Sir Callie and the Dragon's Roost, page 4
Then the fragile stillness cracks.
It starts with murmuring, shifting, pointing across the chasm. Then hooves hit the bridge, and the salt-worn wood squeals.
Without Papa to hold me back, I break free and wriggle to the front of the crowd, where I can get a clear view of the bridge.
Six horses.
Two soldiers.
Two.
Only two. Out of ten.
There is no triumph in the returning troop. They pick their way across the bridge carefully. Defeated. The man in front looks singed, his tawny brown skin marred with burns. The younger one, pale and ginger and covered in blood, stumbles behind. His eyes are haunted and unseeing; he depends on his horse to guide him.
For half a moment I wonder why they aren’t riding, especially when they’re so visibly battered they can barely make the last steps into Helston.
And then I realize why.
Every single horse has a rider, strapped down and concealed beneath cloaks. Not moving. Not breathing. Not living.
My stomach turns.
At a nod from Queen Ewella, soldiers and squires rush to meet the returning party, taking the horses and helping the younger survivor before he falls. His Helston uniform is barely recognizable beneath blood and dirt and soot. They cake his tunic, his skin, his hair. The whites of his eyes are stark in contrast.
He pauses a moment by the queen, who touches his shoulder and murmurs something inaudible, before allowing himself to be helped away to heal.
The older scout, a man called Colin, is in just as bad a shape, but he shakes off the offer of assistance and makes an unsteady bow to the queen.
“It was as we feared, Your Majesty,” he says, voice a burned rasp. “They were waiting for us. They knew we were coming. We didn’t stand a chance.”
A woman shoves through the crowd, eyes wild, fair skin blotched with tears. “Danny! Where is Danny?” Her violet dress drags on the ground as she searches desperately from horse to horse.
Danny, at least, is a name I can put a face to. A spotty-faced squire, newly appointed, grins in my memory, teasing every girl who crosses his path.
There is no one like that here now.
Queen Ewella attempts to usher the woman away herself with gentle hands. “Lady Dahlia, go home. As soon as we know, I promise I will—”
Lady Dahlia rips away the nearest cloak, and the cry that follows freezes my blood and feels like my own.
The picture of Danny in my memory contorts and twists until all that remains is the broken body draped across the horse. He doesn’t look like himself, just a poor imitation made by an unskilled craftsperson. Waxy and unlifelike and too small. Squires look like grown-ups to me, unreachable in age and bigger than I’ll ever be. But that’s not true, is it? Danny is—was—sixteen. Just a handful of years older. Just a kid. Just like us—
“Come away,” says the queen more firmly, pulling Lady Dahlia back and replacing the fallen cloak, shielding the boy from view. Then she searches the crowd and beckons. “Peter.”
I hadn’t even noticed him standing right beside me.
The command forces him from the horror he is trapped inside just enough to drag his gaze from the covered body. “Majesty?”
“Take your aunt home and make sure she is looked after. I will visit later.”
He bows shakily and puts his arms around Lady Dahlia, murmuring comfort.
She ignores him.
“What happened? Who did this to him?” she demands, voice ragged through her tears, and rounds on Colin. “How could you let this happen? He was a child!”
“Lady Dahlia, your son was a fine squire, more than ready—”
“Then how did he fall?”
Colin falters, and I catch a swift glance to Adan before he speaks softly. “There was no hope. They knew we were coming. It was a trap. A slaughter.”
Queen Ewella’s face is hard. “A witch’s attack.”
Colin nods. “They stalked us from the first moment we set foot out of Helston. We could feel her eyes upon us, like we were being followed by specters.” He shakes his head. “We should’ve paid more heed to our instincts. We should’ve turned back.”
Adan grips his shoulder hard. “You did Helston proud. All of you. You showed courage in the face of wanton cruelty and cowardice. You followed your orders to the bitter end, and the fallen will be honored as the heroes they are. We will see them avenged, their murderers brought to justice.” He turns to Queen Ewella and makes a low bow. “With your permission, Your Majesty, I would like personally to oversee the mission to bring Dumoor to its knees.”
I catch Willow’s eye, and he confirms the uneasiness in my chest. Anything Adan oversees can’t be a good thing.
“We will talk strategy later, Captain Adan,” the queen replies. “At present, we must concentrate on mourning our fallen and honoring their sacrifice. Bring them inside and take care of them. We will begin funeral preparations at once.”
“Wait,” says Colin as servants start flocking to the horses. “We didn’t come back empty-handed.”
He moves to the very last horse, a tired piebald mare, and jerks the cloak off its load.
My stomach flips.
Bound tight to the horse’s neck is a kid. They are motionless, could easily be mistaken for another corpse if it wasn’t for the ragged sound of terrified breathing.
“Careful, Majesty,” says Colin as Queen Ewella steps forward. “I know he looks small, but he’s dangerous. They all are. Even the youngest ones. Witch’s weapons, all of them. We’re not even sure if this one’s human or another one of her shifting creatures.”
Adan cuts the bonds and the kid falls. Hard. But they barely hit the ground before a soldier hauls them to their feet, arms locked behind their back. A dirty cloth is stuffed in their mouth. Gagged.
