The Phoenix Born (A Dance of Dragons #3)

by Kaitlyn Davis

  "He was here," Janu murmured, voice raw, eyelids pressing tight against his cheeks, as though he couldn't even bear to look at her.

  Jinji leaned over her brother, placing her palm warmly to his cheek. "Janu."

  "No," he whispered hoarsely. "He—"

  But then Janu stopped speaking. He gasped, eyes shooting wide as his body began to thrash in Jinji's arms, and his pupils rolled into the back of his head.

  "Janu!" she cried, hugging him tight. But the more she pulled him against her chest trying to calm him, the harder his body seemed to shake, rejecting her touch.

  "No!" he wailed. And then he whimpered. His body slowed to a soft tremble. "No."

  "Janu," Jinji begged, trying to turn his head toward her. But Janu shook off her hands, running to the edge of the ledge, looking out over the empty city below. Jinji held her breath when he stopped just shy of falling. His toes stretched into the empty air, his body was inches from plummeting a hundred feet below. He seemed to be thinking. To be weighing options, body swaying in the wind, forward and back, unsure if either direction could bring relief.

  He stumbled back.

  He dropped to his knees, body firmly on land.

  Jinji let out her breath. She couldn't tell if he knew she would have caught him, that she would never have let him fall. Or if maybe he knew that the shadow would never have let his soul pass over, that even tumbling down a steep cliff couldn't stop him. But she hoped Janu had made the decision for himself, had made the decision to keep fighting, to be strong.

  "He summoned them," Janu said, gaze still locked on Brython. "He just showed me, he just made me remember."

  Jinji licked her lips, unsure of what to say. She settled on the truth. "He did."

  Janu twisted his neck, honey-brown eyes finding hers. The look in his irises scared her. There was a soft light like the dawning of a new day, like a mind newly awakened to the world around it, no longer okay with complacency. "Why did you have a knife to my neck? What did it mean, Jinji? What aren't you telling me?"

  She opened her mouth. Took a deep, shaky breath.

  Closed it.

  Opened it.

  Sound escaped her. Words escaped her. Her throat closed shut as a lump formed in the base of her neck. A clog she couldn't unplug. Her lips wobbled, uncertain, searching for something to say, anything that would make it better. But there was nothing. No explanation that could hide the truth.

  "Jin."

  She sighed with relief, spinning to meet Rhen's downcast gaze. He and his dragon were waiting behind her, watching with concern. But his emerald eyes were filled only with overwhelming grief.

  "The people," he said, pausing to swallow. "They're ready for burial."

  She nodded.

  He held her attention a moment longer, probing, and then took off in flight. Jinji followed the flames, watching the fire dragon circle the city and come to a stop where the other two riders waited beside a pile of bodies that seemed impossibly large.

  Janu grasped her arm.

  "Later," she said. More than a word. A promise. "After."

  His grip eased, fingers relaxing against her skin. "Later."

  But his conceding did little to calm her racing nerves because Janu's tone was full and edged with purpose. His words were a promise, just like hers.

  They walked in silence through the vacant city. Janu didn't take his eyes off her as they made their way to the others. He didn't remove his gaze as the earth dragon stomped, shaking the ground, opening a deep crevice in the middle of the town square. He hardly blinked as Jinji used her powers to gently ease the dead into their new underground home.

  Rhen said a Whylkin prayer, voice thick. Leena followed suit, blessing them in the words of her homeland. Bran wiped away tears as he dropped a handful of yellow flowers over the grave. And then Jinji knelt, placing her palms to the cobblestone, sealing the hole shut and leaving in its place a statue at the center of Brython—a stone dragon with wings spread protectively over the ground, guarding their souls. And from its eye, a single tear fell. A drop that not even time would dry.

  Through it all, Jinji sensed Janu by her side, staring, never once looking away from his sister.

  10

  RHEN

  ~ BRYTHON ~

  After the ceremony, Rhen had to get away. To escape. His skin crawled with the urge to yell, to throw his frustration into the sky, and release it unto the world, if only to relieve the pressure in his chest.

