Greywing
Chapter 12
Of all the elements, Ice and Wind bear the strongest bonds. Theologists would have everyone believe that the elements are separate, individuals caste in their rightful place among nature; if it is not of the elements it is not of nature. In all actuality, the lines between magics bleed. The Unseen Court of mana borrows and steals from amongst itself. A winter without wind has no snow. A wind without ice has no rain. What manner of things can be created, I wonder, when we realize that there are possibilities in the gaps between the worlds of 'what is' and 'what should be' —this, of course, is heresy, my friends. There can be nothing other in the Unseen Court. Mana must flow, and if it does not flow it must be cut out. Truth is simply what is agreed. If I am to only speak what is agreed then I would rather spit lies.
—The burned notes of Heretic Boschtet, who burned along with the rest.
The cold felt heartless against Cynder's scales. It was the wind, she decided, that made it worse. Ice and snow became daggers in the ruthless blast, biting her tail and burning her cheeks. Occasionally a building would serve as a bulwark and the stillness of the air felt a pocket of warmth when compared to the gales that howled through the streets.
She had heard tales of dragons dying amongst such winds out in the wild, lost in the open country of Shiverum's northern provinces. Up there, the wind was alive, burning colder than death, killing the weak, stealing the wandering.
A helpless laugh bubbled out of her cold-stiff lips. Such a pitiless joke—how a cruel wind to her here was a gentle breeze to those bedded closer to the mountains. It was lethal enough as it is.
Limbs heavy as lead, Cynder sighed a deep breath and took a turn down a side street that terminated in a cul de sac neighborhood of torched homes and piles of rubble. There were still families trying to live in them.
Tarps of cloth and taught leather served a makeshift roof on a bare-bones skeleton of what might have been a single-story hut for a family of moles. Another family, using half-broken boards as platforms for their beds, kept off the cold by huddling together around a blazing fire in the center of their home. They shivered anyways.
She turned away from the grizzly sight. Looking for too long meant admitting to reality. But what did denying it accomplish for those who were already living in it?
Coward, Cynder scolded. Look at them!
But she couldn't bring herself to do it.
Spyro would look. Spyro would do something. He would want you to do something too.
She walked away before anyone decided to take notice of her.
Retracing her steps brought her back to an eight-way intersection, each street spiraling off into winding, overlapping paths.
At one point in time, there had been a sign placed in the middle of the junction to point in the direction of every street—names like Pighoof way, Sleepy nose lane, and Gordant road written on the arrows—but was now left to lie in the snow after being snapped off at the base.
Steam billowing from her nose, Cynder sighed dejectedly. Nothing to do but leave it up to fate. Picking blindly, she stepped down a well-trodden street, the snow long since turned to slush under the heavy traffic of paws and hooves.
The way was large and straight with narrow branches that terminated at dead ends or split off into narrow paths and coves.
The denizens of the street did not avoid attention as fiercely as they had before here; some of them even wore smiles and warm clothing. Occasionally, a few of those smiles fell upon noticing her but not before being picked back up again.
It wasn't until the distant sound of a crowd reached her ears that Cynder allowed herself to hope she was heading in the right direction. With every step the din grew louder, encouraging her onward.
The noise became a blare as she stepped out into a large Plaza in the center of what was a bustling marketplace.
Hawkers cried and stallmen called out their wares, waving hands and kerchiefs in an attempt to drum up any business they could manage. They shouted needles and thread, ointments and salves and supposed cure-alls for any wound, treatments, and remedies for everything from watery bowels to white fever. They spoke of soap for delicate scales, tin pots and pans, cups that never broke, and warm woolen clothing to keep off the cold.
Most of all, however, was the boasts for blades and armor—piecemeal at worst, fine smith work at best.
In one corner, a town crier spouted the news of the day: "Assembly delegation today! Unrest in the north. Warfang lost to unknown host! War on the Horizon! Dracolith—ally or enemy?! Towns east of Hrofstadj evacuated. Villages of Cather Finger lost and burned!" The list of ill news grew too long to recount.
The noise was thick enough to drown in. Even the wind seemed a quiet and timid thing compared to the roar of the market. Gold, silver, and copper pennies passed between paws as easily as words through mouths.
A cart ladden with furs rumbled across the square, moles and barrels of what smelt like mead bounced in the back. The flaps of tents and stalls snapped in the occiasiional gust while shopkeeps held their merchandise to keep it from blowing away.
Here, anything sold could be bought and anything bartered could be traded for.
"Contraceptives!" a voice near her cried: a small, stout fire dragoness with yellow-orange scales, and a broad Smelterbreach accent "Dragons and mammals alike!"
The shopkeep must have noticed Cynder looking because suddenly she was standing directly in front of her, blocking the path.
"And what of you, lass? A young and beautiful dragon like yerself. Yer mate must be very fortunate."
"Oh, no! I'm not—no-no. I don't have—"
"Ah," the shopkeeper smiled. "A dragoness with lovers, I ken. All the better. Best to buy a tincture now. A time like this is no time at all to bring up a bairn. Yer lookin ripe as it is lass, best to be safe, aye?"
Crimson cheeked, Cynder fought off the image of Spyro in her mind—and of what his child might look like.
Embarrassment quickly gave way to frustration. "I am not ripe!" Cynder chuffed. "And even if I was, it would be none of your business."
Stalking off, she made a point of avoiding making eye contact with any more salesmen.
Who would she bump into next? An egg poacher? The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
In her haste to escape, Cynder did manage to bump into someone. A rather portly ice dragon with a lopsided set of curving horns and a grin that he could have shattered porcelain by smiling at it.
He turned it on her, becoming less a grin than a sneer, and it took an effort to stop the grimace that tickled her lips.
"Watch where you're going, black scale," he grunted.
Looking around she found herself part of a small crowd gathered around a rostrum speaker—an unctuous looking mole who sounded as if he were speaking through a mouth full of slime.
