by JD Monroe
The tiny cells had low ceilings, not quite high enough for a large man to stand up. They were so narrow on all sides that even Tarek, who wasn’t huge by Kadirai standards, couldn’t fully extend his arms. A full-grown Kadirai would crush his own wings trying to transform inside the cells. And even if they somehow managed, the thick chains inside would prevent them from doing much.
At the end of the hall, two more armed guards stood watch over a single cell. One of them sported a purple knot on his cheek, and his partner looked disheveled, his dark brown hair sticking up in the back and his tabard hanging slightly crooked. Kaldir had given them trouble, it seemed.
As they approached, Navan snapped his fingers. The guard with the bruised cheek looked up and regarded him nervously, his eyes skating away from the captain’s gaze. “Bring him to the chamber.”
The guard looked resigned, but he nodded and gestured to his partner. The other guard’s shoulders slumped. He took a deep breath as he put his palm on the locking plate next to the door. As soon as he made contact, the wooden door flew open on its own. There was a blur as Kaldir lunged out of the cell. Then he let out a choked sound as the chain around his neck snapped taut. His bare legs kicked out wildly, catching one of the guards at the knee and sending him to the ground. He managed another few good blows before Navan took a flying leap, landed halfway in the cell, and kicked him squarely in the ribs. Kaldir doubled on himself, curling into a fetal position as he wheezed for air.
“Vazredakh,” Navan cursed. “Secure him.” The two guards eyed their prisoner warily, making no movement toward him. Navan scowled. “If I must repeat myself, you will be scrubbing cells for the next year.”
The guard with the bruised cheek jumped and scurried back down the narrow hall. He returned with a set of shackles. Navan took advantage of Kaldir’s incapacitated state and knelt on his back while the other guards snapped the shackles around his wrists. As they worked, Kaldir’s jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut. Still, he didn’t make a sound to let Navan know that he was in any discomfort.
The two guards hauled Kaldir to his feet, then pulled up on the connecting chain, forcing his arms up at a painful angle. He had no choice but to walk hunched over, with his shoulders threatening to pop out of their sockets as he stumbled forward. The guards marched him into a larger room further up the hall, one that Tarek didn’t care to see.
Though Halmerah would not call it such, it was a torture chamber, much like the one where he’d found Gabrielle when he first arrived in Adamantine Rise. Sharp implements were arrayed on a side table, while various hooks and chains dangled from the ceiling. To Tarek’s knowledge, it had been rarely used since the Great War ended. The nasty-looking blades and hooks were left out more for theatrics.
In the years he had been posted down here, he’d only seen half a dozen prisoners brought here, and most of them had spilled their secrets within a few minutes. Tarek had no love for Kaldir, but he hoped that he would follow tradition. If the man was guilty of attacking Ashariah, then he deserved death, to be certain, but it should be a swift one that allowed the Stoneflight to maintain their honor.
The two guards dragged Kaldir in, unhooked one wrist from the manacles, and transferred the chain to a hook high overhead. When they had latched his wrist back in, the Ironflight guard’s arms were pulled taut above his head, his toes barely skimming the rough stone below.
There were no built-in safeguards to prevent Kaldir from transforming, but he would be a fool to attempt a change under his circumstances. He was certainly a powerful Kadirai; to be trusted with protecting the royal family, he had to be. But even the most extraordinarily powerful of the dragons took time to transform, and the transition made them vulnerable. More than a few dragons had been slain trying to change during battle. During the Great War, the Raspolin cursed a number of dragons with evil magic that forced a transformation, then killing them while their bodies were in transition.
Though he had been stripped of all his clothing, leaving him naked as the day he was born, Kaldir was furious and scowling at them. When the door closed behind Eszen, Kaldir began ranting.
“You have made a grave mistake, t’haran dan keth,” he spat. Well, that wasn’t a good start to a diplomatic conversation. His amber eyes followed Navan’s approach. He was considerably larger than Navan, and even in his vulnerable position, he managed to look intimidating.
