“I am,” Alec replied flatly, wondering how much to tell him. “I took my brother’s slot.”
“He was afraid?” the boy asked, puzzled.
Alec shook his head.
“Lame,” he replied.
The boy nodded, as if understanding, and looked at Alec with a new respect.
“And you?” Alec asked. “You don’t appear eighteen either.”
“Seventeen,” he replied.
Alec looked at him, wondering.
“Then why are you here?”
“I volunteered.”
Alec looked at him, shocked.
“Volunteered?” he asked. “But why?”
The boy looked at the floor and shrugged.
“I wanted to get away.”
“To get away from what?” Alec asked, baffled.
The boy fell silent and Alec could see a gloominess pass over his face, and he did not think he would respond. But then finally, the boy replied, mumbling his words: “Home.”
Alec saw the sadness of his face, and he understood. Clearly, something had gone terribly wrong at this boy’s home, and from the bruises on the boy’s arms, and the look of sadness mixed with anger in his face, Alec could only wonder.
“I am sorry,” Alec replied.
The boy looked at him with a surprised expression, as if not expecting any compassion in this cart, and suddenly held out a hand.
“Marco,” he said.
“Alec.”
They shook hands, the boy’s twice as large as Alec’s, with a strong grip that left his hand hurting. Alec sensed he had met a friend in Marco, and it was a relief, given the sea of faces before him. More than a few glared back, looking as if they would jump out across the cart and kill him if they could.
“I suspect you are one of the only who volunteered,” Alec said to Marco.
Marco looked around and shook his head.
“I suspect you’re right. Most were drafted or imprisoned.”
“Imprisoned?” Alec asked, surprised.
Marco nodded.
“The Keepers are made up not only of draftees and warriors—a good amount are criminals, too.”
“Who you calling a criminal, boy?” came a savage voice.
They both turned to see one of the boys, prematurely aged from his hard life, looking forty years old though not older than twenty, with a pockmarked face and beady eyes. He turned, squatted down low, and stared into Marco’s face.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Marco said to him.
“Well, now you are,” he seethed, clearly looking for a fight. “Say it again. You want to call me a criminal to my face?”
Marco reddened and clenched his jaw, getting angry himself.
“If the shoe fits,” Marco said.
The other boy flushed with rage, and in that moment, Alec admired Marco’s defiance, his fearlessness.
The boy lunged at Marco without warning, reaching out, putting his hands around his throat, and squeezing with all his might.
Marco was clearly caught off guard, and in these close quarters, he had little room to maneuver. His eyes bulged wide as he was losing air, trying unsuccessfully to pry the boy’s hands off. Marco was bigger, but the boy had wiry hands, calloused, probably from years of murdering, and Marco could not get them off.
“FIGHT! FIGHT!” the other boys called out.
The others looked over, half-heartedly watching the violence, one of a dozen fights that had erupted throughout the night.
Marco, struggling, leaned forward quickly and head-butted the other boy, smashing him in the nose with a cracking noise. Blood gushed from the boy’s nose, and Marco tried to stand to get better leverage—but as he did, a big boot pressed down on his shoulder from a different boy, pinning him down. At the same moment, the first boy, blood still gushing from his nose, reached into his waist and pulled out something shiny. It flashed in the pre-morning light, and Alec realized with a start it was a dagger. It was all happening so quickly, there was no time for Marco to react.
The boy thrust it forward, aiming for Marco’s heart.
Alec’s instincts kicked in and he reacted. He dove forward, grabbed the boy’s wrist with two hands, and pinned them down to the floor, sparing Marco from a deadly blow a moment before the blade touched his chest. The blade still grazed Marco, tearing open his shirt, but not touching his skin.
Alec and the boy went down to the wood, struggling for the blade, while Marco managed to reach up and twist the ankle of the other attacker, snapping it.
Alec felt greasy hands on his face, felt the first boy’s long fingernails scratching him, reaching for his eyes. Alec knew he had to act quick, and he let go of the hand with the dagger, spun around and threw his elbow, feeling a satisfying crunch as his elbow connected with the boy’s jaw.
The boy spun off of him, face-first to the ground.
Alec, breathing hard, his face stinging from the scratches, jumped to his feet, as Marco stood beside him, sandwiched between all the other boys. The two stood side by side, looking down at their attackers lying on the floor, motionless. Alec’s heart slammed in his chest, and as he stood there, he decided he no longer wanted to sit; it left him too vulnerable to attack from any of these boys. He would rather stand the rest of the way, however long the journey was.
Alec looked out and saw all the hostile eyes glaring at him, and this time, he met them back, realizing he needed to project power and confidence if he were to survive amongst this lot. Finally, they all seemed to get the message, as they began to give him a look, something like respect, and then to look away.
Alec looked over and saw Marco looking down, examining his own shirt in disbelief, looking at the tear where the dagger had almost punctured his heart. He looked at Alec, his face filled with admiration.
“You have a friend for life,” Marco said, sincerity in his voice.
