Dragon Child

by Elana A. Mugdan

  Slowly, Keriya reached for something beneath her cloak. She found what she sought, and withdrew a blunt, shiny weapon the likes of which Cezon had never seen. She lifted it with a hand that was shaking badly, staring at it with a haunted expression.

  Maxton lunged forward to stop Keriya from whatever she was about to do, but Emberwill beat him to it.

  “Guards,” he shouted. At once, the doors banged apart and palace soldiers surged into the room, weapons drawn. The secret entrance behind Cezon opened a few moments later, admitting more men.

  “What are you doing here?” a tall Fironian demanded, glowering at Cezon and Endred.

  “Cleaning service for His Royal Highness,” Cezon said quickly, whipping a filthy handkerchief out of his pocket and pretending to polish the pillar. The guards scowled, but they swept past without another word, forming a ring around Keriya, Maxton, and the king. Two soldiers grabbed Keriya’s arms, pinioning them to her sides. The metallic weapon was wrested from her grasp. From what Cezon could see, she did nothing to resist.

  “Escort the Dragon Speaker to the dungeons,” Emberwill said coldly.

  “Effrax, you can’t do this,” said Maxton. “She still needs to face Necrovar.”

  Emberwill raised a hand to silence him as his soldiers pulled Keriya toward the main doors. “She can’t win without a dragon. And in case you’ve forgotten, war is upon us. She’s safest in the dungeons while the kingdom is under siege.”

  The king stared after Keriya, who wasn’t so much being escorted as she was being dragged from the gilded chamber. She remained compliant, silent and unprotesting, but her eerie eyes sparkled with untold savagery in the light of the firelamps, turning them a furious shade of red.

  “Shivnath gave her a task,” Maxton argued. “She should be allowed to complete it. Your Highness,” he added, offering the Fironian a bow.

  Emberwill’s face softened, but he shook his head. He waited for the doors to thud shut behind Keriya and the guards before saying, “I can’t risk that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t need to tell you what we’re facing. No matter what power Shivnath may or may not have given her, do you honestly believe Keriya stands a chance against Necrovar?”

  Maxton didn’t reply. Lurking behind his column, Cezon’s heart thumped against his rib cage as a host of horrors occurred to him. Engrossed as he had been in the unfolding drama, he hadn’t considered the implications of the dragon’s death—what it meant for him, and what it meant for the world.

  “C’mon,” he whispered to Endred, retreating toward the servants’ entrance.

  “Where are you going?” asked Endred, following Cezon into the main hall.

  “We’re leaving,” Cezon said curtly.

  “Doesn’t matter much where we go, Cez.” Endred looked as troubled as Cezon had ever seen him. “You heard ’em. Necrovar killed the dragon. Won’t be long before the Shadow’s ruling Allentria.”

  “That’s why we’re leaving Allentria.”

  “Leaving . . . ?”

  “For good,” Cezon added. “We’ll gather supplies and head to the Cinder Isle ports.” He turned onto the throne room corridor and made a beeline for the stairs that led to the ground floor. “Once we get The Drachvold we’ll head north. We’ll tell the crew to meet us in Westvale, and if they miss the date we sail, that’s too bleedin’ bad for them.”

  “You’re goin’ right this second?” asked Endred. “What about Iako?”

  “What about him?”

  “You gonna leave him here?”

  “I’m leavin’ a lot of things here,” Cezon said in a sour voice, thinking of the silverware and candlesticks stashed in his room. Plus, Sebaris hadn’t yet paid him. He should have known he’d never see any money from her. That’s what he got for trusting royalty.

  “Cezon, you can’t abandon him.”

  “Oh, alright,” Cezon snapped, flapping a hand at Endred to shut him up. “We’ll send him a message once we’re safely out of Fyrxav, happy? He’ll follow us if he knows what’s good for him, the stinking blood-burned lagwit.”

  Endred didn’t look pleased, but he also didn’t argue. The two of them left Indrath Nazrith without trouble and hurried down the main thoroughfare, heading south. The tangy scent of palm fires and cooking spices hung in the air. Everyone on the streets looked lively and happy. They were celebrating the removal of Tanthflame and the shadowbeasts from their city.

