Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir (40 page)

Claire had spent her entire life believing that she was doing the right thing, putting her life in danger to slay dragons and protect the people, but she'd only ever been lied to. She'd only moved as our monarchy had dictated, and she wasn't saving anyone, not really; all she did was act in the only way a dragon's abrupt end could be explained.

Nausea returned as soon as I left the chamber.

The midday sun stung my eyes, and I brought a hand up, shielding them. The castle wasn't in ruins. Dragons hadn't swept down, sensing the truth slip free hundreds of miles away, and their breath hadn't turned the sky red. All those in the courtyard carried on as though nothing had changed, because it hadn't. Nothing Claire said was
new.

It was the way things had been for hundreds of years, and my knowing did nothing to disrupt the balance of either Felheim or Kastelir.

Katja had either lingered in or returned to the courtyard. The Kings Atthis and Jonas were gone, Claire and Kouris along with them, but Katja managed to gain her mother's attention.

“
Later
,” Queen Kidira said coolly, meaning to step away but hesitating for long enough to have to add something more. “If you are to go into the city, take Akela.”

“
Mother
. The Commander is—goodness, it's right there in the title, isn't it? She isn't a babysitter,” Katja protested.

“Go with Akela or I shall have half a dozen guards accompany you,” Queen Kidira said, the note of finality in her voice matching her abrupt departure.

Katja sighed, rolling her eyes, and Akela said, “You are not wanting the pleasure of my company?”

“Commander! You know I hate to inconvenience you,” Katja said, catching sight of me. “Oh—Rowan, dear, are you alright? You look terribly pale.”

The next thing I knew, I was sat on a bench with Katja fussing over me. A glass of water appeared from
somewhere
, and I sipped on it to appease her, not wanting to give her any reason to worry. Katja placed the back of her hand against my forehead, more contemplative than concerned. Letting her search for some hint of a fever was a better option than trying to explain that I hadn't been ill a day in my life.

“You
feel
fine,” Katja concluded, frowning.

“Perhaps all Northwood is needing is some fresh air, yes? Come! Together, we are going into Isin,” Akela decided.

“I'm not sure I should—”

Akela didn't listen. She hooked an arm around mine, hoisting me to my feet.

“Northwood, you are needing a distraction,” Akela said. “And if you are not coming, then Lady Kouris, she is fussing, she is not going into Isin, and everyone's plans, they are ruined! Are you wanting to ruin everyone's plans?”

Conceding that I didn't, I let Akela guide me out of the courtyard and through the castle, hands on my shoulders. We moved freely over the upper bridges, gates held open by guards, moving in companionable silence through the city. Akela drifted behind, eyes on us all the while, and Katja eventually linked her arm with mine, seemingly delighted by every blooming flower and flowing banner we passed.

Katja tugged on my arm, steering me this way and that, having a destination in mind, but far from in a hurry to get there. She slowed to look in every shop window, taking in each detail of Isin as though it was her first visit that wasn't marred by urgency or anxiety. I could've brought myself to believe such a thing, for everything in Isin still seemed so
new
that it was as though a mountain had stood there the day before, and had been carved into the shape of a city overnight.

“Oh! Already preparing for the Phoenix Festival, I see,” Katja commented, and not as brightly as I'd expected her to. She stopped to look up at the red and orange scraps of cloth sewn onto the lengths of string that zigzagged above our heads, hanging from window to window. “I suppose it's barely weeks away, now, isn't it?”

One corner of her mouth tugged into a frown, and she continued on her way, distracted. She didn't turn her head towards the stone boxes of fire-red flowers lining the wide, bustling streets, and half-heartedly murmured apologies under her breath whenever someone bumped their shoulder against hers. She evidentially wasn't recognisable as the Queen's daughter.

Much of Isin was lost on me. I was preoccupied by the way Katja was waiting for me to say something to drag her out of her thoughts, but was made reluctant by believing I had nothing of worth to offer her. We went on like this for excruciating minutes until, out of the blue, I realised that I
did
have something to offer her.

No wonder she'd sought me out as she had.

