War of the Princes 02: Dragoon (12 page)

C
hapter 22: An Unexpected Reception

Entering the
installment fortress was like falling backward in time. The craggy, angular structure was larger than the one in Breakwater, but its inner design was the same. The floor was tiled with polished slate, and the walls were all stone masonry and metal paneling. Nothing decorated the place but heavy electric lanterns and tall windows barred in iron. Not a single rug warmed the cold floor, not a single potted plant or painting lent it color. It was an oppressive place, intimidating and joyless.

Wasn't it just yesterday that I'd been strapped to a chair with manacles on my legs and wrists, the Spark torn from where it was buried within me?

Four Dragoons in uniform strode purposefully across the hall.

The door, suctioned by the wind outside, slammed behind me. I flinched, expecting at any moment to have the head cut from my shoulders. The
Dragoons paid no attention to me and disappeared into a nearby doorway.

Paperglass
To Be.

I had to remind myself, over and over, that Commander Stakes was dead, that my eyes were colored brown, and no one here knew who I was or where I'd come from. I squeezed the book and pen, lifted my chin, and held myself back from running in the direction of the Pull.

Stairwell upon stairwell spiraled below me. How high was I? The fifth floor seemed like a mile from the ground. I tapped my way down the steps until I was dizzy. By the time I reached the second floor, I needed a break. My mother was downstairs somewhere, but my head was spinning. What good would it do if I found her just in time to puke my guts out and kill over?

A
Dragoon crossed my path at the foot of the stairs. She stared me dead in the eyes as she passed. It was unsettling. I nearly smiled out of politeness and stopped myself short, remembering that friendliness was taboo. The result was a wild-eyed sickly wince that made me look like a psychopath. The woman passed me but turned her head as she went.

As soon as she was out of sight, I crumpled into the corner of a pillar and took a short break to hyperventilate. I was going to kill myself her
e, plain and simple. What ever convinced my little pea brain that I could pull something like this off? Brendon was right about me. I was insane.

I was about to turn around and proceed down the next set of stairs when someone cornered me. It was an older man, probably in his fifties. He was bald, dark skinned and white
-bearded. There was a heavy book under one of his arms.

“This way, girl. All
Historians, this way,” he told me, scowling. I had no choice but to follow him.

The pin that marked him a
s a Historian flashed on the cuff of his robe. He caught me glancing at him and must have assumed I was eyeing his leather-bound tome.

“
If I so much as see you leaning over my shoulder to glimpse at my book, I'll cut each and every one of your fingers off. Oh, I will.” The way he said it, I believed him. “Ask me what my volume is about. Hm? Ask me.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, and
clamped my hands over my book. I didn't want him looking at mine either. It was empty.

The wide passage he
led me down was lined with symmetrical pillars stretched from floor to ceiling. As we walked, Dragoons joined us. Some wore armor, some uniforms. To my surprise, most of them were younger teenagers, probably between thirteen and fifteen. Regardless of their age, they moved with militant form, never so much as smiling or glancing at another person around them. Not a word was spoken. Other people joined us too, more Historians. They came in every age, shape, and gender. There was no uniform to distinguish them, just hints of black and red in their dark clothes, and the grim brooch. I counted six among us.

Then, there was the
Commander. I could feel him as much as see him, the way prey can sense a predator on the wind. He was brown-haired with black eyes, and may have even been handsome once. Now, his entire bottom jaw was broken with metal. I couldn't bear to look at him for longer than a second. My entire body was on alert.

I tried to drift away,
but the gathering crowd pressed me ahead to an indoor balcony. Moon shaped, it hugged a massive hall like oversized box seats at a theater. A twin balcony was parallel to us, across the gaping expanse of the hall, and there were more above too. Careful not to drop my book, I leaned against the railing and craned to look up at the ceiling. I counted four more levels of balconies before the roof gave way to a glass ceiling, under-lit by spot lamps and cross hatched with iron.

The throng of people around me dispersed, each finding a place to stand against the railing. There were people on the other side too. I wondered if the other levels were as crowded.

Just my luck. I was sandwiched between the grumpy old Historian and the only Commander on our floor. I shivered. He turned to look at me and I averted my eyes, remembering to bow. The old man was doing the same. The metal-jawed Commander didn't pay us much attention. His sights were fixed on the first floor below.

In an abrasive contrast to the rest of the fortress, the floor of the hall was blindingly white. Rings of chandeliers were hung beneath us, casting circles of light, bright as day, on the impeccable alabaster marble.
Diamond crowned arches broke up every bit of wall on the first floor. Away to my left, one such opening was twice the size and width of the others. It was from there that a mass of Dragoons poured into the grand room.

I had a good view of them from the second floor. They were adults, both young and mature, and all were seasoned. They held rifles, swords, axes and spears. I'd have needed to be blind not to see that most of them were injured. Some limped or shuffled. Some sagged in on themselves. Some swayed, spilling their own red blood on the clean floor. A few stood tall. No one leaned on anyone else for support.

“We are one. Together, alone, we are strong. We are power incarnate. Glory to Prince Raserion,” they chanted in unison. The gathering of voices was deep and genderless. The teenaged Dragoons and the Commander beside me joined their voices to the monotone chorus. I wanted to run away.

