Chapter 5
The Dust Devil
The following day, several groups of Guard and Soldiers travel around the Sea, informing as many Ragdonians as they can find that they are needed by the Erebus Tree for a demonstration ordered by the King, who has requested their presence.
“Requested?” Camden snorts. “Like hell he requested anything. I bet they were just translating his words into the least offensive language they could think of so people would actually show up.”
Jabez grumbles without opening his eyes. Astra rolls to her stomach from where she’d been sleeping against his side but had been resting for the last while.
“What’s wrong?” she asks
Jabez stiffens. “I-I…”
“Is it your neck? It looks like it hurts. Brook told me a snake bit you. That’s scary.”
Jabez bites his lip, and I remain quiet, watching the interaction.
“It was scary. My neck does hurt. A lot hurts. It’s just a tough morning today. I’ll be ok, Astra. I’ll stretch and get something to eat and that will help.”
xxxx
When we make it to the Erebus Tree, there’s already a solid collection of people there. Astra bounds ahead, then retreats back to trot alongside Jabez, prancing in place to keep pace with his slow plodding. Icarus walks alongside Seneca, whistling and chattering, responding to what she says. I only get half of the conversation but they seem to mostly be discussing why a King would use a demonstration to showcase something when he could share it himself.
“He doesn’t leave the Amethyst Throne,” Katelin says, butting into the conversation.
“He doesn’t?” Seneca echoes.
Katelin shakes her head. “I’ve worked as his secretary for years and I have never seen him leave the Amethyst Throne.”
“He cannot leave the Amethyst Throne,” Jabez says, voice thick and rough.
Seneca hums. “Our King could leave the Carnelian Throne, but he had to sleep on it. He couldn’t stay away for too long. He’d leave, but he’d always return.”
“A fool,” Jabez murmurs, exhaling a long, sighing breath. “Always a fool.”
Icarus chirps repeatedly, pitch fluctuating. He turns sideways, hopping more than walking.
“He agrees,” Seneca translates. Her tightly curled hair sways as she keeps pace with Icarus. “He didn’t know that the King had a secretary. The King on the Carnelian Throne didn’t have a secretary.”
I snort, and Katelin echoes the sound. She shakes her head.
“He doesn’t, really. My job is mostly just keeping busy and looking like I’m doing something important so I can avoid him. He usually just wants someone to complain to and order around. I spend the majority of my time pretending that I’m doing something.”
Seneca chuckles.
“You should quit,” Astra pipes up.
Katelin shrugs. “That’s a good idea.”
“I have good ideas.”
“You do,” I say.
She’d be a far better ruler than the King would be, King, Queen, Monarch, whatever she wants to be called.
We find a spot off to one side, a little ways from the stage but close enough that we can see. Icarus sits down, and Seneca leans against him. I scan the are surrounding the Erebus Tree and see groupings of Guard and Soldiers.
Many from the Sea file in, filling up the space.
Astra jumps up onto my back as Camden settles into place beside Jabez with Katelin at his shoulder. Her weight against my withers is comforting, yet makes my nerves tingle with anxiety. I don’t know if she should be here, but I don’t know where else she should be.
I see the young pangaré bay colt held on a short lead on the other side of the crowd. He dances on his hooves, trying to rear and jerking his head up.
I don’t see who’s holding the other end of the lead rope or what they do, but the colt eventually settles down, mane swishing against his neck.
As Spyro approaches the wooden stage, I can’t help the prickling feeling that this was a bad idea. My limbs itch with the desire to run, to tell Astra to bolt and I will find her.
What do I do to keep Astra safe? Follow the King’s orders to the letter and I keep putting her in danger by putting her in his path, but disobey and I have a target on my back and by proximity hers, too.
What do I do?
xxxx
“Dust Devil, come to the stage,” Spyro says, once they and a lead Guard stand at the center of the stage in clear view of everyone present.
They float somewhere around the height of the ribcage of the lead Guard, scanning the crowd despite the two blue-grey bandanas in a color I know matches the Amethyst Throne and the suit the King wears wrapped around their head; one is vertically around their jaw and the top of their head, while the other covers the top of their muzzle and binds around the back of their head. Their nose twitches, and they stand a little taller as their mottled body fades in and out of existence. Spyro shifts in place, taking a step back and turning to the side as someone approaches the small flight of stairs up to the wooden platform in front of the crowd. They watch silently, tail waving behind them.
