by David Estes
Gareth nodded. “And peace. Just like Roan wanted.”
“Ah, so that’s what this is really about, is it? Roan saves your skin—twice, or is it thrice now?—and you start signing treaties.”
“That’s not what this is abou—”
“No? Because from where I’m sitting, it is.”
“Gwen.”
“Gareth.”
“I thought you wanted this, too. That’s why you helped me reclaim the throne. So Grian wouldn’t destroy everything.”
“Grian was drunk on power. You are drunk on foolishness.”
The words stung, but Gareth didn’t show it. “What would you have me do?”
Her response was immediate. “Send me to Calyp. I will find each of the Sandes.”
“An assassin?”
“Who better?”
“No one, but that’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“The treaty.”
“A treaty with Calyp is impossible so long as there is a Sandes sitting on the Dragon Throne. You give them their dragon back, and they will return the favor with unquenchable fire.”
That’s when he felt it, the truth hidden behind her silver armor, both the plate she wore and that which sheathed her heart. This wasn’t about peace or war, dragons or gold. This was about pain and loss, feelings he understood all too well. This I can work with.
“Maybe,” he said. “But this is a chance I have to take. I want peace for our people. For the Four Kingdoms. There has been too much bloodshed. Someone has to take the first step to stem the tide.” Yes, he would march to war with Rhea Loren and the west, but only against Phanes, whose slaving ways went against everything Gareth had been taught by his father.
Gwen nodded. “That is your choice. And I will make mine. Will you try to stop me?”
Gareth felt as if he’d been slapped. “Is that why you think I’m here? To arrest you?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Isn’t it? You’ve brought legionnaires.”
Gareth couldn’t hold back his laugh. “You are the mightiest warrior I’ve ever known. An entire legion could not bring you to heel. They insisted on coming with me. For my protection.”
It was her turn to laugh. “They thought I might hurt you.” Though her tone was incredulous, she quickly changed it. “Well, I suppose it’s not such a farfetched notion, and the day is still young…”
The jape seemed to repair something that had been broken between them. “Hilarious. May I come up?”
No sooner had he spoken than one of the metal-sheathed branches swooped down and wrapped around his midsection, flipping him into the air. Gwendolyn caught him by the shirt with one hand, setting him beside her in the hammock.
“Thanks,” Gareth said breathlessly.
“You know, Roan once sat in that exact spot,” she said.
“Did he? And did you…” He left the thought unfinished.
“Kiss him? Ha! We argued and I dumped him out.”
“Oh.” Somehow it reminded him of his own tumultuous relationship with the western prince. Why did love have to be so hard?
Gwen sighed, and it seemed to come from a place deeper than her lungs. “How did we get here?”
“I stomped along for a quarter-hour, while I’m assuming you sprinted, leaping deftly from branch to branch…”
“Amusing, as always. You know what I meant.”
He did, all too well. The last few months didn’t seem long enough to contain half of the events that had transpired. Not so long ago he was imprisoned in a tower, forsaken by his own people, his own brother, and now he was the king of a proud nation about to march to war once again.
“Bad luck?” he suggested.
“A whole mountain of it,” she said with a smile.
“You know, I’ll miss your insults the most,” Gareth said.
“And I your foolish wit and pointless banter.”
“Ah, yes. The banter. Though it’s not the same without Roan.”
“True.”
“Can I ask you something?”
Gwen glanced in his direction. Nodded.
“Have you ever wished your skinmark gave you a different power?”
Gwen choked out a laugh. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, snap your fingers and create food.”
“First off, I don’t have to snap my fingers to use my power. Second, a foodmark? Really? That’s the best you can come up with?”
“Yes, a foodmark! You would be more popular than a warmongering king with an entire legion of dragons.”
“Ore, I can see why Roan likes you so much. Talking to you is like drinking an entire barrel of mead.”
“You never answered my question,” Gareth said.
Gwen said, “No, I didn’t.” And that was the answer, he knew. It wasn’t that she couldn’t answer his question, but that she didn’t want to, just as he didn’t want to wonder what his life would’ve been like had one of his brothers been born first, inheriting the title Shield and protector of the true heir.
Maybe they wouldn’t all be dead, he thought. Maybe I would be dead instead.
He remembered a long-ago day when he’d almost drowned, when Guy had saved him. A night, a celebration, a truth. His life shattered, a wedge driven between he and Grian. Between he and Guy, too, in a different way.
“I leave for the Scarra Desert tomorrow,” Gareth said.
“I will ride with you as far as the borderlands,” Gwen said.
“And then?”
“And then I must continue on alone.”
Gareth nodded. It was another truth he couldn’t hide from.
Fourteen
The Eastern Kingdom,
approaching the Calypsian border
Gwendolyn Storm
Despite everything that had changed, the jaunt south with Gareth had felt almost like old times. Roan was notably absent, aye, but, in a way, that had made the trip easier. Less heavy.
All the lightness was sucked away the moment she saw the first of the sand dunes, waves of white, ever-shifting, painting the desert with wind-filled brushes.
Dotting the landscape were dozens of forms. There were no guanero, the royal protectors of the empire, Calyp’s finest warriors.
