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A strange man occupies the castle steps when Sir Greyson makes his way back down the road from the village. He is a young man, dressed in what looks like armor, except painted brown and green and all the colors of the earth. Were he to stand in a forest, Sir Greyson is not sure anyone would even notice. His hair is the color of straw and hangs over one of his eyes and across his shoulders.
He rises to his feet when Sir Greyson nears. The man is tall, nearly as tall as Sir Greyson, but much younger than the captain. His brilliant blue eyes remind Sir Greyson of the color Fairendale’s sky once wore. The man’s eyes do not stay on Sir Greyson but flick, flick, flick, to every corner of the world, as if he is watching for something, waiting for something, searching for something, perhaps.
Sir Greyson reaches the castle steps and stops. “Do you need assistance?” the captain says. He assumes, you see, that the man used the iron knocker on the castle doors and no one answered, since this is what happened to him as well. But the boy called Garth flies out from the castle doors at precisely that moment. He screeches to a stop before the two men. “Captain,” Garth says. “I did not know you had returned.”
“I went to search the village,” Sir Greyson says.
“To find the prince?” Garth says.
“Yes,” Sir Greyson says. “Where is it you go?”
“To bid you return,” Garth says. He nods toward the man. “There is a visitor, and King Willis, the Most High King, says he is vulnerable.”
Sir Greyson tilts his head. Did the boy just say King Willis, the Most Wide King? Surely not. He searches the boy’s face, but he cannot find a single sign of amusement there.
“Very well,” Sir Greyson says. He looks at the man. “Follow me.”
The men file in, moving in a single line, though the hallway is wide enough to permit forty men walking side by side. Sir Greyson follows Garth. The unknown man follows Sir Greyson. At the entrance to the throne room, Garth puts his hand on the door, but before he can pull it, Sir Greyson touches his shoulder. Garth turns.
“I thought no one else was here,” Sir Greyson says.
“I remained,” Garth says. “When no one else did.” No one, that is, except for the boy Calvin. Garth’s eyes fall to the floor. “For the king.” It is untrue, of course. Garth remains for his brothers and sisters, who may very well be trapped in the dungeons beneath the dungeons. He has not yet found a way in, but he knows of the boy Calvin, who is charged with taking the children their allotted food for the day. The boy runs the kitchens now that Cook has disappeared. Garth is merely waiting for a chance to follow Calvin on his nightly adventure. Garth will find the dungeons beneath the dungeons. He will.
Sir Greyson removes his hand from Garth’s shoulder. “I am sure the king is grateful for your service,” he says.
“And yours as well,” Garth says. He pulls open the doors and announces the captain and the visitor. The men move through the door and down the red carpet.
“Ah,” King Willis says. “Captain. You have returned.”
“With no good news, I fear,” Sir Greyson says.
“You have searched the village, I presume?” King Willis says.
“Yes, sire,” Sir Greyson says.
“And you have not found my son?” King Willis says.
“No, sire,” Sir Greyson says.
“Blast,” King Willis says. His hand drums against the golden arm of the throne, though even one who does not know King Willis as his captain does can see that he is not as concerned with this bit of news as he is the next.
“And the children?” King Willis says. “You found no sign of them?”
Sir Greyson was not aware that he should be looking. But nevertheless, he says, “No, sire.”
“And who is this who waited on my steps?” King Willis says. “Who says he has some news for us?”
Sir Greyson extends an arm to the mysterious man, for he did not get the man’s name.
“I am called the Huntsman,” the man says.
“Ah,” King Willis says. “A Huntsman. At precisely the right time. How fortunate.”
Sir Greyson studies the man. Those blue eyes. They startle him every time he looks upon them, as if he has seen them before. As if they belong to someone else. But who? And how?
“And from where do you come?” King Willis says.
“Everywhere,” the Huntsman says. “And nowhere.”
“Come now,” King Willis says. “Speak plainly to me. I was never one for riddles.”
“It does not matter from where I come,” the Huntsman says. “It matters only what I can do.”
