Winds of Vesperia - Becoming Herself
A story set in the week or so after last session's big battle. Because sometimes when you reintegrate into civil society, you learn a few things about yourself in the process.
Becoming Herself
Therrion practically exploded out of the hobgoblin ship. The air was cool and crisp outside, still tingling with the energy of the Citadel’s cannons. After more than a week trapped with the Bloodrage clan like so many packed fish, the open sky was as much a relief for Sela as for her eagle. “Praise be to Elaurynt,” she murmured as Therrion flew towards the battlefield.
The Bright Dawn had landed, but many of Galandreth’s smaller ships were still afloat, and so were many of Falan’s. The battle was far from over, and Sela scanned the skies with a practiced eye. Just off to her right, still rising up from the lake, was the Golden Wing. They were unmistakable. Even if their emblem did not glint in the mid-day light, their formations were perfect. No one else flew like that.
“Marshall.” The voice came in her mind. Telepathically, he still sounded the way he used to, before he was forced to rasp and strain at each syllable.
“Wing Commander,” Sela answered.
“Are you battle ready?”
Sela scoffed. “I’m always battle ready.”
She could practically hear his nod. “You can take Red Talon,” he said. “Flank the stars from the northeast and make sure they can’t rejoin their mother ships.”
Sela pulled on Therrion’s reins, moving herself to the right, to meet up with Red Talon and once more feel the perfection of flying with the Golden Wing.
She abruptly stopped herself.
Something in Jericho’s tone grated on her. The unquestioning assumption that she would do what he said, that she would follow his commands as she always had, because he was the one who was giving them, because they would lead to victory. It irked her.
She took a moment longer to take in the battlefield. To her left, further away, she saw the insignia of Galandreth’s cavalry. Even from here, she could rattle off the names of every unit and most of their commanders. She had fought side by side with them for five years, liberating their home from Falan oppression.
She remembered the feeling of stepping aside after Klax had retreated, remembered watching the Golden Wing land in a perfect formation that she had no part of. And now Jericho was asking her to do it again.
Sela set her jaw. “Actually,” she said through their telepathic link. “I have my own people.”
*****
The streets of Calawyn thronged. The city was full to the bursting with soldiers from both Galandreth and Falan, with refugees, with civilians. The marketplace was packed, a riot of noise and smell and color. Sela strode her way through it.
On the Second Tier, there was a common saying: “Any elf who walks the streets of Amurgin of their own free will is ten times the monster of any orc.” Sela had taken to keeping a close eye on any elves she met, anticipating their movements, giving them a wide berth.
Now, though, the streets were full of elves, and it was they who gave her the wide berth. They all knew who she was, and if they didn’t recognize her, they recognized Soul-Eater. Now she was the monster in their midst, and she felt the eyes upon her as she walked.
No doubt the rumors had already spread, as they always did, that she and Lucius were no longer berthing together. She knew what they must be saying: What sort of black-hearted lover would turn down a relationship with a paladin, with an archon? How could she break the heart of a man so pure? If an angel could not satisfy her, where would she turn next?
She ignored the stares and the whispers that greeted her. She had realized when she had returned that she could not sleep with Lucius. She could not continue to deceive him into thinking she felt for him the way he felt for her. He had taken it as well as she could have expected. He would be fine. He was happier now than she had ever seen him. He had his wings back. He did not need her.
Someone crashed into her shoulder.
Her hand was already on her lance, its fire crackling along the shaft, when she realized it was not an enemy. Some servant in full livery, out on an errand for his master. His eyes went wide as his packages scattered on the packed street. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered. His hands trembled.
Sela practically growled. In Amurgin, he would have been long since dead. But she was not in Amurgin, and Calawyn had its own rules.
She sheathed her lance. “Get up,” she snapped. “I’m not going to hurt you. Be more careful next time.”
“Yes, yes, sorry,” the servant continued muttering.
She realized a circle had formed around her, cautious citizens waiting to see what she would do next. Sela rolled her eyes. “Get out of here,” she said to the servant. He didn’t need to be asked twice. She raised her voice to the circle of elves and catfolk who had formed, “And by the gods, where’s the damned tailor?!”
