HEY LOOK! An update in the same year! :DDD Are you excited as I am?

(As usual, profound apologies for the humiliating hiatus. I must write more fanfiction. I shall. It is my New Year's resolution . . . Hopefully I'll keep it up . . . [nervous laughter])

Onto the chappie!

Chapter Six

Servant

She wished she could say something.

She often wished she could say many things, really. But she was mute, so that possibility had long since been carried away with her voice.

She had an odd habit of waking with the sun and wandering the towers and long halls of the palace, washing and polishing as she went. She also had an odd habit of walking through the winding passages of the palace aimlessly and tidying whatever she saw fit. Her odd habits were only tolerated because she was swift and efficient, and not a speck of grit or dust survived her wrath.

The other servants and inhabitants of the castle seldom spoke to her, as she was seen as an object of pity. She was rumored to have a terrifying upbringing as an orphan of Del's streets, but no one truly knew where she had been or how she had lived during the Shadow Lord's reign. Her parents were well-loved servants from another tribe, long ago, and were driven to Del when the Shadow Lord attacked. They had long since died of a blister explosion meant to kill someone else.

She had no name, no home, no family. And she had no voice.

Silently she called herself Opal, after Opal the Dreamer. Silently she called the castle her home. Silently she called the other servants her distant family. Silently she kept to herself, knowing that knowing was enough as she wandered the endless twisting halls of the palace.

And silently she watched the king, hunched at his desk with face in his hands, facing the window, as she drifted down his hallway, rubbing a painting frame water-clean.

She did feel terrible for the king. He was not much younger than her, for one—and the responsibility of a kingdom upon his shoulders! He was always so tired now, so distant, so jaded-looking. He had the air of one who was close to giving up on the joys the world had to offer.

Opal finished polishing the frame and wandered on, spotting another grubby frame down the hall. Our poor king, she thought to herself aimlessly. And to have his beloved taken away by a creature as malevolent as the Shadow Lord. . . .

She shook her head, pity slowing her movements as her rag moved across the gold paint. All layers, she thought. Layers, just like everything else.

Silently she tried to reach out to King Lief, to send him whatever support she could. A magic of trust and faith, she called it. Even if it did nothing, the meaning was there, and that was enough. That was the undying truth.

The people are here for you, my king.

Lief

We did not think her serious, said Fortuna, desperately and rapidly. We thought she was . . . not herself in her fury. We thought her words were just that, words, and she would become herself when she saw her home and remembered the peril of her aim. We did not think . . . We did not think she would see it through.

Her words were weighed with guilt and shame, pounding against Lief's head. He closed his eyes and sat down again, his head in his hands, stamping down the seed of fear that had already sprouted.

It is no fault of yours, Fortuna, Fidelis, he replied, forcing himself calm. No one is to blame for this but the Shadow Lord and his creatures.

And speaking of creatures . . . Lief flinched at the new mind-voice of Veritas, then cursed himself for being so easily frightened. He felt the dragons' ever-so-slight amusement as they felt his brief flash of nervousness, but the lightheartedness lasted only as long as smoke. I do apologize for my brusque interruption, King Lief. But the creatures that overtook us . . . Lief, I recognize them. They have used us once, long ago—the Shadow Lord never forgets.

Go on, Lief urged, sensing Veritas's reluctance.

It— It was very long ago, when Deltora was truly the Land of Dragons, and no human was alive on this soil. It was before the borders became more than lines in dirt and before there were tribes. It was when dragons were united creatures, carefree and wild as the wind. Our harmony and thriving kingdom was destroyed when dragons began attacking dragons of different scale colors, or dragons of different beliefs.

Veritas paused, and Lief waited, his mind blank with stunned realization. The dragons who attacked were influenced. That much we could gather, because at first the outbreaks were rare and usually only ended with one dragon dead. But it got worse, much worse: soon, dragons were so affected by the influence that any dragon nearby would be mauled to death the second the influence overtook them. It was rare that a dragon could witness the slaughtering and survive, because the influence would drive them to such madness, and the victims of the influence could never remember what happened.