King Willis tilts his head. “Hunt,” he says. “I am listening.”
The Huntsman bows deeply to King Willis. “I would like to offer my services,” he says. “I would like to help you hunt for the missing children.”
The king looks at the Huntsman, but of course he does not really see the man. He sees only the glory that will come from finally catching the magic boy who dares threaten his throne. The king claps his hands, like a toddler who has just received a new toy. “Splendid,” he says. “That is splendid.”
Sir Greyson, of course, does not think this is splendid at all, for he has come with another request, one more entreaty for King Willis to set free the imprisoned children before the townspeople storm the castle and take them back. He knows where the children are. He does not know how to get them out, but he knows where they are, and this is, at least, a start. Surely the one hundred forty-three prophets trapped in the dungeons will be able to help put the last piece in place so the children might be freed.
This Huntsman has thrown a wrench in the plans.
“We have searched for the children everywhere,” Sir Greyson says. “And we have found nothing. They are surely dead after the dragon fires. They could not escape where my men died.”
“They are not dead,” the Huntsman says. “They are alive and well.” He looks at Sir Greyson and then at the king.
“And how could you know such a thing?” Sir Greyson says.
The Huntsman narrows his eyes at Sir Greyson. “I have my ways,” he says.
“You know where they are,” the king says, and it is not a question, merely a statement of fact, for he has heard the certainty in the Huntsman’s voice. He has never known a man like this, only heard the stories told of them. They are said to track the wildest of prey to the very ends of the earth until they are cornered and helpless.
Yes. That is precisely what King Willis needs done.
And yet he hesitates. Yes, he has heard of the skill and determination of a Huntsman. But he has also heard their price.
“Yes,” the Huntsman says. “I know where they are.”
“And what is it you ask from me?” King Willis says. He leans back so the throne touches his shoulders. He knows, of course, that he will already pay whatever price this Huntsman names, for the children must be found and the throne must be secured.
“I ask only food and clothing and safety for my family,” the Huntsman says.
“Your family?” King Willis says. He looks to the door of the throne room, as if a family might have followed the Huntsman inside the castle walls.
The Huntsman gives one short laugh. “My family is not here,” he says. “They remain in the land from which I came.”
“And what is that land, exactly?” Sir Greyson says, unable to trust this man.
But King Willis says, “Then consider it granted. Provided you deliver me all the children.”
“I will,” the Huntsman says.
“Alive,” the king says.
“Yes,” the Huntsman says.
“I shall decide what to do with them when they stand before me and kneel,” King Willis says.
“As you wish,” the Huntsman says.
“Where might these children be, Huntsman?” Sir Greyson says.
The Huntsman turns to him, as if he has only just remembered that Sir Greyson still stands beside him. “They are in the Weeping Woods,” he says. “Where they have been all along.”
The room grows quiet. It is quite impossible. The woods were burned. The children would have died.
“All of them?” he says.
“All of them,” the Huntsman says.
“I have no men to offer for protection,” King Willis says.
The Huntsman flashes his teeth at the king. They are normal-looking teeth, though Sir Greyson has wondered, just now, if he is, in fact, human. He looks like a man. Talks like a man. Moves like a man. But there is something unnatural about him all the same. “I do not need men,” the Huntsman says. “I need only food and some supplies.”
“Consider it done,” the king says, and he gestures to Sir Greyson. “My captain will take care of you.”
Sir Greyson bows to King Willis and then turns on his heel. Just before they have reached the door, which stands open still, King Willis says, “How long, Huntsman?”
The Huntsman turns back. “How long, Your Majesty?”
“How long until you bring me the children?” King Willis says. “I am not a patient man.”
“It is difficult to say,” the Huntsman says. “A few days. Perhaps longer.”
“My son,” King Willis says. He rises from the throne. “What of him?”
“Your son,” the Huntsman says. “He is missing.”
“Yes,” King Willis says, and his face folds a little. Sir Greyson, for the first time in perhaps his entire life, feels sorry for his king. “Might you find him, too?”
“He is safe,” the Huntsman says.
