Chapter 56
IN THE END, HE gave up the effort and decided to let his heart choose his words.
“I am not a speech giver,” he said as he stood before the crowd amassed in the gathering room. “I am a fighter.”
He had to pause for the raucous round of cheers to ebb before going on.
“But you have the right to know this. It is not over. We have not won. We have lost compatriots. Some of you have been hurt. But we have also hurt them. And they will wish to hurt us in return. Before long they will begin taking it out on those who do not fight, because they cannot get to us.”
He heard the murmur go through the crowd, the unease.
“We will protect them as best we can, but if you cannot face this, if it is too much to ask, leave now. No one will hold it against you, for you have all already given more than should be asked of anyone. If you wish to escape Zelos, we will help you and those you love as best we can, to get over Highridge to the badlands. It will not be easy, nor a swift journey on foot, but you will be safer there.”
For now.
No one moved.
“How will we protect them that stay?”
He looked out at them, and let a grin loose. “It will take the . . . least notorious among us.”
Laughter.
“There will be a dozen of us in and around Zelos at all times. And we have communications now.”
“Thanks to the brilliant Eirlys Davorin’s brilliant birds,” Brander put in from where he stood a few feet away. “Far beneath Coalition notice.”
Drake saw his sister smile, looking quite pleased.
“And you all know who is with us now,” he added, gesturing to where his mother stood off to one side. The slight figure in the white robes with the flaming hair spilling down her back stood out even in the flickering light of the flame-lit room. “And if the presence of the Spirit is not enough to inspire you to fight on—”
“And the return from death of the Raider!” someone shouted.
“Drake Davorin, you mean!” called out Pryl, who had been one of those who, he’d learned, had guessed some time ago.
A cheer rose from the assemblage. Drake felt Kye’s gaze on him, glanced at her, and saw her smile. He had to admit this was balm to his soul, a soul battered by the disgust and antipathy of his own people when he had been but the lowly, beaten, cowardly taproom keeper. Many, in fact most, had apologized to him, said they should have known Drake Davorin would never buckle to the Coalition. Brander had turned that into praise for how well he had played the unwanted role.
Some had approached him with wary looks, as if they weren’t quite sure what to think of his miraculous recovery; others were simply grateful he’d survived.
As am I, he’d thought, relinquishing once and for all the wishes he’d once had for it all to end, even if the only way was death.
When the cheering at length died down, he began again. “There is something you must know,” he said. “For it makes all the difference.”
He nodded at Brander, who reached out and twice tapped something on the imager he’d managed to rig together. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the image of the Coalition general leapt to light in the air above the machine. A gasp at the sight of a Coalition officer larger than life swept the room. Drake had expected this, and as requested, Brander had set it so that the message would freeze at first.
“Please,” Drake said. “I want you all to see this, hear this.”
The room went quiet. Brander tapped the same button, only once this time. And the holographic recording began to play.
Not one person in the jammed room made a sound as they watched the man in the Coalition uniform speak. Now, in this larger version, Drake could see the man’s expression more clearly. He was worried, and it was obvious.
“Major Paledan,” he began, and everyone in the room leaned in. “This message . . . confidential and of highest urgency . . . a warning . . . could be headed your way soon . . . circulating among the rebels in this quadrant . . . Claxton’s Treatise—” a gasp went up around the room at the familiar name “—adapted for small forces … already been found . . among Clarion rebels, and . . . Zenox . . . it is spreading . . . rebel groups . . . suspects the traitor Claxton . . . masterminded . . . used Dax’s skypirate contacts . . . Triotian—” another gasp, even louder this time, at the mention of the infamous Dax and the world they’d half-believed was a myth, Drake most of all “—communications and ships . . . command of the king . . . and prince . . . disseminating it. Legion Command has ordered . . . copies destroyed. Possession is grounds . . . immediate . . . execution. The file . . . this chip . . . facsimile of the primitive version . . . paper. Keep . . . eyes open, Major. Don’t need . . . tell you . . . chaos their knowing . . . tactics could cause . . . after losing . . . Triotian sector. Rebellion is spreading . . .”
At the end, the image again snapped out of existence, but the last words seemed to echo in the cavernous room.
“Rebellion is spreading . . .”
“And so this is what you must know,” Drake said, putting every bit of power he had into his voice. “Trios, her king and his son, the skypirate, Claxton—it’s all real. They beat them. And it’s spreading. There are rebels on Clarion, on Zenox.”
He scanned the room, looked out over all the Sentinels who had fought so hard even when the odds had been so stacked against them, even when there was no hope of success, when they knew they were already beaten. And he spoke the words that would change everything.
“We are not alone.”
There was no explosion of cheers. No round of applause. Not even a whistle of approval. What he saw, looking out over the fighters of Ziem was a sense of awe at what they had just seen.
And more importantly, hope.
And for once, he did not quash it with the reminder that they were to think of themselves as already dead. For he looked at Kye, and accepted what he had finally realized. That a willingness to die for freedom was only the beginning.
It was much better to have something to live for.
The End
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