Dragonoak

by Sam Farren

  Letting out a heavy breath, Atthis said, “I'm sorry, Rowan. I'm sorry for what happened to you,” and I shuffled in my chair, somehow made uncomfortable by the fact that he believed it all without question. His unwavering acceptance made me feel as though I was lying, my own mind turning against its memories. “I never would've thought... had I any idea, I would've intervened.”

  “But she's your niece,” I said, unable to speak her name. “And now she's in jail, because of—”

  “Because of what she chose to do,” Atthis said firmly. “Never blame yourself for that.”

  Said the man who still blamed himself for what had become of Kastelir.

  I stared down at the bare floor between my feet, fingers digging into the arm of the chair, and silence enveloped us both.

  “Rowan,” he said after a few minutes had crawled by. “Do you remember when we first met? I dare say you recall it with far more clarity than I do. I only had a vague notion of your existence because of the frequency with which Kouris mentioned you. Perhaps this sounds cruel, but I was a King, and I had been for thirty long years. I was used to dealing with an entire country. I was occupied with cities, not individuals.

  “Sometimes I feel as though I no longer know how to sit down and talk to people without the weight of a kingdom on my shoulders. I apologise if I don't say the things you need to hear, Rowan, but know that you've been in my thoughts.”

  “No, no,” I said, leaning forward. “I think I just spent so long convincing myself that everyone would be angry at me that I was determined to believe it, no matter what you said. But I like talking to you, Atthis. It's like... it's like talking to my dad. He always listened, even if he didn't know what to say.”

  A smile flickered across Atthis' face, and we finally allowed ourselves to feel at ease around each other. Getting to his feet, I watched with idle curiosity as Atthis moved over to his desk, murmuring, “I got you something,” under his breath.

  I leant to the side, wondering why he was sorting through a stack of books on the way to finding whatever it was he'd got me. Atthis wasn't the sort to buy gifts, though he'd often insist on paying for what he could of mine at market, and judging from the way that he held a book out to me, he wasn't very good at it, either.

  Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I took the book, smoothing a hand across the cover. It was an old, dusty thing, almost too thick to wrap my hand around, and I dropped it into my lap, tracing the shape of a phoenix on the front.

  “Thank you... ?”

  “I didn't forget that you can't read,” he hurried to say, “I happened upon this while searching for Mesomium books in Votas, and thought you might like it.”

  There was something he wasn't telling me. I pulled the book open, spine cracking, and found a diagram of a phoenixes' outstretched wing.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I'd read it before, years ago. I believe it's considered the definitive text on phoenixes: physiology, culture, history and all. The Sky Beneath The Sun,” he said, and after a pause, added, “... by, ah. Tacita Ightham.”

  “Oh,” I said, closing the book. “... oh.”

  Atthis hovered in front of me for a moment more, when it suddenly occurred to him that neither of us had anything to drink. He hurried to the tiny kitchen area to fix that, making far too much noise with glasses as he took them from a cupboard, and I stared down at the cover of the book, tracing my fingers over a name I couldn't read. A long time ago, what felt like years longer ago than it had truly been, I'd spoken to Atthis about Claire. I'd said far more than I could even imagine allowing myself to think now, but he'd known. About her name, about the book I hadn't known the title of.

  “It has lots of pictures,” Atthis said, bringing the drinks over. “Should you ever want anyone to read it to you...”

  “Thank you,” I said, meaning it, that time.

  Still clutching the book, I took a sip of the water and said, “Kouris and Akela said that you got a letter from Galal.”

  Atthis did his best not to smile, trying to quell and hopes that threatened to rise, but didn't succeed particularly well.

  “It was only a brief letter. Not addressed to me, of course. He probably thinks I... well, I doubt anyone would think to look for us here. It seems the resistance – and there is a resistance for us to return to, Rowan – is doing all it can to garner support. His letter was meant for Canth, meant to reach the Queen, I expect, explaining what had truly happened to Kastelir. The man who'd agreed to help me send a letter towards Kastelir happened upon it and thought it might interest me. No doubt it was written months ago – a year ago, even – but there it is. My son is alive and Kastelir did not fall when we fled.”

