The Weight of Honor

by Morgan Rice

  Kyra jumped to her feet, agitated, and burst out of her hut, into the forest clearing, determined to find out.

  “Kyra!” a strong voice called.

  Kyra turned and was startled to see, standing there in the early morning dawn, her uncle Kolva. He stood tall and proud, a serious expression on his face, and she stared back, wondering. He had not visited her since he had led her to this place, and he was the last person she had expected to find here.

  “Where is Alva? Has he left?” she asked, alarmed as she looked about the clearing and could not find him. She felt a sudden pit in her stomach. “Did I fail him? Was he disappointed in me?”

  “I do not know the ways of Alva,” Kolva replied. “I never understood him, even when I trained with him. Disappointed…I do not think that is a term which would apply to him. There is always a reason for his departure—and it is always part of the training.”

  Kyra felt a sense of dread.

  “Will he return?” she asked, hesitant.

  “I do not know,” he replied. “Sometimes he is challenging you to look within; sometimes he feels his presence is a distraction; sometimes he demands you train yourself.”

  Kyra stared back, wondering, sensing that Kolva was withholding something from her.

  “Yet you haven’t come here to discuss Alva,” she said, realizing. “I sense there is something else.”

  Kolva slowly nodded, grim.

  “Yes,” he said flatly. Then he fell silent.

  “I had an encounter yesterday,” she recalled. “I was nearly killed by a Pandesian. A boy saved me, a boy I do not know. A boy with long golden hair.”

  She watched a flicker of disapproval cross her uncle’s face, and her heart raced.

  “You know him,” she said, realizing. Then, in a rush, she asked, “What is his name?”

  “Kyle,” he answered flatly.

  Kyle. Somehow, Kyra already knew.

  “Who is he?” she pressed, sensing her uncle didn’t want to discuss it, but needing to know.

  “He is a Watcher,” he finally replied, reluctant. “He lives in the tower.”

  Kyra’s eyes widened.

  “The Tower of Ur?” she asked. “I wish to see him.”

  Her uncle’s face hardened as he shook his head.

  “You may not,” he said, the firmness in his voice surprising her.

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “He is not of your race,” he said. “It is forbidden. He was never supposed to see you. I do not know why this happened. He shall be reprimanded upon my return.”

  Kyra was aghast.

  “Reprimanded?” she asked. “He saved my life. Does that count for nothing?”

  “It counts for a great deal. But there are laws which cannot be broken. Ancient laws. Sacred laws.”

  “What laws, Uncle?” she snapped, impatient.

  He sighed, impatient too.

  “I have not come here to talk of Kyle,” he said. “Do not speak of him again.”

  There came a long, tense silence as Kyra stared back, fuming.

  “You are not my father,” she finally replied, seething.

  “And yet I have come here on his business.”

  She stared back, wondering.

  “I have come to end your training,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows, shocked.

  “End it? It has not even begun!”

  He shook his head.

  “It matters not,” he replied. “There is no time. Pandesia comes. Scouts close in. That is why you were spotted and attacked. You were lucky; behind that soldier lie a thousand more—all looking for you. It will only be a matter of days until they overrun Escalon and we are surrounded. You must retreat with me, at once, into the tower. We prepare a defense.”

  Kyra wondered if that meant she would see Kyle.

  “Kyle will be on a different floor,” Kolva continued uncannily, reading her mind. “Do not worry, you will never see him. Come at once.”

  Kyra stood there, facing her uncle head on, and felt a strength welling within her, the same strength that had driven her to want to become a warrior, to cross Escalon alone.

  “No,” she finally replied, defiant.

  He stood there, looking stunned.

  “I am your uncle,” he said firmly.

  “There are many authorities in my life,” she replied. “And I’ve learned that I don’t need to answer to any of them. I have not completed my training, and I don’t quit. Not with my father out there needing me.”

  “Kyra,” he said, his tone softening. “I am trying to protect you, don’t you see?”