Navan was unfazed. “The Prince already told us of your plot to attack Princess Ashariah. Halmerah will show forgiveness to your people if you tell us of the impending attack.”
Kaldir barked a laugh at him. “Idiots. There is no such plot, and you are not half the liar you imagine yourself to be. You should—urkh…” He trailed off as Navan swung a bladed hand toward his throat, cutting off his air. His eyes bulged as he choked, gasping frantically for air.
“Let me try restating this in a way that you will understand,” Navan said. “I chose not to harm your Prince, in an attempt to preserve diplomacy between our peoples. Your hide is not nearly so valuable. And if I need to, I will flay it from your bones and send it back to your queen in a sack. Do not tempt me.”
Kaldir wheezed and sucked in a rasping breath. He raised his head and glared at Navan. “I told you. There is no plot. The Ironflight has held the peace with your people for many years. I would not—”
Navan cut him off again with a fist to the belly. When Kaldir started to protest again, Navan sank his fist into the delicate ribs high under his armpit. Kaldir let out a groan of pain and lost his precarious footing as one leg buckled. Spinning slowly on the chains, he coughed violently as he tried to get his feet under him. Right as he got his left leg balanced, planting the ball of his dirt-streaked foot on the stone, Navan kicked the back of his muscular thigh with his armored boot. The Ironflight dragon slumped, his leg dangling uselessly.
“What is your plot?” Navan asked again, casually adjusting the leather bracer on his left arm.
“I told you, there is no such plot,” Kaldir breathed. He coughed, then spat on the ground. Tarek watched in detached horror as a droplet of blood landed on his own foot.
Even when he had served as the queen’s personal guard, they had known peace within Adamantine Rise. He had been called away occasionally to help defend their outposts against attacks from beyond their borders, but those had been skirmishes at best. The nasty business with the Silverflight after they ambushed the elder princess had been the only major conflict he had known, and he had been mortally wounded for most of the time, hearing most of it through gossip and hearsay. It had never fallen to him to bring the full force of Halmerah’s wrath down upon an enemy.
It surprised him to find that he was sickened by it, perhaps because of what had happened at the hands of the Silverflight. It was easy to see himself in Kaldir. He disliked the man, and always had, but he was duty-bound and loyal to his queen, just as Tarek was. Worse, beyond the immediate discomfort of seeing Kaldir interrogated, dread prickled at him. Were they on the brink of war? Was there some way to resolve this before one of their queens threw down the gauntlet and let nearly one hundred years of resentment explode?
Kaldir’s voice had lost some of its booming command as he spoke again. “I say this as one soldier to another. If you truly believe an attack is coming, then you waste your time with me. Were it my choice to make, I would spend my time ensuring that my soldiers and my people were ready.”
His eyes fell on Tarek then, and they were so full of disapproval and accusation that Tarek took an involuntary step back. A knock came at the door behind them, and Kaldir’s amber eyes lifted to look at the door.
“Councilor,” a female voice said. A young woman in the uniform of the Library scribes approached Eszen. Her cool gray gaze fell on Kaldir, her eyes widening in horror. Then she turned away, squaring her shoulders as she spoke to Eszen. Rising to her toes, she whispered into his ear.
As she spoke, the councilor’s eyes widened slightly, then found Tarek’s. His brow creased in conc
ern. “Thank you. You will stay here to return word to the queen.”
“She is not permitted to be here,” Navan said.
“The queen has sent word of Dakhar,” Eszen said, ignoring the captain’s protest, “and the Vak woman.”
Tarek’s stomach plunged. He tried to appear detached as he asked, “What happened?”
“She is with the healers now,” Eszen said. “They say she visited Ashariah, then fell unconscious and would not wake.”
Tarek was suddenly rooted to the ground. His heart raced as he thought of beautiful, fierce Gabrielle in such a state. His poor attempt at stoicism failed. “I have to go.”
Eszen raised an eyebrow at him. “Is your lust for the forbidden more important than the queen’s orders to you?”
