Kindle the Flame (Heart of a Dragon Book 1)

by Tamara Shoemaker

  “Stop!” A guard's voice rocketed across the rooftops, echoing in the empty space. Pounding footsteps thudded behind him. The roof's edge drew near, and adrenaline pulsed through every vein in Cedric's body.

  Cedric leaped. The neighboring building seemed impossibly distant. He wasn't going to make it; it was too far. The yawning chasm opened beneath him. Tiny people milled in patterns below. The cacophony of a city street jostled the air. He was falling, falling.

  His arms caught the edge, and his hands gripped the bricked ledge, holding tightly. He pulled himself up, an arm, and then a leg, followed by the other leg.

  “Halt, in the name of the law!” The soldier's voice was angry. Cedric sprinted as fast as he could across the rooftop. An opening to stairs appeared, and he raced down them, three at a time, his pulse pounding in his ears, thundering all around him.

  He reached the bottom, checking both ways. It looked less busy to the right. He chose left, hoping to blend with the crowds.

  He slowed to a walk, looking for shelter, for any place where he could slip in unnoticed.

  “Got you, boy.” Two arms ringed his neck.

  Cedric gasped, “Let me go!” The guard dragged him inexorably backward, pinning his arms to his sides.

  Cedric struggled, panting and pushing. They neared the end of the alley and stopped when they stood in front of the man with a general's crest on his mantle. The General's dark goatee frowned at Cedric; his eyes were points of fire in his head.

  “Bring him in. And don't let him escape this time.” He spat at Cedric's feet, and Cedric felt burning ropes bind his wrists before he was pulled to the top of a horse, another body swinging up behind him. The mass of humanity parted before them as they clopped down the cobblestone streets. In the distance, Cedric could see the tall stone turrets of the palace.

  His jaw relaxed as he looked around in awe. For so long he had wanted to see the lands of his own kind, had begged Shaya to take him somewhere, anywhere. She hadn’t even been able take him to her own Clan, the Centaurs. “Once they banish you, Cedric, it is forever. There is no forgiveness, no going back.”

  “Why did you they turn you out, Mother?” he’d asked, not understanding how his gentle mother could be an exile from her own homeland.

  “I killed another Centaur.” Her voice was sad, wrapped in memory. “It was my choice, and it was intentional, Cedric. They gave me a great gift when they granted me life. By rights, I should have died where I stood, trampled to death beneath their heavy hooves. I would have been had it not been for...” she stopped.

  “For?”

  “For the generosity of another Centaur who insisted on my life.”

  “Who was it?”

  She did not answer him. Her eyes looked into his, through his, beyond his, faraway into a distant time and place. He had dropped the subject then, sensing that he needed to give her space, and she had never mentioned it again, though he’d wondered about the Centaur who had saved his mother's life yet left her to live in loneliness and obscurity, broken from her own kind.”

  The palace drew near. The turrets pierced the sky above the city like watchful guardians, overwhelming the streets and alleys below. Stone walls and battlements surrounded the palace. A massive iron gate swung open for them as they approached. Cedric worked his wrists against the rough rope that bound them, scraping the skin raw where he fought the ties.

  The horses took a circuitous path around the castle to a side gate. Guards at a portcullis stood at attention as the General halted. They hurried to turn the winches, pulling the portcullis to the roof of the arch, and the horses marched through into an empty courtyard. Stable boys appeared from the walls to take the mounts.

  A guard hauled Cedric across the courtyard.

  “Take him to the dungeons until I speak to the King about him,” the General called after them.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Cedric stumbled as he was pulled into a dark tunnel, through the shifting pools of light from many torches. Cries of pain and anguish drifted from the cells below, and farther down the hall echoed the deep-throated grunts of various beasts.

  Another man appeared, his visage scarred. An empty eye socket sagged above one cheekbone. His back rose in a large hump behind his head.

  “Genlich.” The guard beside Cedric pulled to a stop in front of the man. “This young man is to be put in the holding stall for questioning. The General wants to talk to him.”

