Kal was about to come up for air when the memories came flooding back into his mind. He stopped swimming, opening his mouth to yell in surprise and accidentally gulping in water. He flailed, unable to breathe, then shot to the surface. His lungs burned as he coughed out the water.
“Are you all right?” Thalia yelled from far away.
Still coughing, he paddled to the shore and hauled himself up onto the warm white sand. Thalia had run around the edge to meet him.
When he finally got the coughing under control, he looked up at her, not caring that he was lying naked on the sand.
“Did it work?” she asked. “What do you remember?”
“Everything.”
12: Kal (5 Days Ago)
They flew east, side-by-side, the sun high in the sky. The desert stretched out below them like a great white ocean. Kal turned his head to look at his brother and saw Marko starting to descend.
He started to open his mouth to ask why, but Marko had already dipped out of earshot, heading for a rocky outcropping rising up out of the sands.
The brothers took afternoon flights with one another all the time. Sometimes they would fly south to the mountains, hunt goats, and feast on them for lunch. Other times they would race one another, with Kal winning all but the times he pretended to get sand in his eyes or get caught in an updraft in order to let Marko have the occasional victory.
Today Marko had suggested they just fly east into the great void of the desert. Kal had been game. They had been soaring through the cloudless sky for well over an hour, so it wasn’t all that unusual when Marko began the slow dive to the ground. Kal wouldn’t mind a little rest and perhaps a chat. He was the bigger and stronger of the two, but Marko was cleverer by half, and Kal always enjoyed his stories.
So Kal dove in a slow spiral, following his brother. He saw Marko pull up just before the craggy chunk of rock jutting out of the sand and shift into human form. By the time Kal landed, Marko had crawled up to sit in a patch of shade, though the heat really didn’t bother either one of them. They were Wildfires, after all.
Marko was breathing a little heavy, though Kal didn’t feel winded at all. He was happy to oblige his brother and have a little rest himself. So he shifted and climbed up to sit beside Marko.
“Why did you want to fly all the way out here today?” Kal asked.
A strange look passed over Marko’s face. Did he look sad? Disturbed? Kal knew his brother well enough to know something was wrong, but not quite what. But the look vanished, as if Marko were tucking it away in his pocket, replaced by his amiable grin.
“I don’t know,” Marko said. “Do you ever feel burdened?”
“What do you mean?”
“By who you are,” Marko said. “By being the next in line to be king. By the memories of all we have gone through. The wars. Siccora. Our mother.”
And sometimes Marko was like this, dragging down an otherwise pleasant day with dark memories of the past.
“No,” Kal said. “Because for every memory that brings pain there are at least as many that bring me joy. As for being in line to rule, I see it as an honor, not a burden.” And he meant it. As princes, they both lived lives of privelege and ease. Kal spent a fair amount of time with palace consorts or in the pink tents of the Dark Bazaar, indulging in the pleasures of women. Neither of them wanted for anything.
Marko’s grin twisted downward wryly as he looked out across the sand. “I wish I could think as you do, brother,” he said. “The dark times often cast too great a shadow over the lightness for me. Sometimes I wish I could just clear my mind of everything. I thought perhaps a long flight over the white sand would do just that.”
Kal wondered if something in particular were troubling Marko. He also wondered about the comment about being next in line to be king. Kal was first-born, and so the crown would pass to him. But their father was as hearty and hale as any man he knew, and there was no threat of war looming. So why would Marko even worry about such things? Was he jealous? Kal had never known him to be so.
But before he could ask, he noticed Marko reaching into the vest of his armor to take something out. The sun glinted off its silver surface. Marko held out a flask.
“Care for a drink, brother?”
Kal smiled. That was more like it. He took the metal container from his brother’s grasp, feeling its warmth. He unscrewed the lid and sniffed.
The vapor of the spirits stung his nose, and he pulled the flask away. Then he laughed. They both did.
“What have you brought me this time?” Kal asked.
