The Bound Ones Final Draft: Before The Dawn
#7 of The Bound Ones Final Draft
Before the Dawn
"Gone," said the gray-green, unaware that he had given voice to the word that was making his head spin.
The crowd had fallen to pieces soon after the climax of the spectacle. He had crossed the bowled floor, many times, stumbling through the departing throng, but found no aid. Now there were only a few dawdling enclaves of close acquaintances left, and Sidro was not among them.
Rhys stood between two of the exits, lost and increasingly alone. His legs ached, no longer accustomed to traveling such distances, and he was sore through his midsection from being elbowed and kicked. The knowledge of his predicament was sour in the pit of his stomach. His eyes were wide, his gaze increasingly distant.
Sola. Sola was alive. Achar was dead. And Sidro was gone, gone.
He stood between two of the exits in a state of shock, repeating the fact to himself again and again, because he couldn't make them stick.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to cry. He couldn't cry. He wasn't sure if he ought to want to cry. He wasn't sure if he'd be capable of feeling anything else ever again.
He was hollow, just hollow, and Sidro was gone.
"Well!" said the tall guard. He made an excuse to his friends and approached the unaccompanied prisoner, the Siwan he recognized from his cell block.
Rhys looked at him, looked past him. His empty gaze was vaguely supplicating.
The guard quirked a brow at the yellow-collar. He reached out, without fear of this clearly impaired dragon, and flaked some of the yellow away with a claw. A carnivorous grin spread over his face: "Well!"
"Rhys . . ." Nace turned with a jerk. He had been reclining against his cell door, which afforded a scenic view of the wall and the latrine. His eyes were red and grainy, but not from sleeping. He rubbed them. The gray-green had made him no response.
The guard had his arms pinned behind him, held at the wrists, bruisingly hard. He walked with his eyes cast down, his head hanging limp. He walked like a broken thing.
"Rhys!" Nace insisted. "What happened? Where's Sidro? Rhys? Look at me . . . Look at me!"
Rhys was looking across the hall, at the empty cage that had housed someone he once thought a friend. It had been stripped of all its surface luxury, down to the bare stone, and scoured of any identifying mark. Not even a heaped and dirty blanket indicated it might be occupied.
"Achar's things," said Nace. "After you were gone, they took . . . I don't know why. I don't know anything. Rhys, please talk to me!"
The guard spared a hand to unlock the cell door, the door to the proper cell, across the hall from Nace. THe guards believed in accomplishing things with a minimum of blood loss; they had probably been waiting for Sidro to take him out so they could put things right again when he returned.
Rhys gave no sign that he noticed, or that he cared.
"Master," Nace pleaded, more and more alarmed, "you must have been there . . . Please, just tell me what happened . . . The punishment . . . I need to hear . . ."
The Pythian merely scowled at him.
"Ardo," the yellow-green whispered, almost inaudible. "You knew me once."
The guard stiffened. His expression bore no rage at this affront, only a deep and strange species of hurt. An unspoken agreement had been broken, and not by him.
"Please," said Nace.
"They didn't hurt him," the guard muttered. "They didn't lay a finger on him." He made no eye contact, ashamed of himself, and left them without another word.
"Didn't hurt him . . . ?" Rhys echoed, seemingly to himself. He began to snicker helplessly. "She killed him, Nace. He tried to rape her and she killed him. They used to play together, Nace, and she tore him to pieces!"
Nace stared back at him, agape in horror.
"Achar's dead," Rhys conceded, and this, at least, had begun to make its impression upon him, had sunk itself into the slow cement of his thoughts. "Sidro . . . Sidro . . ." He laughed bitterly and flapped his hands above his head. "And Sola . . . Sola's alive, Nace. They used her. She's alive, and she's insane. And I wish, oh, I wish I were, too!"
And the yellow-green began to cry.
Nace made him talk. He didn't want to, but having spoken the final, terrible things, the rest of it simply poured out of him like a wash of sick. There had been pain, but when he was finished, Rhys felt no more of the grinning urgency that had made him begin to speak in the first place. He could breathe again, and he would be sane.
He still could not cry. Telling had blunted the horror of it, the facts of the matter had sunk in, but the only thing he could feel was exhaustion. He could not cry, perhaps he wouldn't have to, but he could sleep. He felt he badly needed sleep.
Nace sat with his back to the hallway, curled in on himself. He shook his head in mute denial, hopeless denial. He believed it all, but he didn't want it. He didn't want any of it, but it was beyond his power to change or help anything. Deep in his heart there was gratitude, relief that it hadn't been worse that it was, but he couldn't accept that from himself. Knowledge of this moral weakness only sickened him.
"Do you think Sidro will be all right?" the yellow-green whispered, after a time.
Rhys only shrugged.
"I hope so," Nace murmured.
Eventually, they both slept.
Rhys awoke in the endless half-light of the cells. There was no sound, no smell of food. Not morning yet. He hid his eyes. He wanted darkness. Nothingness.
Someone was singing. Soft words, sad words. An old song, one he knew well enough, though the melody was unfamiliar. It was always the same. It could even have been about the battle that had brought him here. It was a song of loss. Of youth, and death.
A loud thump and the rattle of iron bars cut the words away. There was a whispered curse, and the scrabble of claws.
Of course, Rhys thought sickly. Who else?
Sidro staggered around the corner, drunk. Almost insensible.
Rhys turned his head against his shoulder, flinching away. Not now, not this, not him. Wouldn't he go away? He did before, why not now?
"Said . . ." mumbled the silver-blue. He pawed the bottle out of his satchel and had another long drink. "I said, I have to go back. I have to go back! But I couldn't do that. Couldn't do that. Too useless. Too late. What good? I just ran. I ran." He extended his hands, palms up, and smiled hopelessly. He didn't recognize Rhys or anything else. "And then . . . then . . . So I said I'll get drunk. I'll get so drunk I don't care! and if I don't care . . . I don't care . . . I won't care if he . . ." He reached out slowly and touched the dark bar in front of him. He focused on it, then beyond it, and met the gray-green's eyes. "Oh," he said, realizing. "Shit."
Rhys felt a sudden flare of anger in his chest. He thought he smelled blood, beneath the acid stink of alcohol, and he wanted to make it run. So stupid. So useless. "If you don't care then what? What?"
"I don't know," Sidro replied miserably.
Rhys wanted to strike him. No, not merely strike but catch and hold and slam him against the bars of the cage, until metal screamed and the whole row of cells vibrated in sympathy. Change that abject look of incomprehension, close the eyes and shut the mouth, maybe forever. And scream at him, hateful words, hurtful words, so that he would know. So that he would understand.
Strong words, false words, because what he really wanted to say was too wretched, too weak.
You hurt me, you hurt me, you hurt me . . .
And, worse than that, deep in his gut, churning with acid and bitter bile, a finer truth: I LET you hurt me.
Why? How could he have allowed Sidro to mean so much, to get so near? Sidro, a Pythian! A captor, a slaver. Had he fought off Oraz's influence to succumb so willingly to another's? He had let the dragon paint his collar, change it. Had Sidro changed him, too? Made him passive, willing, stupid? Made him forget Sola and the debt of love he owed her? Or had Rhys managed that last all on his own, with Sidro's complicity to make it easier for him?
She was his life! And if not for her, for her and her sacrifice, he might never have realized. He would have lived out his days here, believing her dead, sunk in debauchery with a Pythian. A fool, dreaming he was happy. Yellow-collared, like a slave. Like Nace.
Sidro had allowed him to dream. Sola had wakened him, and now he saw the Pythian with cold eyes.
"You must hate me," Sidro said.
The gray-green seethed quietly. Yes. Oh, yes. He had trusted the dragon, too much. And now, no more. Sidro never told him, never reminded him of were he was, and what was being done to him. Sidro had wanted to keep him, had eased him and indulged him, while others of his kind drove Sola to madness! And he had allowed the Pythian to do it. He had wanted the Pythian to do it. He should have known! He should have . . .
