by Peter Fane
Applause rang out, loud and long, whistles and cheers from the crowd. From the group of Tevéss soldiers, Lord Gideon nodded his approval, looking up and over the spectators. From their perches, the enemy dragons growled their satisfaction. The great Irondusk shook his head at the sky and flared his massive, rust-colored wings. Dark green banners swayed in his wind. The applause continued until Lord Malachi raised his hand to quell it. He let the silence reign for a long moment.
Then he raised his fist suddenly and roared: "Once again, the House of Fel is triumphant!"
Bellowing applause. A group of soldiers somewhere began banging spear against shield. The dragons shifted on their perches, swaying and muttering.
Lord Malachi's voice dropped lower and the crowd hushed in response.
"But victory is never achieved without cost. We have lost many brave soldiers, many brave riders, and many brave dragons in recent days."
A low, angry rumble ran through the crowd.
Malachi nodded. "But their commitment and their sacrifices were not in vain. For Fel House now holds Dávanor's High Keeps, Dávanor's High Gates, and Dávanor's lasting peace within its grasp!"
Thunderous applause roared out, raging even longer this time. Almost every soldier had a weapon of some sort out, banging it against any nearby metal or stone. Whistles and cheers. The dragons unfurled their wings, dragon wind gusting through the Square.
"But for peace to live," Lord Malachi shouted, "then war must die!" He drew his hand across his throat and pointed his finger first at Anna, then at the men of House Dradón. "Behold Anna Dyer! Behold the foes of House Fel! Behold the murderer of Lord Oskor! Behold the enemies of the Silver Kingdom! Behold the enemies of peace!"
The crowd hissed. "Traitors!" someone shouted. Thousands of eyes glared down at her vindictively. The dragons growled and rocked on their perches, becoming even more agitated. Irondusk looked as if he was having trouble controlling himself.
Lord Malachi raised his hand and all went silent.
He looked at Anna for a long moment.
"And behold," he said softly, so softly that the crowd could barely hear him, "behold the dreaded Moondagger!"
No! Anna's head spun.
There was a low murmur, and the right side of the crowd parted.
"You can save him, Anna," Malachi whispered.
And then she saw him.
Or what was left of him. Four big soldiers in dark green livery pulled a wooden cart towards the center of the Square, iron-bound wheels scraping the stones. Dagger was strapped to the cart with thick leather bands, his wings bound to his sides, hind legs stretched and splayed out behind him. The bands were tight, making him look more like a trussed snake than a dragon of war. The broken remains of an elaborate splint for his right wing had been torn away and cinched down beneath the straps. His scales were dull, dirty, and grey, their usual white brilliance gone, replaced with filthy scrapes and smears of dirt and grime. A deep gouge on his neck had been stitched up—but the stitches had been freshly torn out.
Anna shut her eyes. Then she opened them. She owed him that much. They all owed him that much. That and so much more.
His jaws had been elaborately chained shut with straps and chains, his tongue caught between his own teeth, punctured by one of his own fangs. A single tear of red blood hung from its tip. His eyes were shut, caked with grime.
Oh, Dagger.
His torn nostrils flared as he sensed her presence. He made some effort to turn his head towards her, but he couldn't do it—his neck was chained to the cart with a collar ringed with spikes, the points digging into his flesh.
"Behold," Malachi said, his voice still soft. "The infamous blind dragon. A freak of nature and sorcery, bred by criminals bent on bringing war and savagery and violence to our family, our house, and our world."
Thousands of soft hisses, the malice sweeping the crowd like a wave.
Lord Malachi soothed it with a raised hand.
"And behold," he said, beginning softly, his voice rising like a wave. "Behold the price of lies, schemes, and violence. Behold the price of treason, betrayal, and aggression. Behold the price of fear, terror, and tyranny." Then he roared and pointed: "And behold our justice!"
A huge solider wearing a massive suit of plate mail and a dark green executioner's hood stepped from the left side of the crowd. He carried a huge headsman's ax. Behind him, four black horses in dark green tackle waited, their horseshoes scraping the flagstones. Behind each horse stood a pair of squires in dark green livery, each carrying wickedly hooked chains.
