Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir (13 page)

“We'll continue another time,” Sir Ightham said, returning her sword to its sheath and doing the same with mine.

“You want to continue?” I asked, certain she'd only been trying to prove some point. I was better suited as a servant and ought to have that reinforced, before I started thinking I really
was
her squire; something like that.

“I am a Knight. I would think you'd take instruction from me without questioning what I want and giving me reason to change my mind,” she said, and she wasn't frowning; her expression wasn't even as neutral as I was expecting it to be. She tipped her head forward and I supposed I ought to give it one more go.

Who knew; perhaps I'd be able to keep hold of a sword, one day.

Rán watched without judgement, without making any remarks, but when I turned back to the fire, she'd lost interest and fallen asleep. I smiled down at her, wondering if drifting off so easily was an ability all pane possessed, or if she'd simply exhausted herself more than she'd let on.

With her sleeping, I took the chance to turn to Sir Ightham, and said, “Rán doesn't seem to think that there's a dragon,” trying to bite back my words the moment I'd spoken them.

Sir Ightham was crouched down, putting the sword away for the safety of me and all those around.

She paused, and said, “There is always a dragon,” as softly as she could.

“It's just that you never
said
there was a dragon. That was all me. I figured I put the words in your mouth, so I'm sorry if—”

She moved quicker than her blade had. She rose up in front of me, blocking the fire, and said, “There is
always
a dragon,” teeth grit. I glanced down at Rán, not sure how she hadn't stirred. Sir Ightham's voice hadn't risen like that in all the time I'd known her, but I wasn't worried about what she might say or do; I was only worried that she might tremble.

Before I could say or do anything, Sir Ightham moved to the fire. I thought I should leave her be and settle down for the night, but couldn't bring myself to move. I was sure to snap a stray twig underfoot and make her flinch.

Sir Ightham didn't remain crouched on the ground for long. She fashioned a torch from one of the thicker sticks that had barely been touched by flames, and when she turned to me, I knew that not moving had been the right thing to do. She held the torch high, tilting her head towards our horses. I followed Sir Ightham without a word, and though she wanted to show me something, she made no effort to wait for me.

Calais roused easily, but I was met with resistance from Charley. By the time he was in any mood to move, Sir Ightham's torch was a dying speck of light in the distance, and for the dozenth time since leaving our village, I apologised to him, promising I'd find some way to make it up to him. We caught up to Sir Ightham and found her trying to navigate by torchlight, map crumpled in one hand, compass pressed between her thumb and the torch.

The light kept catching her face. I didn't dare to ask where we were going. Not when she tugged on Calais' reins, frustrated, heading in a different direction, and not when she stopped, suddenly, dismounting her horse. We travelled no more than a mile and a half, and in the darkness, the place she'd brought me to was no different to the rest of the landscape, drenched in night as it was.

The torchlight didn't reveal much, but I saw, against the backdrop of the night sky, silhouettes I couldn't place. The shapes were far from natural, some as tall as Sir Ightham, all of them formed from sharp edges. I drew closer to her, and the ground beneath my feet became hard, like stone.

Sir Ightham knelt, lowering the torch, and I saw that we were stood upon a scorched road. She moved the torch this way and that; the strange shapes were what remained of buildings, stray walls and arching doorways, all smooth and cold under my fingertips, unable to have escaped the touch of flames.

I knew what it meant. Sir Ightham didn't need to say anything, because I understood; more than that, I
felt
what had happened. It wasn't the overwhelming emptiness of the place that struck me, wasn't the absence of sound, the ruined buildings, or even the gaping void left in lieu of those who had once filled them. Rather, it was the presence of something else.

There was death there, lingering still, like a shroud drawn over the land. I tried not to breathe, tried to avoid drinking down the thick, inky darkness all around. It wasn't night, the sun had been blotted out.

“Lanesborough,” Sir Ightham told me. “Its population was nearing six hundred. There was little more than this when I arrived. The dragon had already moved on.”

