Dreamlander

by K.M. Weiland

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chris snagged his clothes and his weapons and levered himself to his feet. Through the moonlit trees, horses trotted into the camp from all directions.

  “Women and children to the center!” Denegar bellowed.

  Chris threw on his clothes. Had Mactalde been expecting them? Could he have found them already? He gritted his teeth. Why hadn’t he prepared for this? He shouldn’t have left his people alone for even the few hours he’d spent in Chicago.

  “Eseded!” The word rolled through the camp like thunder.

  In the back somewhere, Pitch squealed. “They’ve come!”

  “Podd!” Orias shoved through the crowd. “Timon kardge bé ta ti yitlog!”

  Chris stopped short. The troops surrounding them weren’t wearing the red of Koraud. They weren’t wearing any kind of uniform at all. Through the shadows gleamed hundreds of faces, white as marble. His heart pumped hard. The Cherazii had come after all.

  He pushed past Parry to follow Orias. From the lakeshore, line upon line of Cherazii horsemen spilled into the camp. At their head rode Cabahr Laith. He drew his white charger to a stop and watched Chris’s approach.

  “You’ve come to fight,” Chris said. He had never dreamed they would change their minds.

  Laith looked at him levelly. “We heard what you said to us, Gifted. And with a little convincing, we have decided that if the worlds break, it will not be because the Cherazii had not the foresight to raise their blades. Do not think I trust you—or your choice in companions.” He didn’t even glance at Orias. “But we will fight with you for the sake of something greater.”

  Chris saluted them with his fist on his heart. “Thank you.” He swiveled around. “Did the Orimere work?”

  His father gestured to where the blue mound of explosives had landed a few yards off from his bedroll. “If that was supposed to appear out of nowhere, then, aye, it worked.”

  Pitch danced up beside Chris. “Huzzah! I knew it would turn out all right! Now what?”

  “Now we move.” Chris shrugged into his bandoleer and turned to face the people gathering behind him. Their eyes glittered in the snow-reflected moonlight as they watched him and the Cherazii.

  He took a breath. His speechmaking hadn’t had much of a chance to improve since the Gifted ceremony in Glen Arden, but what he had to say now he meant with all his heart. “Even if I could get more explosives, we’re not going to have the chance to try this again. So listen to me and do exactly as I tell you.”

  Quinnon, standing in the rear, crossed his arms.

  Chris continued, “I need as many volunteers as I can get from among the women. They’re going to come with me and the Rievers and set the explosives under the waterfall. Captain Quinnon and a squad of Cherazii—” he looked at Laith, “—will breach the Vesper gate beneath the palace. We need to disable any Koraudian sentries. I’ll join you before dawn, and as soon as the explosion goes off, we’ll ride up the hill to the palace.”

  He surveyed the ranks of his tiny army. The choice he made now would be irrevocable. “The explosion will get their attention and hopefully weaken their defenses. Only a small portion of Mactalde’s troops are in the city, but before we risk the casualties of such a battle, I’m going to challenge Mactalde to fight me one-on-one. Him against me to decide the war.”

  Laith frowned. “Have you the experience to defeat Faolan Mactalde in battle?”

  The camp held its breath.

  The answer, of course, was probably not. But before one more person died in this war, he had to attempt to make things right. If he failed, Denegar, Quinnon, and Laith could still lead the troops to victory. And if he won . . .

  “This battle is the reason I’m here.”

  His sister Tielle pushed through the crowd to stand beside their father. In the darkness, her blonde hair almost glowed. “You needed volunteers. Here’s one.”

  He could only thank her with a nod. Behind her, a dozen women gathered, Lauria and Sirra among them.

  Parry trotted over with a horse, and Chris swung aboard. While Pitch and Raz scrambled up behind him, he looked out at the upturned faces. In his chest, something dark and horrified gripped his heart and his lungs. But he felt something else too, something buoyant, something that was almost peace.

