12. Tyranny’s Pr（ice）
Tyranny’s Pr(ice)
I hurried through the hangar toward the desert for my morning run, my neck flushing as Tarantula followed closely behind. A gasp sounded, then a shout.
I turned.
Tarantula violently ripped the Democratic Papers out of a soldier’s hand. His jaw clenched as he read, spider legs pulling. He opened the paper wide, disappearing behind it.
I inched toward him, tilting my head to see the story on the front page. Squire also tilted his head as if reading.
Aleksander the Sadistic Offers a Thousand Rubies as a Reward to Whoever in the Draconis Empire Can Capture Mage Zora Ravenal, Dead or Alive: The Commonwealth Gains Upper Hand with New Deadly Knight
Below it, a wanted poster took up the entire page: an old portrait of me and . . . Mom? She looked beautiful. We’d posed for the portrait when I was sixteen years old, and both of us cherished it. How did the Empire get it? Fear gnawed at my bones as I focused on the tiny caption.
This portrait was published in the Excelsior Gazette, the Draconis Empire’s corrupt propaganda news source. A homing dire falcon was intercepted at a port, carrying the paper. It is thought to be a failed attempt to strike fear into the Commonwealth.
Horror crushed my soul.
“I guess Aleksander is upset about his little royal spy being captured,” I whispered tonelessly, a lump expanding in my throat.
Tarantula ripped the paper in two.
Then three.
Then four.
All the soldiers in the hangar turned to stare at him as he shouted with rage and shredded the paper into progressively smaller pieces. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have thought he cared about my health and safety.
I knew the truth. He’d snap my neck with a smile.
Finally Tarantula threw the tiny pieces to the ground and stalked toward the desert.
“What’s wrong?” I shouted after him, wanting him to hurt like I was hurting. “Are you upset Aleksander didn’t offer a reward for your return? Are you mad that he’s forgotten about you, because you’re just a little—”
“Silence!” He whirled around, finger pointing at my chest. “There are things at play beyond your understanding, Ravenal. And I am not little . . . anywhere.”
“No,” I said with a dramatic gasp. “I’m so heartbroken that you’re upset.” I held my thumb and pointer finger up so they were only an inch apart. “Little man.”
He leaned down so his masked face hovered inches from mine. “Thou could not . . . handle . . . my endowment.”
I choked. “How dignified.”
“I was referring to my immense coffers. What were thou pondering?”
I stomped down on his foot, trying not to think about how Mom was in more danger and I was stuck with him.
Eyelids lowering, he stared down at where I’d stepped on him, unmoving. “Run,” he ordered quietly. Tension thickened as it expanded between us, somehow defying all four states of matter at the same time: solid, liquid, gas, and magic.
“You don’t scare me.”
He turned his head slowly. “Thou art a terrible liar.”
Frissons of fear licked up my throat.
Rule of survival: Listen to your instincts. They will keep you alive.
Backing away from him, I rubbed mindlessly at the tooth prints on my neck. “I need the Marshal.” I turned to the soldiers marching nearby. “Someone get her for me!”
A few minutes later, the Marshal stalked into the hangar with a scowl. Shadow Swords flanked her in perfect formation; Ryse was at the front, his eyes locked on mine.
“What do you want?” she asked me.
“Let me go on a mission North to make sure my mom’s safe. Please.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll be fine with—”
“I’m not asking.” I grabbed her arm, stopping her as she started to turn away.
A sword point bit into my throat; Ryse moved between us defensively, his expression unreadable.
The Marshal opened her mouth as she stared down at where I held her, but it shut as she met my gaze. Whatever she saw on my face made her pause. Her eyes were shrewd. “You haven’t . . . made any progress on your Knight Mage abilities,” she said carefully, aware of our audience.
“I’m skilled with daggers.”
“You could get gravely injured. Your loss would be . . . devastating for the Commonwealth.”
“I am strong,” I said through clenched teeth as I telepathically screamed at her that I was getting better at wielding storm magic. “It’s just a routine checkup. I need to know she’s safe.”
Ryse pushed the blade deeper into my throat, just hard enough to hurt but not draw blood.
I leaned closer. “Please—let me check on her. I won’t do anything rash.”
The Marshal inhaled roughly. “Fine,” she said, gesturing behind me. “But you’ll take Sazha with you—for protection.” Her eyes gleamed. So that’s why she’s letting me. She wants us to bond.
I internally combusted. “The only person I need protection from is him.”
“Do you want me to rescind my permission?” she asked coldly.
