by Dan Avera
“I've known Will for only five years,” Castor said, “but I know that if anybody can make things right, it's him. And I am not going to sit idly by and let him have all the fun.”
“Nor will I,” said Katryna, and she and Clare stepped out of the crowd to join Will and Castor. “I smell a good deal of fighting on the wind; I want a part of it.” She smiled at them, and kissed Will on the cheek. “I am yours to command, my king.” She gave him a mocking bow that drew a burble of laughter from the crowd.
For a moment Clare did not say anything; no words were needed. Will met her shining emerald eyes, and in the look that passed between them he caught something that touched the core of his heart. When Clare smiled, he could not hold back a smile of his own. “Where you lead, I will follow,” she said in a voice so soft that the crowd of mercenaries had to strain to hear. She shared one last private look with Will, and turned to gaze out over the rest of the soldiers.
Silence settled over those assembled, and Will realized that it was his turn to speak. What should he say? He licked his lips nervously, and found that his mouth was suddenly very dry. This is important, he thought. If I say the wrong thing here...
“I don't know how to be a king,” he began slowly, and he directed his words at the mass of men. “And I'm no Castor. But there is trouble brewing to the south, trouble that hasn't raised its head for a long, long time. I can't fight it alone.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I need your help.”
Silence fell once more, and for an agonizing moment that felt like an eternity, no one moved. No one spoke. Each mercenary waited for his fellows to make the first move, glancing at each other from the corners of their eyes.
Did I say the wrong thing? Will wondered. Spirits above...I should have just let Castor do this. But no...then they would have followed him, and not me.
Finally one man, a grizzled old veteran who had been with Castor since the beginning, walked out of the crowd and stood in front of Will. His name, Will remembered, was Jons—one of the original Ravens, and though a fighter who was just above average in ability, he commanded the respect of the other men through sheer force of will.
“If you're going to be a king,” he growled, “and we're all your men...does that mean I have to dress up all pretty for parties and such?”
The quiet that had settled among them shattered before an explosion of laughter. “Only if you want to, Jons,” Will chuckled.
“Then I'm with you!” the old man cried, and drew his battered sword and thrust it high into the air. “I'll fight for you, mighty king of dragons, and...whatever else you're going to be the king of!” He bowed low with an exaggerated flourish, and when he rose back up Will punched him on the shoulder. Jons grinned back at him.
And that did it. The grizzled soldier started a trickle, and soon the trickle turned into a flood. The Ravens had all fought with Will; they knew of his deeds, and they knew they could trust him. By the time the last man crossed over to stand in the crowd that had formed around Will, Clare, Castor, and Katryna, only a handful of soldiers had refused to join the new Dragon Guard. They were relatively new recruits, still young and full of fire; they had no intention of throwing their lives away for morals rather than coin. And though Will wished they had chosen differently, he could not blame them. It was not their battle to fight.
~
A short way off, where Borost and the Titans had settled among the shadows to watch, Feothon breathed a sigh of relief. “He is a leader of men,” he said softly.
“They always are,” Borost answered, but the look in his blind eyes was one of sadness. “He has been given a task greater than any man alone can accomplish. I fear he will be undone not by the traitors, but by the people he will try to save. To unify the Inner Kingdoms...I am truly doubtful that it can be done. Perhaps five centuries ago, but now? Now there is so much hate in the world. I can only hope that he succeeds where my Dragon King failed.”
Feothon sighed again, but this time it was a tired one. “Davin did not fail,” he said quietly. “The fault lies with the Titans. We trusted the High Councilors where we should not have. If not for you, I think we would have lost our faith in humanity long ago.” He shook his head and was quiet for a moment. “Are you ready, then?” he finally asked the old man next to him, and there was a new, leaden weight to his voice.
“Five hundred years,” Borost said softly. “I pity you. All of you. Your unnatural long life has left you with many scars, but it would have killed me long ago. You are stronger than I.” He nodded slowly then, and after taking a deep, shuddering breath, he whispered, “Yes, I am ready to die. The new Fire Heart has emerged; release me from your curse.”
