Randall asked.

  “My fellow dragons were hiding from the Benefile in the mountains. Three followed me, I assume to find the refuge. Of course, I led them elsewhere. I had to dive in and out of the forest, including a swim in the marshes. They became entangled in vines, and I was able to out-race them. When I saw you, I took cover.”

  “That was very resourceful,” Randall said. “They must be spitting mad at you.”

  Her eyes flashed wide open. “Get down!” Randall dove into the debris. Xenith covered him with a wing. Now in near darkness, he listened to the sounds above, trying to imagine what was going on. Wings fluttered. Dragons growled. Branches splintered. Yet the chaos occurred well over their heads.

  After several more seconds, Xenith lifted her wing. “They’re gone.”

  As Randall climbed to his feet, vine fragments filtered through the branches and fell to the ground. He picked up a four-foot section and showed it to Frederick, who was climbing out from under the drone’s wing. “Evidence of Xenith’s brilliant maneuvering.”

  “I met her only once at her cave,” Frederick said. “Arxad is very proud of her flying skills. He says there is no one better in the land.”

  Xenith bowed her head. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  “So they didn’t find the refuge,” Randall said. “You’re sure of that.”

  “Those three did not find it by following me, because I was still looking for it myself, but I cannot be sure whether or not other dragons have found it. Many are looking.”

  Frederick gazed toward the south. “Then Fellina is probably waiting there or close by, unable to leave because they’re watching for her.”

  “Or her new injuries are more severe than she thought,” Randall said.

  “New injuries?” Xenith’s tail whipped the ground, scattering leaves. “What happened here? Who
killed that drone?”

  Frederick patted her neck. “Your mother and Randall killed it. The drone bit her in the underbelly, but she was well enough to fly, so we assume she’s okay. At least that’s what Randall told me.”

  “Right now I’m not sure of anything.” Randall checked his scabbard and refastened his sword belt. “Frederick, I think we need to split up. You go on foot to the refuge. If Xenith is willing, she can take me to check on the slaves in the village. Since the other dragons fear the Benefile, I don’t think we’ll be followed.”

  “But my mother might need me,” Xenith said. “I can travel by land with Frederick.”

  Frederick reached high and laid a hand on the side of her snout. “Hear me, Xenith. Now is not the time to listen to your heart. You must listen to your brain. Where are you most needed? Whom will your speed and cunning most benefit? Will a fast dragon be needed to deliver a cure for the disease? Who else could fly Randall to the village without getting caught by the Bloodless? And don’t forget, your father is out there somewhere. It’s possible that only he knows how to defeat the white dragons, so you must locate him, even if it means going to the Northlands. Once you do, your speed in leading him back here or delivering his strategy might be the salvation of us all. If you decline, all could be lost.”

  A dour expression sagged Xenith’s features. “You sound very much like my father. Mix logic with a dose of guilt, and he can get me to do anything.”

  “Then you’ll go?” Randall asked.

  Xenith let out a deep sigh. “I will go. Get on my back.”

  When Randall settled at the base of her neck, he touched the hilt of his sword. “You’ll need a weapon.”

  Frederick smiled. “I stashed a few here and there. Don’t worry.”

  “Sounds good.” Randall patted Xenith’s neck. “Let’s go.” Xenith bent low, ready to launch. “Hold tight, human. This will be a ride you will never forget.”

  Nine

  Koren tiptoed close to a set of miniature dragon heads, the pair of brass doorknobs that wouldn’t turn the last time she faced the great white doors. During that visit, Alaph refused to let her in, and her only view of the inner chamber came from a Starlighter vision while inside Exodus. But was the expanse of pure whiteness where she shed her black dress and boots a reflection of reality, or just an imagined portrait of the mysterious room?

  Now dressed in a simple beige V-neck tunic that fell nearly to her knees, baggy gray trousers that would drop right off if not for a leather cord around her waist, and the same blue cloak she had worn throughout her journeys, she felt so different. Although the killer disease continued to gnaw painful holes beneath her newly healed skin, a few hours of sleep had brought a feeling of freshness and freedom that coursed from the top of her head down to her bare toes. Even Resolute had noticed the attitude difference during their walk here, saying that a glow emanated from Koren’s eyes. Maybe some of the power she had gained after taking a stardrop had returned.

  Soon Resolute would return with Orson. After catching some rest himself, he had risen at dawn to talk to Alaph and prepare some things for making the medicine. Perhaps he felt the freshness as well. With prospects for a cure rising, it seemed that hope flooded the air.

  Koren reached into her tunic’s outer pocket — an accessory few tunics in Starlight had—and withdrew the box Cassabrie had given Orson. Black and rectangular, it weighed very little, no more than a meat-scraps muffin. At the center, a red button was recessed within a raised circle of black metal, apparently to prevent someone from depressing the button accidentally. She read the white letters near the edge at the heel of her hand—DETONATE.

  She slid the box back into her pocket. This was likely the same one she had found in the room next to the star chamber, but the meaning of the word remained a mystery.

  The clopping of boots sounded from behind. “Little K! I’m coming.”

