by Meg Cowley
Behan shuffled and his eyes did not lift from the ground.
“What is it?” Soren pressed him.
“My nephew,” Behan admitted in a voice barely louder than a murmur. “I asked him to carry the ice-fire to Heligan directly, where he has a place for safekeeping anything which needs protecting. My arthritis pains me greatly today and I cannot walk so far or fast. I thought it would be safer to send it with him, for he could carry it to safety far faster than I.” Behan bowed his head in shame.
Soren stood in stunned silence for a long moment. “Bedenor did this?”
Behan jerkily nodded. “I do not know why he acted thusly. I told him of its great importance and the urgency of its safekeeping. I have always placed my faith in him.”
“You realise the difficult position this puts me in?” Soren said softly. “The dragons may well want an eye for an eye, and I cannot refuse them.”
Behan’s eyes closed, his brows furrowed, and he bit his lip.
~
Bedenor prowled around the narrow confines of his cell. The dark, windowless space shrouded him in shadows barely lit by the slow-burning oil lamps hanging outside. “I did it because I do not want to associate with monsters and heathens,” he snarled.
Soren could tell he bore a deep-seated anger that had nothing to do with Iolanta; she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He sighed. “They are not monsters and heathens,” he said, though he knew words would not convince Bedenor, such was his fervent belief. “They are our allies, and as befits their status, harm to them is treated as harm to any man, woman, or child under our laws. You realise this must carry the same weight as if you had attacked a fellow human?”
Bedenor stopped his pacing to stand squarely in front of Soren on the other side of the barred gate. His set jaw jutted out mutinously and his arms were folded under corded shoulders. “I do.”
“And you accept the consequences?”
Bedenor did not answer. How can he accept the consequences of a decision he does not agree with? Soren suppressed another sigh and gritted his teeth. “So be it. You may await my judgment.”
He left without another word and did not look back, in case his own anger surfaced. Bedenor had sealed his own fate, whether or not he accepted it. His actions made Soren’s own position even more precarious.
It was Soren himself who had sworn to accept the consequences of any misdemeanour. What would be his fate? This could jeopardize my forces being able to use ice-fire, at the very least. He did not like to dwell on what the more severe punishments could be. Regardless, he had a difficult decision before him: to bring Bedenor to justice for maiming what most others would see as nothing more than a beast, or to risk alienating his Eldarkind and dragon allies by letting Bedenor go, and condoning his actions by association. Either way, it would cause strife.
“No matter what I do, I will not please everyone, especially during times of strife such as these,” he admitted aloud to himself. It felt more real to say it, and it made his heart sink even more. What else can I do? He was realising more and more that with every new conflict in his rule, he would make new friends. And new enemies. It does not matter what I do, whether I think it right or wrong, they will only judge me on their own views.
He recalled his rule so far. Scenes of critical decisions flashed past him, as well as the lives changed, for better and for worse. He felt no guilt though; no regrets. I tried to do my best. I tried to be fair in everything. I tried to be selfless. Have I been? It was difficult to judge. Caledan’s needs and his own blurred into one at points.
Soren hoped he had made the right choices. Even his own morals were clouding. Once upon a time, he would never have thought violence was the answer, and yet here he was, planning yet another battle; the only viable option he could see to create a lasting peace. And that violence will alienate—is alienating—more people, though I do it for their own benefit. It is my right and duty to safeguard Caledan, even though it may cost me dearly. Stay the course, he told himself. As long as I believe I’m doing the right thing, I can do little else.
He sighed. To ruminate would achieve nothing, and he was no closer to deciding Bedenor’s fate. On this, he had no intuition, and no answer. The more he deliberated, the more he realised there was only one choice.
It was fair, he thought, to tell Bedenor of his decision. Behan was present also, dithering behind him and wringing his hands.
Bedenor stood in silence to hear his fate. His eyes still held a fiery spirit of rebellion, and he met Soren’s troubled gaze with a hard stare that showed no weakness.
