But no, Anna looked closer.
How could that be?
The figure was
tiny
. No larger than a small child.
The High Gate flared brighter than ever, the silhouette vanished, and a young man stepped through the spot where the small shape had been, the Gate's mist clinging to his hair and shoulders like steam.
The young man was tall. But also quite thin and rather
odd
to behold. He wore a fitted breastplate of high silver, but the armor seemed just a touch large for him. A slender saber was belted to his waist, but not properly. When he walked, it banged awkwardly against his thigh, almost but not quite tripping him with every step. He wore beautifully made breeches of Abúcian leather, sky blue and trimmed with silver sable, and a pair of matching boots. A heavy, blue cloak—again, lined with sable—was thrown over his narrow shoulders. The cloak was covered with snow. His hair was dark and cut in a soldier's crop. But the haircut looked peculiar on him, perhaps because of his head, which seemed just slightly too large for his slender neck. His eyes were large, dark, and faintly crossed, an effect magnified by the incongruous reading spectacles he wore halfway down his aquiline nose. His lips were full and turned in a kind of naïve grin, as if he were thinking of a dozen jests he could never tell. Fresh snow powdered his shoulders and his hair.
But the most astonishing thing about the young man was this: he held little Gregory, Master Zar's old messenger dragon, in his arms. But how could that be? Because this little dragon was a brilliant, bright blue, its wings supple and young. Anna stared. But it
was
Gregory, no question. The little dragon looked at her and hissed. His eyes were brilliant yellow, the milky cataracts gone. His little mouth was full of extremely white, exceptionally sharp little fangs.
"Ah," the young man said with that puzzling half-smile. "Good morning."
He squinted into the sun and held his hand up to shield his eyes, taking a look around. He nodded and stamped his feet a couple of times, shaking the snow off.
Little Gregory squeaked, leapt from his arms, and flew straight to Master Zar, nuzzling his snout against the battered Anorian's neck. Zar's eyes were smashed shut, but he managed to lift his bloody hand and hold little Gregory to his chest. Beside him, Master Khondus nodded. Master Borónd and Mother stared at the High Gate and the young man standing before it, a strange combination of disbelief and hope in their eyes.
The young man furled his cloak, shaking more snow loose from his clothing. He took off his spectacles, polished them on his cloak hem, and put them back on. But he'd gotten more snow on them, so they were no cleaner. He took them off again and looked around, casting about for something on which to clean them.
Lord Malachi had gone pale. But there was also something else in his face. Was it relief? Then he seemed to remember himself, pulled a handkerchief from inside his leather breast plate, and handed it to the young man.
The High Square was absolutely silent. Everyone had stopped mid-exit and turned to watch the scene unfold.
The young man cleaned his spectacles, put them back on, and peered through them, momentarily cross-eyed, making sure they were clean.
"My thanks," he said.
"An honor, Lord Garen." Lord Malachi bowed, taking the handkerchief back.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Anna stared.
Could it be?
Lord Garen Dallanar. The Under-Duke of Jallow. Lord Librarian of Remain. A spy-master, healer, and scholar whose cunning was known throughout the Realm. The son of High Lord Bellános Dallanar, the true King of Remain.
Lord Malachi cleared his throat. "I am—that is, I am—we are surprised to see you, my Lord."
"I expect so, Malachi. I expect so." Lord Garen raised his chin at Gregory. "That little dragon arrived at the Tarn some days ago carrying some disturbing information. I won't pretend with you, Malachi. Father didn't like it. Michael also was . . . well, how do I say it?
Displeased
? Yes. That's the best way to describe it. Displeased. He and Lord David were good friends, you know. Father shares some interesting history with those poor fellows, too." Lord Garen inclined his head at Master Khondus and Master Zar.
From his perch above the Square, Irondusk gave a low growl.
Lord Garen paid the great dragon no mind.
