Storm Dragon: The Draconic Prophecies - Book One

by James Wyatt

  “What would you have done if he had?”

  “Now why would you ask a question like that?” She turned to her pack again, jingling the buckles for a moment. “He stopped coming within a year’s time. It was just too painful for both of us—you were always so conspicuous in your absence. But when he stopped coming, it was even worse.”

  Something clenched in Gaven’s chest, and he stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You were alone.”

  She took a deep, sobbing breath, and Gaven enfolded her in his arms. She turned around and buried her face in his chest.

  “I always imagined you at home,” Gaven said, “carrying on with your life—the life of a beautiful noblewoman with the world at her feet. I still can’t quite believe you never married. And when I escaped, you came looking for me.”

  “Of course I did.” She lifted her tear-streaked face to him. “Oh, Gaven. I know Dreadhold must have been terrible for you, and I’m so sorry, but—”

  “But you were as much a prisoner as I was.” She started to bury her face again, but he put a gentle hand under her chin and lifted it. “I’m sorry, Rienne.”

  She straightened her back and shoulders, stretching up toward him. Kissing her, he knew beyond doubt that all was forgiven.

  * * * * *

  House Lyrandar’s airships were certainly their crowning achievement, but Gaven simply exulted in the speed, power, and grace of the Sea Tiger, seabound as she was. A water elemental was bound into the hull, channeled through arcane traceries carved into the fine Aerenal wood, and manifest in the enormous ring of churning water that surrounded the ship. The elemental lifted her from the water, carried her over rough waves, and propelled her along, even as the wind filled the sails at Jordhan’s command. They saw the lights of Flamekeep after sunset on the first day—a journey that would have taken at least two days on horseback. There was no faster vessel on the sea.

  The sea—Gaven had forgotten how much he loved it. Though still enclosed within Scions Sound, he could almost taste the open water, blue spread forever above and below him, the water lifting him up, and the wind surrounding him. It was much like flying on an airship, he imagined—with the land stripped away, nothing stood between him and the sky. It made him feel like he could soar with the gulls overhead, as easily as the black-and-white porpoises in the water rode the Sea Tiger’s bow wave.

  Even in the course of a day’s travel, Gaven could see and feel the weather changing. Summer arrived later in Aundair than it did in Korranberg, certainly, and it brought more rain, especially thunderstorms. During the second night, they came upon a terrible storm. At the first resounding crack of thunder, Gaven sprang out of his hammock and went up on deck, where the rain drenched him. All around him, the crew of the Sea Tiger struggled to secure loose objects as the ship tossed on the churning sea, and he heard the night pilot order a mate to wake the captain. The command made sense—only an heir of the Mark of Storm could reliably command the ship’s bound elemental, and the night pilot did not carry that dragonmark.

  Before the mate could rouse Jordhan, though, Gaven lifted a hand to the sky. A flash of lightning silhouetted him, then another bolt struck him. He laughed as its power coursed through him, splintering off from his other hand into five harmless showers of sparks.

  The rain stopped, and in a moment the wind died down—enough still to carry the Sea Tiger on her way, but no more. Sailors stood around Gaven in awe, staring skyward at the Ring of Siberys shining through a hole in the towering thunderheads above them—a hole that moved slowly across the sky as they continued their northward journey.

  Gaven stayed on deck until morning, delighting in the storm’s distant dance, the flashes of lightning all around them. When the sun rose in a crystal blue sky, the sailors around him cheered, clapping him on the back in congratulations. But he mourned the storm’s passing.

  * * * * *

  The morning of the third day brought a glimpse of Storm-home, its towers and bridges gleaming pink in the dawn’s first light. Beyond it, the sea stretched on seemingly forever, fading into white at the horizon. Avoiding the site of his ancestral home for the time being, Gaven found a place to stand on the deck where he could not see any land—just rolling ocean. He knew that the Frostfell lay beyond, holding the far north in a perpetual winter, but from where he stood it was a fantasy, all land was fantasy, there was only him, the Sea Tiger, and the endless, boundless sea.

