by Lucia Ashta
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
The Scarlet Dragon
Lucía Ashta
Awaken to Peace Press
Copyright 2017 Lucía Ashta
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction.
Cover design by Lou Harper of Harper by Design
Awaken to Peace Press
Sedona, Arizona
www.awakentopeace.com
I strive to produce error-free books. If you discover a mistake, please contact me at [email protected] so I may correct it. Thank you!
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For Sonia,
whose love can awaken even the scaliest of hearts
Anything you can imagine, may be real.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Mermagic
Mermagic Preview
Thank you
Acknowledgments
Titles by Lucía Ashta
About the Author
Chapter 1
Life had been so extraordinary lately that I no longer considered my companions unusual, and I was able to find good humor despite the probable death of a firedrake friend and half of the man I loved. The sun was setting, tingeing the sky with exquisite color that reminded me how much there was to appreciate in being alive.
The day had been exceedingly long already, too long for worry. We’d arrived at Washur Castle at daybreak to rescue my sister and Marcelo’s nephew from the undead Count Washur’s tyrannical clutches. My sister and Marcelo’s nephew rode with us now, and in that regard the expedition had been a success, at least as long as we weren’t overly punctilious about the details. After all, my sister was still trapped in the body of a cat and Marcelo’s nephew was under one of Count Washur’s spells, which we had no idea when—or if—it’d wear off. Based on the young man’s face, which was disturbingly like Marcelo’s, he still wanted to murder Marcelo, and possibly me too.
Where the expedition had been an undeniable failure was in the rapidly declining health of both Marcelo’s split—half of his body and his spirit—and Sylvia, Mordecai’s dynastic firedrake. Both the split and the firedrake were limp and frighteningly lifeless-looking. Still, considering we’d faced a lord of darkness, who’d been alive for over five hundred and twenty-one years by stealing other people’s souls, we might be considered lucky. And in this orange-tinged twilight, I was inclined to see it that way. For now, we all had our lives, and optimism was easier to clasp onto away from the ghastly sights of Sylvia and Marcelo’s split.
The next town over, which I learned was named Dillbasin, was at least an hour of travel away by horseback, but already we were searching for any sign of our friends. Mordecai had told us he’d stop as soon as they were a safe distance from Washur Castle, for Sylvia and Marcelo desperately needed what healing attention he could offer.
Exhaustion had settled into our bodies, and the aftermath of heightened stress left me like melted butter, poured across my saddle. But I could see that Marcelo was alert in his seat up ahead. As long as we were out in the open, he wouldn’t take our safety for granted.
Marcelo’s nephew, whom we were careful not to address by his given name as it appeared to be the link to Count Washur’s spell over him, rode in the lead. Marcelo wanted to monitor his every action.
I followed Marcelo’s horse, with a cat and a pygmy owl behind and in front of me in the saddle, and I pulled Mordecai and Grand-mère’s horses, tethered with rope. Even though Mordecai and Grand-mère’s horses were fine ones, the magicians had left Washur on a far more impressive mount than their purebred steeds. And that was the reason why we didn’t strain too much to discover our friends’ hiding place. There were only so many ways to conceal a dragon the size of the one on which Mordecai and Grand-mère rode in the direction of Dillbasin.
We’d already ridden for half an hour, and I could no longer see Washur Castle behind me. Mordecai might determine the distance safe enough at any moment.
The sound of footfalls clopping across the dirt road was all I wanted to hear. The repetitive rhythm soothed my frayed nerves. But speaking calmed Sir Lancelot, even if I wasn’t ready to converse. I forced myself to listen to the little owl, who was visibly shaken, fidgeting nearly non-stop from his perch at the front of the saddle. He seemed to have developed a sort of nervous tick. Every few minutes, he extended his wings to a third of their span and then brought them back down, ruffled.
At first, Sir Lancelot spoke tentatively, as if he were rediscovering the strength of his voice. He paused in between sentences, he reflected before speaking.
But that ended soon, and then he wouldn’t stop. I realized he might not have been able to stop, even if he’d wanted, and I listened as best as I could, trying to pay attention.
