When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  “Agreed,” Tiberan replied. It made sense. The dragons were powerful enough for them to try to use them, but not so powerful yet that they were immune from the machinations of mortalkind.

  “Fortune favor you,” Tallindra told them.

  “And you,” Keira replied before snuffing the candle.

  Tiberan brooded. So Aradma was dead. Yet something in his soul refused to believe it.

  “Come,” said Keira, taking his hand. “I know heavy thoughts weigh your heart.”

  Tears watered his eyes, and he blinked them away. “I think… I think I need to be alone for a moment.”

  Keira nodded. “I understand, my love.”

  They both stood. “I love you,” Tiberan told her. She smiled and they embraced, sharing a long kiss.

  “I will be in the springs with the others,” she told him. “Join us when you are ready. You should not miss the joy of this place.”

  He nodded. She walked over to the spring’s edge and shed her clothing. She slipped into the bubbling water and joined Illeski and Osku.

  Tiberan walked to the cave’s edge. The outside air bit at his face, and behind him he felt and heard the warmth of Faerieholm. He silently wept at Aradma’s memory, finally allowing himself to grieve her loss and let her go. He stayed some time there, allowing his heart to feel what it might.

  He took a deep breath and turned back and watched the Glavlunders play and visit in the warm water. His sons floated on their backs beside their mother. She looked up and met his eyes, and he felt free, suddenly. She stood up in the waist-deep water, breasts bare to the cold air, and extended her arms to him.

  Tiberan smiled and set his sadness aside, choosing to focus on the love in his life. He came to the water’s edge and unfastened his furs until he stood naked. He stepped into the warm water, relishing its soothing pull on his muscles, and knelt until the he was submerged to his neck. He joined his family, taking his sons’ hands in his. Keira knelt once more and took their children’s opposite hands, and the four of them formed a circle, with arms lazily floating in the bubbles.

  In spite of himself, he grinned and then laughed aloud, adding his voice to the music of fellowship around them.

  * * *

  Fernwalker flew to their old house in the foothills. She shifted from crane to elven form and stepped into the garden. The April air was still crisp, but the grass had started to green again from warm afternoon sunlight’s promise of summer to come. She felt a twinge of sadness. My mother stood here once, she thought, remembering a story Attaris had told her as a child. This was where she touched Life for the first time. Attaris found her naked amid a summer garden fully bloomed in the middle of winter.

  The house lay empty now. All who had once lived there had either been lost or swept into the war for Artalon. Moss had grown up over the walls, and the roof tiles lay cracked and weathered. After Sidhna had torn it apart the night Aradma was taken, it hadn’t been rebuilt with the same dwarven attention to detail that Attaris had put into its original construction.

  Odoune landed beside her, shifting from the owl.

  “I wanted to take a moment,” she said, “before we started back for Artalon.”

  “I feel her here too,” he said.

  Fernwalker nodded, and the two of them stood together in silence. The air vibrated in soft music, echoing the sorrow in her soul. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and then turned to tell her father she was ready to go.

  Before she could speak, a loud rustle sounded through the pines, almost a groan. Her eyes widened. “What was that?” she asked.

  Odoune cocked his head, and a smile tugged at his lips. “It is the forest,” he told her. “You can hear her?”

  Fernwalker nodded. The forest’s voice grew louder, almost singing in eerie joy.

  “How could you not hear her?” she wondered.

  “Your mother could not,” he said. Then he corrected himself. “At least, not in this way. She touched and felt the trees in a different way, in her heart. She could control them, command them, dominate them… but not hear them as you do now. Your talents developed along different lines from hers.”

  “But I’ve never noticed them before!” she exclaimed. She could start to make out words in the trees’ swaying.

  Odoune touched his thumb to the tip of one of his tusks in thought. “They do not speak often,” he said. “Only when there is something of import for those of us who are charged with preserving natural life do they call out to us. They are sleepy things, trees.” He dropped his hands and his face froze. Finally, he said, “Do you understand what they say?”