  The man, Genlich, surveyed Cedric with his one eye, the blue in it covered in a milky film. “Aye,” he muttered past the cleft in his lip.

  Hands stretched through the bars of the cages in the hallway; cries of pain and terror and insanity echoed in Cedric's ears. His head felt light. He didn't know how this had happened. He had entered the city, weary but excited to meet more of his own kind, to discover this mysterious way of life that humans possessed, to find out how to make his own way in this world.

  And now he was to sit in prison and rot, if appearances of the other prisoners nearby were any indication.

  The jailer turned, and the misshapen hunch blocked the back of his head from view. “This way, me lord.”

  Cedric stumbled after the guard down the hallway. The odor of animal feces tainted the air, and Cedric thought he would lose whatever contents his stomach contained, not that there was anything much.

  This was a larger hallway, the ceiling stretching into darkness far above the quavering torches. The animal grunts grew louder. Bursts of heat warmed Cedric's skin from behind closed portals.

  “What lives in here?” he asked.

  No one answered.

  Cedric swallowed. The jailer opened the door at the hallway's end, the rusted key rattling in the lock. A moment later, Cedric was shoved inside.

  “Are you going to unbind my hands?” he asked. Again, there was no response, and no one moved to release the burning, itching ropes from Cedric's wrists.

  The soldier left, while Genlich crossed his arms as he stood against the stall.

  “Genlich, is it?” Cedric asked. “Have you worked here long?”

  The man made no movement. His milky eye stared at Cedric. Cedric glared back. The hunchback's craggy features melted into the pocket of a nose that had been broken multiple times. The man reeked.

  “Who are your people?” Cedric tried again, but Genlich still refused to move his tongue.

  A roar shook the wall, and Cedric flinched. “What under the Star's gaze is down this tunnel?”

  The man refused to answer. A moment later, the door opened, and the General strode in, his sword clanking at his side.

  He sat down on the bench. “From where do you hail?” he asked, his eyes raking Cedric from head to toe.

  “From the Rockmonster Dwellings, my lord.”

  “And how did you end up here from the northlands?”

  “I walked, my lord.”

  “You walked.” It was not a question. “Who is your Clan?”

  “I had no Clan, my lord.”

  The General stared at him, his dark eyes glittering with speculation. “According to West Ashwynd law, you are required to be a member of a Clan.”

  “My mother was an outcast from her own Clan, my lord, and I lived with her.”

  “An outcast.” The man stood, his hands clasped in fists behind him, his gauntlets clanking together. “How did this occur?”

  “Is it important, my lord?”

  The General advanced, his tall frame looming over Cedric. “Know this. Any question I ask is important, pig. Because I asked it.”

  “I am no pig, my lord.” Cedric stiffened, holding his breath as the man's face darkened in anger.

  The man’s arm flew forward and stopped with a jerk as Cedric flinched backward.

  The General’s deep voice laughed. “You have spirit, young one. You can't be more than, what, sixteen? Seventeen?”

  “Seventeen, my lord.”

  “A man, then, by
the laws of our kingdom, though only just. What is your mark?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “Your mark. Your identification. Though your mother was an outcast, I assume she inked you with her Clan symbol.”

  “No, my lord. My mother adopted me. She was a Centaur.”

  “Have you never had a mark?”

  “I have, my lord. It rests under my arm. But I don't remember inking it.”

  The general's fingers grasped Cedric's bicep and pulled it upward. “Let me see it.”

  Cedric allowed his arm to be raised and watched as the General inspected his skin. A shadow crossed the man's expression. He stared at the mark for several moments before he spoke again. “A Dragondimn. How did you migrate to the Rockmonster Dwellings when you were born in Dragon lands? Let's see, a seventeen year old. You would have been born in Lismaria.”

  “As far as I know, my lord, but I have no memory of the place, or of my inking.”

  “What are your earliest memories?”

  “The Rockmonsters, my lord, and my mother, Shaya.”

