CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 19
It was dark when Gayriel awoke, the sounds of a storm waged outside; rain and the occasional flash of lightning. Inside, the room was black as pitch, even the light from the coals had dissipated. Blankets covered her. She was warm, but not hot, as she would expect. Where was Dynarys?
She propped herself onto her elbows, muscles in her shoulders and thighs twinged as she moved. Instantly, her thoughts focused on why, which set off a whole new series of aches. She reveled in the memory, and feared it a little. She had gone to him willingly, chosen him, but was she ready for such a thing? A dragon's mate?
Low mutters broke through her reverie, the sound that had awoken her to begin with. She turned her head and squinted. The next flash of light brought a bright blond head into view. Strale. And they had to be discussing the situation.
She felt around for her dress, hurriedly. Whatever they discussed she wanted to be part of it. It took a few swipes of her hand against the sheets to remember that her dress had met its demise. She sighed. She wasn't likely to get it on properly in the dark anyway.
Wrapping the sheet about herself she rose and padded over to the doorway.
“...its unwise,” Strale was saying. He paused as Gayriel neared, likely making out more of her form than she could of his, and inhaled deeply. Could he really smell her new status? She imagined the blond of his eyebrows meeting his hairline in shock.
Instead, he simply tilted his head...unsurprised, as if she had been a foregone conclusion.
“Congratulations, my Lady,” his shadow shifted, looking to Dynarys, “though I am hardly sure this was the time for it.”
“Tell the dragon that. I was nearly mad with need.”
Strale grunted. “He demands our presence in an hour. It is your choice, Dynarys. You know I will follow you to death.”
“What's this?” Gayriel asked.
“Celcath has demanded a meeting; given the circumstances, I do not expect any Amber Lord will be returning from it.”
Her stomach turned. In the last hours, she had pushed away the knowledge of their situation, back into the place she would think about later. A puzzle to sort out. Now lives dangled before her, their remaining time unwinding before her eyes, and real, true fear settled in.
A wisp of it escaped before she remembered her barriers.
“You see,” Dynarys insisted. “You must take her to safety. You are the only one I trust with the task, Strale.”
Strale said nothing for a long moment. “As you command,” he paused once more, and then placed a hand on Dynarys's shoulder. “Try to come back alive.”
And then he was gone, and Dynarys was closing the door.
“What is going on, Dynarys?” She did not like the finality of their speech, or the waver in her own voice.
Dynarys studied her for a long while. She could see nothing, but she could feel his eyes upon her. Then he spoke.
“From the first display of power, I did not expect that Celcath planned for the delegation to leave here alive. Fool that I am, so eager for the orb, I did not imagine an underlying fault to his invitation. Nor did I think clearly when I brought you along,” he sighed. “I have made a mistake, Gayriel, and now I will be lucky if it does not cost all of our lives.”
His words were sure, and laced with self-hatred.
Gayriel did not believe he owned the fault he was placing upon himself, but she was curious about one thing.
“What is the orb, why risk for it in the first place?”
For a time, she thought Dynarys would not answer. He moved into her space, backing her toward the bed, forcing them down until they lay next to one another. Large arms wrapped around her, holding her close, his hand stroking her back. There he held her, clutching her to him as though he held the world.
“I never thought to find you,” he admitted. “My mother,” he chuckled bitterly, “I was told I would not have a mate, that even if my dragon chose, none would want me, not as a half breed. Yet, here you are,” soft lips met her forehead.
She was confused by the admission. How could anyone not want him? Six, she wanted him now, in the moments before almost certain death.
“The orb would have been my redemption. The bright light of our people. A way to view the Quatori with certainty, and even, if rumor is true, communicate with the evil.”
She sprung upward, or she tried to; Dynarys held her close. Grim had hinted of such things, that the Shifters had bargained with the creatures.
“Why in all the realms would you want that? To make deals with them?”
“I do not want that Gayriel, the Quatori have no honor. There is no bargain that will hold them, despite what the humans once thought, and what some think now. But dragons are at a distinct disadvantage. We might have the strength to counter them physically, but with them invisible to our senses, we are vulnerable. Three weeks before you came, several Quatori were let into the aerie. They were destroyed before they fed, but two dragons nearly lost their mates.”
