Dragons have a sense of the dramatic. Lightning swept low over the fighting throng, so low that his claws rattled against the invaders’ helmets and his wings swept the surviving recruits’ floppy gray hats off their heads. Then he swooped upward sharply—Chantel nearly slid off his back—and landed atop the tower.
Chantel looked out over the battling throng. She cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled more loudly than she had ever yelled in her life.
“EVERYBODY STOP FIGHTING RIGHT NOW! OR THE DRAGON WILL FRY YOU!”
And for emphasis, Lightning sent an orange jet of fire blasting out over the throng. And Chantel summoned the Circle’s power to control the flames, and made the fire longer, and turned it into a great loop, and then used it to write in the sky
Stop Fighting
And it worked. At least for the moment. They stopped. They stared. Every face in the square was turned up to the tower, to Chantel and Lightning. Amid the crowd Chantel saw Sunbiters and sentinels, new recruits and sorceresses and the ordinary people of Lightning Pass.
“GOOD!” Chantel yelled. “NOW—”
But a voice boomed from the tower window below her. “Don’t listen to the sorceress! Fight on, men of Lightning Pass! Defeat the Marauders within your gates!”
It was the king. And he went on and on, and his voice became noticeably richer, and louder, and more important-seeming . . . because some surviving sorceress, Chantel realized, was putting a Gleam spell on him, and making him ten feet tall.
“Lightning,” said Chantel, between clenched teeth. “Now, to save lives, I would . . . I would . . . will you please . . .”
“Fight on, for your country!” proclaimed the king, in rolling, golden tones. “Fight on, for your honor! For what is right! Drive back the Maraud—URK!”
And as Chantel looked over the battlement, the king, not ten feet tall but only ordinary sized, tumbled from the window with a crossbow bolt through his neck. He splashed into the shallow floodwaters.
There was a long, long moment in which everyone took in what had just happened. And it seemed to go on and on, but it wouldn’t really, Chantel realized. And when it was over, the fighting was going to break out worse than before, and a lot more people were going to die . . .
“Lighting, what do I do?” said Chantel.
But she already knew. She didn’t even need him to say, as he did . . .
“Pockets?”
Chantel reached into the pocket of her robe. She had a lot of things in her pockets, but only one had a hope of stopping this war. Chantel took out the circlet of gold, and she held it in her hand.
We did not tell her to do this, did we?
Of course not.
But we knew she would.
We did not know.
We hoped.
Chantel looked down at the streets and squares. The fighting was just about to begin again. Men were hefting swords and axes. People who were alive were about to die.
And Queen Haywith was right, the dragon had changed Chantel. She was a dragonbound sorceress, and she had a crown in her hand.
And she put it on her head.
And she clambered onto the dragon’s back and said, “Go, Lightning,” and he fell from the tower and spread his wings over the square, and landed with a splash, sending up sheets of water over the battle scene.
Chantel stood up on the dragon’s back. And every eye in the square was turned to her—Sunbiters and Lightning Pass people.
“The fighting must stop now,” said Chantel. “There will be no more.”
She looked out over the flood. There were many people, besides the king, who were lying motionless in the murky water. So she really meant this next part.
“If the fighting does not stop now, then the dragon will scour the battleground with flame, and no one will escape.”
Lightning would do it, because she would do it, if she had to.
“Lay down your arms,” said Chantel.
And then, slowly, they did. And swords sank, and crossbows floated, and the battle was over.
“Who shot the king?” someone asked.
Probably somebody who was very good with a crossbow, Chantel thought. And wanted to save lives.
But she chose her words carefully. She would always have to, from now on.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Everyone, please start looking through the water. We may be able to save some of the wounded.”
Chantel was exhausted. She and Lightning had stood guard all through the day and the following night to make sure the fighting didn’t start up again, as the wounded were gathered up and treated and the dead were laid out.
Someone had set up some sort of fancy chair on a dais for Chantel, there on the steps of the Hall of . . . Whoever. Chantel sank gratefully into it. Tired as she was, she kept up her deportment. Queens needed it.
Many people, as weary as Chantel, were sitting on the steps, talking to each other about what would happen next. This talking was probably good, Chantel thought. She was much too tired to listen to it.
The Sunbiters had to leave the city. Chantel had given orders. But they were to have time. They were still tending their wounded, still gathering their dead. Their chieftain moved among them, his red-horned helmet gleaming in the moonlight as he stooped to tend a wounded man . . .
. . . which went to show, Chantel thought foggily, that there was some kindness even in Karl the Bloody. But wasn’t Karl the Bloody dead? Hadn’t she seen the red-horned helmet lying on the icy rocks, just about the time she’d last seen Miss Ellicott?
“Miss Ellicott?” she said aloud.
“No, it’s me.”
Anna stood before her.
Ridiculously, Anna tried to curtsey, but Chantel scrambled down and stopped her.
“The girls?” she asked.
“They’re all right,” said Anna. “And Bowser, Bowser’s all right, but, but—”
Chantel felt a wave of dread.
“But Miss Ellicott’s not, Chantel. They found her a few hours ago.”
“I saw her fall,” said Chantel. And when Miss Ellicott fell, what was left? The old world was gone.
What was left was for Chantel to do her duty.
“She died nobly,” said Chantel. “Defending Dimswitch after it fell.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Anna, and Chantel drew back and looked at her to see if she was being sarcastic. “Most of the patriarchs are dead too. But not Sir Wolfgang,” Anna added.
It figured. There always had to be a Sir Wolfgang, to tell you how the world looked from his point of view, as if it was the only point of view that mattered.
“Where is everyone?” Chantel asked.
“The girls and Miss Flivvers are down in the dragon’s lair,” said Anna. “Miss Flivvers really doesn’t like it much. But I thought we shouldn’t go back to the school till we were sure where things . . . well, actually, the girls don’t want to go back at all. They prefer the cave. And—and I really think you should get some sleep, Chantel.”
“Queen Haywith lived to grow old,” said Chantel, swaying on her feet.
“Are you all right?” said Anna.