Golden (2 page)

BATTLE AND PORTAL

The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.

—SUN TZU

T
HE
RUINS
OF
THE
W
HITE
T
EMPLE
burned in the hazy distance, and from high above in the clouds, Nat could see the unholy city of New Kandy covered in a blanket of smoke, its tall towers now mere black skeletons.

The city was on fire.

Death was in the air, all around her. Nat could feel the grim grip of fate cutting deep into her bones. She knew it by the stench of the ash, the burning cinders in her eyes.

Ruination had come for them, for all of them.

Then the buildings' silhouette seemed to sway, as the vision wavered, flickering in and out of sight. Nat blinked her eyes and gritted her teeth, forcing the connection to return. For months she had used her drakon's powerful gaze to scan the horizon for enemies, to prepare for any hidden ambush, to notice changes in the battlefield that no mortal eye could hope to observe. That was the nature of her duty, the right of her destiny.

Or so it had been.

But now the thread between them was fraying fast, as a new bond was being forged between drakon and rydder. Helplessly sidelined, Nat found herself not where she should be—high above the clouds with her mount—but rather, sitting on the deck of a ferryboat, watching as her one true calling was stolen from her.

Because an imposter rode atop Drakon Mainas.

An imposter, and a murderer. A threat not just to Nat, but to the entire world, and any hope for its future.

Not to mention, a danger to the drakon itself.

Eliza.

She was to blame. The Lady Algeana, formerly known as Eliza Wesson, the child who had been stolen from her home by the people of Vallonis in order to save their world. But Eliza was the
wrong
child and she had grown up to become no one's savior.

Quite the opposite. She had taken what was not hers to take, and now everything lay in ruins as the result.

Nat could feel Eliza's heels digging into Mainas's hide, urging the creature to fly faster and higher away from the battle, fleeing from its true mistress. Nat fought back, desperately attempting to regain command of her drakon.

Mainas! Stay!

Do not leave me!

You're making a mistake!

You don't know what you're doing!

Nat felt a rage burn in her core as hot as the flame that swirled around the drakon's heart—and for a moment Eliza's hold slipped and the drakon reared, frantically attempting to buck her off her seat, lashing with its head and tail, shrieking with anger and pain.

But only for a moment.

Nat was too far away, and Eliza too strong, and every thunderous beat of wings and passing second widened the gap between them.

I am your mistress now.
Eliza's calm voice cut through the smoke and fire.
You are mine to command.

Nat could barely sense her drakon anymore, had to strain to hear the sound of the wind rushing beneath its wings, to feel the cold air around its scales. The thread between them was tearing, like fibers quickly spinning apart, unraveling what had been fiercely knitted together.

She held on as hard as she could to the drakonsight, gazing down upon a dark, burning landscape, at the remnants of a broken city, where at its edges, a battalion of tanks rolled across the blistered earth like ants converging on a hill.

Then it was gone.
No . . . not yet . . .
She had to hold on to her drakon.
Drakon Mainas!
she called again.
To me!

Nat followed the slender line that led back to the mind of the monstrous green-eyed and black-scaled creature that was her own twin soul. She burrowed into its thoughts, screaming for it to hear her, to recognize her as its avatar.

We are one and the same, drakon and rydder! I am Anastasia Dekesthalias. The Resurrection of the Flame. The girl on your back is an imposter. You have been deceived!

Return to me! Mainas!

There was no response—only the dull weight of loss.

And then, abruptly, it was over.

The connection between Nat and her drakon snapped, and her vision disappeared into complete darkness. Eliza had finally succeeded in cutting the cord.

Nat lost her drakonsight. She no longer felt the pounding of the creature's heart, the strain of its muscles; its fury was no longer hers to command and unleash. The drakon was gone and Nat was alone.

She had lost her mount once before, had willingly sent it deep into the ground, to heal after a fierce firefight during her guardianship of Vallonis. But this was different. Something elemental was now broken and torn inside her—as if a piece of her very being had been taken away, and she was blinded, rendered deaf and mute. Senseless.

Drakon Mainas!

She screamed, even though she knew he couldn't hear her.

• • •

A moment later, Nat opened her eyes to the world around her. Everything looked fuzzy and gray, now that she had lost the keen eyesight of her drakon.

