The Guardian wandered by the desk, its proportions designed to intimidate any who sat opposite the governor. She ran her fingers over a piece of parchment and examined the seal of Governor Harlan. Inara considered what she knew of the man. It had been some years since they had met at some royal function or other. She recalled his honest nature as a good sign where his loyalty to Vighon was concerned. And, judging by the way his men had sneaked her into his study, Inara assumed his loyalty was still standing.
A few minutes later, the door opened again and a shadowed figure entered the study. Instinct drove Inara to grip Firefly before she successfully identified the figure as Governor Harlan. He was smaller than her, older too, but the man appeared almost haggard. Most with his title, and the wealth that came with it, were somewhat plumper.
“Guardian,” he said with a bow of the head. His almost pleading tone concerned Inara.
“Are you well, Governor Harlan?”
He swallowed and licked his lips, his eyes searching the shadows around them. “The transition of power has been taxing to say the least. The king’s… knights have no mercy in their hearts. And the king himself… Well, let’s just say he is not my king. Unfortunately, I get the sense he knows this. He gave Lirian and all of Felgarn to Lord Starg, a loyal supporter of any who can grant him power. Sadly, he now wields that power over me.”
Inara felt for the man, one of many throughout Illian who were powerless to challenge her brother. “I speak for King Vighon when I say your loyalty to him and your people is admirable and appreciated.”
Governor Harlan tried to smile but it faltered and became no more than a twitch. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the chairs, “you are a guest in my home, however secret your presence might be. Can I have you some food and drink prepared?”
Inara declined the food and drink as well as the chair. “I am here on urgent business, Governor. I am sorry to add to the weight you are already under, but The Rebellion is in need.”
Governor Harlan took a deep breath and glanced at one of the three large windows set into the south wall. “Does this have anything to do with what’s going on in The Moonlit Plains? I am aware of vast forces amassing down there.”
Inara nodded, trying not to recall too much of recent events. “There was a battle. Alijah has ordered his army to retreat but The Rebellion has been left in dire need of supplies. We cannot hope to renew the fight if we cannot leave the plains.”
The governor cupped his jaw and turned his back on her, but she could still feel the waves of fear coming off him. “I cannot move anything from this town without word getting back to Lord Starg. His wrath aside, I cannot say how the king’s knights would react.”
“I know there is peril in my request,” Inara continued, “but good people are dying on those plains. Strong warriors are wasting away. We need to get them moving again and start preparing for the next fight.”
The Governor’s head hung low onto his chest, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. “I… I cannot help you, Guardian. It would bring ruin upon my people and it would most certainly be a death sentence for me.”
A loud and violent clatter erupted on the other side of the study door. One of the guards called out in warning before steel clashed in the narrow hall. The guard never spoke again before his body hit the floor. A moment later, the door was opened from the outside and a Reaver stepped inside, followed by five more.
“I wouldn’t worry, Governor,” the lead Reaver announced, its voice broken and distorted, “your death sentence has already been passed.” The Reaver’s head turned to regard Inara. “Hello, Sister.” It was in those two words that she finally heard some semblance of Alijah’s voice.
Athis! Inara called out across their bond. There came no reply from the dragon, however, only silence. Athis? The Guardian quickly concealed her dismay and held out her arm to guide the governor. “Get behind me.”
Of all the Reavers, the fiend with Alijah’s voice was the only who held itself like a person. The rest stood as sentinels, perfectly motionless like puppets awaiting their master’s controlling hand. With its sword pointed to the floor, and both hands resting on the pommel, the Reaver tilted its head as Alijah would, were he really present.
“You should know by now that standing behind you or with you is to dance with Death.” The Reaver held out its hands. “And as you can see, Death and I are partners now.”
Inara eyed the creature with disgust. “You’ve been so corrupted by dark magic that you can’t even see your true reflection anymore. You are a necromancer, Alijah! There is nothing more abhorrent in this world than that which you have become.”
“Such hate, Sister. You wear it like armour now.”
“I don’t hate you,” Inara retorted, getting her tone under control. “How could I when I feel nothing for you. You’re just another twisted fool who thinks that breaking the world is the same as saving it.”
“Saving the world?” Alijah replied, turning the Reaver’s visor to the window. “Is that what the Drake and the Keeper are doing in the forest?” Inara couldn’t keep the surprise from her face. “Yes,” Alijah continued smugly, “I know what they’re doing. Even now I can hear them, waiting, hoping for more Drakes to arrive. It won’t work. My victory was seen thousands of years before either of us were born.”
Inara’s surprise was swept away by her resolve. “We will save the tree.”
The Reaver let loose a short sharp laugh from within its helmet. “I commend you for trying. Keep the hope alive. I have heard rebels muttering those words right up