  “I don’t seek your protection, or anyone else’s. I seek only to train, and to learn how to protect myself.”

  Her uncle stood, seeming unsure what to do.

  “Your mother would not approve of this,” he finally said.

  Kyra felt her heart beat faster at the word. Mother. She could not help but be curious.

  “When the time is right,” he added, “I will tell you everything about her.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she finally replied.

  “Kyra, we have no time,” he said, exasperated. “Come with me now.”

  But she stood her ground and shook her head.

  “Don’t you see, Uncle?” she asked. “Death has never frightened me. Only not living with valor.”

  Kolva stared at her for a long time, then finally, seeing the resolve in her eyes, he turned and disappeared back into the trees, leaving Kyra all alone in this vast wood. She felt more alone than she’d ever had in her life.

  Theos, she thought. Where are you?

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Vesuvius sprinted across the countryside, amazed to feel Escalon grass beneath his feet, amazed that he was actually standing on this ground he had dreamt of his entire life. Here he was, in the promised land, south of The Flames, the land his ancestors had only dreamt of, the land they had sung songs of, had planned raids for—the land that had always been just out of reach.

  And now, here he was, the most triumphant of all his ancestors, the only one who had been able to achieve the dream. He was the one, as the prophecies had declared, who was destined to rule. Never in his life had he stepped foot in a land other than Marda, and he was enjoying himself beyond his wildest dreams. Already, he had led his army through the first village he’d found, murdering and torturing everyone in sight.

  As he ran across the plains, Vesuvius delighted in the memory. He was still covered in fresh blood, and he smiled wide as he thought back to all the women and children and animals he had murdered. Torturing them, these humans who had deprived him of his dream all these years, had given him a pleasure he would never forget. Burning that village to the ground, seeing it as a pile of ashes, warmed his heart. He thought of all the other villages and towns and cities left to ransack in Escalon, and he knew it was just the beginning. Soon all of Escalon would be at his feet.

  Vesuvius’s initial impulse, after emerging from the tunnel, was to turn and head for the Tower of Ur, to steal the Sword of Fire; but first, he had another, more pressing, desire. He had always dreamt of seeing The Flames from the other side. He wanted to stand there and see what it felt like to be looking north, toward Marda. More than that, he wanted vengeance. He wanted each and every human who stood watch at The Flames, who had killed so many of his people, to pay. He wanted them dead first. He knew they would never expect an attack from behind, and he could not wait to see the look on their faces when he surprised them, pinned between an army of trolls and a wall of fire. He smiled wide, seeing it now: he would stab them in the backs as they ran face-first into fire. He might not be able to lower The Flames—at least not until he reached the Tower of Ur and stole the Sword of Flames—but in the meantime, at least, he could slaughter every last man that dared stand watch before them. That would teach them to dare guard the borders of Marda.

  Vesuvius increased his speed, his legs burning as he ran up and down hills, his army of tr
olls on his heels. He held his halberd tightly as he ran, hardly even winded, as he, like most of the troll race, had enough strength to run for miles, to never lose his breath. He would use that natural strength to his advantage. Soon enough, his trolls would spread across every last corner of Escalon. As he ran, Vesuvius took note of places and decided where he would build new cities, how he would rename them, where he would raise statues to himself. He would enslave this human race, build mining factories, create great pits of fire where he could torture men and women for his pleasure. He could hardly wait.

  Hours passed, and as Vesuvius finally crested a hill, emerging from a long stretch of woods, he stopped, amazed at the sight before him. There, but a hundred yards away, stood the roaring Flames, so bright, so tall, so magnificent that they nearly blinded him. He could feel their heat from here, could hear them crackling. He had never anticipated what they would look like from this perspective. It was awe-inspiring.

  And there below, unsuspecting, were the human guards, spread out, standing guard at the flames, facing north. Never could they have suspected that their enemy was, after all, to the south.

  “TROLLS OF MARDA!” he cried. “ATTACK!”

