by Peter Fane
The young man cleaned his spectacles, put them back on, and peered through them, momentarily cross-eyed, making sure they were clean.
"My thanks," he said.
"An honor, Lord Garen." Lord Malachi bowed, taking the handkerchief back.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Anna stared.
Could it be?
Lord Garen Dallanar. The Under-Duke of Jallow. Lord Librarian of Remain. A spy-master, healer, and scholar whose cunning was known throughout the Realm. The son of High Lord Bellános Dallanar, the true King of Remain.
Lord Malachi cleared his throat. "I am—that is, I am—we are surprised to see you, my Lord."
"I expect so, Malachi. I expect so." Lord Garen raised his chin at Gregory. "That little dragon arrived at the Tarn some days ago carrying some disturbing information. I won't pretend with you, Malachi. Father didn't like it. Michael also was . . . well, how do I say it? Displeased? Yes. That's the best way to describe it. Displeased. He and Lord David were good friends, you know. Father shares some interesting history with those poor fellows, too." Lord Garen inclined his head at Master Khondus and Master Zar.
From his perch above the Square, Irondusk gave a low growl.
Lord Garen paid the great dragon no mind.
"Let's get straight to it, shall we?" he asked. "You've seized this Keep in violation of the High Laws. Dávanor is ruled by House Dradón—not House Fel. This means that High Lady Abigail is your rightful liege. She is also the rightful liege of every inhabitant of this duchy. 'Truth and honor.' Is that not right, Malachi? Is that not a common Davanórian salute?"
Dead silence.
"Well, to us, those words mean something." He took off his spectacles and inspected them again. "We thought Lord David had made this clear three years ago. But apparently the lesson didn't take. So here we are, once more."
"My Lord—."
Lord Garen raised a hand. Malachi's mouth closed with a soft click. "I've convinced Father that our direct involvement isn't necessary. That this is a 'misunderstanding,' nothing more. That this can be resolved without violence. That the House of Fel honors its word. That the House of Fel keeps its promises. What say you?"
Lord Garen spoke as if he was oblivious to the Fel crossbows, guns, cannon, and dragons that were pointed at him from every direction. Instead, it was as if he was speaking to a poorly behaved servant boy regarding an improperly groomed hedge.
"What say you?" Lord Garen asked again.
Malachi said nothing.
But Anna could see his mind spinning.
The new lord of House Fel could not bow to Lord Garen's will without betraying his family's alliance with Lord Gideon and with the Pretender King. Nor could he bend knee without completely losing face in front of his people and soldiers. But to challenge High King Bellános and his sons directly? Publicly? Without preparation? That was almost equally impossible. Perhaps more than that—it was insane.
"Time's short, Malachi," Lord Garen said, pushing his spectacles up onto his nose. "You'll come with me to the Tarn, of course. Gideon? Where are you? There you are. You'll come, too."
From the opposite side of the High Square, Lord Gideon stared, his chubby face red with fury.
Lord Garen paid him no mind. He turned back to Malachi. "Philip will be installed in your place. Oh, don't look so upset, Malachi. Brothers always squabble. And it won't be long. When this unpleasant business between Father and my uncle is resolved, we'll return you home. These soldiers and dragons will need to be gone from the High Keep immediately. Right after they—and you—renew your oaths to High Lady Abigail and to House Dradón. In my presence, of course."
Every eye was on Lord Malachi. Above it all, Irondusk's claws dug rhythmically into his perch, a trickle of debris and splinters streaming down the Square's wall. Lord Malachi looked at his men for a moment, swallowed, then shot a barely noticeable glance at Anna. His shoulders sagged. "As you wish, Lord Garen," he said, bowing his head.
Irondusk's growl deepened, low and ominous.
"Excellent!" Lord Garen said with a bright smile. "Splendid! Now, make your will known, and we'll get on with this."
Lord Malachi looked up over the crowd. The people returned his gaze; some with relief, some with scorn, some with wonder. Lord Gideon and most of the Tevéss soldiers stared at Malachi with outright disgust.
"In accordance with—," Lord Malachi began.
Without warning, Irondusk roared and launched from his perch straight at Anna and Moondagger, his enraged bellow thundering the walls, massive jaws wide and slavering, rust-colored scales glimmering like bloody bronze, a falling star of hate and vengeance.
