Fireborn (The Dark Dragon Chronicles Book 2)

by Ripley Harper

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “You will if you want to be my bodyguard.”

  “Or what? You’ll fire me again?”

  Jonathan interrupts our glaring contest. “What did you mean?” he asks Zig, “when you said the fire Jess created might not have been an illusion?”

  Zig gives him a stony look. “The opposite of illusion is reality.”

  “Nonsense,” Jack Pendragon says impatiently. “If that fire had been real, there would’ve been injuries, even deaths.”

  “Depends on the fire,” Zig says. “And her measure of control over its effect.”

  “None of the four types of lifemagic can grant that type of power,” Jonathan says.

  “There are more than four types of natural magic in this world,” Zig says.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Zig looks at Ingrid. “Surely the Black Clan still remembers.”

  She frowns at him for a few seconds, then lifts a shaky hand to her mouth. “Oh God,” she breathes. “Firemagic!”

  Chapter 4

  Their descendants all received the gift of Lifemagic. This was the magic of Blood and of Earth, of Sea and of Sky.

  The Bloodkeepers received the gift of passion. Their power grew from their love and their hate and gave them the easy skills of Physicality and the difficult skills of Seduction and Enthrallment.

  The Earthkeepers received the gift of memory. Their power grew from their kindness and cruelty and gave them the easy skills of Growth and the difficult skills of Healing and Remembering.

  The Seakeepers received the gift of intuition. Their power grew from their joy and their sadness and gave them the easy skills of Control over water and rain and the difficult skills of Prophesy and Foresight.

  The Skykeepers received the gift of mind. Their power grew from their fear and confidence and gave them the easy skills of Control over air and wind and the difficult skills of Clear Sight and Truth.

  The Codex Magicis Draconum (Latin version);

  translated into modern English by Sofia Rodriguez (2004)

  It’s about five minutes later. A moment ago, Jack Pendragon summoned the woman with the black-and-white uniform and asked her to bring him something from the library. Nobody answered any of my questions, so now we’re all sitting in silence, waiting for heavens know what.

  After an uncomfortably long wait, a different woman enters the room. She’s dressed in regular clothes and she has very long hair tied in a braid down her back. When she sees Ingrid, her step falters a little but she doesn’t acknowledge her in any way. She doesn’t seem to notice me at all.

  The woman is carrying a box made of thick white plastic. “I should not open this in an environment which is not temperature controlled,” she tells Jack Pendragon in a faint French accent. Her eyes flicker nervously to the massive fire burning away in the giant stone fireplace.

  “Open it.”

  She nods at his harsh command, her face expressionless, but I notice that she walks to a table right at the other side of the room, as far as possible from the fire, before she carefully opens the box to take out an old, cracked clay pot. She opens the clay pot very slowly, takes the lid off, and gently puts it aside. Then she pulls on a pair of tight plastic gloves, like the type a surgeon might use, before reaching into the clay pot and taking out what looks like an old piece of paper rolled up into a scroll. It’s clearly not just a piece of paper though: it seems both thicker and more fragile. From Ingrid’s shocked indrawn breath, I conclude that it must be special in some way, rare or ancient or valuable.

  “So that’s what happened to the Codex,” Ingrid murmurs.

  Jack Pendragon turns his entire head to her in that strange, lizard-like way he has. “Do you really want to have this discussion now?”

  She shakes her head briefly.

  He turns back to the woman in the uniform. “Read it,” he orders. “Start right from the top.”

  The woman takes what looks like a thick piece of velvet from the plastic box and smooths it out onto the table. She carefully places the scroll on the velvet and unrolls it slowly and patiently, bit by bit. Once unfolded, it’s hardly bigger than a sheet of printing paper. She bends over the table, careful not to touch anything, and studies the scroll through a large magnifying glass. I crane my neck but I can’t see much from where I’m sitting. Just a glimpse of some weird, evenly paced squiggles written in a dark ink, the color of dried blood.