  He raised his voice. “When I came here, I didn’t believe in anything bigger than chance. I didn’t believe in destiny. I didn’t believe my life had a purpose.”

  Motionless, they watched him. They were waiting for words of affirmation, a promise that somehow all this insanity would at last bring peace.

  “In the months I’ve been here, something has changed. Today, the very world will change.” He raised his sword. “May the God of all help us.”

  The Cherazii’s voices boomed an echo. “Yalarin pitish sé!”

  _________

  They loaded the explosives in saddlebags and on makeshift litters. Chris led the volunteers along the shoreline cliffs, to the place where Harrison’s notes showed the caverns’ entrance.

  Wordlessly, the women worked inside the dank stone, passing the explosives down the hallways, packing them in the recesses beneath the black fortress. The Rievers ran back and forth, squeezing into impossibly small alcoves, carrying torches, and checking fuses. Hours trickled past, marked by the cold sweat down Chris’s back and the inaudible footsteps of his men marching up the shore to lay in wait outside the gates.

  When finally he’d judged three hours to have passed, he drew his mother aside and showed her how to set off the charge. “At dawn. Get everyone out safely, and set it off at dawn.”

  The corners of her eyes glistened. “Be safe. Please be safe.” She laid her hand against his face. “The God of all shine His grace upon you.”

  He squeezed her fingers once, then threaded his way back through the tunnels into the cold rush of night. The sky was paling to a bruised purple dawn. In the distance, three falling stars, the color of dead men’s bones, streaked to the earth.

  He galloped through the remnants of night. The hoofbeats crunched through snow and clattered against stone. They rebounded through the shadows and dragged his thoughts into their remorseless rhythm. The time had come. One way or the other, there could be no escape from this day. What he did now would change the course of the worlds.

  As the first streaks of morning stained the wind-tossed sky, he found the men crouched in the shadows of the Vesper district’s walls. To the east, beyond the castle on its cliff, more stars fell. Perhaps the sky itself was falling.

  In silence, he trotted through his troops, and, in silence, they parted ranks to let him pass. He reined up at their front and glanced at Quinnon and Denegar on one side and Orias on the other.

  “When?” Orias asked.

  Beneath their feet, the ground rumbled. He took a breath. God willing, it wouldn’t be Allara’s death knell, anymore than it would be their own.

  He loosed his sword from its sheath. “Now.”

  _________

  The blast ripped through Allara’s dreams and hurled her against the wall. Another blast and then another—a long chain of them all through the length of the fortress—shook her body. The ceiling collapsed, one huge center piece crashing into pebbles. She huddled against the wall, her head in her lap and her hands over her neck.

  When at last the shaking stopped, she peered into the gaping hole overhead. Light dribbled through the breach and flickered over the rubble. She pushed to her feet, and stones clattered from her clothing to the floor. Voices shouted overhead; footsteps hammered.

  She held her breath, and her mind touched the warmth of Chris’s presence. He was near. He had done this. He had come despite her prayers.

  She clambered on top of the rubble in the room’s center and caught hold of the hole’s edge. The stones crumbled beneath her grip, and she pawed them out of the way until she found a solid handhold. Praying no one above would hear, she kicked off from the pile of rocks, dragged an elbow over the ledge, a
nd rolled herself up and over. The room, a part of the servants’ quarters, lay empty and hazy with dust.

  Réon Couteau held no surprises for her. She knew every room, every passage. She knew the back corridors Mactalde and his men would not yet have had time to find. Through the ruined hallways, she ran. Higher and higher, she climbed, to the places she knew best, her private haunts high above the rest of the palace.

  Finally, she reached the huge outer terrace that swept from the gates above the city entrance to the waterfall on the southern exposure.

  “Two days ago, you offered us a bargain!” Chris’s shout wafted to her.

  She stopped short and flattened herself against the wall.

  “My bargain included no provision for your blowing up my palace.”

  She eased her face around the corner. Mactalde leaned against the balustrade, his hands spread. In profile, he was smiling, but everything about his posture radiated anger.