"He was your friend," the silver-blue said.
Rhys blinked. He made a soft, strangled sound, blinked again, and shook his head. The words had no sense in them. "What?"
Sidro nodded to the empty cell. "You must hate me." He sobbed and buried his muzzle in his arms. "I was so stupid. I might've killed him myself! They knew . . . They wanted you to hate me. They wanted to punish me, too."
Punish . . . ? Who . . . ? The gray-green's thought were halting, shattered. Achar, he realized, and he wanted to laugh. That was the least of things! What did the gold matter? In the last weeks of his life he had been nearly as bad as Oraz. Petty. Cruel. He had done all in his power to make their lives misery. Perhaps it never amounted to much, but that was not for lack of trying. Rhys would have killed him himself. They were better shut of him! He wanted to laugh, and, without warning, he started to cry. He thought of Achar, and he cried.
Sidro tried to speak again and Rhys snarled incoherent protest. The Pythian cringed away, but the gray-green's rage was self-directed. Clutched to the bars, his claws curled out, he banged his head against them. Once. Twice. Again.
"Stop it!" Sidro cried out, not daring quite to touch him.
Nace awoke in this chaos, mewling fear.
Rhys ignored them both. He sobbed, claws bared and teeth clenched. "I will not cry for him!" he snarled. "Not out of all that happened. Not for him!"
"He was your friend," Sidro said softly.
Rhys cut his claws at him. "He was no one's friend! Not after Oraz. He was bad. He did everything he could to hurt us. You weren't there, and Nace slept, but I know! He was evil and I hated him!"
"He was a child," Sidro said.
"No," said Rhys. "He was too cruel!"
"Children are cruel," Sidro said. He looked back at Nace and dropped his muzzle, ashamed. "Children can be so cruel. They don't know any better, they just give back what they've taken. They learn. And if no one's there to help them, no one there to be kind, no one there to just tell them what they've done is wrong . . ." He choked and clutched his head. "If there's no one to forgive them, why should they be kind? Ever . . . Ever again . . ."
"You couldn't know," Nace said. "No one could've . . ."
"You knew," Rhys broke in, his expression naked pain. He shut his eyes and hid beneath his wings, cold and ashamed. "You knew what Oraz would do to him. You tried to help him."
_He wants to cut you off.
He wants you to blame us._
He'll hurt you, and when you go to him for comfort, he'll hurt you again.
The things he does will cut you inside if you hold them there.
"He wouldn't let me . . ." the yellow-green whispered. "It's happened before."
But Rhys didn't want to talk about it. He wanted to cry. Now that he could, it seemed he might never stop.
They had lost Achar, around about the time he stopped talking to them. Then Rhys had been taken away, and Achar had refused Nace, because Nace wouldn't tell him what he wanted to hear. Rhys had been stupid, trying to convince the dragon he would be safe and protected when it was so obviously a lie. Nace wouldn't do that, couldn't, and Achar had despised him for it. He turned, instead, to Oraz, who would indulge his small desires . . . For a price.
What good was a quilt, a mattress, a china cat? What good, really, when one was utterly alone and wretched? He had paid for his things, and paid dearly for his choice. Would a stronger dragon have been able to give them up? Maybe, but Achar had never been strong. Would he have been able to, if Rhys had helped him?
He would never know that, not now. He hadn't even tried. He had abused the dragon, cowed him and cursed him, and called him irredeemable. Perhaps, even after the damage he had done, Nace might have brought him around again, given time. But it was too late now. He was gone.
Sola had given him candy, and pushed him on a swing.
Rhys had called him brave, once, though with as little care as he might have thrown a bone to a dog.
Those days were gone, and Achar with them.
Rhys cried himself to sleep.
"Why are you still here?"
Sidro brought his head off his knees. His wings were curled around him. His eyes were red and slitted against the unwanted light of the cells. He had finished his cider. He was sobering up. It was terrible. "I guess so you could hate me," he said.
"I don't," Rhys said. But he wouldn't say the words the Pythian needed to hear, he wouldn't lie. He was numb again, cold almost, and that was a mercy. In sleep and half-asleep, it had finally clicked. He knew what he had to do, and what he would have to do to the Pythian to make it possible. Had he been able to feel, he might have hated himself, but he was going to do it anyway. He had abandoned Achar, but he would not now leave Sola.
Sidro felt guilty, horribly guilty, and guilt was a lever. It could move mountains. It had moved Pythians, despite the fear of pain and punishment, to help Nace in his time of need. It would moved Sidro now. He would help Rhys. He would have no choice.
"Nace?" the gray-green asked. Nace, if he knew, would never let him be so cruel.
"Asleep again," Sidro replied softly. "Please let him. It's been hard . . . you don't have any idea how hard for him."
Rhys nodded and dropped his voice, "It's you I need to talk to, anyway."
The silver-blue gazed back at him. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly down. He was getting ready to cry again. He was sure whatever Rhys was going to say would make him cry, whether it was bitter or sweet.
Good, Rhys thought. "About what happened," he said, "there's something you don't understand. There was a girl I knew, I loved her."
"Sola," Sidro nodded.
Rhys flinched, pained. That was unexpected. "How did you . . . ?"
The Pythian would not meet his eyes. "Sometimes, when it was very bad, you wanted her. You spoke of her. But you said she was dead."
The gray-green expelled an uneven sigh. How he had confided in Sidro, how he had trusted, how he had loved. How stupid he had been. No wonder it had taken so long to see what must be done. He had been too close to see.
"She was the female," he said. "In the pen. The one they used to kill him."
Sidro pressed hands to his muzzle. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't know . . ."
"I didn't know either. I wanted her to be dead, so much. It would have been better for her, and it was easier for me." He touched his eye. "She was wounded. Badly."
The silver-blue nodded. Yes, he had seen the scar.
"I don't know what they've been doing to her--" Sidro was shaking his head at him and Rhys held up a hand "--it doesn't matter. She's alive. She has to get out of here. You have to help me get her out."
Sidro continued to shake his head, more vehemently now. "Rhys, if I could! But I can't even get near the females, not for anything. They don't need me, the healers take care of them, good care. And they are guarded . . . Even the guards don't have keys, they aren't trusted. Only soldiers, council members, high-ranking . . ."
"Oraz has one," Rhys said. "You're going to take it from him."
"What?" Sidro stared at him, mouth unhinged, voice an airless squeal. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "How?"
"Kill him," Rhys replied. "Or drug him," he offered, a concession to the Pythian's horrified expression. "I don't care which. Something tasteless, you must have something. Get me that key!"
"Ha," said Sidro, a little puff of air, weak and sickly. "Why didn't I think of that? Yes, I ought to have five or six different things that could do it, by now. I could even make something special, it shouldn't be hard. I could have done it years ago, I was good enough at chemistry by then. Did I honestly think anything else would stop him? Did I honestly think he would change? Why, I'll do it tomorrow! It would be the easiest thing in the world--if I hadn't been so fucking stupid!" He reached down and pulled a fanged piece of glass, perhaps half an inch long, from the heel of his foot. It wasn't the only bit, but it was the largest.
"Sidro, what in nine hells . . . ?"
"It was the first thing they did," he said. "Once Ardo told them I had painted your collar, and left you alone there. That's some serious shit, you know. Irresponsible as hell. People could have died. They came, and they broke everything!"
Rhys remembered the little room. Full to every corner, full to the ceiling with jars and bottles and machines of glass, including the complicated distillery that made the cider. "Gods, Sidro, have you been walking around like that?"
The Pythian did not think that of much importance, in light of everything else. "I'm not to be trusted, not any more. Not with . . . Privileges. Privileges, they said! I'm the only one that cares for the slaves, I'm the only one that cares . . . I begged them! Just for the medicine, just for the stuff that would save people's lives. And when there was no more of that, I begged for the cider, I can trade the cider, I can get some of the things I need with the cider, and when they broke that too I begged them to leave me a little, just a little to get drunk with . . . They did that. They did that." He picked up the empty bottle. "Gone now. Everything."
