Dragon Child

by Elana A. Mugdan

  Interest kindled in the man’s eyes. “Where are you from?”

  “Uh . . . Noryk?”

  The guard nodded. “Proceed to the road. We’re under orders to test all through-traffic, so you’ll have to pull over.”

  “Oh, I don’t have time to take a test,” Fletcher stammered. “I’ll go around, it’s no problem—”

  “That’s not an option at this point,” the guard told him. “Anyone living or traveling along the East Outlet is at risk.” He gestured for Fletcher to get moving.

  “Go, please,” Fletcher whispered to the boulder. “The creature—the golem, as the other man had called it—lurched into motion, plodding toward the blockade. “At risk of what?” Fletcher asked, turning to the mounted Imperial, who’d heeled his horse forward to accompany the bloodbound.

  “Infection,” was the curt reply.

  Fletcher’s stomach did an odd sort of flip-flop. He scrunched his neck, retreating into his coat like a turtle pulling its head into its shell.

  “What’s your name?” said the guard.

  “Maevran Thornfallow,” Fletcher lied. “What about you?”

  “Lieutenant-General Zavier Ashrold.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Fletcher. He halted the golem, which would probably have plowed through the line of Imperials if left to its own devices.

  “I have to ask you to step out,” said Ashrold.

  Fletcher reluctantly complied. He dug in his left coat pocket, clutching Maevran Thornfallow’s identification papers and the letter Lady Aldelphia had given him so many months ago. Both had suffered severe water damage in the sewers, but at least the letter still bore the empress’s seal.

  “Arm,” a Galantrian soldier said in a gruff voice, striding up to him. Fletcher gazed at the man in confusion. The Galantrian huffed in exasperation and glanced at Ashrold, who nodded. On cue, the Galantrian seized Fletcher’s left wrist.

  “Hey,” Fletcher gasped as the man pushed his sleeve up to his elbow, exposing his pale brown flesh. “What are you doing?”

  “A simple procedure to test whether you’ve been exposed to the magical compound known as darksalm,” said Ashrold.

  The Galantrian produced a needle from his robes and pressed it into Fletcher’s arm. Fletcher felt a pinch as it punctured his skin. His stomach flipped over again when dark red liquid spurted into the hollow glass instrument.

  When the needle had filled with Fletcher’s blood, the Galantrian removed it from his arm. Fletcher watched with mounting apprehension as the man turned to an Erastatian who produced a crystal vial sealed with cork and wax. Dust blacker than pitch stirred softly inside, though his hand was steady as he held it aloft.

  Darksalm, Fletcher thought, his chest tightening in horror. This guard was calmly carrying a sample of the most dangerous substance in the world in his pocket. The Galantrian stuck the needle’s point through the cork and ejected Fletcher’s blood into the darksalm chamber.

  “No,” Fletcher screamed, leaping forward. He slammed into an invisible barrier—an air shield wielded by the Erastatian.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ashrold. “The darksalm is no longer volatile. It won’t infect you. The substance will only react if there are active necro-threads in your blood.”

  Breathing heavily, Fletcher gazed from Ashrold to the vial. He watched as his blood mingled with the shadowy dust. After what seemed an eternity, the guards looked at Ashrold and shook their heads. The Galantrian wielded, and Fletcher’s blood rose out of the vial, flowing into the needle whence it had come. The guard removed the needle from the cork and emptied the chamber, unceremoniously spewing Fletcher’s blood onto the ground.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Master Thornfallow,” said Ashrold. “You’re clean. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I’ll be happy to escort you to the border of Riyon to ensure your safe passage.”

  Fletcher was too shaken to protest. He tugged down his sleeve and retreated into the safety of his carriage. “Let’s go,” he murmured, and the golem lurched forward. The Imperials parted to allow it through. Ashrold clucked to his horse, following the bloodbound.

  Fletcher didn’t dare speak to the guardsman. Why was Ashrold bothering to be nice to him? Perhaps it was because he looked like a nobleman. The coat, carriage, and golem were marks of extreme wealth—and wealth was a mark of power in Allentria. If he’d tried to pass the blockade as Fletcher the peasant, he suspected he wouldn’t have been treated half so well.

  “You may want to close your window,” Ashrold advised. “We’re approaching a decontamination point.”

  Fletcher pulled the window shut and latched it, but not before a burning smell reached his nose. Pressing his cheek against the cold glass, he looked ahead and saw they were nearing one of the pillars of smoke. Fire roared in a deep stone pit beside a tributary that fed into the lake. More people lined the shore here, standing before a group of Imperials who were systematically testing everyone’s blood.

  Suddenly a shrill scream pierced the air. The woman at the head of the line sank to her knees, shaking with sobs. The guardsmen wore grim expressions. One gestured to the vial he held, and the woman’s cries redoubled as two more Imperials arrived. They handcuffed her and led her away from the cluster of villagers waiting their turn to be tested.

  Fletcher was out of the carriage before he had time to think about what he was doing. He strode toward the guardsmen and yelled, “Wait!”

  The guards hesitated and looked at Ashrold. Ashrold yanked on his horse’s reins and steered his mount in front of Fletcher.

