“We needed to hear what he had to say,” said Huanglong.
“He came to us, not us to him,” added Bailong.
“You chose to meet with a murderer who would usurp King Oberon’s throne.”
“He offers a way to peace, an end to the Faeries’ war!”
“He asked you to enter the war on his behalf.” Wu Zhao could hear anger finally rising in Ao Shun’s voice, even over the gasp of most of the dragons.
“He asked us to not enter on behalf of either side!” roared Xuanlong. “What are you accusing us of, Ao Shun?” Respect was gone from the Great One’s voice. She recoiled. This was not right.
“Does not your Path of the Heart call on you to uphold order, to love mercy? Does not the Iris Festival you have just completed demand purity and humbleness? Yet you have made a deal with one whose heart is that of a demon!”
This time it was the Great Ones who recoiled. Wu Zhao could see horror in their faces. “They have sinned,” muttered her father. Hopelessness dripped from his voice like rain from a gutter.
Timidly, Bailong said, “We are not at fault. We would not have agreed to anything had King Oberon approached us.”
Now it was Ao Shun who roared, his scarred face full of righteous fury. “There is your sin. If you had been forthright with not just me, but with all those present, there might still be hope. But because you have sought to shift blame on anyone but yourselves, I declare the Council of the Great Ones to be broken!”
Ao Shun’s wings shot out to their full width. There was a loud, percussive crack and the floor split. The water in all three pools whirlpooled and drained away into the crack. The former Great Ones stumbled back. Throughout the cavern, dragons screeched, a cacophony of terror.
“Their sin is our sin,” her father croaked, his voice hoarse. “We are doomed.”
“The judgment of prophecy,” her mother moaned as both of her whiskers drooped.
“Dragons!” shouted Ao Shun over the din. “Dragons! Heed me!” He continued his calls until the cries and weeping subsided enough for his voice to be heard. “Dragons! All is not lost! You can be redeemed! Fly with me. Atone for your sin by joining me now in defeating Finaarva. If we fight together, we can end this war and then take our true place among the stars.”
Wu Zhao felt hope soar at his words, but Xuanlong rose and spread his wings.
“That we cannot do, Ao Shun. We have sinned and our sin carries to all those of second adulthood, as the Path of the Heart demands.”
“That path is no more!” For the first time, Wu Zhao could hear worry in Ao Shun’s voice. “The pools are no more. The Council is broken. Join me in our rightful destiny and redemption can be yours. Cling to your dead path and you are doomed!”
“No, First Ascendant,” said Qinglong sorrowfully. “We have given our word to Finaarva. To break that would further doom us.”
“Fools! How can an alliance with a murderer and usurper not doom you? I offer you your only way out. Do not destroy us all!”
“If we are doomed, we are doomed. Take the young guardians and the children with you. They are not yet bound by our fate. But the rest of us must stay on the Path of the Heart, even if it is a dead path.” Qinglong folded his wings tightly and lay down his head so that his whole neck was stretched out on the smooth pavement. The other Great Ones followed suit, then the other mature ones. Their scales dulled, the glow of the Iris Festival fleeing.
As her parents did so, she gasped. “Mother, no!” she whispered, horrified, but neither parent would meet her gaze. There was no light left in those sorrowful eyes.
A long, ugly silence hung. Wu Zhao glanced first at her brothers, whose faces were as confused as her own, then at Ao Shun. His eyes were narrow, his face tight with concern as he stared at the former Great Ones lying feeble and subservient.
The silence stretched to an unbearable length, but there was no fidgeting among the young guardians or the children. The mature ones lay calmly, serenely to a casual observer, but as the minutes passed, it was obvious there was neither peace nor hope.
When Ao Shun finally spoke, his voice was quiet, if terse, but she cringed as if it were an explosion.
“So be it,” he announced. “Your choice is made and your doom has fallen. Yet there is one last choice before you.” The younger mature adults such as her parents dared to glance up, a flicker of hope in their eyes; the elders, however, showed nothing.
