Chapter 30 The Spiral
I fly with no direction. No thought. Just the violent cacophony in my head—killer, monster, cruel, vicious, killer, monster, coward.
And the image of Marton, staring startled at me from the ground.
The smell of his blood, that day at the Trove when I tore his stitches.
I think dragons are wonderful.
Dragons aren't so bad.
Killer, monster, liar, liar, liar.
If he would just be angry at me.
Shout. Tell me I'm awful. Tell me he's done.
For the first time, I wish he were a dragon, a wyvern, some monster who could rip into me the way I rip into him.
Someone who could fight back.
As it is, he will never be safe around me.
Tell the truth now, Tarah.
You wanted him to leave. So you wouldn't have to feel guilty, or afraid.
You wanted him to leave so things would be easier for you.
A gout of flame claws up my throat, and I release it in a violent roar that scorches the sky around me, evaporating a path through the clouds as they whip past.
Killer, monster, coward.
Violentliarcowardviciouscruel.
I wish I were anything in the world but myself.
I wish I had been born an ordinary peasant girl.
Never chosen by the king. Never tasked with any great destiny.
Just human and small. I would probably be a married woman by now, barefoot with a child on each hip, like the women I used to see on the way to the village well.
Cherry would be the princess, happy and rich, that she was always meant to be.
Marton would have stayed safe at his Academy, never come chasing legends of me.
And Vakh—
As if my thoughts have summoned him, his reverberating auria pierces the air around me.
I crane my neck to look, banking left on one wing, and there he is.
A golden-red manticore, with lion's mane whipping and eagle's wings cutting through the sky.
That fool.
I wheel around to meet him.
We are high above the sparsely foliaged foothills, and I pick a landing spot with ease.
I need my human form so I can yell at him.
I can't believe he left Marton and Cherry defenseless in unfamiliar territory.
Vakhrin easily catches on to my intentions, angling himself down to the yellowing patch of scrub grass between a cluster of barren trees and boulders.
We land at almost the same time.
I'm braced for a shift, for an argument.
I am not prepared for the manticore to come at me with barbed tail swinging.
I barely pull my neck back in time to dodge a blow to my face.
Confused, I shuffle back, but Vakh keeps coming, launching himself at me with claws unsheathed.
He rakes his talons along the scales beneath my wing joint, disturbingly close the sensitive membrane.
And then I get angry.
Roaring, I breath a warning shot of flame at the ground before him.
The grass ignites, crackling dryly, and Vakh dances out of the way.
He turns, meets my eyes, and his gaze shows calm, determined violence.
When he comes at me next, his claws scrabble at the scales of my throat, digging under and between the joints.
I grab spiky manticore fur with both forelegs and try to peel him off me.
He comes unwillingly, snarling and growling, and I can almost see the look in his eyes again before he sinks his teeth into my cheek.
Then we're rolling, tumbling and snarling across the smoldering scrub grass.
His barbed tail pounds a drumbeat against my side, and I claw at him with teeth and talons.
Nothing seems to penetrate his damnable armored fur.
We spar for what feels like hours, and I pour all of my rage and confusion and fear into the fight.
Dodging and striking, evading and chasing, breathing fire until there isn't so much as a twig left untouched of the trees around us.
It isn't until Vakhrin intentionally pulls back a strike of his barbed tail that would have taken me in the teeth that I realize—he isn't really trying to hurt me at all.
He's giving me a vent. A place to put all of the rage that's in me.
I wanted a fight, and I got one.
The realization helps me feel my own exhaustion.
The hollow numbness where once was a seething mass of emotion.
My movements slow, and Vakh picks up on it.
He meets my eyes again, and he looks as tired as I feel.
Tired, but still determined. Determined to help me in the only way he can.
I notice then how he is favoring one leg.
His recently injured leg.
I am human before I consciously plan to shift, and Vakh follows suit a moment later.
"Your leg—"
"I'm fine—"
"You're hurt.
I forgot—"
"I was hurt.
Now I'm healed. But anytime a two-ton dragon lands on you, it's likely to irritate a limb or two.
"
"It's not the old fracture?
You're sure?"
"I'm fine, Tarah.
See?" Vakhrin illustrates his leg's stability with a hop.
"Oh, gods. You're not wearing pants.
" I cover my eyes with both hands, the unfortunate image burned into my brain.
Vakhrin only laughs.
"Prude."
"Please never hop for me again.
" I keep my eyes covered, uncertain now after the acknowledgement of our nakedness.
It usually isn't a factor. But the hop.
The dangling.
"Calm down, Tarah.
I'm covered. Look."
I lower my hands, squinting my eyes open cautiously.
Vakhrin has both hands cupped in front of him.
It isn't a pretty picture, but I decide to ignore it.
"Fine." I breathe a sigh of exhaustion, and the weariness in my limbs hits me like a speeding arrow.
I slump to the sooty ground, bowing my head against my knees.
"I messed up, Vakh. I am messed up.
I don't know what to do."
Vakhrin hesitates for a moment, and then I hear him lowering himself to the ground in front and a little to the right of me.
He takes an audible breath in an out. "So what was all of that really about?
"
"I'm just— Everything is so messed up.
I thought Marton was going to leave. After what happened at the Trove.
What I did to Inobar. I think I wanted him to leave, so I wouldn't have to be afraid of what he thought of me, or afraid that I could hurt him in some way, physical or otherwise.
And he told me—that day after you and him and Cherry and me talked about the plan to confront the king—he told me all about how it was a terrible idea and I was being stupid.
And I hurt him. I hurt him that day, Vakh, because I was angry.
I grabbed him in my claws when I flew him back up to the Trove, and I pulled his stitches.
He was bleeding. And he says today that he's sorry.
That he doesn't plan to leave and he's sorry about what happened to Inobar.
Him. And I don't know what to do with that.
I don't know how to— I don't understand him!
He told that story the other night. The one about the knight and his wife and faith and doubt and being a coward versus being a hero.
And I'm the coward, right? I'm the knight in the story, who everyone looks at and thinks—what an asshole—right?
Because he's terrible and he's cruel and he doesn't have any faith in people.
Well I don't have any faith, Vakh. I think the world is basically terrible and people are basically cruel and selfish.
I think we're all going to get ourselves killed, and it'll be all my fault because I should have known better, because I do know better, but I don't know how to be any better.
And I think I'm going to get you all killed.
"
I stop speaking only to pant for breath, worn out by the weight of my admissions.
My rant is greeted with the sound of crackling wood, burning out, and a body shifting in the grass.
I don't look up, clamping my eyes shut, too tired even to wish the words unsaid.
"That's...a lot of feelings to be carrying around.
"
That surprises a desiccated laugh out of me.
"That's very helpful, Vakhrin. Thank you.
"
"I mean—look I'm not so good with the emotions and stuff, okay?
I've basically been alone all my life, so I've never had.
..friends...confide in me. And I should just..
.pat you on the back and tell you that it's all going to alright, probably.
But this seems..."
I wait for him to continue.
When he doesn't, I shift my head a fraction to peek at him.
He is sitting with one knee up, one forearm draped across it.
He gazes off into the distance with a look of intense concentration.
I close my eyes to wait, too tired to prompt him.
"So—and this is an assumption, mostly based on observation and guesswork, so correct me if I'm wrong—but you're in love with Marton, aren't you?
"
My fingers dig into my knees, human fingernails biting at greenish skin.
I can't even think the answer to that question.
I shrug.
"Okay. Alright.
That's fine too. Let's not go there. So.
..the story."
"The story?
"
"The story that Marton told the other night.
That was basically...a love story. And..
.I don't think it was meant to accuse you of anything.
I think it was more of a declaration."
"A declaration.
"
"I do believe yourself against yourself.
As in, I believe in you, despite the things you say and even some of the things you do.
I believe in you as a whole person, and I think you're good, and I love you.
"
"Are you—saying—"
"Skies, no.
No, no, no. I'm not in love with you.
I'm saying—"
"You're saying Marton is in love with me?
" Now I have to raise my head, squinting into the afternoon light.
"That that's what he was saying the other night?
"
Vakhrin looks exceptionally uncomfortable.
"I mean, I think so? I didn't consider it much at the time.
Just a story. But..."
I blink at him, shell-shocked.
The inevitable horror dawns slowly. "I screamed at him today.
Shoved him. Told him something was wrong with him.
" A bleak laugh. "So I'm sure that whatever he might have thought he felt—"
"I'm going to stop you right there.
That doesn't seem like a helpful pathway of thought.
