Chapter 21 #2
Reave is standing before a tall window, his arms folded across his chest, his stance tense. I can see a bit of his reflection in the glass; all the gentle concern and teasing humor from earlier appears to be gone. I have a feeling I know why—that I know what he’s watching for.
“Do you think the magic I summoned is what drew this latest rebel attack?” I ask.
He startles a bit at my sudden voice. “…It’s possible, yes. The stronger your bond gets, in general, the worse these attacks are likely to become.”
“But how are they aware that Blight and I are getting stronger?”
“There are some people who are very sensitive to the ebbs and flows of divine magic. Flameseers, we call them. Historically, they’ve been valued by all the rulers of different kingdoms, believed to be another piece of the divine plan, guides sent by the gods.
..” He shakes his head, and I get the impression that he’s as skeptical of those gods and their plans as I am.
“Gareth is one. That’s how he was able to track down your dragon—though it was still quite the task, as she was weak and separate from you. ”
“So, you think these rebels have a seer among them?”
“Unfortunately. And it’s further proof that they aren’t just simple agitators out for blood, as I’d hoped.”
A frightening possibility dawns on me. “You think they were sent by an enemy kingdom?”
“We know they were.”
“How?”
He hesitates, as if he’s not entirely convinced he can trust me with this information. “Two days ago, my soldiers killed three of these enemies, and we found a conscription note folded up in one of their pockets, sealed with intertwining trees in front of a mountain—the emblem of Dralsk.”
My chest tightens. I know a little about that northwestern kingdom, only because it’s where Malachi’s family was originally from.
He and his parents and his younger sister fled their home because of increasing turmoil, shortly after the current ruler—Queen Meira—violently stole the throne from her uncle.
Malachi was the only one of his family who made it to Halvgate alive.
The rest were picked off by Meira’s sadistic army along the way—which was why he always struggled to talk about his past, I think.
I heard a few stories from him, tales about the floating markets on the rivers; the temples built into massive dragon-blessed trees that changed with the seasons; the crippling fog that often covered the land. But beyond that…
“Dralsk is a brutal, forsaken place,” Reave says, stepping closer to me once more.
“All of the true kingdoms are these days,” I say, unable to help myself. “It's a side-effect of your false kingdom and those dragons you control causing so much ruin and devastation. Loss changes people. Survival breeds desperation…and desperation breeds brutal things.”
He says nothing, just watches me with an expression I can't quite read.
“Or did you forget the role Mouren has played in the history of this empire?” My voice has trailed to a whisper, for some reason.
His eyes harden as they meet mine. “I didn't forget.”
I brace myself for anger, for him to throw me out of his room after all.
He only runs a hand over the scars on his forearm—those thin, silvered lines I can’t make sense of—and says, “You're right, of course.”
The silence stretches, sharp and uncomfortable, until I’m struck by a question that’s never really crossed my mind before: What does he actually think about the conquest and wars his ancestors started?
I always assumed he just enjoyed the spoils of it all.
That he was raised on the blood of fallen kingdoms, and when one develops a taste for such things, there’s no coming back, no rising above it.
I’m still not convinced this isn’t the truth, and yet…
The truth can be a complicated beast, I guess.
“Anyway,” he goes on, before I can find a way to voice these questions, “my point is that I’m determined to keep you from falling into their clutches, considering how the ruling families of Dralsk had a history of doing harrowing things to their Flamebound, long before their kingdom was ruined and devastated by Mouren’s armies. ”
“Their Flamebound?”
“That was once the common, collective name for all those bound to god-sent dragons,” he explains. “A reference to the divine flames they kept burning.”
“Flames that no longer burn…” I recall from my last conversation with Gareth.
“Correct. Although, at least in my kingdom, the vessel itself is still intact. It’s not far from here, actually.”
I twist the ring he gave me around on my finger, tracing the shimmering red stone. “And what sort of harrowing things did those Dralsk rulers do to their Flamebound?”
He exhales softly. Wearily, almost. “Let’s not discuss that now. It isn’t going to help either of us sleep tonight.”
