This Shadow's Coil Chapter 4: Part Four, a dragon booster fanfic

A/N: I can't believe it's been so long since I last updated! Anyway, I really appreciate those who have reviewed. Thanks to MaiBeyblader for her long reviews; I wrote Kitt/Cain as per your pairing suggestion!

The League of Eight has been borrowed, albeit slightly AU as has already been disclaimer'd. I warn for potentially disturbing content in this chapter.

She had been working steadily for the past few hours, melting together paints by the heat in her hands and applying them to the canvas with her fingers as much as brushes. It was a rare enough opportunity, and though she wanted to finish, she regretted she had not had more time. Painting was an art Andraste-the-soldier too seldomly practised these days, and to spend such leisurely time with a friend was an even rarer prize.

The double doors opened. Andraste looked up, surprised that someone was entering; they had been left entirely to themselves so far.

Tieran called a greeting to both of them, which Myrtin returned.

"The famous portrait!" He laughed. "May I see?" He walked behind Andraste before she could reply, gazing at it. "Brilliant!" he said expansively. "It's you to the life, Myrtin. And here I thought art was supposed to be all about perfect ideals!"

Myrtin did not reply; he continued on his path, whistling.

"Art is about people, not perfection," Andraste said sharply. "Myrtin, look back at me; I need to see your nose properly."

She reached up a hand to touch the scar to the side of her nose. "I have always known I was no ideal," she said. "As has he. Generally speaking, other skills are of far greater importance."

Andraste laughed. "I agree completely. Perhaps our friend will, in time—or perhaps another will see past exteriors."

"Perhaps. Though speaking of time, Samurox wishes me to train with him this afternoon."

It was Andraste's turn to look slightly peeved. "Patience," she said. "Let the Samurox do without his Warrior for a while." She sketched in a few more lines, daubing paint onto the canvas in bold sweeps. "My hands have become too harsh for fine work, and I do not practice these days; I would it were otherwise. However."

She lifted the canvas with paint-streaked fingers, turning it towards its subject. "What do you think?"

The woman's face was warm and vital, strongly drawn in bold strokes; the scars she bore seemed only to amplify the strength of her personality, a true portrait of one vibrantly alive.

"It is me!" Myrtin laughed. "But no, you flatter me even so. It is beautiful, Andra, and I shall treasure it."

"It is not," Andraste said, "at all as attractive as the original."

"I am again flattered," Myrtin said calmly. "Shall I see you on the practice fields?"

Andraste shrugged, lowering her eyelids as she watched her companion. "Certainly."

Their speed climbed easily past two hundred miles per hour. Neither troubled with concern; they knew the track, and what they did not know their powers could supply.

She could sense him, gold running alongside her, powerful and pure; she was not attempting to compete tonight, and gladly ran in tandem with him as the streets flashed by them. He drew heavily from the wellspring of their power, her own reserves a pale moon to his golden suns; she used the speed-techniques she'd learned by long years spent on the streets, and kept up.

At last, they came to a halt in a street completely darkened, both laughing like dragonets on red sugarclaw; she looked up at him, grinning.

"Let's go incognito for now, stableboy," she said. "It'll be fun!"

He laughed. "Yeah, you're right—it's been years since we got out on the streets without people cheering us. How's this?"

His armour changed to a bright racing suit in purple and lime green, with a crested haircut in bright pink to round it off; she giggled.

"How's—this?" She concentrated to transform her armour, and felt the long dress swirl around her, a bodice tightening and cold air on her neck and décolletage.

"Yeah, people won't cheer, but they might laugh—" Artha continued to riff, and then he saw her. "You look...incredible."

She…liked that gobsmacked look in his eyes, she remembered. Like a stunned mini tracking-dragon, one of those jewelled pets that had been the fashion years ago.

She smiled at him, the red dress flowing around her. "How about you take me somewhere better than an alleyway, stableboy?"

His armour shimmered into similarly formal gear. "Anything you say, m'lady."

They danced, in one of the Mid-City halls, their disguised dragons resting in the stables with some feed; for someone with so much fighting experience, it was amazing he still managed to tread on her toes, but she kept her arms around his shoulders as he held her. He was warm and strong; she smiled, and purred.

"Wanna get something to eat?" he asked her as the evening began to wind down, the law-abiding citizens returning to their safe homes.

"Down City. That teashop with the onion rolls," she said. They'd eaten there with the rest of the team sometimes, celebrating after a race; the boys had held impromptu eating contests, and she'd slowly sipped her iced tea in between pretending she didn't know them.

Memories…

"Let's go." His formals changed to an outfit close to what he'd worn on the streets, back then, and she gave herself a cloak, not as warm as her armour but close enough.

The streets were cold as they wandered around, hopelessly searching for the place they remembered.

"I guess it's gone since then," Artha said. "I bet something else's open, though."

"Good."

It was freezing.

At last they pushed into the smoky interior of a rather seedy bar; Artha gawked at a scantily clad woman as Kitt found them a booth sufficiently secluded and clean, and at last they flagged down a bartender to serve them a Double Lava and a Fizzy Booster, with Draconian Fries to come.

She gratefully took a long sip of her warm drink, and reached across the table to hold his hand.

He grimaced. "Magna Draconis, you're freezing! Are you okay?"

"Yes." She gulped down more of the drink, relieved as it heated her. It was less alcoholic than spicy, a delicious taste with little likelihood of intoxication; she might try the Magma Grande later, if she felt like it.

He tasted his Fizzy Booster. "Mmm. Nothing like me."

"Let me be the judge of that." She grabbed it from him, fast reflexes keeping it from him, and tasted it herself. "Nah, you're right, it tastes great. I think I'm keeping it." She brought her long cloak's sleeve up in front of it, hiding it from view.

"Hey!" he complained.

She laughed. "Just kidding." She passed it back to him. "Bet I could drink you under the table, stableboy."

"Doubt it." He took a long sip, and then gave her a slightly tipsy grin. "Let's do it."

I have done only what was best for the city, she remembered the words, even through the smoky haze of the bar and Artha's arm around her shoulders. Everything was destined. Including you.

She nestled into the curve of his shoulders, and snagged a chip from the table. Golden-brown and round, just the way she liked them.

The gold. So…much of it, she'd said. It's changed us. I wish I remembered.

She cared for Artha, she knew that much; and there were any number of reasons why that was a perfectly right thing to do. She loved him, perhaps. It had been wonderful. She laughed at his joke, clinking her glass with his.

You've come too far towards your destiny. Look at how much you've achieved.

At Artha's side. Her powers, used with his.

It wasn't me. Was it? Tell me why it all changed!

His jacket around her shoulders, keeping her warm from the cold wind that blew into the bar as some of the smoke in it dissipated into the night. He protected her, because it was he with the most resources; this was a good thing about who he was.

You remember your brave fight, of course. You helped my son transform all dragons back to gold. The ancient prophecies, fulfilled—and a city at peace.

"And that's how it changed," she said.

Artha stared at her; she hadn't realised she'd said the line aloud. "Never mind," she said, giggling. "Maybe we should go home now, though."

The golden peace, she had said. Yes. I suppose that is what I always wanted.

Paused outside the stables, they shared a long kiss.

Racing, dancing, a date—a perfect night.

Exactly as she'd wanted it, she thought. He tasted of Fizzy Booster.

"So, coming up to my room tonight?" he asked as they reluctantly released each other.

"It's…pretty late," she said. "Do you want me to stable Wyldfyr and Beau?"

"No, I can…" He stopped a yawn. "Yeah, you're right, I'm tired."

"I'm not." She kissed him again, quickly on the cheek, leaving a faint trace of lipstick behind. Marking him; she wiped it off gently with her hand. "I'll do the job tonight, Artha. Sleep well."

"Thanks. See you in the morning." He yawned again, not bothering to conceal it. "'Night, Kitt."

She watched him heading back to the towers, and took Beau along to his stall.

Just as well the sleeping pills she'd added to his drink had finally started to work.

He was exhausted, and entirely unkempt from his late awakening and desperate rush. There was nothing Moordryd Paynn wouldn't have given for the chance to sleep for a full week, dreaming himself away from past visions and ancient would-be conquerors and early morning appointments in Sun City.

"Describe the events of the previous day." Sentrus sat with folded arms, staring balefully at him from across the marble desk.

"I had…helped the Shadow Booster. In the past. Some of the Down City Council view the Dragon Booster as a threat."

Her glare didn't let up.

"I thought it was part of my Crew responsibility. And then when he said he would reward me, I didn't think he was going to use me like that."

"You would have known the Dragon Booster is well-respected by Dragon City Security. Unlike the Shadow Booster."

"With all due respect to you, I don't respect Dragon City Security," he said, sitting up a little straighter. "They don't cover Down City, and they tend to switch between excessive force—they nearly fried even their precious Dragon Booster once, just because there were only nine of my fellow Crew-leaders outside with him—and complete incompetence. They rarely make captures without the Dragon Booster's assistance."

Sentrus nodded. "I see. I've heard that last is something of which you approve."

"Our Crews do what we can to protect Down City," he said. "Dragon City Security only damage things, but of course if they became a better force we could trust them more. But this isn't really on topic," he added.

"The Shadow Booster handed you a strange amulet?" Sentrus asked.

"Yes. And then it just took control of me. I tried to get free, especially when it tried to kill my father. But I couldn't stop it!" Letting the hysteria and pain show on his face wasn't difficult; he hoped she'd be sympathetic.

"You hardly appeared yourself, it is true," Sentrus said.

"Yes. I think the ancient warrior wanted the Academy because I respect it so much," Moordryd said. "So he thought destroying it would help him take over the city."

"Perhaps you should not respect the Academy so much next time," Sentrus commented dryly.

