Dragons Reborn (21 page)

She blinked furiously
and rubbed them away. "It . . . it always happens in water."

I have to swim! I
have to flee!
The little girl again, scared, orphaned, alone, swam across the
midnight ocean, so afraid, so weak, forever inside her.

Her vision cleared, and
she touched Korvin's cheek. "Can we truly do this?" she whispered. "Can
we truly rule this mass of armies, people, creatures, truly take them overseas?
Can we win?" She closed her eyes. "I'm scared, Korvin. I'm so scared."

He waded closer in the
water, and his arms—large, wide arms, strong and scarred—wrapped around her.
He held her close and stroked her wet hair.

"I don't know,"
he said, voice a low grumble, soothing as rolling thunder in a dying storm. "But
whatever happens, I'm with you. Whatever enemies we face, I will fight them
with you. Always."

She caressed his
prickly cheek and kissed his lips. "I love you, big boy." Those damn
tears flowed again. "You know that, don't you?"

That night they held a
great feast in the villa. Trestle tables were laid out in the main hall, and
cooks brought out the bounty of the Horde: steaming pies of all kind, full of
fish, fowl, and fruit; roasted peacocks on silver platters, their garish tail
feathers reattached; skewers of lamb and camel meat on beds of rice; golden
bowls full of grapes, persimmons, figs, and a hundred other fruits; and honeyed
clusters of nuts and dried berries. Hundreds of men and women filled the hall,
the generals of her army, feasting, drinking wine and spirits, and singing old
songs. Musicians moved between the tables, playing lyres and drums, and dancers
performed in silks that revealed more than they hid.

Amity sat at the head
of the table, singing hoarsely, drinking deeply whenever servants filled her
cup, pounding on the table and laughing whenever a jester stumbled. She wore iron
armor and a resplendent red cloak, and Korvin stood at her side, ever her
guardian, wearing a dark gray breastplate and a charcoal cape. As silent as he
was, Amity was loud—clapping, singing, laughing, drinking, belching, shouting,
for her cries drowned the pain, and the wine drowned the memories, and she
drank more and more and cried out more and more, all to hide that old fear, to bury
that scared little girl beneath endless laughter, endless wine.

The feast lasted into
dawn. When the last warriors stumbled out of her hall, they left a disaster:
shattered tables, piles of bones and apple cores and apricot seeds, spilled
wine, toppled jugs. Amity rose to her feet and swayed. She was tired. Bone
tired. So tired the memories of that little girl were almost drowned, too muzzy
to claim her.

"Let's find a damn
bed in this hovel." She spat. "Korvin, help me walk."

He held her hand, and
they walked together through the villa, her swaying, him a solid pillar. They
explored several hallways until they found a staircase, climbed it, and discovered
a bedchamber. The room was massive, almost the size of the hall downstairs. It
had no fourth wall, only a portico of columns affording a view of the sea. The
floor was tiled, the walls painted with murals of birds, and a great canopy bed
stood in its center.

"Perfect,"
Amity said, tugging Korvin toward the bed. "Now, undress again."

He frowned at her. "We've
already bathed."

She snorted. "Do I
have to rip your damn clothes off? Undress!"

She tugged at the
straps of her armor, and the iron plates clanged to the floor. She all but tore
her clothes off, and when she grabbed at Korvin's clothes, she did tear them,
ripping through the cotton, tearing through the lacings, tearing at his skin
with her fingernails.

"Make love to me
now," she said.

His eyes narrowed. "You're
in no condition to—"

She growled and shoved
him onto the bed. He lay on his back, and she stared at his naked body, the
many scars and bruises, the contours of his muscles, the peace he brought to
her, the strength he gave to her life, the anchor of her soul. She climbed onto
the bed, and she straddled him, and Amity rode him, head tossed back,
fingernails digging into his chest, and she cried out again—shouting as she
had in the feast, shouting as she did in battle, shouting as she had in her
childhood, fleeing across the sea. The bed rattled. The sheets tore. His skin
tore beneath her fingernails, and still she rode him like a woman riding a
dragon, and still she cried out, not caring if the entire camp heard.

