The Return of the Dragon Queen

by Farah Oomerbhoy

  I looked around. “Inside? Where?” All I could see was a lush overgrown valley blanketed in mist.

  Victor banged his staff lightly on the ground and muttered something under his breath. Through the mist, lights materialized before us as a massive stone structure appeared out of thin air, just like the druids had.

  I gasped. Captain Jarvik had been right. The monastery had been here in this valley all this time, hidden by druid magic, which from what I had just seen was far older and more powerful than the magic of the mages or even the fae.

  Victor and Sebastian walked forward, and the big wooden doors of the monastery opened. Tristan took Kalen from Ashara as we followed the druids into the gray stone fortress. The doors shut behind us with a definitive thud.

  Victor turned to the door and wove his staff in the air. “The monastery is now secure and hidden by magical wards. You are safe here.”

  Destiny Calls

  The entrance hall was massive, with two enormous stone staircases that curved upward to the second floor. It was warm and dry inside the monks’ home, and wooden torches burned in sconces on the walls. Two more monks appeared silently from a door on the left, their forms hidden under the loose brown robes they all wore.

  We followed the monks, and Tristan carried Kalen to a room at the far end of a gray stone corridor. Kalen’s skin had turned the color of ash as his blood and magic were slowly consumed by the darkness that moved within him. His arm hung limp at his side, black veins protruding as the surrounding flesh rotted.

  The monks directed Tristan to lay Kalen on a large wooden table in the center of the room, while they bustled about mixing herbs and potions at the worktables on the side wall.

  Brother Sebastian held up his staff and ran it through the air over Kalen’s body. The crystal flared when it reached his chest. He put down the staff and turned to us as he rolled up his sleeves. “There is still a chance. I must work fast.”

  Penelope let out a cry of relief and leaned on me, tears streaming down her face. I put my arm around her as my own heart beat faster with hope. Kalen still had a chance. I couldn’t begin to imagine the pain Penelope was going through. No mother should have to see her child like this.

  “Come,” said Victor. “Let Brother Sebastian do his work. We have dealt with this kind of darkness before.”

  I tightened my grip around Penelope’s shoulders. “You need to rest, Penelope. You said yourself the druids will know what to do. Let them heal Kalen. There is nothing you can do for him right now.”

  Tristan’s eyes softened. “Go. I will stand guard and let you know if there is any change.”

  We followed Victor down long stone corridors and up the western staircase, all warmly lit with sconces on the walls. The druid monks might not have lived in lavish surroundings, but the rooms were clean and warm, with big stone fireplaces piled high with wood. I chose to stay in the same room as Penelope since I didn’t want to leave her alone. The beds were small but comfortable, covered with soft linens and warm furs. After a quick sponge with the hot water the druids had sent up from the kitchens, Penelope and I changed into the warm and dry woolen robes the monks had given us and sat down in the old faded armchairs before the roaring fire.

  Victor came to our room to check on us, which was a comfort in itself. It had been such a long time since I was warm and safe and with people who knew what to do. Kalen’s illness, if you could call it that, had taken a bigger toll on me than I cared to admit. If I had not dragged him along in the first place, he would be safe at home. Instead, he had risked his life and nearly died. I hoped the druids knew what they were doing. Kalen was my closest friend, the one who was always by my side.

  “Will Kalen be okay?” I asked Victor as he opened the door to leave.

  The old druid nodded. “Yes, I believe he will be. You got here just in time.”

  The next morning, I opened the thick curtains to gaze out at a land of trees and mist. Beautiful on a grand, sweeping scale, the magnificent landscape stretched out before me as far as the eye could see. Penelope was already dressed in her own clothes, which had been washed and dried, and waited while I hurried to put on my own.

  We walked quickly along the long stone corridor and down the staircase. I hadn’t noticed the beautiful banister last night when we came in, shaken as I had been with the appearance of the Drakwraith and worry for Kalen. I ran my hand along the intricate carvings of ancient creatures, fae, and, surprisingly, demons as well.

