Chapter 36 #2
“Are you an assassin, Valtar?” I continue relentlessly. “You might as well tell me the truth. I’ve already guessed as much.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. Then, in a low growl: “Yes.”
My chest tightens. But I lift my chin and press on. “Was it Mhoryga? Who sent you to kill me, I mean.”
“Yes.”
I nod. “Well.” Turning to face the bonfire again, I shift in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard ground. “That’s certainly interesting.”
As though on cue, thunder growls overhead. The clouds, which have been thickly gathering all this while, open, and big fat droplets of rain spatter my blistered face and hands. It’s actually rather nice, cooling after that roasting flight.
Valtar pushes away from his tree. He stalks over to where I sit, his footsteps light, his cloak wafting behind him.
For a few breaths, he looms over me as only Valtar can loom.
He extends one hand. I look at it. Then slowly raise my gaze to his.
His black eyes hold mine, even as raindrops slip through the dark coils of his hair and trail down his cheeks like tears.
“Fine.” I sigh heavily and roll my eyes. Slipping my hand into his, I let him pull me to my feet. My tired legs try to buckle, and I stagger toward him. Immediately, he puts out a supporting arm, and oh! How I long to lean into him, to feel the comfort of his big strong body!
Instead I pull back a step. I’m not going to forget who he is literally five seconds after he’s admitted it; even I am not that foolish!
To his credit, Valtar steps back, keeping his hands to himself.
“Follow me,” he says, turning and leading the way.
He makes for a copse of trees on the far side of the field.
Their intertwined branches offer some shelter from the rain, which has now grown into a proper deluge.
I peer out from under the thick green canopy through the gloom to where the dragon boy still burns.
The hellfire flames are unaffected by rain. They lash and dance, as bright as ever.
I wrap my arms around my shivering body, trembling with more than cold. “All right, Valtar,” I say at last, painfully aware of how close he stands behind me. I turn slowly and look up at him without blinking. “I’m going to ask you some questions. And I want truthful answers. Do you understand?”
He inhales slowly. Then nods.
“No lying. Promise?”
Another nod.
“Good. Now first of all—are you going to kill me?”
His lips thin. He does not move, blink, or even seem to breathe. He might be a statue for all the life in him. Then, in a very low voice: “No.”
“Oh.” I blink fast and hastily dash water from my face with the back of my hand. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” I swallow hard, then: “But you were meant to kill me, correct?”
“I was.”
“Why didn’t you? You had…gods, I don’t even know how many chances! Why didn’t you just get it over with?”
Another long silence. Finally: “I meant to. But then…I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Many reasons.”
“Name one.”
“You…” He pauses, and his gaze slips away from mine for an instant before returning. “You would not believe me.”
My eyes narrow. “Try me.”
He sighs then and rubs a hand down his face.
“Maybe,” he says slowly, as though trying out the words in his head before speaking them, just to see how convincing they sound, “maybe it’s because I think you might prove to be the means of destroying Mhoryga after all.
And I don’t want to be the reason hope is removed from this world. ”
I stare at him. I stare so long, my eyes begin to hurt. I don’t think he could have said anything more surprising if he tried…which in turn makes me suspect that he’s speaking the truth. That he really does believe this ridiculous, impossible thing.
“So,” I say slowly, “you want me to travel to Drathoridan after all. To enter the Dracor Flame, manifest, and…what? Have an all-out brawl with my mother? Just as Alderin proposed?”
Valtar shakes his head and looks away again, gazing across the field at the green bonfire. “I don’t think you would succeed. Not that way.”
“Then what do you propose?”
“I don’t know.”
I toss up my hands and turn away. What is the use of any of this?
Everyone has ideas about what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to be…
only no one has anything actually useful to help me do or be it!
I’ve had about as much as I can stomach.
Of him. Of Alderin. Of Philippa and the other champions.
They can all just go to Drathoridan and cast themselves into the Dracor Flame for all I care!
