by Morgan Rice
Kyra opened her eyes slowly, disoriented, wondering where she was. She saw a stone ceiling high above her, torchlight bouncing off its walls, and she felt herself lying in a bed of luxurious furs. She couldn’t understand; last she remembered, she had been falling in the snow, sure she was going to die.
Kyra lifted her head and looked all around, expecting to see the snowy forest all around her. But instead, she was shocked to see a group of familiar faces crowding around her—her father, her brothers Brandon and Braxton and Aidan, Anvin, Arthfael, Vidar, and a dozen of her father’s best warriors. She was back in the fort, in her chamber, in her bed, and they all looked down at her with concern. Kyra felt pressure on her arm, and she looked over to see Lyra, the court healer, with her large hazel eyes and long, silver hair, standing over her, examining her pulse.
Kyra opened her eyes fully, realizing she was not in the wood anymore. Somehow, she had made it back. She heard a whining beside her, felt Leo’s nose on her hand, and she realized: he must have led them to her.
“What has happened?” she asked, still confused, trying to piece it all together.
The crowd seemed vastly relieved to see her awake, speaking, and her father stepped closer, his face filled with remorse and relief as he held her hand firmly. Aidan rushed forward and grabbed her other hand, and she smiled to see her younger brother at her side.
“Kyra,” her father said, his voice filled with compassion. “You are home now. Safe.”
Kyra saw the guilt in her father’s face, and it all came back to her: their argument the night before. She realized he must have felt responsible. It was his words, after all, that had driven her away.
Kyra felt a sting and she cried out in pain as Lyra reached up and touched a cool cloth to her cheek; it had some sort of ointment in it, and her wound burned and then cooled.
“Water of the Lily,” Lyra explained soothingly. “It took me six ointments to figure out what would cure this wound. You are lucky we can treat it—the infection was bad already.”
Her father looked down at her cheek with an expression of concern.
“Tell us what happened,” he said. “Who did this to you?”
Kyra propped herself up on one elbow, her head spinning as she did, feeling all the eyes on her, all the men riveted, waiting in silence. She tried to remember, to piece it all together.
“I remember…” she began, her voice hoarse. “The storm….The Flames…the Wood of Thorns.”
Her father’s brow furrowed in concern.
“Why did you venture there?” he asked. “Why did you hike so far on such a night?”
She tried to remember.
“I wanted to see The Flames for myself,” she said. “And then…I needed shelter. I remember…the Lake of Dreams...and then…a woman.”
“A woman?” he asked. “In the Wood of Thorns?”
“She was…ancient…the snow did not reach her.”
“A witch,” gasped Vidar.
“Such things venture out on Winter Moon,” added Arthfael.
“And what did she say?” her father demanded, on edge.
Kyra could see the confusion and concern in all the faces, and she decided to refrain, not to tell them of the prophecy, of her future. She was still trying to process it all herself, and she feared that if they heard it, they might she think was crazy.
“I….can’t remember,” she said.
“Did she do this to you?” her father asked, looking at her cheek.
Kyra shook her head and swallowed, her throat dry, and Lyra rushed forward and gave her water from a sack. She drank it, realizing how parched she was.
“There was a cry,” Kyra continued. “Unlike any I had heard.”
She sat up, feeling more lucid as it all rushed back to her. She looked her father directly in the eye, wondering how he would react.
“A dragon’s cry,” she said flatly, bracing herself for their reaction, wondering if they would even believe her.
The room broke into an audible gasp of disbelief, all the men gaping at her. An intense silence fell over the men, all of them looking more stunned than she had ever seen.
No one spoke for what felt like an eternity.
Finally, her father shook his head.
“Dragons have not visited Escalon for a thousand years,” he said. “You must have heard something else. Perhaps your ears played tricks on you.”
Thonos, the old king’s historian and philosopher and now a resident of Volis, stepped forward, with his long gray beard, leaning on his cane. He spoke rarely, and when he did, he always commanded great respect, a vault of forgotten knowledge and wisdom.
“On the Winter Moon,” he said, his voice frail, “such things are possible.”
“I saw it,” Kyra insisted. “I saved it.”
“Saved it?” her father asked, looking at her as if she were mad. “You, saved a dragon?”
All the men looked back at her as if she had lost her mind.
“It was the injury,” Vidar said. “It has touched her mind.”
Kyra blushed, desperately wanting them to believe her.
“It has not touched my mind,” she insisted. “I do not lie!”
She searched all their faces, desperate.
“When have any of you known me to lie?” she demanded.
They all stared back, unsure.
“Give the girl a chance,” Vidar called out. “Let’s hear her tale.”
Her father nodded back at her.
“Go on,” he prodded.
Kyra licked her lips, sitting upright.
“The dragon was wounded,” she recalled. “The Lord’s Men had it cornered. They were going to kill it. I could not let it die—not like that.”
“What did you do?” Anvin asked, sounding less skeptical than the others.
“I killed them,” she said, staring into space, seeing it again, her voice heavy, realizing how crazy her story sounded. She barely believed herself. “I killed them all.”