Veritas inhaled, and Lief sensed fire roiling deep within her, tumbling and tossing in disgust and horror. . . . But, somehow . . . We remember. All of it.

The fear behind her words stunned Lief. Fear, and shame, and guilt, their weight dragging down her words. We are supposed to be protectors, saviors, her terror seemed to wail, not destroyers!

It is not your fault, Veritas, Lief said firmly. Anger flared within him again, righteous and blazing. They were dragons—dragons, with the spirit of wind and the might of flame. They had nothing to fear, and here they were, cowering and shaken and despairing.

It was enough to enrage him, at least for the moment.

We will get Honora back, somehow, Lief promised. We will. And we will show the Shadow Lord that Deltora does not appreciate unfriendly neighbors, once and for all.

Fidelis was the first to roar, and Fortuna second; and soon, Lief's head was swimming with the sound of flaming battle cries that belonged to the sky.

We are with you, my king, whispered Fidelis, his quiet mind-voice clear over the crashing roars. Have faith, have courage. We are with you.

He felt relief when the connection faded.

He wanted to stay here, in the shadows of his hands: away from this world of monsters and sorcery and darkness, away and alone.

He wanted to hide.

But even behind his eyes, he could still see the remnants of a dream turned nightmare. Warmth from a candle long flickered away; a home that had long since been left behind; the glow of petals that had long since fallen; and . . .

Breath shuddered out of his lips. And Jasmine. Gone.

It would be foolish of him to deny that her vanishing was the Shadow Lord's fault, not his.

And yet . . .

Was it not he who had avoided her for a year? Was it not he who busied himself at his desk, claiming work had to be done, when, really, it would have been perfectly fine if he left it for a day and spent the time with her?

Lief groaned.

And yet, it would be foolish of him to deny that her vanishing had everything to do with him.

Silently he cursed his own cowardice. If only he had not spent an entire year trembling with his tail between his legs, ducking away from the truth every time it confronted him! If only he had dared to make the leap of faith, trusted Jasmine, trusted himself . . .

It is not as if it would have been news to her, he thought furiously. And besides, it is Jasmine! Jasmine . . .

And that, Lief realized with a stab of pain, was precisely where the issue lay.

He opened his eyes and stared into the safety of the darkness behind his hands. I have to distance myself from this, he thought furiously. I have to use my head, have to see this from all perspectives . . .

But no matter how Lief looked at it, no matter how far he stood from the conflict and looked, it always came down to:

Was it entirely the doing of the Shadow Lord, or—have I played into Its hands, again?

Jasmine

. . . So that they never have light within them again.

An upbringing in the Forests had forced a very strictly life-or-death way of thinking onto Jasmine. The spider was either harmless or it was lethal. The tree was either friendly or it was murderous. The Guards were either too shrewd to enter the Wenn's path or stupid enough for her to pick off their belongings.

Perhaps, of all in Deltora, Jasmine had one of the best senses of light and dark: of harsh contrasting realities.

She stood and gazed across the black sands and seething waters, her cloak her one barrier against the death-rot smell and the wind that tossed it into her face.

"Why do you tell me this?" she asked Dain sharply, refusing to let one statement defeat her. "Why do you risk your life to tell me something your own Master keeps secret?" And what are you, who are you? she wanted to add, but she balked.

"I . . ." Dain closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. Jasmine eyed his expression; it was too open, too vulnerable. It was too human for a creature that served the Shadow Lord.

She pressed her lips together. It was a weak dam against the swelling pity inside her, the same pity that dripped free from her eyes as she watched a flightless raven.

"I have nothing left to lose. Or, really, I had nothing to begin with. You do know about the Grade-four Ols the Shadow Lord was experimenting with, I assume?"

Jasmine returned her eyes to the cliffs, unsteady. Her dread-filled silence brimmed with yes, but I wish I did not.