  When the rest of the group went to the castle in search of a meal and a next move, Rhen jumped on Firestorm's back and disappeared into the clouds. Bran shouted after him. Leena made the move to follow, preparing her dragon for flight. But it was Jinji who stopped them, holding out her hand, understanding that he needed space. She had seen him like this before, on those long days spent sailing away from Rayfort, when he believed he was abandoning his family to certain death. But this was far worse than even that. They had failed. Rhen had failed. And a whole city of innocents had paid the price.

  So Rhen led Firestorm through the mountains, searching the sloping cliffs for any sign of survivors, for men and women who had fled at the first sign of the ebony mist. But there was no one. The shadow had been thorough in his destruction.

  "Do you see anyone?" he whispered in Firestorm's ear.

  The dragon sent back a wave of dismay that rippled beneath Rhen's skin, mirroring the emotions in his heart.

  No one. Nothing.

  He leaned forward, resting his torso against Firestorm's neck, dropping his head and closing his eyes for a moment. The flames covered him in a warm blanket, sinking heat into his cold limbs. The fire soothed. The world became nothing more than crackling sparks, a comforting inferno. Even behind closed lids, the blaze flashed. Swirls of orange and yellow pierced the darkness.

  Firestorm roared.

  The dragon snapped his wings in, dropping into a steep dive.

  Rhen jerked, moving his hands to grip charcoal scales, holding on tight as his body lost balance. Forcing his eyes open, he righted himself, fighting to see through the gray fog, to find what Firestorm saw. They broke through the clouds, sinking quickly toward the rocky terrain.

  And then Rhen saw it.

  The rough outline of a man.

  From so far away, he was just a speck, a blob of black standing on a small plateau. But something felt off. Felt wrong. And the closer they flew, the more Rhen realized he wasn't a man at all.

  A phantom.

  Alone and watching them fast approach.

  A mere twenty feet from crashing into the ground, Firestorm spread his wings, banking in a wide arc, stopping quickly as his claws slammed hard against the earth. Rhen remained perched on his back, watching the eerie black mist glide closer. But Firestorm didn't back away, didn't hurl a ball of fire at the oscillating form, he waited.

  The ghost felt familiar.

  To both of them.

  Rhen stayed where he was. But he couldn't stop from calling out, "Are you the last rider?"

  The mist didn't respond. Though it had no face, no true form, Rhen still felt eyes roll over him. The foggy shape paused a few inches from the dragon. Firestorm didn't move. Rhen took his cue, watching warily. The phantom pulled its swirling vapor back into the condensed form of a man, and then it nodded. He was the last rider. He was the soul who had visited Rhen before, the soul who had led him to the cave beneath the castle of Rayfort and to the underground palace in Airedale. Most importantly, this spirit had led him to his dragon.

  But now I have my dragon, Rhen thought, running his hand over Firestorm's rough scales, feeling the fire burn his fingertips and pulling the heat beneath his skin. What is there left to show me?

  But before Rhen could open his mouth to ask, the phantom stretched out its arm, placing his translucent palm over Firestorm's snout.

  As soon as they touched, the world went black.

  Rhen slipped away, free falling through an endless abyss. Colors began to swirl in his peripheral. B
ut rather than feel frightened, Rhen accepted the onslaught. Because he realized exactly what was happening. The phantom had sought him out to show him an event from ages past, a memory locked within his soul. Firestorm, the phantom, and Rhen were all connected—two riders and their shared dragon. And through that magical tie, Rhen was being pulled into a vision—a memory from a thousand years before, a memory that might hold the key to defeating the shadow.

  He opened his eyes, shooting out of bed as the echo of a scream still rang in his ears. He blinked, twisting his head this way and that, listening. But the room was silent. The halls outside the door were silent.

  A dream.