“You are certain they did not find a weakness in the wall?” Why would anyone let them in?
She felt him shake his head. “They had to be let in, the walls have kept them out for a thousand years.”
“Then Kurath, too,” she settled against him again, thinking.
“Yes, then Kurath. And if Scet scents him around here, then his guess is logical that someone on the delegation is the traitor. The Archon believed one of the Shifters betrayed us, but now...” he trailed off.
“So you need the orb to root out those unloyal?”
“As much as we need it to level Celcath and the Onyx Aerie. The dragon bloodlines have never been fully at peace, it would spell doom for the Amber Dragons to allow the Onyx Aerie to continue its path of destruction.”
“How did they get it in the first place? Are there more?”
“It is unknown. Until recently, the orbs were thought to be myth.”
“Then how do you know Celcath even has one?” she turned to look at him. What if this entire delegation had been for nothing?
“The Amber Aerie is not the only Aerie with troubles. Spies abound in the Onyx Aerie, as well.”
Politics.
Yet humans were no different. Not in the streets, and not the nobles. She lay thinking for long moments. There had to be a way to secure peace, or at least their lives.
“If I were able to retrieve the orb...”
Dynarys sat upright, tumbling her to the bed. “Absolutely not. You will take no more risks,” he growled, instantly angry.
“But wasn't that what I was brought for?” She sat up.
“And it was stupid, this entire delegation was foolish. Have you not been listening? I will not have your death upon my head, too,” he paced the floor, his footfalls punctuating his words. “I will go to Celcath's meeting and, if I can, I will create a diversion so large that you will not be missed. You,” he leaned in, crowding her with his body. An intimidation tactic...but it worked, “will obey Strale, he will deliver you to Scet, outside the aerie walls. You will stay safe, Gayriel, I cannot have it otherwise.”
Her mind whirled. He refused her aid, but he needed it. She had just as much right to want him safe as he had to see her safe.
“Promise me,” he leaned forward, forehead against hers. His eyes burned with his demand. “You will find safety. Then, if I survive, I will come for you.”
She met his eyes directly, “I promise.”
But she lied.

Never had an hour passed more slowly. Despite Dynarys distracting her with trailing fingers, she struggled to keep her barriers erected, and inconspicuous. He was a smart man...er Dragon Lord, and she knew he would sense a complete lack of emotion, so she exuded worry, and longing, and just a tiny bit of what she was coming to feel for him.
It was enough, at least she thought it was, for he did not question her honor again.
When the summons came, they shared one last long kiss, one she vowed to remember forevermore. Then he was gone, promising Strale a signal when he was ready.
And she was glad he did not push, for she had spent the time since her promise constructing a plan to break it.
For the good of everyone, including herself, she would find that Orb. Tonight.
As soon as the door closed, she slipped into a pair of Dynarys's black breeches, discarded on the floor, and used strips from her ruined dress to secure them on. Then she searched his gear for a shirt. As she did, she peered out at the sky, the inky black mass hung, without light from moon or star, filled with black clouds that mirrored her mood and determination. Strale was out there somewhere and, beyond him, dragons of the Onyx Aerie, but that wouldn't make a difference.
She found something suitable and three sheaths, as well, complete with pointy daggers that might get a woman out of a tight place, if needed.
She had noticed something while confined to her chambers, before Grim had ever escorted her to the plateau city, and her guess was Dynarys's chamber held the same feature. Quietly, she built the fire, careful to keep it flickering no more than she needed. Then, she scoured the ceiling.
Aha! There.
The small hatch was nearly hidden, but for a tiny, misplaced eye and hook.
Another woman might never have reached it, but her arms and legs remembered the strength of training and, with the help of a few stools and the ceiling’s beams, she should be able to shimmy her way upward. Now she simply had to bide her time and make the preparations...silently.
All frustration left her, replaced with determination and direction. She peeked through the windows once more, easily locating Strale, his agitated steps visible even without the torches lit. She might have mirrored them inside, if she were not worried he would hear her. No, best if his mind were to wander elsewhere before she started.
She counted fifteen painfully slow minutes before daring to move again.