Simultaneously, something else moved inside the High Gate.
It was a man. He stepped from the Gate with liquid, unstoppable grace, clad in black armor, holding a massive, black sword before him in both hands. Irondusk saw him, roared his fury, and drew a deep breath, chest glowing hot with unleashed wrath. The man seemed to leap from the Gate straight into the dragon's maw, flying black sword a tongue of dark flame, slashing downwards, stopping the dragon mid-flight, splitting its huge skull lengthwise like a razored ax through rotten wood, blood and brains exploding across the flagstones, hissing water on hot rock. Screams of fright and terror. The dragon's enormous body flipped, plowed into the side of the High Gate, stopping up against the Gate's indestructible surface. Horror and shock shuddered through the crowd. Even the soldiers seemed to cringe, frozen in place by some unseen force.
The finer details of the armored man coalesced, the Gate's silvery mist clinging to his arms and shoulders.
He was a young man. Taller than Lord Garen and wider, a body built for war. His neck was like a young bull's, thick and corded with muscle. His eyes were dark, almost black, a pair of seething pits. His dark hair was shorn short in a soldier's crop, his square jaw clean shaven. He wore full plate of high silver, but it was tinted black somehow, as if fashioned of dull obsidian. He wore a thick cloak of silver wolf pelts, a dozen tails brushing the backs of his ankles. Fresh snow covered his shoulders and hair. His sword was a shard of starless night, its pommel a black, egg-shaped stone in which light did not reflect. A single drop of Irondusk's blood marked his smooth cheek.
"Lord Michael!" someone screamed with pure, naked terror.
The name rippled through the crowd like a dread wind.
Michael Dallanar. The Dark Lord of Kon. General of the Tarn. Older brother to Lord Garen and second born son of the great Bellános Dallanar, High King of Remain.
Lord Michael did not speak.
Instead he stood motionless in the spreading pool of dragon's blood and looked over the crowd, his massive sword held loosely in one hand.
We thirst . . . all of us.
A weird voice. A woman's voice. The words blending and warping together as if whispered from a hundred mouths. To Anna, the voice seemed to come from the black blade itself. Familiar, somehow. Yet no one else seemed to hear it.
Then Lord Michael spoke. His voice was soft, but carried across the Square with total, royal authority. It was unlike anything Anna had ever heard.
It was the voice of absolute violence.
"You men of House Fel there," Lord Michael said, "stand down. Fel riders, get you and your dragons gone to the Felshold. Gideon, get your men back to Tévesshold."
"But I was just about to—," Lord Garen began, raising his hand as if to protest. Lord Michael shot him a look and Lord Garen put his hand down, shut his mouth, and adjusted his spectacles.
A shuffling murmur ran through the crowd. The riders and soldiers of House of Fel and House Tevéss looked from each other to Lord Michael, then from Lord Michael to Lord Malachi and Lord Gideon. Their faces were worried and confused. Captain Corónd looked down from his perch at Lord Malachi, his face a mask of contempt. His bronze dragon hissed.
"Gentlemen," Lord Michael said softly, his voice somehow present in every ear, his dark eyes catching the light. Anna shuddered in spite of herse
lf. "I'll not ask again."
Simple, silent obedience.
The soldiers of House Fel and House Tevéss lowered and sheathed their weapons, heads bowed, while the Tevéss and Fel dragon riders—all of them, Corónd included—immediately turned their mounts away from the Square and launched towards their homes, maroon and green war banners coursing behind them.
Lord Michael glanced at Lord Garen, a strange look in his eye, a mix of fondness and exasperation. Lord Garen shrugged apologetically and adjusted his spectacles.
Lord Michael shook his head and sheathed his black blade with a click. He held the massive sword beneath its cross guard. Then he turned to Lord Malachi, his boots sucking at the blood beneath his feet. The gory pool continued to spread, the deep red channeling down between the flagstones before overwhelming them entirely.
"You're a traitor, Fel," he said plainly, letting the words sink in.
Lord Malachi didn't look up. His eyes were fixed upon the bloody flagstones.