"Let's get straight to it, shall we?" he asked. "You've seized this Keep in violation of the High Laws. Dávanor is ruled by House Dradón—not House Fel. This means that High Lady Abigail is your rightful liege. She is also the rightful liege of every inhabitant of this duchy. 'Truth and honor.' Is that not right, Malachi? Is that not a common Davanórian salute?"
Dead silence.
"Well, to us, those words mean something." He took off his spectacles and inspected them again. "We thought Lord David had made this clear three years ago. But apparently the lesson didn't take. So here we are, once more."
"My Lord—."
Lord Garen raised a hand. Malachi's mouth closed with a soft click. "I've convinced Father that our direct involvement isn't necessary. That this is a 'misunderstanding,' nothing more. That this can be resolved without violence. That the House of Fel honors its word. That the House of Fel keeps its promises. What say you?"
Lord Garen spoke as if he was oblivious to the Fel crossbows, guns, cannon, and dragons that were pointed at him from every direction. Instead, it was as if he was speaking to a poorly behaved servant boy regarding an improperly groomed hedge.
"What say you?" Lord Garen asked again.
Malachi said nothing.
But Anna could see his mind spinning.
The new lord of House Fel could not bow to Lord Garen's will without betraying his family's alliance with Lord Gideon and with the Pretender King. Nor could he bend knee without completely losing face in front of his people and soldiers. But to challenge High King Bellános and his sons directly? Publicly? Without preparation? That was almost equally impossible. Perhaps more than that—it was insane.
"Time's short, Malachi," Lord Garen said, pushing his spectacles up onto his nose. "You'll come with me to the Tarn, of course. Gideon? Where are you? There you are. You'll come, too."
From the opposite side of the High Square, Lord Gideon stared, his chubby face red with fury.
Lord Garen paid him no mind. He turned back to Malachi. "Philip will be installed in your place. Oh, don't look so upset, Malachi. Brothers always squabble. And it won't be long. When this unpleasant business between Father and my uncle is resolved, we'll return you home. These soldiers and dragons will need to be gone from the High Keep immediately. Right after they—and you—renew your oaths to High Lady Abigail and to House Dradón. In my presence, of course."
Every eye was on Lord Malachi. Above it all, Irondusk's claws dug rhythmically into his perch, a trickle of debris and splinters streaming down the Square's wall. Lord Malachi looked at his men for a moment, swallowed, then shot a barely noticeable glance at Anna. His shoulders sagged. "As you wish, Lord Garen," he said, bowing his head.
Irondusk's growl deepened, low and ominous.
"Excellent!" Lord Garen said with a bright smile. "Splendid! Now, make your will known, and we'll get on with this."
Lord Malachi looked up over the crowd. The people returned his gaze; some with relief, some with scorn, some with wonder. Lord Gideon and most of the Tevéss soldiers stared at Malachi with outright disgust.
"In accordance with—," Lord Malachi began.
Without warning, Irondusk roared and launched from his perch straight at Anna and Moondagger, his enraged bellow thundering the walls, massive jaws wide and slavering, rust-colored scales glimmering like bloody bronze, a falling star of hate and vengeance.
Simultaneously, something else moved inside the High Gate.
It was a man. He stepped from the Gate with liquid, unstoppable grace, clad in black armor, holding a massive, black sword before him in both hands. Irondusk saw him, roared his fury, and drew a deep breath, chest glowing hot with unleashed wrath. The man seemed to leap from the Gate straight into the dragon's maw, flying black sword a tongue of dark flame, slashing downwards, stopping the dragon mid-flight, splitting its huge skull lengthwise like a razored ax through rotten wood, blood and brains exploding across the flagstones, hissing water on hot rock. Screams of fright and terror. The dragon's enormous body flipped, plowed into the side of the High Gate, stopping up against the Gate's indestructible surface. Horror and shock shuddered through the crowd. Even the soldiers seemed to cringe, frozen in place by some unseen force.
The finer details of the armored man coalesced, the Gate's silvery mist clinging to his arms and shoulders.