One of the
Dragoons below crumpled to the floor. No one moved to help her. Casting a paranoid glance around me, I slipped on my goggles and zoomed in. The woman's eyes were open, lids fluttering, and agony was all over her face. She struggled in vain to rise, fingers twitching on the slick ground. In a moment, she was unconscious. Her eyes were closed. I hoped she wasn't dead.

“
Welcome home,” came a smooth male voice. I had no trouble hearing it. Facing the hundred battle torn Dragoons, stood a black figure. Where had it come from? The form wasn't dark by human standards, but black as a starless night. Black as blindness, as if it could swallow all the light around it. I could see no features on him. No ears, no nose, no mouth, no creases on his face. He wore no clothes, but there was nothing beneath to see. It was like I was looking at a three-dimensional shadow, very much like the little Shadow Chasers that I practiced my Abilities on. He even had the same hollow, white eyes.

“
You, that have been summoned here,” the shadow man said, with a voice as slick as oil. “Have shown exceptional strength today. You've fought with exquisite grace. Each of your names has been noted and your ranks have been elevated to Cormorant Dragoon. Three among you, already at the Cormorant level, are under review for Command.

“
You are a superior force. Let your pride numb your injuries. There is no glory without bloodshed. I have departed to deliver our force to the doorstep of our enemies. Only you who have fought at Rocktree Camp remain. Now, clean your wounds. Tonight, the battle is won. Tomorrow, you may face another. Follow your Margrave, and wait for further orders.”

“
My life is your command,” everyone chanted. It was the Prince of Shadows, the master of my enemies.

The shadow man turned one hundred and eighty degrees, walked four paces, and vanished into the wall. A violent chill clawed down my back. I fumbled with my book, nearly dropping it on the
Dragoons below. They were beginning to disperse, filtering out of the hall in every direction, leaving long streaks of dirt and blood on the white floor.

My peripheral vision raised
an alarm, grasping a familiar figure, and I nearly panicked.

Rune!

At first, after our separation, I'd poured hours into preserving his memory in my mind. When even Haven Valley's warmest nights left me cold and empty, I resolved to forget him. I'd tried to distract myself with other boys for a while, but even the best of them were unremarkable to me. At night, Rune haunted my dreams. Attempting to forget him was as foolish as fighting to remember him. He was burned into my subconscious and that mark would never fade with time or trying.

He stood just below, looking dangerous in battered armor, with a sword slung over his back. His short black hair and warm brown skin were wet with something, blood or mud. One of his arms was clutching his ribcage. Everything from the angle of his jaw to the slope of his broad shoulders rang true to the image of him that I'd remembered. From this angle, I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew they were blue as far away mountain snow.

It was him. I was certain. I felt as though my own lightning had stabbed through my sternum. He was close. Near enough that if I shouted or waved or threw my book at him, he'd see me. He began to walk away. In a moment he'd disappear into the folds of the installment and I may never have the chance to see him again.

Oblivious to the stony
Commander at my side, or the old man shouting after me that I'd dropped my pen, I let the Pull swallow me whole and carry me off to meet him.

C
hapter 23: Penalty

In hindsight, I should have come up with a plan, but, hey, no one's perfect.
Faced with a twisting stone staircase, I glided down as quickly as my legs could carry me. No sooner than I'd reached the bottom, a hand lashed out from behind me and clamped down on my arm. I yowled in pain and fright.

The
metal-jawed Commander stared down at me with his fierce brown eyes. “Just a moment,” he said, and my entire body locked up, frozen where I stood.

I screamed on the inside, fighting with myself not to let it out. He was Commanding me to hold still. Only my head could move. Rune was right there. His back was to me, and a shadow draped over him as he walked
away down the hallway. I could have called to him. He would come to help me, wouldn't he?

And then we'd both be executed.

Once, I'd been able to snap Commander Stakes' hold on me, but I couldn't do that here, even if I remembered how I'd done it in the first place. They'd know I was different. I'd be captured for sure. I was helpless as a bug pinned under glass, and it enraged me.

The
Commander let his hand slip from my arm and walked around to face me, blocking my receding view of Rune.

“
There's something strange about you,” he drawled, the sharp jigsaw metal in his jaw making his words sound different than the standard accent. “Haven't seen you before.”

I tried to stay in character.
“And you’ve met every Historian in Cape Hill?”

“Perhaps I have.
Does anyone know this girl?”

Rune was gone. I wondered if he would have answered. He'd ignored me to protect me before. A few soldiers glanced our way, but no one said anything.

“Let me go,” I hissed through clenched molars. It was like the massive room had shrunken in on me, tighter than my own skin. Nausea crept up in my stomach. I hated being held like this. It wasn't just the claustrophobia that upset me; it was the plain, cruel feeling of losing the control of my body to someone else. It was humiliating.

He flicked a single eyebrow upward. I was at his mercy. Silently, I cursed myself for leaving Dylan behind. I was so intent on getting here and getting out, I'd become a suicidal maniac. Chasing after Rune certainly hadn't helped.

