Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FOX
F ox was left staring after her, trying to understand what had just happened. He could have sworn when he first heard her standing behind him, silent as he washed his cuts, that she had been ogling him. Not that it mattered to him despite what certain parts of him had decided, but he enjoyed when another person appreciated his body. He’d spent the last few sun cycles of his teens and the time since honing his body to be what it was now; he was no longer the scrawny boy his brother knew him as.
But when he’d turned and noticed her, the look in her eyes had been one of fear and then hatred. He should have been getting used to such emotions from her, but she wiped them both away so quickly, he was still unsure they’d been real.
She’d disappeared over the lip of the cenote, and once he knew she wasn’t going to fall back into the lake, he moved to get dressed. She wasn’t wrong about wanting to stay in the cenote for the night. It was safer away from the creatures that prowled in the forest and close to water, but with the various holes in the ceiling of the cavern, it wasn’t as warm as he wanted. A cursory search of the rooms beyond the main chamber told him he didn’t want to stay back there. There was something haunting about the bedrooms and kitchens—remnants of lives lost and forgotten.
Then again, as he re-examined the pile of bones against the wall, he knew they couldn’t sleep out here with them, either. So he turned to his self-imposed task with a heavy chest, mind unsettled. He wasn’t usually squeamish about death, but these weren’t enemy soldiers or terrorists that had been killed. He was looking down at the bones of children and families, and it didn’t take much to recognize it was likely his ancestors—the Dereyans—who had taken their lives.
Even his people learned this part of their history—when, after decades of warfare going nowhere, their ancestors had been forced to kill the last few tribes of Dragonborn that refused to bow to the king. It had been a last resort to finally bring peace to the area and save people from the constant threat of attack and death. But the killings had been brutal. Anyone not willing to submit was killed. Fox wasn’t sure he agreed with the measures taken, even if it meant he had the home he had now. He would have never admitted this out loud.
He removed his cloak, ignoring the shiver that ran up his spine at the cold air against his bare arms, still damp from the lake. It would be faster to move the bones in the cloth than try to carry them in his arms. He moved them slowly, gathering them into the center of the cloak gently. They were fragile in his hands and he didn’t want to break them any more than they already were. He was happy that at least time had done its job, leaving truly nothing but bones. Though the bite marks he noticed on some were slightly disturbing.
More disturbing were the small bones he picked up. Not the jaw bones or the fingers, but the small femurs and thin ulnas that he knew couldn’t have belonged to adults. The more bones he carried back to the dragon hall, the more it became clear that the majority belonged to children. He imagined the adults had died off fighting the war, leaving the children behind only to be slaughtered.
Did these children pose such a threat to the king that they warranted a massacre?
“Do you ever wonder why your king doesn’t do just that? Let us go free into the rainforest?”
But Fox knew all too well, peace came from unity. Without unity there would always be war. Even now, the differences between their people continued to lead to suffering and death. The Dragonborn and Dereyans could never live side-by-side in peace. They needed to unify under a single belief.
Didn’t they?
Even these thoughts couldn’t stop the guilt from clawing at his chest as he moved the bones and laid them out at the altar for their gods. And underneath the watch of the dragons, he couldn’t stop himself from counting the number of skulls. Each life taken was a blade in his heart.
When he was done, the bones stretched along the entire room. He took a minute to clear the two altars Sofia hadn’t and light the candles there. Something about leaving the bones alone in the dark felt wrong, superstitious beliefs or not.
Sofia hadn’t returned by the time he was done clearing away the remains, but he managed to find a functional broom in the kitchens and used it to sweep a large swath of ground clean. He found the best leaves he could and made two small beds. They wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping, but at least the leaves would protect them from the cold tiles below.
He laid down in one. It was the most uncomfortable he’d ever been, but if it meant not waking up to a faery demon or wolfshifter attempting to kill him, he’d deal with it.
He was lying on the ground, staring at the painted ceiling and wondering if there was a position to make it more comfortable when he heard Sofia’s call.
She carefully, yet quickly, walked down the stone steps back into the cenote, two dead rabbits hanging from her neck, tied with a vine.
She helped him prep the rabbits. They’d put together the fire, with Sofia quite vehemently pointing out each mistake as he placed the twigs, as if it mattered how the wood looked before they burned it. But he didn’t argue, already thinking about the smoky taste of the meat to come. He’d even managed to find them a sealed jar of salt in the kitchens area—one of the only things that hadn’t rotted with age. It didn’t fix the chewy texture of the wild meat, unfamiliar to Fox, but it helped with the taste at least.