  “I see.” The General paced, his brows drawn in deep concentration. “Shaya. She was an outcast among the Centaurs. The Centaurs only cast aside one of their own for an unforgivable deed.”

  “Yes, my lord. By her own admission, she killed someone.”

  The man snorted. “Not just killed someone. She must have flayed him as well. It's the only deed for which the Centaurs will exile a member of their tribe.”

  Cedric stared in horror at the man. “Flayed? No. My mother was gentle in nature, sir. She never would have—”

  “She did. There's no other explanation for the fact that she was exiled.”

  “She didn't.” Cedric felt tears creeping to the surface, and he repressed them. This general would not cry, so Cedric wouldn't either; it was a sign of weakness.

  “Seek not for answers, then, young lad.” The man eyed him, the look in his eyes not unkind. “You will not like what you find.”

  He exited the cell, Genlich following. The door closed with a deep boom, and the key turned in the lock.

  Heaviness descended upon the cell, and Cedric sank onto the bench, despair settling over him like a cloak.

  Chapter Eight

  Sebastian

  Sebastian raised the bow and pulled the shaft taut against his shoulder, his wrist touching his cheek. Dusk crowded the archery range, and the cool air swirled his cloak, but Sebastian was determined to finish the quiver.

  Only two arrows had hit the center of the target, and he'd shot at least eight. His servant boy waited nervously beside him, ready to fetch the arrows as soon as he'd shot the quiver. The boy's sniffles irritated him.

  “Begone, Kendrick. I'll finish by myself,” he ordered.

  The boy nodded and bowed once, scurrying in the opposite direction.

  Sebastian took steady, careful aim. He inhaled slowly and exhaled. A loud twang accompanied the shot, and the arrow sailed, clean and true, into the white middle of the target.

  Finally.

  “Bravo, Your Grace. An exceedingly fine shot.”

  Sebastian twisted to eye Lanier, the head general of his armies. “No need for flattery, Lanier. I assume you're here about the Lismarian raid we're planning?” He pulled another shaft from the quiver.

  “Nay, Your Grace, though I will be glad to discuss that with you as well should you wish it.”

  Sebastian squinted across the shaft, eyeing the arrow already plunged into the target center. He released the shaft and cursed when the arrow slammed into the outer edge, nearly in the hay bale.

  “Perhaps I should discuss this with you when you are not armed, Your Grace.”

  Sebastian's mouth softened into a smile that reflected his general's grin. “Nay, I am done here. If there were indeed archery gods, they would not have seen fit to bless my target practice today; it would do no good to provoke them by further beating on their door.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “Walk with me.” Sebastian clapped Lanier's shoulder and tossed the bow and quiver to a nearby guard, who caught them with ease.

  They turned back toward the palace, climbing the marble steps to the upper terrace and the entrances.

  “What is it, Lanier? It's not like you to be reticent.”

  Lanier stopped on the last step, turning to Sebastian. His mouth worked to speak, and a fission of fear shot through Sebastian's heart. Had the people revolted? Had Nicholas Erlane crossed the Channel of Lise, intent on capturing West Ashwynd, putting its King to death by the sword?

  Sebastian was no coward; he'd led thousands of men into battle, stared death fiercely in the face, and still lived today as the King of his own country.

  Half of my own country, he mentally corrected. By rights, Lismaria should be his as well.

  The plan had worked beautifully up to a certain point. He had spent months, years even, mustering men who were loyal to him and him alone. The lies, the rewards, the punishments—he had connived behind closed doors, out of reach of Liam's lengthy hand, to raise his own small army.

  He'd planned a Troll uprising, in spite of the senselessness of the creatures. By their very nature, they were vicious, cruel beings, and thus, perfect for orchestrating his coup. By his covert design, hordes of Trolls, giant brutes that lacked self-control and caused widespread damage, had mustered ranks along the western edge of Lismaria. In retaliation to the violence, Liam had placed Centaurs along the western banks to help ensure control of the Trolls, and it had worked, uneasily, perhaps temporarily.