Another long silence fell over the room, even graver than the first.
“I know you won’t believe me,” she finally added.
Her father cleared his throat and squeezed her hand.
“Kyra,” he said, somber. “We found five dead men near you—Lord’s Men. If what you say is true, do you realize how serious this is? Do you realize what you have done?”
“I had no choice, Father,” she said. “The sigil of our house—we are forbidden to leave a wounded animal to die.”
“A dragon is not an animal!” he countered angrily. “A dragon is a….”
But his voice trailed off, he clearly unsure what to say as he stared off into space.
“If the Lord’s Men are all dead,” chimed in Arthfael, breaking the silence, rubbing his beard, “what does it matter? Who’s to know the girl killed them? How shall the trail lead back to us?”
Kyra felt a pit in her stomach, but knew she had to tell them the complete truth.
“There was one more,” she added, reluctant. “A squire. A boy. He witnessed it. He escaped, on horseback.”
They stared at her, their faces somber.
Maltren stepped forward, frowning.
“And why did you let this one live, then?” he demanded.
“He was just a boy,” she said. “Unarmed. Riding off, his back to me. Should I have put an arrow in it?”
“I doubt you put an arrow in any of them,” Maltren snapped. “But if so, is it better to let a boy live and leave us all to die?”
“No one has left us to die,” her father scolded Maltren, defending her.
“Hasn’t she?” he asked. “If she is not lying, then the Lord’s Men are dead, Volis is to blame, they have a witness, and we are all finished.”
Her father turned to her, his face heavier than she had ever seen.
“This is grave news indeed,” he said, sounding a million years old.
“I am sorry, Father,” she said. “I did not mean to cause you trouble.”
“Did not
mean to?” Maltren countered. “No, you just accidentally killed five of the Lord’s Men? And all for what?”
“I told you,” she said. “To save the dragon.”
“To save an imaginary dragon,” Maltren snickered. “That makes it all worth it. One that, if it existed, would have gladly torn you apart.”
“It did not tear me apart,” she countered.
“No more talk of this dragon nonsense,” her father said, his voice rising, agitated. “Tell us now the truth. We are all men here. Whatever happened, tell us. We shall not judge you.”
She felt like crying inside.
“I have already told you,” she said.
“I believe her,” Aidan said, standing by her side. She so appreciated him for that.
But as she looked back out at the sea of faces, it was clear that no one else did. A long silence fell over the room.
“It is not possible, Kyra,” her father finally said softly.
“It is,” suddenly came a dark voice.
They all turned as the door to the chamber slammed open and in marched several of her father’s men, brushing the snow off their furs and hair. The man who spoke, face still red from cold, looked at Kyra as if awestruck.
“We found prints,” he said. “By the river. Near where the bodies were found. Prints too large for anything that walks this earth. Prints of a dragon.”
The men all looked back at Kyra, now unsure.
“And where is this dragon then?” Maltren said.
“The trail leads to the river,” the man reported.
“It couldn’t fly,” Kyra said. “It was wounded, like I said. It rolled into the rapids and I saw it no more.”
The room fell into a long silence, and now, it was clear, they all believed her. They looked at her in awe.
“You say you saw this dragon?” her father asked.
She nodded.
“I came as close to it as you and I are now,” she replied.
“And how did you survive?” he asked.
She gulped, unsure herself.
“It was how I received this wound,” she said, touching her cheek.
They all looked at her cheek in a new light, all seeming stunned.
As Kyra ran her fingers along it, she sensed that it would scar, that it would change her appearance forever; yet somehow, strangely, she did not care.
“But I don’t think it meant to hurt me,” she added.
They stared at her as if she were mad. She wanted to explain to them the connection she had with the creature, but she did not think they would understand.
They all stared at her, all these grown men stumped, and finally her father asked:
“Why would you risk your life to save a dragon? Why would you endanger us all?”
It was a good question, one which Kyra did not have the answer to. She wished she did. She could not put into words the feelings, the emotions, the sense of destiny she had when near the beast—and she did not think these men would ever understand. Yet she knew she had endangered them all, and she felt terribly for it.
All she could do was hang her head and say: “Forgive me, Father.”
“It is not possible,” Maltren said, agitated. “It is impossible to confront a dragon and live.”
“Unless,” Anvin said, looking at Kyra strangely, then turned to her father. “Unless your daughter is the—”
Her father suddenly shot Anvin a look, and Anvin immediately stopped himself.
Kyra looked back and forth between the two, puzzled, wondering what Anvin was about to say.
“Unless I am what?” Kyra demanded.
But Anvin looked away and would say no more. Indeed, the entire room fell silent, and as she searched all the faces she realized that all the men averted their gaze from her, as though they were all in on some secret about her.
Her father suddenly rose from her bedside and released his grip on her hand. He stood erect, in a way that signaled that the meeting was over.
“You must rest now,” he said. Then he turned gravely to his men. “An army comes,” he said gravely, his voice filled with authority. “We must prepare.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN