Page 105 of Court of Talons

Suddenly, the words tumble forth as if directly from Nazar’s teaching, and I push them out to Szonja like an offering. Szonja,beautiful Szonja, whose scream in the sun-bright sky now takes on a new and bloodcurdling ferocity. A scream that is echoed on the bloody battlefield not only by Gent, but by howls of all descriptions.

“Body and soul,” I breathe, slowing my heart, standing tall as I look into the heavens with both my form and spirit, hitting from a place of emptiness as I direct Szonja to fly at Rihad’s Divh again and again, accelerating strongly despite her shattered wing. Fortiss’s mind reaches for me too, adding his strength to my fiery intensity.

I press harder, my mind as Szonja’s mind, my eyes her eyes. The cut of no conception and no design is the one strategy that cannot be defended against, not completely, because it combines the best of improvisation and the best of strategy in a hit without hitting, a cut without cutting, a thought without thinking.

I pour my thoughts forth, barely moving, my whole body wrung out, as the battle crashes across the heavens, each cut more vicious than the last. But then, finally, with one last, driving thrust, Szonja closes her vicious maw around the winged scorpion’s neck, and the two of them plummet to the ground, far to the west of the coliseum. Another muffledboom!rocks across the plain.

For one long, sickening moment, there’s nothing but silence.

Fortiss is there, I am there, our link unbroken as I see what he sees—Rihad on his knees, torn and bloody, his mouth working though I cannot hear his words. Is he sending his injured Divh back to his own plane? Is he conceding?

I cannot see at first through Szonja’s eyes—there is only blackness. Blackness…and then sky.

Sky!

My heart seems to swell to several times its normal size, and I’m swamped with an elation so great, so terrible, I nearly pass out from its ferocious joy.

A moment later, her jaws opened wide and stained with the blood of her enemy, Szonja’s screech of rage and glory fills the air.

The air snaps tight around me once more. A sudden, whipping gale blows me back from the coliseum’s walls, and I crouch down against the stone, huddling Caleb close against the ferocious wind.

When the storm passes, I peer out again. My hand shakes Nazar’s eyeglass, throwing everything in motion.

But I can still witness the truth of the battle below; I can still see the truth.

It is finished.

Fortiss stands at the edge of the battlefield, looming over Rihad. The Lord Protector is out cold at his feet, blood at his mouth and staining the front of his robes. Fortiss turns to stare across the wide field. The guards drop to one knee.

Then, around Fortiss, billowing forth like a sea kept too long from high tide, the crowd of Trilion suddenly flows. They stop at the very edge of the carnage, where the dead warriors lie, their own Divhs long gone, and kneel to Fortiss as well. He is the symbol they know, the heir to the ruling House. He is the man they will follow, now that Rihad has fallen. He is their leader—and he can remain their leader, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want the burden of all these people. I only want…

I blink, realizing the truth of it.

I want to be what I am.

A warrior knight. First-blooded and firstborn.

Below me, a huge, resounding cheer goes up.

Then, beyond the tide of humanity and across the wide plain, one Divh steps free from the collection of giants gathered there. He turns and points. Not to Fortiss…but to me. My heart surges again in my chest as I recognize my beautiful silver and greengoliath, feel the touch of his mind on mine, the view of ocean and flowers and an endless, sun-drenched field.

Gent extends his long arm toward me, and I, in turn, high atop the coliseum, reach out to him.

Then thirty other Divhs extend their arms and wings and claws toward me as well—and roar.

Somewhere far across the sky, Szonja adds her scream to their song.

I stand, arm outstretched, totally still as the people of Trilion, spectators and villagers alike, rise up and cheer anew. Then I drop my arm…and the monsters disappear.

I sag.

“Talia.”

The gasp behind me seems to come from far away—so far away—and I turn with a startled cry as Nazar tops the stair, the old priest seeming barely winded as he rushes toward me, staff in hand, his long robes flowing out behind him.

Nazar only speeds up as he sees the boy crumpled at my feet.

“Caleb,” he moans, and in these two words, I’ve heard more emotion from the priest than in all the time I’ve known him.