Moordryd guessed she'd seen through the flattery, and continued hurriedly. "He spoke ancient Draconian. He just kept bashing through things. It's fading from my mind now, I barely remember it. I wish I didn't remember anything."

That much of it was truer than he would have liked.

Sentrus frowned. "Perhaps you should visit an Academy historian and inform him about your experience."

"I told my father everything I could, and he recorded it," Moordryd said. "He's an amateur historian himself. I'm sure he'll tell me what more I need to do."

"I see." Sentrus tapped her foot on the ground as he waited, anxious to find out his fate.

"Your appearance suggested that you were under some form of possession, and Penn Racing have confirmed that via the Dragon Booster," she said. "However, you were complicit in this, and your acts caused immense property and structural damage. Did the ancient presence take anything from the Academy?"

"No," Moordryd said.

"Then we'll continue examining the wreckage for our property," said Sentrus. "You will be accepted back into the competition on probation, Moordryd Paynn. One single, small misstep—one dubious act, one cheating complaint, one use of mag moves—yes, even against Artha Penn—and you will be removed from the competition. I will tell you that I was against this decision, and I will not hesitate to expel you on the slightest excuse. Have I made myself clear, Paynn?"

"As diamond," he said, and made a move to leave.

She held up a hand. "There remains the discussion of certain paperwork. You are several days late to submit your registration form for the Firestorm race. Did you by any chance bring it with you?"

He slumped in his seat. "My dragon ate it."

They lay between golden sheets beneath a blazing blue canopy, purpling bruises between her thighs.

"Your Council claimed you were a virgin," he said. His muscles rippled as he stretched lazily across the pillows. "I should ask for more dowry."

She glared at him, clutching the sheets to cover herself as she sat up. "As you know, I learned a lot from my father," she said defiantly.

He paused as the content of her words dawned on him. "Disgusting," he said, and lashed out at her with his fist; she blocked him, but his weight bore her down and forced her to the bed again as she screamed at him.

The smell was the same as always, thick and heavy with that underlying scent of danger.

Kitt ran a hand along Wyldfyr's neck as they waited at the starting block for the Firestorm; she'd come second the last time she'd raced it, to Chute in one of her final Down City races, and she fully intended to win this time. Especially considering how she felt now, ready for some real action.

She saluted Artha with two fingers against her helmet as they both waited for it to begin; he returned her gesture, a cocky grin on his face as he and Beau waited. Moordryd had been placed beside Artha, for once not bothering to throw an insult in their direction; he looked pale even for him and deadly serious about the race, as though his experiences with the Spirit Booster had turned him into a single-minded zombie himself.

Budge welcomed the crowd, the gates went up, the countdown began—and then they were off, sailing towards the first daring jump.

The Firestorm tested agility and endurance on a closed track consisting of a series of high-energy jumps through supercharged air, where thruster gear went off like disruptor mines on a field of fire grenades and fire grenades went off like something from the dragon-human war; it felt like a scene from the Dragon's Inferno, all blaze and smoke as each competitor sparked and spun and set off their gear.

The first pair of thrusters went off, Wulph's as he made the jump next to her; prepared, she and Wyldfyr avoided the trail of fumes in the air as they activated their Aero gear, flying to the next obstacle. The air smelt of honest smoke now, fully charged for action.

The side of her gear scraped along the wall, making bright blue sparks jump out of it; they pulled back from it just as Pyrrah caught up behind them. The sparks touched her like lightning, branding her hair blue and spurring her on to race alongside them.

Kitt activated her own thrusters to make the next jump, a tricky leap through a pale, narrow hole that was almost invisible; she and Wyldfyr flew through, navigating the course's tough requirements alongside Pyrrah.

Flying through a loop and a cloud of smoke, she saw a Dragon Wind and an Inner Order member both come to a dire end, out of the race when an explosion caused them both to lose balance and fall.

Pyrrah drew her Fire Lance; it crackled in the air, larger and far more vicious here than elsewhere in Dragon City, and Kitt magged across to meet her.

Wyldfyr jumped across a gap in the now-sealed track. Kitt's mag-field cut out, and she flung herself across the artificial shielding back to her dragon, dodging Pyrrah's fire. They went for another jump, Pyrrah just behind them—

—and then she heard Pyrrah cry out as she fell, the fire grenades she carried discharging in an inferno that reached the top of the dome; she looked back to see Moordryd and Decepshun catching up fast as they flung their ramming gear out behind them to narrowly miss Wulph.

Normally a bad choice, loading your dragon down with heavy gear like that in a race of this kind; but so far Moordryd looked about to claim a third.

As long as Artha takes care of him.

Kitt took the next three jumps easily, remembering the strategies she'd seen Chute use on the instant replay—sledding, rappel, thruster for that extra push, then an easy glide down with Aero after making the leap through the highest gap. The air was clearer now, up here; she looked back to see Artha battling Wulph as Moordryd surged ahead of them, not too far behind her.

Well, she really couldn't let Moordryd win, could she?

"C'mon, Wyldfyr. Nearly there." She activated blue balance gear with her sledding gear on the zigzagging track, speeding along the deadly curves. A piece of star gear narrowly missed her head, and then exploded in front of her in a blinding shower of blue sparks surrounding her as well as Wyldfyr; she sent out rappel gear, though, and instead of falling from the track managed to leap to a safer section.

Morodryd laughed as he finally caught up to her, and she gritted her teeth.

It was her race!

She configured her thrusters, and activated them in his direction; the enormous amount of energy released turned the air red between them.

"Heat's on, Paynn!" she yelled.

"Overused line, Wann!" he returned. "Take these to spark your imagination!"

Dragon Star gear, fired at her again and again, the blue sparks surrounding her as she struggled to remain on track; she activated her absorption gear, and held on through the mess of it all.

She grabbed the level-eight fire grenade she'd won in the Magma Inferno.

Time to use it, regardless of the consequences!

The gear hit the track ahead of her; she and Wyldfyr jumped as the pool of smoke climbed through the dome.

Something hit her on the back, and suddenly they were out of air, falling with a piece of Moordryd's rappel gear wrapped around Wyldfyr's midsection.

No, not just wrapped. Mag-locked. He smirked to her as she was brought back to his level, trying to fight her way out of the smoke; and behind them Artha jumped the hole in the track to join them.

A leap next, a midair navigation course through a series of screens that she and Wyldfyr handled easily; unfortunately, Moordryd and Artha remained closely on her tail. She reached to activate her thruster gear as they headed to the last stretch of track; her navigation system beeped, and she realised it had been damaged in the explosion. Moordryd beside her was smoke-blackened, Artha relatively unscathed; the three of them raced on the narrow track, almost colliding with each other as the finish line loomed in front of them. It was too late to bother with any battle, slowing both oneself and the opponent enough to allow the third to win; this was a speed race now, elbowing each other as they fought the track.

Herself, Moordryd and Artha. She ducked down across Wyldfyr to help him run faster, but beside her Artha and Moordryd seemed to be using mag-energy to get some last-minute help from their thrusters. She activated her Aero gear, pushing it out from Wyldfyr's sides to stop them from gaining.

Moordryd reached out a hand, scraping the side of Wyldfyr's scales. Their energy levels dropped; mag-drain.

Too bad the judges wouldn't be able to see what he was doing.

The air was charged with fire-to-become. She had those powers now, didn't she? Same as Artha.

She let it flare up within her. She had to be subtle about this, let it not fully activate—

"Flame," she whispered, and she felt the amulet warm against her skin as fire leaped from both her and Wyldfyr, and they raced past Moordryd and Artha to the finish line leaving flames behind them.

"Kitt! How could you?" Artha asked accusatorily as they walked from the prize-giving area. "You used those powers, you cheated!"

"And riding the Dragon of Legend isn't?" She stopped in her tracks, folding her arms across her chest. "You've got good, stableboy, I know. But you wouldn't be racing at all if it wasn't for that dragon!" She pointed to Beau. "You were a total rookie! I worked to win for three years before you turned up! Even Moordryd's got those mag moves!"

"It was still dangerous!" he said stubbornly. "What if you were discovered?"

"I was careful!"

"Not that careful! I needed to beat Moordryd, and I got third thanks to you!"

She took in a deep breath to quell the red sparks rising before her eyes. "And I didn't need to beat him? Newsflash, stableboy, I'm a racer too!"

He paused for a second. "I'm sorry, Kitt, but you're still too far behind Moordryd to get an Academy place ahead of him. It needed to be me, and you wrecked that!"

She felt ready to explode. She hadn't joined Penn Racing to lose. "Artha, don't make me blast you again," she said.

"I gave you those powers!" he yelled.

They both froze in place, staring at each other as though all of a sudden they had become strangers.

Kitt broke off first. "I'm going riding," she said coldly, and directed Wyldfyr to race away.

She returned to Penn Stables much later that night, after an exhausting workout on the training tracks.

"Kitt!" someone whispered to her; expecting Artha, she looked up ready to continue their argument, but saw Parm instead, working at his table by candlelight with various contraptions surrounding him.

"I thought it would be advantageous to work late tonight—and I did want to discuss today's events with you," he hissed. "Please refrain from waking the others."

"Bet you agree with stableboy, don't you?" she said, not bothering to whisper though not yelling either.

"Maybe." He held up his hands, attempting to forestall her from attack. "You...can't afford to be discovered. But," he added quickly just as she opened her mouth, "I have a secret of my own. I think we could help each other."

She frowned. "What secret, Professor?"

"It is located inside this secure draconium-inhibiting device."

He pressed a button, and the sides of a black box shimmered to reveal a cage containing two yellow-bellied newts inside, and something green at the bottom of it.

"You're keeping pets—" She took a breath as she saw what they stood on. "That thing better not be what I think it is!"

"I'm afraid it is," Parm said. "It is the amulet that Moordryd held; I picked it up just before we left."