“No, sir!” I fell into position, saluting her.
Upper lip curling at my insolence, she turned on her heel and walked away. Shadow Swords pivoted like water, flanking her. The blade at my throat disappeared as Ryse joined them, but he glanced back over his shoulder at me.
“BACK TO WORK!” the Admiral shouted from somewhere in the back, and the quiet hangar burst into activity.
A few hours later, Tarantula and I wore full Knight armor as we rode on horseback through fields of towering white cacti.
Our steeds were heavily muscled, sprinting north with impossible speed.
My holsters were also strapped across my thighs and waist, loaded with daggers.
Sweat dripped down my face. Heavy fur cloaks, goggles, and gloves were in packs hanging off the sides of our stallions.
Tarantula’s wrists were still cuffed, but the chains connecting his legs had been removed. Not at all worrisome. A tinny sound rang out as Squire repositioned himself on top of my head, pecking at my Knight helmet, creating a helpful beat for my inner voice, which was panic-screaming.
It was a little less than a two-day ride from the Middlelands to the North.
The sun dipped, and starlight rose, guiding our path along the canyon banks. A river rushed far below.
Thighs cramping, I startled awake, tightness in my lower back as the sun rose hot and punishing.
Cacti became brush and then transformed into low trees.
The canyon diminished until we were trotting along a dirt-covered riverbank.
The dirt became pebbles, then slabs of wide rocks as trees grew in height, wide leaves slowly replaced with long needles.
The temperature plummeted as I drifted between rest and sleep.
Sweat turned into shivers.
A light layer of frost crept along the stone bank. It turned into ice, then crunching snow. White-tipped fir trees towered above, the Mist wrapping around their trunks in a light blue fog. Heavy clouds blotted the magic-streaked violet sky, and dire wolves howled off in the distance.
I relaxed.
At last I was back in the North.
A familiar gray brick wall loomed above the treetops. Nostalgia punched me in the gut. The Commune looked the same, but . . . different.
“Me home!” Squire hooted with excitement, and I went numb all over.
I dismounted before Tarantula could say something and ruin everything. As I staggered up to my gate, red flashed in my periphery. A rose bloomed, bright against the snow.
For some reason, its miraculous persistence made me want to cry. I stomped down on the gate’s hidden latch like I had thousands of times before.
Dusk glowed on the horizon, so people should have been milling about after supper, gossiping as they prepared for bed.
The streets were eerily silent. Squire shivered on my shoulder, hiding behind my braid.
Glass lanterns flickered, hanging off the sides of ice-covered townhomes with decorative red bows tied to them. The oil would burn out in a few hours if not replenished. Someone had lit them this morning. Foreboding crawled down my neck. Long icicles hung from them.
The trees lining the streets were completely frosted over. Chimes tinkled ominously. Boot prints covered the snow as if people had trampled frantically.
I tried the nearest door—locked. I pressed my ear to the wood, and voices whispered inside. They’re alive, just hiding. I staggered back, faint with momentary relief.
A hard object bumped my shoulder. Tarantula stood unnaturally still, his head cocked like he was listening.
Pulling out my longest knife, I ran.
Unease rose as I sprinted down my street.
The first townhome door at the end of the row was already open.
Fresh blood splattered the porch. I inhaled.
A familiar sweet tang hung in the air, but as soon as I tried to place it, an overwhelmingly rancid scent overpowered the notes.
It reeked of tyranny. Of the Draconis Empire.
Something thudded.
The open door banged noisily against bricks, half hanging off its hinges. A head with sightless eyes rolled through the entranceway, down the porch steps, and onto the street in front of me. I tilted my head to the side as it turned over.
It was Manto—or what was left of him.
My stomach dropped.
The Empire’s designs on Westmere always ended in the same way: death, subjugation, suffering. An Emperor could conquer our lands only through the slaughter of innocents.
A door slammed shut three townhomes away. Two intruders, a man and woman with long, flowing white-blond hair, appeared on the porch—and froze. Royal Mages. Slim purple masks covered their pale faces.
Blood covered their hands. Eight houses away from Mom. “Please let her be okay,” I prayed desperately to the old god.
The Royal Mages turned their heads in unison, staring straight at me. Their hands started to glow a bright silver.
Armor clattered against chains as Tarantula stepped up beside me.
A pernicious deathly quiet blanketed the street; colors leeched saturation; the world held its breath.
“Tarantula . . . is that thou?” the woman yelled, her posh accent jarring.