The Blind Dragon (25 page)

Anna didn't hesitate. Cool, clean water.

"My thanks," she said wetly, emptying most of the cup. She couldn't remember ever tasting anything so good.

The sergeant nodded and gently dabbed her chin with the back of his glove. His eyes were pale grey, his left eye totally bloodshot, its corner sealed by freshly scorched flesh. He did not wear the dark green of House Fel, but rather wore the maroon of House Tevéss.

"Let's go," he said. They moved out.

They made their way out of the High Keep's dungeons, up towards the High Square and the High Gate, up stone staircases, through corridors and passages, across bridges, and under colonnades. The men of House Fel were everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. Dark green banners, adorned with Fel's two-headed golden dragon, hung from almost every gate. Soldiers in dark green livery stood at almost every intersection. Green clad riders and their dragons perched on almost every lookout.

House Dradón had fallen. That much was clear. But how badly had they been defeated? What had happened after she'd had flown from the High Square? If word had spread to the loyal minor houses, then they'd come with more than half of Dávanor behind them. Yes, it would be bloody, but these traitors would receive the justice they deserved. But at what cost?

You can still change your mind.

The thought came to her unbidden. She cringed at it.

And there was something else, too. Something strange.Every so often, she would see herself at a distance, as if time skipped moments, as if she looked down at their little procession from some high vantage, as if she was not in her own body. The crowd of Fel soldiers around her, the low mutter of their voices, the click of armor and buckle, the tread of boot on stone—all had taken on a dream-like quality, blurry at the edges, sharper at the middle, her own mind centered and luminous above it all. She could no longer feel the manacles at her wrists or ankles. She could hear her chains, the jingling scrape of iron against pavers was as steady as her steps, but their weight was gone.

And then, quite suddenly, she realized that she didn't resent the men who now led her to torture and death. How could she? They were her enemies. And she was theirs. Yet they were the same. Something had been twisted, somehow. They were alike, but yet they fought. An image from her nightmare, from the strange, silver factory, flashed before her, a cold talon on her heart.

The work must be protected
.
The promise must be kept.

She stopped walking abruptly and almost fell on her face. The big, burned sergeant caught her just in time, bringing the entire crowd clattering to a halt.

When the sergeant had righted her, she asked in her most commanding voice: "Give me your name, soldier."

"Lodáz," he replied, an automatic response to her order.

Anna started with recognition. The big Tevéss sergeant from the High Gate. She'd thought him dead, killed by Dagger's flames. His left eye could not see, she realized. Destroyed by dragon fire. She regained her composure.

"Thank you for the water, Sergeant Lodáz," she said.

"You are welcome, dragon rider." The big man nodded professionally. There was no malice in his voice. None at all.

"Come," Anna said. "Lord Fel waits."

64

T
HEY WALKED UP
a set of dark steps towards an arch of light.

She could hear the crowd out there, thousands of voices, but hushed in that way you hear before the beginning of a play, the low murmur of a hundred soft conversations. Her procession stepped into the open, and the murmuring stopped, as if cut off by a knife.

She looked up. Squinted against the sunlight. It was blinding but also warm, almost luxurious, against her skin. She closed her eyes and turned her face into its heat, the light red against the inside of her eyelids. She took a deep breath. Felt the crowd watching her. Heard their shuffling silence. Saw herself from far away. A fourteen-year-old girl in torn white silk surrounded by a dozen men in green and black and maroon; a white light at the center of darkness.

And she could save them all.

Gentle pressure against the iron bar at her back. She opened her eyes and the sounds and the scene came in.

From every wall of the High Square dark green banners hung barely moving in the faint morning breeze. Green-clad soldiers were everywhere, on the Square's walls, on the ramparts, on the tower tops. And then there was the crowd. A silent, motley mass of all sorts—men, women, children, merchants, servants, and nobility from House Fel, House Tevéss, and House Dradón—filling the four sides of the High Square, a kaleidoscope of peasants' wool, court finery, and everything in between, packed onto the low, wooden benches used for pageants and celebrations.