“Gunther told me they call it moonshade,” Marko said. “They make it in the far southern reaches of the swamp, near the ribbon.”
“It smells strong enough to kill.”
“I certainly hope so,” Marko said, laughing. “I paid a pretty penny for it.”
Kal drew the flask near under his chin, taking another experimental sniff from a safer distance. “You still buy all your spirits from that old camel?”
“He travels the whole of Xandakar,” Marko said. “I never know what he’ll bring me back next. If you don’t want to try it, give it here.”
“No,” Kal said. “I shall have a drink. Just give me a moment to prepare.” Marko was always coming up with exotic food and drinks he had procured from nomadic traders. Kal wasn’t nearly as adventurous as his brother. A nice chunk of charred boar and mashed sweetroot suited him just fine. But he didn’t ever want to seem as if he were afraid to try something new in front of Marko. And the worst that could happen was that it would taste bad.
But this moonshade concoction smelled bitter, the undercurrent of something dark, like the licorice ropes some vendors sold in the bazaar. Kal hated those candies, preferring a nice honeyed clump of almonds instead. But his brother was watching him, growing impatient.
Kal raised the flask up as if toasting, then quickly put it to his lips and took a drink. Gods, the liquid tasted fouler than it smelled, the vapors rising up the back of his throat and into his nose, burning his nostrils. He tried to stifle the cough, but could not, wheezing and hacking as the hot glow of the liquid ran down his throat into his belly.
Marko laughed and clapped Kal on the back. “Good, isn’t it?”
“No,” Kal said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and handing back the flask. “It most certainly is not.” He was a bit embarrassed that he had coughed upon drinking the stuff, even if it did taste worse than goat piss.
He watched as Marko put the flask to his lips and tilted his head back, the knob in his throat working. Kal would think back to that moment in particular. It was easy to pretend you were drinking, to push one’s tongue against the mouth of the flask and still swallow, even if nothing was actually going down.
Marko drew the flask away from his lips, smacked them, and let out a satisfied burp. No coughing, though. And no indication that the stuff had burned his nose or throat. Marko’s eyes were not red or watery. Kal thought at the time that perhaps his brother was the stronger drinker of the two, though he should have known better.
Marko offered the flask again and Kal took it reluctantly.
“I don’t suppose you have another flask in there,” Kal said, nodding at Marko’s chest. “Perhaps one with mint water or ale?”
“Oh, come on,” Marko said. “I thought you were a dragon, not a lamb. Can you not handle it?”
His brother always seemed to exactly which strings to tug at to get the reaction he wanted. The stuff tasted like the rancid swamp water, but he couldn’t just take one little sip and leave it at that. He put the metal opening to his mouth once more and took three deep gulps. He tilted his head back up and clamped his mouth shut, forcing the liquid down and successfully holding back the coughing fit he was sure would follow. Gods, did the stuff burn! And he was a Wildfire, with the flame of the ancients coursing through his blood. He wasn’t used to feeling any sort of burn.
He handed the flask back over. That was enough for him. If he hadn’
t proved he could handle it, he would try no more.
“What is in there, anyway?” Kal asked. “No, don’t tell me. I do not wish to know.”
He laughed again, but then abruptly stopped. He felt something not quite right. At first he thought he felt dizzy, but that wasn’t it. It was as if the world were receding, slipping away from him even while he was sitting still.
Kal opened his mouth to say something to—
To who? The man sitting near him stood up. No, that wasn’t just a man. It was his brother. Or was it his cousin? Now he wasn’t sure. He tried to dredge up a name, but couldn’t.
“What’s happening to me?” he asked. This wasn’t simply getting drunk. Besides, he’d only taken a few swigs.
“I’m sorry, Kal,” the man said. And he did look sorry. In fact, he looked crestfallen. How could he remember a word like “crestfallen” but not the man’s name? They obviously knew each other. And who was Kal? Was that him?
“It was either this or kill you,” the man said. “The demon told me it had to be done, but I just couldn’t do it.”