Rhys regarded the silver-blue, shaking his muzzle. No. No, he hadn't let it go this far, go on this long, only to have Sidro useless to him now. Perhaps the vessel was empty, but the vessel itself remained. There had to be something!
"Except the Draught, of course," the Pythian rambled on. "I'll be making that until the day I die. Nothing else. I think I'll kill myself," he added, conversationally. "I'm no good for anything else. I know the Draught, I could make it stronger . . . Very strong, to kill me. After all these years breathing it in, I've probably got a tolerance. People used to die, all the time, before I fixed it . . . As if I were doing them a favor, making them live. Yes, I think I'll . . ."
"No," Rhys said. His voice was low, head bowed, eyes dark. "I think you'll kill Oraz."
Sidro's mouth dropped open. He closed it with a hand. "No," he said. "I can't . . . The taste . . ." He trailed away. His mind was working, his eyes had gone unfocused.
"There's a way," Rhys told him.
"There might be a way," Sidro said. He laughed. It would be simple, if he could get what he needed. He had been taking the Draught that way himself, since childhood. He could force it on Oraz, and might never even wake him. And if the male woke, and killed him, was it really any great loss? He had not much loved his own life, for years now. There would be no more medicine. This might be the last good, the only good he could do. This might be the only way to keep Oraz from coming back, from killing Nace and Rhys and others for his revenge. The council would do nothing to stop him, they had made that pretty clear by now. There was only Sidro.
"Yes," he said. "There's a way. And, who knows, if we plan it well enough together, I might even live long enough to get you the key."
I've killed him . . . And he knows it. He doesn't care.
The thought raised no feeling in him. He turned it over in his mind but it was dull and flat. If cooking the Draught to that strength didn't kill him, then sneaking past a battalion of sleeping dragons to administer it surely would. He would either be caught and executed for his intentions, or Oraz would waken to find the silver-blue standing over him with a spray bottle, and that would be the end of it. At least, if Oraz caught him, it wouldn't be public . . . But perhaps that would be no mercy.
Sidro knew this, and such was his guilt and hopelessness that he asked only one thing in return: that they take Nace with them. They key would open his cell as well as Sola's and it would take but a moment to release him. Of course, Sidro had warned, he would balk at the very idea. He would panic, he would refuse. But he would obey them, if they were firm. If they even got that far. If Sidro lived.
If he dies, I'll never get Sola out of here. She'll be trapped here, for the rest of her life.
And this brought fear, sickness, and the shakes. He sat on the floor and clutched his hands behind his head, waiting for it to subside, hopefully without puking. He was not entirely numb, and if he thought of failure he would drive himself mad with grief. He pushed the thought away with an almost physical effort, turning instead to his own part in their plans. He would rehearse. He would be ready. He would not fail.
The first thing, and the hardest, was this waiting. He had known that Sidro was doing this to make Rhys stop hating him. He had known this was going to hurt Sidro, and that the risk was great. What he had not known, until they had already decided much, was that Sidro would have to do it all alone. In light of his irresponsibility, the silver-blue's "ownership" of the red-collar had been tabled in committee. He would not be allowed to take Rhys out, not now, maybe not ever again. Rhys would have to wait, first for the dragon to make ready, and then for him to make the attempt. Rhys could not help him until he had the key.
If the Pythian succeeded, if he survived, he would return to the cells some hours after evening meal, to free the gray-green, and then Nace. This would all be coming as a complete surprise to the yellow-green, kept close secret over the next few weeks. In his fear he might do anything, if he knew. Better to spring it on him at the very last minute, and give him no choice but to obey.
After Nace would come the guards. Along with his satchel and whatever supplies he could manage, Sidro was bringing rope, and a simple weapon Rhys instructed him in making. A sap, which, applied forcefully to the back of the head, would bring instant unconsciousness. If they could take on one guard at a time, every time, there would be no one to raise an alarm. Over the night shift, there would be only one guard in this wing, frequently incompetent and usually asleep. Ardo, for instance, and Rhys felt there would be no difficulty dealing with him. Then, at the hub, there was the keeper of the keys. These were mostly, small, fidgety dragons, not expected to defend the key safe themselves, but to ring the alarm and summon the garrison lodged nearby. He should also be alone. No trouble to deal with if they sent Sidro out to talk to him and distract him first. After that, the silver-blue would lead them through the tunnels, to the female wing, and there all simplicity ceased.
Even in the middle of the night, there were two Pythians guarding the females. One walking the hall, the other at the entrance to examine keys and credentials. With the females, there were often incidents. Dragons of inferior rank would try to sneak inside to see them, and the females could be a danger to themselves, especially when full of eggs. They were drugged as a matter of course with the evening meal. Not all, because not all would eat what they were given, but most of them. It helped ensure a quiet night, with fewer troublemakers awake. That was why there were only two guards. In the daytime, there were many more.
Rhys did not think Sola would be drugged. He hoped so, but he could not expect it. Not from what he had seen and what he knew of her. There would be easy walk out of the fortress with her sleeping limply against his shoulder. She was crazy. Whether some spark of sanity remained that could later be rekindled was immaterial. She was insane, and if she did not know him when he came to her, she would fight. He would fight her, if he had to, and he would bind her. Gods help him, if he had to, he would sap her, though that might crack her skull and kill her. He tried to inure himself to the fact that he might have to kill her.
If he could not get her out, if after reaching her the plan went sour, if they were seen, if an alarm was raised . . . If they became lost in the tunnels beneath the earth, or the door Sidro was leading them to was impassable. If there was to be no escape, then he would kill her, and then himself. This he promised, promised her, promised himself. If he reached her, he would get her out of here. One way or another.
Occupied with such concerns, he refused his breakfast, and later lunch. He took dinner when it came and scolded himself. It would do no good to starve. Sidro had enough to do without carrying him. He flexed his arms and wings and wondered how weak his time in the cells had already made him. He was thinner, he knew that. Would he even be able to fly? There was not enough space in the cage to stretch himself, no way to practice. There was nothing to do, until Sidro came to tell him they were ready. He would not even see the Pythian again until then.
He turned to Nace, intending only to encourage him to stop picking as his food, and ended up speaking of Sola. "I know a girl who'd just cry to see you eating like that."
Nace glanced up and smiled wanly. "I look at this and I want to cry myself."
"It's pretty bad, isn't it?"
"Uniformly awful." the yellow-green agreed.
Rhys snickered softly. "Sola was never much for stew, really. I guess she'd understand. But her bread, now . . . Every morning, Nace, fresh. And butter, lots of butter."
The yellow-green gazed at him, past him. "Ye gods, it's been an age since I had butter."
"Oh, and sometimes, when we had honey, she'd make these little cakes, fried cakes, they were so sweet they'd make your teeth hurt . . . did you ever have honey, Nace?"
"Sounds . . . familiar." The dragon considered, eyes closed. "Tell me more."
"Well, it's yellow. Sweet. It's about the sweetest thing in the whole world, and you can suck it right out of the comb . . ."
He spoke of Sola, and the things she loved, and that lead him to speak of the outside, of life before the cells. It was the first time he'd dared do so. He'd been afraid there would be tears, and there were a few (more from Nace than from himself) but there was joy as well, and now anticipation.
Nace missed the sun, he kept bringing Rhys back to it. The gray-green had never so appreciated the quality of its light and warmth, the blessings it bestowed. For the Siwa, the sun god was fairly minor, secondary even to the moon that brought the tides, but now, here in the cells, he found he missed it too. He thought maybe he missed it more than anything.
They spoke for hours, slept reluctantly, and woke up pinched and grudging for morning meal. But instead of resting afterwards, they spoke again, about food and drink and music, and the shimmery gold of afternoon light through the trees in summer. They exhausted themselves some time before dinner and awoke well after sunrise (what would have been sunrise, out there, above) missing breakfast too, but they hardly noticed it. Nace still wanted to hear more.