“How could you possibly know?” Sir Greyson says. He is not able to keep the words from flying out of his mouth.
The Huntsman looks at him, and then away. “I watch,” he says. “And no one sees.” He looks at the king again and says, “I shall find him after the other children, if you so desire it.”
“Yes,” King Willis says. “Thank you.”
Sir Greyson does not think he has ever, in the history of the kingdom of Fairendale, heard King Willis say those two words. Ever. He stares at his king, marveling at this unexpected happenstance.
Perhaps there is hope for the kingdom yet. Perhaps there is a shred of humanity still living in King Willis. Perhaps they do not need a new king at all, only the transformation of an old one.
Sir Greyson follows the Huntsman out the front doors of the castle.
At his first opportunity, he breaks toward the village, never looking back.
We may look back, however. And what we see is this: the Huntsman, moving with unbroken steps toward the woods, as if he did not notice that another man ever walked beside him.
Quite fortunate for Sir Greyson, as I am sure we can all agree.
Maude and the hiding children work the land, as they were told by the Enchantress. They plant two vegetable gardens with the seeds the Enchantress gave them. Maude has made the house comfortable for the children—cramped, but comfortable. They are, after all, living in an old shoe that has been enlarged until it is hardly recognizable as a shoe. But it is a shoe all the same, with low ceilings and a tunnel up, used as a fireplace, and too many children tripping all over one another. If one could see invisible houses like this one, one would be quite impressed that inside are twelve rooms and a sitting area with a kitchen. Maude, now, breezes around in the kitchen, pulling a batch of cookies from the iron stove. The Enchantress has not been round to see them today, but Maude expects that she will. And because the Enchantress can never pass up one of her pumpkin spice cookies, this is what Maude has decided to bake today. It is her gift of sorts, in return for news of Hazel.
Truth be told, Maude and the children eat more food now than they ever did in the village. Might this flight have been good for them? It is impossible to tell as yet.
For now, Maude must grudgingly admit that it has been good for all of them, though the longing for Hazel and Arthur and Theo steal over her once the children have all been tucked in their beds.
And yet while they eat better than they have ever eaten before, the children are still forbidden to be free. They are trapped inside a shoe, for there are dangers waiting for them, dangers the Enchantress says will find them if they venture out. They can never know if others are watching, you see. So they remain inside, growing more frustrated by the day.
Maude finishes the cookies and moves to the next item on the list she keeps inside her head, for she wants to move, always move. It is the only way she can keep from thinking of her daughter and her son and her husband. Today, she keeps herself from thinking by turning a bit of flour, pulled from the wheat in the hidden field, into loaves of bread for the children. There is nothing quite like the smell of fresh bread. The children could eat it for all the rest of their days. She suspects it reminds them of home, where the baker used to pass them hot morsels right out of the oven. Here they get whole loaves. This has been some consolation for the way they miss their families and their homes.
Maude kneads the bread and flips it over. She puts it in a pot and hangs it over the open fire. It is always better over the open fire.
And then there is nothing for her hands to do, and she broods. She broods about Arthur and the dragons. She broods about Theo and his disappearance. She broods about what her daughter could possibly offer the Enchantress. She pokes her head into the great room, where the children sit and talk and play. They have found a chair that one of the girls turned into a spinning wheel. They sit on it and spin, and then they try to walk. Maude watches them for a time. She smiles, in spite of her sadness and unrest. At least they seem happier here. At least there is that. This is what Hazel has done.
The ache returns to her chest in a fierce fire.
She returns to the kitchen and is startled to see the Enchantress there. The woman has the uncanny ability to move so silently that she appears to appear from nowhere. It is as if the Enchantress enjoys startling Maude. She smiles when Maude puts a hand to her chest.
“Enchantress,” Maude says, trying to still her heart.
“I have news,” the Enchantress says.
“My daughter?” Maude says. “Is she well?”
“Yes,” the Enchantress says. “Your daughter is well. She is always well. She will never not be well.” The Enchantress sweeps into the kitchen, her skirts brushing the doorway. “I must speak with you, away from the children.”