  I couldn't help but mirror his smile. All the pieces were in place, and the thought of Kastelir having crumbled in its entirety no longer haunted us, no longer gave us reason to stay in Canth for fear we might return and find nothing but ash. We were all beyond restless, and there I was, the only one with any chance of getting us across the ocean.

  Book clutched to my chest, I said, “... I think I might be able to get us back, Atthis.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  “How's the Queen?” Reis asked.

  They were sat on the sofa with one of the heftier account books folded open across their lap, while Tae slumped next to them, staring vacantly into the misery plaguing her mind.

  “Busy, but she seemed nice. I think,” I said, “What's wrong with her?”

  “Tae here wants to know why I can't just finance a ship she's got her eye on, so I'm being kind enough to run through some numbers with her,” Reis said, grinning.

  Wide-eyed, Tae mouthed help, and I didn't bother pretending I hadn't noticed.

  “Have fun with that,” I said, “Is Kouris in?”

  “Aye,” Reis said, nodding towards her bedroom door.

  I found Kouris sat cross-legged on the floor with a stack of clothing folded across one knee and needle clasped between her claws. She was whistling airily through her fangs, and her ears perked up at the sight of me.

  “Yrval!” she said, holding out an arm to me. I perched on the edge of her unoccupied knee and carefully, she placed the needle and thread on her bedside cabinet. “Was starting to think I might have to march down to Chandaran to make sure everything was alright. Well? What was it like?”

  Kouris knew why I'd gone to the capital, but she didn't instantly ask me if I'd got what I'd gone down there for. And not because she doubted I'd succeeded, but because it let me know that no matter what, we had a home here, we had a family, together in Canth. If Queen Nasrin wouldn't help us back, there were still plenty of things for us to try.

  “It was like... Isin's castle. If someone took all of the carpets and paintings and statues, got rid of most of the staff and all the good food, too. Queen Nasrin is... she's definitely dedicated,” I said. “I doubt she's ever taken a five-minute break in her life.”

  “I'd believe it,” Kouris said, splaying a hand across my back as I leant against her. “If you think Canth's got problems now, you should've seen what it was like before she took the throne. Her father's untimely death made a lot of people happy. Yin Zhou wouldn't stop going on about how fortuitous tragedy could be. Hear she bought up half the art in the palace.”

  “Guess who else was there,” I said, knowing she never would. Kouris lifted her brow curiously and I said, “Kondo-Kana.”

  Kouris didn't laugh, not entirely convinced that I was messing with her, but she didn't hold back her scepticism, either.

  “That so?” she asked, frowning.

  “No, really! It wasn't even the first time I'd met her. You remember that temple I went to with Akela a while ago, don't you? She was there. The map was originally from Varn, who got it from the Queen, who must've got it for Kondo-Kana. Apparently she's always doing her favours. I didn't say anything because... I don't know why. I didn't know who she was then, but it was as though I wanted to keep it a secret. From myself, too,” I rushed to exp
lain. “But she was the one who'd called me to Chandaran in the first place. The Queen didn't want to see me. Kondo-Kana did. It was like... like how meeting you would've been, if I hadn't been terrified of pane. And she told me that I can make this stop—”

  I paused, clenching my hands into fists.

  “I can draw all this light back inside myself. It doesn't have to be like this forever.”

  One corner of Kouris' mouth pulled into the start of a smile, and I stood, arms draped over her shoulders. She looked at me – not at the glow, but at me – as she always had, and strands of light simmered down inside of me.

  “One of these days we're gonna get back to Felheim and you're gonna have to tell your dad about the friends you've made,” she said, knocking her forehead against mine. “You've got interesting taste, that's for sure.”

  With a laugh, I slumped back against her side, mind full of answers to questions she'd yet to ask. I watched her patch up the clothing she'd been attending to before I interrupted her, waiting for her to ask me if I'd had any luck, but she only hummed as though she was content to stay there until the end of her days.

