Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone

Things that happened, when all was done:

The enclavers sat in their fields, watching the town burn, the ground around them damp with settling dew even as the wind brought bursts of heat over their faces. Their homes—unwanted, but still theirs—were all up in flames, along with everything not carried on their backs when they’d left. People included. There was a sort of shock, and a sort of wonder; a sort of grief, as they sat watch over the pyre of their old lives’ ashes.

The griffins stayed near enough to fret, but were respectful enough not to intrude. There was a distance between them and their humans now that the battle had ended. Because while a few enclavers—the battlesmith and her son most prominently—had found their way to doppeling sometime in the past, it was clear that the rest had not. That they’d grown up with hushed tales of their other halves, but had never been so near to them. To all they should have been, from the start. They’d probably thought themselves griffins, like their grandparents. But here stood real griffins, and it was easy to feel an imposter, in the face of that. There was less hesitance from the children: as the night wore on and the fires burned lower, offered wings became a welcome place to curl up between fur and feathers and sleep in warmth. There was wonder for them, in these relatives of theirs that they’d never met. But shyness in the youngest was awkwardness in the older, was hesitance and fear in the adults. Aaron hoped it wasn’t too late for them to doppel, for those that wanted it; to gain their Wings. He knew that the rats, at least, only doppeled children with children. It gave both halves time to grow into their own people, instead of having the human memories live too strongly in both. The Twinned God was a god of reflections, not copies.

One of the griffins preened ash from the hair of a man, like it couldn’t quite help itself; the man, understandably, jerked back from the shadow of the huge thing and the feel of a creature’s mouth on his hair. The two looked at each other for a frozen moment. Then the man let out a breath that might have been a laugh. And he stretched out a hand, to brush a bit of ash off the griffin’s feathers. So. That was a start.

The reindeer herd crept from the forest to gather next to their Lord in the deepening night; the face of John’s twin held a simple wonder, as a calf wandered close enough in its grazing for touching. He didn’t, and it didn’t let him—it ran back to its mother soon as it noticed him. But the both of them stared at each other for a coltish moment across a forest that had been a road.

These weren’t wild reindeer. They were feral: the grandchildren of the enclaver’s herds. Like the enclavers and their griffins, they’d been too long apart to fit back together easy. But there was a part of them that had been born for this.

Aaron dug up a last wrinkled apple from his pocket pantry and tossed it to the boy. John’s twin had only scowls for him in return. But there was that wonder again, when he lured the calf close enough for it to steal the treat from his palm.

The fires spread to the town walls, ember by ember. The tree that had grown through the town’s gates was blistering on the one side, its white leaves half-blackened already.

A large old griffin, her wings an unbroken white, stood looking at the fort with all those southerners trapped neatly inside. Her tail swayed behind her. Her golden eyes didn’t blink.

“I’d rather you not think what you’re thinking,” Aaron trilled lightly. “And I’ve your battlesmith’s word you won’t.”

“She doesn’t speak for me,” the old matriarch rumbled.

“Then what worth are you?” Aaron asked. And if he happened to be standing between her and the fort as he did so, well, that was between him and the many deep breaths he’d take leaning against a tree later, after she’d done with staring down at him. Very far down at him. She was, as Aaron had previously noted, very large.

She blinked once, slowly. “You’ll have your talks, little kitten.”

Then she turned away, and he went to find that tree.

The word for kitten she’d used hadn’t been the one for her own kind’s children. It had been for those of other species; those still on the menu.

The dragons stayed in the skies for a few confused hours more. But as there was now an oak tree growing through the fort’s roof, it was entirely unclear to them whether hurling fireballs inside—nevermind trying to force one of their own scaly bodies through the recently wooded halls—would be wise. Finally, as the sky lightened to overcast day, they faded back into the clouds.

The dragon doppels waited below. Vigilant, but not stupid. They weren’t in range of the fort’s ballistae, nor the forest’s branches; they stayed well down the road, and deferentially bowed away from any griffins that flared wings their way. They slept in shifts, their bodies twined together like wintering snakes, a few heads always up and watching.