"Behold our high justice!" Lord Malachi bellowed again.
The crowd went wild, the cheering swelling like an avalanche. A ringing clash of swords on shields. The furious roar of dragons. Irondusk's rage shook the High Square at its roots, bits of rock trembling on the flagstones, the High Gate responding somehow to the crowd's energy, its silver light flickering and scintillating with soundless white flames.
The thunder washed over Anna like a wave and she saw the blue-clad soldiers of House Dradón wilt against it.
She must be strong.
It was her or it was no one.
So she braced herself, chin up, eyes wide, staring at them all, daring them to meet her gaze, daring them all to look her in the eye.
"She threatens our lives." Malachi pointed at her. "She threatens our High House, and she threatens our High Laws! But—like all those who would bring war to our people—she has FAILED!"
Total chaos. The walls of the High Square seemed to buckle beneath the noise, the crowd raving, red-faced, shrieking, stamping. The dragons' bellows were deafening. The High Keep itself seemed to shudder on its foundations. Dark green banners shook against the walls. The High Gate's light blazed like star fire, its weird, silent music seeming to swell and rise in a numinous, noiseless crescendo in response to the crowd's furor.
"But," Malachi whispered, "the House of Fel is merciful."
And just like that, all noise ceased. Everyone, soldiers, crowd, dragons—even Irondusk—went quiet.
"And the House of Fel is righteous."
Complete silence. The only sound the flap of dark green banners in a faint stirring of breeze.
"And above all, the House of Fel is wise."
The people nodded, utterly absorbed.
"Why destroy an enemy, when you can embrace a friend? Why kill and maim and burn, when you can live and thrive and love? Why make endless war, when you can craft lasting peace?"
Malachi looked at Anna directly.
"You can save him, Anna," he said, so that only she could hear.
She returned his gaze with what she hoped was defiance. But she was dizzy. Confused. And she wondered suddenly for whom this entire performance was truly being staged. The crowd was nodding together now, murmuring assent.
"A just peace," someone said, tentatively.
"A just peace!" a woman cried out.
"Peace!" a man yelled.
"Peace!" the crowd began to shout. "Peace!"
"A just peace." Malachi nodded. He held his hand up for silence and the Square went quiet.
He looked her in the eye. "What say you, Anna Dyer? Will you end this war? Will you save our blood and our sorrow?"
He gestured gently to her Masters, to Mother, to her sisters, to the line of House Dradón prisoners, and finally to Moondagger. "Will you save your friends? Will you save your family? Will you save your dragon?"
The crowd was utterly still. Complete silence. Even the faint breeze had ceased.
Anna's lips trembled. She looked at Moondagger. His ragged eyelids cracked open, the caked blood splitting apart. He blinked sluggishly, weakly, turning his head this way and that, trying to blink through the crust around his eyes.
Anna clamped her lips together. Tried to keep her chin up.
Even now—shattered—her dragon still felt her eyes on him. He still tried to see her. To find her. To protect her.
Dagger's sides shuddered, and he pulled feebly
against the constricting straps and chains. His bloody nostrils flared. A low whine escaped his bound jaws.
"I'm here," Anna whispered. "I'm here."
Dagger went still. Then he twisted his head as far as he could towards her, trying to meet her eyes. But the spiked collar dug into his neck and stopped him, a line of blood running down his dirty scales.
"No," Anna groaned and shook her head.
Don't fight.
Their fight was over. They'd done their duty.
You can rest.
A low moan rose somewhere near the center of things.
With sudden strength, Moondagger thrashed his head side to side, back and forth, blood spurting around the spiked collar at his neck as he craned his head towards Anna, trying to find her, to see her.
65
THEN A CHAIN broke somewhere, and their eyes met, and they were alone.
The crowd, the people, the soldiers, the prisoners, the dragons, the pain—all were gone.
They saw nothing save each other.
