Citizens up and down the harbor grabbed rocks and anything they could find and hurled them down into the water, hitting the hundreds of floating men. One at a time, Pandesians sank, their lifeless bodies filling the canal.
Soon, all was quiet, all that remained the wreckage of the ship and the corpses of hundreds of once-proud soldiers, floating, dead.
A new horn sounded, and it was no longer a horn of danger. This time, it was a horn that had not been sounded in Ur for in Dierdre’s lifetime: a horn of victory.
A great shout of jubilation filled the air, and as people embraced her from every side, all embracing each other, jumping up and down on the streets, Dierdre, still stunned, began to process what had just happened. Against all odds, they had managed to destroy a Pandesian warship. Whatever should come, for this one moment in time, they had stood up to them. They had not backed down in the face of the much larger enemy, and they had been rewarded. Victory, for this day, at least, was theirs.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Aidan sat amidst the rowdy crowd in the capital square, jostled every which way amidst the masses, so many torches lighting up the walls, it was hard to tell it was night. Beside him sat White, and the two watched, rapt with attention, as they looked up at the stage. The entire crowd was riveted as Motley and his actors kept them laughing. Shouts and laughter filled the air as the joyous crowd pressed close to the stage, Motley standing at the edge of the stage, front and center, his big belly hanging over the edge, eyes wide as he stared out.
“So you want to take our women?” Motley boomed, facing an actor opposite him.
The actor, a head taller than all of them, dressed in golden robes, holding a golden staff, was playing Ra, the ruler of Pandesia, and he played him well as he looked down haughtily at Motley.
“I DECLARE IT!” boomed the actor.
The crowd booed, and Motley stepped closer to him, defiant.
“And why do you want to take them?” Motley countered. “To make them Pandesian women? And what is the virtue in being a Pandesian woman? There is no virtue in Pandesian women!”
The crowd laughed and cheered Motley on, as he stepped even closer.
“WE CAN DO AS WE WISH!” Ra boomed. “ESCALON IS OURS! IT WILL ALWAYS BE OURS!”
The crowd booed, and a few of them, Aidan noticed, threw tomatoes at the stage.
“Well,” Motley countered, “for a land to be yours, I think you have to hold its capital. And the last time I checked, this capital was free.”
A great roar and cheer rose up from the thousands of crowd members, as they all jumped to their feet. A bunch of actors rushed forward from the wings, circled Ur, and stabbed him, and the crowd stomped its feet as the actor collapsed to the stage.
The masses hooted and could not clap loudly enough as the curtain fell. The entire cast came to the edge of the stage and took a bow, to encore after encore. Finally this play, which had gone on for hours, came to a close. Aidan rubbed his eyes, exhausted, while people all around him threw coins onto the stage, the platform filling with gold and silver and bronze from all directions. The players reached down and snatched them up as quickly as they could.
Aidan enjoyed the play, though he didn’t fully understand it all, and the parts he did understand he found too simplistic. It was as if they were dumbing it down to appease the masses, and as he looked around at the crude faces and garb, he realized most of these people could likely not read or write. They had not been as lucky as he, to have private tutors all his life, and to be schooled in the ancient scripts. He had hoped for something more complex from this play.
Beside him, White whined, and Aidan draped an arm around him.
“I know, boy,” he said. “I’m hungry, too. Let’s find Motley.”
Aidan, impatient to finally talk to Motley and get help in finding his father, pushed his way through the throng, trying to near the stage. The crowd thickened, but he shoved and weaved his way through until finally he reached the actors, laughing and embracing the crowd, hundreds of people crowding them. He found Motley, sweating, in the center, his cheeks flushed red, taking a swig from a sack of wine and laughing.
Motley spotted Aidan and shoved people out of the way, making room for him.
“Young Aidan!” he called out, reaching out and draping an arm around his shoulder. Aidan was self-conscious as all eyes turned to him, and surprised that Motley cared about him, or even remembered him.
“I need help finding my father,” Aidan said. “He’s in Southern Square.”
Motley laughed.
“Always in a rush, are you!? Always so serious! Your father can wait. You’re joining us in the taverns!”
The actors cheered, but Aidan shook his head.
“I haven’t time,” he insisted. “Besides, I’m too young for the taverns.”
Motley laughed.
“I had a sack in my hand when I was half your age!”
The crowd laughed.
“Besides,” Motley added, “Southern Square is on the far side of Andros. You’d never reach him tonight. This city is too big, and the night too thick. You’ll stay with us tonight and I’ll bring you there in the morning.”
Aidan hesitated, unsure, but as Motley laid a big beefy hand on his shoulder and prodded him on, he found himself ushered through the thick crowd, falling in with the actors. They made their way for the taverns, and Aidan soon entered a low stone building, its doors wide open.
Cheers and shouts met them as they entered the crowded room, all raising a sack toward Motley and the actors. This place was well lit, filled with torches. Aidan was crammed into the tavern, the room perhaps a hundred feet long yet shoulder to shoulder with men, White whining, clearly unhappy. The crowd made way and they soon reached the bar.
***“Two for myself,” Motley boomed to the bartender, “two for each of my actor friends, and one for the young lad here.”
Aidan held up a hand.
