Enemy of the Realm

by Wesley King

  Nathaniel seemed taken aback. Then he scowled and shook his head. “She would tell me that if we become our enemies, then we have already lost the war. It was her favorite saying, actually.”

  “She sounds like a smart woman. I know we have to win this war, Nathaniel. But we have to win it the right way.”

  He held her gaze for a moment. “Maybe you Furies aren’t so bad after all,” he muttered.

  “Wait until you see me angry,” she replied, smirking. “How is Emmett doing?”

  Nathaniel turned grim again. “As far as we can tell, he will never fly again. He is inconsolable.”

  Dree put a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “That wasn’t your fault, you know. Emmett wanted to go.”

  “He was my responsibility,” Nathaniel snapped.

  “All of that guilt will weigh you down, Nathaniel. It will slow your reflexes and dull your mind. It will rob you of sleep and peace. Sometimes the only way is to let it all go.”

  She met his eyes.

  “We have all lost family. I lost my brother because I didn’t have control. That will never happen again.”

  Nathaniel nodded and walked out of the chamber, leaving Dree to consider everything she had just said. If she truly believed her own words, then she had to stop letting guilt and fear consume her too. Marcus and her father were a part of this war, like she was, and she couldn’t control them. In the end, she could only push forward, and do what was right. For the moment, that meant doing everything she could to win the war.

  Dree scooped up her torch and got back to work.

  Chapter

  19

  Marcus and Abelard ran through the meadow, moving in silence. Shouts had gone up across the city now, and they could see soldiers making their way toward the burning tavern. It was still aflame, shooting tongues of fire up toward the sky. Marcus looked back, feeling his cheeks burn with shame.

  He could have killed someone. He had let his temper get the best of him yet again.

  He was no better than Francis.

  As the two of them moved into the shadow of the mountains, Abelard slowed, obviously laboring. Marcus could see the slight hunch in his still-injured back, and though he remained stoic, Abelard was obviously in great pain. Marcus wondered how much the man had to fight just to get up and move every morning. And now he had just trekked through the entire mountain range. It only added to Marcus’s guilt.

  “What are you doing here?” Marcus asked, stepping beside the older man.

  The grass rose almost to their waists, like they were wading through a black, still ocean. The sky was clear tonight and the moon cast an eerie white glow over the valley.

  Abelard glanced at him. “I heard about what happened with the Egg. Dree came to me after.”

  “Ah.”

  Abelard kept his eyes fixed ahead as they walked into the brush, trying to hide his obvious discomfort. “At first I was angry. She should have told you . . . and me. But would you have let her go?”

  Marcus paused. “I didn’t want her to . . . no.”

  “Me either. I was angry with her. I thought she gave away our best chance to win the war.”

  Marcus looked at him, frowning. “She did.”

  “Maybe,” he said calmly. “But she did what she thought was right. I understand now why she did it. And I think she hoped you would understand too. But then you were angry, and things got out of hand . . . she was wrong to say you don’t belong here. She was frustrated and sad and tired. She came to find me, and she was in tears. She doesn’t cry much, my Dree. She was terribly upset. She wanted to chase after you herself, but I told her I would do it. You two needed time apart to reflect on everything.”

  “And what about the Egg? How are we supposed to fight without it? How could she give up our one chance at winning?”

  Abelard sighed deeply. “You do belong here, Marcus. You have Rider blood. Fury blood, no less. But you weren’t raised here. You don’t know our history. The story of the humans and dragons in Dracone is . . . complicated.”

  He stopped walking and turned to Marcus. The grass rippled around them.

  “Before Francis, dragons and humans were equals. Brothers and sisters. Riders did not partner with a dragon like a soldier and his horse, but rather as siblings. We respected each other. We were friends.”

  Marcus heard the pain in his voice. “What happened to your dragon, Abelard?”

  “I didn’t listen to Francis at first,” he said softly. “When he began outlawing dragons from Dracone—including those of the Riders—I was outraged. I flouted the law openly, riding Oron over the city daily. He was a wise dragon—a Nightwing, about the size of Lourdvang. But he had old eyes—purple as an amethyst. And he was patient. He knew the humans were changing—that they were afraid of the wild dragon attacks, and that they wanted progress. He told me often that we could not fight the tide.

  “They arrested my parents first, and then threatened to take my children too—including Dree. I stopped meeting Oron publicly, to protect my family. Oron returned to Forost, and I saw him only briefly. Sometimes we would fly far from the city, in the south lands, and then I would be happy again for a little while at least. But one week I went to meet him at our usual place on the east range. He was not there.”

  “What happened to him?” Marcus asked softly.

  “He had been sleeping when they found him. He often slept on the mountains, in the open air under the sun. The dragon hunters fell on him from all sides. They murdered him right where he slept.”

  Abelard shook his head. Marcus could see that the guilt still hung on him.

  “The next I saw him . . . his teeth were in a stand. His scales. His heart. They sold him piece by piece.” His voice cracked, and he roughly wiped his eyes. “I went mad. I destroyed most of the dragon stands, and then spent some time in a prison. When they released me, I formed the Resistance and protested Francis constantly. It was a few months later at the dock where my back broke, and the long shadow fell on me.”