Reality was not something she wanted to come back to. Not yet. It was too hard and too cold and too painful. She had lost too much.

Where am I?

Snow was falling. That was one clue. She could smell it, even taste it. It was in her hair, on her filthy clothes, mixing with the ashes from the battle. She heard the tanks rolling through the streets from the sound of the rattling treads.

Beyond that, she could pick out the slightly higher pitch of the drones buzzing in the air above them. Like flies gathering around her location as they would around a dead body. Which was what Nat herself would soon be, if she stayed here where they could find her.

And where is that again?

The deck of a ferryboat.

Nat's eyes snapped into focus, and she found herself staring up at the stricken faces of her small, tired crew. Shakes crouched next to her while the smallmen, Brendon and Roark, held on to each other. Liannan's head remained bowed, her golden-blond hair falling across her face. Farouk stood frightened and grief stricken, his hands clenched at his sides.

And something else.
Someone else. A dead body.

She looked down at the boy in her arms. Ryan Wesson lay motionless, blood crusting on his cheek, his face as frozen and gray as the floor beneath him.

It all came rushing back to her—the battle with Eliza, Wes using his newfound powers to dispel his sister's illusions. Victory and escape were in their grasp, until Eliza suddenly reappeared on Drakon Mainas's back while Wes had collapsed on the deck. Shakes had tried to jump-start his heart by pounding on his chest, but nothing had worked.

“Wes!” Nat cried, her tears making tracks through the dirt on her face. It seemed unreal, this moment. His lifeless face. The weight of his still body.

This couldn't be happening.
Just a moment ago, we were kissing—how can this be?
Now his lips were blue and his eyes were closed. He had saved them from Eliza, but at what cost? Magic had consequences to its use. He couldn't wield its power without hurting himself, and no one could have imagined the toll it would take on him.

I didn't think it would do this. He couldn't have known, either.

Not that it would have made any difference to Wes, she knew. Nat stroked his cheek. He would have fought for her to the death, no matter what. But he didn't have to. She didn't want him to.

He didn't have to die.

He can't.

“Stay,” she said, telling him the same thing she had said to her drakon not too long ago. “Don't leave me.” She put a hand on his chest, willing whatever power she had left to flow into him, to keep him alive even just a moment longer.

Nothing happened. There was no spark of life in his pale face.

It was useless. She was useless.

“Nat, he's gone, and we need to move—they've spotted us,” said Shakes gently, with a hand on her shoulder. “Roark—help me cast off the lines; Brendon, to the wheel; Farouk, see if you can get that engine running.”

The boys exchanged uneasy glances as they swiftly carried out Shakes's orders.

Liannan caught Shakes's pleading look and moved quickly toward Nat. “Hey,” she said softly. “There's nothing you can do for him anymore. And we need your help if we're going to get out of here alive.”

Nat said nothing. Ashes in her mouth. Numb. Spent.

“Wes would want that, Nat. Don't make his sacrifice meaningless. He needs you to be strong. He wants you to live.”

Nat ignored her. She ignored them all. They'd all given up on Wes, but she wasn't going to. He couldn't be dead; he couldn't leave her, not now. Not so soon after they'd found each other again.

She pressed harder against his chest, willing his heart to beat. Willing him to make his way back to her side.

She could live without drakonsight, without drakonlimb, without drakonwing. But she could not live if Wes did not.

The deck vibrated underneath her as the boat's engines sputtered to life—and then died just as quickly. Shakes cursed. “What the ice is going on back there?”

“Pipes are frozen solid,” yelled Farouk from below. “And we can't get a fire started in the coal bin!” The ship had been retrofitted with a steam engine when its owners hadn't been able to fix its electric one.

“Nat, come on,” cried Liannan, running toward the stern of the ferry. “Help me conjure a flame!”

Nat was made of drakonfire, but she remained still. She was sure that without her drakon, there was no fire left in her. She was unable to move, unable to breathe, as Wes's heart remained silent underneath her palm.

His heart had stopped and now hers was shattered.

She was no use to anyone. She couldn't keep him alive—she had no drakon, no fire, no power of her own. She was nothing; she was nobody.

Dimly, she heard the RSA forces swarming around the burning city, recapturing the marked who were once prisoners in the White Temple, the very people Wes and his crew had just set free. Rounding them up one by one.

It was all for nothing.

