Talia blazed through the palace with a singular purpose. Courtiers, household members, guards and sycophants alike bowed or acknowledged her as she went – their methods as varied as the people greeting her. No one was quite sure how to treat her as a princess dragon rider. Only when she reached the royal apartments did she pause, checking the coast was clear.
The evidence Leofric promised was the key to all of it. It would convince Osric and the court. With luck, the threat from inside the city might be removed in time.
She had known exactly what Leofric had meant when she’d read his final words to her.
“Should something happen to me, you can find what you need where even the scourge cannot reach.”
Leofric had chosen those words carefully. Should the letter be intercepted as he feared, it would be indecipherable to anyone else. The words only had real meaning to her. She clung to that thought, for she didn’t think it spoke of a man delirious from illness. He knew what he was writing. And he’d been scared.
He’d been afraid and he’d needed her.
And I couldn’t be there.
Her eyes prickled as she fought back tears.
No. Not until I know for sure.
Talia found herself at the door to her old bed chamber. Her old-old bed chamber, for she had moved to a larger room down the hall two years before joining the Order. She twisted the handle, pushed, and the well- maintained door swung in without a creak.
She recognized the space but not the room. Since leaving for the Order, her mother had turned the place into a nursery. There had been talk of more children. Not anymore. The empty crib seemed a sad reminder of that reality; the fact it had been left untouched for over a year was even worse. The ghost of her father haunted every inch of it.
Talia would not have entered unless she had to. It wasn’t even her final destination, for there was an attic space above this turret room. In the old days she had to reach up with a long pole to open the attic door and bring the stairs down. Now she could just jump and grab it. She did so, landing back on the floor with a thud and the stairs banged down after her.
She climbed. The dusty attic had been left untouched longer than the nursery.
Time had stood still here. Not much but a timber floor, cold air and rafters. A lone telescope still stood by the narrow window. Toys lay scattered and forgotten: Leofric’s soldiers and her own wooden dragon lay on a lost make-believe battlefield. She picked up the dragon, blew off the dust.
It was bright red with yellow wings, and she’d given it the inventive name of ‘Scorcher’ as a little girl. Even then she had been destined for fire. Even then she had wanted to fight the scourge.
Yet like all children she had also been afraid. A toddler’s memory had never left her: of crying inconsolably as screeching monsters flew over the city and dead men rose from the lake. Years later while playing in the attic with her brother she had confided fear of those horrors to him. He’d comforted her and dubbed this room to be so high that even the scourge could not reach it. Up here, they were safe.
She dropped the hand holding Scorcher to her side and examined the room again for some sign of Leofric’s evidence. Nothing obvious sprung to her attention. No package left out, but that would have been foolish of him. No trail through the dust now time had passed since his visit – if indeed he had come.
Perhaps under the floorboards? She moved around, hoping to hear some sound or find a loose plank but found none. Tapping Scorcher against her
head she tried to think it through.
Doubt crept up her spine. She pulled the letter out and re-read it for the thousandth time. The key information came in the opening:
“Evidence has reached me of a conspiracy so terrible it is hard to fathom. Yet it is undeniable to those in our family. A rot which has burrowed to the very heart of our kingdom. Given how deep it runs I dare not move without you by my side. As powerful as our opponents are, they cannot hope to stand against a dragon rider when the time comes.
I have told no one else. I cannot. I know even my conversations with Mother are overheard by prying ears in the palace, and I have long suspected that my letters to councilors are opened and read before they arrive.”
The letter was vague on what the conspiracy entailed, only that it was deep and that Leofric had felt in danger. Talia assumed this to be an attempt on his life and seizure of the throne. All the more reason Osric should listen to her. His life might still be in danger.
His conversations were being listened to, his letters opened before reaching their destination, other than letters given to loyal Nibo. Whatever was going on was happening right in the heart of the palace.
But what sort of evidence had come to Leofric’s attention? Letters? If he had come by letters between Harroway and other conspirators, then surely Leofric would have been able to act without her. The evidence, in his words, was absolute. Undeniable.
Undeniable to those in the family. She chewed on his choice of words.
Leofric had specifically told her to come to their old play den. No one else would have known that. Each part had been crafted to implore her to come to his aid without giving much away in case Nibo had been captured.
She dismissed the idea that the evidence was in letters. Anything in ink would be undeniable to anyone who read it, not just their family.
The answer came to her, but it raised more questions.
Ghost orbs. The memories within those devices could only be experienced by the person who made them or those who shared their blood. But, if she was correct, then the orb and its memories could only have come from their father.
The implications were dizzying. When would this orb have been created? Why had it only resurfaced recently? What had Harroway been doing in the meantime if their father had known of the betrayal before he died? Her father couldn’t have known before going to war with Risalia, she decided. Godric Agravain had been a proud man, an impatient man, but not a mad man. He would not have marched while his house stood divided.