"Mortis said it'd be safe there!" she gasped. "You're a total idiot sometimes, Professor. Remember the Samurox?"

"I do," he said stiffly. "And I've remembered a little of what it told me about concerning you, after Mortis' words on that night—or rather, concerning the Fire Booster."

Kitt sighed. "Okay, egghead, I'll bite."

"There was…a single human he respected, as Mortis explained," Parm said. "She was…strong. Hardworking. Kind, even, honourable in a different manner to him as she chose to go among the dragons to learn the truth about the war. He was a king, and he thought kindness would undermine his rule—but she was strong even though she was kind, and it made him value her more."

"Yeah, cool," Kitt said. "And did her friend the Dragon Booster take all the credit himself while she did all the work?"

"Maybe a little," Parm said. "She was his…friend. But she was friends with the Fire Booster, too. The glowing woman. The Samurox thought the Warrior was rather…blind about that." He laughed softly. "Anyway. Because you are the Fire Booster and I have the Spirit Booster's amulet and his dragon's bonemark, I thought that we could maybe both learn to help Artha at the same time?"

Kitt shrugged. "Fine by me."

Parm smiled, a look of relief spreading across his face. "Oh, good. Mortis would probably try to stop me, and Artha and Lance would probably tell him. I'm glad you can help me."

"All right, Professor. So what does that thing do anyway?"

"Well, from my preliminary researches it appears to have sustained the capability to project and contain a psychophysical matrix within an interior sphere, with activation and preservation functions utilized to…"

"Second place, Moordryd," his father muttered, running through the replay screens. "My, my. It appears you underestimated the durability of Kitt Wann's gear as you dragged her through that explosion."

Moordryd scowled. "I'm nine points up in the rankings! As long as I beat Penn and get a place, I'm going to win. I could come last in the next race and still win!"

"I advise you to not do so," Word said coldly. "You need to work, Moordryd. Do you think I pay bribes for nothing?"

You didn't pay them for nothing! Moordryd thought angrily, but said nothing.

"I expect a first place next time," his father continued. "Is that clear, Moordryd?"

He pressed a switch, and Moordryd saw the red missiles rushing towards him as the security system was activated. There wasn't enough time to think of how unjust it was, merely to begin the process of raising a mag-shield as they hurtled through the air.

Time, though, seemed to slow to a crawl as he stared at them.

The yellow-bellied newts played happily around the amulet.

Kitt watched them rather dubiously. "Are they doing anything?"

Parm shook his head. "No. In each of the ten tests, although they show some degree of powerful irradiation with the draconium energies, after I cease their exposure and run them through a mag-drain system, they return to fully normal exemplars of the Notophthalmus genus, as confirmed by two of my mother's colleagues, Mortis' light green feedback gear, and the dissection you assisted me with. And then the surviving ones are sterilized before being returned to the population, just in case."

"You've made all those other tests?" Kitt raised an eyebrow. "Don't make me regret feeling through newt goo just for you."

"You threw a heart at me! I was under the impression you were enjoying yourself!"

"Poor newts," Kitt said. "You really need a heart sometimes, Professor."

"I have found out all I need to know. I think," Parm added. "As you can see, the newts display no reaction to the Spirit Booster's amulet. This implies that the matrix is no longer functional, however the draconium power remains within it." He pressed a button, and the bottom of the newts' cage changed to the bonemark as the amulet disappeared under the draconium inhibitors. "The bonemark, however, appears to retain something of its power."

The newts' eyes glowed green, and they stood straighter; they paced around the cage, strutting like dragonroosters.

Kitt laughed at the sight.

"Typical dominance behaviour," said Parm, activating newt stunning gas to stop them attempting to break out of the cage. "However, by my measurements Decepshun throwing off the bone mark has significantly decreased its effectiveness, and if synchronised with the amulet should be controllable. Cyrano? Do you think you could handle this bonemark?"

Cyrano huffed; Kitt threw him a Draconee-Yum treat.

"So what comes next, Professor?" she asked. "We've done enough experiments."

"Since red is counted as the colour on the opposite of the draconium spectrum to green, you would be the obvious test subject," Parm said. "If you are able to approach the amulet without detecting any traces of the Spirit Booster's personality, you will prove that it is indeed presently inactive. However, if it is active, he will find it more difficult to control you, and I will be on hand with stunning gas."

Kitt nodded. "I'll do it," she said as Parm determinedly brandished the stun-gas canister. "How do I open this thing?"

Parm pressed a button on his control panel, and the lower panel of the inhibition box popped out, the amulet nestled inside.

Kitt reached cautiously for it, and lowered it around her neck, taking a deep breath.

She can remember the legend of the Fire Booster, here for her now, the flame-clad warrior fighting beside her ancient green-strong ally.

Listen, and I will tell you about my past, he hears the whispers. Come with me.

She sees brief visions, rushing through her head like a gold-green sea, and then she only finds thin emptiness in them as she lifts the spent amulet, untangling it from her hair. Not so fortunate, the other.

Two girls and a dragon on yellow grass.

"Like a play, isn't it?" she said.

The dragon bounces the younger girl on her tail as she laughs; the older studies a scroll as she lies below the dragon's head, holding it up as though to allow the dragon to read it as well.

"Oh Sister, Oh Little Sister, come play with me."

The girl sings the familiar song tunelessly as she bounces.

"Three little girls in a yellow wood."

The dragon smiles; black current sparks to the older girl.

"Oh Little Sister, my Sister, it's us with one of each."

The scroll laid aside, the girl and the dragon laughing at the rhyme.

"Oh Little Sister, my Sister, you'll sing these words some day."

A fair-haired woman in the distance, worry in her face.

"Oh Little Sister, my Sister, come to make us four."

A bolt through the air.

"Four little girls in a yellow wood…"

Silent screams.

"Oh Little Sister, my Sister, both come back to me."

The box is blood-red, and consumed to the flames.

"You must not weep for her," the human Pack-leader, her father, counsels her, and she scrubs the tears from her face with a hard-knuckled fist.

Fire destroys it to gold. Gold of the arrow in the blood.

"She is gone now. Her Bone was weak, my heir. Be thankful that you live instead of her."

She sees her birth-mother nod; she looks then to the Dragon first among them, she of the blackest Bone.

"Listen to the Pack, little daughter," her dragonmother hisses in the clawed speech. "You will forget her."

She does not cry as she rests her hand on Sister, until afterwards into cold scales. And yet the memories continue to fade into black.

"The command was for you, Sister." Her companion's tail twines around her, as though to throw her bouncing to the sky. "I have yet to choose my Pack-name. I choose now, for our sister-in-blood."

Chiara, the name graceful in clawed scribing.

Little-Sister-my-Sister-be-as-one…

"I suppose the death of our younger sister made it easier to avenge the death of my birth-mother, which happened four years later," Meggine said reflectively. "Of course, she had been slipping since that event."

Fair hair spread around a bloodied face, one pale blue eye still staring into the sky. Too similar to another death.

Rage filled them both, on the black ground beneath a sky of dark indigo, and when they were done there were no faces left.

"My congratulations, daughter," was all he said afterwards, because there was no more to say.

"You see, that is not as important to me," she said. "And then there was the traitor."

"Meggine, darling," she said. Fire glittered around her dragon. "People are dying."

"We are winning, and people have died for many years before this," Meggine replied coldly. "If you will not fight, then stay out of my way."

"The Red Empire…disliked the sheer number of deaths in your father's last battle. Andraste's Shadow, they have begun to call it."

"We outnumber the Boosters' forces still." How dare she comment, this Red-born woman who seemed to love luxury so much more than the delights of battle? She had been chosen as a pawn to bring allies, and now that had failed she was of no use to them. Her Red could barely form a coherent sentence, Chiara had told her; such a ridiculous combination of dragon and human!

"I suppose I could assist in dealing with allies, on the diplomatic side of things," said Lucivar. "I weary of endless war."

"You shall," Meggine said. "There are many on the battlefield greater than you, but I suppose you have your uses. Do well, and I'll reward you with another husband."

Lucivar laughed suddenly. "Stepdaughter, you never cease to amuse me," she said.

"There is nothing amusing about my orders," Meggine said stiffly as Chiara growled softly. "I am my father's heir."

"I can recall the day the treacherous Council informed me they would settle," she continued.

Eight of them, the Council Regal of the Black Empire. Wyng, who often carried her through the skies. Nerissa of pure Bone. Loke the cunning trickster, her neverending opponent in the dragonkings' game. Dark Plutos. Imperious Fiat. Hekate of the deadly illusions and sharpened claws. Lameia the beautiful, without mercy. And Thanata, who never would open her eyes without intent to kill by their gaze. Eight below them, humans who shared their names; but they were there merely to follow orders and deal with the lesser Empires.

Bar the one of them, now a red pile on the stone table, who had enabled Lucivar to buy a return to her Red Empire through providing him with enough information to purchase their surrender. Not that such fury achieved anything of importance.

"They offer a human peace!" She slammed a bloody hand to the table. "This is not what my father perished to save!"

The eight faces, unmoving.

Chiara roared. "Have you lost your will to fight, cowards?"

Thanata finally spoke, her clawspeech slow and measured despite the insult.

"You will travel to them, Shadow's daughter. You will forge the peace that they claim."

"You will prevent them from murdering us all!" Fiat added. "Foolish younglings. You allowed that human power—and you complain that she used it against you?"

Chiara curled her tail. "She and that red creature never possessed the sensibilities of proper dual-sapients!"

I am sorrier than I can say that I did not heed you at first, Sister.

It is forgiven. Let us fight only these cravenings! Chiara sent back by the quickspeech that marked their bond.

"That may be the case," said Nerissa. "Nevertheless. This battle must be postponed."

"It is true we have lost much," Plutos said. "Other dragons will be contented, for now." He looked around at the other seven, as though memorizing their faces for a final moment. "We promise you this, Shadowheir. This shall not be the end."