“As you maimed one of theirs, I shall let the dragons decide your fate. Your life is forfeit to their judgment. It would be the same with any other ally, so it shall be with they, though they are not human.”
Behan emitted a squeak. Bedenor did not flinch or respond.
Soren turned to Behan. “I will see every man, woman, Eldarkind, and Dragon in Pandora in Castle Square for the passing of judgement.”
Behan paled. Soren did not blink. He knew Behan would think Bedenor to be made an example of. In truth, he did not know what Farran’s judgement would be. Bedenor could well be held to account. Farran would not, or could not, tell Soren. Soren hoped his hunch was right, that maybe, just maybe, the dragons would show clemency for the greater good. There would be a fine line to walk between the alliance holding or failing, and he could not see which path would hold either. Anxiety swirled in his stomach.
~
Soren’s fingers drummed upon his folded arms as he waited impatiently with the rest of Pandora’s inhabitants in Castle Square. A faceless crowd surrounded them. He stood upon the raised dais in the middle of the square where a heroically posed monument to King Beren stood, with Behan, Heligan, Farran, Tarrell, and Bedenor. The first days of spring were balmy and the sun streamed upon them, but Soren’s skin prickled with a chill he could not shake.
Lord Heligan led the proceeding. As Chief Law Reader, it was his duty. He explained what had passed to those assembled, many of whom did not know what had occurred for Soren had insisted it be kept as secret as possible for fear of inciting more hate-crimes.
“Bedenor has already admitted his guilt in this and shall be punished accordingly as if he had harmed a fellow human.” Last of all, he delivered Soren’s judgment over the rumbling crowd whose tongues wagged at the news. “As with any other case, we defer judgment to Farran-visir, as it is his kin who has been harmed.” Heligan bowed to Soren, and then to Farran, and stepped aside to stand shoulder to shoulder with Behan, who was visibly trembling.
Farran moved forwards on all fours in silence. His eyes transfixed Bedenor, who stood in shackles. A hush fell over the watching crowd, who bunched together and moved away from the approaching dragon. His bulk was huge to behold, and a wide berth surrounded him.
Tarrell stood next to Soren and shifted his balance. Soren thought he heard a whisper, but when he flicked his eyes to the Eldarkind, his mouth was firmly shut and he regarded the scene before them with an inscrutable expression.
“It is my duty to pass judgment, and pass judgment I shall,” rumbled Farran. His voice carried across the square, where not a person made a sound. He opened his jaws, and all could see that fire burnt within. A wave of heat rolled over those closest, and scattered screams broke out.
Bedenor let his first sign of fear show, as his chains clinked together. Soren could see how tightly he grasped his hands together to stop the shaking. His lips were clamped so firmly shut they were nothing more than a thin line and a sheen of sweat glossed his skin. Behan was his mirror, though he did nothing to stop his quaking.
Soren moved, about to step forward without even thinking—to do what, he did not know—but a slender and strong hand held him back in an iron grip.
“Wait,” Tarrell commanded in a low voice, not relinquishing his grasp on Soren until he sunk back. He stopped moving, but every muscle tensed. Behan had no such compulsion. He leapt forward on unstable legs,
his stick clacking on the stones. Guards leapt forwards to catch him as he overbalanced and pulled him out of the way, so he could not intervene, though they looked as sickened as he.
Farran’s jaw inched open, wider and wider in a slow, inexorable movement until all those gathered could see fire spewing forth from the white-hot forge in his throat. Flames licked his towering teeth and the commotion of the crowd grew louder as they pushed backwards to escape him. Anger overtook fear, and Farran roared to silence them. In a moment, he spurted a jet of flame high into the air that ignited their screams once more. Without further ado, he blasted a white hot jet of flame at Bedenor.
Behan collapsed in the arms of the guards restraining him. Sickly fascinated, they could not tear their eyes away to look at him.
Tarrell watched on, stony faced. Heligan closed his eyes. Soren looked. He had no choice. It was his duty. The light burned his eyes, as did the horror of what he saw, but he forced himself to stare regardless. His breath was ragged as the heat roiled over them. Now he felt no chills on his skin, only deep in the pit of his stomach at what he witnessed.