“This way,” Maude says, leading the Enchantress into her small chambers. Fear claws at the back of her throat. It must be bad news. She knew their safety was too good to be true. She knew this house was too good to be true. She knew they would be found sooner or later.
“Sit down,” Maude says, and then she remembers her manners. “Would you care for a bit of tea?”
“No,” the Enchantress says. “I have only come to talk.”
“Pumpkin spice cookies?” Maude says. “They are freshly out of the oven.”
The Enchantress hesitates. But then she says, “Perhaps on my way out.” She gestures to the spot beside her on Maude’s bed. “Please. Sit with me.”
“What is it?” Maude says. “Tell me before I draw my own conclusions.”
“There is news from the castle,” the Enchantress says. “News of a Huntsman.”
“A Huntsman,” Maude says. No. Not a Huntsman. Not now, when they have only just settled into their new lives. Even a king would not stoop that low, would he? Would he? They are only words trapped in her mind, for fear keeps them locked. She can only, in truth, stare at the Enchantress with eyes wide and dark.
“Yes,” The Enchantress says. “A Huntsman who is hunting the children.”
Maude gasps and presses her hand to her mouth. “So we will be found after all,” she says. “After all this work.” She looks around the room, as if to find answers the walls cannot possibly hold.
“He knows you are in the woods,” the Enchantress says. “He does not know precisely where. This enchantment is very powerful.”
“Very well,” Maude says. She knows there is more coming. She knows they are not safe at all.
“But we will have to do more,” the Enchantress says.
“More,” Maude says. It is as if she is a parrot, dear reader. This is what shock can do to people, you see. She has no ability to think for herself right now. She hopes only that the Enchantress will tell her what to do.
And the Enchantress does not disappoint. “We must move the children,” she says.
“But we cannot move the children,” Maude says. “This is their home now.”
“We must,” the Enchantress says. “If we want them to remain hidden. They must all separate.”
Maude looks at the Enchantress, her eyes narrowed. “But they will not survive without me. Or Arthur...” She lets the name trail off. Tears fill her eyes. “No,” she whispers.
She had not meant to say any of those words out loud.
“They will survive,” the Enchantress says. “It is the only way.” She looks toward the doorway. Maude does, too, but there are no children bursting through.
“It is the only way?” Maude says.
“Yes,” the Enchantress says. “Even with all the enchantments I have placed on this house, it is only a matter of time. The Huntsman will find you.”
“Very well,” Maude says. “I see.” She is babbling, for she does not know what to do with herself. And then she finds the words that matter now. “What shall we do?”
“Hazel will be fine,” the Enchantress says, as though she has not heard Maude. “My magic is strong enough to keep one hidden. But these children.”
“What shall we do, then?” Maude says again.
The Enchantress looks at Maude. She lets out a breath. “Have no fear,” she says. “I shall take care of everything.” She rises from her seat. She gives Maude a cold, long look that sends a shiver down Maude’s back. “But you must trust me implicitly.”
Maude does not know for sure if she can do this. The life of her daughter is in the hands of this woman, after all. Can she trust the Enchantress to protect Hazel? Can she trust the Enchantress to save the children where she cannot?
But what choice does she have, dear reader?
So Maude merely nods and looks the Enchantress full in the face. “Yes,” she says. “I will trust you implicitly.”
“Very well, then,” the Enchantress says. And with a swish of her skirt, she is gone. Maude sits on the edge of her bed and ponders. Has she done the right thing?
The children giggle from the great room, and she returns to her post in the doorway, determined not to let them see just how much fear the Enchantress has brought in this visit and how drastically their lives will change in very little time. She has no need to burden them for now. They are children. Let them play. Let them be merry. Let them hold their happiness for a time.
Zorag has taken quite a liking to the human he has captured. He would very much like to keep him around, in fact. The man does not eat much, he is not too difficult to please, and he provides Zorag with fascinating conversation about kingdoms and travels and men. The man has finally stopped talking about war and children and has begun responding to the questions Zorag has about the things of greater interest to him, such as learning how the humans fare without the dragon riders they once had.