*****
The two soldiers who barred her way stood at perfect parade rest. Their heraldry glinted in the mid-day light. They were not mounted, but no doubt they could use their lances nearly as well on the ground as they did in the air, just as she could.
“Come back tomorrow.”
Sela ran her tongue along her top teeth. Jericho wanted everything to be done his way, as he always had. He wanted her to accede to his wishes because they were the more important, because he was the superior. He wanted her to play his games, so that when she came back tomorrow, they would tell her to come back again, and again, and perhaps she would never see him except by chance.
She was not interested in playing anymore.
“I am here now,” she told the soldier before her. “If he wishes to see me tomorrow, he can find me.”
The one on the left cocked his head slightly, transmitting her response and waiting for a reply. The one on the right watched her, his expression a mix of caution and confidence. He would fight her if he had to, if Jericho asked it of him. Sela had once worn that expression. Once, if Jericho had asked, she would have fought for him, bled for him, died for him. She had loved him. She had trusted him with her life.
She did not blame the soldiers for the loyalty that Jericho inspired in them. He seemed to have a knack for it.
The one on the left nodded. “Come with me, ma’am,” he said.
Sela fell in behind him and began the long climb to the Wing Commander’s quarters.
*****
The Feathered Plume was one of the most expensive establishments in Calawyn. It catered to officers of the cavalry and navy who needed to be in town on business but did not have established accommodations. The Feathered Plume’s high price came with equally high service. Its beds were soft, its meads sweet, and its companionship extremely friendly.
Sela had paid an extra five silver pieces to ensure that her bathwater was refreshed and her clothes laundered after her ‘personal attendant’ had left to see to other clients. She lay back in the tub, idly picking at a tray of nibbles that had been placed beside it.
Her head was clearer now that her body had been sated. She thought back on her conversation with Jericho, replaying it in her mind, examining it from different angles.
She was not certain what she had expected when she had come to see him. That they would both leap into one another’s arms as they once had? That they would declare their undying love for each other? That they would pick things up where they had left off more than a decade ago?
No. Even she had known that was unlikely. And it had only taken a moment of seeing him before she realized it was impossible.
It was almost a relief to realize she no longer had feelings for him. Wing Commander Jericho, commander of the Golden Wing, was not the same man as Lieutenant Jericho, who had led a ragtag group of sailors in one of Falan’s backwater regiments. And Sky Marshall Selatria was not the same woman as Corporal Sela, who had followed him blindly. She did not love the man her one-time lover had become, and she realized she did not care whether he loved her back.
If nothing else, her conversation with Jericho had given her the closure she had sought for years, since he had hunted down the Sovereign Will and presented her with his impossible choice.
She felt like she had lost two lovers in a week: first Lucius, then Jericho. But at the same time, she did not mind. Was it really a loss if the feelings had left her first?
She leaned her head back against the edge of the tub. So long as establishments like the Feathered Plume existed, there would always be men willing to satisfy her body in exchange for a few coins. For now, perhaps that was all she needed.
*****
Elisal the Tailor came highly recommended. For centuries, if a Falan officer wanted a uniform commissioned and had the money to pay for it, their first destination was Elisal’s shop. And now, with the influx of soldiers from Galandreth, there was an entire new host of officers looking for uniforms. Elisal had not gotten to be a master of the Tailor’s Guide by being stupid - he was not adverse to new customers, so long as they were paying customers.
He picked and poked at Sela’s uniform as she stood before the full-length mirror. It was in the new colors Queen T’ainesa had chosen: a blending of the green of Falan and the red of Galandreth. Sooner or later, all the armies would be wearing the new colors. For now, it was only required of her high officers.
“Will you be at the ceremony?” asked the tailor as he worked.
Sela nodded.
“Of course you will,” Elisal corrected himself. “You’re part of the honor guard, yes?”
Sela nodded again.
“Must be exciting,” Elisal continued. “The change of a new regime. The turning of a new leaf. The dawn at the end of a long eclipse.”
Sela chose not to answer. She wondered what the tailor spoke about when there was a Falan loyalist in his shop.
Elisal cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Will you be wearing your armor over the uniform?”
“Always,” Sela said.
“I believe I saw you wear it in. If you go get it, I can ensure the fit is right with both layers.”