"There's been no word from the palace for days!" He shouted, raising one pointed finger. "They sit behind their silver doors, barring all who would look to them for answers!"
The crowd murmured.
"Trading vessels attacked! Farms burned! Homes looted! And what do they ask us to do?"
"Nothing!" The crowd shouted back.
"They ask us to standby!" the mole spat, wiping a paw across his head. "The people are hungry, homeless… lost. We do not have to be. We hold within our grasp, the right to cast down their malpractice and reclaim our authority."
Shouts of agreement.
"The Vindar are willing to lay down our lives for the liberation of the people of our great country. Join us in our fight for justice, brothers and sisters!" He yelled, the crowd joining him. "In our fight against the Harbingers" —more cheering— "against aristocracy and their pitiful games of delegation and prestige." Nods of agreement and muttering broke out amongst the crowd. "And the wastelanders that send their spies across the border to pull our city apart for their amusement."
The glares in Cynder's direction multiplied, many of them slowly stepping away until it was just her amidst a ring of others.
"You there!" the mole shouted, pointing one gnarled finger in her direction. "Have they sent you? An agent of the dark?"
Huffing indignantly, Cynder glared. "Of course not! I was born—" The words faded from her throat, plummeting back down until she had to swallow them.
What could she say?
Nothing.
"There! There! Do you all see? Lies!" Frightened, the mole backed away shielding himself behind his entourage. Cynder however, could see the cruel smile splitting his crusted lips. "She is allied with them! An agent of their malicious infiltration!"
Fearful murmuring broke out amongst the crowd.
"The only malicious intent to be found here is yours, mole. Feeding the people fear and lies, turning them against one another. You are an agent of panic."
Sneering, the mole gesticulated wildly at her from atop his stage."And you are a wastelander, as plain as the scales upon your hide, sent to sow chaos in our city."
Shaking her head and huffing, Cynder grumbled in her throat. "I am not. And even if I was, all I would need to do is to allow you to fester in the minds of these good people."
The audience rippled with unease, the circle around her tightening. The fear emanating from them smoldered like a fire ready to give way to flame. Fear of each other. Fear of her.
From his stage, the mole smiled. "Cunning words will bring you nothing—only truth is spoken here!" the mole gargled, opening his arms wide in a boastful fashion. "Lying is as easy as breathing for you wastelanders. We all know it!" he shouted, looking around the crowd, garnering support. "Wretch! Fraud! Deceiver!"
Over and over he repeated the words; the crowd joined in, pressing in around her until she was surrounded. Instinctively falling into a defensive stance, Cynder bore her teeth in a snarl, tail poised like a scorpion.
The crowd gasped, and Cynder could taste the sweet smell of their fear drawing into her; she could see the reproof in their eyes.
"It's her," Someone muttered.
"The Terror."
"Malefor's chosen."
Heartbeat thrumming in her ears, Cynder scanned the audience. "That's not who I am. Not anymore."
She took a step forward and the crowd shuddered with fearful gasps, backing away, always keeping the same distance from her even if they had to step over one another to do it.
Looking at the podium the mole, huddled and cowering, flinched as her eyes came to rest on him.
"Please," the mole begged.
Suddenly a shout broke through the crowd, so firm and full of authority that Cynder half expected to see Cyril's long neck poking up from the crowd. "What is all of this then? There'll be no fighting rings in the street."
The throng of civilians divided, permitting a small team of three paladins to break the perimeter that had formed itself around her.
The leader—a stout but agile-looking ice drake with deep blue scales with flecks of grey and turquoise splattered across him—scanned the area with an expressionless stare. He had the look of a seasoned soldier: inset eyes that carried the bags of many sleepless nights, gravel to his voice from shouting orders, and strength he carried in his shoulders like all the weight of a mountain rode on him. How many times had she seen Spyro as the same?
Too many to count.
He bore little battle scarring aside from the memories of it left on his armor and a small cleft to his upper lip that became more pronounced when he snarled.
"Hidirk," the ice drake sneered. "Starting up trouble again?" he asked, staring at the mole down as he strode forward, past Cynder.
Watching him, Cynder felt their eyes meet and a spark of recognition and—was that amusement?—ignited in his eyes.
The mole, no longer cowering but still eyeing Cyndder warily, grumbled at the paladin. "Nothing that violates our right to assembly, Paladin Guzal."
"That would be a first," the paladin called Guzal grumbled back. He turned to her. "Was this mole bothering you?"
Cynder, put off by the scenario as a whole, swallowed before speaking. "I'm fine."
Guzal nodded, turning back to the mole named Hidirk. "Lucky day Hidirk. I won't have to write you up for inciting violence and civil unrest. Saves me the trouble of paperwork."
"Lies!" Hidirk seethed, ruffling his brown woolen cloak. "I preach for justice."
"Then I'll ask you to move your assembly somewhere else, then. How does Wallowridge sound?"
"It is a sewer for lowlifes and rats," Hidirk gurgled.
Humming, a pleasant smile on his face, Guzal winked. "Wallowridge it is then."
It was at this point, Cynder noticed, that the crowd that had once surrounded her, began to disperse, ignoring Hidirk's pleas to follow him and the light of truth wherever it may lead. Their allegiance to truth ended at Wallowridge, it would seem.
"You," Guzal grunted, looking at her, "follow me." And strode off through the plaza, his entourage of paladins following him.
Mouth opening and closing, Cynder followed. "I don't understand. I didn't do anything wrong."
"Correct."
Not expecting agreement, Cynder flustered. "So I'm not under arrest?"
"Would it make you feel better if you were?"
The other paladins around them laughed.
She stopped, steam billowing from her nose as she huffed. "I need to find Poetry."
"Then follow me," he said again.
Like stones in a great river, the crowd parted for Guzal and his fellow soldiers, sharing nods of acknowledgment and shouts of greeting with the occasional passerby.
