by Ryan Cahill
The fissures in the egg’s armoured surface lengthened, spreading out from the tip of the egg like the roots of a tree. Finally, a loud crack emanated from the egg’s scaly armour. A small fragment split off, tumbling down the side and landing with a clink on a nearby stone.
Calen had experienced a lot in the last few days. He’d felt emotions on levels that he never thought possible. He’d done things that he was still worried might swallow him whole one day, things that he would have to face eventually, whether he wanted to or not. This… this was different.
His throat was dry, his breathing deep. It felt like small butterflies fluttered around in his stomach. He was excited and terrified in a way he could never describe, and he wasn’t sure which of the two emotions was the more prominent.
He leaned forward, stretching his neck out to get a better look at the small gap left by the fragment of fallen eggshell. There was a thin membranous layer underneath the outer shell. There wasn’t much light, but he was sure he saw something wriggling around inside.
The thin membrane spiked upwards, out of the confines of the shell. It stretched as whatever was inside tried to force its way out. As it did, more cracks appeared, and more fragments broke off as the armoured shell gave way to the life that it had been protecting.
Calen’s eyes widened in awe as the membrane began to tear. It gave way to a small, scaled snout with two thin slits for nostrils. The snout was covered in tiny, thumb-sized scales that flowed into each other, exactly how the scales had covered the egg. And just like the egg, the scales were a brilliant white, like the purest snow, growing darker at the base.
As the snout pushed its way farther out of the membrane, Calen found himself staring into a mesmerising pair of pale lavender eyes. They coruscated in the dim firelight, each one bisected by a black slit, like the eyes of a kat. They glimmered with intelligence, momentarily freezing as they studied him. That feeling scratched at the back of his mind again, but this time, it was different. It was a rumble of recognition.
Following the snout, a small head and neck emerged from the shell, pushing its way through the thin membrane. Its head was not dissimilar to a lizard’s. Ridges of small horns framed the edges of its angular face, running along its jawline and back down along its slender neck.
Two forelimbs followed, pushing free of the membrane and clasping onto the cracked frame of the eggshell. As the small dragon heaved itself free of its shell, Calen saw that its forelimbs were joined to its torso via a thin but sturdy layer of skin that fanned outward as it extended its arms. It was pure white, with veins of black running through it that extended back to the dragon’s forelimbs. Calen remembered seeing a similar feature on the bats that made their homes in some of the caves near Milltown. Wings.
Once its forelimbs were free of the shell, the rest of the small dragon’s body followed within seconds. Its legs looked strong and oddly muscular compared to its spindly forelimbs. At its rear, a long tapered tail swished back and forth in the air, spreading out into a barbed spearhead-like tip. Two sets of frills ran the length of the creature’s body, stretching from the back of its neck and right down its spine.
It cocked its head to the side, its pale lavender eyes still fixed on Calen’s own. For a creature of legend, feared and awed by so many, it seemed oddly… vulnerable.
“Beautiful…” Therin said. The words sounded muffled, as if they had come from underwater.
Calen couldn’t shake the feeling that kept scratching at the back of his mind. It was ever-changing, growing clearer by the second. It was a need to escape, followed by a sense of recognition, a sense of longing.
The dragon suddenly stepped forward, finding its feet. At first, it was unsteady, swaying from side to side. It shifted its weight, dropping its forelimbs to the ground for balance. It didn’t take long before it moved with confidence. Satisfaction warmed at the back of Calen’s consciousness.
The dragon stepped clear of the remnants of its shell. His fear told him to run, but there was something else that told him not to. A feeling of familiarity with this creature – of kinship. It was not something he could explain. It was like… like he could feel what the dragon felt.
It extended one of its spindly forelimbs towards Calen’s knee, then used it as leverage to pull itself into Calen’s lap. It was larger than Faenir was as a pup; maybe about a foot from head to tail. Turning in circles, the small dragon padded its feet, as if testing out how sturdy Calen’s legs were. Then it finally curled and twisted itself into a ball, rested its head down, and closed its eyes.