  “You don’t seem pleased to be home.” Rienne’s voice startled him—he had so completely fallen into the illusion of solitude. He turned to see her crossing the deck toward him. Stormhome rose up behind her shoulder.

  He shot her a weak smile then turned back to the sea. “Storm-home hasn’t been my home for a very long time.”

  “Despite its name,” Rienne said as she stood beside him, leaning her shoulder against his.

  “Despite its name,” Gaven echoed sadly. “They cut me out, Ree, like a healer cuts out gangrene. What am I doing going back there?”

  “What are you doing?” Rienne said. “What destiny will you forge?”

  “I don’t know.” Fleeting thoughts of a life on the sea passed through his mind—to spend his days and nights on the open water, under the open sky.

  “If you don’t know what you want, you’re sure to do what someone else wants.”

  Gaven turned again, saw the warmth in her eyes and smiled. Then his eyes drifted over her shoulder to Stormhome, drawing closer as the Sea Tiger surged forward. His smile turned into an eager grin.

  House Lyrandar’s ancestral home—his home, for the first half of his life—occupied an island off the coast of Aundair. Its towers rose gracefully from the hills of the island, accentuating the natural contours of the land. Arching bridges and ornamented domes made the city into a work of art, glittering under a sky kept perpetually blue by the weather magic of House Lyrandar. Despite the city’s position at the mouth of Scions Sound, at the northern edge of Khorvaire, the power of the Mark of Storm kept the weather warm and fair. There were buildings Gaven didn’t recognize—the city had changed some in twenty-six years—but the closer he came, the more he felt glad to be there, even if he couldn’t quite say it was home.

  Rienne pointed to a prominent tower on the north side of the city, and Gaven’s mouth hung open in delight. The tower was tall and slender, decorated with krakens whose outstretched tentacles formed spurs radiating out near the tower’s top. Moored at one of these spurs was the largest airship Gaven had yet seen, considerably larger than Jordhan’s impressive galleon. She boasted two elemental rings, one of white-hot fire and another of roiling cloud, occasionally flashing with lightning.

  “Do you think,” he asked Rienne, “that while we’re here, I might get a chance to ride an airship?”

  Rienne looked puzzled for a moment, then realized: “Ten seas! Of course, you’ve never been on one!”

  “I’d never even seen one until I went to Korranberg.”

  Rienne took his hands in hers and clutched them to her chest. “You’ll ride one, I promise,” she said.

  She turned to face the city, and he wrapped his arms around her. She leaned back into him, and he savored her warmth, her smell, the way her hair tickled his nose. It was almost enough to make him forget Stormhome as they sailed to the docks.

  * * * * *

  “I can’t thank you enough, old friend,” Gaven said, clasping Jordhan’s hand in his own. “I hope this doesn’t land you in any trouble.”

  “I never saw you,” Jordhan answered. “Either of you.”

  “That’s right. And neither did your crew.”

  “They won’t say anything unless I tell them to. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” Gaven said. “How long will you stay in port here?”

  Jordhan’s blue eyes scanned the towers that rose above the harbor, and he scratched his chin. “Not long, I think. This is the one place it’s hard for a freelancer like me to find work. Why? You think you’ll n
eed a way out of here?”

  “I hope not, but I don’t really know what’s next. I just thought it would be good to know my options in case I do need to leave in a hurry.”

  Jordhan shook his head. “Think you can stay out of trouble?”

  “No way,” Gaven said with a laugh.

  Jordhan embraced Gaven, then turned to Rienne. Without a word, Rienne threw her arms around him and held him tight for a long moment.

  “Stick to him, Ree,” he said with a nod to Gaven. “You two should be together.”

  “I plan to,” Rienne said. She took Gaven’s hand and stood back.

  “Thank you again, Jordhan,” Gaven said.

  “I still owe you my life,” Jordhan replied. “At least once or twice.”

  “But who’s counting?”

  “Sovereigns keep you,” Jordhan said.

  “Winds’ favor,” Gaven replied. Holding Rienne’s hand, he strode off the Sea Tiger and into the city.