  There came a great shout behind him as the troll nation cried out. They raised their halberds and their shouts echoed over the hills.

  Vesuvius waited and watched, savoring the moment, as the hundreds of humans standing guard at The Flames slowly turned and looked up. He watched their expressions change to bewilderment—and then, to terror. Their backs to The Flames, these humans had nowhere to run.

  Vesuvius shouted and charged. Leading his nation, he ran down the hill with delight, the flames growing brighter, their heat stronger. His heart pounded with glee as he raised his halberd high and set his sights on an unsuspecting boy, hardly eighteen, who gaped and dropped his sword in terror. Vesuvius reached him, brought his hatchet down across his chest, and hacked him in two.

  All around him there came the delightful sound of blades puncturing flesh, of humans shrieking in terror as the trolls slaughtered them. Most were too panic-stricken to even put up a fight, and the few who tried were murdered instantly. As his army overcame them like a wave of death, the remaining humans turned and actually ran for The Flames, preferring death by fire to death by the trolls. The air filled with the shouts of humans, the smell of their burning flesh, as one by one, they all, these Keepers of the Flames, the elite of the human warriors, were killed.

  Vesuvius leaned back and looked to the sky, grinning wide, relishing this greatest moment of his life. Covered in blood, holding his halberd, itching for more death, he shouted up with joy to the skies. This was all, he knew, just the beginning. There was nothing left to stop him.

  Finally, Escalon would be his.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Theos flew above Escalon, breathing fire and never ceasing as he left a scar across Escalon that would last forever. His rage was unending, and he was determined not to stop until this land that had stolen his egg had been destroyed.

  As he laced the land with flame again and again, flying back and forth, taking out entire swaths of wood at once, suddenly, he heard it. It was a noise, audible to him even amidst his destruction, so primal, so close to his soul, that it made him lift up into the skies, cease his flames, and listen.

  It came again.

  And again.

  Vesuvius felt a thrill as he recognized the cry. There was no mistaking it: it was a dragon’s cry. A baby dragon. He knew he was hearing, for the first time, the cry of his son.

  Theos turned and flew with urgency, the sound unmistakable, filling his heart with hope. He flew low, peering down, determined, his entire body electrified. His child was screaming for help. Screaming for him.

  Theos increased his speed, flying faster than he’d ever had in his life, covering miles of Escalon in a single flap. He flew over hills, rivers, forests. His child, he could sense, was close. So close.

  Slowly, far below, Theos began to see it. There was the outline of a sprawling stone building, a fort, flying a flag of blue and yellow. Inside it scurried thousands of Pandesian soldiers, like ants, and there, in the center of the fort, was a sight that tore his heart to pieces.

  His baby.

  There was his baby dragon, tied to a stake in the center of the stone courtyard, bound by ropes and shrieking. Crying for him. All around him were Pandesian soldiers, wielding long pikes, jabbing at him, piercing his tiny flesh. With each poke, Theos’s child shrieked in agony, and with each jab, Theos’s fury deepened. It built inside him like a volcano, until his rage crossed a tipping point. He was ready to destroy the world.

  Theos felt a rage unlike he’d ever felt, a rage that blinded him. He dove down with blinding speed, barely thinking as he opened his mouth and prepared to breathe fire, to incinerate these humans. He knew even as he did that he could not risk breathing fire onto his own child.

  Theos breathed fire in a great circle, scorching the periphery of the courtyard, burning alive dozens of soldiers at once. He dove lower, his great wings flapping, knocking off chunks of wall, debris falling and crushing more men. He flew right past his child, nearly grazing him, and then circled around again, wanting to kill all the men around him before rescuing him.

  Theos dove again, claws extended, and swiped and killed the fleeing soldiers, clawing them to death as they ran from his child. He snatched their pikes from their hands and snapped them in two, then he dove even lower and sank his great teeth into men’s backs as they ran. He bit one soldier, flew up in the air with him, and shook his head until he fell to the ground in pieces.