When eyes fell on her, however, it was typically with a guarded but obvious contempt. There were some—mostly older dragons—that still looked at her with a trace of fear. Yet worse were the ones who looked at her with hope, as if she held the key to all their problems wrapped around her neck; better that they hate her; better that they fear her than feel their hopes shattered in disappointment. How Spyro lived with it, she couldn't grasp.
The four of them continued down a wide street northeast, the market seeming to extend even further than had initially appeared. Here the walkways were choked with stalls, colorful awnings draped from building to building to block out the snow, casting colorful shadows in the diffused grey light.
Produce from every corner of the continent seemed to be present—red beans that grew on twisting vines, Dirt-apples that wiggled and shivered in the cold breeze, and strange bowls of oval-shaped fruits that smelled of bitterness but tasted sweeter than love. There were common fruits and vegetables as well: mostly locally grown berries, cabbages, carrots, and Gumroot as well as alchemical plant ingredients like Heartswoon, Motherbean, Bloodmoss, and Whispering grim.
"Welcome to Picker's row," Guzal said from beside her.
She sighed, inhaling the street's natural fragrance.
"A sight short of what it could have been," He went on.
"What do you mean? It looks spectacular," Cynder asked, disbelieving.
"Traders and farmers were summoned back to the city when Aquaria brought news of Warfang. An early harvest," Guzal said soberly, turning down a side street with fewer stalls and kiosks. What little produce could be found there was withered and wilted, barely enough to feed even the smallest of families. "This is only half of what the city needs to survive.
"What of the food banks and Bodegas? How long will those last?"
At this Guzal gave her a flat look, one that seemed to be weighing what he should answer with—comfort or truth.
Cynder did her best to appear open. She could taste the uncertainty in him though, sense the worry. That's all the answer she needed, she supposed.
"I see," she said before he could decide. "What's being done about it?"
Suddenly Guzal was smiling again, the cut in his lip wrinkling. "That's above my command. I'll let Poetry fill you in on the details.
Cutting through a line of pedestrians, Cynder tilted her head. "Poetry knows?"
Guzal gave her a look that bordered on patronizing. "Of course, she knows. It's her job to know. Before she was ever governess of Shiverum, we all knew her as Speaker."
"Who's we?" she asked, trying to avoid the more obvious question of 'what is a speaker?'
"We—as in everyone. It's the job of the speaker to voice the worries of the Shiverum people. She is the ear that listens when no one else will, and the voice that speaks when none can be heard."
"You're an admirer then?" Cynder asked, not sure why she was teasing this drake she had just met. Perhaps it was because he was honest and honesty wasn't a trait she was used to being met with.
Chuckling, Guzal nodded. "It's hard not to admire. She tries to be perfect."
"I sense a 'But,'"
He nodded. "Perfect is a difficult thing to strive for when the world is crumbling around you. Poetry has only led us in times of peace. Aquaria has seen war. I trust them both but Poetry is eager to prove herself an equal and earn the favor of her people over her mother." The drake sighed. "There has always been a struggle for power within the walls of Shiverum and I'm afraid that now is no different."
"Do you think she can do it—prove herself?"
"I think I would be a fool not to at least give her the chance," He said carefully, "and with Spyro by her side…" The drake laughed then, shaking his head. "The fires I've seen those two walk through."
For a brief moment, Cynder felt a stab of jealousy followed by a slow resentment—not for Poetry—but herself.
"I've only just met Poetry and yet with all I've seen and heard, I feel as if I've known her for much longer."
Pardoning his way through a bunch of small mammals, each of them shouting their hello's and well wishes to him, Guzal grunted in affirmation. "There's an attraction to her. When she promises things, no matter how impossible they may seem, you can't help but feel certain she will deliver them. It's always been her greatest strength and her gravest fault."
It was at this point that the air had taken on an aroma—sweet sugar water mixed with honey, berries, and molten candies—so strong you could stick your tongue out and taste the breeze it carried.
To the left, almost hidden behind a maze of clotheslines, stood an open windowed store. Up unto this point, every structure Cynder had seen had been either sod houses made of logs and planks, or frigid bluestone castles encased in ice. This structure, however, appeared to be crafted from a contrarian mix of orange sandstone and glistening marble.
Chain sconces hung off the wall to either side of the doorway, fire crackling in a strange purple blaze.
"What is this place," she asked. It had the look of a storefront but bore no sign or proper name.
There was uncertainty in Guzal's voice when he answered. "It is a serpent's abode. We should go."
"A serpent? I thought they never left the Rakaan?"
"Well this one did and it ended up here."
Unaware that she had been walking towards the store, Cynder stopped. "I've never met a serpent before."
Guzal, still standing at the mouth of the alleyway, sounded urgent when he said, "neither have I, and I want to keep it that way. They hold no love for dragons and speak in riddles."
"Riddles," Cynder scoffed, "sounds exhausting."
"It's what I heard."
Suddenly, as if sensing her approach, the braziers grew brighter, their color changing from a bright purple to a blue-green flecked in black. The breeze shifted and with it the aromas—burned sediment mixed with tea leaves and incense—then back again to the candied air.
Behind her, Cynder could hear Guzal shudder. What was a serpent doing this far from the Rakaan dessert? Preferring to keep to themselves, the nomadic tribes of snakes rarely separated from one another. Of course, there was rumor of stirrings in the waste, unsettling tales of the dead walking once again. But such tales were hardly scarce.
A saddening thought was that Shiverum was perhaps the last safe bastion in the lower realms of the continent. How many towns would she be able to recognize if she strolled through them, she wondered. How many had been lost?
When she'd asked Aquaria if there were any plans to reclaim the smaller provinces along the Warfang border, all she'd gotten was a saddened smile and comfortless words; "We'll do what we can."
