Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir (21 page)

All the while, Claire remained silent and still, staring and thinking.

I stopped shaking, but the water caused the night air to cool against my skin. I wrung my shirt out and hooked an arm through the neck in my hurry to put it back on. I noticed things around the lake I hadn't before: the croak of a frog, a deep, scraping sound, the buzz of grasshoppers gathering where the grass grew high, up to our knees, a breeze idly trying to steal the leaves from their branches; the dank smell of moss and peat, where the water had forgotten how to take form without any rainfall in weeks.

Carefully, I made my way over to the rock and sat with my back to Claire's, not quite touching. My shirt was still far from dry.

“I'm sorry,” Claire said. Whatever made me tremble had rushed out of my system and was doing all it could to creep into her voice. “I ought not to have been sleeping. Had I been awake—”

“It was Rán's turn to keep watch,” I said quickly, swivelling to face her. In the dark, I could make out the line of her jaw and little more. “You already sleep less than you need to.”

“That doesn't matter. You could've been killed,” she said roughly, but all the scorn was directed at herself.

“Claire...” I said, placing a hand on her shoulder. She tensed, but didn't shrug me off. I kept my hand there, wondering how she could think that when she'd just witnessed what I could do. “I don't think I could've. I think I would've... would've healed.”

My teeth dug into my lower lip. Surely she'd rise to her feet, now that I'd reminded her of what I was.

“You could've been
hurt,
” she corrected herself, and there was no arguing with that.

A faint feeling of nausea webbed up in the pit of my stomach, in my throat, and though I'd been torn from sleep, the idea of closing my eyes for more than a moment made me tense; the woman was tied to a tree but it wasn't over. It couldn't be.

Heaving a sigh, Claire leant back, resting against me. Her back pressed to mine and I had no idea what to do with my hands. I bundled them in my lap, fingers digging between the creases of my trousers.

“You were right to let her live. I have killed before – I have killed more than anyone should have to account for – but I have never done so in cold blood,” Claire murmured. “Had I watched her die today when I knew what you were capable of doing, I wouldn't be able to answer for that.”

In spite of what she was saying, a sense of calm overcame me on our world of a rock. I tilted my head back, resting it where the curve of her neck met her shoulder and closed my eyes. It didn't become much darker, for the stars barely broke through the canopy, but it let me imagine that we wouldn't return to the camp to find a bloodied woman tied to a tree, her axe discarded by the fire.

“I wish you'd tell me more about yourself. I know there's a lot you can't talk about,” I said, hands relaxing. “But there's plenty you
can
. I want to know about your life, about your family. Anything.”

She didn't answer. She'd already said enough, and when she rose to her feet and nodded back towards the camp, I knew it wasn't a no.

Rán and Michael argued as they shoved pans into bags and loaded up the horses.

“What do you
mean
Agados is still viable?” Michael asked, throwing his hands out to the sides. “We have a would-be assassin tied to a tree! What part of the plan is still going smoothly?”

Rán grunted, jabbing a claw against his chest.

“Oh? And you're thinking that we have time to turn around and scamper off to Canth? We keep moving. There's nothing else for it.”

Michael let out a frustrated snarl that rivalled Rán's and stomped off, mounting his horse and racing off into the night. The three of us followed, and the dark of the forest behind us enticed me to look back. I hoped the axewoman would be tied to that tree for hours to come, but not for
too
long. I hadn't saved her in order to let hunger and thirst claim her.

I tried to make sense of Agados as we rode. I'd heard mention of it before, but wasn't certain whether it was a town or city or something more. The next time we stopped, as late in the evening as it had been early in the morning when we'd left, I asked Claire where it was. She took out her map of Asar and traced her finger along Kastelir, stopping when she reached a patch of land half the size of Felheim on the very edge of the continent.

“It's a small, wealthy country with a thriving trade,” she explained, folding the map back up. “But hardly the most welcoming of places.”