She did not even
remember falling asleep. She knew only dreams—dreams of drinking in an endless
feast, endless masks floating around her, and dreams of riding a dragon across
the sea. The dragon kept calling to her, opening his mouth to roar, but only a
knocking sound left his jaws, knock after knock.

Her eyes opened.

The knocking continued.

Amity was lying
sprawled out in the bed, still naked, the sheets damp with her sweat. Korvin
lay beside her, still sleeping. Afternoon light fell into the bedchamber.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Amity growled and rose
to her feet.

"Enter!" she
barked.

The door opened and a serving girl entered the chamber, clad in a white tunic. The girl lowered her
head, looking away from Amity's nakedness.

"My abini." She
knelt.

"What is it?"
Amity glowered. "Why do you disturb me?"

The servant gulped, and
her eyes flicked up, full of fear. "Dragons, my queen. Four dragons flew
in from the sea . . . and they're looking for you."

 
 
FIDELITY

As Fidelity stood on the southern
coast of Terra and beheld the great, sprawling camp of the Horde, more fear
than she had ever felt flooded her. Countless humans and beasts mustered here,
preparing for war—griffins, salvanae, and warriors from many lands—but
Fidelity cared for only one man.

"What if he's not
here?" she whispered. "What if the merchant's story was false, if . .
. if we don't find him?"

Standing at her side,
Domi reached out and clasped Fidelity's hand. Fidelity turned to look at her little
sister, seeking comfort in Domi's presence.

"He's here."
Domi's red hair fluttered like a torch's flame in the wind. "I know it."

Fidelity looked to her
other side. Roen stood there, and he reached out to hold Fidelity's other hand.
The tall, bearded forester had never liked crowds, and it was hard to imagine a
more crowded place than this camp, but he seemed to Fidelity a pillar of
calmness, one she could tether her anxiety to. Behind him stood Cade and
Gemini, both wrapped in cloaks, both looking as out of place as pups who'd
wandered into a wolf's den.

Fidelity took a deep
breath and looked around her. Two massive statues rose at her sides, hundreds
of feet tall. They were shaped as rearing stallions, carved of sandstone, and
their kicking hooves were gilded. Here were the fabled Eras and Elamar,
Guardians of Terra. Beyond this gateway spread the camp of the Horde. Fidelity's
left lens was still missing, but through her right lens, she beheld a massive
camp that spread toward the horizon. Tens of thousands of tents rose here,
bustling with activity. Soldiers were drilling with swords, and griffins flew
above in formations, their riders tossing up clay targets and shooting them
with arrows. In the sea, a hundred ships or more were hoisting banners, and
rowboats kept moving back and forth, bringing soldiers from the land onto the
warships' decks.

The Horde prepares
for war,
Fidelity thought.
Do you truly lead them, Amity? Are you truly
here with her, Father?

Roars sounded above.

Wings beat, blasting
sand and dust across the camp.

Fidelity coughed and
rubbed her eyes, and then she saw them flying above.

A red dragon blasting
out fire. A charcoal dragon, scales like iron plates, burly and creaky.

Fidelity's chest shook,
and she couldn't breathe, but she could cry out, and she cried with all the
strength in her lungs: "Father! Father!"

Tears flowed down her
cheeks, and she ran through the camp, reaching up to him. Domi ran with her,
and the dark gray dragon dived down, hit the dirt between the tents, and
shifted into a man.

Fidelity's eyes watered
as she ran.

It's him. Oh stars,
it's him, he's alive.

There he stood—her
father, the old soldier. Korvin was gaunter than she remembered, and his skin
was tanned deep bronze, sharply contrasting with his white stubble. His
eyebrows were as bushy and black as ever, and his hair was still a great,
grizzled mane that flowed halfway down his back, the black streaked with more
silver than before. He wore fine steel armor now, and a sword hung at his side—a
soldier again. Yet despite the changes in him, it was still her dear father,
the man who would bounce her on his knee years ago, who had lived with her in the
library, who had fought with her for Requiem, who brought tears to her eyes and
made her chest shake.

"Father!"

He held out his arms,
and Fidelity leaped onto him, crying against him, holding him close. Her body
shook with sobs, and she laughed through her tears.