Feothon smiled sadly. “I already have, old friend. I am only sorry that I could not have done so sooner.”
Borost was quiet for a moment. “I am not,” he said finally, and Feothon looked at him askance. “When I was young, Davin gave my life purpose. When he died, he gave me a greater task than any normal man could bare. My life has been fraught with sadness and pain...but it has been a life well lived. I will be remembered, and for the right reasons. If only he had returned sooner, that I might have found him myself.”
“You are a great man, Borost,” Leyra said softly, and she laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Would that I had met you in a happier time.”
Borost smiled, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling, and two small tears trailed down his papery cheeks. “I am happy that I met you at all,” he said. “Renne would have been so proud of you.”
Borbos turned away to hide his own tears, and he sniffled loudly. “I'll be missing you, friend,” he said hoarsely. “You've earned your rest, but...damnation.” He said no more.
“Borost,” Serah said softly, and they all turned to look at her. She seemed uncharacteristically nervous. “Davin...always had a special place in my heart. And you always had a special place in his.” She licked her lips and then, her dark eyes resolute, she leaned in and kissed the old man deeply. His blind eyes widened in surprise, but a moment later his lids slid closed and fresh tears leaked down his cheeks.
Finally Serah broke away, and with one hand reached up to caress his face. “Just know that you had a special place in mine as well,” she whispered, “even though I told you differently.” And then she was gone in a swirl of cloaks and wind. No one spoke. No one moved.
“I...I guess that would explain why she never took a mate,” Borbos said softly.
The remaining Titans turned to look at Borost, but the old man sat as Serah had left him, with his eyes closed and his face tilted ever so slightly upward. “So many years,” he whispered. “And she told me so long ago that it could never be. So why now?” His eyes opened slowly, and Feothon was surprised to see happiness in them. “It matters not,” Borost said with a trembling smile. “We will hold each other again in the Void.”
Feothon placed a gentle hand on Borost's shoulder. “I do not think there has ever been another human like you, Lord Commander,” he said with a smile. “Your story will be sung for ages to come, my friend.”
Borost chuckled. “I can only hope. Now...I believe this is a time for happiness and merrymaking. The sadness will come, but for the moment...” He smiled. “Why not let them enjoy themselves?”
~
The dress fit perfectly, molding itself to Clare's body as though it were a second skin. She smiled as she looked down at herself and admired the forest's handiwork yet again. It had produced for her a gown much like Asper's, though rather than leaves it was made from rose petals. It halted just above her breasts, leaving her skin above its edge scandalously bare—a rather revealing form of dress, but one that the forest people seemed to prefer. And one that was, admittedly, growing on her.
It had been Asper's idea. There had been a short, private ceremony for Castor and Will, in which an old man whose name Clare did not remember had given Castor a beautiful sword. Fang, he had called it, and Clare had been entranced by its beauty. Feo
thon told her that the man had lived for half a millenium; this was his final duty.
There had, however, been no swearing in for the new Dragon Guard, no oath of undying service that they had to pledge. Feothon had simply gathered those Ravens that had agreed to follow Will, and after a few words of welcome had sent them on their way.
Clare initially found the lack of an oath somewhat strange; every nobleman she had ever seen or heard of had required some form of a binding statement from his warriors, some pledge to protect him and serve him and die for him. The Dragon King is above those things, though, she realized, and then the full implications of what Castor and Will had done hit her. They didn't coerce those men into joining them; they asked for their help. They gave those soldiers a choice, and now they'll follow Will to the ends of the world.
It was after the ceremony that Asper had sought her out. “Feothon is throwing a celebration in honor of Castor and Will,” she said, and there was a mischievous smile on her lips. “I've something for you that will draw the eyes of every man there.”
Clare laughed. “Every man?” she asked. “Goodness, I'm not sure I want that.”
