Dragonoak

by Sam Farren

  I'd had my story worked out for days.

  “My brother's up there. He's been... studying the pane,” I said. It was true, for all intents and purposes, but I patronised the pane more than I would've liked to; anything to make it seem like my goal was to meet up with my brother, location entirely incidental. “I'd been living in Yastin, but I'd heard there might be trouble with the rebels...”

  Yastin had been in fine shape when I passed it two days ago, but the mention of rebels was enough to earn the soldier's sympathy.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I'm on duty until sundown. If you need anything, come back this way.”

  I thanked her and went on my way, trying not to hurry. I'd done it. I'd got past the Felheimish checkpoint with a simple lie, and all that remained was to wind my way up to Kyrindval. The thought of scaling the mountain wasn't so daunting, now that I'd strolled past the soldiers, and I couldn't wipe the grin off my face at the thought of seeing my brother. The thought of seeing Michael was actually making me smile. For the first twenty-three years of my life I'd seen him almost every day without fail. I never imagined a time would come where we'd be parted long enough for me to miss him.

  Charley and I made our way up the mountain at a slow, steady pace. When the path began to narrow, I hopped off his back and lead him by the reins for as long as I was confident I could keep him safe. I left him in a small clearing when his hooves started to slip against the steep terrain, and scattered what remained of the food in the grass around him.

  “Won't be for long, boy,” I promised. “I'll get the pane to come down and help you up as soon as I reach Kyrindval.”

  More interested in chomping down on an apple than hearing me out, Charley let me leave without complaint.

  I plastered my hands against the mountain face as I continued on my way, able to feel how high up I was. I didn't have to look down; the wind felt different here, somehow older and wiser, and each step I took pushed Bosma further from me. It was by no means an enjoyable process, but my heart didn't leap into my throat in the same way it had the first time I'd visited Kyrindval. Perhaps I had more faith in my abilities. Perhaps climbing a mountain was nothing compared to what I'd been through. Either way, within an hour I'd made considerable progress.

  It was around then that voices drifted down to me. I couldn't have been far from Kyrindval itself, but I knew a pane when I heard one, and I wasn't about to walk into anyone with horns.

  I caught one man saying, “... hate this part. Always feel like I'm gonna tumble off the edge.”

  Another man grunted.

  “Waste of time. The pane are always oblivious to everything going on. Why we trusting anything that comes outta Orinhal, anyway?”

  I glanced around, working out what my options were. I had a handful of seconds before our paths crossed and nowhere to go but forward; if I rushed down the mountain I'd do just what the man – a soldier, no doubt – feared, and the side was too steep to scale. It'd be alright. It'd be no different that the run-in I'd had with the soldier at the foot of the mountain. I braced myself, hand on the mountainside, waiting for the soldiers to turn the corner.

  There were five of them, and at least three started when they near-enough marched into me. I pressed myself flat against the mountain, gesturing for them to pass, but only one did. Their leader, the man who'd been grumbling about the downward descent from the sound of his voice, said, “On your way to Kyrindval, are you?”

  “I am,” I said.

  Nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about.

  “Got a name, lass?” he asked. One of the soldiers seemed grateful for any manner of break, but the others fixed narrowed gazes upon me, passing a strip of parchment between themselves.

  “Varn Southsea,” I replied a second too late.

  The soldier nodded, reclaiming the parchment and tucking it back into his pocket. “It's her,” he said, hand going to the hilt of his blade as the other soldiers' rang out in the air in unison. “Don't make direct contact with it.”

  “Wha—” I began, only to have a sword jabbed towards me. It stopped inches from my throat, wavering in the air at the mercy of an unsteady hand. I pushed my back harder against the mountainside, trying to become part of the stone itself.

  “I think there's been a mistake,” I tried again, voice hoarse.

