The next few days are frantic with things to do and errands to run – the Mirrors take about an hour each to calibrate, and there are twenty-seven of them – but they're also strangely relaxing. Or maybe not so strangely. The busywork keeps the mind busy too, freeing it from the burden of constantly worrying about the inevitable moment when Iborus looks to the sky and sees nothing but wings.
That day will come soon enough.
Meanwhile, Kaishen is getting easier to handle, but not because I'm getting any better at...whatever it is that I'm doing. With each Mirror calibrated the sword's fire becomes a little weaker, that sense of getting sucked dry and backfilled with molten lead a little less vivid. Kathanhiel puts it succinctly, 'Kaishen doesn't make the fire; it is a vessel of transference, and it has been a while since its last meal.'
Speaking of whom, she is fit enough to walk about now, and by walking about I mean jogging on the ramparts at sunrise, clutching her chest and staggering every other step yet somehow finishing the lap ahead of the few ambitious soldiers running with her. Not wanting to look lazy, Haylis and I join her on the third morning, thinking that surely two healthy young adults could keep up with a one-armed woman who until recently could not even stand on her own.
Well...
With the new sun behind our backs, our shadows draw long and thin before us along the inner ramparts, but even they couldn't touch Kathanhiel's back. Look at her; she's swaying left and right like a drunk and barely managing, yet fifty steps ahead of us.
Haylis, gasping and running right beside me, blurts out, 'She's not human! How is she doing it?' then out of nowhere she blurts at me as well. 'How are you doing it?! In the trials you could never keep up!'
Should I feel insulted? Probably. Then again, she's not wrong. With rising heartbeat comes a warmth into my chest, quite different from the pain of exerting beyond one's endurance; it radiates a disconcerting numbness into my legs, taking away the feeling of straining muscles...and the feeling of having legs. They're so agile. Too agile to be my legs.
What am I worried about? Doesn't it feel good to be able to run fast?
We pass in front of the waterfall. Here the curtain wall breaks into several great arches that cross over the shimmering lake below. The commotion down there draws my attention. Floating in front of the dockyard, at right angles to the long central pier, is one of Iborus' ironclads. From up here its hull looks like a black almond with two squat cylinders attached on either side – paddlewheels, all covered up in metal bands. Scores and scores of people are climbing aboard from the pier, their drab grey clothes fluttering in the wind.
'The mountain folk. Herders and traders, mostly,' says Haylis. 'This is the last of them I think. They'll ride all the way to the Kingdom.'
'Why would anyone live in the Ranges when the dragons are around?' I ask.
'Another stupid question.' Haylis huffs. 'It's their home, idiot.'
Before I could think of a smart comeback, Kathanhiel suddenly stops and looks to her left, at the blasted fields to the south. Haylis and I catch up to her, both panting. She doesn't look around, only points to the horizon and asks, 'Do you see that?'
Instinctively, hating myself a little bit, I spend five seconds sweeping the southern sky. Nothing but wispy clouds; no sign of dragons. Then Haylis elbows me in the ribs. 'At the ground, idiot! On the highway!'
Squinting lessens the morning glare, and materialises a lone rider galloping towards the fortress. There's something...off...about the gait of the horse, and it's not that the animal's wounded. It's the rider. Can't put my finger on it.
'To the gate,' says Kathanhiel, her face an unreadable mask.
Taking one of the many stone bridges that link the inner and outer walls, we reach the gatehouse five minutes later. Already the sentries are on alert; they give us stiff salutes despite the fact that wearing sweaty shorts on these walls is likely frowned upon.
Kathanhiel nods at them but gives no instruction, then proceed to lean against the battlements, gazing out intently at the approach. Haylis and I do the same.
The rider's black cloak looks familiar...but not quite. The horse, on the other hand, is unmistakable.
'That's Killisan,' I burst out.
Haylis gasps. 'Really? Then that must be Arkai! But he looks...looks...'
'Come with me, both of you,' Kathanhiel says, then to the soldiers, 'please open the gates. You, may I borrow your sword?'
Haylis and I follow her down the staircase to the squat iron gates that is the sole entrance into Iborus. For walls so high the gates are quite conservative in comparison, only wide enough to fit three little giants walking abreast; put another way, it's not wide enough to fit the wingspan of fully grown dragon.
According to everyone's account of how I got here, I have seen these gates before, but my simple fascination at seeing the complex murals engraved upon their steel panels – depicting humans and giants standing hand in hand against a great dragon – is completely fresh. I've not seen it before, yet I should have.
How can I not remember anything?
That's not exactly true. The three pillars, the crimson sea, the bloated dragon and the little giant with the harness of blades – I remember those things vividly. People are supposed to forget about dreams the moment they wake up, aren't they? So why...?
The gates open quickly and quietly, its hinges well-greased. Outside, the horse is fast approaching; it is close enough now for everyone to distinguish that there are actually two people riding on its back. It hadn't been noticeable at a distance probably because they're both wearing identical black cloaks, and that the one in front is weirdly diminished in stature – weirdly, because the smaller person isn't riding so much as having been plopped upon the saddle like an object.
That gait. Killisan's stumbling gait.
Kathanhiel gestures everyone else to stand back. Just her and her esquires now, alone in the courtyard before the gates, waiting. Waiting.