Rhys wasn't sure if the yellow-green had sensed the nervousness, the need for distraction in him, or if he only needed some affirmation of life after Achar's death. Maybe they both needed that. But the more he spoke of life, the more he worried for Sola, and Sidro too. There was so much to risk . . . So much to gain, if they succeeded.
The gray-green heard him coming, and then he saw him, and he knew that if Sidro was not ready now, he never would be. There was no flesh on him. He could barely walk. He could barely breathe. If the Draught was not completed, Sidro was in no shape to finish it. He would die trying.
Rhys wanted to take it back, all of it, the plans they'd made, the choice he'd forced on the dragon, the hurt he had caused and allowed to continue . . . But he wouldn't. Sola, he thought. Sola. Even as he stood to meet Sidro and help him keep his feet. All for her. Everything for her.
Oh, gods, but I am killing him.
Sidro leaned against him, put his muzzle over his shoulder, shut his eyes and breathed. Just breathed. It was hard. It was all he could do for a while
Nace paced his cell and tried to speak to them, but Sidro couldn't, and Rhys wouldn't. Not yet. Not until he knew. "Sidro?" he whispered.
The silver-blue turned his muzzle to the gray-green's ear. "Tonight. Has to be."
"You need rest," Rhys told him. "Tomorrow, or the next day . . ." But that was all he would allow himself. He would make Sidro do this. If it were only for himself he couldn't, not after seeing the dragon like this. So sick, so weak, so hollow. So hopeful. Rhys hand once looked at Oraz that way, hoping for an end to pain, knowing it would not be. If it were only for himself he couldn't stand it.
I love you, he would say. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters, as long as you'll stop hurting . . .
No.
The pain might be all that was keeping Sidro going, all that was making him do this. And he had to do this. For Sola. He had to.
"Tonight," Sidro insisted. "Oraz took time off, a long time, starts tomorrow. Coming for one of you. To break you. Kill you. Has to be tonight."
"Is it ready?" Rhys asked. "Are you ready?"
Sidro nodded against him. "It will work. It will kill. I . . . will try."
Rhys nodded, couldn't speak. He squeezed the silver-blue against him, trying to press the hurt out, because he couldn't say the words that would do it.
Nace was almost in tears. "Master!" he cried. "Master!"
Sidro turned to look at him with a smile. He straightened upright, and Rhys could see the effort it cost him in the white knuckles of his hand around the bar. "I'm okay, Nace. Really. I think . . . I must've had something that didn't agree with me. Just, on top of everything. I just wanted to come see you, that's all."
"Why?" Nace demanded, which was quite reasonable.
Sidro had no idea why, and he was about to fall over. Rhys held him up and answered for him, "Nace, he's all screwed up, don't make him talk. He's going to go home and lie down."
"I . . . uh-huh." The silver-blue nodded, eyes half-closed. "That."
"Yes," Nace said. "Please do that."
Sidro turned back to Rhys. The smile remained, but the eyes were watering, not quite full. "What if . . ." he said softly. "What if I said I didn't want to do this?"
The gray-green closed his eyes. "I'd say you have to."
Sidro sighed, "I thought so."
"Do rest," Rhys told him. "Please."
The silver-blue gulped and nodded. "Try . . . I'll try." He left them.
"Bastards," Nace hissed. He was pacing still. "They work him too hard. They'll kill him. That stuff will kill him!"
Rhys hid his face in his hands, wanted to cry, didn't.
With no partner in outrage, Nace's anger burned itself out quickly. He sat facing the back of his cage, and for the first time in a long while they had nothing at all to say to each other.
It was too late. Sidro was dead and they were all going to die here. There was nothing else that would keep him so long, nothing else that it could be.
It was, perhaps, the fifth time he had thought this since evening meal, and by now he was starting to believe it.
He didn't really know how late it was, but Nace, restless and unsettled, had finally passed out on him, so it must have been a long time. And he couldn't wake the yellow-green to ask how long, because Nace would ask questions. And if Nace found out what was going on, he would panic even worse than Rhys was doing now.
It's late. It's much too late. Something went wrong.
The silver-blue wasn't coming, Rhys was increasingly sure. And now, instead of having to deal with a dying Nace unaided, he had nothing to do at all. What could he do? Call the guard? Send him after Sidro to stop Oraz from killing him, or to pick up the pieces if he already had? No, no. That would do so much harm and no good at all.
He just couldn't do it, that was all. Rhys had pushed him too far. Sidro had done so much for him already, and now he had demanded murder. The Pythian was spread too thinly, after all he'd been through. He dropped the bottle, made a noise, fell, spilled, or maybe he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Maybe there was too much mercy in him, even for someone like Oraz. Maybe he would rather die instead.
Maybe he slept through, Rhys thought feverishly. _Maybe he's sleeping now. We can try again tomorrow, there's plenty of time tomorrow. He'll feel so much better . . .
He HAS to take me with him next time. I can help him. We'll do tomorrow. We'll do it together. I'll think of some way. There must be some way! I can't go through this again, I can't . . ._
Where IS he?
He smelled blood.
He wasn't bleeding.
Sidro?
Had the Pythian crawled again? Had he failed, had he crawled, was he dying?
The dragon's step was slow, uneven, but when he appeared around the corner he was standing, a coil of rope hung at his elbow, his satchel slung across his chest, and a key clenched shivering in one hand.
"I'm sorry," Sidro was saying, perhaps too loudly, perhaps too soon, but Rhys didn't care. If the guard came, Rhys would strangle him. If Nace woke and refused to go, Rhys would hog-tie him and drag him. Sidro had made it, the rest of them would, too.
"I'm sorry," Sidro repeated, now right in his ear. "I'm late. It took longer than I thought." The key wouldn't go in. The key absolutely would not go in, he couldn't still his fingers to force it into the hole, and the gray-green was limp, he offered no aid. He didn't even seem to notice. When Sidro finally popped the lock, he knelt beside him. "Rhys, are you all right?"
The dragon nodded. Breathed. Nodded. "I thought you weren't going to make it."
"I made it," Sidro said. "I'm here."
"Where are you hurt?" Rhys asked him, standing. "Are you all right to walk?"
"I'm all right to walk," Sidro said. "I'm not hurt."
"You're bleeding."
"I'm not," the silver-blue insisted. He shifted his wings self-consciously. With one hand on on the gray-green's shoulder, he picked up his foot and looked at the bottom. "There, you see, it's stopped. I had to open it up again, a little while ago. It healed funny after the glass. It'll be all right. It doesn't even hurt anymore."
Rhys regarded him doubtfully, but did not speak.
"Dammit, I've made us late already, you don't have time to stand here staring at me!" Too loud, and this woke Nace.
Sidro left Rhys and began the machinations needed to get the key in the yellow-green's door. The gray-green, seeing, darted after him and helped to guide his hand. Nace blinked at them, still half-asleep.
"Master?" The dragon rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"
"Before dawn," Sidro said. "We still have a few hours."
"To do what?" Nace asked, and Sidro told him.
"Oh, no--" the yellow-green managed, but this was all, and not loudly. Rhys had muzzled him with a hand.
"Nnnnnnn!" Nace insisted. He struggled and whipped his head from side-to-side.
Sidro caught his hands and held them at the wrists. Rhys wrapped his free arm around the yellow-green's middle and together they stilled him.
"We're going to let you go, Nace, and you are not going to scream," Sidro said. "Because I've stolen this key, and if you bring the guard I'll be punished, maybe even killed, and it would be your fault for screaming. You understand me?"
"Nnn," Nace pleaded. He sobbed a weak breath through his nose.
The Pythian sighed. He joined the dragon's wrists in one hand, and reached for the rope with the other. "I'm going to tie you up, Nace," he said. "And then we're going to let you go, and I'm going to hang on one end of this rope. And you're not going to scream, because of what I just said and because you're a good slave, and I'm your Master and you have to do what I say."
To this, the yellow-green nodded. He shed silent tears, and when Rhys released him, he only asked them quietly, "Why are you doing this?"
