Authors: Stephen S. Power
Ject hears the dragon coming back around. He gets down on one knee and presses himself against the tower so he has cover from the eave and balustrade. Forget the door. He'll deal with Jeryon directly. He has one shot. And Jeryon is just a man. Ject lifts the crossbow to his shoulder.
The dragon's wing appears. Ject's finger tightens on the trigger. And the dragon tightens its turn, rises, and lands somewhere above him on the dome. Now the eave gives Jeryon cover. Ject will have to move out to the balustrade to have a shot at him, but revealed, he might be dead before he can fire.
Roof tiles shatter. Shards slide onto the walk, falling in a line that moves away from Ject, then comes back. The dragon must be coming back too. He hears it breathing. He smells its breath.
Ject aims at the sky in front of the eave. He listens for the whistle. As soon as the head appears he'll fire. If he misses he should still hit the neck, a point-blank shot, and that might be fatal. The roof falls silent. Ject waits. The point of his bolt bobs with his breath. He can't slow it. Skittering above him. Can Jeryon command the dragon to attack silently? More skittering, like a faulty step. A shield-sized expanse of tiles smashes onto the walk. Ject, startled, nearly fires. The dragon moves away south.
Ject exhales and his ears open to the din of the plaza. The walk blocks most of his view, but what he can see looks like a riot. Soldiers are plowing into a group of workers and driving them out of the plaza, while others flow to the west. They keep looking up to make
sure they're escaping the dragon. Where are his men? What a terrible day for the Guard.
Ject pivots to the south, aims again, and hears the thud of sandaled feet landing on the walk. So that's his game: while the dragon waits on the dome, Jeryon will flank him. Ject will get the drop on him instead. He crouch-walks a couple steps and listens: sandals scraping on the stone. Another step: The scraping is just beyond the turn of the tower. Ject charges the last few steps and he can't help himself, he can't risk not doing it, he fires.
There's no one there, just two sandals tied to a cord that extends up and onto the dome.
Ject hears three whistles behind him and after the first he's running for the door. After the second, as quickly as they come, he has the door latch. At the third he pushes in. The door chunks solid against its bar.
Why?
Ject thinks. He watches the shadow of the dragon's head and neck slither over the wall toward him. He's wheeling around to brain it with the crossbow when his left shoulder explodes in pain.
The dragon shakes him until his weapon is flung away, then it lifts him half over the balustrade. Ject's fingers briefly find a hold, which lets him jam his legs through the balusters and wrap his feet around them. The dragon shakes him more violently. He won't be able to hold on for long, but the guards should arrive soon.
More tiles give way beneath the dragon, and it releases Ject before it tumbles off the dome. The general sits down hard on the balustrade. His sash, bitten through, plunges into the city, weighted down by so many medals. Ject tips backward, but catches his feet in the balusters and hauls himself back up as the dragon regains its footing.
“I only wanted justice,” Jeryon says. “I only wanted my due. Is that too much to ask?”
“I can get you that,” Ject says.
“Not after all this.”
The dragon snaps at Ject, but he's just out of reach, so it rears its head in anticipation and glances at Jeryon.
Ject loosens one foot from a baluster. If he could get to the foyer door he could dive through the flames into the tower. With a wince, though, he realizes that his ankle's broken. He can't run. So he considers letting himself fall. He might survive. There's a precedent.
Decades ago, after the tower was heightened and the blue dome built, the widow's walk was open to all. People came from every city in the League and every town in between. Lines wrapped all through the plaza, whatever the weather. Couples signed partner agreements on the walk. Owners signed contracts. People picnicked and shouted. They dreamed and escaped. Then they started to jump.
One a month, five, ten. Leathers and silk. Rookery, Harbor, and Crest. The walk drew so many visitors the Council didn't want to close it, so guards were stationed on the walk and trained to identify jumpers. One of those guards eventually jumped. Some jumpers had been ruined. Many saw no way to fortune. A few were successful and apparently content. Countless were the couples that couldn't afford to partner. And one man tossed his three sedated children into the plaza; he didn't jump himself. The terrace became a death trap.