Because they’re all dead, Gwen thought without satisfaction.
A particularly loud roar and hammering sound drew her from her thoughts. Though the animalistic sound of a large dragon trying to escape its rolling prison had grown commonplace during the journey, it sent a thrill through her every time Gwen heard it. The memory of her confrontation with the monster always seemed to be at the front of her mind. She remembered the way the dragon had stared at her—no, through me, like I was a window to the outside world—the way it had spoken to her, in her mind—Find her. Find my soul.
“I will.” I will kill her.
“What was that?” Gareth asked. Like her, his eyes were locked on the enormous metal box on wheels being hauled by an entire herd of cattle. Atop the box were two-dozen Orian channelers, each focused on maintaining the five-layered prison keeping the dragon from massacring the lot of them.
“Are you really going through with this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She swallowed down her anger, not wanting that to be the last emotion she felt before separating from him. “Fine. Then I wish you luck.”
“Gwen,” Gareth said, his voice filled with the gravity of a fall from a great height. He had turned toward her, his eyes clear and focused.
“Enough, Gareth. I just have to go—”
Catching her by surprise, he stepped toward her in one swift motion, wrapping his arms around her. She did nothing for a moment, embarrassed by the dozens of sets of legionnaires’ eyes watching them. But then, slowly, she hugged him back, the warmth spreading through her like a warm summer wind.
“I’ll miss you,” Gareth said. “Truly.”
“You, too, you damn fool,” she said. “Try not to get yourself killed or I’ll
kill you again.”
“Same for you. And try not to ruin any of my treaties.”
They pulled apart. “No promises.” She left, slipping away eastward toward the Barren Marshes and the coastline, where a boat would be waiting.
Gareth
He watched Gwen go, forcing his mouth to remain closed before he called her back. She had her own decisions to make, and he his. Still, it felt like another piece of him had twisted and broken off. He wondered how many pieces he had left.
Get on with it, he thought, refocusing on the task at hand. As he moved forward, the figures lined up on the edge of the desert grew larger and larger, their features gaining clarity. Most of them were dark-skinned, save for a few gray-skinned Dreadnoughters. None of them looked happy, not even the one standing in the center, wearing battle leathers and a curled-lip snarl.
From the descriptions, he was certain it was Viper Sandes. Though she was taller and darker, her nose and chin sharper, he could see the resemblance to her niece, Raven.
Behind him, the dragon roared inside its metal prison, but he ignored it. He called across the gap between them. “Empress. Thank you for negotiating in good faith.”
One eyebrow went up, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Good faith? You would ransom what is already mine—my last dragon—and call that good faith?”
Anger coursed through him, and Gareth remembered Gwen’s warning: The Sandes are snakes, all of them. Watch yourself, lest they bite you, their poison is deadly.
“Your people attacked mine, not the other way around,” he reminded her sharply.
“Not on my orders. I am as perturbed by their actions as you. And might I remind you, I am grieving: my niece was killed during the battle.”
A lie. Gareth had seen Bane whisk her away using his magic. Perhaps she was dead, but not during the battle. “And Whisper?” It was a loaded question, and Gareth watched for her reaction.
To her credit, Viper didn’t so much as flinch. “She took her own life out of grief. I grieve for her too. Our family is swiftly growing smaller.”
Gareth wasn’t certain what to believe, except that this woman would do anything to maintain power in Calyp—power she had coveted for many years, ever since she lost in the arena to her sister, Sun Sandes.
Another roar and a bang. Gareth glanced back. The Orians atop the metal box were flushed and straining, rebuilding the iron walls again and again, adding layers as quickly as the beast burned through them with its fiery breath.
When he turned back, Viper was smirking at him. “Shall we get on with the exchange?” Before he could respond, several burly men strode forward. Each pair held a large rectangular chest that jingled as they walked. They shone under the harsh sunlight.
Gold, Gareth thought. The chests themselves are made of pure gold.
Eastern archers aimed dozens of arrows at the men as they approached, unceremoniously dumping the chests before Gareth.
“Open them,” he said, though he was certain of their contents.
The men looked back toward their empress. Interesting, Gareth thought. They are loyal and obedient. Who are they? he wondered, narrowing his eyes, reconsidering them. Given the scars, taut muscles, and dark-eyed stares, there was only one answer: fighters. Not just any fighters. The very same criminals who fought in the pits at Zune. She gave them their freedom and they give her their loyalty and the empire.
Only after Viper nodded her assent did they unlatch the boxes and swing the lids wide. Gold glinted. Jewels—rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, topaz—glittered like stars.
“Dump them out,” Gareth commanded. He didn’t believe Viper would try to trick him, but prudence demanded he check there weren’t ordinary stones under all of the jewels and gold.
Again, the men’s eyes found their empress’s. All except one, who stared at Gareth with narrowly hidden disgust. His eyes were naturally narrow. Phanecian. He was taller than the others. Broader, too, his skin tanned and smooth, not bearing the scars of his comrades. This man is the best warrior of them all, Gareth thought.
Gareth met his stare. “Do you have something to say?”
“My empress is not a liar,” he said. His tone was even but felt like it was on the knife’s edge of anger.