“Tell me how travel has changed,” Zorag says now.
“I was not around when the people rode dragons to distant lands,” Arthur says.
“Yes, but how has travel slowed now?” Zorag says.
“The people do not travel much anymore,” Arthur says.
“In my time,” Zorag says. “They traveled great distances in very little time.”
“The people of Fairendale stay in Fairendale,” Arthur says. “It is the way of things today.”
“And how goes the trade?” Zorag says.
“Poor,” Arthur says. “The only trade comes in from the Violet Sea, if it is permitted by the creatures below water. No man can risk the long trip on land, through the Weeping Woods, except for the king’s soldiers.” Arthur looks toward Fairendale. “And the king cannot spare his soldiers.”
“So the people,” Zorag says. “What do they do for food?”
Arthur traces a pattern in the dirt. “They starve,” he says.
“No,” Zorag says. “They cannot starve. The kingdom must feed its people.”
Arthur looks at the dragon’s golden eyes. He feels an ache inside his belly. He is hungry, but he dares not ask for anything. “It is much different in the kingdom of Fairendale than it was in your time,” Arthur says. He squints at the dragon lands. “Much harsher.”
“I have come to understand this,” Zorag says. “A king who hunts children rules the land.” His rumble has turned gentle, as if he is remembering better days. “Tell me about the magic that has set a king on the hunt.”
“There is said to be a boy,” Arthur says. “A boy with magic.”
“A boy with magic,” Zorag says. “Who may steal a throne.”
“It is said,” Arthur says, but he does not say much more, for he cannot risk revealing to this dragon that the very boy he mentions is his beloved son.
“And is this boy a kind boy?” Zorag says.
“There is no boy with magic,” Arthur says. So long has he told this tale, you see, that the words come out almost automatically, as if he has no control over whether or not truth passes his lips.
“There is a boy with magic,” Zorag says. His growl carries an edge. He is not pleased that Arthur would do him this disservice, which is precisely what telling a lie is—a disservice to the person to whom one tells it. People like knowing the truth. And what would Zorag do to harm this magical child who has gone missing?
Arthur is a wise man. He knows what has upset the dragon. And so he says, “Yes, there is a boy with magic.” And then he goes a step deeper. “He is my son.”
“Your son?” Zorag says. He turns his magnificent face toward Arthur. Heat from his mouth warms Arthur’s skin, as a fire might when one is standing a safe distance away.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “My son.”
“Your son would be king, and you are running?” Zorag says. His eyes grow more golden, glowing in the shifting darkness.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “It is safer this way.”
“Safer, perhaps,” Zorag says. “But is it better?” He does not even notice, dear reader, that he has ventured into the very territory he has wanted to avoid all of these days: the idea of overthrowing a kingdom. Zorag, you see, longs for the days when a king loved the dragons, when the people of Fairendale needed them, when dragons had a purpose and companionship and humans who trusted them. This longing is what has circled his thoughts to what might have been.
“Your son,” Zorag says. “He is a good boy?”
“Always,” Arthur says. “He has a kind heart. A true heart. A noble heart.”
“And he would not lose that heart were a kingdom placed in his hands?” Zorag says, for he must be certain. One can never know what one will do when power is handed to them. But if one has a kind and true and noble heart, power cannot make it easily stray.
“No,” Arthur says. “I do not believe he would. Theo is...” Arthur lets the sentence dangle off. Zorag waits, but Arthur does not speak again.
“He is different from the king who rules the land now,” Zorag says, for he has somehow understood what Arthur meant to say. “He is different from the prince who will inherit it all.”
“The prince,” Arthur says. “The prince and his father are only misguided. That is all.”
“You say that about the very ones who would steal your son and kill him so they might keep a throne?” Zorag says. His growl remains soft, gentle.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “They do not know what they do.”
“And how is it you know this?” Zorag says.