Only the one of them seemed to know how to turn back, or was willing to. To turn to something smaller, something so much more easily killed, with all these potential enemies about—that was a skill that needed learning, for doppels.

“The selkies woke us,” she said, keeping well back from Aaron. “Said the fort was going to fall, and everyone they told owed them fish if it didn’t. Cooked fish. So I guess we do.”

She’d a tired sort of amusement to her, even as her eyes kept up a steady darting between him and the fort and the griffins who’d taken to patrolling overhead, now that the true dragons were gone. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and he kept his eyes up on her face. She wasn’t practiced enough to keep her clothes with her when she changed, yet. That much embarrassment over it as good as proved she’d started life as human; he’d never yet met an animal half that cared half so much about clothes.

They’d a new addition to their numbers: the red dragon from the night before hadn’t been so much an attacker at the gate, as some poor wall guard who’d gotten themselves doppeled in the initial attack. And also, apparently, promptly fallen off the wall. And woken up to griffins diving on it, and people shooting at it, and a few horse hooves to the face. Suffice it to say, it hadn’t the time yet to adjust to its new life. While the others curled together, it paced along the forest’s border, wings and tail dragging from tired muscles not yet mastered. It kept looking towards the fort, as if that was a life it could go back to if it just wanted it hard enough.

When Aaron had first stepped from the trees, one of the more experienced doppels had to brace their body against its stumbling so Aaron’s own squishy self wasn’t flattened. They’d stood there a moment, the three of them, with the new dragon doing its best to lower its head down to look at him without actually hitting him with its skull. Then Aaron had stretched out his hand and patted it between its golden eyes. What worked for giant reindeer probably wouldn’t go amiss with militia members who’d found themselves gigantified, either. It closed its eyes. A too-warm breath wafted over his face. And then it had overbalanced forward, at which point the other dragon used its neck to haul the new one back, and the moment was rather over. That was the point the woman had come forward, to change and to speak and to keep a fair distance back, in case he was just as murderous as every other human she’d likely met this spring.

“Thank you,” Aaron said, when their talk was complete. And, more generally, to the rest of the flight as they raised their heads towards him: “Don’t let yourselves be killed. You might find friends in the caves if you come to One King. But be polite to the rats; they’ve a history with dragons. And… don’t feel like you have to keep helping. You’re people, same as you’ve always been, and you don’t need to prove it by dying for those that want you dead.”

He could tell them that he meant to keep working on His Majesty; that maybe one day, dragons would be tolerated in the militia’s ranks. But it wasn’t an issue for Orin alone to decide. And it certainly wasn’t one he’d be making a stand on today. Promises were just lies dressed up in tomorrow’s clothes, and she’d enough trouble with being caught out naked.

“I would suggest you get out of sight, for now,” Aaron said.

They did, though they had to literally push their newest off the cliff to do so; it kept flailing about on the road, keening towards the castle, like there was anything left for it here. How many doppels had died to their own militias, trying to go back home? The others finally just gave it a shove and let it drop. There was enough height to the cliff that it figured out its wings before it hit water. Enough to glide, at least.

The griffins let them leave, with only a little harrying.

The battlesmith’s twin stared down at Aaron. The battlesmith herself was looking at the rest of the militia; those that were still in the fields, because even though the fires were nearly low enough now for them to go back, it hadn’t been the fires keeping them away.

“We could take you in, if it comes to it,” the battlesmith’s twin said. “We don’t forget those who help us. But you won’t like it. The mountains are for griffins, and there’s none who would be a southerner’s Wings.”

There was a last resort, then.

The men Lochlann had left on the front doors had long been relieved. Hopefully not to cells. The new guards let him in, at least, even if he could have done without an escort.

“You lost me the enclaves,” Orin said, not even waiting until they were alone.

“And stopped the fight,” Aaron replied.

“We were holding; they would have retreated.”

By all accounts, His Majesty had been leading well. Their defense had come together after the dragon’s initial strike; only one more ballistae room had been lost. But the dragons had a good commander, too, and it wasn’t as if they’d have kept their strategy the same for long.