Sela fetched her armor from the changing room and allowed Elisal to put it on her. The tailor murmured in appreciation. “Beautiful work,” he said softly.
Sela felt more comfortable immediately. Her dragonhide had been built especially for her by a master craftsman. The scales shimmered in the shop’s light, red as rubies. Garrett had crafted the dragon’s claws into hooks for her cloak, and its tail wrapped around her back as though it were prepared to uncoil itself at any moment.
More than that, her armor was a constant reminder of her first visit to the Second Tier, of her victory in the arena, of the strength that she and Therrion had possessed, alone. Wearing it, she felt the swell of victory again. It tasted hot and sweet.
“You killed it yourself?” asked the tailor as he pulled at her sleeve-seems where they were pulled by the breastplate.
“I did,” Sela said.
The tailor nodded. “Best dragon is a dead dragon, that’s what they say.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Speaking of which, I’ve seen the little silver ones running around.”
“So have I,” Sela replied. She had met Silverwing and Skywalker after the fighting, trailing behind Aradon like he was their father. He had made the introductions.
Elisal shook his head. “Don’t trust ‘em,” he said softly. “I know they say that silver dragons aren’t evil, that they’ll be great forces of good in the world when they’re big enough.” He took a moment to pull through a dart in Sela’s uniform sleeve. “But I don’t trust them.”
Sela thought back to her initial impressions of the two baby dragons. The girl had seemed serious enough, but the boy… Skywalker reminded her too much of Corna. She shook her head. “Neither do I.”
The tailor straightened, his last alteration mark done. “Well,” he said. “As long as you’re here, I’m sure we’ve got nothing to worry about, dragon-slayer.”
Sela smiled in spite of herself. “As long as I’m here,” she promised, “you have nothing to worry about on that count.”
*****
The Convocation Hall was the largest building in Calawyn, where new recruits were given their wings and promoted into the army, cavalry, and navy. Now the stage had been outfitted with a massive dais, and upon it, a throne erected for Queen T’ainesa. The fealty ceremony was scheduled to go all day, as Falan officers - both those who had joined her in Galandreth and those who had newly defected - bent the knee and swore their loyalty to Falan’s rightful queen.
Her high officers and advisors stood behind her. As one of the commanders of Galandreth’s cavalry, Sela stood among their ranks. Jass, admiral of Galandreth’s flagship, stood a little further off. Lucius stood on the far left, his wings folded against his uniform, providing a paladin’s oversight to the proceedings.
The queen was relaxed as she heard officer after officer swear their loyalty. To look at her, nothing could be more natural. The members of her honor guard were more tense. Any of the hundreds of soldiers who stood before her could be a loyalist for her grandfather or a paid assassin. Those who protected the Queen had to be ever vigilant. They could not afford a slip, not now.
It was, on the other hand, a remarkable vantage point to see every important member of the Queen’s new army up close.
Even amongst the other officers, Jericho stood out. He entered the arena flanked by the five captains who led the talons of the Golden Wing. They walked in perfect synchrony. He, too, had had a new uniform commissioned for the occasion. By the way they glinted, Sela could swear that the insignia bars were actual gold. She would not be surprised if there was gold thread in the embroidery of his unit’s crest. His staff, the symbol of the battle-mage, clicked softly against the ground as he walked, its crystal top gleaming a faint white light.
When he came close enough, he handed his staff to one of his subordinates and knelt before the throne. He did not flinch as the Queen placed her sword at his shoulder, an inch away from his neck. He did not look behind the throne. Why would he?
Even amplified by magic, Jericho’s voice was hoarse. The rough syllables echoed off the amphitheater’s walls and ceiling. Despite that, it was rock-steady. “I, Wing Commander Jericho Corranik, commander of the Golden Wing, pride of Falan’s cavalry, pledge fealty to T’ainesa ni’Esma vaun Falan, Queen of Falan, and to her rightfully appointed heirs. My strength and the strength of those who serve me are yours to direct, until I die or I am released from your service.”
It had not escaped Sela’s notice that Jericho had come to the fighting at the last minute. He was not pledging himself to T’ainesa because he believed in her, but because he believed in being on the winning side. He had seen enough to think that side would be hers.