"Fidelity."
Korvin held her close, and she was surprised to see his eyes dampen. She had
never seen her father shed tears before, and she knew she would never forget
this moment. "My daughter . . ."

He could say no more,
only hold her close, nearly crushing her slender frame against his armor.

A soft voice rose
behind them. "Father?"

Fidelity turned around,
still wrapped in her father's arms, to see Domi standing on the dirt path
between the tents. Her orange hair once more fell down to hide her face, and
her green eyes peered between the strands, hesitant. She dared not step closer.

Gently, Korvin released
Fidelity from his embrace, and the two stepped toward Domi.

"My daughter,"
Korvin said, reaching out to embrace Domi.

Domi took a step back.
She seemed like a wounded animal, torn between fleeing and fighting. She began
to tremble, and then tears flooded her eyes, and she leaped forward and wrapped
her limbs around Korvin, squeezing him.

"I'm sorry,
Father," she whispered. "I'm so sorry for running away, for being
Pyre, for everything I've done. I'm so sorry. I love you, Papa. I love you."

As around them bustled
an army of soldiers, chariots, and flying beasts, they stood together—father
and daughters, holding one another close, united in the shadow of looming war.

 
 
GEMINI

"It seems like it's the time
for family reunions," Gemini said, watching Domi and her sister hug the
grizzled old warrior. He turned to look at Cade. "Should we finally have
our own proper reunion? They tell me you're my brother."

They stood in the tent
city, two young men in the center of chaos. The Horde bustled around them.
Burly, bare-chested warriors rode horses back and forth, both men and beasts
clad in ring mail. A leathery old man walked by, leading a chained griffin, a
massive beast with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle, even larger
than most dragons. Tall, noble women and men walked all around, clad in pale
steel armor, their platinum hair streaming like banners, their eyes blue like
the sea—Tirans of the desert, a proud and ancient race, their sabers filigreed
and their skin deep gold. Even a salvanae streamed by, its scales chinking, a
serpent of the air, seeming to Gemini almost like a great sculpture of jewels. The
creature blinked its crystal eyes at him—each as large as Gemini's head—fanning
him with its eyelashes, and its beard streamed along the ground as its body
hovered. And all around, past warriors and creatures, spread the tents of Hakan
Teer—some lavish and embroidered, others simple dwellings made of animal hides
stretched over cedar poles.

Gemini was used to the
order and cleanliness of the Commonwealth. Back home, every soldier wore the
same exact armor—paladins in white steel plates, commoners in chain mail so meticulous
that each soldier wore the same number of rings in his armor. Every home in
every city was the same, a clay hut with a domed roof, built to perfect
specifications, identical to its neighbors. Each city street, each warship,
each saddle on a firedrake, all were created with precision, part of a flawless
whole.

The south, however, was
a motley mess. No two tents were alike, and most seemed homemade. No two suits
of armor matched. Warriors simply cobbled together whatever makeshift armor
they could, strapping on hunks of iron, bronze, and copper, scraps of ring mail,
sometimes simply boiled leather studded with bolts. Some men wore beards while
others were clean shaven. Some women wore long gowns while others walked around
bare chested, not a scrap of modesty to them, and Gemini would have thought
them harlots if not for the swords at their hips. He didn't even see
commanders, no units of troops, no order, only a great mass. The smells were just
as plentiful and confusing and intoxicating: sweat, oil, perfumes, horse dung,
cooking fires, fruits and roasting meats, a sickening and sweetly aroma.

This was, Gemini
decided, not an army but a mob.

He looked back at Cade.

Perhaps,
he
thought,
this boy is the only thing I have left in this land of barbarians.

He stepped closer. "Well,
Cade? Aren't you going to say anything?"

The boy stared at him,
eyes hard. He was shorter than Gemini, younger, his hair brown, not bleached
like the hair of a paladin, his eyes hazel, not blue like Gemini's. But Gemini
saw the resemblance; Cade had a face remarkably like his own.

It's true. We are
brothers.

Finally Cade spoke. "I
had a true family once. A kind father. A loving mother. A sister." The boy
clenched his fists. "Your family slew my parents and stole my sister. You
are no brother to me."