After but a moment, though it seemed like an eternity, Farran clamped his jaws shut with a clack that echoed around the square, shutting off the inferno. Silence fell over all. As the heat and the smoke cleared, cries of amazement rang out. Bedenor remained standing, shaking like a leaf from head to toe—and unharmed before them. He was blackened and dirty, but Soren could see he was clearly unharmed.
“How?” he murmured in wonderment.
“I… I… Alive. I’m alive,” Bedenor stuttered. His face was snow-white under the soot. “I don’t understand.”
Farran turned to the crowd and as he swung his head and giant neck above them, causing the, to flinch and fall silence at once. “I have given you my retribution,” he growled. “Let no man stand before us. We are allies. Our bond means no harm ought to pass between us. I have shown you our power against those who have earned its full brunt.”
Tarrell stepped forward. His pale hair shone in the sun as he raised his chin. “And I have protected him against it. We are your allies,” he mirrored Farran.
“On this one occasion, I shall show clemency,” Farran warned. He moved, and the crowd scrambled to back out of his way and clear a path. He snaked his way through them all, back to the castle. The floor shook with every step and his tail skittered and hissed across the flagstones.
Tarrell followed with Soren and Heligan. Behind them, guards carried the still form of Behan and Bedenor, now unshackled, accompanied his uncle. Tears of relief trailed pale lines through the soot on his face.
Soren’s heart sang with his own relief, and a weight felt lifted from his shoulders. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel the awe of what had just happened. For a moment, he thought his plans had failed. That Farran would exact the revenge which, in all honesty, he had earned, on Bedenor. Soren could not have blamed him for that. Retribution was owed, though it would have made relations even more strained between the three races.
Soren was glad Farran had acted as he did; it was the best possible outcome. Surely, now that the dragons had shown mercy and clemency and the Eldarkind their unswerving loyalty towards the alliance, there would be no reason for any to doubt them.
The midday sun burned the back of his neck as they retreated. There was not much time remaining to them before Cies would return.
This is but one part of the puzzle. Soon, it will be time.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Spring arrived quickly after that. Where there were the last frosts of winter, suddenly a warm spell arrived to dispel them. Balmy air and baking sunshine coaxed birds and blossoms forth until the air was rich with the sound of birdsong and the sweet smell of nectar. Buds swelled on trees which exploded with greenery, and a new season of vitality took Pandora.
Soren’s eyes were blinded to it that day, as he was deep in discussion with Tarrell and Farran in the castle grounds. Still, he was glad he no longer had need of his winter cloak. There had been no trouble in the week since Bedenor’s atonement, but a greater threat loomed, and with each warm day it grew: Cies. They all knew he would return after the weather had turned. It was just a case of when.
Training commenced with all three races working together, and progressed well. Soren’s men drilled in great regiments upon the plains outside Pandora, and local fighters were flooding in as each house sent their reserves, with more promised from those further afield.
The drills were more for working as a team rather than practicing close quarter combat. Soren knew there would be little of that. He had poured most of his focus into training the archers and longbowmen, who were honing their skills from dawn until dusk on makeshift ranges. Soon, their arrows would be tipped with ice-fire, and his men would stand a chance of success.
Tarrell had been careful to produce limited amounts since Bedenor’s misdemeanor, and it was stored under lock, key, and the watchful guard of Eldarkind eyes and magic. It would not be released until the very last minute. Soren hoped they would have time to distribute it. He had tried to persuade Tarrell to release it sooner, but he was unrelenting. Soren could not blame him. He knew Tarrell bore his own guilt about the mishap for having supplied the ice-fire to humans in the first place. Soren had swallowed his pride on that matter and given Tarrell his pick of the vaults to store it in.
After spending the morning touring the training ground, they secreted themselves away in a remote part of the castle grounds beside a pond to scry Cies for themselves.