“Never in my life did I imagine I’d live—and survive!—a day like this. I mean, how many pygmy owls do you know that have lived a day like this one? How many? Surviving the threats of an awful wizard like Count Washur? That man is poisoned, I tell you. His heart’s as hard and black as the volcanic rocks from the river beds of Galvanon. And then, that dragon! Oh my. He’s so large. I can’t believe that your grandmother is actually riding him.”
Sir Lancelot’s voice squeaked in barely contained agitation. “That seems impossible. All day, staring at that monstrous dragon, I would have never thought a human being could ride him. Oh the day I’ve had. In that courtyard, all day, waiting for all of you. Wondering if you were dead or alive. Doing what I could not to make a sound to call attention to myself. I’d be no more than something to lodge between the teeth of that beast on the way down his throat. How I tried to conceal myself and remain silent.”
A shiver ran through the brow
n feathers of his coat. Then he extended his wings partially and put them down again. Another nervous tick. “There was nothing I could do to help you. I thought all the time of what I could do to aid any of you, but came up with nothing. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go, or if I should go anywhere at all. I feared not to be present to be of service if the opportunity presented itself. I just didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t a common situation for an owl like myself.”
“Sir Lancelot, there’s nothing common about you,” I said and smiled a small smile despite the gravity of the situation he described.
“That’s true, Lady Clara. I’m unique in my intelligence. Still, have you ever heard of a pygmy owl enduring a day like mine?” He huffed and drew enough breath to puff out his diminutive chest in preparation for continuing.
“The chances of any owl, pygmy or not, ever having experienced a day like that one are next to none. And you’re unique due to more than your intelligence. I’ve met no other Irish-Scottish owls that could read when they were mere owlets. And I’ve met no other owls trapped in a painting for all time.”
“Well, yes, of course you’re right. No wonder today was so unsettling for my nerves. There was a time when I almost missed that dreadful painting you speak of, and I wouldn’t have minded accompanying that dreadful witch in the painting.”
“Don’t tell me that you are longing for that prison of a painting we found you in, Sir Lancelot?” Marcelo called over his shoulder.
“No, no, no, Count Bundry. I’m not. If you recall, I did say ‘almost’ and that’s precisely what I meant. There’s something undeniably exhilarating about danger, even with the fear that accompanies it. I saw my life flash before my eyes.”
“And how long is that life?” I asked. As much as Sir Lancelot talked, I hadn’t yet heard the full story of his life before his captivity in the painting.
“Oh, it’s been long, though much of it’s been suspended in that painting with that awful woman. I’m not certain that the time I was frozen still in the painting, nearly lifeless, would count toward my life.” Sir Lancelot debated, and I had no good answer. This was one of those things without precedent; I’d encountered many of them since my initial arrival in Irele.
“If we count the time my animation was suspended while in the painting in the Castle of Irele’s dining room—although the painting wasn’t always in the dining room. It was moved around a few times before settling there. I think many of Countess Girane’s descendants weren’t fond of their great-great-great-aunt, however many times removed, studying their eating habits.”
“Do you remember what year you were born?” I asked.
“Oh, but of course I do. I’ve told you before, I remember everything I’ve ever learned or experienced.”
“Absolutely everything?”
“Yes.” For once, Sir Lancelot didn’t elaborate. It left me to wonder if such a gift were truly as much of a curse as a blessing. And where was all that knowledge stored? Sir Lancelot’s head was barely the size of my fist, and much of that size was plumage.
“So, when were you were born then?”
“It was the Lord’s year 1103.”
“1103?” I said, flabbergasted. Would I ever reach the point where my friends’ histories wouldn’t surprise me?
“Yes, Lady Clara. I was born a very long time ago.”
“You’re even older than Count Washur then. And certainly older than Mordecai.”
“Yes, I am. All my family is long dead.”
I softened at Sir Lancelot’s tone. “Does any of your blood survive?” I knew the world to be a cruel place where bloodlines came to their end often. Disease and violence plagued the rich as well as the poor, and I imagined it to be no different for an owl.
He shook his small head. “My family died out not long after I was forced into that painting. It was difficult at first to make inquiries, limited as I was to that canvas. But I managed. Mother lived out her life in relative good health, never having more children, although I found out that my disappearance was devastating for her. And father, that Scottish rogue, disappeared almost immediately after leaving mother with the burden of child, with no sense of responsibility toward her. A scoundrel.