He was a young man. Taller than Lord Garen and wider, a body built for war. His neck was like a young bull's, thick and corded with muscle. His eyes were dark, almost black, a pair of seething pits. His dark hair was shorn short in a soldier's crop, his square jaw clean shaven. He wore full plate of high silver, but it was tinted black somehow, as if fashioned of dull obsidian. He wore a thick cloak of silver wolf pelts, a dozen tails brushing the backs of his ankles. Fresh snow covered his shoulders and hair. His sword was a shard of starless night, its pommel a black, egg-shaped stone in which light did not reflect. A single drop of Irondusk's blood marked his smooth cheek.
"Lord Michael!" someone screamed with pure, naked terror.
The name rippled through the crowd like a dread wind.
Michael Dallanar. The Dark Lord of Kon. General of the Tarn. Older brother to Lord Garen and second born son of the great Bellános Dallanar, High King of Remain.
Lord Michael did not speak.
Instead he stood motionless in the spreading pool of dragon's blood and looked over the crowd, his massive sword held loosely in one hand.
We thirst . . . all of us.
A weird voice. A woman's voice. The words blending and warping together as if whispered from a hundred mouths. To Anna, the voice seemed to come from the black blade itself. Familiar, somehow. Yet no one else seemed to hear it.
Then Lord Michael spoke. His voice was soft, but carried across the Square with total, royal authority. It was unlike anything Anna had ever heard.
It was the voice of absolute violence.
"You men of House Fel there," Lord Michael said, "stand down. Fel riders, get you and your dragons gone to the Felshold. Gideon, get your men back to Tévesshold."
"But I was just about to—," Lord Garen began, raising his hand as if to protest. Lord Michael shot him a look and Lord Garen put his hand down, shut his mouth, and adjusted his spectacles.
A shuffling murmur ran through the crowd. The riders and soldiers of House of Fel and House Tevéss looked from each other to Lord Michael, then from Lord Michael to Lord Malachi and Lord Gideon. Their faces were worried and confused. Captain Corónd looked down from his perch at Lord Malachi, his face a mask of contempt. His bronze dragon hissed.
"Gentlemen," Lord Michael said softly, his voice somehow present in every ear, his dark eyes catching the light. Anna shuddered in spite of herself. "I'll not ask again."
Simple, silent obedience.
The soldiers of House Fel and House Tevéss lowered and sheathed their weapons, heads bowed, while the Tevéss and Fel dragon riders—all of them, Corónd included—immediately turned their mounts away from the Square and launched towards their homes, maroon and green war banners coursing behind them.
Lord Michael glanced at Lord Garen, a strange look in his eye, a mix of fondness and exasperation. Lord Garen shrugged apologetically and adjusted his spectacles.
Lord Michael shook his head and sheathed his black blade with a click. He held the massive sword beneath its cross guard. Then he turned to Lord Malachi, his boots sucking at the blood beneath his feet. The gory pool continued to spread, the deep red channeling down between the flagstones before overwhelming them entirely.
"You're a traitor, Fel," he said plainly, letting the words sink in.
Lord Malachi didn't look up. His eyes were fixed upon the bloody flagstones.
"I'd butcher you like a newborn piglet and burn the Felshold to the ground this day, this moment—if the decision were mine. But it's not. And, fortunate for you, I honor my vows and my orders. The High King of Remain will suffer no more noble-born blood needlessly spilt. Instead, you and Gideon will follow my brother to the Tarn. There you'll beg my father's forgiveness—what? Did I see you mutter something there, Lord Gideon? My offer displeases you? You have something to say? You think it unfair?"
Lord Gideon's plump face went pale. He bowed his head.
"As I was saying," Lord Michael continued. "You'll both come with us. You'll both beg my father's forgiveness. And then you'll both stay with us, as honored guests, until the war is done. Before you go, however, you'll write one letter to each of your most trusted captains. There you shall make clear: If one further sword on Dávanor is drawn against High Lady Abigail, if one further word of treason is spoken against House Dradón, I will return—and I will be free to act as I choose. Where is the High Lady?"