"I'd butcher you like a newborn piglet and burn the Felshold to the ground this day, this moment—if the decision were mine. But it's not. And, fortunate for you, I honor my vows and my orders. The High King of Remain will suffer no more noble-born blood needlessly spilt. Instead, you and Gideon will follow my brother to the Tarn. There you'll beg my father's forgiveness—what? Did I see you mutter something there, Lord Gideon? My offer displeases you? You have something to say? You think it unfair?"
Lord Gideon's plump face went pale. He bowed his head.
"As I was saying," Lord Michael continued. "You'll both come with us. You'll both beg my father's forgiveness. And then you'll both stay with us, as honored guests, until the war is done. Before you go, however, you'll write one letter to each of your most trusted captains. There you shall make clear: If one further sword on Dávanor is drawn against High Lady Abigail, if one further word of treason is spoken against House Dradón, I will return—and I will be free to act as I choose. Where is the High Lady?"
"In her chambers, my Lord," Lord Malachi bowed.
Lord Michael nodded. "I'll speak with her in a moment. Great Sisters save you, Malachi, if she's in any way harmed."
Malachi seemed to shrink into himself.
Lord Michael nodded. "Is everything understood? Is the will of the High King clear to you?"
"Yes, my Lord." Lord Malachi did not lift his eyes.
Lord Michael looked across the High Square. "And you, Gideon?"
Lord Gideon bowed. "Yes, my Lord."
"You will obey the High King's commands?"
"Yes, my Lord," Tevéss and Fel said together.
"Louder please. There are many ears here. We want no confusion."
"Yes, my Lord!" they cried.
But Lord Michael had already turned away, as if the High Lords weren't worth his breath. "Garen, please remove Zar, Khondus, and Borónd to the Tarn for treatment." He glanced at Moondagger, lifting his sword in Dagger's direction. "Take this dragon as well." He turned to the line of kneeling House Dradón soldiers. "You men, free your imprisoned fellows, disarm these soldiers, and escort these good people from the Drádonhold. But hear me well: The High King shall broach no further fighting. No reprisals, no vengeance, nothing. If one drop of blood is shed—one drop, be it Fel or Tevéss or Dradón—then all will face our justice. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" The soldiers of House Dradón saluted and got moving.
Lord Michael turned to Anna, stepped up behind her, and unlocked the manacles at her back. She stood, rubbing her wrists. Mother, Penelope, and Wendi walked towards her, their eyes wide with wonder.
"You are Anna Dyer," Lord Michael said softly. It was not a question.
"Your servant, my Lord." She bowed.
"I got your message."
She bowed, low and long. When she looked up again, he was looking her over. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and utterly fierce. He looked into her face, their eyes met—and something electrical passed between them. He cleared his throat. "Your injuries, they're not severe?"
"No, my Lord." Her face flushed, in spite of herself. "My dragon—."
"Leave your mount to Lord Garen." Lord Michael cocked his head at his brother. "He may not know a sword from a stick in the mud, but he's the finest healer in all the Remain."
69
A MONTH LATER, the High Square was once again packed with people, this time a jubilant, celebrating crowd laughing and milling under a glorious noon sun. They crammed the walls, every window and balcony filled with lords and ladies and soldiers and merchants from across Dávanor, high houses and low, House Dradón banners flying from every wall and hand, each man, woman, and child bedecked in their finest sky blue. High above it all, perched on the Square's uppermost ramparts, House Dradón's strongest remaining dragons rested. Nightlove was at their pinnacle, huge and refreshed, her brilliant white scales blinding in the sun. Her eyes shone like liquid sapphire.
Along the Square's eastern side, on axis with the High Gate and its blue-robed adepts, High Lady Abigail sat on a throne of silver wood. She wore a tiny gown of blue Eulorian silk and a simple diadem of high silver rested on her blonde hair. In her right hand, she carried a miniature scepter topped with a large sapphire enclosed in a sculpted rendering of the Dallanar Sun. Her little feet rested on a sky blue cushion. A huge House Dradón war banner hung from the wall behind her.
The High Lady was flanked by her advisors, councilors, and captains, Master Khondus, Master Zar, and Master Borónd first among them.