“Because the Path of the Heart has doomed you, you may now forsake that path for one other path, and one other path only. The Path of the Atonement now lies open before you. Its way is full of blood, pain, and death, but it offers release and from it, some of you will survive. Stay on your current path, which is the easier way, and you will all be destroyed and dragonkind will be diminished for a thousand years. Choose the harder path, and dragonkind will one day rise to a destiny greater than the stars themselves.” He paused as the words soaked in. “Will you take the Path of Atonement?”
Now her parents lifted their necks, and a slight shimmer returned to their scales. She thought, Surely the Great Ones will take the new path. What choice do they have?
However, there was no hope in Xuanlong’s voice as he answered for the Great Ones. Instead, it was sad and trembled. “There is but one path for our wings to take. Our sin is too great for any other. Take the young ones and go. We must prepare for our fate; we can appease the gods in no other way.”
Whatever flame burned in her gullet was snuffed out. Her mother collapsed, quaking with silent tears as all light faded from her scales. Even Ao Shun seemed to deflate with defeat, and Wu Tian whispered quietly in her ear, “I do not think the First Ascendant expected this.”
For a while, only muffled sobs broke the horrible silence. Finally, Ao Shun spread his wings. Never had Wu Zhao heard such sorrowful words, both in content and in tone.
“Your doom is now come,” he intoned slowly in a ritual-like manner. “The Sin of the Great Ones is a Sin of Blood. May the gods grant you peace when your blood is shed.” He nodded once towards the Great Ones, then once each in three directions towards the prone adults before turning and striding to the cavern entrance. Solemnly, with his face to the sea, he trumpeted once out over the water: a long, clear, sorrowful sound that was both a call and a pronouncement. Wu Zhao knew there was no more hope for her parents; they were condemned. At the same time, she knew she had gained a purpose. She, like her brothers, had been called by Ao Shun himself.
The First Ascendant spread his wings and leaped out over the ocean. The rainbow ascendants followed while the young guardians milled uncertainly. The children wept as their parents pushed them away or ignored them. Several young guardians draped their wings around the children, whispering words of encouragement before leading them out of the Cavern of the Ascendants.
“Come, Wu Fei,” said Wu Tian gently. “Come, Wu Zhao. We fly to our destiny.” Without once acknowledging his parents, he launched himself toward the entrance. Wu Fei glanced briefly at his father. They each nodded once to the other and then Wu Fei followed his brother. Wu Zhao met her mother’s eyes and, for several seconds, felt her love one last time. Before tears could fall, she turned and launched herself, one of the last young guardians to do so. That last shared glance with her mother would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Chapter 5
The Faery
As the last of the young dragons followed Ao Shun out of the Cavern of the Ascendants, a shadow stepped away from a back wall, a shadow far too small to belong to a dragon. It was, in fact, a faery. Not an ordinary faery, not even an ordinary changeling. It was Tigano, a name every faery feared, a name every changeling respected, and a name even the dragons knew.
The lord of the changelings was tall for a faery, with pale skin set off by dark hair that stood straight up in long spikes. His eyes—dark like his hair—quickly scanned the remaining dragons with as little passion as if he was studying a shelf of dusty archives. A perfectly tailored sable coat, belted a
t the waist with its collar turned up, hung from his shoulders to his ebony boots. The coat had two slits in back running the length of both shoulder blades.
He wore no adornments save a silver ring on one finger that was set with a jet black onyx engraved with a dark red whorl. The ring—or rather the silver it was made of—served as a reminder to him he was not yet immortal.
Fingering his ring, he allowed its pain to sharpen his focus before stepping onto a polished stone slab. His movements, as he began to stroll among his enemies, were deceptive: never hurried or rushed, but if any dragons were watching, they would be startled by how quickly he glided from the rear wall to the cracked remains of the pools.
The faery stood there, one hand cupping his chin, staring at the bodies indifferently as if they were nothing more than goats waiting to be slaughtered. His eyes alighted on the five former Great Ones and he smiled.
Tigano had plotted for years, carefully sowing seeds through his spies in Oberon’s court, until rumor reached Ao Shun’s ears. He had spent an equal amount of effort in Finaarva’s court, whispering in his king’s ear that the Dragons of the Caves were ripe for seduction.