Using all the stealth she could muster, she worked her way back toward the hearth, to the place beneath the hatch where she had pulled the stool. She topped it with a second that she had found crammed in a corner. Climbing the set was perilous, but she managed, thankful the pieces were made with such ridiculous and solid construction. Balanced at the top, she hesitated for a moment, preparing, then bent her knees. She would only have one shot. If she missed the first jump, she would crash down and be discovered.
She peeked at Dynarys's long black blades, which she had painstakingly shoved through the latch of the door to delay any pursuit. How long they would hold, she could not tell, but if all went well she would be too far gone for Strale to stop her. She patted her side to ensure the daggers were secure. Great Six help her if she had to use them. Either way, she could delay no further. This was it. She took a deep breath and prepared for her goal.
She sprang up from her crouch, using her toes to push even farther, and harder, directly down, so the stools did not topple. She rose rapidly to the first of the beams. They were as wide as a man’s torso. Even with her elbow crooked around one, she was bound to fall. Working quickly, and using the strength of her stomach and back muscles, she twisted and swung her legs up against the beam across from her. Pushing against that gave her leverage and soon she was propped between the beams, hovering above stool and floor.
She snuck a glimpse at the door. None of the windows showed the courtyard from her position, but the door remained still and quiet. The difficult part was done.
The hook and eyelet were a little harder to find in the dark, but she soon succeeded. Using one arm to support her weight, she quietly hefted the hatch door with the other. Above the hatch, she discovered an access to the attic, presumably for easy maintenance of the roof tiles. She crawled up. It did not take long to carefully remove enough tiles to get outside.
The roof was slick, drops of mist beaded upon it, gathering into bulging pockets and then trailing downward. She crouched on the tiles, gathering her bearings. To her left, past the roof's peak, lay the courtyard and Strale. She was facing the tower, a deeper shadow in the darkness, which rose above the wall guarding the apartments. Her goal.
She crept along the roof, her feet sliding in the wetness. Curse it. She had tied the slippers as tight as she dared without losing circulation, but they would not do, nor would any of Dynarys's footwear fit her. It might make her feel vulnerable, but she trusted her own feet more than the silken fabric upon them.
She slid the slippers off and dropped them back down the hole into the attic.
Outside, nothing moved; it was as though the world held its breath. And with the storm hanging in the night sky, anticipation and energy filled her.
The apartments were separated slightly, a gap too large for her to jump and too far from the wall to assist her over. There were no potted plants or convenient ladders propped along it either, she had checked.
Her only choice was to approach the gate—and the guards—as near as she dared and wait for Dynarys's distraction.
Her breath caught briefly, fear for him welling moisture in her eyes. She kept moving, though, crouching toward the wall and then down along it, careful not to make a sound. It was a good thing, she decided, as she neared the gate, that the Onyx Dragons had removed their Shifters. Scet was right. Disguising ones emotions was an easy trick, but the Shifters scented like a hound, and she would not have had a chance.
As it stood, the Dragon Lords guarding the gate were not well tempered. She paused several feet back, knees bent with her back against the wall, and watched them, black silhouettes pacing and milling about like predators before a hunt. How much did they know about their Archon's plans? And did they all follow him blindly? Dynarys had suggested the presence of a spy, but it would be foolish to assume disloyalty without proof.
She shifted closer, moving herself from the wall slightly so that she was braced in a runner's starting position. Her window of time would be short. She counted on the distraction to pull the guards from their post, but that was when Strale would discover her gone, as well.
She just hoped she was fast enough.
The screech came a moment later. A dragon's battle cry; an echoing, ear splitting sound. Instantly, the sky filled with forms and wings. They dove and tangled with one another, snarls filling the air.
She gasped, searching for Dynarys. They were so outnumbered, how long could he last against so many opponents?
The cry pulled three of the six men from their posts; the remaining Lords paced, farther out, wings bared and glowing Onyx eyes raised upward.
This was her chance.
She sprang lightly to her feet and worked toward the gate, where she slipped through. Still pressed close to the bricks, she followed the wall. She did not have time to sneak behind the guards, so she counted on their attention being upward a few moments longer. Once she was far enough from them that her figure wouldn't be obvious, she dashed toward the shadows of the next building over.
She paused for a second, listening. No signs of pursuit followed and she allowed herself to believe she had managed her escape. Now, for the difficult part.