And in that vision, something pure opened, and they saw that their faith, their trust, and their love was stronger than ever. Indeed, it was all that remained.
66
"DAGGER," ANNA WHISPERED. Her lips trembled as she spoke.
His head cocked slightly.
And then his eyes—those huge, strange, beautiful, silver moons—closed with a gentle, final sigh.
67
IT WAS DARK. He could not see. He did not want to leave her. But he could not stay. He could not save her. And his heart ached with the totality of his failure.
You see me.
You see . . . .
68
"DAGGER?" ANNA WHISPERED.
"Will you save him?" Lord Malachi asked again.
"Dagger?"
"Will you save us all?" Lord Malachi asked.
Anna couldn't have answered, even if she'd wanted to. Her throat constricted, her head ached, and her vision hazed, tears coming at last, clouding everything with their hot blur. The sadness and the anger, the furious sorrow, everywhere—everything. It was as if the anger had become her, as if her body was nothing but a shell of wrath and grief. Oh, Great Sisters!
Your dragon is dead.
"Will you save him?" Malachi asked. Somewhere, the crow cawed.
And then—total clarity.
"No," she said.
The word came out simply, without ceremony, almost without thought.
She looked up at Lord Malachi, tears hot in her eyes, her voice thick but true: "No."
The word rang in the silence.
Lord Malachi looked at her for a moment, then made to speak, but she interrupted him.
"We are Davanórians," she said, clearing her throat. "We keep our promises. When I was nine years old, my Lord, in this very Square, I swore an oath to protect the High House of Dávanor, to serve House Dradón, and to honor the High Laws of Remain. I made a promise." She raised her eyes defiantly at the crowd. "As did each of you. You might have forgotten. But I remember. I remember. I am a soldier of House Dradón, a dragon rider of Dávanor, loyal subject of High Lady Abigail and the true High King, Bellános Dallanar. I don't know who you people are or who you serve, but I do know this: A soldier never betrays her word. A soldier never forgets her promises. My answer is no, my Lord. Forever, no."
A flicker of anguish in Malachi's eyes, then he turned away and looked up and over the silent crowd.
"'No,' she says. 'No.'" He cleared his throat.
Dead quiet.
Then Malachi turned and pointed at Anna and cried hoarsely, "Do you see!? This is no soldier! This is a fanatic! This is not civilization. This is savagery! This is not good. This is evil! An evil that must be cleansed! And that cleansing begins now!"
The crowd roared, and the headsman stepped towards the center of the Square. The butt of his ax tapped the flagstones. Behind him, the four dark horses clacked and jingled forward, their attendant squires carrying their wicked chains. Behind the squires, two infantrymen ran up, carrying an iron brazier of hot coals on a wrought stand. They set it beside Malachi. From his belt, he withdrew the short, iron poker and lifted it for all to see.
"See well, Anna Dyer! See well the cost of your treachery, your evil, and your war!"
He held the poker up for another long moment then plunged it crunching into the hissing coals.
"But first, we bring final justice to this traitor's 'blind dragon.'"
He nodded to the headsman and his horses and pointed at Moondagger. "Destroy it."
The crowd roared its approval and—.
And then the air in the High Square seemed to swell, as if charged before a storm.
The skin on Anna's arms went to chilly gooseflesh. A tingly pulse throbbed behind her eyes.
At the center of the Square, the High Gate seemed to hum.
A song felt but not heard.
Somewhere, an alarm gong sounded.
Lord Malachi turned to the High Gate.
It flashed to life, silver radiance spilling across the Square.
Anna stared.
Someone was coming through.
But how?
Silent, silver light pulsed from the Square's center, the Gate's radiance washing over the crowd, the space framed by the Gate's arch going hazy, as if filled by silvery mist. A massive pulse shook the Square like a silent thunderclap and the four adepts of House Fel at the Gate's legs fell backwards, knocked senseless by soundless force.
"House Fel, House Tevéss—form ranks," Lord Malachi ordered calmly. "Clear the High Square."