I watch, ears pricked, as a figure in a black cloak crosses the stage. Hood pulled far over their head, I can only catch the quickest glimpse of their nose before they look further down, shoulders hunched. Their hands tremble, shaky and pale.
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“Come, Dust Devil,” Sypro repeats, voice ringing clear.
A ways off behind me the Erebus Tree sprouts from the ground, and I find myself wondering yet again where Grey and Alex are. I wonder where they each may be on Ragdon, if they might’ve found each other, if they’re both ok, how many times the King has gone after them and if they’ve made it out ok.
The Dust Devil, as Spyro refers to them, keeps their head down and doesn’t look up.
“Prepare for the Dust Devil’s magic. He has received the gift of the Amethyst Throne.”
I snort, flinching as everything in me tells me to bolt, to run, to be anywhere but here.
He can’t have done it again. The King can’t have given another gift.
“So,” Seneca says, leaning in to Katelin’s side, “do your King’s demonstrations usually feature unwilling participants?”
Icarus whistles something.
“Icarus is wondering why he’s got magic, too. I mean, if that guy just said that the Dust Devil has received the King’s gift, I’m assuming that he’s referring to the Amethyst Throne giving the Dust Devil some type of magic?”
“Yes,” I manage to whisper, fighting to hold back the memories of when the Amethyst Throne gave me my own gift. I struggle to hold back the memories of the pain, the confusion, the feeling of betrayal as I lay on the ground struggling to breathe. “I do believe the Dust Devil will have magic if he received a gift like I did from the Amethyst Throne.”
I’m sorry, I think. I’m so sorry.
If the Dust Devil received a gift like I did, then another person who very well may remain forever nameless died, murdered at the orders of the King by a Soldier or Guard who has fallen for the King’s lies.
The lead Guard standing beside Spyro on the wooden stage looks past the Dust Devil and waves at a Guard. With a beckoning hand, the lead Guard curves his fingers to call upon the Guard.
Is he another one of the King’s projects? I wonder as I see the ground tremble around the Dust Devil’s feet, soil rattling at his feet. Spyro drops through the air and crouches, head tilted to the side to watch.
The Dust Devil seems to be, but is he for certain? I thought I knew everyone the King had made, but it’s also been ninety years.
The Dust Devil turns to Spyro, mouthing something that looks an awful lot like a plea. Spyro shakes their head.
“No, Dust Devil. The King of Ragdon, Our Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest of all Highnesses, King Garonda XIV, has deemed you to be the rightful Dust Devil. You must step into your role and show your powers to the world. Show the Sea what you can do.”
I look at the crowd. I know many aren’t here; they’re either working or are otherwise elsewhere.
“What’s he gonna do?” Astra asks.
Camden grimaces, biting on a knuckle as he wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know. I don’t have a good feeling about that Guard though.”
I duck my head. We’re off to one side, far enough away that I don’t have to worry about injuring anyone with my horn.
“Stay close to us, ok?” I tell my stepdaughter.
“Yes!”
xxxx
The Guard approaches, dagger at the ready. The Dust Devil shakes his head, taking a step back, but the Guard keeps coming. Within the span of a breath, the Dust Devil stops, body seizing up as he drops to his knees, chest thrust forward and back arched in a violent curve, hands out to the sides, mouth open with choked gasp turned scream. Black horns spiral up from the Dust Devil’s forehead as dark veins spread from his eyes like ebony tears and raise up on his hands. His fingernails sharpen into claws as his hair grows until it’s past his ears and sweeping in every direction.
Icarus chitters, feathers fluffing out. Seneca steps back, fear flashing across her gaze. She bumps into Katelin, who steadies her with a hand between her shoulder blades. Icarus looks between the two of them.
When the Dust Devil raises back to his feet, he’s not the same person. The way he holds himself is not hunched over like he wants to disappear. He looks the same, but he’s someone else. Shoulders back and spine straight, the Dust Devil stands too tall to be who he seemed to be before; now, he looks confident, unbothered with the approaching Guard who’s still wielding the dagger and advancing steadily. He turns to the Guard, gaze flickering. I catch a hint of that same fear I’d seen before, the soul-deep exhaustion, a tiredness like the one Jabez has told me he doesn’t know if any number of nights of sleep could ever heal. But beneath that fear and hesitation, I see something different, something predatory.