  Just a dream.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, stretching his arms over his head. The days had been filled with such doom recently, such destruction. But glancing out the window, he saw blue stretch on for eternity. Endless. Today would be a good day. His love was due to return. A new rider was to be chosen in the late hours of the afternoon. All four dragons would be reunited again, and the gaping hole at the loss of his dear friend would be filled in some small way. This had been the second rider to die in his lifetime. And that was two too many. But the darkness had returned to the land.

  Eyes still gazing out the window, he shook his head. The morning was too beautiful to be wasted. He sensed his dragon out there, lazily soaring across an empty sky, letting flames roll effortlessly off his back, and he called him home. Today, he wanted to fly—not to some distant battle, but for fun, to remember the joy he too often forgot.

  They felt the knife at the same time.

  Rider and dragon cried out together despite the distance between them.

  He fell to his knees, clutching his chest. But the wound was not there. Instead, a connection in his heart disappeared, winked out of existence. And through the window, he saw a forest-green shape begin to fall toward the sea, wings limp and lifeless. Halfway to the water, the earth dragon dissolved into the air, disappearing. That body would reappear deep in the mountain, slumbering, awaiting a new rider. It could only mean one thing—his dear friend, the earth rider, had been killed.

  A scream rippled across the castle.

  The scream of a child.

  He abandoned the window, forgetting his dragon, forgetting the open sky, and raced through the empty halls.

  Another screech pierced, bouncing off white stone, echoing.

  Where was everyone else?

  The riders? The trainees? The staff?

  The bedrooms were empty.

  He turned toward the dining hall. Empty too.

  Another cry, but this time he knew where it was coming from. The main hall. Of course—the spot where everyone was gathering to wait for her return, for their leader to come home. She had been gone too long, visiting distant cities to warn them of the coming war, of the phantoms now roaming the earth. Already, the human forces had retreated, pulling close to this ivory mountain home where they were strongest. The dragons had buried armies of the dead under rock and under water, and still they came.

  Were they here?

  Was it possible?

  His chest tore down the middle as he turned the corner to a sea of red splashed over the floor, over the walls, staining the stones beneath his feet.

  "No!" he shouted.

  But the bodies around him were no mirage.

  He sank to the closest man, a member of the kitchen staff. He served their meals every morning. He cleaned their rooms while they trained. A normal man, not a rider, not even a potential rider. Why would anyone kill him?

  The next was a little girl, a new recruit only recently brought to the mountain fortress, only just beginning her training as a potential rider. Utterly innocent.

  On and on it went, his friends and dearest comrades strewn across the floor, blood spattered everywhere. But there was no enemy in sight. Just death. Just destruction. He screamed, anger like a violent inferno raging in his belly. His dragon was close. Vengeance would be his soon enough.

  "I saved you for last," a voice said from behind.

  He spun, eyes widening in shock as they landed not on an enemy but on a friend he recognized. Their blacksmith. He had only arrived yesterday for his annual monthly stay. "Petar?"

  The man smiled gleefully, laughing softly under his breath. His eyes were white, shrouded in ivory, impossibly inhuman. And when Petar spoke, it was in a voice that was familiar while at the same time unrecognizable. "Not quite."

  "Who are you?" He slipped his hand around the knife strapped to his belt, yanking it free and raising it in defense.

  The smile on Petar's face deepened. "I see my spirit-self has not told you everything." The man shook his head. "Just as I suspected. She can't help herself, always lying. Always telling half-truths to make herself look better to you humans, to fit in. When will she learn? She's not supposed to fit in, not here. She has a place where she can be herself, be every part of herself. Good and bad. I would never judge her for it."

  "I don't understand," he said, wasting time as he felt his fire dragon near the castle. Soon, he could fight. For now, he would delay. "Did you kill all of these people? Why?"

  The man shrugged. "To show her what it feels like to be alone, to be abandoned."

  "To show who?"

  The man narrowed his eyes. And even though they were empty and white, they somehow seemed filled with fury. "You of all people know the woman I speak of."