“They’d at least a day to keep trying, far as they knew,” Aaron said. “Why would they retreat? Even when reinforcements came, they could have tried fire-bombing the road. Unless you were planning something stupid.”

Last fall, Prince Orin had stood on a wall while the four-tails attacked his city, and tried to end things in one death. His own. Given that the dragons had likely been here for him, well. Stupid might have worked, but it still would have been stupid.

King Orin had no reply to that.

“The enclavers were never yours,” Aaron said. “But they could be our allies. Especially as they’re under the impression that I’ve acted on your orders.”

Orin glared at him, like a man who’d have liked to be under the same delusion.

“And what of your… your insurrection outside?” His Majesty asked.

“It’s not an insurrection if you’ll grant them all pardons,” Aaron said.

“And your pardon?”

“Technically,” Aaron said, patting a pocket, “I’ve already got mine.”

Orin stared at him, for a long moment, and longer still.

Aaron tried a winning smile.

“Fine,” the king said. “But don’t think you’ll get away with this again.”

Aaron ignored the man’s tone, and went to tell the militia the good news.

The Lord Protector was locked in his own cells, once Aaron brought back the keys, along with the man those keys had belonged to, and a few other local leaders besides. The first guard to join Lochlann’s non-insurrection was appointed Captain of the Guard in the Helland. A very temporary posting, as there’d soon be no Held Lands to guard.

That evening, humanity poisoned its king again. Because Orin had thrown up his final dose last night; because people had a way of starting a course and staying with it to the end, no matter what how fool the route.

At least His Majesty seemed to find it just as ridiculous as Aaron, this time. If he’d only had that attitude from the first dose, this all could have gone quite differently. Possibly worse, definitely with more death among the fort’s nobles, but differently.

“Is this really necessary?” Orin asked the Lady.

“It is if you want to fully clear your name,” she answered, which was not a yes.

“Fine,” His Majesty said again. They’d have to work on that.

As the Lady left for ingredients and witnesses, Aaron rummaged in his pockets. He brought out a thing he’d been holding on to, in case His Majesty decided he’d like to live more than he’d like to know the truth of himself.

Orin looked down at the little thing like it was a test, or a trap.

“It’s a bezoar,” Aaron explained. “It’ll negate the poison.”

“I know what it is. Why?” Orin asked. And then, realizing just how unlikely it was that Aaron had found such a thing here, “Why now?”

“Would you have taken it, before?”

His Majesty did not reply.

“You won’t prove anything by dying for those that want you dead,” Aaron said, in echo of his words to the dragon doppels. Which Orin might yet be, though the chances were getting slimmer.

His Majesty stared at it a moment more. Then he raised his gaze to meet Aaron’s, leaving the bezoar where it was. “We’ve grown close, haven’t we? I’ll count on your support.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” No matter which way it turned out.

Orin O’Shea drank his final dose—again—in view of his full court, in a moment between one meeting and the next. They had to bring him a chair, after. But they’d an evacuation to plan, and defenses to keep up, and he’d no time to rest.

Aaron, though. Aaron did have time. He sat down himself down in the war room’s corner. Rose and Lochlann joined him, one on either side, their shoulders touching. It had been a long night, and a longer day.

When he woke up, Rose was asleep on his shoulder. Lochlann was still awake, watching his king work from across the room.

Orin was still alive the next morning, and no more a dragon than he’d been the night before.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” the Lady said. “It seems you’re innocent.”

Which rather complicated Aaron’s plans. And the Lady’s own, he suspected. A doppel king would have been more motivated to change things.

Significantly more likely to be murdered, though.

“I can take those letters now,” Aaron said. He’d not remembered to pick them up last night.

“What letters?” And apparently His Majesty hadn’t had time to write them.

“Connor’s? The ninth, and the tenth.”

“We’ll reach him before any letters do. I’ll… I’ll see him for real, soon.” And wasn’t that the truth. “And Aaron? Get off my bed.”

Aaron graciously did, just this once.

* * *

By the end of first day, the white leaves of the new trees were sun-scorched and withered, already falling.