'Why are we so tense?' asks Haylis. 'It's just Arkai with another Ink Scout.'
I shake my head because my guts have knotted up and are refusing to let out a word.
The horse gallops through without breaking stride, kicking up a trail of panicked dust. Yep, there are two riders; the one sitting in front is small in size and seemingly unconscious...wait a minute. Wait a minute. His face –
'What's wrong with him?' Haylis gasps. 'Is he sleeping? Why does he look like...like...'
The rider at the back – a tall, broad shouldered man with a plain face and a half-grey beard – pulls up ten steps before Kathanhiel and speaks with an oddly excited voice. 'My lady Kathanhiel, I come bearing grave tidings –'
Kathanhiel dashes forward before any of us could blink, her sword a streak of grey lightning arcing straight into the rider's face. What is she doing is she just going to kill him for no reason –
A bright clang. Sparks fly. The tall rider falls from the horse with a glint of steel in his hand.
Without support, Arkai begins to teeter on the saddle, which is strange because someone like him could easily ride in his sleep so what...what...
No. My eyes are lying. My eyes are lying I'm not seeing this oh Maker what have they done Arkai is falling off the saddle he's falling off because he has no legs, he has no legs to hold himself up and where are his arms where are his arms he has no arms to hold the reins no arms so he's falling falling to the ground –
I move, then Haylis moves. We catch Arkai and roll him over. So light. His body weighs nothing (because he has no legs no arms and no legs). His eyes are squeezed shut. Feverish air runs in bursts from his nose, his chest heaving slowly, too slowly. Underneath his black cloak the stumps on his shoulder and waist are wrapped in old, blackened bandage that stinks of gangue; he's been like this for days...weeks...
Laughter breaks the trance of horror like knife across a taut rope – mad laughter, coming from the tall rider scrambling to his feet. But he has such a good face, a kind person's face.
'I tried to fool you!' he cackles. 'But I'm the fool thinking I could fool the great, eminent, all-mighty Kathanhiel.'
Kathanhiel moves again, her sword rising in an oblique arc at the rider's armpit. Still cackling, he twirls out of the way with loathsome skill – but not quite. Pieces of black cloth fall, revealing the pale skin over his bony ribs.
'Come, come!' he taunts, spinning a flat, chisel-like dagger between two fingers. 'Talukiel said I could play!'
The tantrum of crossing blades sound like the rattling of a jar filled with nails. Kathanhiel is a whirlwind, deterred by neither her ill health nor fighting left-handed...but her opponent is eerily fast, dodging and feinting with the nimbleness of a monkey. Her sword slices the air apart, sending out gusts that scrape painfully against the skin, yet the flat dagger is always there to meet it, always there to stop it from moving a hair closer and marking the skin.
The rider's black cloak, on the other hand, is falling to pieces. Two seconds later, his right arm lays bare; three seconds, his left torso. Yet even as her sword grows faster with each swing, so do his reactions. Because he's not hitting back at all – not even trying to – the rider's defence is impenetrable.
Suddenly Kathanhiel leaps back. 'Talu taught you well,' she says, her voice flat and emotionless.
The rider bows low, head banging against knee. 'It is the highest honour – the highest! – to be acknowledged by the illustrious, flawless, beautiful beyond words –'
'I will know your name before taking your life,' she says.
The rider's head snaps up without him straightening from the bow, like a puppet with half the strings cut. 'Palasine of the Vassal of Irisol, at your humble service.'
'Palasine of the Vassal of Irisol, do you know the meaning of cowardice?'
More cackles. 'Nay, would you assign such a word to one who has come to challenge you alone, in your home, prepared to die?'
Kathanhiel raises her sword and points it between his eyes. 'You defend yourself so very well. Cower before my blade some more, won't you? Live. Breathe. Buy yourself one more second, brave warrior, so that by some miracle your life may be spared.'
The grin freezes on the rider's face. 'I am no coward.'
'Of course not.' Incredibly, Kathanhiel turns around and throws her sword to the ground. 'I spare you. Go, Palasine, run way. No one will stop you. That is what you're wishing for, isn't it?'
There's venom in his eyes now – real venom, none of that pretentious half-crazy charade he was putting on moments ago. 'I did not come all this way to run.'
'But you did,' Kathanhiel says. 'The deferent swing of your blade has told me the truth, so there is no need to keep lying to yourself.' She waves dismissively. 'Leave. I've no time for your posturing. Have your miracle and leave.'
An inhuman scream rises from the rider's throat, terrifying yet inexplicably pitiful. With one monstrous leap he lunges at Kathanhiel's back, the dagger in his hand a brilliant mirror of reflected sun. For the first time since his arrival, he's striking out.
Kathanhiel doesn't even look around. She bends over, her left hand shooting up at the perfect moment to grab onto the incoming wrist. With a half-roll forward she throws the rider to the ground using his own momentum, then immediately puts a knee onto his folded arm, pressing the dagger onto his throat.
'You think dying makes you brave, do you?' she says softly, leaning down with all her weight. The flat blade sinks into the rider's neck, spilling red everywhere. 'It makes you a fool.'
Gurgling. Thrashing limbs. Sputtered words that sound like curses or pleas. Then dripping silence.