A gunshot cracked in the distance, and Nat jumped. She turned to see—and from afar, she saw a body fall to the ground with a hard thump.

No. They weren't rounding up the prisoners.

They were executing them.

A
M
I
DEAD?

Why can't I move? What's happening? What's wrong with me?

It took a while for Wes to figure out he had collapsed. Part of him was confused, because for a moment he was still standing, and he wondered if it was because kissing Nat was too much like a dream.

A beautiful, perfect dream.

To Wes, it wasn't quite real, as if he were unable to accept that they were together now, after everything they'd endured to get here.

They'd been kissing on the deck of the ferryboat. Nat's lips were open and soft against his. As he held her in his arms he marveled at her many improbabilities—so small and fierce, so much fury and strength in one person. He was looking forward to their life together, thinking about what they would do when they returned to New Vegas.

I don't deserve this. Her.
Wes was so happy his head hurt.

Maybe that was the reason why everything looked pixelated and he felt as if he couldn't breathe.

Which he couldn't.

And all of a sudden, his knees gave way and he was falling.

Pull it together, man, it's just a kiss,
he scolded himself.
And look what you've done, you've scared Nat.

The last thing he remembered seeing was Nat's face, her eyes wide with shock, the ghostly pallor on her cheeks, her mouth open in surprise. He knew something had happened, and that it had something to do with him, even if he wasn't sure what.

“Wes,” she called out. “Wes, no—”

I'm here,
he tried to tell her.

She looked like she thought he was dying . . . and he wanted to say,
don't worry, I'm fine
, so that he could make her laugh again. Maybe kiss her again . . .

Then the convulsions began, and he tasted blood, it was coming out of his nose, his mouth, his eyes, he was bleeding . . . and everything went black . . . Now what . . . what was that? That
hurt
. A hard hit to this chest. Another one.

Ow.

Shakes. Pounding on him.

Ow.

Was that really necessary?

Tell him to stop,
thought Wes.
I should tell him to stop.

He'd just slipped, he was fine, he'd been kissing Nat and been overwhelmed by happiness, and maybe he'd lost his footing and he'd hit his head on the deck or something . . . no big deal because
he was fine
 . . .

He was fine!

So why couldn't he move his hands? Why couldn't he speak? And for that matter, why couldn't he open his eyes? And he was so cold . . . cold . . . and where was Nat? He couldn't feel her anymore . . . he couldn't feel anything . . . and he was cold and it was dark and
he couldn't breathe! He really couldn't breathe!

What the freeze
 . . .

Oh man . . . Shakes was right to be alarmed . . . he
was
dying.

Godfreezeit . . . he was freezing dying . . . motherfreezer . . .

Nat . . . Nat . . . where are you . . .

Wes was in the dark for he didn't know how long. Then he heard a soft voice in his ear. It sounded familiar, although he couldn't place it. The voice tickled his consciousness, as soft as tendrils and as sweet as nectar, but imbued with a metallic cold.

You remember me,
it said, replying to his thoughts as if it had heard him, and maybe it had.

Wes couldn't be certain, not of anything. Not now.

We met once before when you were a child. I visited you and your sister.

He stiffened.

Yes, I see, you remember now.

Wes would never forget that visit. He knew that voice. It was the same voice he'd heard the night he lost his twin.

Wes often dreamed of the night of the fire, the night Eliza had been stolen from her home. He dreamed of the meal his mother had cooked, a rare treat—a few cuts of meat and lumps of carrots and potatoes, cooked so long that it all had fallen into soft, warm strings in their bowls. They had eaten together as a family for once, as if they'd known it was the last time. He remembered his father flicking through the nets with his handheld before shooing them off to bed. The twins had shared a room, and in his dreams of that night Wes could still feel the heat from the flames that had engulfed the small chamber, licking the ceiling, curtains, and bedcovers. He remembered his terror and his confusion, and he remembered Eliza smiling.

He had never understood why.

He hadn't seen Eliza again until today. He had been searching for her his entire life, for only he understood the power that twisted inside her, and how easily it could be corrupted—as it was inside him as well.

The two of them were opposite sides of the same coin: Eliza, with her ability to absorb magic, and Wes, with his ability to block it. Magic had devoured her soul and turned it dark, but Wes was immune to its workings. He was a repellant, an antidote. He remained unaffected when she could not help but be devoured. He felt sorry for her, and she for him—unlike almost every other brother and sister they knew, who lived in a state of endless rivalry.

