Byzantine Purple

The Past Written VI: Through The Eyes Of The Serpent

Dragomir Drašković stood on the edge of a cliff, his left hand conveniently concealed behind his back: every muscle from his shoulder to his fingers felt the strain, turning his whole arm into a crooked knot of trembling tissue. He clung to Leudora's iron-enhanced blood, knowing it would eventually slip away from his grasp. He had to act quickly and without hesitation. In his right hand, Dragomir held his blood-stained dolman that covered the belted scimitar, waiting for the two strangers to come closer.

"A most original way to kill me." Her stubborn voice with that unmistakable Belgrade accent rang in his ears. It was almost amusing to see someone try so hard to hide the obvious: she could do nothing against a gravity-switcher in her pitiful condition. But she refused to admit it. And he understood her reasons better than most. He himself would have died before allowing anyone to see his weakness.

The two strangers were young gravity-switchers, patrolling the area. Catching parts of their conversation, Dragomir identified them as Poles, which could only mean that the Lovrens had started recruiting allies to hold the Breaches behind the Alka's back. He remained perfectly still, only casting one chilly glance at the men. They stopped, opened their mouths to greet him, but backed off, intimidated by his Alka uniform.

"Good night to you, Guardian," one of them nodded politely, "Do you require our assistance? We have registered the presence of a Byzantine Blood." His small round eyes widened at the sight of Dragomir's dolman, and he turned helplessly to his peer.

"We assumed you were in trouble." His companion switched from their shared Offcast tongue to stilted Croatian. Dragomir found his accent barely tolerable but reacted with aloof politeness.

"Your assistance is unnecessary. I have left the car in order to take a breath of fresh air. I believe you have more urgent matters to tend to."

"Fresh air?" The first man stared at his dolman with undivided curiosity. His companion peered from behind his shoulder.

"Yes, it is understandable, but..." his voice trailed off, and he fidgeted uncomfortably in Dragomir's presence. Years ago, Dragomir had blamed his eerie appearance and unusually colored eyes for the other's distrust of him. With time he discovered that his uncanny looks granted him certain opportunities. A flash of his icy glare could silence a heated debate, and his long shadowy figure could instill caution in a most reckless opponent. These patrollers were no exceptions.

"We will need to see your documents. It's war... you know... You're heading to the East, and we are still fighting for the territories! There may be at least 15 gliders with time-mastering crews in the radius..."

Dragomir slightly elevated his hand to cut his long-winded explanations.

"There is no need for justifications. These precautions are perfectly reasonable." Still keeping his left hand behind his back, he removed a small badge attached to the collar of his uniform – a curved dark-red spiral. Both men stepped aside, shock and awe in their confused gazes.

"Oh, it cannot be..." the first one muttered, "It is impossible. We should have recognized you." He bowed deeply, not daring to raise his head. But few ever dared to stare into his glassy eyes.

"We are... terribly sorry, Commander Drašković. We did not know you were here... We beg you to accept our apologies..." They pleaded as if he indeed could poison them with his looks alone. Dragomir found the scene pathetic, barely suppressing a derisive scoff.

"The Dalmatian Serpent!" The elder man exclaimed in Polish and immediately pressed his palms to his lips. "Oh, I did not mean any disrespect!" He trembled fiercely, backing away from Dragomir. "If there's anything you need..."

"I thank you for your gracious offer, but I do not require your assistance," Dragomir responded, preserving his dispassionate façade.

"Of course, of course!" They hurried to their glider, probably happy to put as much distance between themselves and Dragomir as they possibly could. Before they both disappeared, Dragomir called out to them, his tone pointedly polite.

"Gentlemen, one more thing," he paused, "I suppose I can count on your discretion. The Grand Magister would not wish the moves of the Alkari to be common knowledge."

"Certainly, certainly!" they assured him eagerly. The corner of his lips went up: he had just made sure every Offcast in Croatia knew his whereabouts and that he had engaged and, most probably, killed a Byzantine Blood. "There is no better way to spread information than to use the phrase 'I count on your discretion,'" he thought.

Leudora's limp frame floated above the rocks and landed on the smooth stone, obeying Dragomir's exhausted hand. This time her compliance surprised him: she did not as much as flex a muscle, while he felt beads of cold sweat well upon his forehead. When he proffered her his hand, she refused his help with a surprisingly gallant gesture. He waited patiently, knowing she would not be able to rise to her feet on her own. To Dragomir's shock, she did, although he could see her knees buckle. There was something about this woman that he could not quite understand: she was at once ruthless and merciful. He wondered if Leudora herself knew that.

"You are a masterful pretender," she spat out.

"On the contrary," he answered, "I haven't lied to these patrollers."

She passed out before she could reply, caught by his quick hands in her fall. Dragomir could never forget the serene expression plastered on her tired face. He asked himself if he should have killed her instead of bringing her along. After all, he knew she was dangerous.