A woman named Uly was the person who lived. A huge councilor broke her fall. He died, and as a result the walk was closed, the doors above the offices were locked, and Uly, still in a coma, was put in a gibbet with her shattered legs and hips.
The smallest chance is better than none
, Ject thinks.
Just tip back and let go
.
He can't. He says, “But the girl's all right. We could find a way to make things work out.”
“I'm done trusting this city.”
“You could rule it. You have a dragon. And you could confiscate . . .”
“I only wanted to serve. Look where it's gotten us.”
Ject can't look at the dragon, so he looks past Jeryon and sees a shadow appear above the wall of the cupola. It's Herse with a loaded crossbow.
6
As Jeryon circles the cupola Tristaban squeezes her eyes shut. She's grateful Herse had the foresight to leave her bound. Otherwise, Jeryon might have had the dragon eat her before she got away. And if she had escaped, who knows what he might have done in retaliation. He knows where she lives. He knows where her father lives. He might have burned them out.
Herse thinks of everything. He's played the Council as perfectly as she played her father when it came to partnering with Livion. What they could do together. Yes, he was born in the gutter, but look how he's risen. And once he plunders Ayden, his wave will crest. She should ride it. His share could make him nearly as powerful as her father, maybe more so. What's Livion in comparison? A pair of boots. Herse is the whole uniform.
Why did those boots make her so foolish? At least Livion was the bigger fool. His feelings made him blind to their contract's bottom line. She severs it, and he'll be due just a small dowry. She could, in fact, pay it herself. She will, she decides, and she'll arrange her next partnership herself. The way Herse touched her cheek: She can make him sign just like Livion did. And let her father squawk if he doesn't like it. She's won't be his Little Doll anymore. It's time to put herself on the top shelf.
When she hears it land on the dome below the cupola, she rolls aside and thumps the trapdoor with her heels. Herse opens it from below, having had the foresight to hide on the ladder when the dragon
started circling in order to find whoever fired the bolt. He climbs up with the crossbow. She says, “He's down there.”
“I knew you were tough,” he says, and returns to the wall. Before hiding, he'd seen how Jeryon maneuvered the dragon, making it move and turn, dive and rise, with a combination of whistles, reins, and knees. It shouldn't take him long to master. Herse aims the crossbow at Jeryon's back.
Jeryon removes his sandals and ties them to a cord he takes from a saddlebag. He casts them over the edge of the dome to his right like a fishing line, plays it a bit, then whistles three times. The dragon's head lashes out. It catches something and rises. Ject's face appears. The dragon shakes him ruthlessly, but Ject can't be thrown over the balustrade. The dragon lets go.
Ject bargains with Jeryon. Herse can barely hear what they're saying, but Jeryon's posture is unmoved and Ject looks resigned. Then Ject meets Herse's gaze. For a second the thought flares in Ject's eyes to tell Jeryon where Herse is. Surely he's complained that one of his men didn't fire on Jeryon. Ject knows Jeryon wouldn't buy it, though, so he pleads with his eyes, “Shoot him, Herse. Shoot him now.”
Ject watches Herse rest his arms
on top of the low cupola wall to steady the crossbow. He takes careful aim, then looks at Ject and shakes his head.
“Comber,” Jeryon says.
No one can doubt
, Ject thinks,
that a dragon, this dragon, not Ayden, destroyed the wolf pack
. Jeryon's wearing the goggles Solet had specially commissioned. Herse's lies will come out. He'll be ruined. Chelson will be too. As the flames envelop him, Ject thinks,
I've won
.
As the heat from Gray's breath
flows back over him, Jeryon looks across the bay. The sun is perfect; the water so blue the fishing boats and galleys look like they're flying. Eryn Point gleams, and the sea beyond sparkles. It still draws him as strongly as it did when he was a boy. Tuse was right. He should have taken Everlyn into the dawn.
He'll go to Yness. Not many people know him beyond the beaches, and he isn't the man they knew. If the poth made it to land, she likely passed through the area. At the very least he could send out agents from there to find her. He has a fortune in render. He could hire the best.