She had never prayed to the Six, not earnestly. But now, watching the beasts of the sky tear viciously at one another, she begged any one of them to intervene on their behalf.
A waste of time, and she knew it. Gods cared not for the struggle of mortals. Still, if it would increase his chances, she would pray for Dynarys.
Lightning pealed, a crash of thunder hard on its heels. She inhaled deeply and ran, keeping as much as she could to the shadows and working her way to the tower.
It hadn't occurred to her, while plotting, that there would be so many eyes about to see her. Her original plan of climbing from the ground was less than probable now. Surely an Onyx dragon would swoop down and that would be the end of her.
A pained shriek burst through the night, followed by a meaty thunk and the crumbling of stone. A dragon had met his demise.
She dashed to the tower doors. Despite the action in the skies, or perhaps because of it, the ground was abandoned. She imagined the servants cowering...wherever it was Celcath kept them.
So much the better for her.
The tower doors swung wide, one dangling precariously from its hinge. The summons must have been to the main floor, to the great hall where they had first met Celcath. She waited for a still moment before slipping inside.
There she stopped. The great hall was destroyed and abandoned. Lanterns flickered wildly in the storm's growing fury. The black and gold carpet they had traversed was shredded and strewn across the vast space, tangled with bits of furniture and glass from broken windows. Blood pooled on the ground in several spots, the golden light from the flames dancing on their surface.
A lump on the dais drew her attention.
Instinct told her what it was, and deep seated fear kept her from guessing who.
Please don't be Dynarys, she prayed to whomever was listening. Her chest felt hollow, she didn't want to see, not really, but her feet drew her forward. They grew wet as she neared and she stared down at them, unseeing. Blood dripped from the dais ledge and onto the bare skin on top her feet.
She had to know.
Her heart in her throat, she stepped up and moved to the body. And she could breathe once more.
Celcath lay there, his skin patched with his own blood, dark eyes open and unseeing toward the ceiling. A deep slit ran across his throat and his face was frozen with an expression of surprise.
Distraction indeed. How had Dynarys managed such a feat? Or was this simply the result of his distraction?
She looked around desperately. Surely he must have died for such a thing, but there were no more bodies to be found.
A soft sound, out of place against the patter of rain and battle cries from without, had her drawing her weapon...or rather, Dynarys's weapon.
The dagger felt heavy in her hand, as though it already carried the weight of many lives lost. The absence of Dynarys's body, of any body other than the Archon's, strengthened her enough to creep to the servant’s stairs.
They hid behind a section of brick, but otherwise had no barrier to prevent one from coming and going. There, pushed back against the lowest stair, was a sobbing woman. And she looked familiar.
“Hey,” Gayriel whispered, lowering the dagger. She checked behind herself, ensuring her safety. “Hey...,” she hadn't even caught the woman's name.
The woman did not respond, just remained curled against her knees. Wisps of her brunette curls pulled from her once-neat braids and tangled downward over her arms. Gayriel frowned.
Some of the strands were tinted red, and blood was smeared along her arms, the light gray of the fabric ruined. There was something else there, colors that didn't belong in battle and the smell of fresh paints.
Gayriel crouched beside her. There wasn't much time.
“Hey,” she repeated, cupping the woman's face firmly and lifting it.
She nearly stumbled backward at what she saw: bruises marred the delicate skin, hiding the freckles on her cheeks and nose, and a large shallow cut down one side of her face and across her lips bled openly. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.
“What happened?” she demanded.
The woman shook her head, trying to free it from Gayriel's grip, but she held firm.
“I just wanted to paint,” she sobbed at last. “I thought you might...I didn't know they would come.”
“Who, woman? What in the Six realms happened to you? And where are the rest of the servants?”
“They are gone, dead, or hiding, I don't know. The Quatori...,” she looked toward Gayriel, but her eyes were unfocused. “It was supposed to be safe in the aerie, the only way to be safe...that's what he said...that's why I let him...,” she blinked, a tear escaped and trailed through the blood on her face. Then she focused. “But he invited them, he let them in.”
“Who?!” Gayriel nearly yelled. For the love of the Six Realms, what was happening?
“Grim,” her eyes focused on Gayriel's own. “Grim. He murdered the Archon, and he brought the Quatori down upon us all.”