  “You said you’d leave Lael in peace if I came to you.” Chris had to be standing outside the palace gates, shouting up. “I’ve come.”

  No, no, no. Her breath rasped.

  “To propose a bargain of my own,” he continued.

  “What could you possibly want that I would give you?” Mactalde’s voice mocked.

  “I want a fair fight. You against me. Alone. Winner take all.”

  Chatter chased through the crowded terrace. A handful of Mactalde’s generals stood at his sides, babbling and shaking their heads.

  Allara splayed her hands against the stone on either side and clenched her teeth for a moment of interminable silence.

  Then, almost abruptly, Mactalde thrust his generals away. “I would hardly call that a fair fight. But fairness doesn’t appeal to me nearly so much as inevitability. You have a bargain. Let him into the courtyard!”

  She pushed away from the wall. She had to get out of here. How could Chris think he could do this? He had few chances of surviving a duel with Mactalde, and she wasn’t about to let him trade his life for hers. Unless the explosion had blocked the way, she might be able to escape through the armory court.

  She started to turn away.

  In the crowd of Mactalde’s disciples, Crofton Steadman’s face in its frame of black hair appeared. His eyes locked with hers.

  Her muscles turned to rock.

  He pointed at her. Mactalde and Rotoss looked around, and before she could flee to the safety of the back corridors, two soldiers caught her and dragged her past Steadman.

  “And so I gain a second audience with you, my lady.” Steadman grinned. “Only now you are no longer queen here.”

  The soldiers forced her to a stop in front of Mactalde.

  He paused in pulling on his gauntlets only long enough to look her over. What was the lowly Searcher to him now that he had the Gifted within his grasp?

  Rotoss hovered at his shoulder. “With respect, this is balmy. Why risk our victory fighting that whelp?”

  “You call this a risk? This is no risk.” Mactalde smiled at Allara. “Wouldn’t you agree, princess?” He turned back to Rotoss. “Alert the men to stand ready. If anything should go amiss, they’re to eliminate Redston immediately.”

  Perspiration beaded Allara’s hairline. “You can’t do this.”

  “Of course I can.” He gave her nose a tap as he walked past. “Stay here on the walls, my lady. It seems you’ll be able to witness your loyal Gifted’s demise after all.”

  She lunged against her captors’ arms and filled her lungs with the shout that was her only weapon. “Chris! He’s lying! Don’t come in here, it’s a ploy!”

  Rotoss’s hand shot out and clamped over her mouth. “You rotted little witchling.” He looked at Mactalde. “She can’t stay up here.”

  “Oh, well, give her to Steadman, then.” Mactalde glanced back from the doorway. “He’d enjoy that, I’m sure.”

  “Fine.” Rotoss hit her once across the side of her head, hard, then thrust her wrist into Steadman’s hand. “Get her out of the way.”

  Her brain spun, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Orders and the tread of marching feet filled her head. In the courtyard, the gates ground open to admit Chris. Steadman’s hand tightened around her coat sleeve, grinding the bones of her wrist.

  It wasn’t going to end like this. She wasn’t going to let it.

  She opened her eyes.

  Steadman pulled her closer, until his forehead touched hers. His heavy breath heated her skin. “You thought you could blind the people with your witchcraft forever. But you were wrong. The old ways are falling even as we speak.”

  “No.” She pulled back. The length of their arms stretched between them. “There are no old ways. There is only one way, and that way is not yours.”

  She turned and yanked away. Her wrist slid from her sleeve, and Steadman’s grip tore her coat from her body. She crossed the wide terrace to the curve in the balustrade where the spray from the waterfall misted through the rails. A single running step lifted her onto the wrecked banister. Her only escape was a mad, blind dive into the lake, with no one at the bottom to catch her.

  “You fool!” Steadman snagged her fingertips. “The fall alone will kill you!”

  She launched herself over the edge and dragged Steadman with her.