I didn't ask her why no one had mentioned it before, why Michael was privy to the plan and I wasn't. Three days later, I was glad of it; Rán made an off-hand comment about Isin creeping ever closer, and I realised that our destination hadn't changed. They'd only wanted the axewoman to overhear them and report back to Sir Luxon.

A little more than a fortnight into our journey, we were given no choice but to pass through a city. Orinhal had grown wealthy for the bridge crossing the ravine it boasted. The next crossing would've added at least three days onto our journey, and though Claire had taken minutes to mull it over, Rán rolled her eyes and said, “Come on, dragon-slayer. It's just one city, and we'll be passing through in a matter of minutes.”

Orinhal was a city of intricacies. It was built from white stone dragged from the bottom of the ravine, and each spire, arch and walkway had been treated as though they were a piece of art. Swirls and far-reaching patterns were carved into the stone and vines crept along carefully planned paths, flowers blooming from every window and lamppost. A tower in the centre of the city rose high above all else, bringing it all together, and I had few doubts that the eagle adorning the peak was cast from gold.

“
Definitely
pre-Kastelirian architecture,” Michael said, for all the Kastelirian architecture he hadn't seen. It was his way of calling it
old
. “Amazing that they managed to get
anything
done with all that senseless fighting, let alone something that's held up as well as all this. Look at that! Fantastic! Wait—is that a
shrine
?”

I absent-mindedly followed his gaze, not expecting much. The shrine in our village was little more than a weathered rock by this point, and might not have actually been anything religious to begin with. Fifteen hundred years ago, my ancestors fled the Bloodless Land and left their gods behind. When those native to the lands south of the mountains saw that they weren't struck down for their heresy, religion slowly fell out of favour.

But what I saw was beautiful. The shrine was made of something different than the rest of the city; the stone was sandier, and though meticulously carved, it had its own distinct shape. It was as though it had been placed there long before or long after the rest of Orinhal had been built. It wasn't large – the size of my farmhouse, perhaps – but the murals on the side stood out from a distance.

The goddess Isjin with her burning eyes, arms spread out to encompass the world.

And then, scrawled across that, graffiti. I didn't need to be able to read to know that none of the words were kind.

“Some still revere the gods,” Claire explained. “There's one in Thule, as well—a little bigger, perhaps. The Priests attempt to preach at the castle, sometimes.”

“I'd heard whisperings, but I'd never imagined...” Michael murmured, rubbing his chin. “
Oh
. But I did once hear something about one of the Kings still worshipping the gods. It isn't a stretch to believe that
Isin
was derived from the name of the creator.”

“Really, now?” Rán asked. “Seems a little strange to me, for a human around these parts.”

His face twisted into an expression of distaste. We were standing firmly within Kastelir, but Michael was still stuck in his stories, and they were entirely unlike the rendition he'd told in Riverhurst.

Rán and Claire walked ahead, making it easier for us to guide our horses through. I fell back and stood close to Michael, hooking my arm around his and bumping against his side until he looked down at me, sighed, and asked, “What is it?”

“That story you told in Riverhurst—the one about Queen Kouris. You changed it. Whenever you told it to me, you always said that... they'd allied with Kouris in order to scare off anyone who might challenge them. You said that life wasn't much better once the territories were Kastelir, because how can a country thrive under four rulers with four different ways of life? Things like that,” I said, and Michael seemed pleased that I'd paid enough attention to him to notice the differences. “You changed it because of the audience.”

“Right,” he said, waiting for me to make an actual point.

“How come you never did that for me? After you found out what I was, all the stories about...” I lowered my voice. “About Kondo-Kana and the Bloodless Lands were the same.”

“
Ah.
Well, talking about Kastelirian history to Kastelirians is dangerous, don't you think? I'd hate to make assumptions and have an angry mob of a country after me. But when it comes to all else – the Bloodless Lands, the Necromancy War – that's too far in the past to offend anyone. Our ancestors might've been from Myros, might've had to leave their homeland behind, but we've been here for countless generations. As for Kondo-Kana...” He looked down at me, smiling with one corner of his mouth. “Necromancer or not, you aren't like her. She played her part in the war and came to suffer for it; you're hardly about to annihilate half a continent, are you?”