  Victor was waiting for us by a set of big doors that led out from the main foyer.

  “How is Kalen?”

  The old druid clasped his hands in front of him. “He will live, but he is not awake yet. The shard was deep inside his veins, and it took a great amount of power for Brother Sebastian to stop it from moving closer to the heart. We just caught it in time—another day and he would be dead.”

  Penelope’s shoulders sagged in relief. “When can we see him?” Her tone was weary.

  “Soon,” said Victor. “Brother Sebastian still has to remove all traces of the shard from his blood. It is hard and tedious work, but no one is a better healer.”

  I nodded, relief apparent on my face as I smiled at Penelope and turned to the large doors. I could hear the murmur of voices and the clink of plates and cutlery. We followed Victor into a vast hall with tall wood-framed windows and rectangular tables. I hadn’t realized how many monks lived in this monastery—there must have been over a hundred. I was glad to see the druid monks were not extinct as everybody thought they were.

  We sat down for breakfast next to Rafe, who was already finishing up. Tristan came to join us. He had stayed with Kalen the whole night, and now Ashara was standing guard. The food was simpler than palace fare, but it was a lot better than what I had eaten at taverns.

  Sliced loaves of freshly baked bread lined the tables in baskets, and around them were little clay pots filled with creamy white butter, a tart berry jam, and thick dollops of cream, which of course I couldn’t resist. Slices of cured meats and boiled eggs were set up across all the tables, and I noticed some of the monks were eating an oatmeal porridge that they topped with dried fruits, nuts, and fresh honey. I sipped on my cup of hot milk brewed with cinnamon and wondered how to approach the druids to help me with the information I needed.

  After breakfast was over and the other monks filtered out, Penelope got straight to the point. “Victor—” she lowered her voice, “—you know why we are here?”

  Victor nodded slowly but let Penelope continue.

  “It is imperative we find the Dark Dagger before Morgana or the general use it to wake Dragath.”

  The old druid looked at Penelope, his features solemn. “Child,” he said to the three-hundred-year-old High Fae, shaking his head. “As the fae queen’s sister, you should have been able to read the signs in the stars.”

  Penelope’s blue eyes turned steely as she arched an elegant eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  The old monk sighed as if he had come to the end of the road. “The general cannot wake Dragath—” he glanced sidelong at me, “—because Dragath is already awake.”

  An eerie silence fell over the group as everyone tried to process what the old druid had just revealed.

  “How?” Penelope asked while the others came to terms with this news.

  The druid looked around at our worried faces. “He is not yet fully awake. He has found a way to move his consciousness into another’s body, and so his powers are still limited. That is why he needs to complete the ritual—to release his body and all of his powers.”

  Penelope clasped her hands together, and her eyes shone with understanding. “The general is Dragath.”

  “Precisely.”

  Penelope’s face tightened. “Then all the more reason to make sure he doesn’t get the Dagger.”

  Victor nodded. “Yes, but the Dagger is not all he needs to raise his true form and powers. There is still one thing that has eluded him.”

  Penelope lea
ned forward and whispered, “Once they have the Book of Abraxas and the keys to open it, they will have everything they need. We must stop them.”

  The old druid shook his head, and a shadow crossed his aged face. “When Auraken Firedrake and Illaria Lightbringer sealed Dragath in his prison in Mount Khatral, they used blood magic to do it. Opening the Book of Abraxas and wielding the Dagger is only part of what the general will need to raise Dragath.”

  Dread inched down my spine; I knew instinctively I wasn’t going to like the answer, but I asked anyway. “What more could he need?”

  “The blood of his jailers,” said Victor slowly, turning his fathomless brown eyes on me. “The blood of the Firedrake line.”

  My face paled. “My blood.”

  Victor nodded. “Indeed.”

  Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “And you know who the general really is?”

  I held my breath.