Sidro wiped his muzzle for him. "For you to be safe, and for Rhys. For you to have a chance."
"Will you keep me?"
"Of course I will," the silver-blue said, too quickly. But that, with the rope, was enough for Nace. When they led him, the dragon followed.
The night guard, not Ardo but similarly careless, went down with a muted crack that made Sidro flinch and Nace mewl. After they had tied him and stowed him away, the silver-blue asked Rhys of he would be all right when he awoke. The gray-green cheerfully lied to him, "Oh, sure. Just one heck of a headache."
Sidro wanted to believe him, and Nace, in his condition, would never contradict. No one tried to stop Rhys, or made any remark, when he dispatched the keeper of the keys a few moments later. There were no other dragons and no other problems until they reached the the female wing, where there were suddenly confronted with both.
There was an antechamber off the corridor they had taken, not unlike those before each wing of male slaves, at least in shape, though perhaps a bit larger. It would have to be larger to fit so many things in it. The stone walls were draped in rich fabric of varying hues, and the floor was carpeted in thick plush. The place was furnished in decadent style, mostly chaises and low tables. The entry to the cells was nearly as splendid as the council's doorway to the arena, and it was framed in gold. Gilt or painted, it was impossible to tell. Beside this was a heavy wooden desk, and a chair, for the guard. The light was low, buttery and natural, from the flames of many sweetly-scented oil lamps that hung about.
There was none of the harsh, utilitarian atmosphere of the male cells. The key-toting members of this exclusive club were invited to stay awhile, lie back, relax, maybe indulge in a little conversation. There was probably food and alcohol here, and gods knew what other amusements, during the daytime. And only when they were good and comfortable would they pass through the ornate doorway, to have their pick of the females. To rape. As if rape were making love, or at least something more romantic. Ravishing.
Or maybe they didn't even care. The great majority of Pythians, Sidro excluded, didn't seem to care. Maybe it was for the benefit of the uninitiated. All for show. Silk over savagery.
Rhys was reminded, in a way that made his flesh creep, of the alterations Oraz made to Achar's cell.
He didn't want to stand here looking at it, and he wouldn't have. They had so little time! But they could not go in. There were two Pythians, a larger bronze, who leaned casually against the wall, and a greenish silver, seated behind the desk and doing paperwork. They were laughing and talking together, and neither one showed the slightest inclination to go about his rounds in the kennel. There was a large, brazen alarm bell on the desk between them.
"You said only one guard at the front," Rhys hissed in Sidro's ear.
They had retreated back into the corridor, and snuck quick and guilty peeks into the room from the relative safety of the shadows.
"One of them will go," Sidro whispered back, high and anxious. "He has to. It's his job!"
But they had been waiting quite some minutes and neither dragon had even moved. They didn't even seem to be nervous that they might be caught. They were completely absorbed with each other, neither looking up nor around. Rhys might have been tempted to make a go at them if they hadn't been facing in opposite directions.
Nace, his hands still bound before him, finally took a little courage and leaned past Sidro for a look of his own. "That's Belez," he said, indicating. "That's Silio. They're friends."
"So?" Rhys prompted, exasperated.
"Belez is a soldier," the yellow-green replied. "Not a guard at all. He must be off duty. They're visiting."
"Fuck!" said Rhys, clasping hands to his head. "Sidro, you have to go in there. Talk to the soldier one, distract him. Get him to look the other way so I can drop the guard first."
"What?" cried Sidro, almost too loud. "Me? How?"
"I don't know," Rhys whispered. "I don't know, but we can't just stand here. You have to do something. Anything! Just make him turn." Rhys shoved the dragon encouragingly into the room.
"Um," said the silver-blue, when both dragons fell silent to stare at him,. He looked back to the corridor, shuffled a couple of steps forward, and then said it again, "Um." He was still carrying the rope and wondered if they would make him explain it. He wasn't even sure he could explain himself. "Uh, which one of you is the soldier?" he said, to say something.
The bronze dragon, presumably Belez, stepped forward with a grunt.
"Oh." Sidro glanced to one side, and then the other. "Ah. Oh." He swallowed.
The guard, the silver-green, peered at him closely. "Aren't you that skinny weird guy who was down here asking everybody for iodine?"
"What? Oh!" Sidro nodded readily to that. "Yes. Right. Iodine. That was a while ago. I need, um, another favor. I'm looking for someone, a soldier . . . I need . . ." Stumbling towards them, he latched on to the bronze's arm. "I need to ask you something. It's kind of embarrassing--could we go over here for a minute? A favor. I'll make it worth your while. Do you like glass?" Talking a continual stream of such nonsense, he managed to pull the dragon to the other side of the room and face him away from the door.
Rhys moved so that both dragons were in his line of sight, and focused on the guard. For a moment, the silver-green watched the others talking, perhaps straining to hear some embarrassing detail, but he soon gave up and turned to the records on the desk before him. He licked the nib of his quill, considered with his head in one hand, and made some small addition. When he at last seemed fully absorbed, the gray-green slunk into the room against the wall.
Nace, with no instructions and no one left to tell him what to do, padded a few uncertain steps after him.
"St!" Rhys cut his hand across his throat, pointed at the subservient dragon, and at the hallway behind him. Stupid! Go back! He didn't have to do it twice. Nace disappeared and Rhys checked back with the Pythians. The guard was still scratching absently with his quill, and Sidro had the soldier bottlenecked between the wall and an ottoman. Not making a sound, not even daring to breathe, Rhys closed the distance between him and the desk. He drew back his hand to the full length of his arm, and struck.
The guard gave a brief, strangled sound, perhaps the snick of teeth into his tongue, and fell behind the desk with a thump.
It was too much noise, far too much, Rhys could see it in the soldier's posture. He was going to look. He was turning around. There was no time to hide, only a split second to act; Rhys ran, lifting the sap for a blow that would surely come too late to silence him. One cry, and the other guard would hear, and come running, ringing the alarm . . .
But the soldier never completed his turn. He started, then stopped. Miraculously, as Rhys lurched forward to connect with the base of his skull, he had actually begun to turn back in opposite direction. He staggered and fell beneath the blow, splayed across the carpeted floor, an impressive erection wilting between his legs.
Sidro still had his hand out, fingers clasping empty air.
Rhys gave a weak, airless cry and drew back in disgust. "Sidro, what were you doing to him?"
The silver-blue frowned at him and straightened, folding his hands under his arms. He ducked his head and spoke softly, like a scolded child, "You said anything."
"I didn't say that! You didn't have to do that! Sidro, gods!"
"Worked, didn't it?" muttered the Pythian. "It always does. Get off me." He pushed the gray-green away, and, incredibly, began to go through the gilt-edged door.
"Sidro, the other guard!" Rhys cried, half strangled. He caught the Pythian's arm and pulled him back. The silver-blue hissed at him, drawn in on himself defensively. "The other guard," Rhys repeated, with genuine concern. Sidro was warm, too warm, but shivering. His eyes had that glazed look they got after a long day's battle with the Draught.
"Oh," said the Pythian, relenting.
"Sit down," Rhys told him, as he made ready to confront the final guard. He pointed to a chaise, but Sidro sat down right where he was, on the floor, with a muffled groan. "All right," the gray-green allowed. Now that he was down, let him stay that way. The guard wouldn't see him there. "Just be quiet now. Rest." Sidro slumped against the nearest stick of furniture and shut his eyes.
Rhys surveyed the situation, his back pressed to the wall beside the door. No, the guard wouldn't see the soldier either, not without turning to look. And the silver-green was under the desk. Rhys would not spare a moment to better arrange things, he had no idea how soon the other guard would be coming back. He waited, listened, and Sidro slept.
As soon as the guard's head came into view, about ten seconds after his footsteps warned of his arrival, Rhys clubbed him to the floor. The bell he had carried, muffled against the thick carpeting, made barely the noise of a pin dropping.
Perfect! thought Rhys.