"He was determined to create better Ols. Better and better, more and more human-like. It went to the point that rumors began spreading he had finally achieved the perfect Ol." There was another silence that howled with the wind and the hiss of waves breaking. Jasmine instinctively reached for the comfort of her dagger beneath the cloak before remembering it was gone. She took a breath, ignoring the stench, and faced Dain. "What else?"

"There was one thing that stopped him from trying to perfect his Ols, one fatal mistake on his part," he replied, his own gaze fixed on the churning, whispering sea. "He forgot that he was trying to recreate human beings, and that human beings had emotions. Emotions complex beyond understanding."

Jasmine said nothing.

"I'm the last one," Dain continued, his voice quiet but firm. "The others he destroyed, but he kept me because his one strength was his ability to safeguard. He knew that the Ol he left in Deltora had chances of failing, so he kept me alive in the possibility that the other failed. I escaped, but I can't leave the Shadowlands."

Jasmine forced herself to breathe in, out. Clouds were slipping over the horizon, dark with furious silence, the same color as the sea.

"The Shadow Lord does not seek to destroy you himself," not-Dain said mildly. "He seeks for you to destroy yourselves."

Jasmine felt something inside her topple, knew that somehow she had known this would happen, sometime. Inevitable.

"How?" she whispered, dragging her cloak tighter around herself, becoming smaller in the wind.

"Faith," the Ol replied, just as quietly. Jasmine flinched at the name, and he must have seen it, for he turned away slightly. "He wants to turn what you know and trust against you."

"What we know and trust . . ." Jasmine repeated.

Her eyes widened. Her breath and hope vanished, snatched away by the screaming wind.

"You cannot . . . possibly mean . . ."

"The dragons were the beginning," not-Dain said, finally meeting her eyes. "I can only guess where he will turn next."

Jasmine closed her eyes, her only defense against the despair and sadness threatening to slip into reality.

Lief, she thought. And it was agony behind her eyes now.

Across the water, lightning flared and thunder echoed.

Jasmine opened her eyes. "What can I do?" she whispered.

Not-Dain pressed his lips together. "I'm not sure."

Neither of them saw the tiny filigree of smoke and ashes that drifted over the sand, the last remnants of a red-eyed dragon that had been there only a moment before.

Forta

This is all my fault. My fault my fault my fault my fault.

She slipped from cloud to cloud, trying to keep herself as invisible as possible. The sky was impossibly blue and the wind impossibly bright and the clouds impossible lumbering pods of cotton, but the air was frigid and icy.

Everything was still—impossibly—turning and working and existing in the world.

My fault my fault my fault my fault—

"Forta!"

The scream was so high and wild, she thought at first it belonged to the sky. But then she realizes: it did, but it also did not.

"Forta!"

She whipped around, baring her teeth, cursing Veritas, cursing herself, cursing the brilliant sky and its wind and cold and how it can still be normal after all that has happened.

"Leave me be!"

The two dragons collided in a blaze of ice and violet, tiny but impossibly bright above the clouds.

"Forta. You must think this through," Veritas hissed, her eyes alight with fear and fury. "You must understand. None of us could stop the Shadow creature, either!"

"What does that matter?" Forta screeched. "I'm supposed to be the dragon of strength! Of purity!"

And then she heard her own words.

She deflated, her wingbeats slowed, her eyes slid shut. "Of all the dragons," she whispered, "I was supposed to be the one who could resist. And I could not."

Veritas hovered and watched, the flame behind her gaze smoldering into a sea with depths of sadness.

"Forta," she breathed. "Forta."

"I just cannot understand," Forta replied, her eyes still closed. "Why did my mother save me? Why had she not left me to die, with the others?"

The wind howled piteously, but it held no answers.

"Forta."

This time, it was an order. Blearily, Forta opened her eyes and met Veritas's gaze.

"I think it is time to visit your mother."

The Belt of Deltora

It knew the precise moment it happened.

It felt the looming presence, the cold and the dark that followed it, the ancient cunning and treachery. And hate. Always hate, burning and sharp.

It watched, felt the ice snake through its light, felt the dimming, felt itself tremble to a halt and begin backwards.