Either of us.
Something about the word us unsettles me. I avert my eyes—at least until another question occurs to me.
“Can a Flamebound even switch alignments, though? Are they not bound to whatever kingdom they were claimed by? Could I truly leave with the Dralsk rebels?”
A small smile curves his lips. “Thinking of deserting me, are you?”
“Since the moment we met. But just answer my question.”
“Traditionally, no. You wouldn’t be able to. As for us, though? We have an agreement, but you haven’t sealed your service to my crown in a way that matters in the eyes of the gods. I haven’t marked you, by the usual divine ritual or otherwise. And I don’t intend to.”
“…You don’t?”
“I never liked the idea of magical bondage, which is essentially what the Flamebound were forced into—or at least, what it became—in many cases.”
I don’t know what to say to this.
To any of it.
And the drink he gave me is making my thoughts increasingly difficult to sort out, so I just attempt to lighten the mood instead. “So, you’re not into degradation or bondage…what are your top five fantasies, anyway?”
“Right now, I’m fantasizing about you going to sleep so I can enjoy some peace and quiet.”
“It’s a shame I don’t care about fulfilling your fantasies.”
“It really is.” He goes back to his desk, sitting down this time, slipping his glasses on and reaching for a book.
I give up on trying to make sense of my fuzzy thoughts, studying his room instead of speaking—partly to ground myself, and partly because it seems like another opportunity to learn more about him.
The room is surprisingly sparse for a king—no excessive ornamentation, just plush furniture and walls lined with books. It actually feels warm and lived-in, compared to the ceremonial beauty that dominates so much of the palace.
There are a few paintings dotting the wood-paneled walls, including a portrait near his desk that features the three Callahan siblings and a younger, but still enormous, Ruffus.
The artist exaggerated some features, and minimized others, so that the three look even more similar to each other than they do in real life; perhaps it’s a feeling he was capturing—the feeling that these three are inseparable, three parts of the same whole.
Even when I close my eyes, the little prince’s painted, smiling face is there. He looked healthier in the portrait—full, rosy cheeks, and no shadows underneath his eyes. But I can still remember the feel of his ribs as I held him against me.
My eyes flash open again. “I have one more question.”
“Of course you do.”
“I actually have lots more, but I’m being restrained and considerate of your time.”
“You should be sleeping,” Reave mumbles, not looking up.
I keep speaking anyway. “I’m worried about Arlo. He seemed…frail, yesterday. And I didn’t see him this morning. Is he feeling ill again?”
He seems taken aback by the sudden change in subject; it takes him a long moment to answer.
“Yes.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
He’s gone completely still, a book propped open in his hands. Finally, he closes it, removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose as he says, “No.”
His clipped tone doesn’t invite more discussion. It feels like the wall between us is close to slamming down again.
Sighing, I close my eyes and try again to sleep.
The drink he gave me has made me calmer, but I’m still far too aware of everything around me.
Of him. Every time I look his way, he’s still at the desk.
I wonder if he’d truly planned to work this late, or if he’s only staying over there so he doesn’t make me uncomfortable.
After an hour or so, I almost start to feel bad for taking up his bed.
“I really don’t care if you lay here with me, as long as you keep your distance.”
His pen pauses mid-stroke, as if he might be considering it. But he doesn’t move from the desk. Doesn’t look at me as he says, “Just go to sleep, Arowyn.”
As I drift off again, a quiet realization washes over me—he used my actual name.
I can’t remember him ever using it before.
He does eventually come to bed; I’m barely lucid, but I feel the mattress dip beneath his weight.
Tension seizes my entire body. He’s as far from me as he can possibly be, but it still feels too close.
Too dangerous. My heart is still pounding entirely too fast, even when I finally fall into a restless sleep.
The next morning, however, I find that he’s kept his promise.
He’s on one side of the massive mattress.
I’m on the other.
But his hand is outstretched toward mine, and for a fraction of a moment, I think about reaching back.