Something snake-like, I muse when I catch a glimpse of the blue-grey tinge to his eyes that matches the color of the King’s suit.
I can almost see the two sides to the Dust Devil as he turns to face the Guard fully.
Spyro and the lead Guard step back, retreating to the edge of the stage, while the other Guard and Soldiers stand guard around the perimeter.
Almost as many Ragdonians lean toward the soon-to-be fight as who hesitate or lean back, seeming to want to go but not willing to truly do so.
“Hey, Astra,” Camden says, pulling out the mouse he’d made. “I have a present for you!”
Astra’s eyes light up, and Camden’s present tears her attention away from the stage, eliminating the need for me to continue my internal dilemma on the best way to keep her from watching.
Bouncing on her paws, Astra wriggles with excitement. “That’s for me?”
Camden nods, holding the mouse by its tail and wiggling it. Astra tracks the movement, then lunges, pupils blown and ears pricked.
“Thank you, Camden,” she mumbles around the mouse.
“You’re welcome,” he replies. “I thought you might appreciate it.”
Astra swats at the mouse, pouncing on it. Icarus keeps the mouse from rolling too far when she hits it too hard by gently pushing it back to her with his good wing. Jabez blocks her view of the stage.
“Why don’t we just leave?” Seneca asks.
Katelin jerks her head toward a group of Soldiers marching in almost uniform formation after a few people walking away. Swords drawn, it’s not hard to guess what will happen. And a few moments later, screams ring out. Soon after, the Soldiers return with bloodied swords.
“That’s why,” Katelin murmurs, lips twisted.
Seneca grimaces. “Eesh.”
xxxx
The Guard comes within a few paces of the Dust Devil, and the Dust Devil jerks as if he wants to retreat but he stays in place. He undoes the amethyst snap to his dark cloak, letting it fall to the ground and revealing the shiny silver armor of a Soldier.
The King gave the gift to a Soldier?
Dropping into a fighting stance, the Guard rises up onto his toes and waits for one beat, two, and then lunges, rushing forward in long, sure strides.
The Dust Devil inclines his head, watching with brown-grey hair that I assume has a tinge of red to it considering the grey I see. He spreads his arms, palms down, before flipping them palms up. The dirt on the wooden stage rattles. He pulls one hand to his stomach and sweeps the other in an arc in front of him. The dust responds in kind; it condenses into one stream and whooshes across the stage, hitting the Guard in the legs mid-stride and sending him pitching off balance.
The Guard hits his shoulder hard on the stage. He grunts.
The crowd gathered gasps and murmurs as realization washes over them. I pin my ears, throwing my head and shifting on my hooves. I snap my tail in frustration; there’s nowhere to go, and there’s nothing to do.
The King cannot win. He cannot keep winning. He’s untouchable, but he can’t be.
The Guard tries again, but the Dust Devil ends the fight with one move. As the Guard springs from the ground, dagger still at the ready, the Dust Devil allows him to get close, eyes trained on the leather-armored member of the King’s army.
When the Guard gets within a half step, the Dust Devil takes his hands, fingers open, and snaps them into tight fists, jerking them straight apart with an intense look at the Guard, who seizes up. He manages a small step forward before he begins to collapse, dropping the dagger as he grasps for his throat with a wheeze. Grimacing, he makes one last move to attack, but the Dust Devil punches the Guard in the jaw.
The Guard falls to the ground and doesn’t rise.
“Kneel,” the Dust Devil says, raising his chin and looking down his nose at the Guard.
The only sign something is amiss is the jerk and spasm of the Dust Devil’s arm.
Blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, the Guard wipes at his face with the back of his hand, then pushes himself to a seated position.
“I bow before the Amethyst Throne, Dust Devil.”
The Guard braces himself and shifts until his legs are beneath him in shaky movements, then drops until his forehead brushes the ground.
I don’t know if he’s bowing so far because he believes so truly or because he cannot keep himself upright. Perhaps it’s a mix of both.