The Queen’s voice was clear, reaching the far ends of the coliseum. “I, T’ainesa ni’Esma vaun Falan, Queen of these lands, accept your fealty. Serve me well and faithfully, and you shall have my protection and blessing.” For a split-second longer than it needed to, her sword rested on Jericho’s shoulder. The soldiers behind the throne tensed as one, ready for whatever the Queen might decide to do. Jericho held the Queen’s gaze, his expression inscrutable.
But then the sword was lifted, and Jericho rose. “My Queen,” he said in his hoarse voice. He stepped back to allow his captains their turn to each swear their oath.
Sela spared him half a glance as the talon-leaders made their vows. He could have masked his voice with magic. He could have made himself sound as he once did; he was more than powerful enough to cast the illusion spells. He had chosen not to, either as a reminder or a threat.
Sela regarded him. For all that he had accused her of leaving him to the whims of Jass and Artemis, he was the one who had chosen to return to the lands of the living, even knowing the price. He was the one who had faced the endless, desolate path of death and allowed himself to be pulled away from it.
The fifth talon commander finished his oath and stood. The six of them saluted in unison, took three paces back, and turned, ceding their spot to the next officers to swear. Sela watched him go. He would do well in Queen T’ainesa’s new order, as he had done well everywhere else he had ever been.
She owed him nothing.
*****
Sela had taken to holding her briefings at the top of the rookery, overlooking the city. She stood with her three troop commanders and with Aethil, who was once more assigned to her units. The wind picked at her hair and her clothes as the sky lightened. It would be a good day for flying. Praise be to Elaurynt.
“We go west,” Sela informed them. “Queen T’ainesa wants an update on the road to Pelsari. For all we know, the land troops are marching towards us as we speak. If that’s the case, we need to have advance notice.”
“And if we find anyone?” Arilyn had always been thoughtful, always looking for the deeper meaning behind Sela’s orders. She appreciated her subordinate’s questions - they were often ones she had asked herself, but even more often ones she hadn’t.
Sela shrugged. “If we think we have a chance of victory, we fight. We want to avoid scouts returning home if we can.”
“And if we don’t?”
Sela turned her gaze to look out at the winding path. “Then we retreat,” she said. “Even after their defeat over the lake, they still have the advantage of numbers, especially if we need to leave a rear-guard in Calawyn. There’s no point throwing away our lives if-”
She was interrupted by the glinting of golden emblems in the dawn light. One hundred eagles flew in perfect formation, rising out of the rookery and heading east. At their head was a fang dragon.
“They’re amazing, aren’t they?” said Pyluth, a touch of awe in his voice.
Sela nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you ever fight with the Golden Wing, Marshall?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of them.
Sela kept her eyes fixed on the fang dragon at their head. “Once,” she said.
Arilyn piped up. “I heard you were given the chance to fly with them, at the Battle of the Lake.”
“I was.”
“You didn’t take it?”
“No.”
There was a pause. “Why not?”
Sela sighed and turned away from the departing flyers. “Because they’re not my people,” she said. “I don’t know their talons, I don’t know their maneuvers, and I don’t know their commander. There’s more to battle than being able to fly like mind-linked warforged. There’s passion. There’s belief. And if I were given the choice, I would fly with all of you any day.”
There were a few nods, a few checked smiles. Sela shook her head. “Now get out of here,” she said with a grin. “We’re wasting daylight and we have a long way to fly. I expect to be past the city walls in fifteen minutes.”
They gave her snappy salutes, and one by one they mounted up to bring instructions to their units. Sela jumped lightly onto Therrion’s back. “That was a good speech,” he said as he lifted into the air.
“It was good because it was true,” Sela replied.
Therrion snorted. “True? You know their commander.”
Sela shook her head sadly. “Not anymore.”
Therrion breathed out through his nostrils. “You would fly with these Galandreth riders who never saw real combat until five years ago instead of the Golden Wing?”
Sela stared down as the city slipped past beneath her. “Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Sela shook her head. “No.”
Therrion actually craned his neck to look at her. “You used to tell stories about flying with the Golden Wing. You used to dream of it.”
Sela pulled the reins to force Therrion forward again and leaned down into the saddle. A smile crept across her face as the wind tugged at her hair. Behind her, she could feel her people forming up and taking to wing. “I used to dream too small,” she said.