'What we can' never turned out to be enough. If she and Spyro had only done "what they can," all those years ago when Malefor had been razing the world to shattered pieces, the war would never have been won. She'd seen one war ended before. She wasn't sure she had enough in her for another.
And Spyro, the flea-brained fool, seemed intent to keep her out of it even though it was clear to her that she was already thoroughly involved.
Her anger toward him was only half of it though, the rest was kept for herself. She had placed that barrier between them. All those years she'd left him seemed to have turned him cold, colder than she remembered—and when Spyro was cold he became impulsive.
She knew she could reason with him—or at least hoped she could—if she managed to sit the drake down long enough to get past that blank stare he seemed to get when he looked at her—long and wistful as if he were staring at something unreachable—perhaps even convince him to speak words with her!
She knew her greatest opportunity lay in cornering him at the assembly, so why did her stomach churn every time she so much as thought about the meeting?
He could be a cantankerous drake when he wanted to be, but not so unreasonable. She needed to be delicate with him to be certain, but how? Again, that sinking feeling in her stomach threatened to empty it.
All thoughts of Spyro were driven out of her head, however, once she realized she hadn't moved away from the entrance to the unnamed shoppe. The fragrant sweetness pulled at her like a siren song.
Guzal released an audible breath once she finally turned away. She noticed that the other two paladins hadn't so much as laid a claw in the alleyway.
The four of them resuming their trek, Cynder found her thoughts pulled in other directions, to the things the mole named Hidirk had spoken of.
"What are the Vindar?" She asked.
Guzal released a heavy breath, eyebrows raised. "That's a question with a history lesson behind it." He grunted, seemingly clearing his throat. "They're a group of 'Revolutionaries,'" Guzal answered, speaking the term the same way he might have said dung heap. "They're nothing new. Started up…forty-two—three years back?"
"Forty-five, sir" One of the soldiers beside her corrected, adding the 'sir' almost as a belated afterthought.
"Blessed day! Has it really been that long?" Guzal sighed, sounding more tired than moments ago. "Anyways… Back then they'd been little more than a cult really, preaching of change and technological advancements. More peaceful too; More approachable. Then tensions with Dracoltih had risen, trade had crashed to a halt, and every town crier and rumorsmith spoke of rebellions igniting out in the waste. No one knows how it started just that there was a great deal of kidnappings, ransoms, rolling heads."
Frowning, Cynder thought of where she had been during that time; somewhere in the Jade Isle, she imagined, sleeping in caves, dining on red meat and small sprouts. "How did Shiverum get involved?" she asked.
"Poetry," he answered matter of factly. "Well… Poetry and Spyro. All that turmoil started bleeding into the Coalition Continents; refugee warlords seeking asylum; battles breaking out in the middle of small towns; First in Warfang then in Shiverum. Warfang had sent Spyro as a correspondent. Cyril was the last of the great Guardians left alive in Warfang—clinging to threads in a fragile time—and Aquaria was next in line to take up the mantle." Abruptly Guzal paused. "I never got to meet the dragon. Poetry says he might have liked me."
"Cyril might have hated you," Cynder laughed, blinking back dry tears she hadn't realized had sprung up. "But his pride in his breed would have seen you as a son."
Guzal chuckled.
A lull in the silence allowed Cynder to process some of the information she had been given.
So Spyro had returned to Warfang after all, most likely bringing with him the news of Ignitus's ascension to chronicler. What had Cyril thought of that? Terrador and Volteer? Those names brought on a dull but bottomless pain, a bruise that never healed. The desire to have seen them all together one last time, a yearning for a final memory she could never have, went beyond words like "wished" or "wanted." They had been the closest thing to family she had ever had—and all she had done was run from them until the very end. Perhaps Spyro blamed her for leaving them too.
"Back then," Guzal continued, interrupting her sad reverie, "Poetry…" he paused, struggling with the words. "She—she was catastrophic." The other paladins chucked but Guzal silenced them with a hard glare. "A spoiled heiress on a fast track to what seemed like the greatest looming disaster Shiverum could face in a time like that: a child on a throne."
Cynder, feeling like she was intruding on something very private, cleared her throat. "If you're telling me this in confidence..."
Dragging his tail across his eyes, Guzal gave a small laugh. "Don't worry. I'm only telling it the way she would want me to." When he spoke again it was with sturdier footing—slightly sturdier. "It was around this time that the Vindar, looking to stave the tide of inevitable political turmoil that was going to wash the streets of Shiverum black, turned to extremist methods. To them, Dracolith was invading, you see. It didn't help that during this time rumor had spread of an eclectic nation of individuals known as the Harbingers, was ravaging their way across the border towns of Voldaheim and the unclaimed regions of the Cather mountains."
"What are the Harbingers?" Cynder asked, sidestepping a pair of snow leopards wandering in the street.
He snarled as if the question left a bad taste. "Some called them aspirants, heretics, dissenters. I call them what they are—anarchists. They butchered thousands, preaching of some ministry I've never heard of: some form of religious malpractice that spoke of vengeful gods slaying their kin, of ancient beings as old as dirt being born from the spilled blood of dragons." He must have seen something in her face because he was quick to amend himself. "I only remember as much as I can stand," he said, grimacing. "It was all so depraved. They wanted a return to the savage ways of older times, dragon times, where we ruled like tyrants and slaughtered the lesser like Wyvern cattle."
The accompanying paladins looked to have receded into themselves, almost as immersed in the tale as she was—or perhaps they were living in memories past.
"And while I hate to admit it," Guzal said grudgingly, "The Vindar kept that filth at bay. It was Poetry and Spyro though, that dealt the finishing stroke that wiped the Harbingers from the canvas. They unified the Warlords of the waste, placing Koteliri, a shiverum ambassador in the heart of Dracolith castle."
"Are the Harbingers gone though?" she asked, almost stumbling on a loose stone in the street paving.