It knew.

It could do nothing as darkness flew through its very heart, the shadow cast of a leering vulture spiraling to the ground.

But it knew, and warned its land the only way it knew how.

A/N: Okay, this was waaaay too long in the works. Even I must admit. T.T

I apologize immensely for the ridiculous break between updates. Here, have a free virtual Siskis! (Also optional virtual hugs and cookies if that's what you'd prefer. [And if you're like me, go for both. :D] I really am sorry, guys.)

Time for my good ol' responses to reviews! (I used to do PM responses for everyone, but . . . high school. 'Nough said.)

KM2000: Why thank you! 8D I must say, however: your own writing is fantastic. I haven't had a chance to finish your The Shadowlands (I did start it though, so that's something! XP), but I can already tell I'm definitely not alone in the "amazing writing" department. :D Thank you for your advice and personal opinions! :) Always appreciated!

PJBlindclown: Much of the above goes to you too. 8D I did finally sort out the whole first-person/third-person POV thing, so yay! No more confusing writing! Re plot: Oh curds. I'm sorry. I just . . . oi. That just tends to be my . . . style. ^.^0 I try to edit my first drafts so it's not overly confusing/vague/hard-to-read, but a lot of the times I like that implied factor. It's what makes prose poetic to me, and I'm super biased towards it because I love those "aha!" moments when you realize the writer had been talking about Event A before and Event B reflects upon that, however discreetly. Re canon timing issues: To be honest, for the purposes of the story I'm assuming when Rodda said "spring" she meant "spring, next year." She wasn't very specific in canon, so I'm going to take that advantage and bend her words a little bit. Just a little. :3 (This is fanfic, after all!) Re updating sooner: Heheheheh . . . About that . . . T.T Again, thanks for your feedback! ^~^

Izumi Blaze: Thank you very much! 8D

sesad bjb433 (Guest): Honestly, your review was [part of] what really kicked me into writing this chappie. It'd been sitting on my Docs forever, but when your review plopped into my email I went, "Oh yeah! I still have responsibilities to my readers! Hahahahaha . . . hahaha . . . ha . . . Better get writing and finish the thing!" So thanks for the reminder. I needed it. XD Ah, it's always wonderful to a fic writer to hear from their readers that they should update soon, because their reader(s) are in love with the story . . . Either way, thank you heaps. :D

Also, an immense thank-you to those reading these words. While your presence may not directly influence the writer, you are reading creation, and that is what matters. Readers hold immense power, and I think it's about time you guys heard that, if not from all writers then from me. You're who interprets the written and makes it real. You're who makes the written known, spread, and shared. You're what keeps the wheels and cogs of the story spinning in the writer's mind, whether your influence be direct or indirect; because while a story is never written purely just for the audience's pleasure, it is nearly always written in the hopes of gathering an audience. Writers tend to be a peculiar species: lots of us love to ramble and create and mess with words and love to have others see them, but only words that can be processed, thought about, and shared by story and fiction. Or nonfiction. Whatever. We're all part of this, aye? :D As the wondrous Diane Duane once said, "For is writing not the work of gods? Creating something from nothing?"

(At least, I think that's what she said. Eh. Something along those lines. The meaning is there, and that's what matters . . .)

But yes. Thanks, everyone! 8D

And now . . . a public service announcement . . .

Don't forget to drop a review! ;D

(Quick tip: If you're one of those people like me who want to leave a nice, brief review but can't think of what to write except "Update soon" or "Great story!" but hate how terribly generic that sounds, try picking a section or line you particularly liked, and tell me so. Writers live off those reviews, trust me. ^.^ Or heck, tell me if something from this reminded you of anything in so-called Real Life. Connections are everything, and if you're gonna read fanfic, well, why not make a couple connections while you're at it? "Fiction is the lie through which we use to tell the truth" and all, am I right? But really. I just want to hear from you guys. You can give me a review saying merely "PIE" and I'll take it. Silence, on the other hand, is simply demeaning to both you and me. Let's not be the lurker, shall we?)