His men reacted professionally, as did the crowd, everyone hurrying to obey. There was no way they would get out, but they were doing their best. Green and maroon clad platoons came up quickly and surrounded the Gate in a standard square formation. The soldiers' faces were grim and determined, their carbines held at the ready. Irondusk and the rest of the dragons peered forward, growling with hungry expectation.
"Defense cannon, if you please, Sergeant Lodáz," Lord Malachi ordered.
The big Tevéss soldier turned and bellowed, "Defense cannon!"
There were five large windows set in each of the walls parallel to the opening of the High Gate. Each of these windows was secured with a pair of iron-bound shutters. At Lodáz's order, the shutters fell open and the noses of ten cannon emerged from the windows' darkness. All pointed at the High Gate.
Another silent thunderclap.
The lead adept at the Gate's center looked at Malachi for a moment, her mouth still moving, veins swelling and pulsing at her temples, eyes wide with desperation, her arms crossed fiercely across her chest as she tried to block the intruder—and then she was gone with a soundless zap into the silvery fog.
From the High Gate itself—as if from the very center of its structure—a deep wail sounded. An ancient war horn, a timeless cadence of power and eternal majesty. Anna could still see the other half of the High Square through the arch, but even less clearly than before. The Gate was filled completely with glowing mist.
A flickering silhouette appeared at the center of the shimmering fog—the shape of the head adept from whatever world now forced the Gate open.
But no, Anna looked closer.
How could that be?
The figure was tiny. No larger than a small child.
The High Gate flared brighter than ever, the silhouette vanished, and a young man stepped through the spot where the small shape had been, the Gate's mist clinging to his hair and shoulders like steam.
The young man was tall. But also quite thin and rather odd to behold. He wore a fitted breastplate of high silver, but the armor seemed just a touch large for him. A slender saber was belted to his waist, but not properly. When he walked, it banged awkwardly against his thigh, almost but not quite tripping him with every step. He wore beautifully made breeches of Abúcian leather, sky blue and trimmed with silver sable, and a pair of matching boots. A heavy, blue cloak—again, lined with sable—was thrown over his
narrow shoulders. The cloak was covered with snow. His hair was dark and cut in a soldier's crop. But the haircut looked peculiar on him, perhaps because of his head, which seemed just slightly too large for his slender neck. His eyes were large, dark, and faintly crossed, an effect magnified by the incongruous reading spectacles he wore halfway down his aquiline nose. His lips were full and turned in a kind of naïve grin, as if he were thinking of a dozen jests he could never tell. Fresh snow powdered his shoulders and his hair.
But the most astonishing thing about the young man was this: he held little Gregory, Master Zar's old messenger dragon, in his arms. But how could that be? Because this little dragon was a brilliant, bright blue, its wings supple and young. Anna stared. But it was Gregory, no question. The little dragon looked at her and hissed. His eyes were brilliant yellow, the milky cataracts gone. His little mouth was full of extremely white, exceptionally sharp little fangs.
"Ah," the young man said with that puzzling half-smile. "Good morning."
He squinted into the sun and held his hand up to shield his eyes, taking a look around. He nodded and stamped his feet a couple of times, shaking the snow off.
Little Gregory squeaked, leapt from his arms, and flew straight to Master Zar, nuzzling his snout against the battered Anorian's neck. Zar's eyes were smashed shut, but he managed to lift his bloody hand and hold little Gregory to his chest. Beside him, Master Khondus nodded. Master Borónd and Mother stared at the High Gate and the young man standing before it, a strange combination of disbelief and hope in their eyes.
The young man furled his cloak, shaking more snow loose from his clothing. He took off his spectacles, polished them on his cloak hem, and put them back on. But he'd gotten more snow on them, so they were no cleaner. He took them off again and looked around, casting about for something on which to clean them.
Lord Malachi had gone pale. But there was also something else in his face. Was it relief? Then he seemed to remember himself, pulled a handkerchief from inside his leather breast plate, and handed it to the young man.
The High Square was absolutely silent. Everyone had stopped mid-exit and turned to watch the scene unfold.