CHAPTER 20
Twist of Fate
Farda shifted his weight in the leather chair, pushing his shoulders backwards to soften the firm cushion that lay underneath. He cracked his neck from side to side. The resulting sound provided satisfaction, even if it didn’t provide any relief from the aches that made themselves at home in his bones. That had been born from many lifetimes of blood and violence. Even when everything else was taken from him, those aches remained. A memory of a time long past.
Giving up on softening the cushion, he sat forward, leaning his elbows on the arms of the chair. The steel breastplate was heavy, and his vambraces irritated the skin on his arms. He was sick of them and just wanted to pull them off and toss them in the corner, but he needed to make an impression, and for that, he had to weather a little discomfort.
His right hand instinctively fell to his trouser pocket. His finger traced the outline of the coin that lay within.
It had been a few days since the commotion in the village streets. If it had been up to him, it would have been handled differently, but it was Rendall’s charge, and he was impulsive. He supposed impetuosity was a common trait among inquisitors. It taught people to give the right information the first time because they might not get a chance otherwise. Every method had its place.
Still, the boy’s father didn’t need to die, nor his mother. Farda didn’t consider it honourable to use threads of Air to hold an unarmed man in place and drive a sword into his chest. But Rendall was not Farda, and ‘Honour is not efficient,’ as Rendall had so eloquently put it.
Farda was far from innocent himself. He had done things that would have made his younger self spit on his own grave, but they were things that needed to be done. He had learned that over time. There were things required by fate, and he was simply a conduit.
He pressed down firmly on the edge of the pocketed coin. He twisted his wrists around in circles, trying to relieve the stiff aches that had bedded into them. He would have to see a healer soon, or it might start to become a problem.
Farda let a soft sigh escape his throat as he leaned back into the stiff leather chair. The crackling of the fireplace filled his ears. The room was quite nice for what it was, not what he had expected from a small village on the wrong side of the Burnt Lands.
Although, the innkeeper was more than hesitant to let him a room at all. Not that Farda blamed him. There were a few villagers killed that day. It couldn’t have been avoided after Rendall’s outburst, but the empire’s servants weren’t exactly welcome in The Glade.
On top of that, it appeared that the innkeeper’s child had left on the same day, along with the boy, if the rumours were true. He must have been one of the two that was with him in Milltown. It could be worth looking into those two, but the boy was the priority. Both Aeson Virandr and Therin Eiltris came to his aid. That told Farda enough. He was curious to find out what made the boy so special as to bring those two out of hiding. If it had anything to do with the egg they had discovered on Aeson’s ship, then things were about to get a lot more interesting. A firm knock on the door interrupted Farda’s pondering. “Enter.”
The door creaked open, and the soldier tentatively pushed his head into the room. Farda heard a croak in his voice as he spoke. “Sir. The, erm… The boy, he’s here as requested, sir.”
“Well, send him in, then,” Farda said, not even turning his head, the impatience obvious in his tone. It was diffic
ult to remember the last time that he had slept. The Spark could only sustain him for so long. And blood magic left an awful taste in his bones.
Even on the old carpet, Farda’s attuned ears heard the boy’s footsteps clearly, as if he were striding along the wooden floor of an empty temple. His pace did not slow, and it did not falter. There was no caution. Curious.
Farda had seen battle-hardened soldiers stutter and trip over their words, never mind their feet, after seeing what he could do. Use of the Spark wasn’t common in the southern lands. The emperor made sure of that, especially in these isolated villages. Here, it was nothing more than legend. But with the Circle of Magii in Berona, mages were far more common in Loria, and even then, if you were smart, you knew to watch your step around a mage.