He made the mistake of looking back at Kaldir. The Ironflight dragon’s split lip curled into a bloody sneer. “By all means, go see to your woman. She is quite lovely, for the Vak.” His expression turned Tarek’s stomach, as he remembered the sight of Gabrielle in his arms during the feast.
Tarek suddenly felt his dread turn to rage. “Did you do this? If you’ve hurt her, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? She is Vak,” he said. “Do not pretend her life is of any value to your queen.”
Tarek’s fist tightened as he took a long stride toward Kaldir. The other man flinched slightly as if he was preparing for a blow. But Tarek instead grabbed his chin. “If I find out that you did something to her, I will return and carve you to pieces myself.”
Kaldir twisted his head to break Tarek’s grasp. “Run along, t’haran vo’shedh. Let the men handle this.”
Navan had protested his leaving, but Tarek would face the queen’s anger himself if necessary. A muffled cry of pain from Kaldir echoed, following him as he ran up the corridor toward the central stair. He had given Gabrielle his oath, as he had sworn to the queen to protect her and her daughters. And yet again, he had failed on such a fundamental level to protect someone who needed him. He was doubly cursed.
As he ran through the halls, his mind painted a lurid picture of Gabrielle, lying pale and unconscious as the princess had done. He couldn’t bear to think of her, the light gone out of her warm, kind eyes. If this was the work of the Ironflight, he would keep his promise and peel the flesh from Kaldir’s bones.
His mind was so distracted that he nearly missed the egress to the gardens. He skidded to a halt, then twisted on his heel to run into the healing gardens. Voices and murmurs rose as he bolted past, heading for the healer’s pavilion. The posted guards acknowledged him and let him pass.
The healer’s pavilion was quiet and still. Plumes of fragrant smoke drifted up from hammered silver censers hanging from the arches of the pavilion’s roof. At the far end, the queen and her guards were gathered around the princess’s veiled bed. And strangely, one of the healers was crouched on the floor, tending to a still figure.
“Where is she?” he blurted as he approached.
The gray-clad healer kneeling on the ground looked up and shushed him. “Quiet,” she murmured.
“I will not be silenced,” he said, his tone heating.
“Tarek!” Halmerah said sharply, looking up from her daughter. “Quiet.”
The queen’s disapproving tone cut through his panic like a knife, and he flushed with embarrassment. He slowed, lingering at the edge of the circle of attendants around Ashariah. Halmerah stood at her daughter’s bedside, but her eyes were downcast to the figure on the floor.
Gabrielle lay on the cold stone floor, one hand stretched up to Ashariah’s. Their hands were entwined. The sleeve of Gabrielle’s robe slipped down to expose her slender forearm. Deep red furrows marred one arm, though they did not bleed. Her body was twisted awkwardly, her hips cocked. Her dark hair was spread around her in a halo on the floor.
“Why is she on the floor?” Tarek asked quietly. He felt as though his belly was filled with ice, an odd chill washing over him. Why is she so still?
“That was where she fell,” the healer replied.
Tarek knelt and reached for her, but was greeted with a chorus of “No!” from the attendants. The kneeling healer grabbed his wrist, her grip surprisingly firm as she pulled his hand away. He froze and stared at her in surprise. “What?”
“She touched the princess, and now she does not wake. We do not know what has happened.”
He stared at the healer in horror. “So you just let her lie there?”
“This is the work of the Ironflight,” Halmerah said. “They have gone too far.”
“Fuck the Ironflight,” Tarek spat. The gathered attendants stared at him, and he realized he’d spoken in English. As descriptive as the Kadirai tongue was, there was no word in the language that was as viscerally effective at expressing one’s rage.
Halmerah ignored his outburst, though she was familiar with the epithet. “Dakhar has woken, but he is incoherent. He will be of no help.”