  “What if,” I began. “What if there was a way to get back to Felheim? And we didn't have to worry about hurting any of the soldiers guarding the coast, the soldiers who think they're saving Kastelir from dragons. We only had to kill one person. Someone who deserved it, who'd already hurt plenty of others. What then?”

  “That's an oddly specific hypothetical situation you've got there, yrval,” Kouris said, turning her sewing in her lap.

  “It's Gavern,” I grumbled, seeing no way around being forthright. “Queen Nasrin said she'll help me – us – get home, once he's not causing problems for her anymore.”

  Bringing her sewing close to her face and focusing on it more intently than ever, she said, “No one wakes up one morning and decides to kill someone, just like that.”

  “Really?” I asked, getting to my feet. “Because, you know, it kind of felt like Katja did that exact thing—”

  The words had been as clear as they were strong in my mind, and they passed my lips with a grave certainly. The moment they were in the air, however, I felt my throat dry up and every thought I'd been circling around for the last few weeks swirled within me, draining into my chest and leaving me glowing brighter than I had in days.

  “Yrval,” Kouris said, sewing forgotten.

  She reached a hand out to me but I stepped back, pulling my balled fists towards my chests.

  “Don't,” I said, and without missing a beat, added, “Sorry. Sorry, I...”

  Kouris didn't reach out for me again. She slid back, pressing against the wall, and gave me all the space I needed.

  “No need to be apologising, yrval,” she said, doing her best to smile. “Just remember, you don't have to be doing anything for anyone. Not even a Queen. It's your choice. No one's gonna blame you if you don't go through with this. We'll find another way, I promise you that.”

  But how could they not? It could take years to find another way back to Asar, and all I had to do was think our way home. It wouldn't take any more than that, and I wouldn't have to hurt anyone else. If they came for me, I could push death into them just long enough to allow me to escape, and...

  I was already thinking it through, already forming plans in my mind.

  I didn't share my decision with anyone but Varn. I thought she'd be happy to know that her journey hadn't been a waste of time, but she only huffed and grumbled about having to stay in Mahon until we tracked him down. She told me to leave the hard work to her, and said that I needed to look less like I'd eaten a fucking jar of fireflies, or we'd never get close to Gavern.

  I found outlets for my powers. I didn't intend to work as a healer, and never did so in an official capacity, but people came to me for help, and the pressure built up within me eked out, little by little. The pirates were fussier than those I'd been used to, back in the village: they wanted the aches and pains gone, along with anything that would hinder them, but certain scars had to be saved. Unless they cut through their tattoos at the wrong angle, that was.

  It'd been good for me, good for the town. A necromancer in Port Mahon meant that merchants were willing to bring their wares to the docks once more.

  I'd draw the pain out of what remained of Reis' leg, when the wood rubbed against flesh, or it ached for what it had lost, and at the end of the day, I'd do what I could to settle my mind, light coiling back within me. I thought of Claire, but the results were never consistent. Some days, the light would fade from me as though I'd pinched a candle wick, and others, I'd find myself burning bright, shaking, no matter how I clutched at my wrist.

  I learnt to draw it in for minutes at a time, and found that the hand was still there, beneath the light, fingers curling without its influence.

  I'd not long been awake one morning when Varn came over, light rising with the sun. A month into her stay in Mahon and she was still avoiding Reis; I heard footsteps on the pier outside, and turned to see her clambering through my window, landing heavily on the bed and making herself comfortable.

  “Good morning,” I said, watching her punch the shape back into a pillow.

  “Alright. Thought you'd be caught up at the temple again,” she said, treating my bedroom like a corridor. “Actually, wanted to have a word with you about some stuff.”

  I wanted to have a word with her too – namely to inform her that I wasn't hurting for business; she didn't have to keep sending people my way – but the stack of parchment in her lap distracted me.

  “Writing a letter?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, setting her jaw, but I found her considerably less hostile, when it was only the two of us. “... to Lanta. I can read fine, that ain't a problem, but I'm not so good at the writing. Figured I'd get help.”

