*COMPLETE* "People don't believe in us anymore. They don't believe that in the end we will do what is right. We can't let them down. We can't let Ben win."
Decisions made on top of the lonely, wind-swept cliff of Lethinor reverberate around the five...
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The gray-cloaked rider approaches, a colorless phantom in a world of green trees and sunshine. He rides fast, and when he draws near he also draws up from his pose, reaching up and pulling off the wide hood.
There is little joy in Ruben's face when he stops in front of them—his eyes have too calculating a look for merriment or relief. Strapped behind him are thick bundles and he reaches back, untying and then tossing one to each of them.
"You're going through the front gates," he announces, but his gaze is only on Allayria and his next words are directed to her, and her alone: "They are going to announce you as the Paragon."
She can feel the flicker of eyes cast her way but she only pinches at the bundle, feeling for its edge with her thumb. She unravels it to find clean, pressed clothes.
No, not clothes—armor of deep burgundy, a mix of flexible padding and sharp steel. She stares down at it, fingers drifting over the molded chest plate.
"There is a stream just up ahead," Ruben continues, turning his horse around as he talks. "You should all bathe and clean up there. We enter the city at noon."
They do as he says, washing dirt-caked limbs and frizzed, oily hair in the icy waters and then pulling on the armor. The others' attire is exactly the same as hers, but in a near-black gray—high collared, with long sleeves that stretch between the naked fingers and thumbs. Ruben hands them all thick, high boots and they sit on slick rocks, knees tucked against chests, tugging and lacing.
The suns nearly sit in the center of the sky when they climb back on their steeds, straight and stiff against the unyielding armor. Ruben moves to her side as she takes the lead.
"The announcement will have already been made," he tells her. "You just need to ride through to the Keep. They have been told where you are coming from."
He pauses, and it is a familiar pause—the pause he makes before dealing out the worst of it.
"They have been told you are bringing vital information to the Dynast."
Allayria turns at this, inspecting the expression on his face.
"And what have you been told?" she asks.
To his credit, he doesn't wince.
"That things are more complicated than that," he answers, ever the diplomat.
Allayria turns back, gazing out now at the stone gates that await them, still small on the horizon, but growing ever larger.
When they finally enter the noise of the crowds are a mixture of cheers and whispers, people clamoring against each other—even against the barricade of guards—to get a look at her. It makes her think of Jerald Brezkin, of the mob that had gathered when he walked the streets of Solveigard City, but this time at least there is no rotten fruit.
She sees this in her periphery because she keeps her face set straight ahead, the point of her gaze up above the crowd, at the looming white tower ahead. If she cannot give them smiles, cannot give them the easy charm of someone like Hiran, she can give them this: steel and resolution.
She can sense some of the others shifting behind her—not Lei, of course, but Tara and Finn, two people unused to being the center of such massive attention. They will be twisting in their seats, looking out at the unfathomable sea with a touch of wonder, a touch of fear. They can still be naïve, guileless for now. That time has run out for her.
She feels all of them on her—the eyes, the inspecting, searching eyes. They know her face. They know her name.
I never wanted this.
The thought comes up unasked for, unwanted.
I never wanted any of this.
It's a wisp of sadness, salt and regret, that touches the tip of her tongue, that whispers across her dry eyes. Its regret for things that have been lost, regret for the doors that have silently drifted closed while her attention was away. Seven years ago she ran from this, but here she is anyway, in the moment of yielding.
It's bitter and sweet; a soft, wild longing too terrible for words that plays out in the distance, growing fainter the farther she travels on. She can't turn back, but she doesn't want to go on.
She blinks it back, the line of her mouth quavering until she purses it into a hard line.
I can't let them control me.
Beinsho stands on the tower steps, stiff and decked in his military regalia. Their eyes meet for a moment and she wonders if she catches a flicker of regret beneath all that steely resolve.
She doesn't allow the attendant to help her off the horse. She jumps instead, her boots thundering against the cold stone, heavy and solid as she stands, tense and, somehow, defiant.
"Your Excellence," he says and he bows in that curt way of his, a low incline she knows is only reserved for a select few.
"Commander," she answers, inclining her head, cognizant of the sea of eyes and ears around them.
His gaze catches hers again as he straightens up. He steps back.
"Allow me to introduce you to our Dynast, Qui Wren."
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A/N: A short but, I think, important chapter as the Paragon finally goes public.
Also, I think I may not have internet this weekend, so I wanted to get in at least this part beforehand. There's a small chance I'll have it Friday, and if I'm not too tired I'll upload 52 then.
Additional chapter notes: Jerald Brezkin met a different crowd in the "Open Arms" chapter of Paragon and Allayria first reminisced on the first time she ran away in "A Look Into the Past."
