And then, when she was alone in a hallway some distance from the Throne Room, she leaned against the stone wall and wept.
Contrary to popular belief, Acantha was capable of tears. Crying wasn’t something she did often, or in the presence of anyone but her sister, but as her body was wracked by sobs, she felt the curious comfort of the release of hot tears from her weary eyes. It was a kind of hollowing out, a kind of catharsis, and for a few minutes, she abandoned herself to it completely, just hoping that nobody stumbled upon her while she was in this state. Maybe if she cried enough, every feeling she’d ever had about Cato would leak out of her eye sockets and drain away onto the stone floors of the Palace that she’d dedicated her life to protecting. Then she could face his inevitable death with the poise and grace required of her.
He had to die. There was no other option. He’d said it himself. Even if they could believe that he genuinely wanted to change, the connection to this Haspar meant that he would always be a threat to them as long as he lived. And after what he’d done, he didn’t deserve to live—hadn’t he said that, too? Who would she be to disagree with him?
It felt like the gale of sobs would never ease. She was beginning to worry she might be losing her mind when she felt the tide finally beginning to ebb, and before long she was straightening up, catching her breath and wiping her wet face dry. More than anything, she wished she could talk to Morgan. But what was there to say, at the end of the day? Whatever she felt, whatever it was that was going on between her and Cato—even thinking his name made her empty heartache—none of it mattered now. Not in the face of the threat to their home.
She’d talk to Morgan later, after all of this was over. She only hoped her sister could help her heal from what would have to be done to ensure that that future could even come to pass.
Acantha didn’t feel better as she set about the day’s grim preparations, but at least she didn’t feel any worse… and she could function in her capacity as Captain, which at the end of the day was all she really needed to do. The whole cavern had mobilized in the time they’d spent in the war room, and she was oddly touched to see dozens of wolves among the dragons who were working to shore up defenses, points of bright silver in the gloom marking where they were lending their aid. This wasn’t their fight, she found herself thinking, confused. What were they doing here? It was the Archives and the dragon Queen that the mages were after—surely the wolves ought to be taking shelter in their forest homes, keeping well clear of the mess…
But that wasn’t the way they thought of the situation, was it? It was beginning to dawn on Acantha, perhaps for the first time, that the changes they’d been experiencing might actually have been for the best. Knowing they had allies in this fight, that it wasn’t just the scant handful of dragons standing against their attackers alone… it changed a lot. It almost made her feel hopeful. At least, it would have, if she’d been allowing herself to feel anything at all.
She delegated the task of information gathering to her deputies, realizing more and more that she could trust them more than she’d previously thought. Prince Conrad came to find her shortly after she’d excused herself from the war meeting, letting her know that the prisoner (she appreciated that he hadn’t used his name) had been escorted to the cells and would be kept there indefinitely. Both the manacles and the collar had been left on him at the strong suggestion of the Head Archivists, and a group had been arranged to question him in greater depth about what he knew about Haspar’s forces.
“We’re going to get through this, Acantha,” Conrad said firmly, catching her gaze and holding it with more emotion than she’d ever seen from the cool, distant Prince in the long course of their professional relationship. “We’re going to come out on the other side even stronger.”
“Yes, sir,” was all she could manage. Prince Conrad hesitated for a moment… then took his leave, hurrying away to oversee more preparations in the Palace. Acantha watched him go, grateful he hadn’t tried to say more. She felt like a single word of pity would be enough to completely destroy her. And right now, they couldn’t afford to lose a single soldier. Especially not one with her experience. She touched the hilt of her sword, grateful she’d always been so committed to the upkeep not only of her skills, but of the weapon itself. She knew some of her guards whispered that it was overkill, that she was obsessive… but at least she was ready for what was about to befall them.
And so the day wore on, at once impossibly slowly and frighteningly quickly. Acantha busied herself assisting anywhere a spare pair of hands was needed, paying close attention as their defenses took shape. In between errands, she sought out the dragons who’d been interrogating Cato about the mages’ capabilities, dread filling her with each new piece of information they learned. The mages could summon the elements with the snap of a finger, fire or ice or even lightning. The mages could heal instantly from any wound. The mages could ensnare your senses, make you see things that weren’t there, or hide from you things that were. The mages could double and triple their numbers, splitting their souls between multiple bodies…
It was making the magic she’d seen Cato use seem positively tame by comparison. Part of her wondered if this wasn’t a mistake… if sharing all this information wasn’t more likely to make her soldiers lose their nerve. But as she moved around the cavern and overheard the conversations taking place, she realized that quite the opposite was true. Every new horror story about their powerful enemy was being received with a kind of savage, clinical problem-solving approach, as though they were riddles to be solved. If the mages threw fire, they’d deflect it. If the mages could heal wounds, they’d focus on immobilizing them some other way. If their senses couldn’t be trusted, they’d rely on one another.
And it wasn’t only threats of power that were spreading… a list of weaknesses, too, was making itself known to the soldiers and civilians of the cavern, and this in particular seemed to be making them all take heart. The mages, for all their power, were frail things. They were trapped in one body, and even that was not as robust as a shifter in their own two-legged shape. The power they possessed had its limits—a mage couldn’t simply continue to cast spells indefinitely, much as a dragon could not fly at top speed for hours on end without tiring. And most importantly, a magical artifact was utterly inert if it wasn’t in physical contact with the mage that was using it. This information provided a growing web of strategy, tactics for the dragons to take the enemy down. In the middle of the afternoon, Acantha saw a gathering of soldiers in the wide, flat stone area outside the Palace, taking turns to practice disarming each other of a range of small objects, using their tails or the flat of their wings to knock items flying.