  But he didn't get a chance to answer. The face of his love flashed before his eyes, and a moment later, the man rushed him, sword slashing toward his belly. Unlike the real Petar, a former knight of the kingdom, this man was untrained, moving clumsily like a child, weight off-balance, easy to outmaneuver.

  And he did.

  With a few simple steps, he cornered Petar and jammed his knife deep in his belly. As his friend fell, his eyes cleared, returning to their usual hazel.

  "I—" Petar muttered, trying to speak as blood rolled through his open lips.

  "I'm sorry," he said, sinking down with his friend, holding him as his life faded. What had he done? He had thought this body a fake, an intruder, the enemy? How? Who?

  But a knife landed in his back before he could ask any further questions. Petar slipped from his arms as he spun. A second knife landed in his chest, thrown from the hands of a woman resting on the ground, near death herself. But those eyes were white and full of foreign purpose.

  He stumbled back.

  He tripped over a body by his feet.

  The woman watching him with a blank ivory stare smiled, teeth stained red. "My spirit-self never learns from her mistakes. If she had just told you the truth about me, about who I am and who she is, you might all be alive." She laughed. It turned into morbid gurgle. And then she fell back.

  He crawled toward the front steps of the castle, dragging his heavy limbs through the bodies of his closest friends.

  His love was almost home. He could feel her through the bond, could sense her traveling toward him. If he could just hold out a little longer, she might be able to heal him. She might be able to tell him the truth. She might be able to explain what happened, why everyone he knew in the world was now lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood.

  The white walls around him began to spot with black.

  His body stopped listening to his commands.

  He stilled, life fading slowly away, waiting and hoping she might save him.

  Rhen blinked as the massacre faded from his eyes, replaced with gray stone and gray clouds. A bleak mountain scene gradually came into view. Firestorm shuffled his feet, shifting Rhen around as they both awoke from the memory dazed, skin crawling. He knew what he'd just witnessed—the phantom's last few moments of life, a scene from the shadow's victory over a thousand years ago, the victory that banished the dragons and their riders from memory.

  Rhen glanced to the front of Firestorm's snout, searching for the phantom, searching for answers, for an explanation as to why he'd needed to witness this dark moment so long past a
nd what clue it possibly held. But the shadowy figure was gone just as swiftly as he'd appeared.

  "Where'd he go?" Rhen whispered, looking around. What had the vision meant? What was he supposed to learn? That there was no defeating the shadow? That there never was?

  Firestorm was just as confused. Rider and dragon spent a few moments in silence, searching the gray rock for some other sign, but there was no trace of the shadow or the message he was trying to relay.

  "Let's get back to the others," Rhen said, sighing. Perhaps someone else could decipher the warning. Maybe Jinji had seen it in a past life, maybe she already knew.

  Firestorm pumped his wings.

  As they lifted into the sky, Rhen couldn't help himself. A nagging urge made him look down just one more time, to scan the area quickly before he was gone forever. And when he did, he saw it. Scrawled into the dirt were two words. Though Firestorm had sent a cloud of dust into the air with his wings and shifted the dirt with his feet, the message was loud and clear.

  True body.

  Rhen squinted, holding Firestorm in place as they hovered over the spot. But there was nothing else. Just those two lonely words and the ominous pulse that prickled the air around them.

  Fly, he thought. The dragon listened, swooping away from the plateau and soaring back over the mountains toward the silent city they had left behind.

  "True body," Rhen mumbled, speaking to himself, hardly seeing the world around him as Firestorm led him home. Those two words were the key to the shadow's undoing. He was positive. And the closer they traveled to Brython, the clearer the picture became.

  By the time Firestorm landed beside the two other dragons, both resting peacefully without their riders, Rhen's skin buzzed with excitement. He barely said goodbye as he jumped from his dragon's back, sprinting toward the empty castle in search of Jinji. He found her in the kitchens with the others, munching on food silently. The mood was solemn, quiet and pensive as the only heroes the world had left contemplated their utter failure. And Rhen, with his newfound enthusiasm, entered the room like a maelstrom of activity.