  Little did they know their empire was doomed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  “Shadows exist so light can shine more brightly.”

  ~ Azrin Greypyre, Twelfth Age

  It had taken Fletcher and the elves a long time to reach Fyrxav. Their trek across the Fironem had been infuriatingly indirect. The state was swarming with Imperials and they’d had to make many detours to avoid the elite soldiers.

  Finally the capital was in sight. It sprawled on the edge of an oasis, the buildings rising on a gentle slope toward the peaks of the palace.

  “It would appear the king does need help with his home,” Taeleia murmured, scanning the terrain between their red stone ridge and the city. A trio of gray-robed men patrolled the area. They were acting strange—two were digging in the sand and the other was keeping watch. They moved around, digging more holes and covering them again.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” asked Fletcher.

  “Shivnath only knows.” Taeleia twitched her reins and her jungle cat sprang forward, loping toward the oasis. Danisan clucked to Yvore, and Fletcher clung to Danisan. He’d gotten better at riding, but he was also looking forward to never riding again.

  They stopped at the desert lake to let the cats drink. Fletcher noticed their small group was drawing a lot of attention—Fironians in the nearby bazaar gaped openly, and the people milling around the water’s edge avoided them. He distinctly heard a crotchety old woman mutter “Bloody outlanders” as she passed.

  “I get the sense we’re not welcome,” Fletcher muttered, drawing close to Danisan’s imposing bulk in an effort to shield himself from the glares of the crowd.

  “We’re in no danger,” Taeleia assured him. “They wouldn’t harm an elf.”

  Indeed, no one bothered her as she went about her business. She stopped outside the city gates to pay for a stable room where they could house the cats, and the merchant treated her in a polite, albeit cold, manner. Nobody tried to stop her as she entered the city with Fletcher and Danisan trailing in her wake, though wary eyes followed her every move.

  At the palace, two guards came forward to prevent Taeleia from entering.

  “What brings you to Indrath Nazrith?” one asked.

  “I am Taeleia Alenciae.” Her tone was unassuming, but at her words the soldiers straightened.

  “My lady, the king has been expecting you,” said the second man, who was shorter and older. He offered her a small bow.

  “Has he, now?” said Taeleia.

  “If it pleases you, I’ll escort you to the throne room,” said the older guard. He stood aside, inviting Taeleia to pass. She breezed between them. Before Fletcher could follow, a swordstaff whipped down to bar his path. The younger guard had blocked him from entering.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Taeleia demanded, whirling to confront the soldiers.

  “Only you may enter,” the older one explained.

  “No one else is to be let in,” his associate added. He glared at Fletcher, then at Danisan. The large elf met the human’s eyes and Fletcher was pleased to see the soldier shrink before that black, unblinking gaze.

  “Where you trust me to go, you may also trust my men,” Taeleia said in a tone that invited no opportunity to argue. “This is Danisan Carvaziae, my advisor. And this is—”

  “Maevran Thornfallow,” Fletcher interjected.

  “My bodyguard,” she finis
hed smoothly.

  The guards raised their brows. Perhaps they were uncomfortable with Taeleia’s request, or perhaps they were skeptical that Fletcher could be a bodyguard—but the younger man quailed beneath the force of Taeleia’s will and Danisan’s gaze. He lifted the swordstaff, and Fletcher hurried after Taeleia as she crossed a sandstone gallery toward an alabaster staircase.

  They ascended another flight of stairs before reaching the throne room corridor. Two more guards stood outside the entrance. They saluted Taeleia and opened the doors for her.

  Five people stood within the large chamber beyond. They were clustered around a table strewn with maps and stacks of papers. Four of them wore dark uniforms, and Fletcher marked them as military men. But the fifth person . . .

  “Effrax!” he cried.

  Effrax, who’d traded his traveling clothes for a ruby tunic and matching cape, looked up at the sound of his name. Grinning, Fletcher started to run toward him. With lightning reflexes, the old guard nabbed him by the arm.