  Fernwalker listened, quieting the trembling music of her own soul. Her eyes widened at what she heard. “In the cold lands of ice and snow,” she said, “where forests are thin and trees are few… there are dragons.”

  Odoune nodded. “The last time I heard the voice of the forest in this way was when the jungle of Vemnai called to me and told me of the Green Dragon’s death and the birth of your people.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yes,” Odoune nodded. “When the jungle told me to journey north and find your mother.”

  “Then we must heed this!” she exclaimed. “Artalon be damned! Dragons? I thought they were dead.”

  “I did too,” he agreed. “Yes, let us follow Ahmbren’s call.”

  “Maybe…” She trailed off, her throat choking in the pure intensity of her hope. She didn’t even want to say the words. “Maybe,” she whispered, “they will lead us to Mom.”

  * * *

  Low clouds rolled over the caps of the Windmane Mountains that night, flowing in from the east. The clouds became fog and fell to the ground, passing through Windbowl and leaving behind a damp gilding of gossamer droplets. They seeped into the castle’s depths and into the crypts, nestling around the sarcophagus of the dead queen. The fog passed through and beyond the city and sank into the depression called the Wet Fields, just north of Castle Windbowl beneath the cliff. It left a watery sheen over the fields, moistening blades of grass, clumps of open soil, and motes of scattered ash.

  In Castle Windbowl’s crypt, the jewel in the center of the queen’s crown trembled.

  Bits of ash moved through the fog, against the wind, against the flow of nature. They slowly collected in a shallow gully. A pile formed, and then the impression of a body. The fog licked its tendrils over the ash, reducing it to a congealed mass. More ash continued to gather, and in each moment the lying form shaped into something more humanoid.

  Finally, it collected into what looked like a sleeping gray statue, and then its color changed hue. The wet sludge slowly condensed, changing into bloodless flesh and bone, and its surface became again freshly dead skin.

  Lying naked in the wet grass, Seredith opened her eyes. Her gaze cast its faint glow, intensified by determined purpose. She rose to her feet and walked towards the castle wall.

  Her first thought: The phylactery. Then: I endure.

  Castle Windbowl’s northern edge shared the city wall, protected by the sheer cliff beneath it. Above her, through the layer of fog, waited her chambers in the highest tower at the castle’s edge. She had to get there. There were objects and trinkets needed for her spell work. There was very little she could do now, naked as she was. She noted that the phylactery had brought her back to life with the magic of her aura intact, so at least she was not naked in the magical sense, without spells prepared.

  She studied the grass for a moment. There amid its blades she saw something she could use. The webbed burrow of a wolf spider, no doubt huddled within and hiding from the nighttime cold. Seredith pinched the web and wadded the ball of spider silk between her fingers.

  She approached the wall and uttered a simple word of magic. It was a basic spell, taught to students. The spider silk vanished, and she felt its essence spread through her to her toes and fingertips. She reached out for the rock wall, and her hand stuck to it. The revenant methodically climbed, passing through the layer of clouds
until she ascended hand over hand beneath a clear starry sky. Above her lay the unlit window to her chambers.

  She reached the windowsill, balled up her fist, and shattered the glass. She pulled her dead body inside and stood in the darkness—she didn’t need light to see—and immediately went to a wardrobe years since untouched. Her body was dead, and she had no reason to change clothes, and so the extra robes had gone forgotten through the years until now.

  She donned one, a classical robe with a black inner gown and a bright cyan silk outer layer. The color had favored her blond hair and fair complexion when she had been living; now, it was simply the first one within reach. Without another thought, she went to her cabinet and started stuffing her pockets with the trinkets she needed. From a secret compartment, she retrieved another wand, six inches in length and perfectly smooth with rounded tips, fashioned from severe ebony.

  They did not reclaim this chamber, she thought. They fear to intrude. She allowed herself a smile. Athaym’s magic… the phylactery. Were it not for him, I truly would be dead.