He reached out for Alec’s arm and Alec clasped it, and it felt good. A friend: that was exactly what he would need where they were going.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kyra opened her eyes slowly, disoriented, seeing a stone ceiling above her, lit by torches, and feeling herself lying in a bed of luxurious furs. She couldn’t understand. The last she remembered, she had been falling in the snow, looking up at a world of white and sure she was going to die.
She lifted her head and looked all around, expecting to see the snowy forest all around her. But instead, she was shocked to find herself in a stone chamber, to see a group of familiar faces crowding around her—her father, her brothers Brandon and Braxton and Aidan, Anvin, Arthfael, Vidar, and a dozen of her father’s best warriors. They all looked down at her with concern.
Kyra felt pressure on her arm, and she looked over to see Lyra, the court healer, with her large hazel eyes and long, silver hair, standing over her, examining her pulse. Kyra opened her eyes fully, realizing she was not in the wood anymore, and that she was back in her father’s fort, in her chamber. Somehow, she had made it back. She heard a whining beside her, felt Leo’s head on her hand, and she realized: he must have led them to her.
“What has happened?” she asked, still confused, trying to piece it all together.
The crowd seemed vastly relieved to see her awake, speaking, and her father stepped closer, face filled with remorse and relief, and held her hand firmly. As he did, Aidan rushed forward and grabbed her other hand, and she smiled to see her younger brother at her side.
“Kyra,” he said, his voice filled with compassion. “You are home. Safe.”
Kyra saw the guilt in her father’s face, and it all came back to her: their argument of the night before. She realized he must feel responsible. It was his words, after all, that had driven her away.
Kyra felt a sting and she cried out in pain as Lyra reached up and touched a cool cloth to her cheek; it had some sort of ointment in it, and immediately she felt her wound burn and then cool.
“Water of the Lily,” she said soothingly. “It will cure this wound. Bu
t you are lucky we treat it now—the infection was bad already.”
Her father looked down at her cheek with an expression of concern.
“Tell us what happened,” he said. “Where did you go last night? How did you end up where you did?”
Kyra propped herself up on one elbow, her head spinning as she did, feeling all the eyes on her, all the men riveted in the silence. She tried to remember, to piece it all together.
“I remember…” she began, her voice hoarse. “The storm….The Flames…the Wood of Thorns.”
Her father’s brow furrowed in concern.
“Why did you venture there?” he asked. “How did you hike so far on such a night?”
She tried to remember.
“I wanted to see them for myself,” she said. “And then…I needed shelter. I remember…the Lake of Dreams...and then…a woman.”
“A woman?” he asked. “In the Wood of Thorns?”
“She was…ancient…impervious to the snow.”
“A witch,” gasped Vidar. “Such things venture out on the night of the Winter Moon.”
“And what did she say?” her father demanded, on edge.
Kyra could see the confusion and concern in all the faces, and she decided to refrain, not to tell them what the witch had said, not to tell them of the prophecy, of her future. She was still trying to process it all herself, and she feared that if they heard it, they might she think was crazy.
“I….can’t remember,” she said.
“Did she do this to you?” her father asked, looking at her cheek.
Kyra shook her head and swallowed, her throat dry, and Lyra rushed forward and gave her water from a sack. She drank it, feeling restored, realizing how parched she was.
“There came a cry,” she said. “Unlike any I had heard.” She sat up, feeling more lucid as it all rushed back to her, and she looked her father directly in the eye.
“A dragon’s cry,” she said flatly, bracing herself for their reaction, wondering if they would believe her.
The room broke into an audible gasp of disbelief, all the men gaping at her. An intense silence fell over the men, all of them looking more stunned than she had ever seen.
No one said a word for what felt like an eternity.
Thonos, once the old king’s historian and philosopher and now a resident of her father’s fort, stepped forward, with his long gray beard and hunched back, leaning on his cane, and the room grew silent. He spoke rarely, and when he did, he always commanded great respect, holding in his mind a vault of forgotten knowledge and wisdom.
“On the Winter Moon,” he said, his voice frail, “such things are possible.”
Her father shook his head.
“Dragons have not visited Escalon for a thousand years,” he said. “You must have heard something else. Perhaps your ears played tricks on you.”
“I saw it,” she insisted. “I saved its life.”
“Saved it?” her father asked, looking at her as if she were mad. “You, saving a dragon?”
She could see all the men looking at her as if she had lost her mind.
“It was the injury,” Vidar said. “The cold. The long night. It has touched her mind.”
Kyra blushed, desperately wanting them to believe her.
“It has not touched my mind,” Kyra insisted. “I am speaking the truth!” She looked over all of their faces. “When have any of you known me to lie?” she demanded.
They all stared back earnestly.
“Give the girl a chance,” Vidar called out. “Let’s hear her tale.”
Her father nodded back at her.
“Go on,” he prodded.
Kyra licked her lips, sitting upright.
“It was wounded,” she continued, remembering. “The Lord’s Men had it cornered. It was defenseless. They were going to kill it. I could not let it die—not like that.”