“I do not drink,” he replied. “But White is hungry.”
“Tonight you do,” replied Motley, refusing to take no for an answer.
The bartender threw a slab of meat over the counter and onto the floor, and Aidan was pleased to see White snatch it up and gulp it down. Three overflowing, frothing mugs of ale were then set before them, and Motley took two for himself and placed one in Aidan’s hand.
“Take a sip and you’ll come to like the taste,” Motley said. “Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but one of these years!”
Motley laughed heartily as he chugged both mugs, then slid the empty ones down the bar. Soon, two more came right back at him.
Aidan, feeling all the eyes of the actors on him, was embarrassed to not drink. The froth ran down his hand, and he lifted the mug to his nose and smelled it. He recoiled.
“Smells rotten,” he said.
Motley and the actors laughed, and Aidan reddened.
“That is a smell you will come to cherish one day,” Motley replied. “Ale is not for smelling, anyway, but for drinking. Go on, now!”
Aidan put the mug to his lips and took a small sip, to appease them all. He swallowed it, gulped, and then ended up in a coughing fit. He wanted to spit it out, it tasted so horrible, but he knew they were all watching.
They all laughed hysterically as Aidan set down the mug, feeling embarrassed, and at the same time feeling light-headed. He did not like the feeling at all.
“Well,” Motley said, clapping him on the back. “We all have to start somewhere.”
“Enough of this,” Aidan demanded, feeling a growing impatience. “I don’t want to waste any time here. I need to see my father.”
Motley shook his head.
“Daybreak is still hours away, my boy,” he replied, “and Andros is vast and wide. If you don’t know your way, it could take days to cross one end to the other. You won’t find your father at night. Be patient; in the morning, I’ll take you to him. This city is no place for a boy to be roaming alone at night anyway. Stay here, and you’ll be safe wit
h us.”
Aidan sighed, impatient, but realizing Motley had a point. Besides, he was exhausted from the long day; his legs ached, and he could barely keep his eyes open. He wouldn’t mind a few hours’ rest, and since there was nothing he could do now anyway, he didn’t see the harm.
“So tell me,” Motley said, turning to him, having finished two more mugs of ale, “what did you think of our play?”
Aidan shrugged, unsure how to respond.
“It was all right,” he said.
Motley furrowed his brow.
“Just all right?” he asked, sounding puzzled, and a bit hurt. “Did you not like my performance?”
“Your performance was fine,” Aidan replied, unfamiliar with actors and unsure what to say.
“Then what didn’t you like?” Motley demanded.
“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” Aidan said, struggling to come up with the words. “It was just that…”
He trailed off, thinking.
“What, then?” Motley prodded.
“Well,” Aidan began, “it wasn’t…real.”
“Real!?” Motley asked. “It was a play!”
“What I mean to say is…I prefer for a play to be about serious things,” Aidan replied. “About battle, for instance. And I also prefer to watch a real battle than to watch a play. And I would prefer, most of all, to be in that battle. Why waste time with make pretend?”
Motley smiled and shook his head.
“Have you been in many battles, then?” he asked.
Aidan flushed, embarrassed.
“I have heard all the details of all my father’s great battles,” Aidan replied proudly, “and I can recite them all.”
Motley laughed.
“And does that mean you were in battle yourself?” he asked.
Aidan reddened, unsure how to respond. Hearing his father’s tales of valor and courage had certainly made him feel as if he had been a part of them; yet as Motley put it that way, he realized he had not.
“One day I will be,” Aidan insisted. “One day I will lead an army to battle. I will lead many armies into battle!”
Motley smiled wide and shook his head.
“You trade in reality,” Motley said, “while we trade in fantasy. Our trade is stronger. More pure. More attainable. Your trade is short, confusing, messy, and lacks resolution. It is also fleeting. Our fantasy, though, lasts forever.”
Aidan, between his exhaustion and the ale, had a hard time thinking straight. He yawned again, his eyes closing on him, and felt overwhelmed by all the noise and activity.
“Go upstairs,” Motley instructed. “Find a room. Take your dog. Stay the night. At daybreak, I will help you. If I am still sleeping, or too drunk, just wake me.”
“But I have no coin,” Aidan replied, remembering how he’d given away his sack of gold.
Motley threw a coin on the counter and the barkeep took it and nodded.
“You’re taken care of,” he replied.
Aidan felt a rush of gratitude toward Motley; despite their opposing views, he had come to like him, and perhaps even to respect him, in his own odd way.
“Is there a chamber pot up there?” he asked, feeling the ale rush to his bladder.
“Not in here,” the barkeep said. “Use the alley. That’s what we all do.”
“Take that dog with you,” Motley added. “There are more cutthroats out there than in here—and that’s saying much.”
Aidan, exhausted, feeling disoriented still from the ale, made his way through the throng and back out the tavern.
He took a deep breath in the fresh night air, quiet out here, the shouting from the tavern now distant behind him. The alleyway was dark, barely lit by torches, and wanting privacy, Aidan headed down it, White at his side.