The silver-blue, and the garrison housed nearby, slept safely on.
It took some careful stacking, but Rhys managed to get all three Pythians bound and crammed in the space under the desk. With no one visible, at least to cursory examination, the anteroom had the semblance of normalcy. Perhaps the desk guard was in the toilet, or getting something to eat. Maybe he quit and ran off to join the circus. As long as no one looked behind the desk.
Even so, their period of grace was small, and shrinking. As soon as any one guard awoke or was discovered, the fortress would go on alert. Soldiers would flood the corridors, and escape would become impossible.
But it was not without a pang that Rhys woke Sidro from his needed rest. The Pythian jumped and would have cried out, but he remembered himself in time and quieted. He looked a little better, more sensible, but Rhys couldn't count on it to last long. Sidro had been through too much.
"Where's Nace?" the dragon asked.
"Nace?" Rhys blinked. "Oh. Hell. Out in the hall, still, I think." He should have called him in sooner. Maybe Nace could have helped with the . . . But he remembered the yellow-green's bound hands, and petrified expression. No, probably best to have left him out there, but it was safer in here now. He called to the dragon, softly, "Nace, it's all right, you can come in now."
A yellow-green muzzle peeped over the threshold and disappeared again.
"Dammit, slave, get in here now!" Sidro snapped, and that got him moving. The dragon skidded to a halt at Sidro's feet.
The silver-blue closed his eyes and would not look at him. "Why do you have to be this way?"
Nace's words were the delicate scratch of chalk on slate, "Because I'm terrified."
Sidro heaved a defeated sigh. He took hold of Nace's bonds to lead him. "Come along, then."
"Yes, M--mm . . ." He swallowed the word. "Yes."
The entrance was wide enough for the three of them to enter abreast, though Nace was grateful to be allowed to follow a few paces behind. The avenue leading up between the cells was similarly spacious, though the cells themselves seemed as small as any others. Perhaps smaller. The preponderance of curtains made it difficult to tell. Most of them were drawn. Perhaps for privacy, or perhaps, again, for that perverse little romantic twist. The bars were of gilded iron. Behind them, there was silence.
"We'll have to look for her," Sidro said.
Rhys nodded. He pointed to the other side of the corridor. "You take the left, I'll take the right." There was, of course, no question of Nace taking any initiative, and the dragons left him in the middle of the walk, squirming and whimpering to himself.
It was strangely voyeuristic, like looking into peoples houses. Each cell was a world unto itself, partitioned, furnished, decorated. In each, a single dragoness was sleeping . . . Always on the floor, never in the beds, though there were many beds, large and comfortable looking. Beds were not used for sleeping here.
And as Rhys looked in on each, peacefully sleeping, in her own lavish little room, like a princess in a fairy story, an iron band of obligation began to constrict his chest. He stopped, watching a little green collar, yellow of scales, nestled against her pillowed hands.
She can't be past her first season, Rhys thought. Can't be!
Had he meant to leave all these helpless dragonesses here, while he went running off with Sola like a thief in the night? Why only Sola? Why only think of her? Because he loved her? Had these females known no love? Did they not deserve their freedom as much as she? Did they not deserve the chance?
I'll let her out, he thought. And if he'd had the key, he would have. But he didn't, and he had to stop. To think.
Would it be any chance? If he opened her cage, other cages, all the cages . . . Even if all the slaves could be relief upon to act sensibly, which they couldn't, could a group of so many dragons have any chance of leaving the fortress unnoticed, alive? He was taking an enormous risk just freeing Sola. Could he handle more than one dragon who was mad, like her? Could he handle even just the one?
It isn't fair. He whined, the sound like a needle at the back of his throat. It isn't right. None of this is right. I can't choose one and not another. Not Sola, not anyone! I can't do this, we can't do this, it's too cruel . . .
"Rhys . . ." Sidro motioned him over. He had made quite a bit more progress, and was about ten cells past where Rhys stood rooted to the spot.
The gray-green let the curtain drop, hiding the little dragoness from view. His fingers had gone numb, pressed bloodless in his distress. I can be cruel, he thought. I have to be. To Sidro, to her, to all of them. I have to choose. It's the only way any of us are going to get out of this alive.
And if he had to, perhaps his saving grace was that he chose out of love.
He crossed to where the silver-blue had beckoned him, and looked inside the cell.
He breathed her name aloud, "Sola . . ." And he forgot all else.
She was in the corner, huddled there, with her back against the wall of bars. She had forsaken even the comfort of the rug to secure herself in the most sheltered place in the room. She was not sleeping. If she was drugged, her fear and anger had overridden all effects. She was watching them, and she had begun to growl.
"Oh, Sola, honey, don't . . ." He reached out to her through the bars.
"Rhys, be careful!" Sidro warned, yanking him back a pace.
"I will, I will," he said, though if the Pythian hadn't reminded him, he wouldn't have been. "Sidro, can you get it?" He didn't dare to take his eyes off her.
"A minute . . ." The key clattered all around the lock before it finally slid home. Rhys let the door swing open, all the way, before he dared to step a foot inside.
She lowered her head, glaring at him with one bright eye, and deepened her growl.
The gray-green stopped right where he was. "All right," he said. "No closer, not now. But you have to listen to me. Sola, it's me. It's Rhys. I am not going to hurt you. I want to get you out of here. I want to help you. Sola, you know me, and I have never hurt you. I want to help you. I want to save you. I want to take you home . . ." He hazarded a single step closer, and she snarled. But he pushed it. He took another, and another, until he saw her shift her weight forward, to the balls of her feet. She was readying herself to strike.
"Sola," he pleaded, "don't you remember me? Even if you don't remember me, don't you want to go home? You knew me once. You trusted me. I love you. I don't want to hurt you." He was whining. He made himself stop. It was pointless. He was just another male, to her. She knew what they did, and she would not allow it. "I don't want to have to hurt you . . ." and already he was reaching back behind him so that Sidro could pass him the rope. He twitched his hand until he felt the coil of it laid securely in his open palm.
"There isn't much left," Sidro told him.
"It's enough," he said, not even looking at it. "It has to be." He held her gaze. She would not attack him while he was looking at her, not at this distance, but if he even blinked she would take her advantage. He edged sideways, carefully closer, hoping to flank her. She had let Achar very near. She had even allowed him to touch her, but he had moved stupidly. Rhys was too careful, too slow. She saw him for the threat he was and watched him, kept her body turned towards him, claws out, teeth bared. She must have thought she could still scare him off, or she would not have bothered with warnings. She could probably smell it on him. Reluctance. Fear. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to do this.
She was ready to jump him. If he got near enough for her to catch him in a single leap, that would be the end of it. She would be on him, and her teeth would find his throat. He would allow her to jump him, to make that first move, but he could not let her strike to kill. He kept his hands up, at the level of his shoulders, ready to catch and push her back.
She knew that was what he was doing, she wasn't stupid. As she watched him, she was weighing her options, and so was he. She might forgo the throat, a quick kill but a small target, and go instead for his belly. His plates would grant him a moment's grace, no more, against the strength of her teeth. He would have to be ready to fall and kick her away, kick hard, with both legs, or she would have his guts. He would not die quickly, but he would die here, useless to her and to everyone else.
Or, a third option, difficult but tactically smart. She might go for his balls.
Ready for all of this, as ready as he could ever be, he sidled ever closer, practically oozing over padded rug. "I don't want to hurt you," he repeated, less to her than to himself. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will . . . I don't want to, but I will . . . I will!"
"Oh, no, don't! Oh, the poor thing!"
"Nace!" cried the dragon. It was all he had time for. The yellow-green was running into the cell, his ineptly-tied bonds in a heap behind him. "Don't hurt her!" he cried, and he moved so fast that not even Sola had a moment to react to him. He reached her, the gray-green could not catch him, and skidded to his knees beside her. Rhys shut his eyes and hid them behind clutched fingers. "Oh, gods, no . . ."