Arthur looks at the dragon and then down at the ground. He has traced a pattern around the rock, a wide oval rut that swallows his finger. “I know the stories,” he says. “About an enchanted throne.” And the look Arthur turns on Zorag is so terribly sad that Zorag cannot bring himself to ask any more, though he wonders, as you might wonder, about this enchanted throne. What is its story? How did it come to the kingdom of Fairendale? What power does it hold over our king and prince?
Arthur is not quite ready to tell this story, dear reader. And so we, too, must wait.
“Your son,” Zorag says after a time. “If we were to find him, he would inherit the throne?”
“It would mean a fight,” Arthur says. “But he has the gift of magic.”
“And he is alive still?” Zorag says.
This is something Arthur has not considered as yet. He has not allowed himself to consider it, in truth. The possibility that Theo could be dead is a possibility Arthur cannot bear to consider, you see.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “I hope.”
“You do not know where he is?” Zorag says.
“No,” Arthur says. “He never wanted the throne. He might have fled quite far from these lands to escape it.”
Zorag bends his head so he is eye to eye with Arthur. “Tell me about your son.”
“He is a good boy. Strong. Courageous,” Arthur says. “Always searching for the ones who live in need. Always giving what he has so that others may live.”
Zorag lifts his head again, gazing out upon the lands of Fairendale. They have begun to wither. This has not escaped him. “He sounds like a boy I once knew,” Zorag says.
Arthur stares at his hands. “Who was the boy you once knew?” he says.
“Just a boy,” Zorag says. Just a boy he loved. He does not say this last part aloud, of course, for Zorag does not want Arthur to know yet that he ever loved a human. He does not tell Arthur that this boy would have once made an honorable king, if the evil one had not banished him from the land. He does not reveal that he once had a rider who was bound to him forever, but the rider vanished on the heels of a spell.
He does not say that he has looked long and hard for that boy, and he has never found him.
Zorag breathes fire toward Fairendale. Arthur scrambles to his feet. He has no notion what might have caused the dragon sudden anger, but he is wise enough to know he must get out of the way. He slips behind a rock.
“Come,” Zorag says. “I lost myself for a moment.”
Arthur emerges from behind the rock.
Zorag’s head hovers above him, so Arthur must look up to meet those golden eyes. “If we found your boy,” Zorag says. “Perhaps the kingdom could become what it once was.”
“Perhaps,” Arthur says.
“Perhaps the dragons would resume their rightful place alongside the humans, living in peace and love,” Zorag says.
“Perhaps,” Arthur says once more.
Zorag huffs. “It is only that we are not strong enough for a battle,” he says. It is as if he is trying to talk himself out of helping Arthur, dear reader. “We must not get involved in a battle.”
“But there will be a battle, regardless,” Arthur says. “The people will not simply hand over their children to the king. Even now, they are likely planning their war.” Arthur, of course, has no idea whether this is true. But he has seen his opportunity. And he will take it.
“We must keep the treaty,” Zorag says. “We must remain in our lands.”
“Very well,” Arthur says, for he knows he cannot sway the mind of this dragon.
“And yet,” Zorag says, and Arthur feels a warm hope rise in his chest. Those two words, dear reader. They are magical ones. “You must find your son.”
“Yes,” Arthur says.
“If we search, we shall not be able to keep the treaty,” Zorag says. “It will be dangerous work.”
“Perhaps,” Arthur says.
Zorag looks on Arthur. His eyes glow in the dark. “You do not know where your son may be?” he says.
“No,” Arthur says.
Zorag falls quiet again. And then he straights, his head rising to a place well above Arthur’s head.
“They broke the treaty first.” At first, Arthur mistakes the words for Zorag’s. But then Zorag’s cousin emerges from shadows, his black body nearly invisible in the dark. Only his red eyes give clue that he is there.
Arthur feels a cold finger stroke his back. Blindell will ruin it all. He has seen the exchanges between Zorag and Blindell. Zorag believes his cousin is too rash, too intent on revenge. Arthur, in truth, has thought much the same. Arthur turns around to face the dragon. Blindell is pointing one talon in Arthur’s direction, as if Arthur takes on the full brunt of guilt for crossing into the lands of Morad and breaking the treaty. But all he can do is wait for Zorag to respond.