“Leitha Cies,” Tarrell intoned. The muddy water rippled in response, and, in a few moments, the reflection of the sky had disappeared and they looked upon Cies basking in arid surroundings and bright sun. Light bounced from his silver scales as they shimmered and glowed in the heat haze.
“He could well be in the deserts north of Roher and Ladrin, or perhaps further afield. It is difficult to tell,” Tarrell mused.
“He will be stronger already,” said Farran. “He looks peaceful, yet he will be plotting his revenge this very second. A dragon defeated will never stop seeking it. It will torment him.” He sounded pleased at the prospect.
“When?” Tarrell stared at Cies’s still form.
Farran rumbled and did not answer immediately. “He could remain until the height of summer, for all we know. That would see him at the zenith of his strength, but equally ours, too. If I were he, I would wait until midsummer.”
Tarrell ground his teeth. “We do not have so long. Arandulus already walks again.”
“Perhaps, when we are ready, we can make Cies come to us.”
Soren cocked his head and looked at Farran quizzically. Tarrell seemed just as perplexed.
“With the Eldarkind’s help, we could speak with Cies through one of your scryings. He is short-tempered and rash. It would be too easy to goad him into returning at our bidding and when we are ready, before the warmth of the south and the desert sun restores his health too much. They will be here within a few short days if they make haste, which, if we bait him well, I foresee him doing. He is impetuous and quick to seek vengeance.”
Soren and Tarrell shared a glance. Soren could not discern Tarrell’s thoughts, but his own were clear. Either way, they would have to face Cies. Which was worse: a confident dragon or an enraged one? Soren could not be sure.
“You think that best?” Tarrell asked.
“I do. Perhaps, dragons alone, we would be evenly matched. Perhaps, even outmatched for they have had the favour of the deserts; that could lend them an edge. However, with Eldarkind, humans and ice-fire, I am certain they cannot stand before us. Each day we delay, they grow stronger far faster than we may. It is spring, but it is not warm enough here for us to thrive. My bones still ache with cold.”
“I will acquiesce to your expertise,” Tarrell said, bowing his head towards Farran.
“Are we agreed?”
“Make it so,” said Soren grimly.
Farran rumbled. His grin widened a
nd his eyes narrowed to slits. “Make it so,” he echoed with glee.
“When shall we set the date of this… summoning?” Soren asked, as his eyes were drawn to Farran’s impressive teeth. Thank goodness he is on our side.
“No more than half a moon away. It will be the fourth month of the year and the southern sun will be waxing to full strength.”
They parted with Soren both heartened and nervous. They had the number of men, Eldarkind, and dragons. They had the weapons: the dragons themselves, for one, Eldarkind spelled blades, and the ice-fire for his own men. Theoretically, Soren reasoned, it should be simple. But dragons were an entity unknown to him.
Cies would be stronger from his time in the south, and he was imbued with elemental magic. What did that mean? It would not be easy, he was certain of that. He had seen dragons on the warpath, and just three dragons: Myrkdaga, Feldith, and Feldloga had made short work of Pandora’s fortifications when Soren had returned from exile. Soren had felt the power of Farran’s fire, too. He could not imagine it tenfold, or a hundred-fold, but he did not need to. Pandora was at risk of that alone.
Thoughts began to coalesce. Eve had warded the people of Arlyn. Perhaps, the Eldarkind could do the same for Pandora itself and its people? His thoughts returned to Eve and her healing abilities. It seemed like an age since she had laboured in the healing houses of Pandora, and Soren suspected they would be needed, also. He had not summoned any men from Arlyn, busy as they were with rebuilding the town, but he had need of Eve. Another pair of magical hands would not go amiss, and neither would her healing skills.
He returned to his drawing room and the Eldarkind mirror to scry her at once. She looked tired as she answered his calls. Dark shadows hung under her dull eyes.
“How goes repairs?” Soren asked.
“Well, thank you, Cousin,” Eve replied. “I am most grateful for the men you have sent, and the crafts folk. Everyone now has temporary shelters, and with summer on its way, we’re busy with the reconstruction. The weather has been kind to us so far, for which we are lucky. We are surviving.”