  The woman opens her mouth to begin reading but then blows out a hesitant breath. “Imperial Aramaic was never my specialty. If you want me to translate this correctly, I will need some time.”

  “I know the correct translation,” Jack Pendragon says. “This isn’t for me—it’s for her.” He points toward Ingrid. “Just give us the gist, even if it’s not word perfect.”

  “That’s not how it works, exactly –”

  “I don’t care!” His voice snaps like a whip. “I know this isn’t the first time you’ve seen the Codex, so stop trying to cover your ass. You’ll read it to us right now or face the consequences.”

  The woman’s face pales slightly before she gives a tight little nod. Then she looks down at the scroll and begins to read, very slowly, as if carefully choosing every word.

  “The sons first born of our blood experienced the power of the living of this world. This was the power of flesh and of water, of air and of earth.

  The power of the body originated in passion. It fed on their loves and their hatreds to give them the pleasant gift of god-like strength and speed, and the painful gifts of fascination and deception.

  The power of the air—–”

  Ingrid interrupts the woman’s reading by clicking her tongue impatiently. “This is nothing but a bad translation of the most basic tenets of keeper lore. You’re wasting my time. I am weary of this evening and want to return home.”

  “There is more.”

  She gives Jack Pendragon her most withering look. “If you think you can keep me here under the pretext of exposing some secret hidden in an ancient text, all the while hoping my strength will fail so I’ll leave the little one unprotected, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “Tut tut. So little trust in my good faith. Perhaps you’re weaker than you’d like to admit?”

  She lifts her head proudly, but I’m sitting right next to her and I know that her whole body is trembling with the effort. “I may be weakened by your attack, but I’m strong enough to survive this night. I will take my ward home with me, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of stopping you,” he says, smiling coldly. “But you have misjudged me again, keeper. The Order would like you to believe that the Codex ends after the well-known verses setting out the powers of the four clans—but that’s a lie, like so many of their lies. The Codex continues beyond what is taught, and I think you might find the verses that follow particularly enlightening.”

  Ingrid sends him a withering look, but she does not leave.

  “Begin with the second half,” he tells the woman.

  She nods.

  “To the daughters first born of our blood, the powers of water and flesh and air and earth were also given. But because future generations would emerge from their bodies, they were also granted a fifth power. This was the power of fire.

  The power of fire was the power of the spirit. It fed on their anger and calm to give them the pleasant gifts of controlling flames, and the painful gifts of seeing, binding and blinding.

  So formidable was this gift that the sons came to hate the daughters. And to fear them. And thus our order was born.

  Because they had the power to see, the daughters had to remain unseen. Because they had the power to bind, the daughters had to be bound. Because they had the power to blind, the daughters had to be blinded.

  That is how it was and how it must forever be.”

  She stops reading. Everybody turns to look at me.

  “Firemagic,” Jack
Pendragon says slowly. “I wonder.”

  “But it’s just a myth!” Jonathan looks deeply upset for some reason. “You told me the Codex was merely the oldest of the Order’s deceptions. That it was nothing but a bunch of lies.”

  His father ignores him and coolly dismisses the woman from the room. We watch as she slowly and painstakingly puts the scroll back into the clay pot, and the pot into the plastic box, before taking off her gloves and leaving without a word.

  As soon as she’s gone, Jack Pendragon turns to Ingrid. “Do you know anything about this?” A sly smile. “Has the Black Clan been keeping secrets all these years?”

  “We have our secrets,” she says tiredly. “Secrets I will never tell you. But if you’re asking about firemagic, the answer is no. I know nothing about it.”

  “Nothing?”

  “There have been some rumors, of course.” She shrugs one shoulder then winces slightly, as if the tiny movement caused her pain. “Some say that in China, about six hundred years ago, one of our wards created a pet out of fire: a living, breathing companion made of flames. And surely you remember the legend of the FireQueen, that Viking shieldmaiden who left a trail of blackened earth behind her to become the leader and the terror of her people?” She thinks for a moment. “Oh, and not so long ago, in the eighteenth century if I’m not mistaken, two very reputable Black keepers believed a Scottish ward might be gifted in Firemagic.” A wry smile. “Then again, she died at the stake, so they must’ve been mistaken.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  He turns to Zig. “What do your people know?”

