It occurs to him there’s another loose end he should trim, one he should have dealt with before he shot Jeryon. He looks at the cupola. Tristaban kneels at the wall, smirking, as if knowing too much is an asset. Herse winks.
Once the dragon’s eaten its fill he walks it up the dome to her. She stands up against her pain, her arms behind her back, her mouth half-open, her chest and neck aflush. A bandage slips off, and Herse feels a little sorry for her.
When he’s halfway there, though, the tower guards burst onto the walk, Chevron calling orders, and the distraction opens his ears to the crowd.
He turns the dragon around. She’ll have to wait. The plaza is filling again. All the streets around the tower are filling. Everyone is looking up at him and cheering. He’s a parade of one, triumphant. He lifts an arm. The city roars. He can see them in the Harbor. He can see them on the roofs of Hanoshi Town. On the lanes and streets and boulevards up and down the Hill. Only the Crest is quiet. This is his city. This is his real army. He will give them the war they need to mold them into a people again.
For too long Hanosh has followed the sail of the sea. Now they will follow the sail of the sky. And knowing what his people want, Herse snaps the reins. The dragon’s wings clap above his head, and Herse holds on for his life as the dragon screeches and takes flight.
EPILOGUE
In the highest room of the Castle’s highest tower, Sivarts scans the city from a tall paned window. He can’t imagine what’s taking the surgeon so long. He has to get back to his galley. He’s on the verge of having Felic find the man and escort him there directly when a woman on the street below grabs her companion’s shoulder and points at the tower.
Something circles the cupola. “That’s the biggest raven I’ve ever seen,” Sivarts says. The creature lands on the dome, perfectly profiled, shining silver in the sun. “Or is it an albatross? Immense.” It snaps at something on the walk, shakes it and releases it then the creature vomits fire. Flames shower the east side of the tower, dissipating halfway down.
“That’s no bird,” Sivarts says. “That’s a dragon. And—” A figure rises on the dragon’s back and, despite the distance, looks straight through Sivarts. “That’s a man,” he says. “Can you believe it?”
Sivarts looks over his shoulder at Vel. She’s still gagged and fixed to the stretcher set on the floor. She’s been watching too. Her eyes grow wet, then huge. Sivarts turns to see the man arch as if shot. Another man climbs out of the cupola and walks with incredible ease down to the dragon. He takes the rider in his arms and lays him on the dome. Strangely his eyes reflect the dawn like two white diamonds. A moment later the second man climbs into the saddle.
When the dragon bites into its former rider, Sivarts chokes on his gorge and the woman moans. He wants to back away. Instead, he fills the window so the woman can’t see anymore. He suspects who it must have been, her Jon.
Her expression confirms his suspicions. Her eyes have dried as hard as flint. The burned flesh on her face can’t hide such vital fury.
The steps outside creak. Felic opens the door to let the surgeon in. He’s wearing the outfit of his profession: loose cotton pants and a long-sleeve tunic with a hood, both black to better hide blood and other errant fluids. Even the bandage around his hand is black. He crouches beside the woman and sets his leather satchel down.
“So, this is our patient,” the surgeon says. He notes how she’s biting the gag and lifts the covers to see the straps. “What’s all this for? Is she dangerous?”
“Possibly.”
“We’ll take care of that,” the surgeon says. “Now leave us. Our examination requires privacy.”
“I’ll post a guard outside,” Sivarts says.
“At the bottom of the stairs, if you must. Stamping and snorting is terribly distracting.”
The surgeon locks the door behind Sivarts and removes a small bottle and a black rag from his satchel. He uncorks the bottle. A sickly sweet odor fills the room. He dabs some onto the rag.
The woman’s brow furrows. She protests through her gag.
“Oh, no,” he says. “This isn’t for you. It’s for us. We’ve had a very trying night.” He huffs his rag, sighs, and tucks it in his collar. He puts the bottle away and pulls out a scalpel and a pair of pliers. “These are for you. To cure you of your reticence. We want to know everything you know. Things you don’t yet realize you know. Let’s start with where you got that blouse.”