Once more she scoured the room to no avail. Ghost orbs weren’t large.
They could fit comfortably in the palm of your hand.
She fixated on the telescope. No… could it be?
The journey across the attic seemed to take an age. It if wasn’t in here, it wasn’t anywhere. She had to bend right down to press her eye against the glass. Only darkness met her which made sense given the black clouds outside. But it wasn’t pure darkness, there was a purple hue to the dull light. Heart hammering, she approached the other side of the telescope. She checked on the lens. It would have been imperceptible at a distance, but the lens looked just out of place. Twisting it, she found it loose. Inside, wedged
within the widest part of the brass tube, was a ghost orb.
With haste she upended the telescope and shook it, catching the orb as it fell with her heightened reflexes. She always thought they were otherworldly in hand. Though made of glass, the orb had a distinct weightlessness to it, like trying to hold onto the very smoke that would rise from it when shattered.
She wanted to yell in triumph but calmed herself, steadied her breath. A rider remained in control. She reached out to Pyra.
“I found it, girl!”
Pyra’s purr of satisfaction bloomed from Talia’s soul into her whole body.
“You’re my rider, of course you did. What does it reveal?” “It’s a ghost orb. I haven’t looked into it yet.”
“I am ready to do what is necessary,” Pyra said, her voice cold.
“Pyra,” Talia began, unsure how to phrase her concern, “if it comes to swords, it will mean harming humans. Me breaking my oath to get involved at all is bad enough. You don’t have to as well.”
“An unstable kingdom will make easy prey for the scourge. My oath, our oath, was to fight the scourge at any cost. I mark this task as fighting the scourge.”
“That’s clever but you know the Order won’t see it that way.”
“We are daughters of fire and we shall do what we must!”
The bond beat reassuringly hard, which she was grateful for. Watching this memory would not be easy.
Ready, she looked upon the orb and saw her own eyes reflected on its surface. That stare stretched on, until the smoky innards of the ball swirled, and an image took shape. Not a hazy impression as shattering the orb would produce but as clear and perfect as though she witnessed it herself.
Her eyes rolled back, and the memory took over.
She was in what appeared to be a castle keep, with maps and half eaten dishes scattered over a great table. It was hot, close and stank of sweat. Guards lined the walls and stood at the doors in force, while robed advisors leaned over the maps with their eyebrows raised or else were deep in whispered conversation.
She stepped forward – that is to say, her father stepped forward, for it was his memory after all. She was revisiting events from his perspective and so she could smell what he had smelled, feel what he had touched. As a member of his bloodline, even an echo of his thoughts and emotions reached her too.
“How long until the Risalians reach the valley?” Godric Agravain asked.
Talia found it a strange sensation: to feel as though the speech came from her own mouth.
Several of the king’s stewards looked up and then to each other. One at last spoke and it was a man Talia had known well.
“Before week’s end,” Deorwin Steward said. Plump, balding with a horseshoe ring of white hair, Deorwin had been her father’s eldest advisor, hailing from a long line of Stewards who tended Feorlen’s monarchs. Talia felt a pang just hearing his voice again. As far as she knew, he had perished in the Toll Pass along with her father.
For this must be where they were. In the fortress that sat at the gateway between Risalia, Brenin and Feorlen. The site of eternal disagreement between the three kingdoms. The place her father had died to take.
She was forced to look away from Deorwin then as her father’s gaze shifted down to the maps of the terrain. He fixated on a group of Feorlen flags pinned some way south of the Toll Pass.
“I shouldn’t have let Harroway go,” Godric said, tapping near those pins.
“Based on what we knew at the time, it was the right decision, your royal highness,” Deorwin said. “Osric was in need.”
“Our need is greater now.” Godric pressed upon the map with his hands as though by staring at his brother’s symbolized regiments they might be summoned forth. “Recall them both at once.”
The memory began to fade, swirling again, until a new scene formed. Her father had left a series of memories for them – mere snippets of each as the orbs could only hold so much.
What hit her was noise she hadn’t been ready for. The cacophony of battle; two nations clashing in a narrow valley. The ringing steel echoed, the death screams, the great bangs of stones crashing against walls.
Godric Agravain stood on the balcony of the keep, peering over the balustrade. Talia could feel an echo of her father’s emotions. Dismay. Fear. Where had Osric gotten to? He should have been here by now.
The black and white Risalian flag continued to gain ground. Their troops poured out from siege towers onto the walls.
Someone called to him, pointing toward the southern ridge. The Feorlen side.
There at last he saw Osric’s banner, two crossed gray axes. His heart leapt. He and his men were saved.
Godric gripped the balustrade, willing his brother to charge. Together they’d make such an end as to elevate Feorlen to greatness and enter their names into song.
Yet Osric did not descend into the valley. Godric gulped and caught sight of more banners speeding along the ridge. At their head was the crowned black eagle on a white field, one talon gripping a sword and the other a scepter. The flag of Risalia.