His focus pulls to the Castle. He could light it on fire as he leaves, a parting shot. Why bother, though? He'll leave the girl too. Let her be a reminder to Livion and her father every day that he's out there and he can get to them. Maybe that's the best revenge, the constant threat of revenge.
Jeryon feels relieved. He's won.
The last drops of fire sputter
from the dragon's mouth, and Herse shoots. The bolt goes clean through Jeryon's neck, and blood fountains over the dragon and the dome. He drops the reins and grabs his throat, curious what happened.
The dragon doesn't notice. It's watching Ject burn the way children stare at candles.
Herse kicks off his sandals, vaults the cupola wall, and walks gingerly down the dome to the dragon. The tiles are cool on his feet and easier to grip than he would have thought, being rough with the barnacles of old raven droppings.
Jeryon sways in the saddle. He puckers, but his whistle is a froth of blood. As Herse reaches him, he flails his knife until Herse catches his wrist. Jeryon flops onto him. Herse reaches into Jeryon's lap to undo the strap securing him to the saddle, slides him off, and lays him on the dome.
Jeryon's eyes struggle to focus. He lays his hand across Herse's cheek.
“I know what they must have done,” Herse says. “I know how you must have suffered and wanted and waited for vengeance. I know. I understand. You will have it. We will have it. I promise.”
Jeryon squeezes Herse's cheek and mouths, “Ev.” His hand drops to his chest. His head rolls slightly, and the sun flares his goggle lenses pure white.
Herse stands up and finds the dragon staring at him. Its eyes slit. Its head rears. Its jaw drops.
The plaza has emptied considerably. Rego
stayed with Husting while Birming got the wagon back to Gate.
“It's odd,” Rego says, “working on this side of the wall.”
“Don't make a habit of it,” Husting says. He looks at those who've remained to watch the drama on the dome and those who've returned, wanting a better view than the side streets offer. They're dead silent like at the end of a close hip-ball match.
“Maybe we should round up the stragglers,” Husting says. “The general would want to salvage something.”
“Doesn't matter. Look.”
They can tell Ject by his clothes as the dragon snatches him from cover and shakes him and sets him like a potted plant on the balustrade. When the flames engulf him a few people applaud. Most cry out in horror and fury. Ject was a bastard, but he was their bastard.
Husting points two guards at the clappers. There will be some profit in this day yet.
When the rider arches and grabs his throat, the plaza is confused until Herse walks down the dome, and they cheer as if he'd just scored the winning goal. When he dismounts the rider they roar.
Rego clenches his whole body. If Herse can take the dragon, everything they've ever whispered about since they were children becomes more possible. If he can't, Rego won't know what to do with himself. So when Herse faces the creature and it rears its head Rego feels like he's strangling his own heart.
Before he can question his sanity,
Herse grabs the dragon's halter, nearly slipping on the dome, and whistles twice. The dragon pulls back, closing its mouth. Herse holds on tighter and whistles again. The dragon, incredibly, sits. He makes sure of his footing then rubs its neck. It pushes against his hand. He rubs more aggressively.
If this were a horse he were trying to break, he'd give it an apple or carrot. If it were a dog, a piece of meat. Herse points the dragon's head at Jeryon's body and whistles three times. He'd been wondering what he'd do about this evidence against Chelson and, by extension, him.
The dragon sniffs Jeryon, looks at Herse, and tilts its head. Herse whistles three times. The dragon shrugs and gnaws its way into Jeryon's belly.
Herse mounts the dragon. He's not particularly comfortable, but the saddle is cleverly designed; his saddlers will enjoy making something better. He holds the reins loosely so the dragon can keep eating. It burrows its whole snout under Jeryon's rib cage to tear out his heart. The dragon tosses it back then goes to work on Jeryon's face. The glass and leather goggles don't slow it down.
It occurs to him there's another loose end he should trim, one he should have dealt with before he shot Jeryon. He looks at the cupola. Tristaban kneels at the wall, smirking, as if knowing too much is an asset. Herse winks.
Once the dragon's eaten its fill he walks it up the dome to her. She stands up against her pain, her arms behind her back, her mouth half-open, her chest and neck aflush. A bandage slips off, and Herse feels a little sorry for her.