The white Great One, Bailong, opened a heavy-lidded green eye to stare emotionless at him, and he stared back. The orb was larger than any of Finaarva’s gems, he realized, although the green had become as dull as an ordinary rock. It was exactly as he had foreseen. Better, even. It would be a slaughter when he allowed his changelings to come, like ogres among sheep. The dragons could lie here for months, slowly wasting away. With bodies their size, starvation would be long in coming. He would make his changelings wait, however, in case any of the beasts lying here decided to fight back while still strong. One fireball could easily slay a dozen faeries.
He chuckled at fooling the dragons, especially Ao Shun. He alone had brought about this destruction. His crowning moment—remaining hidden from the greatest of all dragons in their own religious center—was a spell no other faery could perform. Few other faeries were as skilled in magic as he was, and none more so in the arts of the dark magics.
Drawing his long sword from its sheath, he opened a bag at his waist and placed a rack of vials on the ground. The remaining dragons would weaken far faster if they knew the fate awaiting them. He’d been patient, but the lure of fresh dragon’s blood was too much even for him, especially if it might bring him one step nearer in his life-long search.
He stepped closer to Bailong’s neck, his gaze never departing from the white dragon’s eyes. Emotion now rippled there, rife with anxious fear as it glanced from the sword to the vials.
“What do you hope to gain, faery?” Bailong’s deep voice rumbled, echoing in the stillness.
Tigano hesitated, frowning at the green eyes. Despite their dullness, something disturbed him. Fear of death—or pain—hung at the back of the eyes, but there was no desperation. He glanced at the white dragon’s belly. It glowed lightly.
Did I underestimate them? He would have no chance to escape if Bailong unleashed a fireball.
“There is a price to pay, faery. A doom for each murder you commit.”
“Hrmpf. You are dead already. I am merely harvesting.”
“Semantics do not change your choice.”
“Then think of me as your executioner come to end your suffering quickly.” He held up the sword, twisting his wrists so that the blade could reflect the light.
“My sin does not excuse yours. I smell the evil drenching your soul. My blood will not save you; it will drown you.”
Again, he hesitated. A vision of a red deluge dousing him saturated his sight, a grim reminder of his obsessive pursuit of immortality. He thrust the vision away.
“I will not be moved by a pitiful beast. That is how far your sin has denigrated you.” He stepped beside the long neck, eyes on Bailong’s glowing belly, certain he could slit the dragon’s throat before a fireball could erupt. He needed to act before Bailong’s prophecy unnerved him, to end the beast’s life with one swift sword stroke.
This is not an act of mercy, he told himself. This is self-defense…and advancement of magic.
As he shifted the hilt, readying for the kill, the green eyes closed, a tear in the corner of one, and the white scaly body sagged in resignation.
♦ ♦ ♦
Minutes later, the deed done, he smirked as he imagined Finaarva’s shocked look when he told the fool how he, Tigano, had dared to enter the Cavern, and that the king was wrong. Finaarva had thought the younger dragons who left with Ao Shun would be too dispirited to continue the war; instead, as he had predicted, they were enraged. He had smashed a beehive, and they had responded.
Finaarva did not understand the dragons could never be destroyed by seduction alone, not while Ao Shun lived. They needed to be provoked. It had been a great risk, but the rewards would be tremendous, and the old serpent would no longer hold back, not now when he had control of those young dragons. He patted the waist of his long black coat. Underneath, a bag rested against his hip, inside of which was a rack of vials. A simple spell protected the vials from accidental breakage or leakage. They were his only souvenir from the cavern, but their worth was immeasurable.
The claws, eyes, horns, scales, and organs were all potent ingredients for his alchemy, and many lifetimes of wealth could be gained here, as any faery would recognize. He’d allow his changelings to take what they could carry when he finally sent them to slay the remaining dragons, although the greedy would return in hopes of more. Fools. Ao Shun would return the moment he learned of their slaughter.
