A Dawn of Dragonfire: Dragonlore, Book 1 (4 page)

Elethor sighed.  "Here we go again."

He turned and headed back into his workshop, but Lyana followed him, ran around him, and faced him again.  She glared.

"Well, I have news for you, Prince Elethor Aeternum.  I
will
lecture you, as often as I like.  And you will listen to me.  I am engaged to your older brother, remember that.  I'll be his wife this summer and queen consort when he's crowned, and if you think I will be quiet and subservient to you, well… you better think again.  Do you understand me?"

"I understand perfectly," he said.

Her eyes narrowed, shards of green fire.  "Do you?"

He nodded.  "I understand that you are an intolerable, overbearing, supercilious—"

"Watch it, Elethor!"  She raised her hand, prepared to strike him.  "You forget that in addition to being intolerable, overbearing, and supercilious, I am also a knight in Requiem's army.  And I can kick your backside across this forest if I must."

He snorted.  "Yes, you are a soldier.  A soldier like my brother Orin.  You two are brave, strong heroes of Requiem.  And I suppose you think I'm but a lowly sculptor, so weak to your noble eyes."

Her face flushed.  "Don't put words in my mouth, Elethor.  I don't think you must be a soldier like your brother, but damn it, do
something
with your life.  Do something more than stargaze, chisel, and bloody mope all day."

He roared with rage, fingers trembling.  "My life is my own to live!  Not yours.  Not my father's."  He raised his fist; it shook with anger.  "I'm so sorry, Lyana.  I'm so sorry I can't live a life you approve of, that I'm such a failure to everyone.  Maybe I should go to court and talk of battles and politics and ancient histories; you and Orin would love that, wouldn't you?  Maybe I can grow a couple inches taller, until I
look
more like Orin too.  Is that what you want to hear?"  He glared at her.  "But I'm not him, Lyana.  I'm very sorry that I can't be tall like Orin, handsome like Orin, brave or strong like Orin.  Maybe
I
should have gone south to Castellum Luna, and Requiem's favorite son could have stayed among you instead of poor, weak Elethor."

He was speaking from anger.  He knew that.  He knew he'd regret those words later.  And yet he could not stop it; Lyana always brought this out from him.  He turned his back to her, fuming.  He liked to think of himself as a calm man.  He was an artist.  A scholar.  A poet.  He was not some hot-headed brute.  And yet whenever Lyana was around, he wanted to beat his fists against the walls… or strangle her.  Whenever she scolded him, he felt like an angry, hysterical child.  He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths and count silently to ten.  He stared at his new statue, letting Solina's marble beauty soothe him.

I miss you, Solina,
he thought, remembering how they would run through the forest, hide in caves, whisper and laugh about Lyana and Lord Deramon and all the others. 
I am a ruined man without you.

Behind him, he heard Lyana sigh.

"You've carved another one," she said softly.

The sadness in her voice stoked Elethor's anger.  He spun toward her, fists clenching.

"That is none of your business.  This is my workshop and I will sculpt what I please."

He expected her to shout, to rail, maybe even to strike him.  But Lyana only seemed so sad, and somehow that was a thousand times worse.  She touched his cheek.

"El, I worry about you," she said, eyes soft.  "We all do.  Since she left, you… spend all your time here in your workshop.  Sculpting her.  Whispering her name as you sleep.  Gazing at the stars all night as if she glowed among them.  When will you let her go?"

Elethor shut his eyes.  They stung, but he would shed no tears around Lyana.

"I love her," he whispered.

"And your family loves you!" Lyana said, voice more emphatic.  "
I
love you.  I know you don't believe me, but it's true.  Look at me, Elethor.  Open your eyes and look at me, and look at the world you live in.  Those days are gone."

He did open his eyes.  He looked at his brother's betrothed, this young woman of green eyes and red hair and words that cut him.

"You cannot know what it's like," he said, voice choking.  "You did not lose somebody you love."

She sighed, and before he could stop her, Lyana embraced him.  She laid her head against his shoulder, arms around him.

"No," she said softly.  "But… if I were to lose Orin, I don't know how I would live.  I love your brother.  I love him like the stars, like the sun after night, like spring after frost.  If he were to leave, I would be as a shattered jug."  She looked into his eyes, hand against his cheek.  "But it's been seven years, El.  It's time to return to your family.  You must let the past remain what it is—the past.  Your future lies ahead, Elethor, if you dare walk down its path."