Either the boy was incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
Without a word, he strode past Farda’s chair, dropping himself lackadaisically into the twin chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. He had a wiry frame, but by the way he carried himself, Farda was willing to bet that it bore a bit more strength than it appeared. The boy’s features were sharp and angular, with a slightly hooked nose. His light brown hair was slicked back up over his head with some kind of oil. His eyes were shrewd. Farda believed that eyes were the measure of a man’s intent. He did not speak. He looked into the boy’s eyes, unblinking. He let himself sink into the chair, ignoring the complaints of his back as it battled with the stiff cushion. There was silence as they stared into each other’s eyes.
Farda tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. He was beginning to think that the boy was going to land on the stupid side. He might just need some incentive. Raising one hand, Farda pulled on threads of Fire and Air. The fireplace erupted in a blaze. Orange and red flames twisted and turned over themselves as the fire tripled in size, bathing the room in a harsh orange light. The boy almost leapt out of his seat, fear shimmering in his eyes. Good. Maybe you’re not stupid after all.
The boy’s gaze flitted back and forth between Farda and the roaring fireplace. Farda savoured an entirely different type of silence now. Satisfied, he made a noise as if clearing his throat. Its intention was clear.
The boy’s eyes were fixed on Farda now. Farda could see the lump in his throat.
“… Fritz, sir. Fritz Netley,” the boy said, shifting anxiously in his chair.
“I am Farda Kyrana, Justicar of the Lorian Empire,” Farda said. He leaned forward, his elbows again resting on the arms of the leather chair. Judging by the boy’s reaction, he had not expected the words that had just left Farda’s mouth. “Inquisitor Rendall said you were helpful in locating Calen Bryer’s residence. And that you might be of use in tracking him further?”
Anger flashed across the boy’s face at the mention of the name. That could be useful.
“Yes,” Fritz said. “Sir,” he added almost immediately.
Good. He is learning.
“Calen is a lying coward, and we have unfinished business,” Fritz said. Contempt burned in his eyes.
Farda shifted in his seat, narrowing his eyes. “Well, it is good to hear that our desires are aligned. Now show me that you are of use. How do you think we should find him?” Farda held his gaze on the boy, making sure not to break it. The boy shifted in his seat. Farda thought that he saw the moment the idea struck. An eerie grin crept across his face.
“His sister.”
“Sister?” Farda repeated, attempting to hide the surprise in his voice. That weasel Rendall had ensured him he had questioned the villagers, and that the boy’s entire family had perished that day. It seemed that Rendall was either not as thorough as he would like to believe, or he underestimated the villagers’ contempt for the empire. Either way, it was an interesting development.
Rendall could wait, but this incompetence would be dealt with. He was long overdue for a lesson in respect.
“Yes, sir. His sister, Ella. There are rumours that she left The Glade the night before you arrived, sir. Despite what they may have thought, her little affair with Rhett Fjorn was common knowledge. It’s a small village. From what I’ve heard, Rhett has family in Berona. I would bet the skin on my back that is where they are heading.”
Farda tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “And this helps me… how? What do I care for the boy’s sister?”
“Well, sir,” Fritz said, gaining confidence, “if you can find her and take her, just let it be known that she will face the noose if Calen does not make himself known to you. Simple, sir.”
The boy is not stupid. “And you are sure that Berona is where she would be going, boy?”
“Yes,” Fritz said, nodding. “To the North, at least, but I would reckon Berona.”
“Hmm…” Farda bit the bottom of his lip as a plan formed in his mind. “There are two ports in Illyanara that head north. Gisa and Falstide.”
Fritz stifled a laugh. “Gisa? Those weasels couldn’t afford a ticket from Gisa… sir.”
“Nevertheless,” Farda said, “we must account for all possibilities. I will send men to both Gisa and Falstide. You will go with the men to Falstide, seeing as you are so unconvinced on Gisa. Understood?”