He was right, but I wished he had stories about
nice
necromancers to tell. About good necromancers, necromancers who used their powers to wipe out plagues and bring back people's loved ones, and hadn't once considered abusing their abilities.

As I was turning this over in my mind, someone ahead of me cried out, “
Necromancer—
!”

The word hit me as a roiling, sickly feeling took root in the pit of my stomach, spreading to my throat, and I looked up to find that no one was looking at me.

Michael started but recovered quickly, placing a hand on the small of my back and urging me along. Claire and Rán both stood close to me when we caught up with them and were forced to stop. A barricade of soldiers blocked the road, weapons at the ready, while their captain pounded on the bright-red door of a neat looking house.

“What's happening?” I asked, tasting bile, but no one answered me. They didn't know any better than I did, but the cry of
necromancer
– from a neighbour, not a soldier – sent ripples through the fast-forming crowd.

“—open up!” the captain demanded. When there was no reply from within the house, she gestured for two of the soldiers either side of her to knock the door off its hinges. There was a great thud, a struggle from within, and they pulled a man out onto the streets, grey-haired and ageing.

“I'm a healer, a
healer,
everyone knows that—!” he protested.

The crowd took a step back, as though all there felt the same sickness twisting their stomachs.

The soldiers took no pity on him. He was gagged, and anything that was said was done so for the benefit of the crowd.

“You have been found guilty of the abhorrent practice of necromancy, and by degree of Her Highness Queen Kidira, must burn to purify the city you have polluted.”

The captain recited her scripted words sternly, and the man – the necromancer – was engulfed by a swarm of soldiers and escorted out of sight within seconds. Everyone who'd witnessed the scene threw themselves into speculation and rumour; they lamented how terrible it had been that one of
those
sorts had been living amongst them all along, and who could say what poisons the necromancer had exploited their trust in order to plant; but nobody asked why such a terrible creature with powers too immense to be tolerated hadn't tried to fight his way free.

I saw myself.

Moments before, I'd been talking about necromancy with Michael. Had anyone overheard us, then—

Months ago, my village had discovered that my healing powers were dark in nature, and they'd banished me to the hills. They could've done so much more. All this time, I'd thought that imprisonment was the worst of it. Claire had told me to be careful, but she'd never said they'd
kill
me for what I was.

Or maybe she'd tried to say it, and I hadn't understood.

Whatever the case was, I ran.

That first cry of
necromancer
echoed through my head. If it was said again, all of the deceit I carried within myself would be stripped away and they'd know what I was. I didn't have any choice but to run, leaving Charley behind.

I charged through the crowd, bumping into people with enough force for them to turn and yell at me. I broke away from the main street, tearing through quiet, forgotten roads, not stopping until I was forced to. I came to an abrupt halt in an alleyway, lungs protesting, and leant forward, hands on my knees.

I took a few deep breaths and fell back against the wall.

I wasn't crying. I very pointedly wasn't crying; my eyes were burning, but the rest of me was cold. All I could think was that they were going to burn that man. They were going to take him and tie him to a stake, and it wouldn't be over in minutes. It wouldn't be over in hours.

I'd hurt myself before. Caught myself on kitchen knives while cooking or been snapped at by a wolf, and I'd healed over without thinking about it. There was no stopping it. That man, the necromancer, would be torched as his skin regrew time and time again; his lungs would force the smoke out, but the pain, that wouldn't fade. It'd grow stronger and stronger as the fire grew hotter and hotter, until the speed of the flames gradually overtook the speed of his necromancy.

And that could take days.

I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to breathe.

I rocked back and forth, and when I finally focused on the alley wall, Claire was standing over me.

I flinched as she took a seat next to me, arms wrapped around her bent knees.

“If I had known anything of the sort would happen...” she began, and I nodded over and over, letting her know that there was no need for her to say anything else.