"Who's to say? The Vindar don't seem to think so. Since then they've only grown more suspicious of Dracolith and the waste. They like to forget that it wasn't all dark scales that believed in the occult of the Harbingers. There were dragons of every breed. Mammals too, some crazier than the dragons."
"Ancient's breath," Cynder swore, pulling back. The disgust must have shown because Guzal nodded.
"I was just making rank. Poetry pulled me into it for a time. I suppose that means she trusts me, but I'd sooner forget the smell of burning villages. It weighs on me still, so much that when I travel, I fear someone from any of those villages is going to recognize me."
"I know what you mean," Cynder said, and you'd think she had admitted to a heinous crime from the silence that descended. She could taste the guilt.
She liked this drake. Barely less than a stranger and he shared stories with her that would have taken torture to pull out of anyone else. He was forthright, honest, clear-minded. She wished she had half the resolve he had shown her in the past quarter of an hour. There had been a time when she and Spyro had spoken to one another in a similar fashion. Back then they had shared the load.
Useless thoughts. All they served was the reminder that she had abandoned him. She was running from even that.
There was a distant rumble overhead far off to the northeast, not thunder though. There was grey in the sky true, but no lightning had split the clouds.
Guzal, as if sensing her thoughts, said, "Avalanche. There's an effort being put towards reopening the old trade routes through the mountains—not for trade but for… Evacuation. Should the need ever arise."
Nodding her understanding, Cynder tried to think brighter thoughts.
They were still in the market district from what she could tell, but in a portion that had been hit hardest during the attack. Buildings crumbled where they stood, and every passerby had an effluvial exhaustion that made her bones ache in sympathetic weariness. Sometimes she would catch glimpses of them watching her, their stares hopeful, some accusatory, and had to make herself look away.
Guzal spoke up when he noticed her exploring gaze. "Poetry's practically consigned herself to the Greywing division. It's far better off now than where it was after the attack, but she can only do so much."
He must have taken her expression as one of worry because he put on a rugged smile that seemed like it was trying to part the clouds and raise the sun. In truth, she was just grateful for the distraction; she smiled back, a sad and pitiful thing really.
They approached a threshold of some kind, what looked to be the arc of some grand arch that marked their official entering of what Guzal had called the Greywing division. It was a magnificent sight—aside from the large rends that split the structure in many places—carved from a beautiful alabaster wood that seemed to shift and glow in the winterlight.
There were carvings emblazoned along its entire length, some embossed, others intaglioed into the stone: sweeping songbirds with great wingspans and broad feathers and extravagant plumage. Halfway down the slope of the arch dragons joined the songbirds in their flight, wings just as wide and singing a song of their own. There was an inscription in some ancient variation of Drangleic Cynder had never seen before.
"Siswaman unta flamianor," she heard Guzal mutter under his breath, stopping to knuckle his head in a strange salute and bow. The other paladins did the same.
There was no explanation given as they crossed under the arch. Cynder didn't ask.
She wasn't sure what she was expecting from the streets of the Greywing province, but whatever hopes she still might have had were completely spilled across the snow-cobbled ground along with all the remains of her earlier lunch as a rickety cart of fly buzzing mounds rolled by, smelling of putrefied organics. That the smell carried on cold air spoke of its intensity alone, enough to lure flies through snowfall.
The two helmeted Paladins, face guards looking dull and grim in the grey snow-light, looked only marginally more alive than the load they carried.
Guzal fell on them with an intensity that surprised everyone. "Have the two of you lost all sense?!" he addressed both of the wagon riders, his tone a frigid temper for even an ice dragon. "Leading bodies through the street like that! You'll have the city killing itself with grief! What is wrong with the both of you?"
Whatever their mood before both wagon drivers seemed dumbstruck now, mouths hanging and flapping like gulls'. "We were just taking them to the ossuary for preparation," said the driver on the left, eyes noticing the pips of rank on Guzal's pauldron, "sir."
"And you'll do it with the wagon covered!" Guzal sniped, his words so sharp the drivers flinched as if cut. "Or else the two of you can report straight back to precinct Blackwood and show all the other Kinzer's what comes of thinking with your helmets on your tails."
"Yes, Heydonis," Both paladins answered simultaneously, straightening their necks so high that their vertebra crackled.
Nodding, clearly pleased, Guzal dismissed the drakes with a vehement, "May the war be short!" to which both replied ", and the peace watchful."
"Guidance, not grief," all five of them said in unison, the words spoken the same way someone else might have spoken a prayer.
Watching the dragons trot away, Cynder was not sure what to make of the exchange, only that she was sure both of those dragons' eyes had lingered on her as much as they had on their superior officer. Even if she hadn't been able to trace their eyes through the dark holes of their masks, she could still make out the sour taste of their anxiety over her recent emesis, like a drop of lemon on the tongue—it made her scales writhe in uncomfortable delight.
The shame of vomiting in front of more than one paladin was only outmatched by that of the shame she felt for taking pleasure in the two young officers' discomfort for being called down by a superior. They had only been doing their job, after all.
This portion of the city felt hot with death. The air was strangely humid for a place so cold, frosting over her scales with a crystalline sheen that she had to keep shaking off or suffer its chill. Guzal and the other ice paladins seemed unaffected of course. However, she could sense that something was bothering them; she couldn't even begin to guess what but suspected it had something to do with where they were, not their location, but where they found themselves in this life.
No, she told herself, I'm only projecting.
Somewhere off in the distance a building crumbled, the sound of its rumbling like an infant earthquake, throwing into question the stability of all the structures around her. The three paladins closed ranks as if having the same thought.
Greywing appeared to be a much older part of Shiverum. She imagined the rings of the city like the rings of some magnificently ancient tree where every step inward was the passage of at least a millennia—no, far too long—a few dozen centuries perhaps.
There were a great number of chapels in Greywing and significantly less residential architecture.