  “Rowan... Rowan—it didn't say what your last name was,” the leader of the soldiers continued, and I knew what had happened. Of course I wasn't safe, just because I'd left Orinhal. Of course information was bound to spread further than the city limits. “We're to escort you to His Highness Prince Rylan's camp. Might as well make this easy for yourself.”

  I glanced around, searching for an escape. The soldiers' stances weren't strong; they were uncertain of what I'd do, and they weren't quite standing shoulder-to-shoulder. The blade was no longer threatening to spear through my throat. I could push myself off the mountainside and barge between them, but then what? I probably wouldn't be able to skid to a stop before bolting off the mountainside, let alone turn towards Kyrindval and outrun them.

  Trying to buy time for myself, as though it'd make a difference, I asked, “Why?”

  “Why?” a different soldier repeated. “The crime of necromancy.”

  A tumult of sickness washed through me, as though Katja herself were there. I did the only thing I could think to. I held my hand out and the soldiers flinched, as if I'd struck them. They were as ignorant as Gavern had been, as everyone always was; they thought they were safe so long as I didn't touch them, and they raised their swords higher, thinking that would save them.

  It'd be easy. It'd be too easy. All I had to do was push my thoughts out towards them. It wouldn't have to last for more than a minute. I could tie them up and run, I could get to Kyrindval before their legs were steady again, and yet my fingers were trembling.

  Katja had been right. She was always right about me. I couldn't just kill them. No matter what I told myself, I'd never go through with it. These soldiers thought they were doing the right thing. They thought they were taking in a murderous necromancer. I was the villain here.

  “How did you find me?” I asked, yet again stalling for time. My hand was still outstretched, like I was going to drown them in death.

  “Prince Rylan has ears everywhere. Orinhal most of all. Couple days ago, we got word that a necromancer was fleeing the city, along with a few helpful suggestions as to where you might head,” the soldier said. “Come quietly and it'll be easier for you. His Highness is a lenient man. Might even find a use for you.”

  My hands were grasping at nothing, death not rushing forth at my command. Katja remained right. Of course I wasn't going to kill them.

  But I wasn't going to let them take me, either. I couldn't. I remembered the chains around my wrists, binding me to the stove. I couldn't be imprisoned again. Couldn't, couldn't, couldn't.

  And so I did the only other thing I could.

  I charged forward.

  Swords swung out towards me, slicing the air, the back of my shoulder. I barrelled into one of the soldiers, hoping the impact would negate the force I'd pushed off with, but it was all for nothing. I rushed right off the edge of the mountain, and for a moment – for a single, all-consuming moment – I didn't fall. I hung in the air, free, fearless, and the ground roared beneath me, like a hungry maw.

  The mountains blurred and the sky slipped away. I told myself that I might die, but I wasn't going to stay dead; it was going to hurt, but I'd been hurt before. I could gather my broken bones and cracked skull back together. This was my choice, I was doing this. I had control here.

  But the mountain sloped. I didn't just hit the ground; the rocks rushed out towards me and I crashed into them. Everything darkened more than once, and I healed in the time it took for me to slam into another rock. After that, I tumbled through the swirling darkness, bile in my throat as I prepared for impact, heart giving out and beating itself back into a shallow rhythm over and over.

&nbs
p; I hit the ground, disappearing in a cloud of dust.

  There was pain, there was darkness, and there was little else.

  For a time, there was nothing.

  The pain and darkness crept back to me for seconds at a time as my body tried to heal; it would fade away, and I'd return for a flash of a moment, stronger, more determined. My fingers—I could flex my fingers. My hands were still under my control. And my elbows, I could use those.

  Where did it hurt?

  I tried to think, but thoughts split my skull from the inside.

  Darkness. Darkness.

  Pain.

  Pain in my chest, gathering there.

  I reached out but it wasn't my chest. Something hard, slick under my palms.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  My eyes rolled open. The world was bright and grey, upside down.

  I was caught on something. Pinned to the ground to stop me falling into the sky.