  “From Reis?”

  I flashed Varn a grin but that didn't soften the blow.

  “From Kouris,” she said, and had I been sat next to her, she might just have given me a black eye.

  Varn didn't move. She thumbed through the pages, half of them looking to be letters from Atalanta, while the rest contained no more than a few scattered words. Deciding that it was my bed, after all, I flopped down next to her, propped up on my elbows.

  “Wanna help?” she asked, thwacking my forehead with the letters.

  “I can't write, either,” I told her. “Or read.”

  “Yeah? Canthian harder than Felheimish or something?”

  “Nope. Just can't read or write,” I said, knocking the pages to the side. “And it's Mesomium, not Felheimish.”

  Varn didn't care, neither about the fact that I couldn't write nor the name of my mother tongue, and with a sigh, she sunk down until her legs were dangling off the bed. I knew better than to ask if she was alright, sure she'd take it as an insult, and so I watched her from the corner of my eye until she'd had enough of me looking at her.

  “Okay: here's a question,” she said. “Say someone comes and puts a sword straight between my ribs—you could bright me back, right? What if someone stuck knives in my head? Three of 'em.”

  “Why would somebody stick three knives in your head?” I asked, and Varn groaned, throwing her hands in the air and slamming them back against the mattress.

  “Just curious, North Woods. But anyway, get this,” she said, pausing to press her palms flat to the bed and push herself back into a sitting position. “We're getting somewhere. Finally. I did a favour for Yia a bunch of years back – you know, works at that one brothel but thinks she's too good for it? – and she's got a cousin who's even more of a disappointment to her family than she is. He only went and got himself mixed up in Gavern's business. Anyway, turns out he defected a month ago, showing some bloody sense, and he told Yia where Gavern goes to restock on gunpowder the first of every month.

  “Now, it's a good week's sail from here, but lucky for us, it ain't the first for another eight days. So I suggest you pack yourself a bag while I'm talking wi
th Kouris, and then we can get the hell out of here.”

  I'd grown accustomed to Varn being in Port Mahon, and while thoughts of Gavern were always pressing to the back of my mind, I'd half-convinced myself that I was the only one who knew anything about it. Varn had simply returned to Mahon as people expected her to, and the two of us had managed to strike up something that could be mistaken for a friendship, after a few ales.

  “What? Now? Today?”

  “Thought you were as eager to go through with this as me,” Varn said, getting to her feet. I opened my mouth to say something more, but she beat me to it, snapping, “Oi. Don't go backing out, Rowan. Not after I've spent all this goddamn time down here, having to deal with everyone trying to start shit with me. You told me you were up for this, so let's get to it. Don't stand a chance without you.”

  I'd been certain that we wouldn't find Gavern; or if we did, it would be so far in the future that I would've miraculously become prepared to deal with all of this. Saying I'd kill him when he was a distant concept was one thing, but Varn knew someone who knew someone who knew him. In a port of pirates, that meant it was as good as done.

  There was no backing out now, no matter how I tried to scrape together some excuse. What if we waited another month, what if we ensured there was some truth to what Yia's cousin had said first? But Varn didn't want to hear any of it, and I couldn't bring myself to form the words.

  “Pack. C'mon,” she said, pulling the door open an inch to check that Reis wasn't anywhere to be seen. “I've got a boat for us. In a few weeks, I'll be back in Chandaran and you'll be on your way back to the woods.”

  The door swung shut behind Varn and I belatedly got to my feet, wondering what I was supposed to pack in order to go kill someone.

  I paced across the room, planning out how I'd knock on Kouris' door, find her helping Varn write a letter, and say, I'm sorry, Varn. I can't go through with it, but you can go home. Varn wouldn't care, so long as she got out of there. Or perhaps she would; perhaps she was more invested in Canth's future than she liked to let on. After all, she'd left this all behind to serve the Queen, and no matter how big a part of that Atalanta had been, Varn was too head-strong to be dragged anywhere she didn't want to be.