What the hell was he talking about? “Demon? What demon?”
“It’s best this way,” the man said. “Trust me.”
That nearly made him laugh. He couldn’t remember the man’s name or who he was, much less his own name. But he was sure the man had just done something to him, poisoned him in some way. The idea of trusting him was ridiculous.
Then the man did something incredible and frightening. He took several steps backwards, away from the rock and onto the white sand. Then he began to change.
The red armor he wore transitioned into scales. His fingers curled into claws as he dropped forward onto all fours. His neck elongated and grew, the scales growing up his neck to coat his face. His jaw extended, his teeth growing into white daggers.
Kal jerked backwards at such a strange sight, nearly falling. He caught himself, then scrambled from his seat to move behind the rock. Little good that would do against such a monster.
Wings unfurled from behind the beast, and it rose up on its hind legs, flapping them. The wind buffeted against his face, blowing back his hair. He was terrified.
The dragon spoke then in a low, rumbling voice. “I suppose it is a small consolation that you won’t remember any of this,” it said. “Goodbye, brother. I wish you luck.”
Then its wings beat hard, nearly blowing him back with the force of the wind. The dragon launched itself into the air, and he watched it fly up and up, then out and over the sand.
He moved from behind the rock and looked around. As far as he could see, he was surrounded by an ocean of white sand. Where was he, and how had he gotten here? Better yet, how would he get out of here?
He tried to think of where he belonged, wherever that might be. Nothing came to mind.
The air was still. The sun beat down, and he was surprised he didn’t really feel the heat, despite the armor he wore. He looked in each direction, wondering which way to go was best.
In the end, Kal stepped off the rocky structure and into the sand, heading east.
13: Marko
He stood before the doors of his father’s chambers. Guards stood on either side.
“What do you mean I am not allowed to pass?” he said. “What idiocy is this? He’s my father.”
“I’m sorry, my lordship,” the guard on the right said, clutching his upright spear. “We were given strict orders.”
“Who gave these orders?” Marko asked.
The guards looked at each other.
“Did you give them to one another?” he asked.
“Uh, no, your highness,” the one on the left said. Before he even opened his mouth, Marko knew the words he would speak. “It was Hamryk. Your father’s advisor.”
“Listen to yourself,” Marko said. “My father’s advisor. And do you know who I am? Do you remember my name?”
“Yes, sir,” the guard said. “But—”
“There are no buts,” Marko said. “I am the prince of the Burning Sands, heir to the red throne. I wish to see my ailing father, and you will let me pass. Or the day I take the throne, I will see your heads on pikes.”
The guards looked at each other again. Their looks said that they knew just how sick Karth Wildfire was. No doubt they heard his groans and wails throughout the day while standing guard. And they also seemed to worry that the day when Marko took the throne might not be that far away.
The guard on the right opened the chamber door and stepped aside.
Marko narrowed his eyes at the man before stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
His father lay in a great ironwood bed, propped up on a heap of pillows. Standing by the bed was the fat owl himself.
“You should not be here,” Hamryk said.
Marko ignored him, looking at his father. His eyes were closed, the black spider-web of the infection crawling up his throat and both cheeks. Marko wondered, and hoped, that he might already be dead.
“How is he?” he asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“Alive,” Hamryk said. “Much to your disappointment, I’m certain.”
“Be careful, bird,” Marko said.
“Or what?” said the owl-mage. “You’ll dispose of me the way you did your brother? The way you’ve tried to do with your father? Do you wish to be the king so badly you would betray everyone, even yourself?”
Marko walked across the room and around the bed. He was pleased to see Hamryk flinch and draw back at his approach.
“I don’t know what sort of conspiracy your feeble imagination has cooked up,” Marko said. “But I love my father. I love my brother. And I love this realm. I would do nothing to jeopardize any of them.”
The owl’s eyes were wide with fear and distrust. He clearly didn’t believe a word Marko was saying.
“So you say,” Hamryk said. “Shall I call the guards?”