Becoming Herself
Therrion practically exploded out of the hobgoblin ship. The air was cool and crisp outside, still tingling with the energy of the Citadel’s cannons. After more than a week trapped with the Bloodrage clan like so many packed fish, the open sky was as much a relief for Sela as for her eagle. “Praise be to Elaurynt,” she murmured as Therrion flew towards the battlefield.
The Bright Dawn had landed, but many of Galandreth’s smaller ships were still afloat, and so were many of Falan’s. The battle was far from over, and Sela scanned the skies with a practiced eye. Just off to her right, still rising up from the lake, was the Golden Wing. They were unmistakable. Even if their emblem did not glint in the mid-day light, their formations were perfect. No one else flew like that.
“Marshall.” The voice came in her mind. Telepathically, he still sounded the way he used to, before he was forced to rasp and strain at each syllable.
“Wing Commander,” Sela answered.
“Are you battle ready?”
Sela scoffed. “I’m always battle ready.”
She could practically hear his nod. “You can take Red Talon,” he said. “Flank the stars from the northeast and make sure they can’t rejoin their mother ships.”
Sela pulled on Therrion’s reins, moving herself to the right, to meet up with Red Talon and once more feel the perfection of flying with the Golden Wing.
She abruptly stopped herself.
Something in Jericho’s tone grated on her. The unquestioning assumption that she would do what he said, that she would follow his commands as she always had, because he was the one who was giving them, because they would lead to victory. It irked her.
She took a moment longer to take in the battlefield. To her left, further away, she saw the insignia of Galandreth’s cavalry. Even from here, she could rattle off the names of every unit and most of their commanders. She had fought side by side with them for five years, liberating their home from Falan oppression.
She remembered the feeling of stepping aside after Klax had retreated, remembered watching the Golden Wing land in a perfect formation that she had no part of. And now Jericho was asking her to do it again.
Sela set her jaw. “Actually,” she said through their telepathic link. “I have my own people.”
*****
The streets of Calawyn thronged. The city was full to the bursting with soldiers from both Galandreth and Falan, with refugees, with civilians. The marketplace was packed, a riot of noise and smell and color. Sela strode her way through it.
On the Second Tier, there was a common saying: “Any elf who walks the streets of Amurgin of their own free will is ten times the monster of any orc.” Sela had taken to keeping a close eye on any elves she met, anticipating their movements, giving them a wide berth.
Now, though, the streets were full of elves, and it was they who gave her the wide berth. They all knew who she was, and if they didn’t recognize her, they recognized Soul-Eater. Now she was the monster in their midst, and she felt the eyes upon her as she walked.
No doubt the rumors had already spread, as they always did, that she and Lucius were no longer berthing together. She knew what they must be saying: What sort of black-hearted lover would turn down a relationship with a paladin, with an archon? How could she break the heart of a man so pure? If an angel could not satisfy her, where would she turn next?
She ignored the stares and the whispers that greeted her. She had realized when she had returned that she could not sleep with Lucius. She could not continue to deceive him into thinking she felt for him the way he felt for her. He had taken it as well as she could have expected. He would be fine. He was happier now than she had ever seen him. He had his wings back. He did not need her.
Someone crashed into her shoulder.
Her hand was already on her lance, its fire crackling along the shaft, when she realized it was not an enemy. Some servant in full livery, out on an errand for his master. His eyes went wide as his packages scattered on the packed street. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered. His hands trembled.
Sela practically growled. In Amurgin, he would have been long since dead. But she was not in Amurgin, and Calawyn had its own rules.
She sheathed her lance. “Get up,” she snapped. “I’m not going to hurt you. Be more careful next time.”
“Yes, yes, sorry,” the servant continued muttering.
She realized a circle had formed around her, cautious citizens waiting to see what she would do next. Sela rolled her eyes. “Get out of here,” she said to the servant. He didn’t need to be asked twice. She raised her voice to the circle of elves and catfolk who had formed, “And by the gods, where’s the damned tailor?!”
*****
The two soldiers who barred her way stood at perfect parade rest. Their heraldry glinted in the mid-day light. They were not mounted, but no doubt they could use their lances nearly as well on the ground as they did in the air, just as she could.