Talia felt her father’s heart sink then, through the memory and all the time since she felt his pain. There was no clash upon the ridge. No skirmish at the flanks of the forces. Those banners stood together.
Godric had been betrayed.
The memory swam again, the world blurred as though moving at a speed Talia could not comprehend. When it righted, Godric stood before a group of knights and stewards. Deorwin was amongst them. Upon the table where maps had been laid before, were now a number of small lock boxes with a purple orb sat inside each one.
“You must ride hard and fast,” Godric said, his every word breathless and desperate. “Each take a different route once out the western gate. There will be forces laid against you even in our country, but you must not fail. Make it to Sidastra and warn my son.”
The knights and stewards nodded. The warriors were prepared, the stewards not so. Deorwin’s bald head shone with sweat but he hid his fear. Grim faced, he bowed and nodded like the rest, ready to serve and fulfill his role until the end.
“I do not think we will meet again,” Godric said.
He began imparting memories into the orbs. Servants followed behind by placing each filled orb into a box and then passing that to one of the knights or stewards. Before Godric reached the final orb, a door burst open and a soldier rushed in.
“Horses are assembled in the west courtyard, your majesty.” “Go then,” Godric barked. “Break through. For Feorlen!”
The men hurried off, except for Deorwin who had yet to receive his lockbox. For the older steward, Godric spared a moment for one parting embrace. Then he reached for the final orb and the memories ended there.
Colors shimmered into nothingness then reformed into the attic space above Talia’s old bedroom – where even the scourge could not reach.
She’d fallen to her knees. Tears streamed down her face, running hot and salty into her mouth as she choked out breaths. Her grip on the ghost orb turned limp. The orb ran down her fingers, hit the floor and rolled through the dust.
Talia let it roll. Her mind was far away still. She could envision the last moments of her father’s life unfold. She pictured Godric’s slumped shoulders as Deorwin left, all the fight drained out of him. He would have
lost himself in turmoil as to why Osric had done this; not just the personal betrayal but allowing Feorlen to lose the war.
No, she thought grimly, savagely. Hatred struck Talia as no rage of Pyra’s ever had. Uncle Osric would never lose a fight.
And, of course, he had not lost the Toll Pass. She saw it now, in her mind’s eye, her father lost and bewildered atop the keep, watching as his men were slaughtered and the Risalians over committed themselves. He had probably seen Osric’s full force arrive on the ridge, seen the confused shuffle up there as the Risalian standard bearers were struck down. The traitor betraying his conspirators. Perhaps hope had kindled in her father then; perhaps he’d even felt bad for distrusting his brother as Osric’s charge shattered the Risalian flank and cleaved through their army like so many dragon riders through ghouls.
Perhaps Godric had welcomed his brother atop the keep in the Toll Pass with open arms. Perhaps Osric had planted the axes in himself.
She couldn’t keep it back any longer. Fire blazed from her shoulders like a red cloak as grief and fury took over. Pyra’s fire was her fire. The bond pumped as though her life depended on it. Talia was a dragon now and she would burn this whole twisted place to cinders, leaving less than ash and nothing for even the worms to feast upon.
Panting, she got a hold of herself. Falling forward onto her hands, the fire in her and on her guttered out. The grief she had held at bay all day, holding back all year, broke through her defenses. She wept. Curled up in the dust of the attic floor, she wept.
Outside, Pyra wailed like a wounded animal. The dragon didn’t know the specifics, but Talia had sent the pain across the bond—both to help Pyra understand and to keep the agony from overwhelming her completely. Otherwise, it might have consumed her.
Osric had killed her father. Osric had killed her brother. But for what? The throne? Osric had always claimed he never wanted it. That was the most painful part—she couldn’t understand why.
Her father’s knights and stewards couldn’t have gotten far. Osric’s men must have caught them, or perhaps they had perished on the road some other way. Yet one had made it back, more than a year later.
The prisoners. Osric himself had just mentioned that Leofric paid far too much to recover prisoners from the war. He had attributed Leofric’s generosity to “sentiment for his old tutor,” and perhaps that was true. But unbeknownst to Osric, Deorwin had been captured by the Risalians and held hostage. The last orb bearer had fulfilled his final mission to Godric upon his return. She wondered where Deorwin was now. Perhaps Osric had killed him too.
Time had passed, and the light from the small window was now fading. At last, she heaved a final, sobbing breath and sat up. This was a terrible time for such horrors to come to light, but she couldn’t bear to see her uncle sitting in her brother’s chair a moment longer. The court would already be assembled. The time to act was now.
She snatched up the ghost orb and jumped down through the attic door.
“It will come to swords, Pyra. Be ready.” “I’m always ready.”
For the first time in what felt like years, Talia was too. She didn’t know what would come of it. She didn’t know if this was the smart course, the right course. She didn’t care. For once she wasn’t plagued by doubt and knew what needed to be done.