He turned down another alley, and this one, too, was filled with men peeing. So Aidan continued on, turning down yet another alley, until he found one that was dark and empty.
As Aidan stood against the wall, he suddenly tensed as he heard muffled voices. He looked down the alley and saw two dark figures, about ten feet away in the blackness, and he quickly realized he was witnessing something he was not supposed to. He retreated deeper into the darkness, crouched down, and watched.
There, at the edge of the torchlight, were two men. One looked very distinguishable, a tall man dressed in finery, with a long vertical scar down his left ear, a face was shifty eyes that was hard to forget, a man Aidan had heard the other one refer to as Enis. The other, dressed in royal yellow and blue, could only be a Pandesian lord.
Aidan’s heart quickened.
“Show me,” Enis demanded.
The Pandesian stepped aside and rolled forward a wheelbarrow. He pulled back a blanket, and Aidan gasped as he saw it filled with glistening gold—more gold than he had ever seen in one place.
Enis stepped forward and ran his hands through it, the gold clinking as it rained down in the torchlight. He finally turned and nodded to the Pandesian.
“He’s yours,” Enis said.
The Pandesian smiled.
“No mistakes,” the Pandesian said. “Duncan dies. He and all his men.”
Aidan’s heart pounded as he heard his father’s name.
Enis smiled back.
“We share the same goal,” he replied. “You needn’t worry.”
“Good,” Enis replied. “Then here’s to the new King.”
Enis smiled wide.
Aidan, aghast, suddenly stepped back—and as he did, he knocked over a piece of metal and it clanged in the alley. They both turned and looked his way.
“You, boy, stop!” Enis called out.
Aidan turned and ran, White beside him, and he immediately heard footsteps pursuing him.
He turned down alleyway after alleyway, running as fast as his little legs could take him, and as he ducked through a small stone arch he knew they couldn’t pass through, finally he felt relieved. He turned and continued to run, knowing he had lost them.
Yet still, he was frantic. He thought of his father, of the death coming for him, and he knew he could not wait one more minute. He kept running, and running, and he knew, no matter what, he could not stop. Somehow, he had to find his father, had to warn him. He would run all through the night if he had to, all through this city, until he found his father and saved him—before it was too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Kyra stared back at the boy’s face, mesmerized, the face from which she could not look away. She felt lost in his crystal blue eyes, the long, light blond hair framing it, the perfect chiseled features, the boy not entirely of this world, staring back as if he had known her forever. She felt those eyes penetrating her soul, felt the earth shifting beneath her, and she looked down to see that she was floating at sea, standing on a wide raft, the boy standing on the other end. She couldn’t understand what was happening, where she was, where they were floating to. But she knew they were floating together, the two of them in the midst of a vast sea, with nothing but each other.
“Kyra,” he said.
His voice penetrated her heart, a voice which she somehow recognized, a voice she knew she had always been longing to hear.
“Who are you?” she asked, breathless.
He stared back, expressionless, the intensity in his gaze overwhelming her as he held out a single hand. He reached for her face, and more than anything, she craved for that hand to touch her face, yearned to feel the touch of his fingertips on her skin.
But suddenly, he fell backwards, straight into the water, stiff as a board, landing with a quiet splash and disappearing beneath the waves.
She rushed forward, horrified.
“No!” she cried.
She dove into the water to save him—yet no sooner had she jumped when she felt claws on her back, grabbing her shirt, hoisting her into the air. She heard a screech behind her, and suddenly, she was flying, being carried, she realized, by something greater than herself.
Kyra glanced up, and he
r heart quickened to see Theos above her, holding her as he flew, his great wings flapping. He flew her over the sea, and as she looked down, she was shocked to see a sea of black. Beneath her was a fleet of ships, greater than any she could imagine; they were flying so close her feet grazed the top of the masts. It was a fleet meant for an invasion, and flying the royal blue and yellow of Pandesia.
Kyra passed over one ship after another, and the fleet seemed to stretch to the end of the world. She knew in her heart where they were heading, and the thought pained her. They were going to destroy Escalon. She watched as the ships launched flaming boulders from catapults, raining fire for her land. Explosions shook the ground as massive boulders, aflame, rocked Escalon, and the entire land turned to flame.
There, she was amazed to see, in the midst of the flames, stood a single boy, with his long hair and blue eyes. He stood there, so noble, so unafraid, staring up at her even as the fire fell all around him. He was, she knew, the last man left in Escalon, and as the dragon dropped Kyra, she suddenly shrieking as she flailed through the air. She found herself falling, reaching right for him.
“NO!” Kyra shrieked.
Kyra woke with a start, breathing hard, disoriented. She felt a tongue on her cheek and sat up to find Leo, beside her. She looked out her hut and saw Andor chewing grass, lit up in the rays of the early morning sun, and she remembered. The woods. Ur. She was still training.
She rubbed her head. It had all been a dream, one long, horrific dream. And yet it had felt so real. Who was that boy? She remembered the day before, in the forest glen, when he had saved her, and she felt it had been more than a chance meeting—there had been something special between them, something beyond her understanding. And the dream—it had felt too real. Had the boy visited her in her dreams? Was disaster coming for Escalon?