  I put my hands out again, bleary gaze following my touch.

  Rock.

  Rock where my chest should be, rising up, up. Skin and sinew pulsing around it, thrumming through the ground, trying to repair.

  Splattered organs smeared, torn from me.

  Ribs twisting, cracking back into shape.

  All of it failing.

  Nothing.

  My ears worked. There was something sliding, squelching. Hands on my shoulders, tugging, tugging. I opened my eyes, tried to see, but—

  Silence. Silence, silence, silence.

  It wasn't nothing, it was—

  I was thrown into the dirt. My shoulder hit the ground and the hole in my chest healed, closed over, and I gasped for breath. Alive. I was alive. My body ached with it, light seeping from every pore, and I screwed my eyes shut, forehead pressed to the dirt. I gripped at my chest, rocking on my knees, not throwing up, not throwing up.

  I wasn't healed over, not completely, but those same hands that had pried me off the rock took hold of my shoulders and forced me onto my back. My eyes flashed open, thick with colourless fire, and I saw a boot at my throat, a dragon-bone spear poised to split my head in two.

  And at the very end of the weapon, covered in my blood and gore, stood Kidira, eyes hard.

  PART III

  CHAPTER XVIII

  I didn't care about the blade. It was Kidira's eyes that sent me scrambling through the dirt. The hole in my chest had closed but my insides were still twisted around one another, nothing but pulp with no definable shape, unsure of its purpose. My chest was heavy with a lack of everything; my heart didn't pound, my lungs didn't expand, but I was moving, palms grazing against the ground as I pushed back, back.

  Kidira took a step forward, following me with her gaze and spear alike, and I collapsed onto my side when there was nowhere else to flee to. My back was against a mountain and I put my hands through the hole in my shirt, flesh soft and tender, unblemished, discomfort giving way to a pang of guilt so raw I could've choked on it.

  “Nnng.” I tried to speak but there was blood in my throat. Kidira pulled the spear back and my heart surged. “Don't!”

  I'd come back from the dead. I'd been impaled on a rock the width of my ribcage and my body had pulled itself back together in seconds. Yet there I was, staring up at Kidira, seeing Katja and all she'd done to me, all too aware of how weak I could be made to feel.

  “Don't hurt me, don't...” The words rasped out of me, lungs burning with their first breath. I held out a hand, pleading as though I already knew how useless it was, but something in my voice reached Kidira. Her grip loosened, knuckles no longer white around the spear, and it struck me how I must look to her: raised from the dead and as pale as the moon, eyes blazing with light, skin glowing.

  “I'm not going to hurt you,” Kidira said, teeth all but fused together. She lowered the spear and I stared at her; she was the Queen I remembered in everything but costume. She was dressed like a pane, tough leathers and purple cloth draped around her, wolf pelts wrapped around her shoulders. “Well? Get up.”

  I didn't move. Slinging the spear across her back, Kidira held a hand out to me. I took it for fear of where my non-compliance would lead, unsteady on my feet. The world swayed and there wasn't much feeling beneath my stomach – had that been recreated, too? – as though I was still falling and the wind had numbed me. I stared down at my feet and then up at the mountain, where Kidira's gaze was fixed. The fall looked further than it had felt, so far that I should've lost myself on the way down, and at the time I had believed I might never strike the ground.

  I stepped forward, not knowing where I was going, and walked face-first into a wall of rock. Kidira grabbed my shoulder, steadying me, and used what remained of my shirt to pull me closer. I stumbled but her grip was tight, and though I was looking down at her, I was still forced to swallow a lump in my throat. She was searching my expression for something, eyes darting back and forth, but I was light-headed and my fear had soured into a dank sort of amusement. I smiled. She gripped the front of my collar, and shook me, hard.

  “Does Claire know? Does she know that you're not...” She pressed her lips tightly together, taking a moment to find the word. “Not dead.”