“Come back tomorrow.”
Sela ran her tongue along her top teeth. Jericho wanted everything to be done his way, as he always had. He wanted her to accede to his wishes because they were the more important, because he was the superior. He wanted her to play his games, so that when she came back tomorrow, they would tell her to come back again, and again, and perhaps she would never see him except by chance.
She was not interested in playing anymore.
“I am here now,” she told the soldier before her. “If he wishes to see me tomorrow, he can find me.”
The one on the left cocked his head slightly, transmitting her response and waiting for a reply. The one on the right watched her, his expression a mix of caution and confidence. He would fight her if he had to, if Jericho asked it of him. Sela had once worn that expression. Once, if Jericho had asked, she would have fought for him, bled for him, died for him. She had loved him. She had trusted him with her life.
She did not blame the soldiers for the loyalty that Jericho inspired in them. He seemed to have a knack for it.
The one on the left nodded. “Come with me, ma’am,” he said.
Sela fell in behind him and began the long climb to the Wing Commander’s quarters.
*****
The Feathered Plume was one of the most expensive establishments in Calawyn. It catered to officers of the cavalry and navy who needed to be in town on business but did not have established accommodations. The Feathered Plume’s high price came with equally high service. Its beds were soft, its meads sweet, and its companionship extremely friendly.
Sela had paid an extra five silver pieces to ensure that her bathwater was refreshed and her clothes laundered after her ‘personal attendant’ had left to see to other clients. She lay back in the tub, idly picking at a tray of nibbles that had been placed beside it.
Her head was clearer now that her body had been sated. She thought back on her conversation with Jericho, replaying it in her mind, examining it from different angles.
She was not certain what she had expected when she had come to see him. That they would both leap into one another’s arms as they once had? That they would declare their undying love for each other? That they would pick things up where they had left off more than a decade ago?
No. Even she had known that was unlikely. And it had only taken a moment of seeing him before she realized it was impossible.
It was almost a relief to realize she no longer had feelings for him. Wing Commander Jericho, commander of the Golden Wing, was not the same man as Lieutenant Jericho, who had led a ragtag group of sailors in one of Falan’s backwater regiments. And Sky Marshall Selatria was not the same woman as Corporal Sela, who had followed him blindly. She did not love the man her one-time lover had become, and she realized she did not care whether he loved her back.
If nothing else, her conversation with Jericho had given her the closure she had sought for years, since he had hunted down the Sovereign Will and presented her with his impossible choice.
She felt like she had lost two lovers in a week: first Lucius, then Jericho. But at the same time, she did not mind. Was it really a loss if the feelings had left her first?
She leaned her head back against the edge of the tub. So long as establishments like the Feathered Plume existed, there would always be men willing to satisfy her body in exchange for a few coins. For now, perhaps that was all she needed.
*****
Elisal the Tailor came highly recommended. For centuries, if a Falan officer wanted a uniform commissioned and had the money to pay for it, their first destination was Elisal’s shop. And now, with the influx of soldiers from Galandreth, there was an entire new host of officers looking for uniforms. Elisal had not gotten to be a master of the Tailor’s Guide by being stupid - he was not adverse to new customers, so long as they were paying customers.
He picked and poked at Sela’s uniform as she stood before the full-length mirror. It was in the new colors Queen T’ainesa had chosen: a blending of the green of Falan and the red of Galandreth. Sooner or later, all the armies would be wearing the new colors. For now, it was only required of her high officers.
“Will you be at the ceremony?” asked the tailor as he worked.
Sela nodded.
“Of course you will,” Elisal corrected himself. “You’re part of the honor guard, yes?”
Sela nodded again.
“Must be exciting,” Elisal continued. “The change of a new regime. The turning of a new leaf. The dawn at the end of a long eclipse.”
Sela chose not to answer. She wondered what the tailor spoke about when there was a Falan loyalist in his shop.
Elisal cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Will you be wearing your armor over the uniform?”
“Always,” Sela said.
“I believe I saw you wear it in. If you go get it, I can ensure the fit is right with both layers.”
Sela fetched her armor from the changing room and allowed Elisal to put it on her. The tailor murmured in appreciation. “Beautiful work,” he said softly.
