By the time he reached Orthos, he and Little Blue were both tired and laughing.
Orthos, however, was a somber presence in Lindon’s soul. The broad, black turtle stood out as a smoldering red presence against the dark of the Night Wheel Valley. He stood on a hill with the Blackflame Empire camp spread out behind him, looking up into the clouds.
He stared at the swirling purple center of the Night Wheel, and Lindon couldn’t tell if he was watching something or simply lost in thought.
Little Blue cooed out her concern, and Lindon scooped her up to carry her closer to Orthos.
“Apologies if we’re disturbing you,” Lindon said, drawing alongside the turtle.
Black-and-red eyes studied the clouds. “Only a few short years, and you have reached further than many sacred artists ever dream. The heavens have blessed you, Lindon.”
Lindon stood next to Orthos, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the glass marble with the blue candle-flame burning steadily at the center.
“I am grateful,” he said. He owed Suriel his life…and a much better life than he would have had otherwise. “Not just to the heavens and their messenger. Without Eithan, or Yerin, or Dross, or you, I would be…”
Dead in Sacred Valley. Dead in the Desolate Wilds. Dead in Serpent’s Grave. Dead in Ghostwater.
“…buried somewhere, most likely,” he finished.
Orthos gave a deep rumble, and Lindon couldn’t tell if it was agreement or correction. “And now, you move on. If at least one of you doesn’t end up selected for this tournament, I’ll give up my shell.”
“We’re not Underlords yet,” Lindon protested, though privately he felt the same way. Underlord felt closer now than it ever had, and which young Truegolds in the Blackflame Empire had the advantages that he and Yerin did?
“You will be,” Orthos said. “Don’t pretend you don’t know it. Even if you wouldn’t fight and claw for Underlord, by now Eithan would drag you there whether you liked it or not. Once you’ve started to ride the tiger, it’s harder to stop.”
Lindon didn’t like Orthos’ tone or the melancholy feel of his spirit. “Why are we talking about me? You’re right there with us.”
Dross suddenly slipped out of Lindon’s soul, hovering on his shoulder. But contrary to Lindon’s expectation, he didn’t say anything. He only watched Orthos with his one wide eye.
Little Blue chirped, so Lindon held her close enough that she could pat the wall of black, leathery skin next to her.
Orthos blew a long cloud of smoke into the air, watching it drift up. “Sacred beasts advance differently than humans,” he said.
Lindon’s discomfort advanced to full-blown alarm. “Why don’t we head back to camp? I’m not sure what happened to Mercy, and Yerin is probably finishing up cycling by now.”
“Humans have to discover what drives their souls to action,” Orthos continued. “It’s the spark that starts their transformation. Sacred beasts do not have to discover who we are. We have to choose.”
“Can you choose to become a dragon? That would make it easy.”
Lindon had intended to lighten the mood, but he failed.
“Mmmm. Or a turtle. Or even a man. Traditionally, this involves a journey alongside others making the same choice. But I am the only one.” He turned to Lindon. “Until only days ago, I convinced myself I could make the journey alongside you. But you move so quickly, and I am, after all…a turtle.”
He gave a smile, but Lindon couldn’t return it.
“There’s time until the tournament,” Lindon said desperately. “Months until anyone is chosen. It might not be me! And the tournament isn’t for a year anyway.”
[Good-bye, Orthos,] Dross said.
In Lindon’s palm, Little Blue sobbed with a sound like pattering rain. She leaped from his hand, landing sprawled on Orthos’ head, crying.
“I won’t be gone forever,” Orthos said. “A few years. But by that time, I expect you’ll have left me far behind.”
When Lindon spoke again, his voice was thick. “Where will you go?”
“There are many places that could use a dragon.”
Lindon swept at his eyes, drawing pure madra, trying to keep his emotions under control. Orthos extended his head, resting his forehead against Lindon’s.
“A dragon is not ashamed of tears,” Orthos said.
And Lindon lost control. He threw his arms around Orthos’ neck and wept with Little Blue, as Dross drifted silently overhead.
After a while, a familiar feeling in his spirit drew his attention to the side. Yerin stood there, looking horrified, six Goldsign arms gleaming in the dim light. She was out of breath, her tattered robes in disarray, and dead leaves in her hair.
“Bleed me, but it looks like you’re trying to sneak off without me,” she said, and her voice quivered.
Orthos shook his head. “I would not dare.”
Lindon released the turtle’s neck only for Yerin to replace him an instant later. She didn’t cry, she just shook, and he murmured something to her that Lindon couldn’t hear.
Only a minute later, Orthos drew back, and Yerin stepped away, rubbing her own eyes.
“A dragon does not wait around,” he said, red eyes passing over them all. “Protect yourselves. I expect you to stay alive until I see you again.”
“What about Eithan?” Lindon asked. “Where is he?”
Orthos snorted. “I’d bet he knew I was leaving before I did. Of all of you, I worry about him the least.” He raised one leg, gently sliding Little Blue off his head and to the ground.
“Farewell, little ones,” he said, and then he turned, walking slowly into the shadows. Lindon watched until the red light faded into darkness. Then he held Blackflame as he felt Orthos’ spirit passing into the distance.
Eventually, Orthos passed through the portal back to the Empire, and was gone.
Chapter 8
Seishen Kiro’s father, King Dakata, had erected a castle in the Night Wheel Valley. Made of raw stone called up from the earth by Ruler techniques, the castle stood in front of their portal, projecting the majesty of the Seishen Kingdom. Or such was the intention. Next to the awe-inspiring mountain-sized fortress of the Akura clan, it looked like a child’s toy.
In the heart of that castle, Kiro faced his proud father in horror.
“My King, we cannot attack.”
His father laughed uproariously, slapping the crude map of the Night Wheel Valley he’d spread across his table. “Why not? We have the chance to drive the Empire out entirely. All the sacred grounds of the Valley would be ours.”
Kiro looked over the markers the King had placed on the map. It was a simple plan: a sudden attack, ramming through the Blackflame defenses and shoving them back through the portal. It would work, so long as the Blackflames didn’t defend the territory with their lives. If they started retreating to protect the more vulnerable civilians at the heart of their formation, they would have to continue the retreat.
“Of course it will work,” Kiro said. “They don’t expect us to attack. But they don’t expect it for a good reason. Even if we avoid wholesale slaughter, this attack will not be bloodless. What if the Sage decides we have pushed too far?”
Daji, Kiro’s little brother, lunged hungrily at the map. He had a wolf’s smile on his face. “Don’t be a coward! The Sage needs to see our overwhelming strength.”
King Dakata waved a hand at his second son. “Quiet. This is a matter for Lords.”
Daji’s face fell. “I have no—”
“Quiet!” The King shouted, and Daji wilted back. “Your brother managed to advance where the aura wasn’t a tenth as strong as it is here. Can you not handle even this much?”