Shrines and altars, mostly statues of some great frilled dragon with horns far too big to be comfortable, stood out amongst the rubble at almost every corner, seemingly untouched. Offerings of food and silver, and formidable amounts of one specific type of flower-decorated the feet of almost every one of these statues.
At more than one of these shrines a congregation could be seen, led by some manner of pious monk in a gossamer hood with blue ribbon stretched across one eye. One shrine, in particular, had collected a large number of acolytes and worshippers.
They almost seemed to sing, a strange harmonic groan and hum that made her skull twinge with some peculiar resonance.
Guzal seemed content with ignoring them, and they of him, but a few paused in their ceremonious humming to acknowledge their passing with a small bow. When they turned their one eye on her, however, Cynder got the sense that they weren't just looking with their eyes, but somehow analyzing her with something much keener—down to her very soul.
Continuing even further only revealed the full extent of Greywings suffered damages.
Tents, huts, and cutout wigwams crowded much of the streets, making it tricky to navigate. Minding her tail and wings, Cynder wasn't sure she had ever muttered more "excuse me," and "pardon me's" in her life.
Children of all breeds amassed around one another, eyes sunken and cheeks hollow, looking like the living dead. Paladins rummaged through them, counting heads, matching faces to names, and names to hovels. The soldiers seemed more exhausted than the children.
Bonfires burned in large braziers, warming up those that surrounded them in the dozens—panther, cheetah, leopard, dragon, mole—all huddling together and mumbling amongst themselves.
"So many," Cynder overheard—one of the fresh-faced paladins not looking so fresh-faced. "What are we going to do with all of them? What are we going to tell them?"
"We do what Poetry promised. The palace won't open until after the assembly is concluded. All we can do is hope it's enough," the other replied. "Now fetch the cook. Best start cooking early if we're going to feed them by evening."
Pushing on, Guzal took them through a disarrayed portion of crumbling canopies and scorched lodgings occupied by paladins and other armored mammals: a makeshift barracks of some kind with bubbling pots of pitch and tar, occasionally being ladled out and dribbled between the cracks of newly constructed log cabins for waterproofing.
Although the smell was foul it was a step up from the rotten odor of death and cremated fur. It almost reminded her of Warfang's ironworks, industrial and full of progress.
The tragedy of Greywing was much tamer here. Squadrons of Paladins sifted through the wreckage, piling up whatever useful items they could find in one stack and whatever wasn't in another.
None of them did it with a frown on, though, Cynder noticed as if instead of dredging through the ruins of their city they were participating in some manner of scavenger hunt.
"I've got eight unbent lag screws over here!"
"An uncracked window frame on my right."
"Anybody find the matching set of cups to these plates?"
"Look at this! A silverware drawer full of spoons and knives."
Everyone participated. Everyone played. Everyone smiled with each found treasure no matter how menial. Small things mattered.
Many if not all of them saluted as they passed. Only a few turned their noses up at the sight of her, not so much out of distaste than of the typical ice dragon pride.
She recalled Cyril having the same perfunctory way of constantly looking down on someone—like a smell, he couldn't get away from, or a child talking back when they shouldn't
Sometimes she caught Aquaria using the same trick on Poetry—only hers was more patronizing—and Cynder could almost swear that there must be some relation. Then she would smile and there would be nothing left in her resemblance other than the color of their scales.
Stepping under a portcullis gate, Cynder entered a circular palisade courtyard, the carved tips of the wooden wall around her like the many teeth of a bear trap. At the back, opposite of the gate, was the citadel proper—a massive cylindrical tower built from raw cold-stone. To Cynder, the structure seemed to be not crafted but rather born. As if someone raised the thing from the ground as it is.
The masonwork flowed in a way that protested flaw, a singular carved monument that never gave away even the smallest trace of a toolmark. Looking up at the size, just in scale to the rest of the city, it would seem easier to move mountains that bring down this monstrous looming structure.
She must have been gaping because Guzal chuckled. "And this is just one of seven."
"Stars of Fate," Cynder swore. "How?" was all she croaked.
"Helbrim take me if I know. This place is older than the oldest parts of the city, a few places in the palace aside."
The remainder of the fortress, built from simple wood and stone, iron and metal alloy, was rudimentary by comparison of craftsmanship. However well the rest of the barracks served its function, it gave the feeling of incompleteness, and like a painting completed by an inadequate artist, there was no ignoring it. Even looking away her eyes couldn't help but feel drawn to the distinct difference in texture and skill.
Muddied with travel, soldiers dotted the courtyard, brandishing blades and armor both shinily new and brutally aged. In one corner—if there could be a corner in a circle—a blacksmith worked a grindstone while his assistant quenched a set of gauntlets and a drake banged his helmet into shape on the anvil.
Opposite were the stables. Horses nickered while their handlers saddled and reshoed them, the smell of hay and sweat and manure wafting in warm waves.
There was the clash of metal against metal, sliding and striking as two moles practiced swordplay.
All of that could be ignored, however, once she noticed the large crowd that had amassed along the northeastern portion of the furthest wall, just off the side to the citadel tower.
The noise coming from that direction, equal parts derision and encouragement, was a stream of foul language and catcall whistles that she had come to understand as off-duty etiquette.
Much to Cynder's disappointment, Guzal took them closer, towards the bevvying crowd.
He pushed them through, up to the forefront of whatever it was that was holding so much of their attention, to what could only have been an intense round of sparing drakes wrestling with one another in the mud.
The first drake, at a glance, shared more in common with a mountain than he did with any dragon. Horns gnarled and crooked like a set of sprouting trees, he bore a snout as blunt as it was broad, looking like it could break ribs with a sneeze. He stood upon the ground like the very soil beneath him was the land he would die on, looking every bit at the bull ready to charge down his foe.
An earth dragon if she had to guess.