  “We follow the Old Words. We know what we have always known.”

  Jack Pendragon all but rolls his eyes. “And what does the Old Words say about Firemagic?”

  “Are you ordering me to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  As Zig begins to speak, his normal hateful expression becomes blank and then slowly, with every word, his face fills with a peaceful kind of awe.

  “The pure of heart shall witness the coming of a great darkness,” he begins, his voice low and rhythmic. “Upon those that dwell in the land of light, an endless night shall fall. For unto this world the Horror shall be born, and the weight of our destruction shall rest on its scaled shoulders, and its name shall be: Chaosbringer, Fireborn, Dreamweaver, Treasure Keeper, Worldbreaker.”

  I glance at Ingrid, who widens her eyes slightly.

  “And the Horror shall have no joy in those born of sky,” Zig continues in that same worshipful tone, “neither shall it have mercy on those born of sea, or blood, or earth. But for those born of fire, the Horror shall darken the light. For their protection, it shall devour the land. And the people shall be as fuel to its fire: neither woman nor man shall be spared. For its fire shall consume the flesh of the strong, and its fire shall consume the flesh of the weak, and the Horror shall not be satisfied until the entire world is sacrificed to the fire of its living hunger.”

  When he stops speaking, there’s a short, awkward silence.

  “Crikey,” I say.

  “Crikey indeed,” Jack Pendragon agrees. “That’s the problem with the Old Words. It sounds brilliantly dramatic, but heaven alone knows what any of it means.”

  “Its meaning is plain to anyone who seeks the truth,” Zig says. “But you have stopped your eyes from seeing; you have stopped your ears from hearing.”

  Jack Pendragon pointedly turns his back Zig. “Perhaps it will be more useful to leave aside the books for a while,” he tells Ingrid. “You claim you know nothing about firemagic, and yet I saw your face when you first said the word. I know you don’t like it, but I’m your only friend at the moment. If you want your ward to survive beyond the next couple of weeks, you’ll need to level with me.”

  Ingrid rubs her eyes with a shaky hand. “Tell him,” she says.

  Everyone looks at me.

  “The first act of magic I did was to put out a fire,” I say. “It was in August last year, at a barn party when some hay bales caught ablaze. At first, I just really liked looking at the flames; I thought it was beautiful and somehow, I don’t know… true. It made the rest of my life seem like a dream, a play I walked in on by mistake. But then I realized that a boy would die and I killed the fire. It wasn’t difficult. I willed it to stop and it did.”

  “That was you?” Jonathan asks.

  I nod.

  “You never told me anything about this,” his father says sharply.

  “I did. I told you something strange happened that night: a huge fire snuffed out instantly, like a candle. You chose not to believe me.”

  “Weren’t you on drugs that night? Some ‘weed brownies’ made by that idiot friend of yours?” He grimaces in distaste. “Of course, I didn’t believe you! It was exactly the kind of irresponsible, childish –”

  “She controlled the candles too, at the trial,” Ingrid interrupts, her voice a shaky whisper. “At the time I thought it must’ve been a form of skymagic—that she manipulated the air in a way that affected the flames. But now I’m not so sure.”

  “Oh!” Jack Pendragon says, sitting straighter in his chair. “Last year when I wanted to kill the Skykeeper boy—remember? She bound me fully and completely; I couldn’t touch him. I just assumed it was an undisciplined type of Enthrallment she’d forced upon me.”

  His words tug at my heart with a sharp, sudden ache. It’s always incredibly painful for me to think about Daniel, so I mostly avoid it, if I can.

  “Are you still bound even now?” I study my nails, trying to seem casual.

  He gives a hard, disbelieving laugh. “I can no more hurt that boy or his family than fly to the moon. It’s astonishing.”

  Thank God.

  I let out a secret sigh of relief.