“Then perhaps just one man.”
It was not a question, but a statement, and Clare had only been able to stare at the woman for several moments. Asper's eyes had been knowing, and her gaze had held Clare's unrelentingly. “Very well,” Clare said at last, “show me.” And Asper had taken her hand and led her away.
Now the sounds of merriment were all around her; Pradians and Faellan alike had gathered at the heart of the forest in honor of the new Lord Commander, and they danced to the lively tune of lute strings and fiddles. Somewhere along the way a panpiper had joined the mix, lending a lilting, hopping beat to the music. Animals flitted among the humans, weaving in and out of the crowds or swooping overhead from on high, and the forest had grown innumerable plants ripe with fruit for the many humans to feast on.
It was a beautiful scene, and for the first time since meeting Will, Clare felt herself begin to relax, at peace in a place where she knew she was safe. She ran her hands absently down the soft petals of the dress and gazed out on the dancing people; Castor and Katryna laughed and whirled and weaved in and out among the dancers, and Clare was surprised to see even the man they called Hook dancing as well. He was holding in his skeletal fingers the hands of a young blonde girl who giggled and grinned as he spun her about. That must be Priscilla, she realized, remembering Will's story of a girl with golden hair.
Clare smiled softly; for the moment everything was right in the world. For the moment she could feel at peace.
Mostly, anyway. There was still something that set her heart jumping and made her blood pound in her ears, but she had not seen him yet.
“You look beautiful,” said a familiar voice behind her, and she whirled, the dress flaring out around her legs.
“Will!” she gasped, and then laughed. “You scared me half to death.”
She noticed that he had found matches for his original clothes somewhere—the red shirt and black breeches were back in place, strikingly plain among the vibrant raiment of the dancers. Not that it matters, Clare thought. He looks dashing regardless of what he wears. A smile touched her lips as her eyes danced across the man before her. She had not realized how out of place he looked without the red and black.
“What?” he asked, laughing, and she realized she was staring.
“Nothing,” she replied, but her eyes and her half-smile said otherwise. She looked away an instant later and indicated the rose petal dress with a wave of her hand. “So...you like it?”
“Definitely.” Will grinned, and then it was his turn to stare. “You look...well, you look beautiful. But I already said that.”
“I could stand to hear it once more,” Clare said softly, and this time her smile was radiant.
“Alright,” Will murmured, and cleared his throat as though preparing for a speech. “Clare...you look absolutely, completely, breathtakingly beautiful.”
She felt her face heat and she turned slightly to hide the glow on her cheeks. A dark strand of hair fell across her vision. “Thank you,” she murmured, suddenly very shy.
“It's only the truth,” he replied just as softly.
The musicians continued to play in the background, and now the dancers began to stamp their feet in time with the lively beat. The music had an almost otherworldly power in its notes, and it tugged at Clare, willing her to spin and whirl and join the throng of revelers. I wonder if Will dances, she thought, and opened her mouth to ask.
“Care to dance?” He had beaten her to it. He held his hand out to her with a grin, and she took it as though in a dream. The sensation of his fingers on her own sent an electric thrill through her body.
This can't be normal, she thought as he led her out into the crowd of people. These feelings I have for him...spirits above...I'm in love. And it happened so fast... And then she was spinning, whirling, laughing as she danced with Will and the music filled her soul. It was wonderful, gloriously wonderful, and she had never been happier. They were so close that she fancied she could almost feel the heat radiating from his body, and then she realized with a jolt that she could feel his heat. It was...delicious. Like sliding between warm bed sheets on a cold winter's night, or lying on sun-heated stone after bathing in a river.
She felt something stir inside her, a strange cat-like feeling of stretching luxuriantly. It grew and flowered deep in her chest, and then spread to all of her extremities. It danced her dance and moved along with her, sharing her thoughts and her feelings. When Will's hand touched her hip and sent tingling sparks across her skin, the...Other felt it too. And when she looked into Will's ice-blue eyes, the Other purred deep inside of her. It was as though...