“I will call them myself when the time is right,” Marko said.
“What does that mean?” Hamryk had shrunk against the wall, the round eyes in his soft face bigger than ever.
“Don’t worry yourself about it,” Marko said. “Just give me an update on my father.”
“He is still in grave condition,” Hamryk said. “The poison flowing through him is very powerful. I don’t yet understand its origin. I have called upon my brothers and sisters to help. They are sending two master apothecaries who should arrive later today.”
“I see,” Marko said. His father was on the edge of death. That was all he really needed to know.
“Of course, if we knew more about the nature of the poison, we might better be able to devise a cure,” Hamryk said. “We have the girl in the dungeons. She hasn’t spoken yet.”
“Have you put the torturer on her yet?” Marko asked.
“No,” Hamryk said. “I wanted to speak to her myself first. But I’ve been too busy with your father.”
“I’ll see to it,” Marko said.
“I’m sure you will, my prince,” Hamryk said sarcastically. "If you find any useful information, do share."
Marko felt the heat rise up in his neck and into his face. But he forced himself to be calm. He took a step toward the owl.
“As a matter of fact,” Marko said, stepping toward the owl, “I do have something to share.” He reached into his vest with one quick motion, drawing out the needle-thin dagger.
Hamryk opened his mouth to cry out, but Marko was too quick. He plunged the tip into the fat owl’s throat, sliding it home up to the hilt. Instead of a cry, blood billowed up and out of Hamryk’s mouth, a look of shock and pain in those wide eyes.
Marko let go and stepped back. Hamryk’s hands went up to the hilt, grabbing hold of it, his hands becoming slick with blood. He dropped to his knees, gurgling, then pitched forward onto the floor.
Have to move quickly now, Marko thought. He stepped up close to the bed and took one of the pillows from behind his father’s head. As he did, he was surpris
ed to see his father’s eyes flutter open. The whites were yellow, the pupils large and mismatched in size. But then they focused on Marko, and he could see the recognition there.
The look on his father’s face curdled in disgust. “You,” he said, his strangled voice laced with contempt. He coughed, black flecks spraying out onto his lips and chin. When he stopped, he looked at the pillow clutched in Marko’s hands. “Am I to die like this? At the hands of a coward?” His voice was a wet, gargling whisper.
“I am your son,” Marko said. He didn’t know why he said it. Perhaps he wanted his father to finally acknowledge the fact.
“You are a worm,” Karth said. His eyes moved down to the floor, where Hamryk lay in a growing pool of his own blood. Then he turned his rheumy eyes back on Marko. “My only true son is lost. Did you murder him as well?”
For a moment Marko thought of telling his father that he had murdered Kal, just to hurt him as much as he could one last time. But he couldn’t even bring himself to utter such a lie. The idea of killing Kal repulsed him. What he had done to him, stealing his identity and powers, was awful enough.
“He lives,” Marko said.
Karth’s eyes squinted, scrutinizing Marko. The poison may have snaked its way through his body, but his mind still seemed sharp. He always seemed to know when Marko was weaving a lie. His eyes softened, brightening a little as he determined that Marko was telling the truth.
“Then there is hope,” Karth said. Then he took a deep, wheezing breath and furrowed his brow in anger. “Now if you’re going to do it, show some shred of courage for once in your life and damn well do it!”
His father’s words had stung deep. As he stood there grasping the pillow, he felt like a coward. But with his father glaring at him, the bile of his hatred swelled up within him. Marko lurched forward, shoving the cushion over his father’s face.
He heard the muffled scream. Karth’s body bucked, but he was far too weak to resist. Even at half his normal strength, he would have flung Marko across the room. But the poison had ravaged his body. Still, it took longer than Marko would have thought for his father to die. He held the pillow down for what seemed an eternity, until the struggle ceased and only two fingers on his father’s right hand still twitched.
Dragon Red: A Fire Unfed (The Dragonlords of Xandakar Book 2) Page 10