  “Let him through,” Effrax said quickly. “He’s a friend.”

  Fletcher tugged himself free of the guard’s grasp, scowling at the presumption of the man. He straightened his coat and approached Effrax slowly, cautious of the surrounding military personnel.

  “Master Earengale.” Effrax strode forward to greet him. He shook Fletcher’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too,” said Fletcher, relaxing in the presence of his friend. “I got Roxanne’s message. Is she here? What about Keriya and Thorion?”

  A shadow clouded Effrax’s face. His smile faded and his eyes dimmed.

  “I see you were successful in your mission,” he said, turning to Taeleia and bowing. “Welcome, Lady Taeleia. You honor us with your presence.”

  “Thank you, Sire. I only wish we could have made it sooner,” she said, returning the bow. “Fletcher explained the situation to me. I have come to offer my services as a healer.”

  Again, darkness descended on Effrax’s handsome features, making him look tired and old. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Much has happened since we wrote that letter, I’m afraid.”

  Something in the tone of his voice gave Fletcher the chills.

  “I see that,” she murmured. “You must forgive me, for I received no word of your coronation.”

  “It was a somewhat rushed affair,” Effrax returned in a humorless tone.

  Fletcher, who felt like there was an awful lot he was missing, again asked, “Where are my friends?”

  “They’re here. They’re safe,” Effrax assured him.

  “Can I see them?”

  “Ah . . .” Effrax hesitated. Then he pursed his lips and nodded. “Of course. My soldiers will lead you to their . . . their quarters.” He nodded to the old guard. The man bowed and gestured sharply for Fletcher to follow him.

  Fletcher exited the throne room. He strained to catch the voices of Effrax and Taeleia as he went, but they were now conversing in whispers. He glanced back and saw the two of them standing together, heads bowed, wearing identical grave expressions.

  “This way,” said the guard.

  They snaked through a series of corridors and staircases, exited the palace, and crossed a sandy courtyard toward an archway covered by a metal grate. The grate swung open for them as they drew near, allowing them to descend a narrow corkscrew staircase. The pleasant spring heat vanished and was replaced by a chilly, clammy feeling and a smell of mold.

  “This can’t be right,” said Fletcher, staring around in consternation. Fire crystals in rusty brackets illuminated an aged ceiling encrusted with spiderwebs. The guard said nothing. They spiraled down one more story and reached level ground.

  “This is a prison,” Fletcher said loudly, stopping short at the sight of a forest of iron bars stretching into the darkness. His words rebounded off the far stone walls.

  “Fletcher? Is that you?” A voice floated from the shadows. Fletcher looked at the guard.

  “Fifth cell on the left,” the man grunted before he left.

  Bewildered and incensed, Fletcher dashed down the dingy hall and skidded to a stop. A pale orb appeared in the darkness of the fifth jail cell—the face of Keriya Soulstar.

  “Keriya,” he said, letting out a long breath. Her purple eyes danced with unshed tears that reflected the feeble light of the fire crystals. She reached through her bars to shake something on the floor of the cell next to hers.

  “Roxanne, wake up. Fletcher’s here.”

  “Hm?” The thing which he’d taken to be a bundle of rags moved, and Roxanne sat up slowly. As soon as she spotted Fletcher, her face broke into a grin. Keriya helped her stand and the girls hobbled over together.

  “Hi, Fletch,” Keriya whispered. “I was beginning to think I’d never see you again.” She beamed at him, but her lower lip was trembling. He reached through the metal rods and grasped her hand. Her skin felt like ice.

  “Helkryvt’s blood, what have they done to you?” he asked, looking between her and Roxanne. “Why are you here? Where’s Thorion?”

  At the mention of Thorion’s name, Keriya’s expression dropped. Her eyes grew dull, just as Effrax’s had in the throne room. A horrible feeling crept through Fletcher.

  “Fletcher, Thorion is . . .” Roxanne choked on her words and shook her head.

  “What? Thorion is what?” he asked. Keriya cringed away from him. She sank to the floor, crumpling in on herself.

  Roxanne closed her eyes. “He’s dead.”