Silence lingers between us for so long, I lose track of my own counted breaths.
Then I hear his footsteps, soft but not silent.
Am I about to get a knife slipped between the ribs?
I tense but refuse to turn. The next thing I know, the warm folds of his cloak wrap around my shoulders.
The gesture is so simple, and yet suddenly I find myself fighting back tears once more.
“Why weren’t you there yesterday?” I ask, my voice breaking. “Why weren’t you at the final trial?”
“Alderin and I had a…disagreement.”
I close my eyes at his mention of that name and clutch the cloak a little closer.
I don’t think I’ll ever reconcile the idea that Alderin, of all people, is dracori.
Not to mention my father! Father. Gods spare me.
I always knew my father had to be someone, but I don’t remember ever asking Durona about him.
I assumed she would tell me if it mattered, but then she was gone.
And there was no one left to ask. After that, I simply put the question out of my mind and got on with life, as one does.
Not in a hundred lifetimes would I have dreamed my father was the High King of all Belanor. But then, I wouldn’t have guessed my mother was a demonic dragon queen either. Funny how these things work out.
“So what happened?” I press. “What did you find to disagree over?”
“Whether or not I should remain alive.”
I snort. I can’t help it, though Philippa would no doubt die over such an unladylike sound. “Let me guess: You two started blasting each other with hellfire?”
“Something like that.”
“How did you escape?”
He is silent for such a long while, I begin to wonder if he simply didn’t hear the question. But then his voice rumbles again, much closer than before. “I knew you would need me.”
He stands just behind me. So close I could easily lean my head back to rest on his shoulder.
And I want to. I want to so badly, and more than that, I want to turn on heel, grab the front of his scorched tunic, and drag him to me in a lip-bruising kiss.
I want to believe again that he’s the man I invented in my imagination.
The hero, the prince, the valiant protector with the noble heart.
I want to reshape reality into something just for the two of us and forget all the rest of this dark, terrible world.
A world I never asked for; a world none of us deserves.
But I can’t. There’s no changing what is.
He is dracori, and I am dragon spawn. Hardly the stuff of heroic ballads.
Most likely we’ll end up killing each other before all this is through.
Or let’s be honest—he’ll kill me. Because I’m still not convinced I could bring myself to squash a fly, much less end a man’s life.
Suddenly needing to put some distance between us, I march to the edge of the copse, watching rain fall in sheets.
A cold wind blows, but Valtar’s cloak keeps out the sting of it.
I wish both the rain and the wind could cool the blisters across my hands and face.
What I wouldn’t give for some of Philippa’s ylyndar ointment right about now!
After a little while, I realize Valtar is gone. He slipped away sometime in the last several minutes, all silent and shadowy. Gods above, why did it never occur to me to suspect he was an assassin? With all his sneaking and looming, it should have been self-evident.
But the truth is, I always felt so safe in his company.
I still do, damn it. And I liked the feeling.
It’s not one I’ve experienced often in my life, not since Durona died.
Even Mistress Iliyani never made me feel fully safe.
We had an uneasy alliance, but I always knew she might choose to kick me out of her house at any time, for any given reason.
But with Valtar it’s different. I don’t know how to explain it. From the moment I set eyes on him—or, more accurately, set lips on him—there’s been something in his presence that made me feel so secure. As though his very being gave my soul permission to open its tightly curled petals and bloom.
Perhaps it’s all part of his assassin mystique, a trick to get a mark to let down her guard. Or perhaps I’m just that naive.
The storm begins to let up. So does the fire for that matter—the green hell-blaze dies away, replaced by a thin column of black smoke.
A faint stench lingers, but the rain seems to have washed most of the world clean, and the clouds roll by, leaving behind a streaky sky.
All feels very still, very quiet. Desolate.
How long will it be before Alderin is on my tail? He’s probably set out already, traveling by river barge underneath that vast forest. And what of Mhoryga? Did she send more than one assassin? Or is she still counting on this one to accomplish his mission?