The other drake, however, was a slim thing—all sweeping muscle and gentle bone. There was some meat to them, rippling under the clinging mud, but they were clearly the lesser of the two, although neither drake acknowledged it. From the way moisture seemed to collect in the air around the dragon's mouth, Cynder supposed they were an ice dragon. However, there was an electrical charge to their air, an imperceptible taste of metallic energy that ZINGED against the roof of her mouth that suggested another idea entirely.
Like battery ore put to the tip of the tongue, it reminded her of Volteer when he got excited, letting out a trace amount of charge. She could never forget the smell of it, nor the feel of static on her horns.
Suddenly the smaller dragon raised their wings, like a composer preparing an orchestra, and the crowd hooted and hollered. It took nothing for Cynder to recognize the gesture as gloating.
The earth drake, not impressed, charged.
Mud flew in a spray from the force of his releasing muscle, body rumbling across the space like an inevitable thunderstorm of pain and broken bones.
Cynder blinked and felt more than heard both bodies collide. There was a small squeak from the small dragon as the larger's shoulder drove the air out from their lungs.
The two dragons crumpled to the dirt, snarling and kicking. Mud and water sprayed, hoarfrost and steam mingled in the air. The earth dragon tried to pin the ice to the ground with their horns but the smaller drake was too quick, too slim. They slipped out beneath the other's grip with a well-aimed kick to the hind legs.
Now free, the ice drake pressed the advantage, pouncing onto the earth dragon's back, shoving their muzzle and snout into the murky soil.
The mountain with scales coughed when what should have been a lung full of air turned out to be a nasal cavity full of wet dirt.
It was a rough and unprofessional few seconds as both dragons seemed content to play in the mud before finally breaking apart, backing away from one another.
The ice drake was bleeding at the mouth from where they must have bitten their lip and massaged their chest, their golden eyes glowing with a wilde and frenetic energy.
The earth dragon gagged, unleashing a large snot missile of white and brown mucus that spattered somewhere on the ground.
Breathing heavily, both dragons nodded, seemingly agreeing over something.
They circled each other, slowly and meticulously.
The ice drake smiled, grinning like mad while the earth drake chuckled deeply to himself, the sound like tumbling boulders.
When the earth dragon charged again it was with a dash to the side, meant to trick the smaller drake into dodging right.
The feint failed, however, as the ice drake spun left, ducking low to get beneath the larger's wing and shoulder in hopes of unbalancing the rock dragon with an upward push.
A severe miscalculation of weight on the ice dragons end, obviously never having fought an earth dragon before, the larger dragon's elbow crashed into the smaller's neck.
Once, twice, the mountainous drake tried to pin the slight one under their immense weight, desperately attempting to get their elbow down to the ground with the small dragon's head trapped beneath it.
Yellow eyes twirled, slapping rocky with the base of their tail, the sound of it a wet promise for a future migraine. He followed up with a right paw to the left jaw, beautifully placed.
The earth dragon should have been seeing stars.
Still, he endured, parrying the next attack with a wing sweep, then following with a throat jab.
Yellow eyes gasped, greedily trying to gulp down air while tree horns put a solid head butt into his fourth and fifth pair of ribs.
In a real fight, ribs would have been broken and the bout would have ended there. Seeing as it was a friendly spar though, the hit was pulled.
The ice dragon got a lucky bash as a result, hitting the nose with the strength of a blow that wasn't pulled and forcing the large bull to recoil as his eyes instinctively filled with tears and blood burst from his damaged nostrils.
The crowd grew restless.
"You've got her on the ropes! Charge her!" Cynder heard someone yell.
"Kick his ass Poetry!" Another yelled.
To Cynder, the epiphany was slow coming but arrived nonetheless, like the answering of a door you had not expected to find company at. It practically knocked her over.
Sometime during the altercation the snow had transitioned to a bitter icy sleet, not quite rain but not quite blizzard either, and the mud that had coated both dragon's scales began to slip off in wet and almost-frozen globs.
Poetry's amazonite and pearl scales shone back at Cynder in full muddy glory, the edge of her lip still dribbling blood down her chin. Her normally pristine white mane was little more than matted streaks of soil brown hair against her back and scales.
But her eyes—her eyes were a thunderstorm. Fierce and impatient.
Her smile was a screaming triumph of white teeth and bold intimidation.
Cynder couldn't help but smile at her.
It was the earth drake's tail, whistling as it passed two inches shy of her head that finally took Poetry out of her brief revelry.
She roared, trying to move forward but slipping in the slick mud.
Tree horns swung again, this time for the legs, and caught Poetry in a desperate attempt to jump the sweep.
She hit the ground with a wet thump, and the earth drake tore through the mud towards her like a frenzied hoard of boglings at dinnertime.
Poetry rolled, the drakes paws sliding off her fresh muddied scales, and used the spare set of seconds to sweep his legs out from beneath him.
She stood up and threw herself in an uncoordinated attempt to wrestle the mountain of muscle to the ground. The pair became a thrashing whirlwind of wings and haphazardly thrown limbs. The circle of onlookers backed up respectively.
Green scales managed to get his paws wrapped around Poetry's antlers, exposing her neck in a move that typically would have ended with her esophagus being torn from her throat, but not before she got her tail coiled up around the base of the large drake's jaw, squeezing with what was every ounce of strength in her sinuous body.
Mouth clamped in a full tooth snarl, Poetry's body quivered with the strain of keeping the mammoth-sized drake off of her, eyes no more than tight wrinkles of pain and exhaustion.
The earth dragon's eyes bulged as his airway was slowly divorced from his lungs in what was an impressive display of strength on Poetry's behalf.
Then, kicking his legs out from under him, she pulled the boulder of muscle off of her, yanking with her tail the same moment she loosed his footing to slam him to the ground with all the gentleness of a falling tree kissing the earth.
Scrambling, Poetry bore her teeth and pinned the drake to the ground—jaws to neck—ending the bout.
The crowd became a bedlam, and Cynder hollered out while Guzal and the other paladins hooted a war chant.