  Fletcher wasn’t aware of sitting, but the next thing he knew, he was on the floor, too. His body had gone numb. The coolness of the dungeon turned cruel and frigid.

  He shivered and opened his mouth. He had a thousand questions—how had it happened? When? Where?—but as he stared at Keriya, he found he couldn’t bring himself to ask them.

  “I’m sorry.” He reached for her again and she wrapped trembling fingers around his.

  “I am, too,” she breathed.

  “That’s not why you’re here, is it?” he asked, indicating their surroundings.

  “No. Effrax put me here for my safety.”

  “Effrax?” Fletcher straightened and frowned. “He put you here? What—”

  “He’s king now,” Roxanne explained. “He’s also a filthy traitor. Oh, he didn’t have anything to do with Thorion,” she said, correctly interpreting Fletcher’s look of shock and outrage. “Nor with Necrovar. He actually kicked out Tanthflame and killed a bunch of shadowbeasts who were occupying the city.”

  “What?” Fletcher gaped at her, at a complete loss. “What in Shivnath’s name has been going on here?”

  Roxanne heaved a sigh. “Yeah, you missed a lot.”

  She spent the next hour telling Fletcher everything that had happened since they’d parted in Noryk. He listened with rapt attention.

  “So Effrax comes crawling back to me with more excuses, saying the last of the shadowbeasts have been killed and that I could come out,” Roxanne finished.

  “If he said you can come out, why are you still here?” Fletcher wanted to know.

  “That’s another saga. Seba showed up—with Cezon Skyriver, of all people—”

  “Cezon?” Fletcher gasped. “He’s alive?”

  “Yes, and he brought news of an army camped on the western border.”

  “None of that explains why the two of you are locked up.”

  “Yeah, well, then Keriya and Max arrived. And when—” Roxanne bit her lip and glanced at Keriya. In a softer voice, she said, “When Effrax heard the news about Thorion, they had a fight and he threw her in here. More bilge about it being safer for her.”

  “It doesn’t seem especially safe,” said Fletcher. Unless one counted the fact that you had to enter the palace grounds to reach it, there was no security whatsoev
er.

  “It’s laced with some kind of lifemagic enchantment,” said Roxanne. “A nasty spell that incapacitates everyone who disobeys the king’s wishes. He’s really proud of it, the stinking trog. Anyway, I wasn’t about to stay in my guest quarters while Keriya was in the dungeons. So, here I am.”

  “I can’t believe Effrax would do this,” said Fletcher. “I can’t believe he’d make you stay in these conditions!”

  “To be fair, he had cots and sheets brought down for me. But I’d rather rot on the floor than let him feel better because he made it a little nicer. I don’t need that rubbish.”

  “You might not, but she does,” he hissed, jerking his head toward Keriya. While Roxanne was unkempt from her stint in the dungeons, she at least looked well-fed and somewhat rested. Keriya, on the other hand, looked skeletal. Her jutting cheekbones emphasized dark circles under her eyes.

  “Have you been eating?” he asked her gently.

  “Effrax has hot food delivered to us three times a day,” said Roxanne. “Then the guards let us out to stretch and use the bathroom after mealtimes.”

  Fletcher stared at Keriya, waiting for her to respond.

  “I eat when I’m hungry,” she said.

  “Keriya, you have to keep your strength up.” Fletcher could tell she was lying—blood and bones, he could see she was starving herself. “We’re in the Fironem, where Shivnath wanted you all along. You can’t fight Necrovar like this.”

  “I’ll be okay.” Her voice was a mere shadow of what it once had been.

  Fletcher found that he was furious. Roxanne had been right—he should never have trusted Effrax. If he could so easily throw Keriya and Roxanne in prison, if he could sit in his fancy throne room while Fletcher’s friends suffered in squalor, then he was a bad person.

  “How dare he,” Fletcher seethed. He surged to his feet and marched up the hall.

  “Where are you going?” Roxanne called after him.

  “I’m going to have a word with the king.” Fletcher took another step and a searing pain shot through his leg. He stumbled, catching the bars of the nearest cell to keep himself from falling.