  He turned to Marcus and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “I lost a brother that day. And Dree knows that. She remembers the old ways. The Egg is dragon magic . . . it was never meant to be in human hands. We didn’t have a right to use it, and she realized that. By bringing the Egg back, she could show some respect to the Flames—to the dragons we scorned. I think that was important to her. And for that, I cannot be mad. We have stolen too much from them, and given so little.”

  Marcus sighed. “Now I just feel like an idiot.”

  Abelard laughed. “She does it to me too. But she was wrong to say those hurtful things to you, and she will be the first to tell you when we get back, I am sure. You two need to make up. You are our best hope now.”

  Marcus nodded, and the two of them set off through the valley again, starting the long trek back to Forost. As they walked, Marcus glanced at Abelard, and finally saw him as the leader he really was—not just as a strong man, but as a wise one as well.

  “Do you think we still have a chance?” Marcus asked.

  “With Dree, there is always a chance. She is far too stubborn to lose.” Abelard looked at Marcus. “I am worried for her. And for you. You are Furies, and that is a rare thing. You must learn to control the fire within you.”

  Marcus paused. “I almost killed people back there.”

  “Yes. But that was because you lost control. With time, and patience, you will learn. Yes, Dareon almost destroyed the Dragon Riders. But before him were other Furies: Eldred, Kendrin, and Dara the End-Bringer. Heroes that saved Dracone. You have a choice . . . both of you. You will have to harness your power and lead the Riders.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m old. My time will pass. The future is with you two . . . to win this war, or to lose it.”

  Marcus looked at him, and then turned back to the mountai
ns.

  “We’ll be ready.”

  Chapter

  20

  Dree moved the welding torch slowly down the seam, immersing herself fully in the shower of red-hot sparks that would have burned anyone else on contact. The sparks covered her bare arms and cheeks and hair without even leaving a mark, sitting like fireflies until they fizzled out forever. Dree had plunged herself into her work as soon as Nathaniel left, pushing the guilt aside. But her mind did wander while she worked, and she still wanted desperately to apologize to Marcus—especially now that she had realized why she was acting so rashly. It wasn’t his fault that she was trying to push him away.

  For so long, Dree had fended for herself. She had already experienced so much loss at such a young age—getting close to anyone seemed like a mistake. She was better off alone, she had decided. Just her and Lourdvang, and Abi at home.

  That had been a good idea in theory . . . until Marcus.

  She sat back and looked at the hybrid. Without the Egg it would still be a slightly lesser version of the first one, but it would be dangerous regardless. She still planned on riding it into battle herself, though.

  Jack was asleep in the corner, completely exhausted. He had wanted to go after Marcus too, but Abelard had convinced him to stay. Reluctantly, he had sat down, and eventually the exhaustion took him.

  Dree was tired too, but she wouldn’t sleep until she knew Marcus was okay.

  She returned to her work, welding the last section of the leg. The face was lying on the ground a short way ahead—slightly different from Baby Hybrid’s. She had again fashioned four long teeth and hollow eyes; but the snout was shorter and broader, while the expression was designed to be fiercer, like a snarling predator hunting its next meal. Her mother said the whole hybrid was likely to give her nightmares, but Dree didn’t mind that idea. She hoped it would do the same for Francis when he saw it.

  As she worked, she caught a flicker of motion in the corner of her eye. She shut off the torch and turned around to see Marcus slowly walk in the room, looking at his feet. Dree threw down her equipment and rushed forward to meet him. She was about to hug him but stopped short, not wanting to overstep.

  “I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time.

  Dree frowned. “Why are you sorry?”

  “Because I should have trusted you to do the right thing. Abelard told me about the dragons . . . about the history, and why you did what you did. I understand now that we never had a right to the dragons’ magic. You were just respecting that. And I think maybe you were right to return the Egg. I just really wanted to beat Francis, you know?”

  Dree smiled and wrapped him in a hug, catching him completely off guard. Then she felt her cheeks flush and quickly backed away again, tucking her hands into her pockets. “Thank you, Marcus. It wasn’t easy, trust me. I want to destroy Francis too, but there has to be a better way. I couldn’t live with myself if something as powerful as the Egg got into the wrong hands. Still, I should be saying sorry to you. I didn’t mean what I said. Of course you belong here. Dracone is your home.”

  She reached out and took his hand.

  Marcus smiled. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

  Dree let go of his hand and made her way toward the hybrid. “So, she’s just about done.”

  Marcus walked around their creation, surveying every detail. He stopped beside her, nodding.

  “You did a great job,” he said. “But I’m so worried that it’s not enough, Dree.”

  Dree sighed. She had the same concerns, but she hadn’t voiced them until now. “I’m worried too.”

  Marcus slumped, as if he was hoping she would have some better news. “So what do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, turning back to the hybrid. “I really don’t know.”

  “We’re going into a battle we can’t possibly win. They outnumber us two to one. We’ll all be cut to shreds. I just don’t see how we can win, Dree.”