  “Master Thornfallow, I must ask you to return to your carriage—”

  “What are you doing to that woman?” Fletcher demanded, pointing at the handcuffed villager. Ashrold glanced at his soldiers, inviting them to report.

  “The test came back positive, sir,” said the man who held the vial. “We’re following protocol.”

  “For the safety of the villagers and for the welfare of all Allentrians, we quarantine anyone who has tested positive for darksalm infection,” Ashrold explained to Fletcher.

  “But why are you treating her like a prisoner? You should be helping her!” Fletcher had seen this sort of behavior in Aeria: it was nothing less than a witch-hunt. The Elders’ favorite ways to deal with witches included hangings, stonings, and burnings. Fletcher’s gaze flickered to the fire pit, and he prayed the blaze was only there for warmth.

  “Perhaps you’re not familiar with the prognosis of a darksalm infection,” said Ashrold. “Nothing can help her now, and if the infection is allowed to run its course, she will die and rise again as a shadowbeast. We must neutralize the threat before that happens to ensure the safety of our other citizens.”

  A chill raced across Fletcher’s skin. “Neutralize?”

  “Yes, neutralize. I must insist that you return to your carriage immediately. Proceed, soldiers,” Ashrold added, and his underlings resumed their work, leading the woman toward a windowless building.

  Fletcher made no move to do as Ashrold commanded. He watched as the next villager offered his arm for the blood test. “How can you do this to your people? If Empress Aldelphia knew this was happening—”

  “Empress Aldelphia is the one who ordered this inspection,” said Ashrold. “You have the right to review the writ.” He reached into the folds of his gray cloak and produced a leather-sheathed scroll. Fletcher took it and unrolled it, revealing the parchment within. The Allentrian runes were indecipherable, but the seal at the bottom of the page bore the Imperial Crest.

  “Surely you’ve heard about the dangers of necromagic,” Ashrold was saying. “You know the Dragon Speaker has caused havoc in the north. The best we can do as a nation is to contain the Shadow and its forces before they infiltrate our empire.”

  “The Dragon Speaker is fighting the Shadow,” Fletcher retorted, perhaps unwisely.

&n
bsp; Ashrold shook his head. “That’s what she would have you believe, but she has betrayed Allentria. It is from the dragon’s blood that the darksalm was made, and by her hand has it been spread. The beast has been wielding evil magic, murdering hundreds of innocent civilians in the Galantasa.”

  Fletcher was speechless. He couldn’t believe how the stories had been twisted. And he couldn’t believe how Ashrold—how everyone—had turned their backs on Thorion. Why were they so quick to blame him for what had happened, instead of blaming Necrovar?

  Incensed, Fletcher thrust the scroll at Ashrold and stomped to the bloodbound. The golem had stopped and was patiently awaiting him.

  “To Elvinthrane,” he said as he climbed inside, in a cold voice that was hardly his own.

  The golem lurched forward with a grating rumble. As if it sensed Fletcher’s thoughts, it veered away from Riyon, angling to the south to escape the Imperials and their grisly task . . . a task that had been commanded by the empress herself.

  Ashrold wheeled his horse around, returning to his post. Fletcher was grateful to be rid of the man. He reached into his pocket once more and his hand closed on Aldelphia’s letter. He had kept it safe through every obstacle he’d faced because it proved that he was an Allentrian citizen. Even after he’d believed the danger of deportation was long behind him, he’d held onto it because it had become meaningful. A symbol. A representation of his new home.

  He withdrew the tattered, waterlogged letter and stared at the seal, which had been pressed into a gob of golden wax. Then he opened the window and slipped the letter out. The winds caught it and bore it away, carrying it from sight as the golem trudged onward.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “There can be no triumph without adversity.”

  ~ Exandrya Lumenarion, Second Age

  Thorion left the cave early the day before the full moon. He flew across the basin to the northwestern ridge of the Naetren Mountains. From there he could see the rocky coast and the ocean. Birds swooped through the skies in a graceful dance. Wind hummed softly through the claw-like peaks. It was cold, but Thorion spread his wings and soaked up the warmth of the sun, and soon he was comfortable.

  At midday he began to feel inexplicably anxious. Suspecting that he was sensing Keriya’s distress, he cloaked his mind to keep himself separate from her. It was irresponsible, but it was his turn to enjoy some alone time. He lay down to rest, slipping into a state of lethargy.

  He awoke to the far-off sound of screaming. He raised his head, blinking sleep out of his eyes with his membranous lids. The sun was setting over the sea, its golden rays shattering on turbulent whitecaps. He twitched an ear and tilted his head to listen. That was Keriya’s voice.

  Instantly he was on his feet. His wings, which had huddled to his sides while he’d rested, snapped out. He galloped toward a ledge and leapt up, letting a gust of ocean air carry him toward the cave.

  He dropped his mindcloak.

  She sounded relieved, but he caught traces of lingering panic and growing fury in her thoughts. Squinting through the descending dusk, he spotted her in the middle of the basin. She was alone but there were two figures further south, which told him Max and Seba were also looking for him.

  He angled into a dive and soared toward the ground, backwinging to slow his descent. He stretched out his legs and landed as Keriya came pelting toward him. She was a wreck: her hair was messier than usual, her eyes were puffy, and her pallid cheeks looked sunken and gray, as if she hadn’t slept for days.

  “Where were you?” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck. “You scared me half to death! I thought you might . . .”

  She didn’t need to finish her sentence. A torrent of emotion poured out of her, and Thorion saw she had feared for the worst when she hadn’t been able to find him. He also gleaned, from the surface-thoughts in her head, that his nap hadn’t lasted just for an afternoon, but for a day. He’d been missing all night. She hadn’t gotten any sleep.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was tired.”

  “You didn’t tell me where you were going, didn’t bother to contact me telepathically, I couldn’t sense you, and—what do you mean, you were tired? Have you been sleeping this whole time?”

  “The darksalm has sapped me of energy.”

  A slurry of sadness and shame seeped out of her when she heard that. But her anger didn’t lessen; if anything, it grew.

  “How am I supposed to know that? How am I supposed to know anything? You don’t talk to me. You keep secrets.”

  It was Thorion’s turn to feel shame stab at him. There were many things he kept from Keriya, and he hid them with all the skill he had so that knowledge wouldn’t hurt her. But she had guessed, or discovered something.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, which was the truth. She nodded and scrubbed the ends of her sleeves across her waterlogged eyes.

  “At least you’re safe,” she sighed. “Let’s head back. It’s the full moon tonight.”

  It was a long way to the cave. Thorion might have been able to carry Keriya if he’d been feeling better, but exhaustion had settled back into his bones. So they walked side by side, collecting Max and Seba as they went, and trekked on foot.

  Thorion asked telepathically.

  She paused and glanced at him with a calculating expression.

  Thorion’s stomach sank. He feared where she was going with this.

 

 

  Her mindvoice was quiet and tired.

  he protested.

  she repeated bitterly.

  She lengthened her stride, outpacing him. Thorion let her go. He understood her anger, but that didn’t lessen the sting of her words.

  It was dark by the time they reached the cave, and the Oldmoon was climbing the heavens. Uhs had rekindled the fire—how he did it without human hands, Thorion didn’t know—and a cloth bundle dangled from his mouth. This he dropped at Keriya’s feet.

  “Laesabrel buds,” he said by way of explanation. “They have powerful healing capabilities. They replenish a depleted magicsource quickly and revitalize dying life-threads.”

  Keriya took the bundle and murmured her thanks. Max and Seba retreated into the shadows to give the werelion space.

  “We wait one more moon-length,” said Uhs, “then I will change out your infected threads, drackling. I will take this time to remind certain members of our group that I can only change the physical threads of a body. I cannot change a soul.”

  Keriya’s face darkened, but she said nothing.

  Thorion waited silently as the Oldmoon crawled toward its zenith. Uhs fussed around the fire pit, kicking a pile of smelly herbs into the flames so they turned a flickering blue-green. He circled in place three times and settled on his haunches.

  “I think we are ready.” Uhs raised his right forepaw and extended one of his retractable claws. He drew the claw down the flesh of his left arm, opening a thin gash.

  “Usually I would also perform the ritual on the patient,” Uhs explained, “but usually my patients are not armored with dragon scales.”

  “You want me to bleed myself?
”

  “Oh yes. It’s part of the process. We must drink each other’s blood.”

  Thorion’s heart skipped a beat. He flattened his ears to his skull and took an involuntary step back. “You—you can’t drink my blood.”

  “How else are we supposed to establish a proper connection between our life-threads?” the healer asked.

  “You can’t,” Thorion repeated, shaking his head madly. “It will . . . change you.”

  “I am a master of changemagic,” Uhs said flatly, “and you are spouting nonsense.”

  Though anger flared in Thorion at these words, a cooling sense of relief swept through him. Uhs didn’t know all the dragons’ secrets.

  “I will not allow you to drink my blood. Do it some other way, or do nothing.”

  “Thorion,” Keriya gasped.

  He ignored her. He might be tired, might not have full command of his source, might see the shadowy veins creeping further across his body day by day, but his blood was too precious—and too dangerous—for him to share it.

  “Very well,” Uhs snapped. He rose and stalked into his cave. For a moment Thorion thought the werelion had decided not to do anything, but Uhs re-emerged carrying another bundle of herbs in his teeth. He spat these into the fire, and the flames paled to a ghoulish yellow-green.

  “Drop your blood in the fire,” Uhs instructed him.

  Thorion figured this was safe to do. He sat on his haunches and raised both arms. Using his right talons, he dug into the scales on his left wrist. The empty claw socket of his littlest finger glowed in the light, a gruesome reminder of the last time someone had tried to take his blood. Pain pinched him as he ripped a single scale from his hide. He flicked it away and held out his left arm. Dark droplets welled and fell, one by one, into the flames.

  At once, the fire flared and turned purple. Uhs leaned forward and, to Thorion’s horror, stuck his bleeding arm into the vibrant blaze.