But there was no sound of slaughter, no squelch of blood or snick of claws. Only Nace's voice, continuing. Soft, low, and comforting. "It's all right now. It's all right. Nobody's going to hurt you. I won't let anybody hurt you, not ever, ever again . . ."
He was holding her.
The gray-green's jaw dropped loose. He stared, first at Nace and Sola, then back at Sidro, with a soft noise of confusion. The Pythian, similarly unhinged, merely shook his head.
Nace fussed over her, gently, touching her face, her shoulders, her hands. Nosing his muzzle against her scar and licking it, like a new wound. She let him. She watched him, her head cocked slightly, perhaps in interest or slight confusion. Her claws were sheathed, and her growl had died away.
"There, now, that's all right. You don't have to be afraid. No one's going to hurt you. You're safe now. I've got you."
"How did . . ." Rhys said, approaching them, but Sola snarled and lashed out at him, reaching over the yellow-green's shoulder to do it.
Nace held her, and while he could not be nearly as strong, nor as mad as she was, allowed it. The dragon cooed and petted her, and slowly she calmed down again. The yellow-green spoke to Rhys without turning to look at him, "She doesn't know you won't hurt her. She doesn't understand. Go back. I'll bring her out."
"But I don't understand . . ." the gray-green whispered, his throat narrowed to the thickness of a straw. I don't understand how . . . why . . . ?" Sidro latched on to his elbow and dragged him out of the cell. "How did he do that?" he demanded of the Pythian. "She doesn't even know him. She should have killed him! I don't understand . . ."
"I don't understand either, maybe he'll explain it to us later," Sidro said. "Try to be a little quieter, Rhys. You'll wake the whole place."
"I don't understand," Rhys repeated, but more quietly, before subsiding.
Nace spoke softly, almost inaudibly, to the scarred female. She listened, eyes closed, and head nestled against his shoulder. Maybe she understood him. Maybe she just liked the steady beat of the words.
"Okay?" he asked her, moments later.
She brought her head up, opened her eyes and made a soft sound. Maybe in question, maybe assent. Maybe just a sound, since Nace had stopped making them. Still, he took it as a 'yes,' and when he stood, she let him help her to her feet. When she saw the other dragons were still there she hissed at them and lurched forward, but he had a hold of her hand and he kept her back. He interposed himself between them and faced her. "They won't hurt you," he said firmly. "It's all right. They don't want to hurt you. Nobody wants to hurt you. You're sa--"
She snarled and cut her claws in Sidro's direction. The silver-blue, who had already retreated before her, staggered back a pace.
"No," Nace told her. "Not even him. I promise. Nobody's going to do anything bad. They won't even touch you, if that's not okay. But you have to trust me. You have to trust them. They're my friends, and they'll do what I say."
Sidro was already nodding, but Rhys merely stared. Half his mind was still back trying to plan out how to keep Sola from having his testicles for trophies, and the rest of him still didn't understand. Nace? Why Nace? He didn't even know her. And it wasn't as if Rhys had wanted to hurt her, but he'd thought it was the only way . . . If he hadn't been so confused, he might have been hurt.
"Both of you!" the yellow-green prompted him, and Sidro slapped him on the arm.
Does it really matter? he thought. Even if she never loved him or wanted him again, they had her. She would be free. She would be safe. "Yes!" Rhys cried, nodding as he ducked his head submissively. "Anything! Everything! Whatever you say!"
"Okay?" Nace asked her.
Sola rumbled doubtfully, but she did allow him to lead her out of the cell. Rhys and Sidro, in full submissive mode, gave her a wide berth and made to follow along behind her, their eyes downcast. But she was having none of that. She hissed and jerked the yellow-green back, hard enough to bobble his head over his shoulders. She stared at the Pythian and the gray-green male and began a low, warning growl.
"Think she wants to keep an eye on us," Rhys said.
"Oh, you think that might be it?" Sidro replied acidly. The gray-green regarded him with concern. He was getting that worn look again. If they didn't get out of here fast he was liable to lose patience, or the capacity for coherent thought.
"Damn good thing she wants me in front," the Pythian muttered. "Seeing as I'm the one who knows where we're going. Rhys, what about you?"
"Yes," the dragon replied, "right behind you." He could feel Sola glaring at the back of his neck and it made his scales creep. But Nace had shown every ability to reason with her. He wouldn't allow her to batten on to the base of his neck and snap his spine, Rhys was sure of it. Not even if she really, really wanted to.
"Hurry up, then," Sidro snapped, already leaving without them. They fell into a loose rank behind him, Rhys first, and Nace last, to protect Sola and to guide her. They passed the curtained cells at a quickstep, with no more time to hesitate or look around. The only thing between them and freedom was distance, and Sidro intended to close it as rapidly as he could. He had made them late. The sun was coming, and he was very tired.
They filed into the the anteroom, the four of them, almost as one body, and when Sidro stopped there, Rhys fetched up against him.
"What?" the gray-green said. He looked at Sidro. The silver-blue's eyes were wide, frightened, and his hand clutched at his mouth. Rhys looked where he was looking, and saw why.
There was a dragon, sitting in the guard's chair, rocked back on two legs, back to the wall and feet up on the desk, crossed demurely at the ankles.
It was a female.
It was Ezmi.
The alarm bell rested loosely in her lap.
"Oh, shit!" said Rhys, more anger than dismay. Unfair. Unfair. Oh, how miserably unfair! He wanted to stamp the floor beneath him and scream. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.
She fondled the bell in her lap, pushing the clapper back and forth. It hit the sides with a muted tnk! "I live here," she said. "Didn't you know that, Sidro?" she asked him. "After all this time?"
"I didn't think you had the run of the place," the Pythian managed, throat dry.
"Why should they lock me up? I won't run." She grinned at them, mouth like a knife. "And you see what a great help I am."
"Please," said Sidro. "Please don't call them. I'll do anything, I'll do whatever you want . . ."
"I think," she said, considering the bell again, "if I rang the guards, they'd do just about everything I'd want to do to you, Sidro. And probably a few things more."
"Please, Ezmi, we've worked together . . . We've known each other so long . . ."
She sat up, and the chair legs clunked the floor. "You think that makes me hate you any less? You think that means I owe you something?"
"No." Sidro shook his head. "But you could be kind."
"I could be kind," she allowed. She left the chair and walked over to examine the lot of them, brandishing the bell like a soldier's swagger stick. "But I'm not." She reached out, touched Sola's chin, and made her look up at her. The black dragoness neither growled nor flinched away. "I suppose out of all the males that tried to gentle her, it would have to be you," she told Nace, not looking at him. "You're not even a male. You're a little girl with a dick. No wonder she likes you. You're the first one who's met her and hasn't wanted to fuck her." She released Sola and turned to Rhys and Sidro. "Is that what you want her for? To fuck her?"
"I love her!" Rhys burst out. "I always have! That's why I want her! I want to save her! I want to help her!"
Ezmi pressed her finger to her lips. "Shhh. Mind your temper, red-collar, or you'll bring down the guards without me having to ring. And I was so looking forward to it."
"I love her," Rhys repeated softly.
"So you say," Ezmi replied, "but you're a fool. That dragoness is gone. This one hates you, and she always will. They have hurt her too badly, done too much. She was too strong for them. She chose madness, rather than to submit. You won't bring her back, and even if you did, she would hate you for it. There is no healing. There is insanity, and there is rage."
"I don't believe you," the gray-green said.
Ezmi dismissed him with a wave. "Believe what you want." She smiled and raised the bell. "I think it would be kinder of me to call the guards, and have them kill you now. She has been a champion. She deserves a fighting death."
"Please, don't!" Nace moved quickly, while Rhys was still stunned from the dragoness's words. The yellow-green put his hand over hers, and pushed it down. "Please . . . Mother."
She snorted. "You think I would spare you for that? You're even stupider than your father was. I hate you for that! You and all my children. I would have seen you dead before you hatched, if I could have had my way."