  Koren smiled. Her father used that name every chance he could, as if trying to make up for all the years they had been separated.

  He hustled to her side, Resolute guiding him, her glow brightening the corridor. “I apologize for being late,” he said. “I’m glad you found it on your own.”

  “No one can find this place on their own.” Koren winked at Resolute. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  Grinning, Resolute curtsied, then ran away, her feet barely touching the floor. The light in the hallway ebbed until only an odd ambient glow remained, as if particles in the air itself radiated energy.

  Koren took her father’s hand and looked up at him. “I’ve been wondering about something.” She flexed her toes against the cool marble floor. “I guess I died before I could talk, and I don’t remember any other father, so … what should I call you?”

  He cleared his throat and smoothed out his tunic, similarly oversized and dull of color. “I suppose, considering your age and maturity, that Father would be appropriate. We are both too old for Papa or Daddy, I think.”

  “Maybe not.” She wrapped her arms around his torso and laid her head on his shoulder. “I’ll call you Father, but I hope I’m never too old to call you Daddy if I need to.”

  He laid his hand on the back of her head. “And I hope you never outgrow Little K.”

  She drew away and stared into his gray eyes. “No!

  Never!”

  “Good.” He gestured toward the door. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  “Thank you.” Koren grasped the dragon head on the right side, letting her hand linger. Unlike before, it didn’t heat up at all. She turned it and pulled the door open. Although the panel rose well over her head and the width spanned the length of a dragon wing, it felt as light as a feather.

  A shaft of radiance spilled through and washed over her body. Like chalky water poured from a pail, whiteness spread across her clothes and skin until she was as white as the door itself. Her father, too, had turned white, though his eyes remained gray.

  They entered together, hand in hand. As in her vision, the chamber appeared to be nothing but whiteness. “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  “Only once. I brought Cassabrie’s finger and the other ingredients. Alaph said the test should be performed here. He didn’t say why, other than we would learn the answers we’re seeking.”

  As they continued, Koren looked back. Even the door opening had disappeared, replaced by whiteness. “I can’t see the ingredients. Everything is white.”

  “Your eyes will adjust in a few more seconds.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the whiteness dissolved. A table appeared an arm’s length away. Thrice the size of Madam Orley’s food-preparation table, an adult could lie down on it with room to spare. Koren touched the surface, cool and clean. As dark as marsh oak, the grains felt fine and smooth.

  A scarlet box sat at the center. No bigger than her hand, it seemed to be made out of wood, but what sort of tree produced wood so red?

  As the whiteness continued to melt away, a hearth took shape behind the table. Flames crackled on a stack of logs in a brick fireplace, an unusual sight in the hot Southlands village.

  Orson picked up a set of tongs leaning next to the fireplace and pinched a small cup within the flames. When he drew it out, the casing pulsed orange, and thin blue smoke rose from whatever bubbled inside. The cup looked like the mortar Madam Orley used for grinding herbs, small enough to nestle in a hand and thick enough to endure the grinding.

  He lowered the cup carefully and set it next to the red box. The contact raised a loud sizzle, but it seemed to do no harm to the wooden surface.

  “There.” Father leaned the tongs against the wall. “Now for the critical step.”

  Koren watched his every move. With furrowed brow and steady hands, he opened the red box and slid it closer to her. Inside, a finger lay in velvet. Stitched closed at the base, it appeared to be unchanged from the moment Zena pushed it into her hand. Without blemish or corruption, it looked like it could be reattached and used with
out a problem.

  “Cassabrie’s,” she whispered.

  “Yes, I have heard the story.” Her father set a needle and thread on the table, then withdrew a thin blade from an inner pocket. “This is called a scalpel, a cutting tool we humans used before the disease first ravaged the world. Its main purpose is to cut with precision.”

  Koren bit her lip. If that meant what she thought it meant …

  “You might not want to watch.”

  “I think I should.” Koren fixed her stare on her father’s hand. He set the scalpel on the finger near the stitched base and pressed downward. With a sickening thunk, the blade sliced through skin and bone, separating a quarter-inch section from the rest of the finger.

  As blood oozed from both parts, Father quickly stitched the open end of the finger. “Fortunately, the bone has softened over time, and with no heart pumping, blood loss is minimal. Since we need this finger to provide for many diseased souls, however, we don’t want to lose any genetic material.”

  When he finished stitching, he laid the finger back in its place, then scooped the severed section with the scalpel and poised it over the cup. “Take a few steps back. When I drop this into the crucible, you will want a wider view.”

  Koren shuffled backwards. “The crucible?”

  “A vessel used for melting materials at high temperatures. It’s made of graphite, a substance with which you are likely unfamiliar. On Major Four we also use crucible to describe a severe test or trial. If Alaph’s description of his expectations is correct, we will see how appropriate the word is.”

  With a turn of the scalpel, he dropped the bloody section and backed away, nearly stumbling as he kept his stare on the crucible. The mixture just sizzled, not much louder than before.

  Blinking, Orson walked toward the table. “Perhaps it caught on the inner part —”

  Phoom! A huge ball of thick blue smoke erupted. Orson stumbled backwards, but Koren caught him.