The Blind Dragon (24 page)

Malachi sighed. He looked at her for a long moment. Then he tucked Master Khondus's blade behind his back, reached down, and took the short, iron poker from its place against the wall. The crow stirred on its perch, turned, and peered into the cell, its black eyes glittering.

"You
will
swear," Malachi said softly. He held the poker away from him, as if it repulsed him. "You'll swear or, by the Sisters, you'll serve me in another way."

"Trying to prove your bravery again?"

Malachi bowed his head. "I'll not harm you now, Anna. But tomorrow morning, if you don't swear, you'll force me to make an example of you and your family. There's no other way. Your people will suffer. It will not be quick, you understand."

Anna's stomach knotted, but her gaze didn't falter.

"You," Malachi said, holding the poker in the square of moonlight, moving it in and out of the crow's shadow, "you will lose your eyes. But only after you've seen your family and friends destroyed. You'll then spend the remainder of your life in this cell, sightless and alone, to be brought forth when my enemies require a reminder of my authority." He looked at her unhappily. "So you see, Anna, you
will
serve me. One way or another. Would you serve with glory, honor, and wealth? Or with torture, horror, and death?"

Anna lifted her chin. "To live and die as a loyal soldier of a great Lady and a great House is glory and honor enough. A soldier never forgets her word. My family knows it. My dragon knew it. I know it. Death is not defeat."

"Fine words." Malachi nodded. "And speaking of which: What of your family? What of
their
deaths? Your mother? Your sisters? Your friends? Must they be made to suffer, also? My advisors will insist upon it. And they'll be right."

Anna swallowed. "If I betray my word, then I betray my dragon's memory, my clan, and my High House. My people understand this better than anybody. So take my blood and take your vengeance, my Lord. My oath you'll
never
have."

"'Vengeance?'" Malachi's eyebrows shot up. He shook his head. "Oh no, Anna. Not 'vengeance.' I loved my father, to be sure. As much as any highborn son can love his lord and master. But the horrors you suffer tomorrow aren't retributive. Quite the contrary." His voice went quiet, like he was talking to himself. "Better to think of it as a kind of performance, a kind of theatre. You'd be closer to the truth."

Anna frowned.

He looked at her. "A show of cruelty can make a powerful memory in an audience, Anna. The memory becomes a scar, and the scar becomes a lesson. When I hurt your friends and family, I won't enjoy it. But I'll do it so that my people can see what happens to those who defy my authority. Likewise, when I take your eyes," he glanced disdainfully at the iron poker he held, "I won't enjoy it. But I'll do it so that my people can see that my power is the one thing—the one thing above
all
others—that they must fear. The entire display is a simple, calculated path to a simple, calculated end. And that end is 'peace.'"

Anna looked away. On the window sill, the crow cocked its head.

"For a handful of viewers," Lord Malachi continued, "your mutilation will make you a martyr, of course. But for the vast majority, your mutilation simply will be feared.
Feared
. Nothing more. That fear will become a tool, a tool with which I can fashion order and peace for our world. Of course, tomorrow's spectacle will be terrible. But isn't one terrible day preferable to a thousand? Isn't it better for one young soldier to endure such a fate than for an entire world to suffer? Either way, you misunderstand me. It's not 'vengeance,' Anna. It is duty. The duty of statecraft."

She said nothing. She could feel Malachi's gaze on the side of her face.

"Consider carefully. My offer will stand as given until dawn. It's not your life alone that you hazard. Think on your friends. Think on your family. Think on your world."

She started to speak, but he raised his hand to stop her.

"I know a hero must shut her eyes, Anna. That she must 'believe,' in order to act, to fight, and to win. But you've already acted, Anna. You've already fought. And you've already won. You've already done everything that you could do. Open your eyes. Our world doesn't need a hero now. It needs a leader. It needs a savior."

He paused, looked at her closely, and cocked his head. "You've called me a traitor. Perhaps that's true. Much depends on point of view. But think on this: What do you call a warrior who lets beloved innocents die for nothing?"

She shook her head. The crow gazed at her, its dark eyes gleaming.

Malachi took up his lantern, made to go, but then abruptly stepped towards her and touched her cheek. His touch was warm, almost tender. He held his hand there for a moment. She didn't flinch at his touch.

He sighed. "I ask you, truly: is there any difference between the death of your father and the death of mine?"

She looked up into his eyes, realizing with dawning horror that she wanted to lean into his hand, to take comfort in the safety and kindness and reason that he offered, to save herself, to save her friends, to save her family—.

Are you mad?

She pulled away, put her head against the wall, and shut her eyes.

"Until tomorrow, then." He paused. "My beautiful, blind dragon."

He stepped away and tapped on the cell door. The lock clanked, the door opened, and he walked out. The door shut behind him.

The crow cocked its head and turned away, hunkering down for the night.

Anna's head throbbed. She felt slightly sick.

"I must be strong," she whispered. "For Dagger. For Mother. For everyone. I must be strong."

But her whole body shook. And it wasn't just from the cold. She took a deep breath and looked at the square of blue moonlight on the cell's floor. But it wasn't a square anymore. It was a weird, crooked trapezoid, bent by the motion of the moon, the crow's shadow hunched in one corner.