"We grant you no choice," said Wyng, and turned his face from her; Thanata opened a single eye a crack, and darkness fell.

"And then of course there was him," she said. "But I think we may do something else, now."

The missiles stopped in mid-air as he raised a hand, without even a visible mag-shield. The trapdoor below him gave out—but he was supported by sheer mag-power, and dismantled the surrounding systems with a single thought.

Word Paynn looked nothing short of speechless. "My son, how did you—"

He stepped forward, raised a hand towards Word's forehead, and magged control gear to it.

"From now on, you will be my servant," he said.

"It is…my opportunity?" Parm gulped.

"Sure, Professor." Kitt grinned. "I sure didn't feel anyone in there. Just a few little bits about the Boosters fighting. Off you go."

Parm resolutely stuck out his chin and stood, falling over his chair as he slowly went to the amulet, and took it up as bravely as though he was walking to his death. He reached into the box to draw out the bone mark; standing with him, Cyrano took it to himself, and they stood with closed eyes for a long moment.

And then he looked at her with his normal brown eyes and grinned, Cyrano beside him echoing the expression. "The Queen!" he said.

Kitt raised an eyebrow.

"It…gave me a flash," he said. "A red-haired golden woman. Like you. Although not like you, because she was not you."

"Make sense, Professor."

"She was not you; she was not the Fire Booster, because she was his first Queen!" Parm said. "But they must both have been quite like you, I think," he said.

Kitt raised her other eyebrow along with the first.

"Yeah. Thanks, Professor," she said. "Wanna go do some training?"

The Academy was quiet.

They entered by mag-illusion, carried out their mission, and exited the same way, the orderly stillness disturbed only by the unconscious body on the floor of her study, who would wake remembering nothing until the critical moment.

"There's no doubt about it!" Parm put the camera down in front of them, and sped through the VIDDrecordings he'd taken. "Look at this!"

Black dragons flowed through the Paynn Citadel via back and side entrances, a tide that looked to be neverending at the speed.

"And combine with this! I have taken infrared recordings as well, and have rendered wraith dragons as visible black dragons with purple outlines. Look at this version!"

The black dragons were joined by wraiths, with the difference that they only went into the Citadel.

"He's…building an army," Artha said. "Where do all these dragons come from, Parm?"

"The black dragons appear to be partly owned and partly wild," Parm said. "I've only been able to find some registrations. The vast majority of them leave again; it's the wraiths who stay inside."

"Yeah. It's been a while since I've had a problem with wraiths," Artha said thoughtfully. "It's been a while since I've had a problem with Moordryd or Word too, now you mention it."

"You must be on your guard, Artha," Mortis said. "Word Paynn probably intends to build up his forces and energies to start his dragon-human war in a single quick stroke."

"But how?" Artha asked, and the room fell silent for several seconds.

"We'll find out," Kitt said. "So when do we leave, stableboy?"

He walked quietly through the Citadel. It was almost deathly quiet; Parm's navigation matrix of the security system flashed green over his eyes, and he made his way past the bare walls, surprised at how empty it was.

Perhaps Word had simply decided to go minimalist? It felt like the place had been cleared out, trimmed of all but essentials.

Finally, just after he had finished flipping himself through a network of tripwires, he came upon a locked door.

"Place your wrist to the lock and I'll commence scanning," Parm said.

"Done."

Green light swept across the lock as the decoder went into operation.

"It's an awfully complex lock," Parm said. "Much more so than any manufactured by Paynn Incorporated that I've studied." He paused. "In fact, it doesn't feel like a Paynn lock at all! This must be ancient technology." His voice took on wonder. "Amazingly intricate ancient technology, of tremendous value to…"

Artha cut him off. "Can you get me in or not?"

"I can," Parm answered sulkily. "But it will destroy opportunities for study…"

"Do it," Artha said, and a mag-beam went out from the decoder to render it a pile of scrap metal as the door clicked open.

"You must hurry, Artha," Parm said. "I am attempting to suppress alarm signals, but the state of the lock will not go unnoticed for very long!"

He hastened forward through the sealed corridor, noting Word's screens set into the walls. Several doors, fastened with similar locks, led away from the corridor; various doors to Word's secret projects and deadly gear, Artha knew, but Parm had been unable to gather any information about which was which.

"I guess I'll go for—this one!" He reached out for a door in the middle of the right side of the corridor, hoping the Dragon Booster's legend wouldn't fail him now and have him plunging into a crocodrag pit or something. "Parm, I need your decod—"

The screen next to the door blinked into life, and he started back as he saw Word Paynn's face.

"Drag…ooster," he heard him say, the signal cracking up. "Need…message get through. New…prisoner forty-four B…need help…."

Artha stared as the signal blanked out.

A trap?

Or was there truly a hostage somewhere in the Citadel, even Word Paynn himself?

"Parm! Where's room forty-four B?"

"I'm on it," Parm replied. "The exact location is hidden, but I assume it's down in the base of the complex if the numbering scheme is similar to my hypothesis. Why do you want to know?"

"I need to go down there," Artha said determinedly. "Which door do I take?"

"Accessing current physical orientation—Artha, look to your left—your other left—yes, that other left… Take the third along. I'm ready to break the lock."

Artha hastened down a twisting ramp, dimly lit; he didn't see any human or dragon signs here, nothing to indicate that the Citadel was not completely deserted.

Then again, Word Paynn probably didn't want an audience for his trap. He travelled down further into the complex, aware that he needed to be prepared. Perhaps the whole population of wraith dragons would spring on him.

"Right turn, Artha—yes, I'm gathering information about the Citadel as we go. Forty-four B is definitely somewhere to your left now; keep heading down."

"Can you detect any wraiths?"

"No," Parm said. "This network appears to be for purposes of concealing the lower sections. I can detect the security system and inert draconium in storage—mostly black, from my readings—but not wraiths."

"Then where did they go?" Artha asked.

"I've been getting vague readings that possibly originate in the east part of the Citadel, as though the whole lot of them are gathered there. But that's far away from where you're headed. Why do you want that location, anyway?"

"I'm either walking into a trap, rescuing someone, or both," Artha said. "Keep me posted."

"Artha! This is a most unwise idea; you are without Beau, and you could get caught! I strongly recommend against your plan. You should…"

"I'm sorry, but I've gotta do this, Parm," Artha said. "With or without your help."

"You—you complete—no, go left, Artha, there's only a storeroom there, oh Magna Draconis, how I get cajoled into these things I don't know, this was only meant to be an observation mission, I'm sending Beau to you right now…"

He felt slightly relieved when he saw Word Paynn in one of his own holding cells, bound with a pair of his own restraints, his clothes dirtied and his hair matted.

"Dragon Booster!" he exclaimed, falling into a coughing fit. "You have to release me. My son is…"

He started coughing again.

"Is this a trap?" Artha asked suspiciously.

"No! No, it's not. Have you looked into Moordryd's face lately? He is insane!"

Word Paynn leaped forward, rattling the bars of his cell; at another time, Artha could have been amused at the spectacle, but he almost pitied the man.

"Moordryd, insane? He's been racing," Artha said. "Not against me, but he's been seen around."

"And has he been with his Crew?" Word asked. "Believe me, Dragon Booster! There's something wrong with him, dreadful beyond belief…" He shivered. "I tried to fight him—it, and it threw me down here as though I was nothing more than refuse!"

"…So he's gone good again, then?" Artha said, though he regretted the gag almost immediately afterwards. "Yeah, he hasn't been with his Crew. But…"

"I should not fear my own son!" Word cried, hysterical again. "I do not know whether he has been possessed again, or has simply lost his reason altogether. He has changed, and although he looks the same there is another behind his eyes, something dark and screaming and wanting…"

"And behind you," said a cold voice, and Artha turned to see Moordryd.

He'd fought Moordryd lots of times before and had mostly emerged victorious, and so hardly felt nervous about the possibility of another battle.

But there was something different about him this time; perhaps it was his appearance, his hair tied into a loose tail and a black shirt flung loosely around him, or the way his voice sounded smoother, more carefully modulated, or something that was more than either or both of those.

Or just hysteria.

"Moordryd," Artha said. "I heard you'd given up working for your father."

He smiled, the quick sudden movement of a predator snapping a neck. "I haven't," he said levelly, and fired a mag-burst which pinned Artha against the cell door.

Artha tried to fight back, held by the dark burning fire of it; but without Beau he had little chance, and he saw a black dragon behind Moordryd, a bonemarked breed resembling the Shadow Booster's dragon. He felt the mag-attack stretching his limbs, pulling his muscles to near breaking point.

"Moordryd, stop! You don't know what you're doing!" he called.

The bonds around him expanded, and the ceiling above them was removed. He felt he was being slowly rent apart, sinew ripped from bone and skin ripped from body, pushed into the air as the centre of a rapidly expanding mag-storm. Bright whips tore him.

"Moordryd isn't home right now," Moordryd said. "But I think I will make up for it with you."

"We've reached the part about him, now," she said as Artha screamed. "I will tell you what I remember."

Quick flashes, as though she still cannot bear to see it in full.

It ends in gold, shocked faces staring down as she falls from the bridge in desperate hatred.

Sister, I apologise—

And yet it did not end there. But that is another part of the story.

The League of Eight; they had hidden just in time. She sees their bodies led into the city in which she feels herself trapped, a diplomatic benefit only in theory as meaningless chatter fills her days.

It means nothing, she tells herself; they had placed their bonemarks elsewhere. They would rise again.

She did not necessarily believe that.

The green one, his uses over with the end of it all, buried peacefully and calmly and hurriedly, deep in the ground confined within a small urn. Utan Fist. Once king of this land. 'Until I am needed'. So let the Spirit be buried anew for all his brave deeds.