“Did you want to know something about Kouris?” I asked, convinced that I was onto something.

Katja turned her head towards me, brow furrowed, not realising I wasn't talking about her until she opened her mouth.

“Goodness, no! I should think I hardly have anything more to learn about Queen Kouris,” Katja said, laughing. “All my life, I have been raised on tales of the woman who helped found this country, who did more good in six years than most did in a lifetime; who marched so very bravely to her death. I'm almost sorry to see my mother proven so woefully wrong. My mother who, I have on good authority, will not so much as
look
at Queen Kouris.”

As though Queen Kidira needed defending, I said, “Kouris
was
gone for twenty-seven years...”

“All the more reason not to waste any time!” Katja decided. “But, dear, if you must tell me about somebody, I'd much rather you told me about yourself.”

“About me?”

I didn't mean to sound defensive, but there'd only been one part of me that had ever been of interest to anyone.

“Only if you wouldn't mind, of course,” Katja was quick to add. “I shouldn't like to make you uncomfortable, Rowan—I've always been told I'm too curious for my own good. You see, it's simply that Uncle Jonas told me all about Queen Kouris' return, as well as the arrival of the dragon-slayer Sir Ightham, and then he mentioned a third traveller. Not a warrior of any renown, not an even a noble. Someone much more
ordinary
than that. If I might be so bold as to guess, you are the daughter of a smith, or perhaps a farmer? And despite the conditions of your birth, you uplifted yourself high enough to become the chosen companion of a Knight and a Queen thought dead for close to thirty years. That's certainly something, don't you think?”

I would've been no less uncomfortable had Katja accused me of being a necromancer there and then. Her tone was light, pleasant, but to hear her sum the last few months up in such a way made it sound unbelievable. Accusatory, even. My old life, my life as a healer, was beginning to feel like a story from one of Michael's less riveting books, and I'd tricked myself into believing that my life was supposed to be dull, uneventful; that I would be trapped in that kitchen, cold stone tiles beneath my feet, every day until I died.

Katja was right. It was
something
. I couldn't fully appreciate it as she did, because I'd lived each moment. Seconds passed one after another, and I was there because I had kept going, one step at a time. I tried to trace that path backwards, tried to remember a time when Claire wouldn't look at me, much less talk to me, and found that I could not account for all that had changed between us. I decided I didn't want to, either; I was far fonder of the present, dragons and all.

“I'm a farmer. Was a farmer,” I said, supposing Katja deserved an answer. “My father bought the farm long before me and Michael were born. That's my brother, by the way. He was travelling with us, but now he's in Kyrindval. It's a long story, and I think he'd rather tell it himself. But we raised all kinds of things—cows, sheep. Pigs. Crops too, of course. The farm will be mine and Michael's one day, and, ah—that's about all.”

“That's it?” Katja asked, disappointed by my brevity. Unfortunately for her, there was no way for me to go into details without leaving a hole of seven years in my story. “Well, I shall hardly blame you for being so modest. After all, we've only just met, haven't we? That said, I do so hope we can become good friends, Rowan, and that in time you'll feel more comfortable talking about yourself.”

I scratched the back of my neck, mumbled some sort of agreement, and Katja beamed, tugging me down yet another side road.

I hadn't paid attention to where we were heading, and it wasn't until the smooth surface of the road turned to cobble that I lifted my head and saw how dramatically our surroundings had changed. I glanced back in something akin to alarm to ensure that Isin was still behind us, and that we hadn't wandered out into the open, over to another settlement altogether.

The road pressed beneath the soles of my boots at every angle imaginable, and the street breathed more history than any part of Isin had any real claim to. There were shops on both sides of us, all varied in shape and size, with apartments above their foggy glass windows. All the buildings seemed to be leaning towards one another, making the narrow streets narrower, and the peeling paint around wooden window frames served as a sign of character, not neglect.

“You look rightly bemused, dear,” Katja said, chuckling to herself. “I doubt half of Isin knows that this place exists. A crying shame, honestly, but I must admit that it's all the better for me—there's nowhere more peaceful. Especially not within the castle.”