But his queen was far away as Tarek stared down at Gabrielle. He had brought her into this mess. It was chance that she had been the one to care for Ashariah, and arguably it was chance that had brought her face to face with their attackers the first time. But it was none other than Tarek Windstriker who called her, asking for her help after she should have been clear of all this. He’d known if he asked for help, she would come. And this was where her warm, caring spirit had gotten her. Because of him.
Gabrielle murmured, jarring him out of his reverie. As they watched, another deep furrow appeared across her chest. Tarek cringed, feeling the pain twisting in his gut as he watched her helplessly. Her face creased, but she did not move.
“Can’t you separate them somehow?”
“It’s possible that it would ensnare us too,” the healer said.
He stared helplessly at her. The logical soldier in him wanted to believe that this was an inevitable casualty, that anyone was expendable in the service of the Stoneflight. His life only held meaning in his service to the queen, and if he died protecting her or the princess, then it would be the greatest honor of all. The same would go for Gabrielle.
But as he stared down at this fierce, independent woman, he realized that she had softened a part of him that had been cold, hard stone for longer than he could remember. He dared not even entertain the notion of love, but he would have been a liar to deny that he longed for a connection. To be on the receiving end of that smile, to feel worthy in that warm gaze; that was greater than any honor the queen could bestow on him.
And here she lay, her eyes closed, her lips pale and unmoving.
He could not stand by, not again. He heard “no!” as he grabbed her hand. Darkness fell, and the world went utterly silent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Though he fell through dark, endless space, it was oddly quiet. Time stretched out as he fell, heart pounding and limbs flailing. Without warning, he crashed into something solid, but there was no pain. On contact, light exploded around him and Tarek found himself on all fours on a shattered gray expanse. The sun was a harsh white orb burning through gray haze overhead. The smell was oddly familiar; it was the dry dirt smell of the desert, though the faint reek of decay seeped through the dusty aroma.
He brushed off his knees and stood, looking around. “Gabrielle?” he asked. His voice was flat and dead.
Distant thunder rumbled as a shadow slithered across the ground. His heart raced as he looked up. A massive white dragon, bigger than any he’d ever seen, circled the skies. Instinctively, he reached for a weapon, but he was unarmed. He reached deep for the spark to ignite the transformation into his dragon form, but he was empty. It wasn’t weakness; there was simply nothing there. Dread gripped his guts as he realized he was defenseless. He looked around frantically for somewhere to hide, but the surrounding landscape was a flat expanse of shattered ground as far as he could see.
“Gabrielle!” he called again. The white dragon continued its wide circle. If it noticed him, it showed no sign.
Tarek began to wa
lk. The ground was uneven and shaky under his feet, but he kept moving. As he moved, his mind started to chase its own tail in a spiral of worry. Was he stuck here? Was he lying unconscious next to Gabrielle, useless as a dulled blade as the Ironflight prepared for war on his people? He’d been a fool to do this, but he wasn’t sure he was wrong.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his neck. He didn’t know how long he had been walking when he finally paused and surveyed the gray desert again. He might have moved a mile or not at all. There were still no signs of anything on the horizon. After a pause, he shouted, “Gabrielle! Where are you?”
“Tarek,” a voice whispered. Lips brushed against his ear. He whirled on his heel, but there was no one in sight.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” the voice said, now decidedly feminine. When he turned again, a figure shimmered ahead of him like a mirage in the desert.
“Gabrielle?”
The figure materialized fully into a face he had not seen since seeing her body given back to the flames over a decade ago. As she stepped toward him, it felt as if someone stabbed him in the chest. “I-Ivralah?”
“Hello. Have you come to give penance?”
Tarek was rooted to the ground, his tongue paralyzed in his gaping mouth. She was flawless, her body draped in shimmering lilac silk and silver jewelry. From the piercing blue eyes to the haughty stare, she was the mirror image of her mother.
“I…what is this?”
“Didn’t you come to see me?”
“I came for Gabrielle,” he murmured.
Ivralah’s face distorted into an expression of anger. “You would protect her over me?”
“You’re not real,” he said. “You died.”