Poetry stood up on shaking limbs, nuzzling and licking the teeth marks off her opponent's neck in what Cynder could only assume was a post-match consolation ritual.
The earth drake laughed at something she whispered and bowed his head in acquiescence.
"All right everyone!" Guzal suddenly shouted, drawing Poetry's attention. "You've had your fun! Now back to work!"
Poetry, still coming down from the high of battle, blinked at Cynder in what felt like astonishment, and cracked an embarrassed smile.
Cynder went to her, unable to stop the laugh that bubbled out of her. "You are the worst," she breathed.
"I'll say," Chimed Guzal. "If you wanted me gone just so you could kick Daheel's tail I'd be afraid you didn't know me at all."
Poetry coughed, part laugh and part wheeze. "My mother would call this a glorious misappropriation of authority at the very least."
"I'd call it boosting morale," said the earth drake, referred to as Daheel, shuffling his way towards them. "Everyone but mine's that is."
"Don't lie," barked Guzal, patting the drake on the shoulder. "We know you've got a talent for eating dirt."
Daheel grunted. "I'm never gonna live that one down am I?"
"Nope," both Poetry and Guzal said in unison.
"There are worse things to be known for," Cynder said aloud, much to her eternal embarrassment.
Guzal, fortunately, regarded her with warm understanding.
"I'm glad you brought her," Poetry addressed to Guzal.
"Wish I had known you was bringing in a celebrity guest," Daheel said, making a show of bowing in front of her in the typical Shiverum curtsey—left-wing lowered, right forepaw resting on the knuckles. "Would have bothered to clean up."
While it was strange to see an earth drake performing an ice dragon's greeting, Cynder did her best to recall the explanation Poetry had given of the gesture the other day.
Something to do with the city's religious background: the left-wing signified wrath, lowered beneath the right-wing that signified wisdom. The resting knuckles, as they were described, were more of a cultural superstition, relating to an old Shiverum proverb about an enemy always approaching on equal or greater footing.
It made sense in the usual nonsensical ways of outdated decorum. Nevertheless, the sentiment was a welcome one.
She returned the gesture, albeit on more unsteady paws, and prescribed a mental note to practice it later when she was alone.
"I've seen you go weeks without washing, brother. I'm not even sure if you know what clean means," Guzal snorted, then more soberly to Poetry, "How did the meeting with the Envoy's go?"
Very briefly Cynder wondered as to which manner of the word brother Guzal had been using when referring to Daheel but found the train of thought driven clear from her mind as Poetry very abruptly snarled.
The dragoness turned away as if to stalk off, only to pace in the mud before turning back; still, Cynder could tell she was in a temper.
"They gave me nothing" —more pacing— "and my mother has cut me off at every avenue unless it runs through her. She thinks to keep me blind but I know. I know the envoys have her ear."
Hissing in sympathy, Guzal shook his head. "They always did play favorites."
"That's okay," Poetry purred delicately, "I spoke with the Wavemasters and they all seem to agree. There's to be a tithe paid. I know not from who, only that the sum is to be enough to build Holtivar manor two times over."
"The Holtivars," Daheel perked, massaging his neck and jaw. "You don't think they're involved do you?"
Guzal scoffed as if the answer were obvious while Daheel groaned like the idea in his head hurt to imagine.
"I'm sorry," Cynder interrupted, drawing three sets of eyes on her; they had forgotten she existed. "Envoys? Wavemasters?"
"My mother has had you running missives, yes?" Poetry asked.
"Yes," Cynder answered slowly, hoping her expression wasn't one to belie the utter sense of cluelessness she felt for not understanding much of what was being discussed. "But I don't see how—"
"The assembly is today," she cut in suddenly, her voice a narrow and sharp thing. "Meanwhile, someone," she said the word someone like it should have been clear who it was, "is busy paying for underhanded votes on some unheard of doctrine deliberating the endorsements allowed for out of country commerce, specifically those protecting against the exportation of some rare and precious mana crystals, most of the dark and corrupt variety."
"Illegal," Guzal chimed.
"Very," she finished.
"So what are you going to do?" Cynder asked, glancing between the three dragons.
As if the answer were a thing that had to be suffered, Poetry sighed. "Nothing. Not yet anyway. My mother has made it a point to keep me out of anything that isn't direct relief for the city, at least until the assembly is concluded."
"But!" Daheel burst out only to be shushed by the two other dragons.
"But," Poetry went on, "that doesn't mean I'm not looking into it. So far my agents have one lead—a few days ago, a caravan of dragons was last seen heading east, off into a distant valley. None of them returned but word is… every member of the group traveled with the necessary tools required for harvesting dark crystals."
Drawing closer, Cynder wasn't sure why she felt it was necessary to whisper but she did anyway. "Do you know where they went, exactly?"
"I have my suspicions. We have outposts that far east, some we lost connection to once the city fell under attack. This is an opportunity not only to investigate but reclaim a valuable resource for Shiverum."
"Shouldn't we be preparing for the assembly?" she asked, hoping Poetry and the others weren't forgetting. "It's in less than three hours."
Poetry grimaced. "Regardless, I feel this warrants priority."
To either side of her, Guzal and Daheel nodded in agreement, leaving Cynder the only remainder to be looked to. She sighed, the last exhalation of breath before a long fall, and tried not to ask herself: What would Spyro do?
If she hoped the question had an answer, it gave her none, and when she turned to look at Poetry's wide golden eyes, it was only to see a fervid determination she wished was her own.
What would Spyro do?
Author's Note: Two Chapters within a week?! Madness, I know, but when I looked at this chapter I realized that I didn't need to do much with it to make it ready. I have other chapters lined up but I don't expect them to be at all this easy. Still, I'm eager to post them and can't wait for you guys to read them! As always, please leave a review. I read every single one of them. they are the fuel that keeps my passion burning. Thank you.