"Not for me," Nace said. "For her. If she wanted to die, you know she would have by now. You know she could have. She wants to live. She's strong, like you. Stronger, because she wants to go."
"And is that strength, child?" she asked him. "Wanting to run?"
"Sometimes getting away from a bad thing is the hardest thing in the world."
Ezmi laughed, a hard, jagged sound. "You might be right. You might even be brave, though the opposite is doubtless true. It won't really make all that much difference, child. They will still find you. They will still kill you. You probably won't even make it out of the fortress alive." She nodded to them. "But, it will not be because of me."
"Thank you," Nace said. "M-mother."
"Call me that again and I'll ring it just for spite," she told him. "I hate that word. It stinks of obligation. Go, before you make me change my mind."
"You . . ." the yellow-green went on, because he was stupid, or because he was kind. "You could come with us."
"Oh, please," she spat, turning from them in scorn. "As if there were anything out there for me, when I have everything I want right here." She threw a grin back at them, over her narrow shoulder. "There are more slaves coming in tomorrow. I have so much work to do."
"Nace," Sidro added, "there's not much time. . ." Not much of a command. More of a plea.
The yellow-green nodded, took Sola's hand, and brought her with them.
"Mother?" Rhys asked him, with a brief glance back.
"Long story," Nace sighed. "I'll tell you someday. Not today."
That was, it seemed, their final test. Sidro, spent as he was, knew just where they were, and led them quickly through the tunnels. And though the way was disorienting and cramped, and Sola grumbled her displeasure once or twice, she did not resist their guidance. Maybe Nace had been able to explain it to her, but it was possible she just knew. These were not slaves' tunnels. They looked more as if they had been used by children.
"There," Sidro said at last, panting. There was a metal grating, set perhaps three feet off the floor. Behind the meshwork of bars, shadows flickered.
"There?" said Nace. The word dwindled, it seemed to stick in his throat. "Are we where I think we are?"
The silver-blue smiled at him, faint smile, pale smile. "It was the best place," he said. "No one comes here anymore, just kids . . ." He dragged at the grate, one handed, and then with both. He could not budge it.
Rhys felt a brief surge of fear. He rushed forward to see, but it was not locked. Sidro was just too tired. The gray-green was able to move it easily, though the hinges squealed with rust. Outside was dimness, a starry sky of cobalt blue. Long grass, gray in the lack of light, rustled against the breeze.
And while he and the others were just standing there, looking at it, Sola pushed past them and climbed her way out. The three dragons stood in the shadows, blinking at her like moles.
Gods, what am I doing? I can't leave her out there all alone, Rhys thought. He went through the hole and into the world.
Behind him, Nace and Sidro underwent some strenuous negotiation before the silver-blue finally ordered the subservient dragon out. "No, I don't trust you! Not as far as I could fling you! I've known you too long to fall for that shit! You get out of here, right now! GET! OUT!"
Nace crawled out on to the grass, cringing, and Sidro followed after with some difficulty.
The sun was coming up. Sidro had been very late, and they were near to losing all the advantage the night had given them. The sun was dangerous, it would bring the morning meal. Their disappearance would be known and now, just outside of the fortress, they could be seen.
Still, Rhys hesitated, watching the blush of dawn on the horizon. The sun was coming, and they would be allowed to pass out of the darkness. Sola would be allowed to pass out of the darkness, and into the light.
She seemed to understand. Although her face showed no emotion, she must have understood. Her head thrown back, the starry sky a trail above her, she reached up and tore her collar away. A moment's pause, she did not even look at it where it fell. She walked away from it, to the top of a small verge, and there she watched the breaking dawn, expressionless. She knew. She understood.
Rhys reached up and felt the tightness around his throat. As he slid a claw under it, a smile ghosted on his face. Yes . . . Now . . .
That was when Sidro fell.
"Sidro?" The gray-green knelt beside him. He grasped the Pythian's shoulder to support him, to help him . . .
Oh my gods, what is this?
A dark and sticky paste moved under his touch and sloughed away like a scab. Beneath it, the flesh was deeply rent, gouged, and there were teeth marks.
Sidro shifted his wings, covering the wound again, and looked up at Rhys with a smile of terrible, sickly satisfaction. "Flour. Stops anything from bleeding, for a little while."
"Sidro," Rhys said, "what have you done to yourself?"
"It's . . ." The silver-blue gasped his breath as he tried to disentangle himself from his satchel. It hurt to move, to breathe. He was so tired. "It has to be this way, Rhys, you understand?"
The gray-green only gaped in evident horror. His entire black was clawed and bloody, beneath his wings. There were pieces missing. with a dark red paste of blood and flour pressed inside.
"You were gonna hafta . . . leave me . . . anyway," the dragon panted. He was so tired, but smiling still. Rest soon. Rest. "Listen to me. They will let you go. What are a couple of slaves to them? Even Sola, even Nace. But I killed him. Nevermind the Draught and who they'll want me to teach, I killed him. And the way I left him . . . It was horrible. There would be . . . such retribution . . . But I won't let them. I won't let them hurt me, I don't have to . . . You have to take this. Take it," he pushed the frayed pouch at Rhys. "I'll wait until you go. I'll wait . . ."
"Nace!" cried the gray-green. He clutched at Sidro's hands, ignoring the offer of supplies. The yellow-green had gone some distance, up to the top of the hill with Sola. He was kneeling, reverent. "Nace!" Rhys insisted. He crouched beside the silver-blue and put his muzzle close. "We're not going to do that," he hissed. "We're not going to leave you here to die!"
Sidro's smile became a grin. He giggled weakly, laughter like sobbing, and whispered back to the gray-green, "He woke, you know. Oraz. Of course. You must know. Look at me. It was enough to kill him, it just didn't quite work fast enough. It made him crazy, he didn't know what he was doing, he didn't even try to kill me . . . Not to kill me." He brought his hands to his mouth and clenched them, holding back tears. "He bit me. He took a piece of me, there, and he swallowed it . . . I screamed, but no one came, and I got away, I got away, and when he didn't have me anymore, he bit himself. I didn't see, I ran, but . . . Oh, but I heard him tearing . . . I know what he was tearing!"
Nace was coming back, and when Sidro cried out, he ran. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I don't want to live with that," the dragon pleaded. "Rhys, don't make me live with that." He was weeping. "I hurt so much, Rhys. I can't go with you. Please, I hurt so much . . ."
"Sidro!" Nace skidded to his knees beside them, but the Pythian would only look at Rhys.
"You're going to have to hurt," the gray-green told him. He slipped one arm beneath the wounded dragon and helped him to get up. "And you're going to have to try, Sidro. Try to live. Try to come with us, away from this place. You are going to have to try, because I'm going to make you."
The Pythian sobbed, incoherent protest, and shivered so with pain and exhaustion that he could not walk, but they helped him. Eventually, because he was afraid, afraid to be captured and afraid to die, he got his legs under him and tried to help them too. But his tears still flowed, a silent upwelling of fear and shame.
Nace bent his muzzle and nosed some of them away. "It's going to be okay." And he smiled. "You'll see."
Rhys snatched up the gray bag and slung it on his own shoulder. "And as soon as we get to cover, we'll see about making it hurt less."
"They'll find us," Sidro whispered. "Never let me go."
"Maybe." Nace squeezed him. Maybe later. Maybe a lot of things, later. But right now, we have the sun."
Sidro lifted his muzzle and closed his eyes, letting the thin rays of morning tattoo them with warmth. "Yes."
Sola was walking east, towards a small stand of trees. Temporary cover, temporary safety, as long as the Pythians didn't scent them. To safety, first, and then maybe beyond. Maybe even home.
Maybe a lot of things, later.
Shouldering their burden in equal share, the three dragons followed Sola, east, in the path of the rising sun.
**Wouldn't have started without C. N.
Couldn't have finished without D. E.**
_There is more story. Two more parts, god willing. And Sidro will be okay, once I get back to him, though it may be a long time coming.
The way forwards is sometimes the way back._