On the Square's northern side stood a large contingent of House Tevéss soldiers and nobles, all in dark maroon. Lord Gideon Tevéss stood in front of them, surrounded by his high guard. He was tall, slightly fat, with a reddish face, thinning, grey-blonde hair, and a thick, grey beard. He wore velvet leggings and a velvet doublet of rich burgundy. A dress dagger, pommeled with a maroon stone, swung from his belt on an ornamental chain. Both his ears were clasped in elaborate gold casings. A rich amulet decorated with maroon stones hung from his neck, shining in the sunlight. He looked at her curiously.

Behind Lord Gideon—in the stands, in the surrounding buildings, on every balcony, in every window—people watched, their faces an amalgam of interest, scorn, and sympathy. And above them all, high on the ramparts' tallest peaks, a dozen of House Fel's and House Tevéss's largest dragons waited. Captain Corónd was there on his bronze, its pale green eyes curious and alert. And there was the great Irondusk, looming at the Square's highest point, his rust-colored claws sunk into the wood of a massive perch. His saddle was empty. His black eyes smoldered with unfettered hatred. His growl was a steady rumble of low thunder. He had not forgotten his rider's killer.

The High Gate stood at the center of the High Square. It was a pointed arch, five times the height of a man and crafted of the eternal high silver. Its luminous surfaces reflected arcs of sunlight across walls, faces, banners, and dragons. Five Fel adepts, wearing the dark green robes of their High House, tended the Gate. Four of the adepts were hooded. These knelt at each of the Gate's legs on dark green cushions. Their eyes were shut, their palms flat against the Gate's surface, their lips moving silently with the Gate's sacred descant. Their leader—the head adept, a young woman no older than Anna herself—stood at the Gate's center. Her dark green hood was thrown back from her head, and her arms were crossed protectively across her chest. Her mouth barely moved as she whispered the mystical counterpoint to her sisters' ancient song.

It was truly over, Anna realized. With the High Gate controlled by House Fel, they were truly alone. No one could save them.

Lord Malachi stood in front of the High Gate. He looked at her, but his eyes were strangely blank. Behind him and to his left, on their knees, Master Khondus, Master Zar, Master Borónd, Mother, Penelope, Wendi, and a couple dozen wounded House Dradón riders and soldiers waited in two ragged blue lines, their arms chained behind their backs.

When Anna entered, many of the Dradón soldiers looked up to her, their faces shining with hope and dread. They knew she could save them.

Master Khondus didn't look up. And he could not, Anna saw. They'd cut the iron head off the stable hammer and had hung it around his neck, the weight pulling his head towards the flagstones. His long, grey hair had been shaved to the nub, his scalp lacerated and bloody. His right eye was swollen shut, his nose broken. A fresh line of blood ran from one of his ears. Blood pooled on the flagstones in front of him. His good eye stared glassily at the ground, watering and unseeing. He nodded like a dotard, a spider thread of red spittle running from broken lips.

Master Zar knelt at Master Khondus's right. His stout Anorian frame leaned against that of his friend, barely able to stay upright. Both his eyes were black, swollen shut. His lavender skin had gone pale and sickly. A dirty bandage was wrapped loosely around his forehead. The front of the bandage was stained deep red. Anna cringed. A weird, torn patch of purplish skin had been pinned to Master Zar's chest—its shriveled surface marked with a white Dallanar Sun.

Beside Zar, Master Borónd looked at the ground, his destroyed hands held before him, his head bowed. Mother knelt beside him. She was unharmed, thank the Sisters. She stared directly at Anna, chin up.

"Honor," she mouthed to Anna. Her eyes flashed fearlessly.

Anna gave her an almost imperceptible nod.

Little Wendi leaned against Mother's side, dazed, her tiny right hand wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. Penelope knelt next to her, head up, one of her eyes blackened, her nose broken, her eyes on Anna, absolutely defiant.

Malachi wasted no time getting started. When he spoke, his voice was resonant and commanding, his words echoing from the Square's ancient walls with the irresistible force of a High Lord of Remain.

"We gather this glorious morning," he began, "to celebrate our victory, to mourn our dead, and to dispense our high justice."

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.