A tedious event she is required to attend as trophy-queen. Irrelevance.

An unfamiliar bedroom. Her nails are marked in his flesh; but away from their dragons he is stronger, and he enjoys to have defeated her at last.

She allows herself to lie passively, letting him take what he will. He seems to prefer her this way, and even once refers to her as beautiful; she loathes him and loathes this, these fallen days.

And then he tells her what the Sea will become.

The blue woman, troubling to talk to her not long after the ceremony's exhaustions, offering her an invitation to tour the city at some later point. She refuses rudely, amused by the resentment the woman tries unsuccessfully to hide. She is young enough to have been born to her, unscarred in face and much fairer in complexion; these things matter, among humans, and it is almost pleasant to show the blue that she has seen through part of her. Nevertheless, the Warrior remains unperturbed, carrying out her duties without the benefit of her powers as her dragon returns to his changed home.

A fool.

A wedding, not so long after her father's. Black, for her, edged garishly with gold; and pure white for him, glistening gold at his collar and sleeves. She walks dragonless to him, unbound hair blowing in her face. A priest utters the words of the ceremony, few dragons standing by to sanctify it; the dragon of legend is heard to roar, and golden light binds her hand to his.

And a peace at another ending, five places in the circle. An odd gathering, three Boosters and a dragon's daughter and the Black Empire's dispossessed heirs. The Vivat and her rider have been dealt with, the Vysox and hers besides; the remnant is all that is required. And the grey dragon, standing beside the gold over them to magnify.

The network pulses red already. The Dragon Booster and his traitor-dragon are first to send out their mag-burst, perhaps emphasising their position; next is the Fist, and then the Warrior coaxes the Vivat's daughter to fire. She hesitates, as though unwilling to destroy the trace of red that remains dancing across the network's glowing spines (weak, so weak she must be); and then the Samurox catches his human, and the blue is quickly added.

She ruthlessly calls upon Chiara's mag-energy, loathing every moment it courses through her, and adds what remains of her father to the growing power.

The Libris roars; she feels her power intensified, blended with the other four. The golden light is so bright as to blind them, encompassing them in its glory. She sees in her mind the gold spreading, passing through the network under the earth as dragons roar.

And she sees the lost bonemarks, falling like scattered leaves; she could weep for those deaths, but there is enough of her own to care for.

It is finished. Tetelestai. Chiara growls, and then black creeps across her vision as she falls on her dragon's neck.

Unrelenting pain. The vicious storm of whips, flaying him inch by inch.

"I did nothing!" he tried to scream, but it did not heed him. He screamed again, trapped in the blazing cold pain of it. The amulet burned as the unwanted vengeance seeped through, crying hellfire accusation.

"Not me—not you—no!"

Reason left his mind, forced from it by the bright-bursting lashes against him; he screamed again, rendered a mere creature in suffering.

The shadows claimed him.

They walk together, the pale and the red.

"I lost both of my children—or one, at least, for the other misplaced herself," said the pale. "Shall I speak for this, of the tale of the beginning, and of the middle?"

"I was barren," said the red. "But I aided the beginning of the end, and witnessed four of the funerals; if anyone has the right to speak of these things, it is us."

"My family belonged to none," the first said. "We fashioned plowshares more than swords, and sold—always at a profit—to whomever we pleased. We had been doing this since the beginning."

"Mine belonged to one, and I suppose I belonged to two," said the other. "I bought and sold myself, though not always at a profit."

"Dragons, humans," the pale said. "We both worked, almost always. My thrice-great grandfather saw it begin, delivering barley in the north when the attack on the capital came. Or so my great-uncle claimed, for it was such a long time ago. My twice-great grandfather became a prisoner of will's empire of earth, and my great-grandfather slipped from that net much later on. And my grandfather was a boy when the Dragon first rose…"

"I have not your family history," said the red. "Probably we were foot-soldiers, peasants. But the pawn must sometimes reach the other side, to give others enough hope to destroy themselves."

"I wished to learn to fight, and was sent to school with the daughter of a priestess," the other said. "She was called the Noble Knight, for her habits and chivalry; several years younger than me, I learned about her from the tales of upperclassmen she had defeated."

"My father rose to General, and wed late in life; that is where I come from," the red said. "I knew little of the beginnings."

"I learned of the Dragons, and did not look away," said the pale. "And went with the one who taught me to his home. Will I tell you of the reasons, the previous bloodshed and slavery? I know these things, perhaps more than most."

"I can tell you of the later bloodshed," the red said. "Those with reasons would have fought to an infinite darkness, immolated themselves with their own ichor. My brother died. My aunt-by-marriage died. Five of my six cousins died, one in that great battle. I resolved to change."

"My heart-sister would have perished at the hands of the Humans," said the pale. "My husband told me of his true goal and his reasons why, and I agreed fully with them."

"Too much blood for my tastes, though," said the other. "Your misplaced one would not change. And I truly did miss my family."

"I suppose she was never mine, in a way," the pale said. "Always her father's, with something missing from her. Perhaps her sister stole it away. But you should not insult her."

"I could tell you about the battle the shadows won, and the deaths, the death; many turned on us as too brutal, and to fight to an ending would have murdered more," said the red.

"I could tell you about other deaths, my death."

The pale one's eyes were like chips taken from the highest and palest part of the sky, staring into nothing.

"I could tell you about my taste of treachery vile, and my living afterwards, for traitors are never welcome. I could tell you what remains unknown, as you have done, for we both should know. But most of all I can tell you of the Four's end—"

Her lips were still red; her face was like a dark diamond, expression flashing across it like a spinning crystal on a chain.

"The last was the gold, of course."

The pale one turned to him, her face as unyielding as frozen iron, more terrible than a thousand Muhortas. "I still owe you for my daughter's sake, I believe."

And then another scream as he fell to the ground, black bolts shooting through his mind. He could not so much as peel his head from the floor; he tried to curl around himself, but found himself trapped there.

"Leave him alone!"

"As the Fire Booster stated. Keep away from our friend!"

"You?"

A roar, and the warmth of golden draconium at last touching him. He let himself fall across Beau's neck; he had endured beyond endurance, and collapsed.

"And me!"

Beau's head jolted, forcing him to open his eyes and see a Lance-shaped hole marked through the walls of Word's citadel, inexpertly closing itself with patches of stray masonry. He closed them, not troubling to care about anything beyond his exhaustion.

"I—I'll destroy you all! How dare you!"

"The Dragon Booster's our friend!"

"I have no friends, and yet I shall have revenge—"

Two screams.

A voice, close to him. "Artha, wake up!"

He tried to feel inside himself for the hidden power, the place inside him where he possessed the legendary giftings. Beau was with him, he told himself, friends supporting him; and he managed to sit up, power glowing gold around him.

He was—was not the person in screamed accusations and recriminations, the one who had come before; but he needed to draw on that strength, and tried to remember.

The first time he saw her, he was alone at the base of a cliff; she attacked first, sending down a rockfall an instant after he'd glimpsed her. It would have destroyed him had he not erected the mag-shield just in time, a dome that let the rocks harmlessly fall around them.

She leaped down when she'd run out of avalanche, perhaps to ensure her kill; he laughed when he saw how young she was (was Armeggaddon sending babes now to do men's work? Humorous indeed!). And he defeated her easily, sending her back with her battle armour and half her clothing gone rather than troubling to destroy her. Foolish not to finish off an enemy, Utan had pontificated when he had told the joke (it was rare, after all these years of battle, to still have something of amusement; if the corpse wanted to deprive himself it was none of Tieran's affair), with Andraste in agreement; but Myrtin had agreed that he should not have killed the girl-woman. They had been right; black blood ran foul even in whelps.

Armeggaddon's bitch-daughter had returned, though, as bitter with hatred as her sire; more of a challenge now, fast and nimble and channelling mag-energy as well as any other. He remembered her mag-rip after more of Armeggaddon's dragons had torn at him and Ceph, the power grasping him like it was ripping his body to its component parts.

Like he'd become nothing but meat to her. He even remembered screaming with the last of himself, before Myrtin and Andraste had saved him, and resting, remembering the early days when the bitch's father had done the same thing to him before he had mastered his abilities as now.

Battles, again, her pale face and hair like a beacon amidst the dragon-sent warriors as she stood alongside her father. He saw her techniques—quick and sharp mag-flurries, mag-storms of lashing whips, and finally the deadly mag-drain—and conquered them, duelling with her father above all the others in the dragon hordes.

He had won that battle, eventually, because he'd had to, and sealed Armeggaddon in the Shadow Track while his spawn went on in his place. He remembered his cold viciousness in finally subduing her, taunting her as she attempted to taunt him. He'd been the one to save the world…

She was attractive, considered a certain way; a girl he'd won in battle.

He remembered her death, as well. The Keeper Swyftleap escorting both of them to show the progress of the Sea, even flirting lightly with her as he showed off the Staff's powers and the triumph of his engineering, the bonemarks brought in from all over the world to be melted together and thereby maintain the network. Naturally she wasn't impressed, but remained silent. They walked across the bridge, the Sea below them.

She paused in the centre, looking down as they went on. And then he saw her fall over the railing, gazing blankly up as her hair blew about her face; he could hear Swyftleap screaming as she faded into gold. An accident, possibly, or a piece of pure foolishness; certainly not his responsibility, though in later years rumours were formed. He could have asked absolution for his treatment of her; but on the other hand she had claimed to be a warrior, and suicided to avoid the consequences.

Only a girl, lying beneath him. Only an enemy, more than defeated. Nothing to be concerned about, foolishly dead in that accident, broken and forgotten…

"You made me remember!"

The shield burst around him, ending her mag-hold on his friends.

"I'm not him. You did this!"

He reached out for her, reversing the mag-drain she had prepared and dragging her to him.