  “Come.” Victor got up slowly from the bench. “It is better that you see for yourself.”

  The old druid led us into what was unmistakably the library. Shelves upon shelves of old scrolls and ancient tomes no one outside this monastery had seen in centuries lined the walls. Wooden ladders on wheels were attached to every wall, and a number of monks were hanging precariously on them, trying to find elusive titles.

  Victor opened a small door at the end of the library and we all stepped inside. All the room contained was a table made of a natural crystal, its surface polished to a smooth sheen. But there was a fog beneath the surface, constantly shifting and swirling.

  Penelope raised an eyebrow. “A scrying table?”

  Brother Victor nodded. “The only one left in existence.” He looked over at me. “It is how we knew you were coming. We have been keeping track of you ever since you came back into this world.”

  I swallowed, my voice rough. “How does it work? Can you show us who this general is?”

  Victor raised his staff and waved it over the table. The fog in the table parted, revealing a small legion of soldiers camped at the base of a mountain.

  “I don’t recognize the area,” Penelope said. “Can we get closer, Victor?”

  Victor nodded and moved his staff over the table; the magic within it hummed and the scene changed. The general was in his tent in the midst of a small encampment of soldiers. But he was not alone. Andromeda was there, and so was Skye.

  The general was speaking, his back toward us and his hand held out. “Give me the book, Andromeda. I will not ask again.”

  She clutched it to her as I had seen her do before. She didn’t intend to give it up. “We had a deal, General,” Andromeda spat out the words. “You and Morgana were supposed to make me Queen of Elfi.” She lifted her chin. “Do you see a throne?”

  The old druid raised his staff and the scene shifted until we were staring right into the general’s face.

  Penelope’s hand flew to her mouth but could not stifle the gasp that escaped. Her face turned white as she leaned forward to get a better look. “Joreth!” Her voice cracked slightly. “This is impossible—he died twenty years ago in the last mage wars. I was there, I saw it with my own eyes.”

  I looked at her and Rafe and back at Victor. “Who is Joreth?”

  Penelope’s tone was low and serious. “Don’t you remember your history lessons at the academy, Aurora? Joreth was a traitor, the leader of the Black Mages. He and Lilith tried to take the kingdom from your grandfather.”

  My stomach dropped to the floor. I did remember her telling us about the Black Mages and the army of traitors my father defeated over twenty years ago. “But isn’t he supposed to be dead?”

  Penelope nodded. “Your father faced him in battle and killed him.”

  “Unfortunately,” the old druid interrupted, “Joreth didn’t die. Watch and you will understand.”

  We all turned back to the scrying table.

  Joreth smiled at Andromeda, as sinister as a deadly snake about to strike, and a chill scuttled down my spine. His obsidian eyes glistened as he regarded the Grand Duchess of the Day Court, who, despite the circumstances, stood with her head held high, not cowering before him. I respected her for that, but I also knew it was a vain stance. Joreth would get what he wanted eventually. Dragath would not let one High Fae stand in his way. And I was right.

  Out of the pocket of his robes he drew forth the Dagger. I gasped. He already had it. It wasn’t with Morgana as we had presumed.

  The blade glistened with an eerie sheen, and the ruby on the hilt shone the color of blood as he turned it over in his hands. The blade, curved and twisted, was made of a metal that seemed to absorb all the light around it, a black pit of darkness that consumed everything it touched. Even so far away, seeing the dreaded Dagger caused my heart to beat fast, and I shuddered involuntarily as I remembered what it had done to me. How it had made me feel powerless and alone, as if there would never be any light left in the world. It had stripped me of my magic as if it were no more than a piece of clothing. If I hadn’t had my mage magic tethering me to this world, I would have been trapped in the Dagger with my mother and all the other fae-warriors of Elfi.

  Andromeda’s eyes widened in shock, and I could see real dread in them. No fae could stand before the Dagger of Dragath and not experience fear.

  Like lightning, he struck.

  Before Andromeda realized what was happening, the Dagger sucked her in. In a flash, she was gone. The book in her hand thumped to the floor where she had been standing.

  Skye screamed, “Mother!” But it was too late.

  Joreth turned to her and held out his hand as Skye bent down and picked up the book. “I hope you have more sense than your mother.” His voice was cruel, mocking.

  She stood before him, her face showing a multitude of emotions. My stomach twisted as she handed him the book.

  “Now all he needs is the key,” Penelope said softly.

  “And a Firedrake,” said Victor, shooting me a quick look as he waved his staff and the table went dark.

  Everyone was quiet as we tried to process what we had just seen. We took a seat in the library on benches around an ancient oak table piled high with dusty leatherbound tomes and haphazardly strewn scrolls. The monks were not exactly a tidy bunch.

  Finally, Penelope spoke. “I think we need more of an explanation, Victor. How is Joreth still alive?”

  “Captain Jarvik brought him to us on a night just like this twenty years ago,” Victor explained. “At the time we did not know Dragath, or rather his consciousness, resided in this man’s body. We have always helped those in need, and he was close to death. He shouldn’t have survived, but Dragath’s dark powers somehow held his body together until he could be healed.”

  “Go on,” Penelope urged.

  “We healed him, and he stayed with us for a few months. He showed a lot of interest in the knowledge of magic, so we permitted him to stay and learn with us. We trusted him because we had no reason not to. He began spending a lot of time in the library, and when we finally realized why, he had already fled with the scroll.”

  “What scroll?” I asked.

  “The scroll that gave him the names of the Guardians of the Keys to the Book of Abraxas,” said Victor, shaking his head.

  “And he gave the names to Morgana?” Penelope prodded.

  “Yes.”

  Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’d better start from the beginning, Victor. We are completely lost here.”

  The old druid nodded and got up from the bench. “Come with me.” He gestured for us to follow. “There is something else I need to show you.” He looked at Tristan. “You too, Prince Tristan. We are going to need your help for this.”

  My brows furrowed as everyone got up and followed Victor out of the library. “Where are we going now?”

  “You’ll see,” he said cryptically and started climbing the steps to the tower. “Once we found out what Joreth had taken and who he really was, it was too late,” Victor went on. “Dragath cast a cu
rse over this whole island so that we could never leave or warn anyone about him.”

  “That’s why the druids disappeared twenty years ago,” said Rafe, almost to himself.

  “We didn’t disappear, King Rafael,” said the old druid. “We were always here. Dragath’s dark curse also kept people away from the island, and the Drakwraiths were left here to make sure no outsider ever made it to the monastery alive.”

  Finally, after climbing a long winding staircase that led hundreds of feet up through the monastery, we reached the top of the tower.

  The room itself was magic; I could feel it in the air as we walked through the large wooden door at the top of the stairs. The tower was built in a square and so was the room. Opposite us on the far wall hung a massive, intricately woven tapestry.

  “It can’t be!” Penelope gasped aloud. “Is that the Thirteenth Tapestry?”

  “Yes.” Victor nodded. He moved forward to touch it, almost in admiration. It reminded me of the tapestry in Redstone Manor through which I had entered this world.

  “How?” Penelope’s eyes were as wide as saucers as she took in the elegant weave of the ancient tapestry hanging on the wall in front of us.

  “For centuries we have searched for the missing pieces of the tapestry, and when we found them, we wove them back together. Brother Sebastian and I have been working on this for over two hundred years.”

  I was used to people being unusually old in Avalonia, but I had to ask. “How old are you really?”

  “Older than everyone in this room, young lady,” said Victor, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips, wrinkling his worn face.

  Penelope stepped closer to inspect it. She hesitated, and I could see fear in her touch. “Does it still work?”

  I stepped forward. “Sorry to interrupt, but can someone please tell me what the Thirteenth Tapestry is?”