  Jack Pendragon taps his thumb on the armrest of his chair. “I’ve been incredibly stupid. I should’ve realized what you did that night couldn’t have been a form of bloodmagic. Nobody in the world can Enthrall me so completely; I simply understand illusion too well. And yet you did it easily.” He snaps his fingers. “Just like that.”

  It might’ve looked easy to him, but it certainly didn’t feel easy to me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how much my head had hurt that night.

  “If the magic you used on me wasn’t based on illusion, it must’ve been another kind of power—one unknown, or long forgotten.” He stands up, starts pacing the room.

  “She bound John Sweeney too,” Jonathan tells his father. “I told you about it, remember? Ty was so freaked out, I had to wipe the entire incident from his mind.”

  I gape at him, surprised. Last year I forced our school’s principal to stop speaking mid-sentence when he was about to suspend me again. Ty, the football player who was with me in the office that day, later claimed it never happened.

  “That’s right. I remember.” Jack Pendragon stops pacing. “Can you imagine what advantage this would give us? If we really are dealing with firemagic, the Skykeepers won’t have a clue how to fight it. They’ll have no idea what they’re up against!”

  “Neither do we, really,” Ingrid says.

  “That’s why we should start drilling her straight away.”

  My stomach makes a slow, sick turn. “Right now?” I ask, my voice betraying my fear.

  “There’s no time to waste.”

  “I don’t know of anyone who’s ever attempted to drill a juvenile into this power,” Ingrid says. “It could be dangerous. I won’t risk it.”

  “You’re risking far more by keeping her powerless.”

  “She wasn’t raised in our ways. The drills are difficult for her.”

  “It’s the only way, keeper.”

  By this time my heart is beating like crazy and I’m feeling feel dizzy and sick. When the judges at the trial last year kept asking me if I had been “drilled” in magic, I simply assumed they were talking about a form of training. A kind of magical bootcamp maybe, or an intensive workshop in the magical
arts. Something lame anyway.

  But that’s not what they meant at all.

  To drill someone into magic means to push their body past its natural limits, in the hope that the body will reach beyond those limits to something more, something deeper and more powerful. Or at least, that’s the theory.

  In practice it’s torture. Plain and simple.

  Torture.

  Traditionally, one drills seamagic by submerging someone’s head in water, over and over again, not giving them time to breathe. One drills bloodmagic by chaining someone up and whipping them until they bleed. One drills earthmagic by imprisoning someone in a room full of dead plants. One drills skymagic by pushing someone off a cliff, or a rooftop, or a balcony.

  Those with a talent for seamagic will learn to deflect the water before they drown or suffer brain damage. Those with a talent for bloodmagic will develop reflexes fast enough to avoid the whip, or strength enough to break the chains. Those with a talent for earthmagic will make the plants bear fruit before they starve to death or suffer organ failure. Those with a talent for skymagic will learn to fly or be crippled.

  But not everyone is equally talented in all of the natural magics. Which means that for years, for centuries, girls like me ended up blind, or ill, or brain-damaged, or lame, or disfigured.

  That’s how they trained us. That’s what “drilling” means.

  That’s what happened to the women in my family, over and over and over again for as long as anyone can remember.

  Ingrid never drilled my mother. She loved my mom like a daughter, and when it came to the push, she couldn’t bring herself to put her through such hell. She only started drilling me at the end of last year, with great distaste and reluctance, because she was so desperate to find my power. And I know it hurt her; she’s not a cruel person by nature and the whole thing couldn’t have been easy for her.

  But it hurt me more.

  I now have ugly purple scars on my back, made by a whip, that will never go away. I have lost twenty-five pounds, and I have abnormal hair growth on my arms and neck because of the starvation I endured. I have come to hate and fear the water, and I cannot bear as much as a sheet over my face. My once glossy green hair is brittle and grey. My eyes are dull and my skin is cracked. I walk with a limp. I know what real pain is, and my nightmares are filled with cool blue eyes and orange masks and heavy robes.