Morale was good, she told herself, and morale was half the battle. Morgan agreed with that assessment when the two of them ran into each other later. She’d been assisting the staff of the Archives in mounting defenses—knowing from Cato that the Archives were one of the major targets of the attack, they’d set about doing everything they could to make it a difficult target.
“I’ve never seen them this angry,” Morgan confessed, her eyes shining with pride. “I mean, I’ve seen them tear each other to shreds over tiny disagreements in the interpretation of thousand-year-old records, but that was nothing compared to this. Those mages aren’t going to know what hit them.” She hesitated, just for a moment. “Acantha, I heard about—”
“Let’s not,” she said quickly, holding up a hand and hoping her sister would understand. “Okay? Not now. Later.”
“There might not be a later,” Morgan pointed out, an uncharacteristic sting in her voice. “You can’t keep sidelining your feelings until they’re convenient, Acantha. You’re not being fair to yourself.”
“Maybe not,” Acantha snapped. “But in case you haven’t noticed, Morgan, we’re preparing for war. This is not the time to get in touch with my heart.”
“I disagree,” Morgan said coolly. “I think it’s the most important time of all.”
Acantha opened her mouth to disagree, then closed it again, realizing there was no point arguing with Morgan when she’d clearly made her mind up about something. She muttered something about keeping that in mind, then turned and left, her head low, fighting back the urge to cry again. They were scant hours away from an attack that might spell the end of their entire community.
And Acantha didn’t want the last conversation she ever had with her sister to be a fight.
Chapter 20 - Cato
He wished they’d thought to give him a clock down here. Any way of telling what time it was, how close they were to sunset, how long he had until he knew for sure whether the information he’d given the dragons was enough to give them the edge over Haspar’s forces… but if he was honest, what he wanted to know most of all was how much longer he had to live.
He’d given up pacing restlessly in the cell when even that much movement proved too painful for his rapidly deteriorating right hand. They’d escorted him down here not long after Acantha had left the Throne Room, then sent an ever-growing gaggle of curious dragons down after him, filling up the hallway around his cell, even pouring into the cells on either side of his to listen to what he had to say. The collar made it easy to talk on autopilot, at least, and he leaned more and more into that magic as the pain in his arm built and grew. Every awful, painful artifact he could remember Haspar ever using on him in anger or in boredom, every violent act that had haunted his nightmares for weeks after an operation, every trick he’d ever seen one of his colleagues show off… it all came spilling out of him now. He had no way of knowing what spells the mages would be bringing with them, which precise flavor of horrible violence they were intending to inflict on these dragons, but the more he could tell them, the more prepared they would be.
He was someone who’d always used his silver tongue to get him out of danger. Now, he was using it to condemn him even more thoroughly to death. Describing even one artifact in as much depth and detail as he was using was grounds for execution as far as Haspar was concerned—Cato had witnessed such executions firsthand. What would he do when he found out that Cato had told the story of every single artifact in his possession?
Ifhe found out, Cato reminded himself as another stab of pain reminded him that the stone in his wrist was still inert, still disconnected from Haspar. If he reached Cato while he was still alive, got the manacles off him in time to spare his life. Cato could only hope that the dragons had heard him clearly when he’d asked them to ensure that wouldn’t be the case. It was for their sake as well as his own.
Nobody told him the time—nobody even spoke to him other than to ask more questions about the mages’ abilities and weaknesses. But he got a sense that sunset must be getting close from the way his audience began to dwindle, dragons leaving one by one or in small groups, murmuring in low voices with battle-readiness clear on their faces. Eventually, there was only one guard left, and Cato waited in vain for him to either leave or ask another question. Neither eventuated. Why were they wasting precious manpower by leaving this dragon here to guard him? Unless—he took in the long knife on the dragon’s hip, the way the man was studiously avoiding eye contact with him.
Ah. So they had listened to his request, after all. He supposed he ought to be grateful that he’d been assigned his very own executioner. Draconic hospitality had never been anything less than top notch, he’d give them that.
It was curious, how peaceful he felt now that he’d accepted the imminent and inevitable end of his own life. Cato just wished the pain in his arm would ease up long enough to let him enjoy it. It was a dull, throbbing, insistent pain that made him feel sick to his stomach with every pulse, the wrongness of it a palpable presence always in the forefront of his mind. Not for the first time, he considered digging it out with his fingertips. Maybe the guard would lend him a blade or something. Yank the gemstone out, hold it in his bloody fist and use its power to heal the wound it left before he smashed it under his heel… it was a nice fantasy, but Haspar had made it clear that even that wasn’t an option.
Unlike many of the artifacts they’d scavenged, stolen, or bartered for, this particular gemstone was one that Haspar had commissioned. That alone, Cato knew, was proof of his immense power and influence as a mage. Artificers were some of the most evasive people in existence, much more protective of their secrecy than mages. Even knowing how to get in touch with one could take years of dedication. To actually commission an enchanted object… he shuddered to think what Haspar would have had to do to afford such a thing. More than once, too—Cato knew better than to assume that he was the only mage on Haspar’s crew whose loyalty had been obtained this way. But Haspar had explained that the gem didn’t simply sit inertly in his body… it fused to the bone itself. There would be no removing it, even if he could overcome the pain long enough to reach it.