“I do,” came Margrave Hest's authoritative voice, soft and grating all at once. “Release her, Junior Commander.”

The man seemed
nonchalant about the whole thing. He held out my pen and dropped it, releasing his hold over me. Reflexively, I caught the pen before it could hit the floor.

Relieved, I rolled my shoulders back and rotated my neck. Circulation returned to warm my stiff limbs.

“Thank you for returning my pen to me, sir,” I said, attempting to drown him with the hatred pouring off of me.

“
What an odd grouping of people,” the Margrave said, joining us. I was jolted by her change in appearance. A gnarled metal beak twisted off center from where her nose used to be. The top of her perfect upper lip was split now, showing a glimpse of metal beneath. Then there was her waist, well, what was left of it. Layers of dark silver, like torn plating, made up her impossibly thin abdomen. “Historian Kestrel, meet Commander Kestrel.”

My lips parted, breaking my carefully manicured facade. He eyed me suspiciously.

“Any relation?” she asked innocently, turning her sunken eyes at him.

“
My only relation is my service to Prince Raserion,” he said.

“
Indeed,” she said smoothly. “And in your previous life, did you have relatives on Mount Yumin?”

“
Not to my knowledge,” he answered. “My biological family comes from Lockridge in Alstand.”

So, Kyle might not have been the only one with a family name rooted somewhere in the Outside World.
Was it possible that me and this Commander really were related? How far apart had our lineage split after a seven hundred year separation? This meant my surname was ancient! I looked Commander Kestrel over. He was tall with olive skin and black eyes, and his tapered brown hair was straight. We were far from twins.

Eve
n with an entire era separating our bloodlines, I was repulsed by the concept that my own family could be connected to a Commander in any way.

“
Good,” the Margrave was curt. “Family entanglements cause trouble. You're dismissed, Commander. Be sure your senior students are ready for the tests tomorrow. We lost too many today.”

He inclined his head, and turned on heel to leave us.

A Commander for a teacher? I'd never complain about school again.

“
So, Historian, I find you without your silver tongued escort,” she said to me. I had trouble not staring at the mutated wreck of her face. Between her height and poise, I felt so small, I may as well have been shrinking.

“
He fell asleep,” I said.

“
But not you.”

“
I couldn't.”

“
Passion drives you,” she told me. I wondered if she was wrong. “It was fortunate timing. You saw the Voice of the Prince, did you not?”

“
Yeah,” I guessed. She must have been talking about the shadow man. If he was the Prince's voice, did that mean he wasn't the Prince, himself? I could only hope not. The thought of Prince Raserion being able to walk through walls would have given me nightmares for life.

“
A rare treat for any Historian. I'll give you another. Come with me.”

*   *   *

“As you've studied, more than a year ago, a junior Commander by the name of Paul Stakes, staged a military coup de tat on Breakwater city. I'm sure you're familiar with the details by this point. I hardly need to tell you how wasteful the incident was. An entire installment fortress was razed to the ground. Lives precious to the war effort were lost. Commander Stakes had barely been stopped. It was shameful.

“
The former Margrave, Vin Klein, had been the one to promote this lunatic to Commander. So, in his wisdom, Prince Raserion lifted me from senior Commander to Margrave. I drained my predecessor to complete the ascension. No power should ever be wasted. I heard that the mad Commander had been found burned to ash. Wasteful. He should have been captured and drained.”

We were walking down the ground level corridors and I felt as unnatural as a ghost cursed to haunt my own body. My face was carefully blank.

Sorry, Hest, it was my fault. I should have been gentler when I roasted the murderer that was trying to kill me.

“
I had to make an impression. It was my first day as Margrave, and I knew I would be measured by it for the rest of my life. The Prince was furious about the losses we'd sustained at the hands of our own men. It was like a crack tarnishing fine china. All it takes is one person to change everything to right or ruin. I vowed that I would be the one to return us to our undiminished glory. We needed to send a message that we were still strong. The junior Commander was dead, the former Margrave was dead too, those were valid contributions. But on that first day of mine, the answer was clear as crystal.”

“
Penalty,” I said for her.

“
Yes. It's been ages since the last one. The common lords and their civilians were getting comfortable. The younger Dragoons were forgetting what we could do. It was the perfect solution. My Prince was pleased. He granted me a private audience and declared me an extension of himself. So, now you see why you are so lucky to have met me. Like Prince Raserion, I am the hero of your book. Not many Historians are provided with such intimate interviews. The glory of Breakwater's Penalty is mine to cherish, and my Prince's to keep.”

My body stiffened. She tied up the story so neatly,
the silence that followed compelled me to speak. I was so disgusted by her brutally detached perspective that I was afraid I'd shout at her. Maybe she wanted me to thank her, or giddily blather about how lucky I was to have such an opportunity.

My thoughts rested on Rune's little sister
Lina. He'd have done anything to protect her from his own fate, from becoming a Dragoon. “What happened to the children?” I asked, pretending not to be overly invested in their fate. I'd hoped my throat didn't sound as tight as it felt.

Hest
appeared about as cheerful as her contorted face would allow. “I'll show you.”