Master Khondus wore a fresh velvet doublet of sky blue under a greatcloak of heavy, blue wool. The wounds on his head were near gone, his right eye was well on its way to healing, and his nose had been reset, showing only the barest hint of bruise. He wore the high silver revolver he'd taken from Floren d' Rent a month ago in the stable, cross-holstered at his leather belt; it glimmered like milky steel, fresh with new polish.
Master Zar stood at Master Khondus's side. The stocky Anorian held little Gregory across his chest and was busy feeding the ravenous little beast bloody scraps of lamb from a silver goblet. Zar would kiss the dragon on the nose, dangle a shred of meat above Gregory's mouth with thick, purple fingers, then repeat. The little dragon's blue scales and white fangs flashed brilliantly. Zar's scalp had been fully healed on Kon; the Dallanar Sun tattooed on his forehead glowed white in the bright daylight. He wore a cloak of purple velvet and a rich doublet of fine Eulorian silk. At his thick neck, a silver amulet in the shape of a book, the token of the Great Sister Aaryn, glimmered. Like those of Master Khondus, Master Zar's other wounds were well on their way to healing. His only care in the world now was making sure little Gregory had a limitless supply of sloppy meat on which to sup.
Master Borónd stood next to Zar, his head bowed, his bandaged hands cradled before him. The Master wore a simple robe of blue cotton, the hood cast back around his shoulders, a new pair of wire-framed reading spectacles perched on his nose.
Directly in front of the High Lady's dais, Mother, Penelope, and Wendi waited on a long, ceremonial carpet of sky blue. They wore new gowns of Eulorian silk in various shades of blue along with simple, silver jewelry at their necks and ears. Mother, striking and tall, stood a step behind her daughters, a ravaged Dradón battle flag folded carefully in front of her.
"Here they come!" someone shouted.
There was a blaze of silver trumpets, the Dradón dragons thundered the sky, and the Square's main portal opened to a roar of deafening cheers. Through the door, scores of standard bearers marched, House Dradón's banner first and largest among them. The Dradón banner was followed by dozens more, one from each of Dávanor's loyal minor houses. The Goróns, the Hensporters, the Kyne, the Tallerduns, the Lef, the Berénor, and so many more. Every color of the rainbow, their coats of arms waving in the noon breeze. A column of trumpeters came next, their blaring horns high and true, curled silver gleaming in the sun. Then came Captain Jenifer Fyr, leading a column of perfectly coordinated Dradón guardsmen, steel spea
rs glimmering with spotless polish. She had taken wounds during the battle in the High Square and still wore a silk sling for her right arm, but her smile was fierce and utterly proud.
"Anna!" Wendi cried, pointing at her from across the Square.
Anna Dyer was standing in the portal's shadow, waiting for her cue to enter, looking out into the cheering square.
It didn't seem real.
Everywhere she looked, they were shouting her name.
"Anna! Anna! Anna!"
The trumpets blazed.
That's you.
She took a deep breath and stepped into the sun.
She wore new armor and gear, all of it custom fit and fully functional. The high silver dagger she'd received from Master Khondus was sheathed upside down on a polished bandolier marked by silver clasps and studs. The revolver she'd received from Master Zar was slung in a new custom rig beneath her left armpit. Her shoulder pads were modest, the right much smaller than the left, perfectly balanced for the war lance, both dyed sky blue. The right pad was freshly stamped with the coat of arms of House Dradón, a white dragon rampant; the left pad was marked by House Dallanar's six-pointed sun. Her breeches and boots were of the best Abúcian leather, both tinted blue to match the colors of her High House. She wore a thin band of silver in her hair.
Of course, they'd told her to carry a lance in with her, so she'd done it, even though it was just for show. It was an ancient spear of gleaming high silver from the Drádonhold's Inner Armory, impossibly light, impossibly strong, a primordial weapon crafted during the first years of the Founding, its strange, fluid design seeming more a product of nature than craft.
When she stepped fully into the sun, the crowd cheered like mad and the dragons roared their triumph. Anna smiled and looked up at them.
"Anna! Anna! Anna!"
And then she couldn't help herself.
She lifted the ancient weapon over her head and cried.
"For the Remain!"
The crowd went mad, the dragons bellowed, and the Square trembled. The chant began in earnest.
"Anna! Anna! Anna!"