  A voice suddenly boomed across the chamber as Lourdvang strode inside.

  “We will win because we have to,” Lourdvang said, stopping and rising up to his full height, his enormous ebony head close to the stalactites. “We needed the Egg to win before, that was true. But when we left for Earth, we barely had any allies—it was just us and some Nightwings. But look at how much has changed since then. All of the Nightwings and Sages are with us, and I believe Nolong even has some Outliers joining the attack. Not to mention all of the Resistance fighters, more of whom seem to join our ranks almost every day. Before, we were just a handful of rebels trying to come up with a plan. Now we’re an army.

  “Don’t get me wrong. The fight will be difficult. We will need to work as a team, and our plan will have to be seamless. But I know we can win, together.”

  “Do you really think we have an army big enough to take on all of those drones?” Dree asked.

  Lourdvang stared at her. “There can be no more division. Not between you two, and not between anyone else. If we don’t work together, this attack is doomed. And somebody needs to show them that. They need to bring them together. You two need to become true leaders.”

  Marcus nodded. “He’s right. So what’s next?”

  Dree turned toward the main caves. “We get the others together. It’s time to come up with a new plan.”

  “Wait,” Marcus said, taking her arm. “Come with me.”

  He led her to an empty cavern. She looked around, frowning.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I did something tonight,” Marcus said, looking away. His voice was nearly at a whisper. “I burned down a tavern. I . . . I could have killed people.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, but it was close. The anger . . . it just takes over. I can’t control it, Dree. The power that we have. I know you can’t control it either. And we don’t have a teacher. But maybe you and I could work on it?”

  “How?” she asked, looking at her hands.

  He shrugged. “Let’s start by seeing what we can do.”

  Dree and Marcus sat face-to-face, cross-legged on the cavern floor. Both of them had their hands up in the air, palms out, and Dree watched curiously as fire lapped off his splayed fingers, small yet constant.

  “How are you doing it?” she asked.

  Marcus opened his eyes. “Trying to focus the anger, I guess, but not let it take control at the same time. I’m putting the emotions into the flames, and not letting them run through the rest of my body.”

  Dree frowned and closed her eyes, trying to focus on the fire. It was a strange sensation. She could feel the heat moving through her, like molten lava beneath a volcano, filtering through her veins. She thought of the war, and of Francis, and of her childhood home lying in ruins. The anger simmered, and the fire moved outward, swallowing her heart. She tried to rein the fire in, but felt it pulsating now, threatening to erupt at any time. She opened her eyes and saw that her arms were starting to come ablaze.

  “Try to focus it,” Marcus said encouragingly, the flames still confined to his fingers.

  The fire continued to spread, and Dree tried to bring it back to her hands—to focus the anger.

  “I can’t,” she groaned. “It’s too much.”

  “We have to,” Marcus said calmly. “We don’t want to hurt anyone else by accident.”

  Dree thought of her little brother. Marcus was right. She kept her hands wide open, not wanting to create a fist and let the fire come racing out. And then something very strange happened.

  Fire did escape her hands, but it did not erupt outward. It crossed between her and Marcus and joined his hands—a bridge of fire. Marcus stared at her in amazement as the link between them grew.

  Dree felt a sudden sense of calm filter over her, and she met his eyes.

  For a moment she felt completely connected. She could feel his
fear and guilt and anger. She felt a new focus and a far greater control. Dree held Marcus’s gaze as the two slowly let out all of their pent-up emotion. They shared the burden.

  “I . . . feel your anger,” Marcus said, never breaking eye contact. “And your fears. And more.”

  “Me too. I . . . it makes it easier to feel it. To know you feel the same.” A sudden thought came to her. “Do you remember what Eria said back in the war room? There have never been two Furies at once.”

  “They always were alone,” Marcus agreed. “But we don’t have to be.”

  Dree smiled, letting the fire recede back into her hands. She felt calmer now and in control.

  “Should we see what we can do now?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Definitely.”

  They both stood up and faced the wall. Dree felt the calmness flood over her, but it did not suppress the fire. The anger was simply detached from her. She clenched her fists, allowing it to swell over her fingers, and then she thrust her hand toward the wall. An orange fireball burst out and struck the rock, exploding into a shower of flame. Marcus followed suit. They unleashed them again and again until they were comfortable aiming at specific targets. The whole chamber was ablaze as they practiced.

  Finally, Dree turned to Marcus. “Let’s try to spar. We might need to fight hand-to-hand.”

  Marcus looked at her, hesitant. “Are you going to beat me up?”

  “Probably.”

  She raised her hands, and he followed suit, both allowing a bit of fire to flicker on their fists. She stepped in with a light punch and he parried her, stepping quickly back. He had just allowed himself a self-satisfied grin when she grabbed his arm and twisted it forward, forcing him to the ground.

  “Ow,” he said.

  She laughed and let him up. “Don’t let your guard down.”

  They sparred for another hour, and Dree beat him every time. But Marcus was getting better—a little more familiar with how to block and avoid her armlocks, at the very least. Near the end he almost managed to knock her down before she pinned him again, laughing.