  She accepted this thought as a matter of fact. She didn’t know when Athaym would return, but she suspected he would know that the phylactery had been tested. He was the Black Dragon. He didn’t reveal secrets to her out of kindness. Yes… and what more secrets has he to share? She felt the memory of heart-quickening.

  The circle… Chambry… they had been loyal. She would want assistants in her future work, and she suspected they had been rounded up by the Academy. She hoped Chambry was still alive.

  She turned her thoughts away from the future and focused on the task at hand. Spending the night reciting and casting spell rituals, she charged her aura of probability with the magical effects she would need if she was to penetrate the Academy and reclaim her students.

  * * *

  Keira awoke that morning to find Tiberan already out with Kreen, patrolling the skies with the other dragon riders. She hurriedly dressed, pulling on the elven leathers and the thick outer fur coat and leggings Tallindra had given her. Her sons still slept, and that was okay. They would rise in a few hours and attend their lessons with the other children, overseen by Esteri. Keira fastened her belt and daggers to her waist and left the cave, stepping outside onto the frozen ground. She couldn’t place her finger on why, but she had a bad feeling about today.

  She shifted into her wolven form. The body fur made thick by her coats kept her warmer than clothed while human, especially her face.

  She took her place at the watch post. The Glavlunders had set up shifts to keep lookouts in case the troglodytes returned. Every hunter helped keep the watch, and by now they had grown used to her two-souled role as both hunter and hearthmaker in their tribe. The days of her being seen as an outsider had long passed, and she herself felt more at home here than during her childhood in the southern lands.

  Of course, since Tiberan had been marked by Keruhn their hearth had been elevated in stature even above the hearthmother’s and huntmaster’s hearths. The Glavlunders didn’t exactly have concepts of rulership as did the Nine Realms, but her and Tiberan’s words carried weight within the tribe.

  Snow fell fast and thick, clumping around the ground. The wind lay still, and the flakes blanketed the earth peacefully as they fell. Only the ambient gray light indicated that the sun had risen over the thick cloud cover.

  The hunter she relieved placed his hands over his heart in greeting. “Nothing has been seen, Wolfmother,” he said. They had started calling her that as an honorific. With Tiberan called “Huntersson,” “Keira” didn’t seem to satisfy them anymore. She wondered how Reverend Rajamin would react to Tiberan’s god-touched mark.

  From time to time she had wondered over the years how her friends in Windbowl were doing, but she had no desire to reconnect with that life. Until recently, she had assumed Aradma was still alive, and she feared what might happen if the druid and Tiberan ever crossed paths again. Now it seemed that wasn’t a worry, and she felt guilty for feeling a little happy at that thought. No, happy wasn’t the right word. Relieved.

  For a brief moment her thoughts turned to her parents and brother in Kriegsholm, who had given themselves over to the Covenant. She shoved those thoughts aside. She didn’t waste time on them anymore. They had chosen their path under Count Markus’ rule, and they were dead to her.

  Ghost crept up beside her, startling Keira despite her wolven senses. Without Tiberan nearby she couldn’t speak to the tiger through their mental link, but she understood his smug air well enough that said, Silly puppy. I am still a cat, and I will always be able to sneak up on you.

  Keira snorted, sending puffs of condensation from her wolf’s snout.

  Ghost lay at her feet but held his head high and alert. He too kept the watch. He too had been accepted, in his own way, by the Hunters Circle, along with Cloudpaw.

  Ghost’s ears perked up, and he stared up into the snowy sky. Keira had heard it too, something barely perceptible. Almost like… a bird.

  The nearby pines swayed and rustled for a moment, despite the air’s stillness.

  Keira tensed. Ghost rose to his feet.

  Two birds landed in the snow in front of them. She hadn’t heard two, but one was an owl. The other, a crane. They shifted into a troll man and seelie woman.

  “Keira?” the young woman said in surprise.

  Keira’s eyes narrowed. The troll… “Odoune!” Keira exclaimed. The seelie woman looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite—

  “Fernwalker!” Keira realized.

