On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [1]
“It is not your fault, my child,” the queen had soothed, fighting back her own rage and despair. “You went for help as soon as you knew. The blame for…for what will come must lie with the man who murdered the Dancer.”
And who had, in that one greedy, violent act, destroyed their only hope to avert oblivion.
Not long after that, the king had ridden off to fight the Shadow, their son, still young, still unbloodied by war, at his side. The queen had kissed the hollow-eyed man who had once been passionate and proud; kissed her round-cheeked son, who was naive enough to think this a real battle, not a suicide.
And as they rode off, the queen thought with a spark of contempt: Cowards!
They did not have to sit and mind a castle full of terrified merchants, farmers, and beggars. They did not have to watch the death of everything creep closer by the hour. They ran to meet their doom, thus cheating it of the terror it doubtless craved.
The queen’s eyes narrowed and she stuck out her sharp chin defiantly.
She was the last queen of the world. It was up to her now, how they would all die. She reached out to the Lorekeeper, slipping her arm around his shoulders. By the hitching and shuddering of those shoulders, she knew he wept.
“You alone will remember,” she said softly.
The Shadow pulsed, coming nearer. It stretched upward, seething. Soon even the sky would be gone.
“I—I don’t want to,” the little Lorekeeper whispered. He dragged an oft-mended sleeve across his wet face.
“But you must,” she continued, her voice still quiet, still calm. “You are a Lorekeeper. You remember all that has gone before—all the other times when the Dancers have come and lost, or won. You would have been drawn to that Dancer had he lived, even as you were drawn to him in his death. You would have been able to help and guide him to the others, but…This time, the Dancers have failed. Yet there were times when they succeeded, and their success has bought us a final chance.”
The wind picked up. For an instant, forgetting herself, the queen reached up to smooth her tousled hair. The knots will take Ahli hours to untangle, came the simple, everyday thought. But Ahli tended the princess now, caring faithfully for the mad girl whose mind would not let her see the Shadow. The queen would not look upon her daughter again. That last time had been enough. She could not bear to watch the gentle, once-intelligent girl sit and babble, rubbing her swollen stomach and chirping happily of the son-to-be. The son who would, now, never be born.
Such simple problems as tangled hair were things of the past. The queen let the wind have its way with her once-raven locks.
“Your Majesty.”
Her seneschal. The queen turned. “Yes?”
He stood in the doorway, clasping and unclasping his hands as he searched for the words. As it turned out, they were simple enough, if brutal. “The well…it’s gone dry.”
The queen closed her eyes, forcing her face to be tranquil. “Then let us open the wine cellars. I would not see my people without something to wet their throats.” And perhaps the drunkenness would take away the sting. Not long, not long now.
“And light all the torches,” she added. “Build fires.” She turned again, her gaze drawn to the encroaching Shadow. “Let us keep the light as long as we may.”
The man bowed, retreated. They were alone again on the parapet, beggar and queen, staring out as if mesmerized at their approaching destruction.
“Twice failed,” whispered the Lorekeeper in a voice that cracked with fear and an ancient grief. “Twice succeeded. Only one more chance.”
“The fifth time the Dancers come,” agreed the queen, “will be our final chance. Eternal salvation…or nothing at all, ever again. It may well fall to you,” she said with a quiet urgency. “Do not forget.”
“I won’t,” the boy promised. “I won’t.”
She folded him close, held him, as