  Claire! I thought. Claire was alive, and so was I; though I hadn't been, minutes ago. Kidira freed me from her grasp and I swayed but didn't stumble. I dropped to my knees of my own accord, face pressed against ground, rocking. Everything inside of me was cramping, one organ pressing against the next, fighting for its place within me. And Kidira, she'd saved me. She'd saved me and she hadn't called me necromancer, hadn't left me on that rock; she'd asked me about Claire and she'd called her Claire, not Ightham or Marshal or Sir. She asked because she cared about her, and I promised myself it would be enough to get me through this.

  “Claire's alive,” I said, but it wasn't what I meant. I pushed my face into the dirt, groaning. “I'm alive. Claire knows I'm alive.”

  Kidira said nothing. I couldn't tell whether it was the ground spinning or my head; it could've been both, though they didn't rush in the same direction. I clawed at my chest, desperate for it to stop, gasping and laughing and trembling with nausea. The muscles contracting within my chest weren't my own, just like the damn hand I was trying to tear them out with. Had it been like this for the lambs I'd fixed, once the wolves had made off with their guts? I was sorry. I was so, so sorry. I would've taken it back, if I could.

  I wondered how much more I'd lose. Wondered what Claire would think of me when I stumbled back, heart and hand not my own.

  There was one last jolt within my chest, throughout my ribs, and a web of veins settled into place. My head cleared and disjointed thoughts were washed away, relief rushing in through my every pore, overwhelming me.

  *

  It was night when I came to. I'd been dragged into a cave, fire burning beneath a low, sloping ceiling. I blinked my eyes open, not daring to move, trying to understand my surroundings. Trying to piece together what had happened. The blood and all else had been washed away and I'd been wrapped in the purple spool of fabric Kidira had been wearing. She sat on the other side of the fire, tending to the pot over it. She knew I'd woken up, but she said nothing, giving me the time I needed to sit up.

  I scrunched my nose, working my jaw. My face felt odd. As though it should've hurt, but didn't. The whole of my skull must've pieced itself together, not letting my memories slip out through the cracks. My teeth were tingling and I realised that the cave smelled incredible. Kidira was stirring whatever she'd concocted in the pot, and the thought of food gave me the strength I needed to face her. She wasn't her daughter, I told myself. She'd saved me and spoken Claire's name. I was going to be alright.

  “How long... ?” I mumbled, pushing myself up. I glanced down at my hands; they were still outshining the fire.

  “Three hours,” she said sternly, as though I was running late for something. “I would've thought you dead, if not for...”

  She gestured vaguely towards me, willing to
pull the wreckage of my body off a rock, but unable to say the word necromancy. Kidira said nothing more. She let the stew simmer and leant back against the cave wall, not asking where I'd been or who I'd been with. It took me too long to realise that it wasn't because she didn't care about the others, wasn't because they weren't at the forefront of her thoughts; two years was a long time to get used to the idea of people being dead, that was all. And I, I was no ray of hope. I was a necromancer and they weren't.

  “What are you doing down here?” I asked, glancing over at her things. There was a bag next to her spear, packed full enough supplies to last another handful of days in the wilderness.

  “What am I doing down here?” Kidira asked, but didn't go so far as to scold me for my lack of gratitude. A moment passed and she said, “Scouting,” as though spilling all of her secrets in that single word.

  “Oh,” I said. “I was heading to Kyrindval.”

  “Did you decide to take a detour?”

  I scowled at her but couldn't bring myself to answer. Any explanation would lead to more questions, questions I didn't have the strength or clarity to answer. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, trying to hide my new flesh from myself, trying not to meet Kidira's eye. Here was the woman who had saved Claire, who had saved me – and my horse, by all accounts – yet I was full of an untenable anger towards her. I knew she wasn't to blame for her daughter's actions. I knew she wasn't expected to speak to Kouris a mere handful of days, weeks, months, after she'd disappeared for decades on end. I knew this and still, it did nothing to help.