  * * * * *

  Rienne had been right: in a city full of half-elves, Gaven felt far less conspicuous, almost as though he belonged there. It helped that he knew the streets and buildings of Stormhome far better than any other city in Khorvaire. He found himself confused a few times by newer buildings that had altered the course of streetways, but overall the city had changed little while he was in Dreadhold. From time to time he was almost able to convince himself that it was still 970, that he’d never found the Heart of Khyber, never done the things that earned him his imprisonment, never been to Dreadhold. He even felt younger.

  Rienne corrected him at each wrong turn, and soon they stood looking up at the three-spired tower where Gaven had spent his childhood, his father’s house.

  “Do you want me to wait?” Rienne asked. He gave her a puzzled frown. “I thought you might want a chance to talk to your father alone.”

  “Is there any reason he wouldn’t be delighted to see you?”

  “No, not that I know of.”

  “Well then, you’re coming in.” He took her hand and squeezed it, then he knocked on the door. It swung open immediately. Gaven didn’t recognize the young man who stood in the door, but Rienne did.

  “Good afternoon, Jettik, we’re here to see the elder Master Lyrandar.”

  From the look on young Jettik’s face, Gaven assumed that the boy guessed who he was. He gritted his teeth, planning how to keep the boy quiet—or, if all else failed, how to escape to a safe hiding place. Then he realized that Jettik’s eyes were fixed on Rienne, his white lips quivered, and his eyes were red as though he had been crying.

  What is going on? he thought.

  “I—I’m sorry, Lady Alastra,” Jettik stammered. The act of speaking seemed to break a floodgate, and fresh tears sprang to his eyes. “The master …” He wiped his nose on his sleeve and tried to draw a steady breath. A dread gripped Gaven’s stomach, and he put a hand on the door frame. He already knew what the boy was trying to say.

  Jettik started again. “The master passed away this morning.”

  “Oh no,” Rienne breathed, squeezing Gaven’s hand. Gaven heard the words and felt the squeeze, but both seemed distant, as though he looked down on the whole scene from a mile in the air.

  “Th-th-the younger Master Lyrandar is upstairs, Lady, if you want to …” Jettik trailed off.

  Gaven only vaguely realized that Rienne was looking to him for direction. Did he want to see his brother? Some part of his mind thought that Jettik’s words should have stung—he should have been the younger Master Lyrandar, not his younger brother—but he was too numb to feel the sting. It was impossible: he had been cut off from his family for so many years, and he had come hours too late to see his father one last time. Hours. Did he want to see Thordren?

  Rienne led him forward into the entry, clutching his arm and looking up at him with eyes full of concern. She had evidently made the decision for him, or made her own. They were going to see Thordren.

  His brother had been a headstrong adolescent when Gaven saw him last, barely more than a child. The two brothers had never been close, had never really been anything more than casual acquaintances who happened to live under the same roof. Now Thordren ran the household in their father’s illness—no, he had just inherited the household. He could throw Gaven out of the house if he wanted to, he—

  Holy Host, Gaven thought, he could have me arrested in no time. What are we doing here?

  “Rienne.” A rich tenor voice came from the staircase that curved upward along the opposite wall. Rienne wrenched her eyes from Gaven’s face and looked up at Thordren.

  “Thordren, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know—”

  “Of course,” Thordren said. “It’s good to see you anyway, though of course I wish the circumstances could be other than they are. But do I know your companion?”

  Gaven had his back to the stairs, but now he turned to face his brother.

  “Gaven,” Thordren said, his raised eyebrows the only indication of his surprise. “This is unexpected.”

  “Hello, Thordren.”

  Gaven watched a series of emotions work themselves out on his brother’s face, surprise and rage and grief and regret prominent among them. The silence stretched until it was awkward, with Rienne looking back and forth between them as if waiting for one of them to spring at the other.

  “I’m sorry,” Rienne sobbed at last, when the silence had become unbearable. “We shouldn’t have come.”