  Fernwalker bounded up to the wolven woman and threw her arms around her thick mane. “I’d recognize those blue eyes in a wolven face anywhere!”

  It was Fernwalker. She had grown. It had been ten years; she would be eighteen now. Well, Keira was almost thirty. Sometimes she forgot how much time had passed upon the Ice Plains.

  Keira shifted into her human form and returned the embrace. Then she felt a moment of trepidation. Fernwalker was Aradma’s daughter. “Why… what brings you here?” Keira asked.

  Fernwalker stepped back and hopped up and down, rubbing her arms briskly. She wore a strange gown and a wool overcoat from Windbowl, but they were hardly enough for the Ice Mountains. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed. “It is cold here!”

  “Is there any place we can go to speak?” Odoune asked, pulling his cloak tightly around his body and shivering.

  Keira nodded. “Faerieholm—the caves are warm enough. Come with me.”

  Ghost regarded them silently.

  “He says he’ll keep the watch,” Fernwalker stated. Keira hadn’t known the young elven woman could communicate with the tiger, but she was seelie after all, and a druid at that. The wolven supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.

  Fernwalker bent down and threw her arms around the tiger. “Oh, Ghost,” she said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Ghost nudged her face with his nose and placed his paw on her knee.

  “Come,” Keira said. “Let’s get you out of the cold and some winter furs to wear.”

  They followed her back to Faerieholm. By now, the Glavlunders had awakened and were sitting around small cooking fires preparing breakfast. Sizzling strips of seal meat, gathered by hunting parties ranging on dragonback and preserved in ice, filled the caves with an enticing aroma.

  The Glavlunders looked up in acute curiosity at the two strangers who followed her. Keira took them over to Esteri’s hearth fire, where her sons Eldrian and Jossin sat eagerly awaiting their meal. Eldrian helped cook, guided by Esteri and Osku, the hearthmate of Illeski the huntmaster.

  The two seelie boys stood as their mother approached, staring with excitement at the troll. They ran up to the strange man and started petting his fur. He knelt, letting them touch his tusks and explore his red mohawk with their fingers. He gave Keira a knowing look.

  “Seelie children,” Fernwalker remarked.

  Keira nodded. “My sons.”

  “Sons,” Fernwalker repeated. “But that means ther
e’s a seelie father. Who?”

  “I am their father,” a clear voice called from the cave entrance. They turned to see Tiberan striding in, loosening his fur cloak. He held his head high, antlers creating an imposing sight, as his gaze intently moved from one person to the next. Ghost must have sent him word through their bond.

  “Who are you?” Fernwalker asked. “I don’t know you.”

  “Tiberan,” Odoune said softly. His eyes widened with shock. “After all this time, Tiberan.”

  Fernwalker’s jaw dropped open. She stared, trying to form words that wouldn’t come.

  “Odoune,” Tiberan greeted the troll. “It is good to see you well. And you,” he said, turning to the seelie woman, “must be his daughter?”

  Keira studied her husband’s face, but if he had any other thoughts and feelings behind his eyes, they remained well hidden.

  “…Tiberan?!” Fernwalker finally managed.

  Keira realized that she had never told Tiberan Fernwalker’s name. They had never discussed her life in Windbowl.

  Fernwalker closed her arms over her chest. “I should punch you!” she yelled, face flushing dark green with anger.

  “Fernwalker!” Odoune exclaimed. “Why would you say that?”

  “Do you know how long Mom waited for you?” the seelie woman said accusingly.

  Tiberan nodded sadly. “I do,” he answered. “I was… gone. I’m sorry.”

  Keira felt her own irritation rising. What did he have to bloody apologize for? “He was thrown forward in time,” she snapped at Fernwalker. “Valkrage cast a spell on him, and by the time he returned, Aradma was already with Kaldor.”

  Fernwalker relaxed her arms and calmed down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should not have reacted that way. It was a long time ago, and this was… unexpected.” The anger faded from her face, but she still stared. Then she looked at Keira. “Oh!” Fernwalker exclaimed. “Your sons!”