Not Eliza and Wes. Neither sibling wanted anything the other could do or have.

“I am the one you are looking for,” the child Eliza had told the White Lady who stood in the middle of the fire that night, solemn and unafraid.

“So be it,” the lady had said, and took Eliza by the hand.

I was wrong,
the lady said now. Her voice echoed through Wes's frozen body and fallen mind.

I was mistaken. I was deceived.

Wes tried to open his eyes and see her for what she was, but he still could not move.

It does not matter. It is too late,
Wes said to the lady. He thought the words so fiercely he was surprised he could not speak them.

She did not answer.

He tried again.
I am dying. It is too late.

Again, she remained silent.

Wes felt like shouting now.
Too late for me. Too late for me and Nat. Too late,
he thought, his bitterness and disappointment as sharp as the happiness that had preceded it.
Leave me alone,
he told the lady in white.
Leave me to die in peace.

The lady still did not reply.

Instead, another voice called to him from a great distance, a whisper that filled the cold darkness with unexpected heat, nourishing him like a warm broth, preventing him from falling deeper into the dark.

“Don't leave me!”

Was it just his imagination, or could he really sense a heart beating against his, soft hair falling on his face?

Nat.
He wasn't dreaming this time. He was still alive, and Nat was cradling him in her arms.

Lovely Natasha Kestal.
That's how he thought of her, even now. Even in this state.
My Nat.
Her warmth held back the darkness, keeping him on the edge of the light, the only thing that kept him upright.

I'm coming.
He struggled to regain control of his senses, to follow her back toward the light. But the dark was so heavy, and he realized that Nat herself was struggling under the weight of it—and that if she continued trying, it would crush her. She couldn't keep his death away much longer, not without risking her own life. It was a miracle, and a testament to her strength, that she had held it off this long.

No, Nat. Stop.
Wes wouldn't let her chance it. He couldn't let her. He wanted to tell her it was all right. She could let go.

Let go, Nat.
He could die in her arms fulfilled.

She would live and that was all that mattered. She would grieve, but she would survive. Nat would keep living, and the thought gave him peace. Wes had died once before and he was not afraid. He was tired. He wanted to rest, to remain in the darkness and fade.

“Stay,” said Nat again.

I can't.

Her warmth was fading and her strength would not keep the cold and dark out much longer without hurting her.

“Don't leave me.” There were tears in her voice now, and it killed him.

But I have to.

She would only hurt herself trying to save him. It was better this way.

And so he did what she could not; he let go of her and fell—plunging deep into the darkness. He felt himself sinking away, deeper and deeper into shadow and cold. Nat's voice grew distant, her sobs quiet. A great nothingness on all sides, from all directions, enveloped him.

He felt his mind grow still, until he himself was like the silence . . .

But as he fell back through the darkness, he heard the sudden sound of a tank rumbling loudly, as if coming from the bottom of the ocean. The louder it grew, the more noise it seemed to bring with it—his friends screaming, Shakes yelling, Liannan giving orders.

Now he could almost feel Nat's arms tense around him.

One last attempt. The world would not give up on him so easily.

So he did what he had to—he struggled to force them all away. Every friend, every memory, every desire. Every thread was a threat. Every connection that bound them together was a wick to another stick of dynamite. He would not drag his friends down into the shadow worlds with him. Would not let them drown, when they had to fight.

It's not safe. Not even now. You have to let go—all of you.

He pushed them away until they were fading, fading, and the darkness welcomed him once again into its infinite embrace—greedy and voracious—as if to make up for lost time. He fell faster and deeper this time, and he scrambled for footing, but there was nothing but air. He felt his heart slow.

There.

Once again, it was hard to breathe.

Now.

Everything felt cold again. His fingers were numb, his legs frozen.
I'm going to have to find a better line of work when this is all over.
He wished he could laugh at his own joke, but the cold held his lips closed.

He couldn't hear Shakes anymore, couldn't feel Nat's heartbeat against his, and one by one Wes let go of everything—his memories, his thoughts—until he didn't know where he was, or who he was anymore, or even the name of the girl he loved more than life.

He no longer knew or cared.

It was over, and if he could, he would have mourned what he had never had.