61

M
ORNING CAME FAST
, the early light pinking a cloudless sky. The crow still sat at the window, its only movement the slow shift of weight from one foot to the other, an occasional ruffle of feathers.

Anna hadn't slept. At least she didn't remember sleeping.

But she must have. She was stiff, her hands were freezing, and her head ached worse than ever. There was a clammy hollowness in her stomach and chest, as if something vital had been removed, leaving nothing but void.

She missed Dagger. She missed him terribly. If she could just put her hands on him again, feel his smooth power under his warm scales, touch her forehead to his, look into his eyes one more time.

She shook her head. At least she hadn't dreamed. And yet even the most horrific nightmare would've been a kindness compared to what she would face today.

Is that true?

She didn't know. She did know that today would be the last day that she'd see her people alive. That today would be hell itself.

"I must be strong," she said to the crow.

The crow turned, stepping carefully, and stared at her with attentive eyes. It cocked its head, as if asking a question.

Did she have to be strong?

Did she have to be tortured? Did she have to watch her friends and loved ones destroyed in front of a crowd?

She couldn't stop imagining the sounds, the screams, knowing that they died for her plan, for her failure.

But you didn't fail.

She had to keep reminding herself of that.

So why couldn't she banish Lord Malachi's offer from her mind? Why did she want to save them? Was there even a decision to be made?

No.

For the hundredth time.

Because she'd made her choice a long time ago. When she was nine years old. When she'd put her tiny fist on her heart and made a promise to Lord David, to her Father, to her Mother, to House Dradón in front of the High Gate along with all the other dragon squires of her cohort.

That
was when she'd chosen.

And that decision is the only one that matters
.

"A soldier never betrays her word," she whispered. "A soldier never forgets her promises."

That was truth.

Because if everyone forgot their promises in the face of war and horror and murder, then what remained?

"Nothing," Anna told the crow. "Nothing at all."

The crow cocked its head.

Those words sound fine, she could imagine it saying.

Oh yes, they sound fine.

But they didn't help.

And they won't save their lives.

Her hands shook.

The pit of her stomach clenched with cold knives.

Were "fine words" really worth betraying Moondagger's faith and memory? Were "fine words" really worth the
lives
of her friends and family? Or was there more there? Was there even a choice to be made? Was there something real, something
true
behind the words?

The crow stared back at her silently, its black eyes glittering, its head bobbing silently, as if nodding with ancient answers—answers that it would not share.

62

T
HE DOOR CLANKED
.

Anna looked up.

Lord Malachi walked into the cell.

A crowd of murmuring soldiers and courtiers waited behind him in the dungeon's hallway, most of them dressed in the dark green of House Fel.

Lord Malachi himself wore an emerald green tunic under a breastplate of dark riding armor along with dark leather pants and dark riding boots. A short battlesword hung from his hip. A high silver revolver was slung under his left armpit. His gear looked well cared for and well-used.

And that was the point, Anna realized. This was Lord Malachi in costume. It was his "warrior's costume." Indeed, the only mark of office the young lord displayed was a simple signet ring emblazoned with House Fel's crest, the two-headed dragon. "He's a fighter," his costume said. "He's all business. He's a leader worth following." But when she looked closer, Anna saw something else. His eyes were alert but ringed by dark circles. He was exhausted. He was sad. And he was nervous.

"I see neither of us slept well," Malachi said, as if reading her mind. He tried to smile, but it came across as a frown. His eyes were haunted, and for a strange moment, Anna found herself pitying the new lord of the House of Fel.

Outside in the hallway, someone snickered at some jest.

"Quiet," Malachi ordered softly.

All sound ceased.

"Forgive me, Anna." He stepped to her and knelt at the edge of the rock slab. "Have you decided?"

"Yes," Anna said. "I agree with what you said last night."

His face brightened.

She shook her head. "I agree, my Lord, that you and I could have been friends, had the circumstances been different."

"What does that mean?" he asked so that only she could hear him.

She paused, then lifted her chin. "It means that the circumstances are
not
different. It means we're at war. It means that I must refuse your offer, my Lord. It means that my word is not for sale."

He closed his eyes for a moment, looked at her, and nodded. "I understand. I'm sorry."

She returned his gaze. Her voice was utterly composed. "We've each made our vows, my Lord. The only difference is the people to whom they were sworn. In that, there can be no apologies—especially between soldiers who honor their duty."

"This doesn't feel like duty."

"Sometimes," she heard herself say, "that's what duty feels like."

He cocked his head for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. Then he nodded, turned, and walked out the cell door.

"Take her."

63

H
ER WRISTS WERE
locked behind her back in iron manacles. Those manacles, in turn, were locked to an iron bar that ran to a chain between her ankles. The position and length of the bar forced her back into an unnatural arch, making it hard to breathe and to walk. She could take small, awkward steps, but it was challenging. She was barefoot, and she kept stubbing her toes against the cracks in the stone floor. She tried to keep pace with the soldiers around her, but sometimes they would just pick her up and carry her for a stretch. They were not unkind. A huge sergeant with fresh burns on the left side of his face even stopped the procession to adjust the iron bar at her back so that her posture was a little more natural. When he was done, he lifted a clay cup to her lips.

"Drink," he said soberly. His horrible burns didn't allow his mouth to open fully. It seemed to pain him to speak. "Drink."