They cringe when Adan approaches but the soldiers hold them still and Adan grabs their chin, forcing their head up.
My feet move before I can stop them, closer, forward, straining to see—
Gold-yellow eyes in a tan face darkened with blood and bruises snap to me and I freeze.
I’ve never seen eyes that color before, like there’s something burning under the surface.
Adan drops the kid. “What would you have us do with him, Your Majesty?”
Queen Ewella pauses, assessing the kid with an expression I cannot read, then turns abruptly away with a curt, “Bind him. Take him down to the chambers before he hurts anyone else. Any trial can wait until after the funeral.”
“As you wish.”
On Adan’s orders, soldiers move to tie the boy’s hands, and something snaps inside me.
It’s too familiar and too recent because isn’t this exactly what they did to us?
But Neal gets there first.
“Wait! Stop! I know Dumoor, and they don’t use kids. Something isn’t right. Please, at least have all the information before you condemn this child.”
Adan tilts his head. “Something isn’t right?” he echoes. “You suggest there is a right and a wrong way to commit murder? Would you like to inspect them yourself for evidence of what your mistress has done?”
“I will work with you to tell you everything I know about Alis and Dumoor,” says Neal, fighting and failing to keep his voice steady. “I will give you everything I have, but please do not convict this child for the crimes of adults.” He turns to Papa. “Nick, tell them!”
But Papa’s not looking at Neal. He eyes the encroaching crowd uneasily; the angry buzz growing like a disturbed swarm, and all that anger focused on Neal.
Words like “magic” and “danger” and “always knew” pop in the air.
And then, worst of all, repeated whispers of Peran was right.
Papa moves quickly, taking Neal by the arm. “Get the kids home,” he orders, so softly I barely hear him. “And stay inside. This isn’t helping.”
Neal’s voice turns desperate. “Nick—”
“Go,” Papa insists. “Now.”
But Neal holds his ground, and it’s a shock to realize that he’s shaking. “Don’t let them hurt him. Promise me, Nick. Protect him.”
“You would protect the enemy over your own?” says Adan loudly for the benefit of the crowd. “Your Majesty, isn’t this proof enough that he is still in the witch’s pocket? And no doubt the corruption has spread to Sir Nick—”
Papa wheels on him with a snarl and his sword in his hand. “Shut your mouth, Adan, before I shut it for you.”
“Enough!” The queen’s voice is a boom of thunder, and her face is a storm. She glares between Papa and Adan. “Helston is in mourning, all else can and will wait. Neal, take the children home. I will hear nothing more from any of you. Dismissed.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Neal bundles us all into the apartment—me and Willow, El and Edwyn—securing the door with his own glowing seal. No one can get in without permission. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look at us. Just moves in a daze toward the kitchen.
Elowen elbows Edwyn in the ribs and mouths, Tea.
The boys overtake Neal and busy themselves with the very important task of tea-making so El and I can take care of Neal.
“Come sit down.”
“I’m fine, Callie.”
“You’re not,” I tell him bluntly. “You’re very not fine.”
“Do you know that boy?” Elowen asks, gently ushering Neal into the living room and onto the sofa. She sits on one side and I take the other, perching on the arm to look down at Neal.
“No,” says Neal. “But that doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have to know someone personally to care about them. I don’t understand,” he growls, pacing. “I realize it’s been a long while since I left, but I know Dumoor. I know their limits and they don’t use kids. Not like that. If that boy is one of hers, then something has changed. Something is wrong.”
“Can we really expect the enemy to play fair?” I ask, then wince at the look Neal gives me.
“There are two sides to every battle, Callie, remember that. No one fights believing they are in the wrong.”
“They killed our soldiers, Neal!”
“And Helston killed theirs.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Listen to me. You are going to be a knight. It is your duty to understand that nothing is so simple as right and wrong, good and evil. The enemy are people, just like you and your friends. You think Dumoor isn’t feeling the loss too? You think there isn’t someone out there terrified that their kid didn’t come home? That could’ve been you, Callie. You could’ve been captured and locked up just as easily as that boy. The enemy in their eyes.”
I shiver. I can imagine it, clear as anything. Me with my hands tied behind my back and surrounded by folks who want me dead. Papa and Neal not knowing if I’m alive.
“I get it,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“No need for sorry.” Neal hugs me tight. “Just promise me you’ll keep your eyes wide open. Follow your own head before you follow anyone else. That goes for all of you.”
I hold tighter to Neal, waves of nausea crashing through me. My stomach doesn’t like the thought of Helston and Dumoor being the same, not when I’m flying straight toward pledging my loyalty and my life to one of them.
“They’re not really gonna hurt him, though, right? They’re sticking him down there just to make sure he doesn’t cause any harm?”
Neal combs his fingers gently through my hair. “Even if they don’t touch him—and I wish I could believe they won’t—locking a magical being underground for an extended period of time will do more damage in the long term than anything they can do to his body. Magic needs light and fresh air. Without it, magic dies. Those cells were designed for a reason.”