“As I spent my life previous to my imprisonment in the service of different magicians, I never had a family of my own. And then once that awful Countess Girane stuffed me into that painting, well, after that there was no chance of it.”
“I’m so sorry, Sir Lancelot.”
“Thank you, Lady Clara. There are those who’ve had worse lots in life than mine,” Sir Lancelot said with dignity. He puffed his chest out in bravery, and it struck me how much more courage this little owl had than so many men I knew. “It was difficult at first, but an owl must accept what life gives him for we don’t always get a choice.”
I looked toward Marcelo up ahead. Was it my impression or had his back stiffened? Marcelo hadn’t been given much of a choice in so many of the things that mattered to him, and would have mattered to most people. A sister murdered by an evil man. A mother, who died from a broken heart. A father killed by his own hand, but who had lost his humanity long before. A nephew stolen from him and the world. A mentor killed in the courtyard of his home. And those were only some of the things I knew about.
“You’re right, Sir Lancelot,” I said so gently that Marcelo might not have heard. “We are not always given a choice. Yet we must find the way to accept what has already come to pass.”
I reached around to find Gertrude behind me, her claws dug into the saddle to prevent sliding. I brought her to my chest, light as she was. What had she endured before I could find the way to rescue her? How was it that she’d even ended up with Count Washur in the first place? I wished she could speak as readily as the owl. There were many mysteries that only she might be able to settle. She might even possess the secret to how we could restore her human body.
I ran my hand along soft fur, sure that my sister could feel my love no matter which body she inhabited. Sir Lancelot was right. The day had been a terrible one, fraught with danger and impending loss. And though the light of day was fading, it wasn’t yet ready to end.
We’d suffer from the undead Count’s decisions long after we put distance between him and us. His actions had affected every single one of us, and the damage he’d caused couldn’t be erased as easily as our view of Washur Castle.
I watched the moon break above the horizon in front of us. She was timid, as if witnessing the trials we were still set to endure made her feel like a voyeur.
Chapter 2
Although I was reluctant to speak when Sir Lancelot began, I discovered the conversation was a welcome distraction from the concern of what we’d find up ahead, which grew with each quarter of an hour that passed without discovery of the dragon’s hidden location. Besides, I still had many questions, and it seemed worthwhile to understand the day’s occurrences as well as pass the time. After all, once Gertrude and I had taken the fast and unpleasant route to the ground around the Castle of Washur, we hadn’t seen what unfolded next. When I’d last been atop the roof, Count Washur still possessed his dark and terrible magic with the power to kill us all.
Winston, heir to the House of Chester and my former fiancé, behaved as the Count’s ally. So did Salazar, Marcelo’s nephew and the Count’s son, his allegiance inbred within him since the Count cut him from his dead mother’s womb.
Sir Lancelot had been nowhere upon that rooftop, and I hadn’t seen him since the dragon knocked both of us to the ground in the castle’s entry courtyard. And the wounded Silvia and Marcelo’s half were notably absent—where would they be if not atop the roof with Marcelo and Mordecai?
Swords were drawn and gazes were of steel, murderous and determined, when I ran past these men. And then, when I flew, and finally reached Gertrude, only a deep breath before she was to splatter on the ground, whatever ability to think I’d had before, evaporated in a crushing wave of emotion and relief.
I feared that he might interpret my distraction as a betrayal. Not that I’d done anything particularly wrong or with any intention to abandon him, but I couldn’t imagine it felt nice to be completely forgotten. If any of us had thought of him at all, we might have realized he was likely to be in as much danger outside of the castle as we were within it.
To my great relief, however, the owl seemed impervious to any such implications of our actions. I hoped it was due to a certainty of our friendship and loyalty to him. “After that monstrous beast knocked you to the ground, and me from your shoulder, Lady Clara, I flew to try to break my fall, since, of course, I’m a bird after all. But I don’t know what happened really. The last thing I remember is being in flight, working to balance myself, and then I don’t remember anything more until I awakened some time later. I deduce that I must have knocked my head on something that forced me into a sleep state. When I finally came to, I could tell time had passed. The sun was high in the sky, when it was mostly dark when we first entered the courtyard.