And also—bullshit, Tarah. I do believe yourself against yourself.
If that's what he meant... And you kind of do this, you know?
After my last arena fight, you apologized to me.
As if you had personally inflicted my injuries somehow.
Marton got hurt by Inobar, and you protected him.
So you accidentally pulled his stitches.
So you killed the person who was responsible for all of our misery.
You're protectorkin. It's in your blood to defend your own.
You're a dragon. You love hard. Sometimes viciously.
And you're...you're just a girl, Tarah. A scared girl, who's been beat down and stepped on more times than anyone should be.
It's alright to be afraid. To be bad at.
..being a person who cares. Everyone is.
"
I take in a deep lungful of air.
It tastes of smoke. "So what are you saying?
"
"If I'm saying anything, I think I'm saying pull yourself together?
Cut yourself some slack. Try not to...spiral inward like this.
Like you do. Maybe just try...talking to Marton.
Or Cherry. Talk to someone. Talk to all of us.
If you think the plan to face the king is a death warrant—"
"Oh, skies, I didn't mean to tell you that.
"
"But you do think it's going to get us killed?
"
"I don't know. Yes.
No. I-I want to have hope. I do hope.
But I'm afraid, Vakh. I'm so afraid and I don't know what we're walking into.
Why are we doing this?"
He releases a slow exhale, pulling up handfuls of ashy grass before grimacing and dusting his hands on his thighs.
"We're doing this because someone should.
Because the reason you've been alone, and Cherry's been alone, I've been alone, and Marton—it's all the lies the basilisks told long ago.
That the king told so recently. We're doing this because it has to end somehow, sometime.
And we're here, now, and maybe we can help.
We're doing this because maybe we'll succeed, and that has to be more important—it is more important, for so many people—than the fact that we're afraid.
That maybe we'll fail. Someone has to take a chance.
Why not us?"
"Because we're us," I whisper.
"We're alive, and we're together. For now.
Why can't that be enough? Why can't we just..
.be together somewhere safe?"
"What, like an abandoned castle?
Locked high in a tower away from the world?
Is that what you want?"
"Of course it isn't."
Of course it isn't.
I want to go, to see the world, to help people.
But I don't want my friends to get hurt.
"I don't want anyone to get hurt."
"We're already hurt.
We're hurt, and the world is hurt. It's broken.
The whole thing. What are we going to do about it?
"
"There are other ways—"
"Other ways to hide.
To help a little, and lurk in the shadows.
Like the scholars at the Academy. Like the Dragomira of the Trove.
"
"Hey—"
"There's nothing wrong with what they've chosen.
I'm not saying that. But I'm saying helping a little won't be enough to fix anything.
It didn't help you, or me, or Cherry, or Marton.
We can't reach everyone. But if we go to the root of the problem, to the basilisk king, then maybe there's a chance for real change.
"
"I know." I squeeze my eyes shut.
"I know that. I do."
"But?
"
"But what if we can't beat him, Vakh?
What if Cherry can't stand against her own father?
What if I can't defy my king? Or you and I can't fight a basilisk?
What about Marton? He's human. He's not related to the king, and he's not protectorkin.
He's vulnerable." The words lodge in my brain with the weight of realization.
He's vulnerable. Isn't that what I'm really afraid of?
Is that why I want him to leave?
You're in love with Marton, aren't you?
My throat burns, and I press my fist to my mouth.
I can't think about that. I can't.
"We're all vulnerable.
And we're all strong. Whatever comes our way, we can take it.
We have each other. Your strength, my speed, Cherry's connection to the king, and Marton's brain.
Your love for your friends, mine and Cherry's determination to see the kin and kingdom freed, Marton's unshakable faith in goodness.
We're strong, Tarah. Do you believe that?
"
"I don't know if love makes me strong," I quietly admit, thinking of what my sister told me.
The advice she gave me.
"You don't have to believe it.
But it's true. Let it be true. I see it, and the others do too.
You were Cherry's guardian and friend for almost a decade.
You came for us in the Trove, and you freed us.
Whatever you've done to Marton, that boy is willing to follow you into hell.
Your love makes you strong. It's always been true.
Are you going to make it untrue now?"
"You mean am I going to be a coward?
"
"Are you?"
"No," I practically spit the words, willing them true with everything that's in me. "No, I'm not a coward."