Fools? He shuddered. Bailong’s warning bothered him far more than he wanted to admit. Am I the greater fool? He stared down at his coat. The sleeves were soaked and dark splotches dotted the sable fabric. There was little difference in actual color between the damp and the dry, but his mind beheld scarlet stains.
He knew the potency of dragon blood. Powerful magic could be brewed from it, but now that the young dragons were enraged, further forays in his quest to discover the ancient ritual that so consumed him would be difficult. It was the last magic he had to conquer, but its mysteries he’d yet to fathom. Only now, for the first time, he wondered at the cost. What would he achieve should he gain immortality?
A gull’s cry broke his reverie. No more time could be wasted. Any of the young dragons might return, and he didn’t know if he had enough magic left to successfully hide again so soon. He marched to the cavern mouth, his senses alert for any hint of dragon. Detecting none, he allowed his iridescent wings to snap sideways out of the slits in the back of his coat. They were thin and almost transparent membranes, but incredibly strong with a tube-like frame, extending out a full body length on either side. Double-paired like dragonfly wings, and rounded at the tips, he allowed them to fan out, then beat rapidly for a few seconds until they were an invisible blur before leaping off the edge. Unlike dragons, who could soar for great distances with one or two flaps, faery wings were built for short durations. He spent most of his strength in the next few minutes fleeing, but when he alighted in a dense copse a few miles away, he sensed no hint of being followed.
He did not waste magic by fading into the foliage. Only beasts dared live this close to the Dragons of the Cave, but no casual observer would ever spot him. He was a picture of tranquility, nothing more than a shadow. There was no reason to fidget, despite the thrill of killing a dragon, hiding in their midst, and the certain escalation of war.
Oberon’s faeries, the Daoine Sidhe, would see his patience as his only virtue. A smirk twisted his lips. By goading Ao Shun into adding the young dragons to the war, not only would Finarvaa’s faeries, the Sluagh Sidhe, be forced to increase their army, but Oberon would be left with no choice except to do the same with the Daoine Sidhe. The risk was immense, but war would escalate, and dragons would die; the prospect of collecting their blood made his own goal of unlocking the secret of immortality even more certain. When he succeeded, he would not only be able to travel the stars like Ao Shun an
d his dragons, he would be master of them all.
♦ ♦ ♦
Something seemed off at the fourth grove he approached. He hesitated, his wings fluttering rapidly. Shadows did not tilt correctly with the sun but angled as if slightly bent. He desperately needed to rest, but the next copse was a half-mile further. By the time he flew that far, he did not know if he’d have the strength to evade discovery with his changeling magic.
The shadows shifted and seven dark forms burst from the tall stand of fir trees, shooting towards him like spears. He had time only to draw his sword. The shadows sped upwards, spreading apart like a flower opening its petals, none near enough for his blade to strike, but surrounding him so escape was not possible as they drew their own swords.
His attackers were faeries, their spiked hair dyed black like their tight-fitting clothing. Soot masked their eyes and cheeks. He was meant to think they were assassins of the Daoine Sidhe, his enemies, but King Oberon would never send so many like common soldiers. Only one enemy would dare assail him.
“Månefè,” he muttered, sneering. The coward would be hiding nearby, unable to resist watching this attack, but he could not spare any glances to find the only faery of the Sluagh Sidhe who would challenge him.
The assassins’ wings fluttered as rapidly as his, but their butterfly shape was less efficient for quick shifts, giving him an advantage. He darted towards the space between two before they could ready their weapons, flicking his blade left and right in quick arcs. Two crescents of crimson droplets erupted, hanging in midair for a moment before collapsing towards the ground. Both faeries moaned, and he dove towards the trees where their numbers would have less advantage.
Swords whooshed as he dove, wings flattened against his back, and he winced as at least two blades slashed his coat, carving pieces of flesh out of his sides. Someone cursed above as the faeries adjusted their flight to follow. Branches smacked his face as he plunged past the treetops before he snapped his wings open, halting his descent almost instantly, and alighted on a thick branch. He fumbled in his deep pockets, noting flecks of blood on his coat while his fingers wrapped around the small wand. He wished he’d brought his stave.
Blood of the Dragon Page 4