“No? Did she not claim to be managing the fighting pits of Zune when really she was building an army?”
The man’s teeth ground together. “That was her only—”
“Gat,” Viper said. The word was spoken pointedly, but with rounder edges than her other commands. This man—Gat—means something to her. Something more than the others. They could even be lovers. Gareth filed away the information in case he ever needed it.
Just hearing his name was enough to calm the man, who, his eyes never leaving Gareth’s, overturned the chest, spilling its contents all the way to Gareth’s feet.
There were no stones. Just gold and jewels and wealth unimaginable. The remainder of the chests yielded the same results.
My empress is not a liar.
Not today, Gareth thought. And neither am I.
“Release the dragon,” he said.
Siri
Colors: the red of anger, the blue of challenge, the black of pain, the gray of imprisonment.
Sounds: muted voices, the thuds of her tail on the iron walls, the lowing of the cattle who had borne her this far, the drumbeats of the hearts of her captors.
Smells: smoke, heated metal, sweat, dung, fear.
Always the fear. Siri sensed it in the air like a dense fog. Even those who held her captive feared her. Even her masters in The Place of the Big Sun had feared her. All except one.
My soul.
She could feel her again. Though still distant, the two-legger known as Raven Sandes was closer than before. She’s—her roar shook the walls of her prison, her fire bathing the box in red-orange-yellow-blue light, the walls melting in viscous waterfalls—in pain.
My soul is in pain.
Though the last living dragon was exhausted from her constant struggle to break free, that knowledge was enough to reenergize her, to strengthen her muscles and bones and the spikes on her tail and back, to heat the fire living inside her belly to higher temperatures, an inferno of death and destruction to all who stood in her path.
Release.
The fire roared from her maw, spreading to all sides, swirling around her, a living, breathing weapon. She could feel her captors—the ore channelers—pushing back, straining against her, but they were chaff in her fields, fodder under her feet.
They are nothing. I am Siri.
Molten iron dripped around her, spouting steam. Still her fire burned hotter and hotter. She honed it, focused it, the way Raven had trained her. On the metal roof above her, where she knew her captors stood. She could feel their fear heighten, could sense the moment when they realized the limits to their own mortality.
Air rushed in, feeding her flames.
Screams rent the air, lost in the power of her final roar, an earth-shattering blast of pain and anger and relief and
Freedom.
Her wings beat once, twice, and then she was clear of her own flames and smoke, rising into the sky, which was blue and clear and lit by the big sun of the place she’d only ever known as
Home.
My home.
And my soul.
First Interlude
Crimea
THE HORDE
Though it was daytime, the sky free of clouds, it was dark. The sun was blotted out by a mass, moving, writhing, descending in bursts, like great, dark hands reaching from the sky.
Crows. Scavengers. They followed the Horde wherever they went, feasting on the flesh of the fallen. One landed on his shoulder, its head cocked to the side.
He stared at it for a moment, wondering whether the filthy fowl sensed its own mortality coming to an end.
His hand shot out like a lightning strike, snatching the bird from his shoulder and snapping its neck. He tossed it aside, remembering a long ago past t
hat might’ve been another’s life.
The Lost Son wondered whether anyone from the stranger’s life still spoke of him, still remembered him. He wondered if anyone would recognize him when he returned.
Surely not his father, who had pitied him for his weaknesses, for his shriveled legs, which could never hold his full weight. In a way, Kklar-Ggra, Son-Gäric, would rather his father despised him, hated him for his inability to march, to fight, to carry on the family tradition of honor and glory in battle. The Undefeated King, they had called his father, a nickname well earned.
Yes, he defeated me too, when he took away my birthright, my claim on the throne. He still remembered that day, how he’d cried, how his brothers’ smiles had stretched across their faces. How his sister, Zelda, had done nothing to help, disappearing for near-on a day before reappearing as if nothing had transpired.
He remembered his own nickname. The Maimed Prince.
Who will remember my true name when I return? Who will say, ‘Aye, Helmuth Gäric the Conqueror is here to destroy all those who have wronged him’?
None, he knew. None would recognize him, nor remember him. As far as they were concerned, he was dead.
He looked down at his legs. Strapped with metal and yew fittings from ankle to knee to thigh, they were no longer bent, no longer brittle. He walked with long strides that had taken him years to master. His arms were stronger still, the years of hauling his entire body around cording his upper body with thick, powerful muscles.
Kklar-Ggra stepped on the man’s throat. He was supposed to be a great king, a conqueror himself. King of the most powerful nation in the world. Crimea. But Helmuth knew better. Helmuth knew the inner workings of this evil, evil man, and he did not fear him.
Now, the king’s entire countenance shook with fear of his own. He gagged and Son-Gäric released the pressure a bit. “What has come of the Four Kingdoms?” he asked.
The man’s voice was a croak. “You,” he said, recognition dawning on his face. “I remember you.”
In truth, Klar-Ggra had hoped he would. It would only make this more satisfying. “Yes. You had a taste for young boys like me.” King Streit, he thought, the name like a long-forgotten nightmare remembered. The latest in a long line of pretenders.