Sela felt more comfortable immediately. Her dragonhide had been built especially for her by a master craftsman. The scales shimmered in the shop’s light, red as rubies. Garrett had crafted the dragon’s claws into hooks for her cloak, and its tail wrapped around her back as though it were prepared to uncoil itself at any moment.
More than that, her armor was a constant reminder of her first visit to the Second Tier, of her victory in the arena, of the strength that she and Therrion had possessed, alone. Wearing it, she felt the swell of victory again. It tasted hot and sweet.
“You killed it yourself?” asked the tailor as he pulled at her sleeve-seems where they were pulled by the breastplate.
“I did,” Sela said.
The tailor nodded. “Best dragon is a dead dragon, that’s what they say.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Speaking of which, I’ve seen the little silver ones running around.”
“So have I,” Sela replied. She had met Silverwing and Skywalker after the fighting, trailing behind Aradon like he was their father. He had made the introductions.
Elisal shook his head. “Don’t trust ‘em,” he said softly. “I know they say that silver dragons aren’t evil, that they’ll be great forces of good in the world when they’re big enough.” He took a moment to pull through a dart in Sela’s uniform sleeve. “But I don’t trust them.”
Sela thought back to her initial impressions of the two baby dragons. The girl had seemed serious enough, but the boy… Skywalker reminded her too much of Corna. She shook her head. “Neither do I.”
The tailor straightened, his last alteration mark done. “Well,” he said. “As long as you’re here, I’m sure we’ve got nothing to worry about, dragon-slayer.”
Sela smiled in spite of herself. “As long as I’m here,” she promised, “you have nothing to worry about on that count.”
*****
The Convocation Hall was the largest building in Calawyn, where new recruits were given their wings and promoted into the army, cavalry, and navy. Now the stage had been outfitted with a massive dais, and upon it, a throne erected for Queen T’ainesa. The fealty ceremony was scheduled to go all day, as Falan officers - both those who had joined her in Galandreth and those who had newly defected - bent the knee and swore their loyalty to Falan’s rightful queen.
Her high officers and advisors stood behind her. As one of the commanders of Galandreth’s cavalry, Sela stood among their ranks. Jass, admiral of Galandreth’s flagship, stood a little further off. Lucius stood on the far left, his wings folded against his uniform, providing a paladin’s oversight to the proceedings.
The queen was relaxed as she heard officer after officer swear their loyalty. To look at her, nothing could be more natural. The members of her honor guard were more tense. Any of the hundreds of soldiers who stood before her could be a loyalist for her grandfather or a paid assassin. Those who protected the Queen had to be ever vigilant. They could not afford a slip, not now.
It was, on the other hand, a remarkable vantage point to see every important member of the Queen’s new army up close.
Even amongst the other officers, Jericho stood out. He entered the arena flanked by the five captains who led the talons of the Golden Wing. They walked in perfect synchrony. He, too, had had a new uniform commissioned for the occasion. By the way they glinted, Sela could swear that the insignia bars were actual gold. She would not be surprised if there was gold thread in the embroidery of his unit’s crest. His staff, the symbol of the battle-mage, clicked softly against the ground as he walked, its crystal top gleaming a faint white light.
When he came close enough, he handed his staff to one of his subordinates and knelt before the throne. He did not flinch as the Queen placed her sword at his shoulder, an inch away from his neck. He did not look behind the throne. Why would he?
Even amplified by magic, Jericho’s voice was hoarse. The rough syllables echoed off the amphitheater’s walls and ceiling. Despite that, it was rock-steady. “I, Wing Commander Jericho Corranik, commander of the Golden Wing, pride of Falan’s cavalry, pledge fealty to T’ainesa ni’Esma vaun Falan, Queen of Falan, and to her rightfully appointed heirs. My strength and the strength of those who serve me are yours to direct, until I die or I am released from your service.”
It had not escaped Sela’s notice that Jericho had come to the fighting at the last minute. He was not pledging himself to T’ainesa because he believed in her, but because he believed in being on the winning side. He had seen enough to think that side would be hers.