"Do you remember now?" he screamed at her. The mag-streams between them were for memory, now, ripping both apart in their torrents. "I could make it happen again—it's your fault, be hurt as you wish—wife," he whispered, letting the mag-stream pull her to him.

Her turn to scream, the memories alight between them like dark fire; she kicked out at him, and he was knocked back into the wall as she escaped him. Lance raised the staff he carried, and rubble from the ceiling fell to stop her; but Moordryd and the black dragon leaped past it, disappearing.

"Would you consider letting me out, Dragon Booster?" Word Paynn asked, tapping meaningfully at the bars of his cage. "I'm hardly responsible for my son's current behaviour."

"Okay," Lance said. "Hey, Dragon Booster, look what I can do now!"

Before he could stop him, Lance tapped the staff he carried on the floor, and the bars of Word's cell along with a good portion of the surrounding wall fell away, revealing vast control panels.

"Very much appreciated, Dragon Booster," Word Paynn said dryly, and pushed a button on the revealed wall. "Very much appreciated."

"Look out!" Kitt yelled, and he felt something invisible knocking him and Beau back.

Kitt. It was her, not—

"It would be most efficient for us combine our energies!" the green-armoured figure called, and he stood side-by-side with Kitt to create a mag-shield. Artha added his powers to theirs, draining himself; and together they forced the shielded mag-racks to visibility, and sent them crashing to the ground.

"It can't be—" Word said; Artha used the last of his power to fire a mag-blast from his hand, and sent him careering across the floor in front of the blinking lights on one of his control panels.

He took a deep breath. They'd won, he thought. Yes. They'd won.

He looked up at the red figure next to him. "Kitt," he said. "It's you, you saved me, please—"

And promptly collapsed.

"Lance, you have not been sufficiently trained in the Staff's uses! It was foolish of you to go with them to invade Word's Citadel, no matter what you believed!"

Mortis; he could recognize the voice as he awoke.

"We saved Artha! Doesn't that count for anything?"

Lance, in reply.

"That is right," Parm said. "I realise and admit that it was not for the ordinary ten-year-old—but Lance was of assistance."

"See, Dad? I can do this!"

"You still need to work on your training! And the same for you, Parmon. You should not have picked up that dangerous amulet!"

"I ensured that it was perfectly safe," Parm said. "I helped Artha, along with Kitt—we saved the day! Although Moordryd is nowhere to be found," he added.

"Yeah, the Professor totally did good—I even taught him!"

"Thank you, Kitt. I do try."

"You all were—reckless," Mortis said. "You all—are heroes in your own right, and I suppose that is something to be proud of. But in the future…"

"Yeah, yeah, we got it. How's stableboy?"

A cool hand on his forehead; he blinked, seeing bright colours gradually resolve themselves into a face staring at him.

"Waking up," Kitt said, peering concernedly at him. "Artha, you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "Yeah, I am now."

Her. It's her.

They appeared as four at the Council meeting to which Phistus had summoned them, unsure of the reason.

"Almost feels like we drove Word and Moordryd off for good," said Artha; they hadn't seen either of them at all in the week since the battle. Moordryd had even skipped a race. "Maybe we even knocked whatever that was out of him…"

"I do not know," Parm said, echoing Mortis' words to them. "They may have something planned, perhaps even this."

Artha shrugged. "Boosters together; let's go."

The Shadow Booster stood beside Phistus, showing him various documents and passing them around to the rest of the Council; Phistus looked grim as he stared at them, and some of the Council members looked hostile too, watching the Boosters enter with cold looks on their faces. Even Captain Faiar was there, standing next to Phistus and viewing the do

"What's going on?" Artha demanded.

"Secure the door," Phistus commanded, and Wulph and Marianis locked it, placing down heavy iron bars to firmly cross it.

"What's wrong? Why close us in?" Kitt asked.

"You're accused," said the Shadow Booster, "of murder."

He flicked a photograph across the table to Artha, who picked it up and gagged. Word Paynn, impaled upon one of the Citadel's spikes from the walls, clearly deceased.

Artha placed it face down on the table quickly, his stomach churning. "We didn't do it," he said blankly. "We fought Moordryd. We helped him. We left the Citadel after we fought off his trap. That's all."

Parm reached for the photograph; Artha saw his chin below his helmet pale. "We left Word Paynn alive and unconscious," he said. "I would hypothesise that it was an accident; that he stood and set off his defences by mistake…"

"Are you implying that Word Paynn was to blame for his own death?" the Shadow Booster asked. "I know you were against him! But none of us thought you'd stoop this low!"

"No," said Kitt. "I'm implying that Moordryd was to blame."

Several Council members as well of the Shadow Boosters gasped, shocked.

"He—or whoever, he's got a habit of getting himself possessed—had Word imprisoned in his own Citadel," she explained. "We turned up and saved him. He put us in a trap, we knocked him out, end of story. You want someone to blame, pick the Shadow Booster or whatever was controlling Moordryd. I'm sorry someone's dead, but it wasn't us."

Artha nodded, grateful for her support.

"You blame Moordryd?" The Shadow Booster flung across a piece of paper as though it burned him. "Read his statement to Dragon City Security! Learn from anyone that he did everything his father wanted. No evidence that he—that he ever would—"

Parm took up the sheet. "I was on my own maintaining some gear when I heard a noise from the basement of the Citadel. I went down with my dragon Decepshun to investigate. When I arrived there, I saw the Dragon Booster placing my father in one of the cells. I challenged him, and then the others came and fought me. I had no choice but to run. When I returned to the Citadel as soon as they were gone I found my father dead."

"Liar!" Artha cried. "Moordryd imprisoned Word! Word said there was something wrong with him!"

"You have no proof of this," Faiar said. "And yet Moordryd's testimony matches any number of people who will swear to it being in character for him."

"And murder is in the Dragon Booster's character?" Artha yelled.

"We don't know your character!" the Shadow Booster cried. "You hide behind that mask and none of us have any clue who you are…"

"No, but we've seen you attacking the Council, stealing dragons and trying to seize ancient powers for yourself!" Kitt returned. "You first!"

"I am not under suspicion of murder!" the Shadow Booster shouted at her.

"You're one of Paynn's associates," she snapped back. "If we're worthy of suspicion—you must be!"

"It was not me!" he howled, and unexpectedly sent a mag-blast at her. "Unmask yourselves, damn it!"

"Now calm down…" Faiar raised his hand, and Phistus his hammer; Artha prepared to defend them, mustering his and Kitt's power. "We can settle this the easy way…"

"I demand justice! There is no easy way!" the Shadow Booster screamed, and knocked Kitt off her feet as he blasted her to the other side of the room.

Artha saw her helmet fall off, watching in horror as her face was revealed.

"Kitt Wann!" the Shadow Booster exclaimed, pointing to her. "The rest of you. You've been the Penn brats, all the time, and you—you murderers!"

"Let's see who you are," Artha spat; drawing on Kitt's powers to help defend them, he blasted the Shadow Booster, using a whip of flame to start to peel away his helmet.

"Artha, look out!" Parm called, and smoke suddenly filled the room as the Shadow Booster flung out a disrupter mine from his sleeve.

The sound of boots landing on the table. "This has gone far enough!" he cried, and as the smoke cleared Artha saw Moordryd standing there, a dark amulet dangling from his raised hand. "I stand as the Shadow Booster, in opposition to those who would wantonly kill. I accuse Artha Penn, and Kitt Wann, and Parmon Sean of this deed; I demand that the Council provide me due justice; I offer the truth, and claim only this in return!"

/iMoordryd was the Shadow Booster?

"I agree with him!" said Pyrrah, standing beside him.

"The stablebrats have something to answer for," said Wulph, joining her.

"I call for order!" Phistus slammed his hammer down on the table. "Unmask, all of you!"

Artha took off his helmet as Parm did the same, trying to stop himself from wasting the time boggling at the revelation. "Yes, I'm Artha Penn—" he began.

"And you have been lying to us all this time, laughing at us!" Pyrrah said; glancing around the Council room, he felt like most of the others agreed with her. Even Phistus and Marianis stared coldly at him.

"Enough!" Faiar called. "Listen to me. We can bring charges for vigilantism in due time—against all of you. Get off the table, Paynn, and listen to me!"

"I want justice," Moordryd hissed again, and fired at Artha a second time.

"Moordryd, calm down—" Phistus said.

"He's out of control!" Kitt called.

Artha ducked, and Moordryd's volley hit behind him instead, ripping through the sealed door to show darkness.

"You killed my father!" he screamed.

Artha blinked at the devastation, running to defend himself from the attack; he saw the mag-drain attach to Kitt instead, drawing energy up from her armour.

"Stop fighting!"

Parm jumped into it, stepping in front of Kitt to block it; suddenly, Moordryd reversed the drain, and sent them both plummeting down outside.

"Moordryd, stop this!" he yelled. "You can't bring your father back this way!"

"Let me show you what it's like!" Moordryd screamed, charging towards him. "You—"

"You hurt my friends!"

Artha stopped him with a mag-shield, glowing red-gold; he stumbled back, but quickly pulled an iron bar from the floor in a mag-lift.

"Big mistake, Dragon Booster!"

Artha felt it wrap itself around his throat, bending him to his knees.

"You know something?" he got out, strangled. "We didn't kill him. But I'm not sorry Word Paynn died."

"What he said!"

Kitt, leaping in through the broken door on a mag-board. Relief filled him. He let her have the power for this; she took Moordryd away from him, blasting him away and battling him in a series of mag-strikes.

"I don't care what your deal is, Moordryd," Artha said as he managed to manifest a lasso with their powers, keeping him in place. "You leave me and my friends alone. Word tried to kill us a hundred times, and we never tried back. If anyone deserved it…"

"No!" Moordryd cried as he struggled

He was right, he knew.

Word Paynn deserved what he got, now it was over.

