Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

Alyx’s shock at Will’s comment to Crow had not yet worn off as she and Crow had led the way from the palace—with Will, Dranae, and Princess Sayce bringing up the rear. They moved easily through the streets, though Alexia found herself casting eyes back toward the palace. She half suspected Scrainwood would send troops after them, and she did not much like the fact that her great-grandaunt had remained behind.

The journey to the Rampant Panther did not take that long, but before they entered, Alexia stopped, turned, and rested her hands on Will’s shoulders. “A word with you, please.”

He looked up, his grey eyes wide. “I meant no disrespect, Highness. I was just angry and kind of flailing about, trying to surprise folks. I mean, I know the truth, and I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “Will, that did surprise me, but that’s okay. You had your back to her, but that shot took my great-grandaunt right between the eyes. Thank you. However, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Crow cleared his throat. “Dranae, perhaps you’d stand me to a mug of mulled wine?”

“Wait.” Alexia looked back at him, and then at the other two. “You don’t need to go, because I’ll freely say this in front of you or as many others as can hear. What you did back there, Will, was probably the most ill-considered, irrational, and impulsive thing you could have done. It was dangerous, and before this is all over, it could well be the death of you.”

The thief slowly nodded and glanced down at the slush. “I know.”

Alexia reached out and tipped his face up with a finger. “That’s why it’s also one of the bravest things. It was a heroic act.”

He frowned. “How do you figure that?”

The princess smiled. “You saved a life in there. Kenleigh Norrington isn’t the fated one. You read him right: he is stout of heart and limb, loves his mother and his country, and would obey her without question. In this battle, though, it’s not enough. While he would do everything he was told to do, Chytrine would gobble him up and spit out bleached bones. In backing him down, you saved his life.

“And that’s the essence of heroism, isn’t it? Every one of us does all we can to avoid death. But a hero knows there are some people who can’t protect themselves, so he steps in to protect them.”

Will grinned. “Or she steps in.”

“Thank you, sir.” Alexia smiled. “The other thing about being a hero, Will, is that it’s not birth makes you one. If it were, Scrainwood would be a hero. So would Kenleigh. Being a hero is something you learn, but it’s mostly something you accept. Back there you acknowledged that being the Norrington is quite a responsibility, and you accepted that responsibility for yourself. That took a lot of courage. So, whether we’re riding north to Caldeo or south or east or west, I’ll be proud to ride with you.”

The thief blinked for a moment, then snorted a laugh. “Me? Responsible? Who would have thunk it?”

Crow smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “A fitting attribute for the King of the Dimandowns, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” Will shifted his shoulders and Alexia felt a shiver run through him. “Thank you, Princess.”

“You’re welcome, Will.” She straightened up, then slid her left hand to the small of his back. “Now, get in there and warm yourself. Dranae and Princess Sayce, you, too. Order whatever you want and have it put on my account. Crow, I would have a word in private with you.”

Dranae nodded and guided the other two into the building.

Crow looked at her. “Yes?”

“Upstairs, in my room, please.”

He nodded his assent, so she led the way up the stairs to her room. Crow slipped in past her and she closed the door. He turned the wick up on the table lamp. She pointed him to the chairs by the window as she squatted at the edge of the bed and reached under the straw mattress.

“I believe this is yours.” She pulled out a long, slender, cloth-wrapped package and slid it across the blanket to him. “I got it from Resolute and had to tell the Oriosans that you’d given it to me as a wedding gift to stop them from confiscating it.”

Crow smiled as he unwrapped the sword. “Fitting it should be yours. You’ve made better use of it than I. You slew a sullanciri with it.”

“We did that.”

He nodded and slid the blade from the ancient, scarred scabbard. Though the scabbard and belt had seen better days, the sword looked as if it had just come from the forge. The long, straight blade had two edges and a thickened forte. In that reinforced area had been set an opalescent gem. It was shaped like a keystone, and that design had been echoed in the brass cross hilt decorations and the pommel cap. Stained leather wrapped the hilt and Crow’s fingers caressed it lovingly.

She watched him, and something tightened around her heart. He concentrated on the blade, and the shifting fire in the gem flashed little rainbow lights over his face. His eyes grew distant, and she knew well that the simple weight of the blade—the feel of the leather and the cool metal of blade and pommel—could summon up hundreds, even thousands, of memories. She had no idea how much blood it had spilled, how many desperate cuts it had turned, how many gibberers it had cloven and vylaens spitted. Somehow, though, she was certain that Crow remembered only the faces of those he saved and, more sharply, the faces of those he could not.

The lines of that face, the hollows—the way that one lock of white hair fell across his forehead, crossing the scar that started there, then worked down his right cheek—all pleased her eye mightily. She wanted to reach out to brush that lock back into place, not because it needed to be cleared from his face, but because she wanted to touch it, to feel it between her fingers, and then her fingers deep in his hair.

“Princess?” Crow looked at her. “Is there something wrong?”

Alexia blinked, then shook her head and stood. “No, nothing wrong.” She refrained from pressing her hands to her stomach to stop the fluttering there. “I, ah, just wanted to be sure that you had Tsamoc back as we rode north.”

Crow nodded. “Thank you. You know that this stone is from the Radooya Bridge? We destroyed the bridge before we came to Svarskya. Actually, the bridge’s weirun destroyed the bridge for us. This stone is all that is left of him. His name was Tsamoc. Once he removed this gem from his chest, he came apart, and so did the bridge.

“A friend of mine, Naysmith Carver, made Tsamoc and gave the sword to me. It saved me in Boragul and after, running from Chytrine’s hunters, and countless times since.” He resheathed the blade. “Tsamoc asked Nay to let him help destroy Chytrine. I’ve been doing all I can to help him since.”

“And you’ve done very well.”

“Thank you.” Crow set the sword on the bed, then looked up at her. “And I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“For spurning your effort to save my life. Scrainwood would have had me killed had you not come up with this solution.” Crow twisted the gold band on his left ring finger. “For years I’d all but forgotten the sentence of death. Compared to how badly Chytrine wanted me dead, and then the trouble locating Will, it just seemed unimportant. I avoided Oriosa, grew this beard for a disguise, became Resolute’s aide, and spent most of my time off in the middle of nowhere killing Aurolani troops. The Vorquelves knew who I was—many of them anyway—but they didn’t care.

“When I was found out, the sentence crashed back down on me and…” He hesitated, then frowned and fell silent.

Alyx slipped forward and knelt on the bed. “What? Don’t be afraid…” The seconds the words were out of her mouth, she realized her mistake. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to intrude.”