The Queen’s voice was clear, reaching the far ends of the coliseum. “I, T’ainesa ni’Esma vaun Falan, Queen of these lands, accept your fealty. Serve me well and faithfully, and you shall have my protection and blessing.” For a split-second longer than it needed to, her sword rested on Jericho’s shoulder. The soldiers behind the throne tensed as one, ready for whatever the Queen might decide to do. Jericho held the Queen’s gaze, his expression inscrutable.
But then the sword was lifted, and Jericho rose. “My Queen,” he said in his hoarse voice. He stepped back to allow his captains their turn to each swear their oath.
Sela spared him half a glance as the talon-leaders made their vows. He could have masked his voice with magic. He could have made himself sound as he once did; he was more than powerful enough to cast the illusion spells. He had chosen not to, either as a reminder or a threat.
Sela regarded him. For all that he had accused her of leaving him to the whims of Jass and Artemis, he was the one who had chosen to return to the lands of the living, even knowing the price. He was the one who had faced the endless, desolate path of death and allowed himself to be pulled away from it.
The fifth talon commander finished his oath and stood. The six of them saluted in unison, took three paces back, and turned, ceding their spot to the next officers to swear. Sela watched him go. He would do well in Queen T’ainesa’s new order, as he had done well everywhere else he had ever been.
She owed him nothing.
*****
Sela had taken to holding her briefings at the top of the rookery, overlooking the city. She stood with her three troop commanders and with Aethil, who was once more assigned to her units. The wind picked at her hair and her clothes as the sky lightened. It would be a good day for flying. Praise be to Elaurynt.
“We go west,” Sela informed them. “Queen T’ainesa wants an update on the road to Pelsari. For all we know, the land troops are marching towards us as we speak. If that’s the case, we need to have advance notice.”
“And if we find anyone?” Arilyn had always been thoughtful, always looking for the deeper meaning behind Sela’s orders. She appreciated her subordinate’s questions - they were often ones she had asked herself, but even more often ones she hadn’t.
Sela shrugged. “If we think we have a chance of victory, we fight. We want to avoid scouts returning home if we can.”
“And if we don’t?”
Sela turned her gaze to look out at the winding path. “Then we retreat,” she said. “Even after their defeat over the lake, they still have the advantage of numbers, especially if we need to leave a rear-guard in Calawyn. There’s no point throwing away our lives if-”
She was interrupted by the glinting of golden emblems in the dawn light. One hundred eagles flew in perfect formation, rising out of the rookery and heading east. At their head was a fang dragon.
“They’re amazing, aren’t they?” said Pyluth, a touch of awe in his voice.
Sela nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you ever fight with the Golden Wing, Marshall?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of them.
Sela kept her eyes fixed on the fang dragon at their head. “Once,” she said.
Arilyn piped up. “I heard you were given the chance to fly with them, at the Battle of the Lake.”
“I was.”
“You didn’t take it?”
“No.”
There was a pause. “Why not?”
Sela sighed and turned away from the departing flyers. “Because they’re not my people,” she said. “I don’t know their talons, I don’t know their maneuvers, and I don’t know their commander. There’s more to battle than being able to fly like mind-linked warforged. There’s passion. There’s belief. And if I were given the choice, I would fly with all of you any day.”
There were a few nods, a few checked smiles. Sela shook her head. “Now get out of here,” she said with a grin. “We’re wasting daylight and we have a long way to fly. I expect to be past the city walls in fifteen minutes.”
They gave her snappy salutes, and one by one they mounted up to bring instructions to their units. Sela jumped lightly onto Therrion’s back. “That was a good speech,” he said as he lifted into the air.
“It was good because it was true,” Sela replied.
Therrion snorted. “True? You know their commander.”
Sela shook her head sadly. “Not anymore.”
Therrion breathed out through his nostrils. “You would fly with these Galandreth riders who never saw real combat until five years ago instead of the Golden Wing?”
Sela stared down as the city slipped past beneath her. “Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Sela shook her head. “No.”
Therrion actually craned his neck to look at her. “You used to tell stories about flying with the Golden Wing. You used to dream of it.”
Sela pulled the reins to force Therrion forward again and leaned down into the saddle. A smile crept across her face as the wind tugged at her hair. Behind her, she could feel her people forming up and taking to wing. “I used to dream too small,” she said.