My fingertips twitched against my palms. Something crackled under my skin, and I felt powerful, despite the way my stomach twisted in on itself, throat tightening at the stark understanding of what those people had been through. I would've become trapped in my thoughts, in that roiling darkness, if not for the way I saw Sir Ightham's shoulders rise,

I felt, more clearly than I felt what lingered on after death, the way she took the responsibility for all this upon herself.

“Sir...” I said softly, breaking myself out of my own trance. I placed my fingertips against the side of her elbow, and for a moment, she didn't move. For a moment, I thought I might be able to offer her some comfort, but she stepped away from me, torch held out as she headed back to her horse.

“There are always dragons, Rowan,” she told me, and I shrank from her voice. “There are always dragons, and my work does not end.”

Benkor was no smaller than Praxis. The city was endlessly cluttered for the way it was laid out, roads intersecting at awkward angles, buildings growing from one another, low bridges creating chaos on busy streets. It was built against the wall, not into it; its perimeter was marked by houses pressed close together, but I supposed being protected from Kastelir was what really mattered.

The place we left Calais and Charley made me uncomfortable, but Sir Ightham promised the stable-hand a substantial tip once we retrieved them. I had to trust that the inevitability of money would keep them safe.

Benkor, while not as refined as Praxis, would've awed me if it had been the first settlement Sir Ightham had taken me to. Being poorer than Praxis didn't mean that it wasn't richer than my village, and there was a wealth to see.

For all that was said about Kastelir, the citizens of Benkor were far from displeased with their lot in life. People went about their business as they would anywhere, dragging carts to market, rushing between houses and stores, but the poor were hidden in plain sight. They cluttered the streets, crowded under bridges, spilling from alleyways. Some held out hats and chipped bowls, begging for change. Those better off did all they could to pretend they hadn't seen them, but gave themselves away in increasing their pace whenever they passed someone sat with their back flat to a wall.

I had nothing to offer them, and so walked with my hands bundled in my pockets, head down. But not looking at them wasn't enough to banish them from my mind. Whatever they suffered seeped into the air, following me through busy streets, as though the shadow I'd felt last night had returned to claim me.

Sir Ightham led us straight to an inn. We'd passed three or four, and I never did find out its name, though there was a crudely drawn crown with faded gems on the sign.

The bell above the door chimed, and the man behind the counter said, “Welcome,” without looking up. He was busy writing across large, yellowed pages, and it wasn't until Rán's feet thudded against the floorboards that we really got his attention.

“Now, I won't be having any of that in here,” he said firmly, nostrils flared. He spoke to Sir Ightham as though she'd dragged a dog through a muddy puddle and into the foyer. “I won't put the other guests at risk.”

I took a step closer to Rán. Sir Ightham drummed her fingertips on the edge of the counter.

“I believe I had letters directed here,” she said calmly.

The man narrowed his gaze. “What's the name?” he asked.

“Eden Westerdale.”

He took a step back, moving slowly towards the shelves where a dozen or so letters were stacked. He flicked through them, glancing down for a split-second at a time, as though Rán was on the verge of putting her horns through the window.

“That'll be a valt,” he said, not letting go of the letter until Sir Ightham slid a coin – a single coin – across the counter.

She took the letter and left without another word.

“The two of you could've stayed there,” Rán said, once we were back on the street. A pane's patience truly must've been endless; in Rán's place, I would've at least growled at the man. “Could've found myself somewhere for the night.”

“I'm fully aware of that,” Sir Ightham said, tearing the letter open. “I do not wish to bestow patronage on such an establishment.”

She scanned the letter as she spoke and continued striding through the streets.

“Are we going to find somewhere else?” I asked, convinced I'd never sleep in a bed again.

Sir Ightham didn't seem to hear me.

“Not the news you were hoping for?” Rán asked.

“Not the documents I was expecting, no,” she said, and as was her wont, she began tearing the letter into what I presumed were unreadable pieces. “But no matter. My contact will be with us tomorrow.”