There's someone else in my head.
The thought startled her so badly that she stumbled and tripped over Will's foot, and he caught her with a laugh. “Are you alright?” he chuckled. “Look, I understand that there's a party, but you really ought not to drink so much.”
But when he saw the look in her eyes his face became immediately serious. “Clare?” he asked softly. “What's wrong?”
“I...” she paused. The jolt must have driven the Other away, for the feeling had left without a trace; her body was her own again, her mind free from any separate entities. What in the name of the Void...? Out loud, she murmured, “Sorry, I'm fine. Just, ah...my hand hurt for a tick. Just a tiny twinge.”
Will's face fell, and she regretted her choice of excuse. “Oh,” he said quietly. “I, ah...here, do you want to go sit down?”
She absolutely did not—never before had she wanted anything less. “No,” she answered, and to prove it to him she took his hand in hers, and placed her free one on his shoulder. The music changed then, and the fiddles and lutes quieted to allow the addition of a viola, its sweet notes setting the tone for a slow rhythm that invited closeness and whispered words. The violist struck a soft chord that started off quiet and gentle, and eventually built into a sweeping rise and fall that nearly brought tears to Clare's eyes with its beauty. She pulled Will back into the dance, moving slowly this time, her bare feet sinking into the soft earth with each step. Their bodies were touching, and through her chest she could feel his heartbeat.
The music filled her as though she were a cup, and by the time it reached her brim she and Will and the music were the only things in the world. And deep inside of her, in some recessed corner of her mind, the Other slowly began to creep back out into the open.
Will's hand went to her back, the tips of his first two fingers just touching the skin above the top of her dress, and she shivered. “Are you cold?” he asked.
She shook her head and giggled, and he gave her a quizzical look, but she said nothing. The music's tempo and pitch waxed and waned, and they with it. She leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes; his scent filled her nose, something that reminded her of fresh-tilled earth or the first rain of the season. The sensat
ion of his touch intensified a hundredfold, and she felt each and every one of his movements, no matter how small. She wondered if he felt the same.
She could feel his breath puffing softly against her neck, tickling her skin, and she opened her eyes slowly and pulled her head back. They looked into each other's eyes, neither of them speaking, the Other inside of her pushing her ever closer until his breath danced softly across her lips.
And then the song ended.
The spell broke and Will cleared his throat and moved slightly away from her. Her hands lingered on his shoulders for a moment longer, and then she let them fall away. Why is it so awkward? she wondered. Does he feel differently about me than I do about him? But then a sudden, painful thought occurred to her: she was mortal. She had seen the look on Will's face when he had learned of Asper's mortality. I've been a fool. He doesn't want a mortal lover. And the Phoenix Empress...oh, spirits, what am I doing?
She looked away and, more out of nervous habit than any real need to, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she said softly. He did not answer. “I...um...I should go.” Her words came out in an unintentional whisper, and when he still did not say anything she turned to leave. But the gentle press of his fingers on her shoulder stopped her, and she looked back at him.
He licked his lips, and she noticed with some surprise that his blue eyes had tiny, almost invisible veins of red in the irises. Were those there before?
“Would...would you walk with me?” he asked hoarsely, to her surprise.
“Of course.”
They walked far, far away, leaving the festivities behind until they could no longer hear the soft, lingering notes of music or the merry laughter that drifted through the air. The onset of evening had begun, and by the time Will stopped the rays of mystical sunlight were tinted red and purple.
For a long while they simply stood, neither speaking, an awkward silence settling over them like a heavy woolen blanket. Will did not look at her, and though they stood almost shoulder to shoulder, to Clare he seemed very far away. She waited for him to say the first word, but he never did; his even breathing was the only sound outside of the occasional hoot of an owl, or the constant low chirp of crickets, and the silence between Will and Clare dragged painfully onward.