“What did you do?” Anvin asked, his face a bit less skeptical than the others.
“I killed them,” she said, staring into space, seeing it again, her voice heavy, realizing how hard it would be to believe her. She barely believed herself. “I killed them all.”
Another long silence fell over the room, even graver than the first.
“I know you won’t believe me,” she finally added.
Her father cleared his throat and squeezed her hand.
“Kyra,” he said, somber. “We found five dead men near you—Lord’s Men. If what you say is true, do you realize how serious this is? Do you realize what you have done?”
“I had no choice, Father,” she said. “The sigil of our house—we cannot leave a wounded animal to die.”
“A dragon is not an animal! A dragon is a….” His voice trailed off, clearly unsure what to say.
“What is it, Father?” she asked.
But she could see he did not know how to respond.
“If the men are all dead,” chimed in Arthfael, rubbing his beard, “then what does it matter? Who’s to know a girl killed them? How shall the trail lead back to us?”
Kyra felt a pit in her stomach, but knew she had to tell them the complete truth.
“There was another,” she added. “A squire. A boy. He escaped, on horseback.”
They stared at her, their faces somber.
“And why did you let this one live, then?” Maltren stepped forward, frowning, and asked her skeptically.
“He was just a boy,” she said. “Unarmed. Riding off, his back to me. Should I have put an arrow in it?”
“I doubt you put an arrow in any of them,” Maltren snapped. “But if so, is it better to let a boy live and leave us all to die?”
“No one has left us to die,” her father scolded Maltren, sticking up for her.
“Hasn’t she?” he asked. “If she is not lying, then this means we are all finished.”
Her father examined her, his face heavier than she had ever seen, as if weighed down by the news.
“This is grave news indeed,” he said to her, sounding a million years old.
“I am sorry, Father,” she said. “I did not mean to cause you trouble.”
“Did not mean to?” Maltren countered. “No, you just accidentally killed five of the Lord’s Men? And all for what?”
“I told you,” she said. “To save the dragon.”
“To save an imaginary dragon,” Maltren snickered. “That makes it all worth it. One that, if it existed, would have gladly torn you apart.”
“It did not tear me apart,” she countered.
“No more talk of this dragon nonsense,” her father said, his voice rising, agitated. “Tell us now the truth. We are all men here. Whatever happened, tell us. We shall not judge you.”
She felt like crying inside.
“I have already told you,” she said.
“I believe her,” Aidan said, standing by her side—and she so appreciated him for that.
But as she looked back out at the sea of faces, it was clear that no one else did. A long silence fell over the room
“It is not possible, Kyra,” her father finally said softly.
“It is,” suddenly came a dark voice.
They all turned as the door to the chamber slammed open and in came another of her father’s men, joined by several others, brushing the snow off their furs and hair. His face, still red from cold, was more somber than all the others, and he looked at Kyra as if awestruck.
“We found tracks,” he said. “By the river. Near where the men were found. Tracks that are too large for anything that walks this earth. Tracks that could be no other than a dragon’s.”
The men all fell silent, looking back at Kyra, now unsure.
“And where is this dragon then?” Maltren said.
“The trail leads to the river.”
“It couldn’t fly,” Kyra said. “It was wounded, like I said. It rolled into the rapids and I saw it no more.”
The room fell into a long silence, and now, it was clear, they all believed her. They looke
d at her in awe, and in fear.
“You say you saw this dragon?” her father asked.
She nodded.
“As close to it as you and I are now,” she replied.
“And how did you survive an encounter with a dragon?” he asked.
She gulped, not sure herself.
“It wounded me,” she said, touching her cheek. Kyra already sensed that it would scar, that it would change her appearance forever; yet somehow, strangely enough, she did not care. “But I don’t think it meant to hurt me.”
They stared at her as if she were mad. She wanted to explain to them all, to explain the connection she had with the creature—but she did not think they would understand.
After a long, tense silence, finally her father asked, “Why would you risk your life to save a dragon? Why would you endanger us all?”
It was a good question, and one which Kyra did not have the answer to. She wished she did. She could not put into words the feelings, the emotions, the sense of destiny she had around the beast—and she did not think these men would ever understand.
Instead, she only hung her head and said, “I’m sorry, Father.”
“It is not possible,” Maltren said, agitated. “It is not possible to confront a dragon and live.”
“Unless,” Anvin said, looking at Kyra strangely, as if she were a creature. He turned to her father. “Unless what they say is true. Unless your daughter is the—”
Her father gave Anvin a look, stopping him, and he immediately fell silent.
Kyra looked back and forth between them, puzzled, wondering what Anvin was about to say about her.
“Unless I am what?” Kyra demanded.
But Anvin looked away and would say no more. Indeed, the entire room fell silent, and as she searched all the faces she saw all the men averting their gaze from her, as though they were all in on some great secret about who she was, a secret that was being withheld from her.
Her father suddenly rose from her bedside and released his grip on her hand. He stood erect, in a way that signaled that the meeting was over.