Zorag lets out a long breath, as if he has already grown weary of this exchange. He is, in fact, weary. He is weary of trying to decide what is best for his land. He is weary of wondering what he might do to restore the kingdom of Fairendale, which he loves still. He is weary of this sad man, who has ceased to eat most days. The human will die of starvation, but not because the dragons do not feed him.
He is weary of feeling torn, wanting to keep his dragons safe and yet wanting to help the man and so help all the land.
He must not risk any more lives. The dragons risked much in the Great Battle, and look where it got them. Zorag growls in frustration.
“We cannot,” he says. “We cannot bring a war on the land.”
“We will all die soon if we remain chained here in this land without food,” Blindell says. “The dragons once had free reign.” He points a talon toward Arthur again. “He says that can happen again.”
“Yes, it could,” Arthur says, so softly the dragons almost do not hear him. “My son would make it better.”
At precisely this moment, two more dragons drop to the ground before them, a red one who breathes smoke as she huffs and a blue one who shimmers in the moonlight even when he is still.
The red one looks at Zorag with tender eyes.
“Malera,” he says. “Why are you here?”
“We come to counsel,” Malera says. “We come to talk about what Blindell has told us.” She looks at Arthur. “With the human.”
“And what is it my cousin has told you?” Zorag says.
“He has told us everything,” says the other dragon. His blue scales shimmer again. A green horn sits on the top of his face, right between his green eyes that match exactly the undersides of his wings, though one could not tell in this darkness what colors he wears. Arthur has seen him about during the day. He is the most beautiful of the dragons, the one who brings him food most often, terrifying when one first looks upon him, for his teeth show from the sides of his cheek, but Arthur has come to trust him in the days since his captivity. This dragon would not harm him. Of that he is certain.
“Larus,” Zorag says. “You as well? You have all come to tell me I am wrong to desire peace?”
“Something must be done,” Larus says. “We are starving. We will die whether we fight or not. At least if we fight we have the opportunity to change whether we live or die.”
“But I never wanted a war,” Zorag says. “I never wanted to fight.”
“Sometimes wars come to us even when we are not looking,” Malera says. “Your father told me that once.”
Yes, Zorag remembers his father saying that. His father. Oh, how he misses his father. Erell would know exactly what to do. He would lead the dragons with authority and strength and confidence. Zorag fears he does not carry any of those virtues anymore, for he has never ruled his people in any time other than this one. This time when dragons are forbidden to leave the lands of Morad. How easily authority and strength and confidence can leak from a leader when he finds himself subjugated.
Malera waddles closer to Zorag. “Besides,” she says. “They are children.”
She looks at Arthur. Arthur turns his gaze to her, and he cannot help nodding his head, agreeing with her, for it is true. They are only children. Innocent children caught in a war they did not ask to begin.
“What if his son could change our futures?” Larus says. “What if he could set us back in our proper places, with the freedom we once had?”
“Serving the people?” Blindell growls. His eyes turn hard. “You would call that freedom?”
“You speak of what you do not know,” Larus says.
“I would never serve the people,” Blindell says. “Never again. Our proper place is roaming the lands, wherever we would go.”
“We were never subject to the people,” Malera says. “We were bound in friendship and peace and love.”
Blindell does not say anything more, but Zorag knows his cousin. He can tell Blindell did not plan on this turn of events. He is not a dragon keen on helping people, and perhaps this is what gives Zorag a momentary surge of knowing. He must show his cousin how beautiful the land used to be.
And so he says, “Very well. We shall do what needs to be done.”
There is, perhaps, no one quite as happy as Arthur is this moment, anywhere in the world. They shall find his family. They shall protect the people. They shall save his son.
“Call the rest of the council,” Zorag says to Blindell. “We shall make our plans.”
Blindell takes to the sky, and Arthur watches him until he has vanished in a patch of black.