The few people occupying the street strolled at their leisure, nodding in greeting and tipping their hats at one another. There were no signs of the Phoenix Festival encroaching on this part of the city; no sign that something as trivial as time had touched it in decades.

Katja led me to the patio of a corner café, where Akela hurried over to pull our chairs out for us. She claimed a seat of her own a few tables back and waved at the woman behind the counter inside, who immediately brought out a bottle of ale for her and tea for Katja. Katja was sure I'd better have water, lest I come over dizzy again, and soon enough a drink was between my hands, ice clinking against the glass.

“Do you know, this is my favourite place in the city. My favourite place in the country,” Katja said, closing her eyes and breathing in the crisp spring air. I couldn't help but mimic her; it was far less stuffy in this misplaced part of the world. “I even have a small apartment here. Right there, above the bakery. This is the true heart of Isin, you realise. Not the castle, as the Kings and Queens would have you believe. Goodness, they'd let you think that Isin sprung up overnight, buildings fully-furnished and all.

“Isin – of course – means
creation
in Myrosi, but the city is more of an act of... restoration, shall we say? Its foundations are a dozen smaller settlements, many of which have been paved over and forgotten. But this small segment of the city was once a town in and of its own right. Autíra wasn't very large – the population nudged four-hundred, perhaps – but it was very
old
, and withstood everything the territories had to throw against it. But—I'm rambling, aren't I? Do excuse me, dear. You didn't come for an impromptu history lesson, did you?”

After being in Michael's presence for twenty-three years, my ability to endure spontaneous history lessons was legendary. Katja had a charm Michael lacked; she spoke to impart her love of the place, rather than to impress me with her accumulated knowledge.

She lifted her tea to her lips, watching me over the rim of her cup, and I said, “I don't mind at all. Everything's been happening so quickly lately that it's nice to just sit down and look around.”

I did so as I spoke, watching a tortoiseshell cat twist its way around the legs of a woman who was trying to carry three loaves of bread and not step on it, all without slowing down. If Katja thought this part of the city was peaceful, she ought to have spent a week in my village.

“Looking forward to the Phoenix Festival, are you?” Katja asked, putting her tea back down. “Prince Alexander tells me it's much the same, over in Felheim.”

“I think it's going to be a lot
bigger
than anything I've seen before,” I said, answering as non-committally as I could.

Katja hummed flatly. It wasn't the answer she'd been hoping for. I supposed I hadn't been enthusiastic enough for her. She picked up her tea but didn't drink any, and kept fixing her eyes on me, as though she wanted to say something she couldn't quite bring herself to. After the third round of putting her tea down and picking it back up – getting so far as placing it against her lips, the last time – she leant forward and let her words tumble out in a single breath.

“I'm not certain I like it. The Phoenix Festival, that is. Now, I'm aware this is practically treason, but... but do you think it's
right
? Everyone's hearts are in the right place, I've no doubt of that, and I see nothing wrong in celebrating the end of a war and the start of a new life, a new culture, south of the mountains. But, oh. I can't help but think we're all a little misguided. Turning against a whole group of people because of the actions of a few. Actions that have been lost to time and rewritten over and over! Every year we gather to mock them, to sing songs of thanks that they no longer number amongst us, that the phoenixes burnt out the last of them, and who are we thanking? Certainly not the gods we abandoned!

“I just... it doesn't sit well with me. There's so much that's truly
good
, truly worth celebrating. Much more so than this. Don't you agree?”

If we hadn't abandoned our gods, I might've prayed to Isjin and asked her to turn Katja's eyes from me. My heart was pounding in my chest, pulse racing; surely she'd notice. Surely she'd
hear
it.

Katja never used the word necromancer, never tripped over it, but her meaning was as clear as the cloudless sky above us. All my life I'd participated in the Phoenix Festival, all my life I'd sung songs mocking the ashes of my dead kin, but never before had I been able to put into words what bothered me so deeply about it. Why I felt my skin crawl for days afterwards.

Katja meant what she said. I didn't doubt that for a moment. But still, I couldn't tell her that
yes, yes, of course I agree!
because anything more than a shrug of my shoulders might give me away.