The only question was whether it was Moordryd or an accident.

Faiar frowned. "First he's the Shadow Booster, and now he's gone beserk. Now these rumours about possession make sense, Paynn. I'm gonna have to…"

"No!" Moordryd screamed again, and pushed himself out of Artha's hold, disappearing on Decepshun as fast as an eel into the night.

And then Mortis, talking to him.

"Dragon Booster. It is time. Speak to them!"

"I—" he began.

"You are the only one who can," Mortis said, and fell silent.

Phistus shook his head. "I suppose we should thank you for fighting him off," he said. "But…"

What would Mortis do? He was supposed to be a legendary hero; he couldn't let this pass, everyone thinking the worst of him.

He slammed an armoured fist down on the table. "Listen to me," he said. "Kitt, go get Parm up here. He's okay, right?"

She nodded, and leaped down past the doorframe.

"Pyrrah, do you have forging gear? Let's fix the doors."

He hefted the doors with a mag-lift, holding them in place; some of the Council actually looked impressed, he thought.

She stepped forward with a toss of her head and sealed them.

Good. If he could do this, make them believe him, maybe this would be the end of the Shadow Booster once and for all.

The Dragon Booster's…legend.

"Believe us," he said simply. "Now let's face what needs to be faced together, whether the Shadow Booster attacks again or not. I'm on your side. I've always been on the Council's side."

Phistus nodded. "I'm listening," he said eventually. "Why hide your identity for so long?"

"I was worried I'd be kicked out of racing. But some things are a lot more important than that."

Khatah looked thoughtful. "Perhaps we can understand that," he said.

"Penn Stables does have a spotless record," Faiar mused as Phistus nodded.

Parm and Kitt returned together, standing beside him.

"What about you two?" Wulph asked. "We haven't seen you around like that before."

"We have not possessed these powers for very long," Parm said. "We've stood with the Dragon Booster before, though, and we've learned that the Council needs to unite." He looked to Artha. "That is what we wanted to do, right?"

"Yes." Artha looked at the Crew-leaders standing before him, a rainbow in green and red and blue and purple. "We need to swear together to stop the fighting. That's all I want."

Together the gold.

Faiar nodded, shortly, turning to Phistus as though in brief telepathic conference.

"I have some questions first," Phistus said, looking sternly to them (though not as sternly as before, Artha hoped).

Artha bowed his head. "I'll do my best to answer."

A long session. Kitt had been strangely silent, while he and Parm explained about their powers and how they'd been chosen, why they'd chosen to keep it a secret and were sorry about that, really. (He supposed he couldn't blame the Council for being suspicious, not really. But still, they'd helped them out as the Penn crew before, so it wasn't quite fair.)

And then Mortis, mercifully interrupting with his support.

Or at least helpful excuse.

"Dragon Booster. Let the Council hear this," Mortis said; Artha tuned the image display to allow the Crew-leaders to view it.

Better him than me…

"A Dragon Priest," Pyrrah said. "What do you want?"

"To call away the Boosters," Mortis replied. "The city is in grave danger. Black draconium force, concentrated deep beneath us…"

The screen changed, showing an image of the signal.

"I will direct the Boosters," Mortis said. "They can defeat this."

An image now of Moordryd, riding surrounded by a sea of dark dragons through equally dark tunnels, purple-black glowing around him.

"He is channelling so much mag-energy, he should be gone…" Khatah blinked, shocked. "Not one of us can fight that level of power!"

"We'll go." Artha replaced his helmet, almost happy at the prospect of facing Moordryd and whatever ancient secret he'd dug up this time rather than the interrogation.

"We need to talk, stableboy," Kitt muttered as they headed out.

"What about? I thought we were even after I saved you from Moordryd," he said lightly.

"We weren't." Her tone stung him like a trapdoor falling. "You took from me to fight!"

"I needed it to save you." He sounded almost petulant, he thought; but shouldn't she be concentrating on defeating Moordryd, anyway?

"I could've saved myself!"

"I saved you in the first place," he settled for reminding her, shocked at the betrayal. "I gave the powers to you, remember?" The Furox' red energies in Beau, his own first touch of the Fire Booster's amulet; they counted in him as well as for her.

"Yes," she replied coldly. "You won't let me forget it."

"I'm the hero," he said at last. "I need to help you—and speaking of which, maybe I need to talk to you about all that time you spent helping Parm!"

He didn't mean it, not really; but it was one thing to throw back at her, and looking at her it seemed it had hit.

"We were trying to help you!" she snapped, and brought Wyldfyr ahead of him.

"Artha. You must hurry," he head Mortis say, and thankful for Mortis' directions he took up the pace behind her.

It was her he cared about. Why were they being like this?

Through endless tunnels they continued, silently.

"This is to where Moordryd ended up after his possession by the Spirit Booster, isn't it?" Parm asked over the VIDDcomm.

"Yes. The Sea of Gold," said Mortis. "Artha. Do you think Moordryd was taken by…another creature?"

"He seemed like himself at the Council meeting," Artha said. "But before, he—she—he was—something else…"

He didn't want to face the pain she'd put him through. Not yet. Not ever.

"Maybe," he said. "But as long as we defeat him, that doesn't matter."

"You must not allow him to destroy the Sea," Mortis said. "It has declined over the years, and may have released some dark creature it caged—but it is vital to the city. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. Dad. See you there."

His father was dead.

Sobbing words, his mind rainwater and streams. He'd tried, Drakkus avenge it, and he'd done nothing.

And she was back, controlling him. Pushing Cain away, when he'd bothered to try to comfort him. He tried to take a shuddering breath, and found himself blocked by her. Calm breathing, in and out at a pace that made him feel like he was suffocating.

Maybe he was. He didn't care. She didn't care.

What do you want? he begged her, again.

She deigned to answer.

Revenge.

I…I want to kill them because they killed my father. But to you they…

Drove her mad, of course. Three thousand years of…whatever she'd felt when she died. He didn't want the detail any more than she did.

Let's speak frankly, she said. He raped me. And I have lived what I felt for him for the past three thousand years.

Okay, that…sucks, he dared. But you're using me, and I…

Eight of them, flooding her with mag-energy. Eight more inside their mind, cold and ancient and so very powerful.

No! She paused. I own you, she said. Now leave me…

The madness descended.

"This fight is for the Boosters," he heard Mortis say to all of them, Artha and Kitt and Lance and himself.

"But there are only three of us, and not five colours of power and balance!" Parm found himself protesting. He was inexperienced at this; Artha was a far better hero, and Kitt's tutoring had shown him how much he had to learn.

"Four," Lance said determinedly. "I'm going with you this time, again."

He heard Mortis sigh. "Stay behind the others, Lance. And be careful."

"But I get to go, right? I get to go?" Lance bounced happily. "I know I'm not the original one, but I've still got the blue influence!"

"I said be careful," Mortis said. "But you are right, Lance. Your powers must be united."

He's ten years old, Parm thought. And he didn't have a clue on what to do. And there was…something going on between Artha and Kitt, that he probably wouldn't like. And…

…and they had won before, he reminded himself, and they needed to fight the black dragons and Moordryd, who had turned out to have all the Shadow Booster's powers.

He could be a hero. With Artha and his friends around him.

Parmon Sean, heir to the powers of the Spirit Booster, walked proudly into the vast underground Sea of Gold, to fight those who would destroy it.

And promptly fell over, failing to see the harsh wire stretched across the entrance.

Kitt saw Moordryd smile as the gold earth reached out black tendrils, dragging Parm to it.

She counted eight black dragons around him, their bonemarks gleaming; it had seemed like more, rushing through the tunnel on the VIDDscreen. She supposed that was a good thing.

And dark shadows around them. As though there were more, hidden in the mists of time.

"No—" she heard Artha cry, reaching futilely towards Parm.

Through the darkness beginning to cover him, she saw her friend reach up to Artha, his armour dissolving.

"Artha, take this, join our powers like Mortis said—"

She saw the amulet arch through the air, glistening green, and as his armour melted away Parm flung himself from the tendrils, falling unconscious as his head struck a rock.

Great. Another power for stableboy.

"So, Moordryd. Are you Moordryd right now?" she asked, letting her flame whip lance through the air to seize the dark figure; he wouldn't beat her this time.

He blocked it, easily. "I lead the Black Empire," he said, and she heard a roar behind her.

Wyldfyr turned; it was dark, and had too many legs, and sharp teeth bearing down on her. She prepared a mag-blast, though fear paralysed her.

"No, Kitt!" she heard Artha scream, and looked behind that thing to see Lance there, like he was covered in some strange smoke.

It wasn't…real?

Wyldfyr roared, in pain, and they lashed out behind them to stop the dragon creeping up on them. She saw a red slash opened in Wyldfyr's scales.

A golden mag-shield suddenly appeared, courtesy of Artha; the illusion-dragon crashed into that, falling back.

And then she saw two of them leaping at her, all gleaming claws and opened mouths. She and Wyldfyr fought, together, and she saw them both fall as she hit out with her blocking staff.

She could do this, she thought.

Artha's mag-shield had vanished. She looked for him, and saw him frozen as a giant dragon loomed over him, its eyes glowing.

Glowing black, if such a thing was possible. She'd thought it wasn't. But it flung her into darkness as well, and all she could do was remember flame.

Artha, you're closer, damn you…

Her ears rung as the dragon screamed, its eyes burning. He turned to her, red-green-gold around his hands.

"I'm starting to remember, Kitt, I know who they all are…"

Fighting the League with fire.

Maybe she could remember. Or maybe she couldn't, and it was he who'd faced Armeggaddon and the League enough times.

She took a deep breath, and threw him her own gauntlet.