He turned away from her, almost violently, freeing himself from her embrace.  She stared at him with huge, damp eyes, mouth open.  Elethor stormed away, leaving her among the statues, until he stood outside in the night.  Under the stars he shifted, took flight, and soared as a brass dragon.  He roared and blew fire in the darkness, fueling it with his rage.

Once you and I would have laughed at Lyana,
he thought. 
Do you remember, Solina?  You used to imitate her, walking around with nose upturned, scolding the plants for growing, berating the sun for turning, and calling yourself the Lady Know-It-All.

Now such jokes had lost their humor.  Now it seemed life itself had lost its light.  Orin had burned Solina and betrothed Lyana, and now Elethor remained here, trapped and lost, his love gone into deserts beyond immeasurable wastelands.

Cold air streamed around him, scented of snow.  He circled over Nova Vita, so high that the air thinned, making him heady.  Whenever he could, he flew this high, far above the herds, higher than his father flew, or Lyana, or anyone else.  He used to tell Solina,
Come, ride on my back and we'll explore the skies.

But she would never ride him or anyone. 
I am a proud child of Tiranor,
she would say. 
We do not become dragons, and we are no poorer for it; I walk where I must go.

Elethor looked over Nova Vita, the heart of Requiem, the only home he'd ever known.  The palace stood ahead, white columns rising like pillars of moonlight, and near it rose the Temple of Stars, its dome carved from polished silver.  Around these great halls rolled hills covered with birches, the trees rustling and sweetly scented in the night.  From the foliage peeked homes of white stone, workshops, and squares full of statues and fountains.  Three white archways led to underground tunnels where Requiem stored its treasures: ancient books, magical artifacts, and sacks of golden grain for winter.  Finally, two great forts bookended the city, their bricks craggy and their banners thudding:  Castra Murus, a squat garrison housing the City Guard; and Castra Draco, its four towers housing the Royal Army.

The structures—even the two forts—seemed part of the landscape to Elethor, blending with the forest as naturally as boulders or rivers.  It was a beautiful home—he had always thought so—but for Solina it had been a prison.  A place of exile.  Of pain.

Once, he knew, a million dragons had flown here, and Requiem had been a wonder for the world.  It had been three hundred years since the griffins burned this place, killing all but seven dragons.  Today fifty thousand Vir Requis lived here, descendants of the Living Seven—a small light, a whisper after the great song of the glory days. 
Yet we are rebuilding,
Elethor thought. 
We are making a new age of glory.
  His father carried the torch of Requiem now; Orin and Lyana would follow.  Elethor was second in line, and he would not sit upon the throne, for which he was grateful.  He wanted nothing more than a life of reflection, sculpture, and stargazing.

"And a life with you, Solina," he whispered.  "I pray every night that you return to us someday… that you return to me."

A cry pierced the night.

Elethor frowned and stared south.  A lone dragon flew there, wobbling, wings shaking.  She was a slim dragon, female, with golden scales.  She cried again, a cry of anguish and fear.

Elethor's breath caught.

"Mori," he whispered.

He flapped his wings, narrowed his eyes, and dived toward her.  His sister blew weak flame, cried again, and began tumbling toward the forest.  Elethor swooped, fear twisting his gut.  Air whistled around him.  Mori spun toward the distant trees, wings limp, sparks flying from her maw.  Elethor caught her ten feet above the ground, wrapping his claws under her.  She was so thin, so light in his grip.  He lowered her gently onto the snow.

"Mori!" he said.  "Mori, can you hear me?"

Birches rose around them, naked and icy.  His younger sister blinked at him, thinner than he'd ever seen her.  Her wings splayed out around her, and her tail flapped weakly.

"Elethor," she whispered.

His breath caught.  Mori had always been a timid thing, but there was new fear in her eyes, a haunting pain that tore through him.

They shifted into human forms.  Mori lay in his arms, gazing up with huge gray eyes.  Her gown was torn and bloody, her face pale, her lips trembling.  Dried blood filled her brown hair.

"What happened, Mori?" Elethor whispered, feeling as if snow filled his belly.

She held him, staring up into his eyes.  Her shaky breath frosted.

"They killed him, Elethor," she whispered.  Her fingers dug into his back.  "They killed him.  And they're coming here."