  “No,” Thordren said. He started down the stairs again. “It’s good that you’re here. I apologize for being ungracious.”

  Thordren had reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed the room to stand by them. He threw his arms around Gaven, clinging to him with desperate fierceness. Gaven stood awkwardly for a moment, then returned his brother’s embrace. When Thordren finally pulled away, his face was wet with tears, and he gave an embarrassed laugh.

  “You will always be my brother,” Thordren said.

  Gaven pulled him close again.

  CHAPTER

  39

  The Aundairian ambassador looked as though he had been dragged from bed and brought before the Cardinals—which, Vauren supposed, was not far from the truth.

  Silver Flame, he thought, I feel much the same way.

  Vauren’s path away from the Whisper Woods had led him to the border of Thrane, Aundair’s neighbor to the east and south. He’d been far enough ahead of Haldren’s marching armies that he had little trouble slipping across the border without papers. Within three weeks of leaving Haldren’s camp, he’d found his way to the city of Thaliost, where he managed to secure identification and traveling papers for his new identity. He had also used a contact in Thaliost to get a message back to Fairhaven, though he didn’t expect any kind of response.

  Armed with a letter of introduction provided by the same contact, he had made his way to Flamekeep and found his way into the livery of a Knight of the Flame, which made him distinctly uncomfortable. On the one hand, he knew he was by no means the first foreign spy to infiltrate this chamber and this supposedly holy order. On the other hand, it shaped Vauren’s personality in unfamiliar ways. He wasn’t accustomed to piety, but he was becoming pious. He had even started cursing like a Thrane. He feared it would interfere with his work.

  He stood, stony-faced, at the great chamber’s edge, as the ambassador hurried forward and bowed before the Diet of Cardinals. Vauren could see the man trying to compose himself as he held the bow a little longer than strictly necessary.

  “Revered Lords,” the ambassador said, absently straightening the folds of his robe, “to what do I owe this honor?”

  One of the cardinals seated near an end of the crescent-shaped table got to his feet. “Ambassador,” he said, “we have received some very disturbing reports from the north, and we hoped you could shed light on their significance for us.”

  “Reports from the north?” the ambassador repeated. Vauren pitied him. He was an aging diplomat, his hair thinning
and his waist spreading, and he clearly had no idea what he was in for at this meeting.

  “I will not waste your time weaving shadows, ambassador. Aundairian troops are marching north of Thaliost. What is their purpose?”

  The ambassador was obviously stunned, and he stammered a reply. “I—I have not been informed of any troop movements.”

  “Are you quite certain, ambassador?”

  “Yes, of course! I am sure it’s nothing, just training exercises or war games.”

  “War games,” the cardinal said gravely. “Tell me, ambassador, what kind of war game involves large numbers of dragons?”

  “Dragons?” For the first time, the ambassador smiled, if nervously. “Revered Lords, someone is playing a terrible joke—”

  “This is no joke, ambassador. We have not heard anything from you to suggest an explanation other than the one that seems obvious: Aundair is planning an imminent violation of the Treaty of Thronehold, in an attempt to reclaim the lands of Thaliost.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “I might be inclined to agree with you, ambassador, were it not for the dragons. I wouldn’t presume to guess what damning bargain your queen has made to secure the assistance of dragons, but I assure you that Thrane takes this threat very seriously. We have already notified our ambassadors in Breland, Karrnath, and the Eldeen Reaches in order to secure the assistance of those nations in protecting ourselves from this violation of the Thronehold accords. Aundair’s arrogance will not be ignored. We hope you will urge your queen to reconsider this brash move before all Khorvaire is once again engulfed in war.”

  “I assure you, Revered Lords, Aundair is not planning an invasion. They would have notified me, recalled me. Unless …”

  The ambassador fell silent. No one needed to finish his sentence for him—Vauren knew that everyone in the room could think of one very good reason for Aundair not to recall its ambassadors. A sudden departure of diplomatic personnel would alert Thrane to the imminent invasion. If a handful of aging diplomats had to be sacrificed—well, that was the smallest price Aundair would pay in a renewed war.