He could have even called himself content by the time they’d eaten their fill. He buried the rest of the rabbit on the other side of the cavern while Sofia took the hearts to the altars as offerings. Why dead gods needed offerings, he wasn’t sure, but he chose to keep quiet and not start a fight.
She was quiet when she returned, stoking the fire and checking his burial work without comment.
“These are terrible,” Sofia said sometime later as she laid down on the small pile of leaves he’d put together for them. Her tone wasn’t as harsh as he expected.
“They are,” he agreed. “It was that or dirt.”
“At least the fire’s warm.”
“And there are no faeries down here, just ghosts.” He meant it as a joke, but even saying the words sent a shiver through him and he wondered if he’d just imagined the air around him growing colder.
“I saw what you did for the bones.” Sofia’s voice was soft.
“They were people. They deserved the dignity.”
“Thank you.”
They were silent for a while, the only sounds the whistling of the wind above and the crackle of the wood burning between them.
“Did your parents teach you about the dragons and the old ways?” he asked.
The question was born of pure curiosity, but she stiffened at his words.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I—I have to wonder how you know so much when...” He trailed off, uncomfortable.
“When my people aren’t allowed to know such things?” she said after too long.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
“My parents didn’t teach me. They have always been loyal to the king.” She went silent again and he thought she might stop there, but then he heard the small intake of breath before she spoke again. “When I read the stories of my ancestors and the dragons, it was the first time I felt like something more.”
“More than what?”
She wasn’t looking at him and it allowed him to watch her carefully without fear of judgment. Her eyes were focused on the small sliver of sky they could see from their spot in the cenote, where the two moons rose above the tree line. They were full and bright, blocking out the stars.
“More than an animal. More than nothing.” She turned toward him and he quickly looked away. “Do you know any of our beliefs?”
“Some,” he admitted, “but I couldn’t tell you the legends from the histories.”
“The reason we call ourselves Dragonborn is because that’s what we are. Quelia, the mother of all things, created the world and when she was done, she shed her feathers, each one falling to the earth, imbued with magic to become all the creatures of the forest. We were born of her own body. Her scales remained in the sky, turning into the stars and her eyes became the moons, watching over what she had made with reverence. She sacrificed herself to give us life. I wonder what she thinks of her people now.”
“So if you were created from feathers, where did my people come from?” He risked a glance her way and saw the furrow of her eyebrows as she stared back.
“You say it like we’re different species.”
He shifted, uncomfortable with the look she was giving him.
“You were born of feathers, too. All of us are Dragonborn. Even those who turned on the gods and murdered their own kind.”
“So, we’re all the same?” he asked.
“A frightening thought, isn’t it?”
“If you believe in ghosts, then the Dereyans can turn into ghosts, too.”
She gave another shrug.
“Do you worry about the hundreds of Dereyans you’ve killed haunting you?” he said, not expecting an answer. He was thinking of his brother. He shouldn’t have been. It never led anywhere productive, only to tears or anger.
“Only if you’re worried about the thousands of Dragonborn your people have killed.”
“So it’s okay for you to kill, but not us?”
“We are killing out of necessity because it’s the only language your chief commander speaks.” She spit the words out.
“Why do you hate the chief commander so much?”
“How is that a serious question?”
He watched her face from across the fire, knowing full well he was right. There was something in her face when she spoke of the chief commander, something more than when she spoke of the king or the Dereyans. It was the same look she gave him sometimes, too. Hatred. Rage.
“What did he do to you?”
She didn’t answer for a while and he wondered if she even would.
“The chief commander took someone from me. He killed them because he couldn’t kill me. I was…too useful.”
“I…I’m sorry.” He was surprised that he meant the words. He knew what grief felt like. It laid on his own shoulders like a chain. “Is that when you lost your finger?”
She gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “No. My punishment was much worse.”
He opened his mouth, unsure of how to ask the question, but she cut him off.
“For that answer, you’ll have to ask your father.”
With that, she turned over, her back to the fire. To him.
He didn’t move for a while, watching her, trying to understand yet trying to not think about what she had said. Ask your father . Something akin to anger thrummed through him. He knew exactly the types of punishments his father meted out. Even after he’d been promoted to general, his father had chosen to keep his role as head interrogator. Because he loved the role—took joy in it. He took joy in pain. The thought made Fox’s stomach sour and he couldn’t explain why. She was rebel filth—a traitor to the king—and it shouldn’t matter to him what punishments she’d endured for her treason. It couldn’t matter.
Fox was still staring into the fire when he heard her, words whispered so long, he wondered if she meant for him to hear.
“Everyone in the resistance has a story like mine. If you weren’t so busy murdering us, maybe we’d share them.”
The words didn’t ask for an answer and he bit his tongue. When he finally fell asleep, those words still sat heavy on his chest.