“To contain the magical.” Edwyn sets down two steaming mugs of tea, his expression wiped blank. He stands to the side, arms wrapped tight around his middle. “To torture the magical.”
“That can’t be true,” says Elowen with a waver in her voice as Neal nods. She clenches her skirt in trembling fists. “If there was a way to kill magic, Father would’ve—”
“He did,” says Willow, gingerly carrying the rest of the tea. “Or he tried to, at least.”
Dread thunks like a stone in my gut. “On you?”
Willow’s nod is small. “On both of us.”
Elowen stares at her brother. “You never told me—”
“Of course I didn’t,” Edwyn says tersely. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Worry me?”
“It didn’t matter. It was never for long. I was fine. I was always fine.”
I catch Willow’s eye. “Fine” is a very subjective concept, especially as far as Edwyn is concerned.
“Regardless,” says Edwyn through the horrified silence. “My point is that the chambers have a specific purpose. Father used them, and now Her Majesty does too. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are utilized more regularly after today.”
“No!” Willow looks desperately between us. “That’s not…She can’t know. Not truly. If she did, she would never—”
“Wouldn’t she?” Elowen snaps back so sharply Willow flinches. “It seems to me that she’s as afraid of magic as the rest of them.”
“Papa will make things right,” I say as Willow sags, clutching his tea to his chest. “He’ll explain everything and she’ll understand. Everyone’s on edge and at their worst right now. Once everything calms down, it’ll be better.”
The others bob their heads miserably, believing me just about as much as I do.
Helston is not an easy place to have faith.
* * *
Willow and I suffer the endless wait for Papa’s return in the twins’ room. It’s not what I would call homey, with nothing personal but the shared wardrobe of clothes and a few books stacked beside Elowen’s bed. There is nothing on Edwyn’s side but Edwyn himself, lying on his back and staring dully up at the ceiling.
Elowen and Willow sit on her bed as she braids his hair and I pace like a horse forgotten in its stall for too long.
Once again, the world is turning without us and we’re just expected to go with it.
“How long are you going to let it grow?” Elowen asks, curling Willow’s plait and holding it in place at the back of his head. “You could wear it as a crown once it gets below your shoulders.”
Willow sighs. “I’d like that, but Mother’s been bothering me to have it cut.”
“Why?” I demand, more sharply than the conversation really warrants. I don’t care. I don’t have much goodwill to spare right now. “You’ve been so excited to let it grow long.”
Even that’s an understatement. Since Peran left and his rigid command on Willow’s presentation was lifted, Willow’s been near-obsessed with finding a look that is entirely, uniquely his own. I’m fairly certain that’s the biggest reason he spends so much time in our apartment—so he can rifle through Elowen’s wardrobe and have her teach him all the intricacies of gowns and embellishments.
He wears them well, the skirts flowing as naturally as water on his body. If Edwyn wore El’s clothes—if I wore El’s clothes—they would be an awkward costume, but Willow looks like he should’ve been wearing dresses his whole life.
So far his clothing experiments don’t leave this room, but Willow’s hair is something else entirely. It’s smooth and sleek like his mother’s, and just as beautiful when cared for properly. The longer it gets, the more elaborate styles Willow begs Elowen to teach him.
Willow hunches up with a sigh, reaching back to lovingly touch his braid. “She says it draws too much attention.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re the crown prince! Your whole being draws attention!”
But Willow doesn’t return the laugh. “The wrong kind of attention. Apparently I’ve been the subject of several disputes within the council chamber. Some of the lords are unhappy. They’re saying it isn’t appropriate for the future king to look like a—”
“The lords can shut their mouths,” I tell him firmly, and that at least raises a small smile on Willow’s lips. “If they can acknowledge that you’re gonna be king, they can acknowledge you can look however you like!”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” says Willow. “But even my hair is political. It’s ridiculous. And it’s only going to get worse.”
Edwyn pushes himself up on his elbows. “What do you mean worse?”
“Not worse as in bad,” says Willow quickly. “Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s…bad. Only…she wants to have me crowned younger than is tradition. Imminently. It won’t make a difference. She’ll still be regent until I’m of age, but I’ll be”—the lump in his throat is visible as he struggles to swallow—“king. She says it will protect me.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” I ask. “You’re gonna be king eventually anyway.”
“But not yet! I—I don’t even know who I am yet, let alone King Willow.” He grimaces around the title as though it tastes bitter on his tongue. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, it’s happening and that’s fine. There are bigger issues in the kingdom than me wanting to wait a little longer. I can’t complain, not when my people are being slaughtered.” His eyes go suddenly wide and his chest heaves with the first throes of panic. “My people…I’m responsible…They’re going to…They’re going to look to me…And I…I—I can’t. And that boy…And Neal’s right, no one sets out to be the villain, do they? They’re just like us, and the…th-the council wants to— How can I send out my people to die? To kill? Because that’s what’s expected, isn’t it? That’s my job.” He puts his head in his hands, pulling away from El. “No wonder Father left. I wish…I wish I could leave too. I wish I could run away, somewhere no one would find me. I wish I could just disappear. Like Father.”
I sit beside him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. “I don’t think you really mean that.”