 
 
ADIA

Mother Adia, High Priestess of Requiem, stood above the grave of her daughter.

It had been thirteen years since Noela had died—a cherubic child of dark eyes and darker hair.  In those thirteen years, Adia had watched her other children grow into adulthood, watched white invade her hair, watched her husband turn from loving man to cold warrior… and yet the pain still lingered.

"I still feel like you only just left me," she whispered to the grave.

She smiled to remember the softness of Noela's hair, the sweetness of her smile, the warmth of her little fingers.  Adia's two other children looked like their father.  Bayrin and Lyana had the red hair, the green eyes, the fiery temper.  But Noela…

"You were like me," Adia whispered.  "You had black hair like mine.  Soft brown eyes like mine.  A sweet sadness like the one that lingers inside me.  You wouldn't have been a warrior… you would have been a priestess like me."

A cold wind blew through the night, scented of fire.  The wick of her lamp danced.  Adia wrapped her white robes around her. 
The people are lighting bonfires,
she thought.  It was the Night of Seven, a night to remember the seven Vir Requis who had survived the Destruction three hundred years ago, the seven who gave birth to this nation of fifty thousand.  Across the hills of Requiem, people would be lighting bonfires of memory, and this midnight Adia would walk through the temples, light incense, and praise the stars for their blessings.

But I'll be thinking of you, Noela.  Today we remember the Seven… and today is the day you left me.

Thirteen years.  A lifetime of memory and grief.

"Adia."

The voice spoke behind her, deep but soft.  Adia turned to see Deramon, her husband, walk between the snowy graves.  Frost covered his plate armor, sheathed sword, and red beard.  His eyes, deep green, stared at her from under bushy brows.  In his left hand he held a lamp; in his right, an axe.

"Why do you bring steel to this place?" Adia whispered.  "This is a place of rest.  Of beauty.  A place for Noela to forever sleep under starlight.  Why do you bring axe and sword to the grave of our daughter?"

She saw the pain that caused him.  His eyes darkened, his mouth twisted, his knuckles whitened.  She had loved him once, Adia thought.  Thirteen years ago.  Before her world had crumbled.  Did she love him still?

Maybe,
she thought. 
But how can I love another?  How can I love anyone when my Noela awaits me in the starlit halls of our ancestors?

"I am Captain of the City Guard," Deramon said.  His voice was gruff, but she heard its pain.  "I am sworn to defend this city, my king, and my people.  My weapons stay with me… at my post, in my bed, even at the grave of our child.  You know this, Adia.  You are a priestess; forever the light of stars glows around you.  I am a warrior.  Forever steel shines with me."

Adia looked away.  She looked at the grave, her throat tightened, and her eyes stung with tears.  She felt one roll down her cheek.

"She would have been a priestess too," she whispered.  "I gave birth to three of your children, Deramon.  Two look like you, with red hair and green eyes and steel in their hands.  They are warriors.  They are proud.  And I love them.  But Noela…"  She trembled.  "She was like a young me.  A sad, reflective child.  Why did she leave me?"

Deramon growled, a low sound like a bear in his cave.   He placed his lamp down by the grave.  "Noela died in her cradle, Adia.  She was not yet two years old.  We do not know the woman she might have become."

She spun toward him, glaring.  "I knew!" she hissed.  Her eyes blurred with tears.  "I knew her soul, and her heart, and—"

Deramon grabbed her arm.  "Adia," he whispered.  His eyes narrowed, drowning in pain.  "Adia, I loved her too.  More than you can imagine.  But I also love Bayrin and Lyana—who still live, who still need us.  And I love
you
.  We still have a family to protect."

She closed her eyes.  "A family to protect.  A king to protect.  A city to protect.  You protect everyone, Deramon, but who protected her?"  She opened her eyes.  "We were not there for her, Deramon.  We didn't even
know
until the morning!"  Her voice rose, torn in pain.  "She lay dead in the cradle all night, as we slept, and it was dawn before we—"

Deramon howled.  "Enough!"

He tossed his axe aside; it thumped into the snow.  He held her with both hands.  She struggled, but he pulled her into his embrace, and Adia found herself weeping against his shoulder.  She shivered against him, and he held her tight and smoothed her hair.  She stood with arms at her sides, but then slowly reached around him and embraced him.