  When he'd found that boy, that idiot Dragondimn boy, outside the village, Sebastian had thought it perfect—a poor, bedraggled thing creeping into Liam's court, pleading for Liam's tender mercies, for protection from the evil Centaurs, and what had the boy done?

  In spite of Sebastian's threats, in spite of the promises of reward he'd given him, the boy had betrayed him. Sebastian didn't know how the boy had identified him; his face wasn't well-known at the time, but somehow he’d known. And the little brat had told Liam that Sebastian had orchestrated the slaughter and destruction of the villages, not the Centaurs as Sebastian had intended.

  In some ways, Sebastian had been thankful to finally get it out in the open. It had freed him to openly war against his brother, freed him from skulking around smiling hypocritical lies in Liam's court. But the boy's revelation had moved the coup's timeline along faster than Sebastian had anticipated. He'd had to take Liam's court before he’d been ready, and years later, he was still dealing with the consequences of the hurried coup—most notably, the fact that he had been forced to leave Lismaria in Nicholas Erlane's usurping hands.

  “Your Grace?” Lanier's quiet voice pulled him back to the present, and Sebastian realized that he had been standing next to the railing, gripping it fiercely as he stared out over the manicured gardens at the back of the palace. He glanced over at Lanier.

  “What would you like done?” his general asked.

  Sebastian felt foolish for having to inquire. Swallowing his pride, he said, “I'm sorry, Lanier, I was not attending. What about?”

  “We picked up a boy in the market place today, Your Grace.” Lanier seemed hesitant, an unusual quality in the general. “We brought him in for questioning.”

  “A thief?”

  “No, Your Grace. He stole nothing that we could find.”

  “Continue.” Sebastian stepped onto the terrace, moving to sit on a bench near one of the entrances.

  “He was blocking traffic on the King's Road and resisted our efforts to clear the way. As soon as we tried to question him, he fled.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Typical rabble, I assume.”

  “Nay, Your Grace, it does not appear so.”

  Sebastian glared at Lanier. “What do you mean?”

  “We took him to the dungeon and questioned him about his origins, how he ended up at The Crossings.”

  “And what
did you discover?”

  “First, that he was raised by a Centaur outcast.”

  Sebastian's mind began to whirl. “You can't be ... but you obviously are deadly serious.”

  “Aye, Your Grace. And you know that—”

  “Of course, I know. My spy was killed, and the body when we recovered it...”

  “Flayed, Your Grace.”

  “Ah.” The word came out in a rushed breath. The connections that fired in Sebastian's head quickened his pulse. He paced across the frescoed swirl of the terrace tiles. “And the perpetrator?”

  “Was this boy's adopted mother, Your Grace.”

  Sebastian stopped his pacing to stare through Lanier, through the wall behind him, his thoughts wandering far away.

  Lanier called him back to the present again. “That was not the only thing, Majesty.”

  Sebastian settled his gaze on his general's dark-browed face. “The mark.” Panic seized him. “You checked the mark, Lanier?”

  “We did, Your Grace.”

  “And? Out with it!”

  “Only royalty has this mark.”

  Weakness hit the back of Sebastian's knees; he felt them tremble. He sat quickly on the bench, chills shooting across his spine like cockroaches in the light.

  “How? After all these years?” His voice was hoarse. He couldn't make himself clear it. His ears buzzed as dread circled in his stomach. In his subconscious mind, he'd always known this day would come; he'd feared it, but he'd quashed his fear. How hard would it be to kill one little threat whenever he found him?

  “There is no doubt, Your Grace. The boy has the Dragon mark.” Lanier stroked the sides of his goatee. “With a crown atop the head.”

  Sebastian's hands gripped the stone bench. He stilled his face, willing himself not to betray emotion. He read the knowing look in Lanier's eyes and reminded himself that he would need to keep a careful watch on his own general.

  A King could never rest, not even with the most trusted of friends.

  A King must guard his throne even from demons of the past that roil the horizon on the most sunlit of days.