Save their lives, save the world…

He was…amazing. The illusion-one trapped by her own miasmas, colliding into the dark still one. The blinded one ripping out the spine of the fast one, without seeing. The winged one rising in the sky, brought down by heavy green mag-bursts. His signal to Lance to activate golden patterns on the ceiling, which descended to burn the quiet one. The night-black one split stomach to tail, and the fine-crafted one spitted, on a lance of flame.

They had not been like this once, she thought; but the Samurox had been a king before.

"No. No, no, no—"

Moordryd stood in the centre of the Sea of Gold; his dragon reared, and when she brought down her feet it turned to black.

"It's been…corrupted," Artha called to her. "We were too late—"

The dragon and rider advanced upon him.

"No!"

Lance ran to his brother, the staff in his hands glowing blue, and their mag-shield met Moordryd's head-on.

Four against one. They'd do it.

She and Wyldfyr sent what energy she could to Artha, like when they'd stopped Libris, and she saw Parm doing the same.

Four against. It hadn't been enough, the first time. Maybe now the Shadow Booster would be consumed by fire…

The black miasma of the Sea rose around them, a typhoon swirling around the two central figures.

"You died here," she heard Artha half-whisper, his voice carrying even through the storm. "And you were imprisoned here, and you could not corrupt it to be like you. You were even forgotten, forever, and now you have called all the Eight to you and failed. Now it is time for you to die again."

"It is not over."

Wingflaps coming from somewhere above their heads, and yet she couldn't see anything there.

Another voice. "What is pure can never be banished."

And a flash. "Oh little human, look where I say…"

Darkness touched them.

"You will die human you will die."

Fog swirled from the illusion-dragon's shape, twisting itself to a dragon-face guiding the swirling waves. "Human, beware the Dragon."

Voices, without shapes to go with them, as they looked around wildly.

"I will kill you quickly."

"Look into my eyes…"

The black dragon roared, and that seemed to galvanize Beau into action. The two humans flew towards each other, while the dragons waged their own battle below.

"I had it all along," she heard Artha near-whisper, the sound somehow carrying through the cave. "Let's put you back in gold."

The six-pointed gold bonemark he'd used to illuminate the way through the tomb of the Boosters. She saw it reflected in Moordryd's eyes, and heard him scream; the dragon's concentration seemed to break, and Beau's claws sunk into its flesh.

Lance brought down the staff to the ground. The darkness left the Sea, flying and dissolving as ghosts were laid to rest. Moordryd's leg was twisted oddly beneath him as he lay still on the ground.

"Well," Artha said. "I guess that's over."

Beau howled, as though in grief that he'd killed. They'd…done a lot, that night.

A sudden explosion; smoke. Kitt coughed, and looked up to see Cain in the distance, running away with Moordryd.

"Let him go," said Mortis, walking with a strangely quiet Tyrannis Pax beside him. "The night is not yet over, Artha."

Kitt watched him bend almost tenderly over the dragon—Decepshun, was she, or did the bonemark on her forehead make her someone else? She didn't know—checking the pulse, gently touching the area around her wounds.

"Is she…dead?" Parm asked.

"No. Help me move her."

They all, somehow, stood at the back of the cave, on a section of stone raised above the nearly empty basin. Five humans, six dragons. One hero, Kitt supposed.

"Decepshun, you must listen to me," she heard Mortis say to the dragon, his voice strangely compelling. "I can save your life. The bonemark in you forced you to war, but you can be yourself now. Just follow with us."

"Doing what?" Lance asked. "I thought we won."

"Using the Sea to return the city to gold," Mortis answered. "Perhaps you remember the first time this happened."

The network. Kitt put a hand behind her to steady herself, and touched smooth rock; when she looked behind, it was pale white. Bone.

It was the end.

"I remember," said Parm, sounding shocked, as though the words were tearing themselves from his throat. "The last thing he ever did, in some ways, the last he achieved before they returned him to the darkness—"

"Me too," Artha said. "She said it was finished and she was right, it was how we won. It was—what I needed to do. The Sea was part of it, later, how we dealt with all the remnants…"

"I don't." Lance pouted. "But we're supposed to balance again, right?"

"Right," Mortis said. "You know what to do, Artha. Tyrannis Pax's gold to stabilise it; Decepshun's black to be the linchpin. Now hurry."

Artha returned her gauntlet and Parm's; she felt the red armour growing around her again, and looked up at Parm, similarly attired. She wondered briefly if he felt the same as her after lending his powers.

Well. At least she'd made it to this point this time, she decided, and joined her energy to the Sea of Gold.

Andraste of fire, Myrtin the warrior, Utan the king, Tieran the hero, the wounded Black...

They were very suddenly high up when Artha opened his eyes. Waiting above who knew how many tonnnes of golden draconium, some flowing through to the network. Tyrannis Pax' scales glowed brightly.

They'd done it in one step this time. Not bad for the new Dragon Booster, and with only one Black representative. He looked down where Decepshun had been; she had vanished, only a few scrapings on the floor showing that she had lain there at all.

"Moordryd…tried to kill you," Lance said shakily.

"It's over now," Mortis replied, his arm around his younger son. "You did well, Lance. Artha?"

Artha shook his head, feeling himself returning to awareness. "You'd better give it back," he said, returning Tyrannis Pax' mark; and looked across at Kitt and Parm.

His friends. He could feel their powers like he could his own.

Kitt smiled at him, like she'd done before. "Not bad, hero boy," she said, like he'd have wanted her to say after he'd saved the world.

"Hey. You're not so bad yourself," he said, and then she kissed him.

It was her.

They had gone up, through Down City and Mid City, seeing the new golden dragons and answering people's inquiries as they were welcomed as heroes. They entered the Sun City Academy boldly, ready to be acknowledged as the city's saviours; it was Sentrus who fought against them alongside the controlled formerly-black dragons, oddly enough. They found out later that Moordryd had placed her under control gear; he wished that he hadn't had to hurt her so much.

And that was how he had won. It was golden, and glorious; he looked to Kitt, and his friends and family around him, and thought that it was good.

She remembered that day with Andra, riding across the fields just outside the practice grounds. Almost perfect, the sun still shining as evening approached, Andra's fire beside her as the Vivat slightly curbed her speed to keep pace with the Samurox. Myrtin slowed as they turned back to the keep's walls, preserving the moment.

"Thank you for accompanying me," she said.

"No need for formalities," Andra replied. She looked regal even without her armour, a red lady astride a bright dragon. "I'm almost glad Utan and Tieran managed to destroy Revyan Bridge; it's given us time."

"We can only take what comes—and for now, that is good," Myrtin said.

"An excellent philosophy; I believe in living for the moment," said Andraste. "To seize what gold is offered."

"Or red," Myrtin returned with a smile.

"Or blue, for that matter." She turned to her friend, suddenly serious. "If I give my word that this is the last time I will ask: will you abandon all this and run away with me once the war is over?

She shook her head. "I can't abandon. You are the closest friend I have, but—"

"But you are concerned for Tieran?" Andra asked swiftly.

Myrtin shook her head, almost ruefully. "I have looked after him since we were children together; I suppose it's habit. And I was…concerned, all those years ago, when I'd thought I'd lost him. I don't want anything like it to happen again."

Andraste laughed, transforming the subject to lighter choices. "You're using your grim-death look again. Is mine like that, just before battles?"

"You look like the knife-edge of a lava flow. It's rather intimidating."

"Poetic. You may have missed your true calling. Did you ever wish to be anything other than Warrior? Tieran ran away to the diplomatic service, and Utan was a king, of course—"

She paused. "Not that I recall. Maybe I had dreams of being a rescued princess, like every young girl—foolish, I know," she added quickly. "But I knew what I had to do, and got around to doing it, eventually."

The Samurox nodded.

"I didn't have to give up anything," Myrtin continued. "You gave up a great deal."

"I gave up mercenary work to prove my mother wrong about the prophecies, and I'm still not sure she isn't," Andraste said, making a dismissive gesture. "My friend, tell me again why you fight."

"You're being silly, Andra," said Myrtin. "We're fighting for an end of it, all of us. Because someone needs to stop the fighting and we're the only ones who can. As well as being a dashing rebel, in your case."

"You always were the best and truest of all of us," Andra said.

"It's not so—without you as friends I would be gone—" she began to answer; but Andraste sped forward with the Vivat, and the Samurox and his Warrior raced after her.

True to her word, Andraste did not ask again.

She remembered it a year later to the day, when her best friend died.

She remembered it two years later, when they turned the last remnant of Andraste to gold, and afterwards she destroyed her powers to prevent their abuse, as though she was the hero Andra had believed her to be.

She remembered it three years later, when another of those who had loved Andraste was returned to the world of the dead, when she attended a brief ceremony over an empty coffin for another death.

She remembered it four years later, when she and Tieran were wed in full ceremony.

She remembered it ten years later, when what remained of the shells of Andra and Utan was carried up to the tomb in the sun, and because of their sacrifice Tieran strengthened his reputation as a king.

She remembered it twenty years later, a grey old woman wondering where her husband was.

She remembered it in what had become ritual for her, sitting in her sunlit study and pouring a second cup of tea, Andra's pale hand almost touching hers as they talked as they had always done.

She remembered, and knew she saw ghosts as she aged and the glory faded from the world she had made; and when it was time to pass from it, she knew she would see her friend there.

Moordryd Paynn entered his father's Citadel for the last time, his leg in a rough splint as he leaned on Cain's shoulder. They explored it from top to bottom as outside the Dragon Booster continued his triumphal procession, Cain packing away anything they thought would be useful in the days ahead. He learned what had happened to his father's wraiths when he opened a cold storage door that he and Cain immediately closed afterwards, their bodies cubed to fill the freezer space as efficiently as possible with the pale chunks of flesh.

Meggine had considered them abomination, he recalled numbly. She'd committed several herself.

Perhaps you were partly right, he heard a still, small voice say, buried deep within him.