It was hard to glean anything but exhaustion from Sir Ightham's features. She'd taken watch once we returned to camp the night before, and I awoke to find her sat bolt upright, arms folded across her chest, head tipping forward. She'd started awake when I made the slightest sound and a flash of anger overcame her. It wasn't directed at me; rather, she was frustrated with herself for falling asleep in the first place.

“I'm starting to think they're having you on,” Rán said, cracking her knuckles.

I don't think Sir Ightham was entirely convinced Rán was wrong. With a sigh, she said, “We'd best find rooms for the night,” and carried on down the street.

The next inn we came to unfortunately only had two small rooms available – two
very
small rooms – and the third had a sign outside, covered in bright red letters that made Rán roll her eyes.

“It says
humans only
,” Sir Ightham explained.

Rán snorted. “Pretty nice way of saying
no pane
, aye?”

The person working the front desk of the fourth inn we tried looked up, saw Rán and said, “It'll be double the cost for you—can't risk having any more of our ceilings scratched up.” It wasn't altogether unfounded; Rán ducked her way through the door and was standing doubled-over to avoid knocking her horns against anything.

Sir Ightham paid in full, distributed the keys, and I kept my eyes on the door, waiting for soldiers and Knights to barge through. When none came and Sir Ightham and Rán headed towards the stairs, I said, “What now?” assuming they were privy to some plan I wasn't.

“Now you do as you please,” Sir Ightham said. “The tavern across the street serves dinner from six, should you care to join us.”

I meant to ask if she'd help me write a letter, but she took to the stairs before I could work my jaw. I resolved to ask her over dinner and silently hoped that she'd get some sleep as I headed to my own room.

It was hardly extravagant – there was a bed and a basin and the curtains were a little dusty – but I didn't need much. Between the small window's rickety shutters, a clock tower rose from the heart of Benkor. It was barely three, so I took my time washing by the basin, combed my hair into place with my fingers, and found that it had only taken me to ten past the hour.

I fell down on the bed, immediately noticed that it wasn't
my
bed, and the next thing I knew, I was halfway down the stairs. I pushed through the crowds, away from the inn, not mapping the city in my mind. I was following something; colourless threads woven into the air, tendrils that no one else could grasp at, tugging at me without having to sink their claws in.

The sun flowed through me. I didn't worry about the crowd swallowing me whole, didn't believe it was possible to become lost. I kept moving until I found the shade of an arched stone bridge, all the sick and poor huddled beneath it.

I was no longer being guided. The sounds of the city came back to me and I gripped the hem of my shirt with both hands, uncertain where to start. In the same way that the wealthy walked by without sparing a glance at those with less than nothing, the people who made the dank, dark underside of the bridge their home didn't seem to notice me. Didn't get their hopes up.

I couldn't just stand there, waiting to be asked for help. After a few minutes of going unheard, unseen, I knelt down by a woman cradling a baby in her arms, and quietly said, “Excuse me, ma'am—what's wrong with your boy?”

The woman turned to me but gave no answer. The baby coughed, but the cry he let out rattled to nothing in his throat.

His head tilted back, glassy eyes turned dull beneath the bridge. His mother studied my face for a moment, needing to be certain I was talking to her. I could only guess how long it had been since anyone had offered so much as a stale crust of bread to her; she was surrounded by a sea of her kin, and I was sorry to say that her son wasn't the worst off.

“He coughs, and that's all he does. My boy, he won't sleep—can't eat, even when I manage to get him food. You see all that's wrong, don't you?” Her throat tightened as she spoke. She paused and a little colour returned to her face. Desperate, she asked, “Do you have any medicine on you, miss? Any bitterwillow? Just a little would help, if you could spare it...”

“Please,” I murmured, placing a hand on hers when she reached out, ready to take whatever I could offer. “May I hold him? Only for a moment, that's all it'll take.”

I didn't want to make any promises. I didn't want to lie. The woman went from looking as if I meant to reject her to daring to hope for the first time in an age, and if she hesitated, it was only to stop herself from believing what she thought to be impossible.

Slowly, she held the baby out to me, and said, “Careful with him. He won't cry if he's distressed, hasn't in days, but you need to support his neck. It's only a weak thing.”