Fritz’s head twisted in confusion. “I—”
Farda cut him off, tossing him a purse full of coins. “This is yours. The journey to Falstide is a long one, so use it wisely. There will be more if you bring her back alive. Captain Mormun is waiting for you in the lounge downstairs. You will report to him, and you leave at first light.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. That is probably more coin than he has seen in his lifetime.
Farda gave him a few moments to enjoy his newfound wealth, then raised his eyebrows and signalled towards the door. The boy got the message. He stuffed the coin purse in the pocket of his coat like a hungry urchin would an apple. He jumped to his feet, patted down the creases in his shirt, straightened his back, and cocked his chin up. “Sir, thank you, sir.”
Farda gave a curt nod and sat back in the chair, turning his attention towards the far corner of the room. As the boy made to leave, Farda picked his opportunity. “And – Fritz, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you ever strut into my chambers like you just did today, I will cut out your tongue and set it on fire in front of your eyes.” Farda waited to hear the silence that he knew would follow. “Are you still here?”
The door slammed shut, not in anger but in haste. Farda allowed himself a satisfied grin and stood out of his chair. He had an idea what Rendall saw in the boy. He was rough around the edges, but with a little work, he could be moulded into a half-decent inquisitor. It was one of the few lines of work that catered to a short temper and a sadistic nature. The boy would fit in fine.
Farda let out a sigh of relief as he pulled on threads of Air. He slid his vambraces off and unfastened the buckles on his armour, then tossed them on top of his cloak, which lay neatly folded on the long couch at the end of the room. He sat down on the bed, closed his eyes, and emptied his lungs in one deep puff.
His fingers trailed down to the coin in his pocket, a habit that would never leave him.
“What are you doing here?” Farda sighed, opening his eyes again. The light from the fireplace had dimmed, shrouding the room in shadow.
“Not happy to see me?” the Fade hissed. It sat in one of the leather chairs by the fire, its light-drinking cloak draped over the chair’s leather arms.
“Just say what you have come to say.”
“The troops you requested have arrived, and the blockade has been set. Are you sure that Belduar is their destination?” There was a twist of irritation in the Fade’s voice.
“No,” Farda said, standing up from the bed. He could see the Fade more clearly now. Its bone-white fingers were wrapped around the arm of the chair, and it stared into the roaring flames of the fireplace. The fireplace should have bathed the room in warm light, but instead, it barely gave off a glow. The Fade drank its light. As it always did. “But the ship
we found them aboard at sea was Narvonan. And Arthur Bryne is the only one who would have the kind of gold needed to pay for a Narvonan vessel. It is the smart choice. Either way, we will need more troops in the South from now on.”
“We? I do not serve your emperor,” the Fade snarled.
“Do you not? Did you not just report to me like a little messenger boy?”
Farda didn’t see it move, but in a flash, the Fade stood in front of him, its eyes level with his. “I serve the one true god. As does your master. You would do well to remember that. I should teach you to remember.”
“Try it. I will rip you from that body.”
“You would die first.”
“I would welcome death.”
There was a silence as the Fade’s cavernous eyes stared into Farda’s.
“Do not fail,” it hissed before stepping away from Farda and moving towards the door. “I look forward to hearing your screams if you do.”
Farda dropped back down onto the bed. His heart beat with a slow, methodical thump. He did not lie; he would welcome death. But it was not his time to die. He lay back down into the bed, his finger falling back down to the coin in his pocket. “Fate is my only master.”
Looking out along the open plains of Illyanara, Ella was more than happy to finally be out of Camylin. The city was beautiful, but she couldn’t escape the sickly feeling that occupied the back of her mind every time she thought about the events of the night before. She shivered to think what might have happened if that stranger hadn’t shown up. It didn’t bear thinking about.
On top of that, there were riots in the city during the night as well. She awoke, well past the stroke of midnight, to men shouting and the ringing noise of swords colliding against one another. She wasn’t sure she liked cities. The fighting from the night before was all people were talking about in the markets that morning as well.