  Theos circled again, coming even lower this time, low enough to rescue his son. He smashed through more chunks of wall, destroying the fort, and it felt good. He flew lower than he ever had, lower than he was accustomed to, aiming right for his child. He would free him from the stake, and then, with his son on his back, circle around and kill any remaining soldiers.

  As Theos neared, already anticipating the joy of having his child on his back, suddenly, he felt an unfamiliar feeling. He felt a tug at his wings, and he suddenly felt them constrained. He looked over, confused, and he saw, wrapping around his wings, thick ropes of reinforced steel, suddenly descending upon him from every direction. He looked up and saw more ropes, and he realized, too late, that he was flying into a net. Hundreds of Pandesians suddenly rushed forward and cast the net upon him, and he realized that they had been waiting for him to fly lower.

  It had been a trap.

  Theos suddenly felt his wings constricted, collapsing in on his body; he felt his great claws entangled, restrained, and he was no longer able to fly, to keep control. Unable to stay airborne, he suddenly felt himself diving straight down—and a moment later he crashed headfirst into the rock and dirt, taking out a stone wall as he slid and tumbled and rolled, still entangled, until he finally came to a grinding stop.

  Theos, in agony, tried to break free—but could not. He writhed but felt himself restrained on all sides by the steel rope, clinging to his flesh, held tight by hundreds of soldiers, who soon closed in on him. And then, a moment later, he felt it: agony. His skin being pierced.

  He shrieked out in pain as soldiers encircled him, long, glistening pikes in hand, and punctured his flesh. First one. Then another.

  Then another.

  Theos felt himself being pierced hundreds of times, from every direction. He was bleeding heavily, and with each jab he felt himself growing weaker. His struggling was useless.

  Soon, Theos felt the great light, the one that had burned within him for thousands of years, beginning to fade. He knew he was dying. Because of his love for his child, he had let down his guard—and he had made the greatest mistake of his life.

  Another stab came. Then another. In too much pain to think, he felt his great eyes begin to close on him. And as he had his final thoughts, oddly enough, they were of Kyra. Of what had almost been. He thought of her destiny, of how close they had come. Now, she would b
e all alone.

  Now, it was too late.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Kyra sat alone at dawn, atop the highest ridge overlooking the forest, perched atop a boulder, Leo and Andor nearby, her legs crossed, her palms facing the sky, as Alva had taught her. She breathed, her attention on her breath, and tried to focus. Becoming very still, hearing the crash of the ocean waves in the distance, she tried to reach the place of an empty mind.

  Kyra desperately tried to summon a power which she wanted so badly to summon. She craved to complete her training, to become more powerful than she’d ever been, to feel once again the power she’d tasted in brief flashes of her life. She tried to recall the time she summoned Theos, how it had felt.

  Yet try as she did, nothing worked. Alva’s words rang in her head.

  You wish to control the universe. But the universe controls you. Just for one second, let go of wanting to control everything around you. Let yourself be engulfed by it. It is a great tide, greater than you.

  Kyra closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stopped trying. For just a second, she stopped trying to mold the universe to her wishes, stopped trying to achieve. Instead, she let go of wanting to summon her powers; she let go of wanting to complete her quest; she let go of wanting her father’s approval, of wanting her own approval, of wanting to be the best. For just one single moment, she allowed herself to be good enough, exactly as she was. She let the universe take over her, like a flood, allowed it to control her.

  As Kyra sat there in the silence, breathing in and out, paying attention to her breath, slowly, an odd thing began to happen: she began to find herself in a place of deep calm. She found herself traveling deeper, through layers of calm, a calm deeper than any she’d ever experienced. She realized Alva had been right: she had been trying so hard to get ahead, to gain approval, to be the best. And trying, she realized, meant lacking. People who achieved did not want or crave or try. They already had it. She had to reach the place, internally, where she already had it. Then it would materialize in the outside world.