A Dawn of Dragonfire: Dragonlore, Book 1 (5 page)

Yes,
she thought. 
I love him.  I love Deramon, though he has changed, and I have changed, and joy has left our lives.  But I still love him.

She looked aside at the grave, at the marble tombstone, at the place of all her sorrow and memory. 

And I love you, Noela.  Always.  I will see you again in our starlit halls.

Wings thudded behind her.  A dragon's roar pierced the air.  Adia spun around to see a blue dragon spiraling down toward the graveyard.

Lyana.  My daughter.

The young dragon's wings roiled the falling snow.  Smoke plumed from between her teeth, and the moon glimmered against her blue scales.  She landed, claws digging into mounds of snow, and shifted into human form.  Lyana stood before her parents, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide and frightened.  Frost whitened her armor.

She is like a young Deramon,
Adia thought again. 
A warrior like him, angry and proud like him, clad in steel and honor.
  Mother and daughter—fire and water.

"Mother!" the young woman said, panting.  "Quick, to the temple.  Princess Mori is hurt."

Adia frowned.  "Mori is far south in Castellum Luna.  The king sent her to—"

"She's back," said Lyana.  She shifted back into a dragon and took flight.  Her voice roared.  "Follow me!  She needs your healing."

Adia's head spun.  She took a deep breath and summoned her magic.  White scales flowed across her, clinking and glimmering.  Leathern wings sprouted from her back, and fire tickled her mouth.  She took flight as a long dragon, white as snow.  Her husband shifted too, and soon Deramon flew at her side, a burly dragon with clanking, coppery scales.

Parents followed daughter.  The three dragons flew over the graveyard, over city streets, and toward Requiem's palace of white marble.

Again the Night of Seven comes to Requiem,
Adia thought,
and again sorrow falls. 
It had always been a night of destruction.

As she flew over the city, she looked south; the horizon glowed red.  Distant fires blazed.

 
 
LYANA

Lyana Eleison, a knight of Requiem, stood in the hall of her king.  She wore chain mail, a breastplate, and a helmet of steel.  She clutched her sword so tightly her knuckles were white.

I will be strong,
she told herself, struggling to calm her racing heart. 
I am a bellator of Requiem.  Whatever evil befell my princess, I will fight it.

The palace's columns rose around her, pale as moonlight, their capitals shaped as dragons.  Braziers stood among them, crackling with embers, filling the hall with warmth and light.  Yet no fire could warm Lyana today; her chill gripped her from her belly, sending icy fingers through her.

People filled the hall around her: Lyana's father, the burly Lord Deramon; Lyana's mother, the willowy priestess Adia; King Olasar upon his throne, a crown of gilded oak roots upon his head; Prince Elethor, his eyes dark; a dozen guards with spears and shields.  All eyes stared at the young Princess Mori who stood trembling upon the palace's marble tiles.

"Hush, child, you're safe now," whispered Adia.  The priestess stepped forward, white robes fluttering, and embraced Mori.  "Nobody will hurt you here."

Lyana looked at the two—her mother and her princess—and her throat tightened. 
I am a knight of Requiem
, she thought.
 I am betrothed to a prince.  Yet now I too want to weep into a warm embrace.  Now I wish my mother held me, her daughter, the way she holds our princess.

"You're safe now, Mori," whispered Adia.  "You're safe."

The princess wept, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.  Blood caked her hair and tears etched lines down her ashy face.  She whimpered and clung to Adia, digging her fingers into the priestess's robes.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

Adia raised her eyes and looked over the weeping girl's head.  She stared at the Oak Throne of Requiem, which stood upon a marble dais engraved with gilded leaves.

"Please, Your Highness," the priestess said, "let me take her to the temple.  I will tend to her there."

King Olasar sat upon his throne of twisting oak roots.  His brows were heavy and black, his beard snowy white.  A tall man clad in dark green and steel, he held a sword on his lap—Stella Lumen, ancient blade of the legendary Lacrimosa, the queen who had fought the tyrant Dies Irae and reigned over ruins.  He was a wise king, Lyana thought, and a brave warrior.  She loved him like a second father.

"Not yet, Adia," the king said, eyes dark.  "Let my daughter speak.  Mori, look at me.  Tell me what happened.  Tell me everything."

Still clinging to Adia, the princess looked up at her father.  Tears spiked her lashes and her lips trembled.

"They killed him," she whispered.  "They killed Orin, Father!  They killed him."

Lyana stared.

Her heart shattered inside her.

Orin.  My betrothed.  No.  No…

Tears filled her eyes.  Pain gripped her heart and squeezed.  She looked up at her mother with burning eyes, at her father who stood by the throne, at Prince Elethor who gasped.  Tears blurred her vision and the world spun around her.

Orin.  Dead.

The grief swelled through the hall.  Lyana found herself clinging to Elethor, digging her fingers into his back.  He held her, tears in his eyes, his breath heavy.  King Olasar rose to his feet, his chest heaved, and even this great ruler's eyes filled with tears.  Lord Deramon gritted his teeth and clutched his axe, and the warriors who served him, guards of the throne, cried in grief.

He's gone.  Stars, he's gone.  My betrothed.  My love.  My Orin.

Lyana trembled as the world crashed around her.  If the columns of this palace fell and King's Forest burned, she'd have felt no less grief and shock.

Her father spoke first.  Captain of the City Guard, Deramon raised his voice above the cries of grief; it boomed across the hall.

"Who killed the prince?" he demanded.  He was perhaps the greatest warrior in Requiem, a gruff man of muscle and grit, but even his eyes shone with tears.  "Who killed Prince Orin?"

Mori dared not look at Deramon; she had always feared the lord's fiery beard, booming voice, and blazing eyes.  Face pale, the princess ran to her father.  She clung to the king.  For the first time, Lyana noticed that blood slicked the princess's thighs, and an iciness seized her.  She shivered. 
They killed Orin, and stars, what did they do to Mori?

"Tirans," Mori whispered, voice so soft, Lyana barely heard.  "They bore the sun of Tiranor on their armor.  Their swords were curved and gilded; they looked like beaks.  They had golden skin, and blue eyes, and hair like platinum.  I… they could fly, Father!  They flew as firebirds, great beasts of flame.  They are coming.  They will be here soon.  They burned him!  And they will burn us.  Father… they are coming, they…"

Mori's eyes rolled back, and she fell limp in the king's arms.

Lyana wanted to faint too.  She forced herself to breathe, to focus her eyes, to clutch her sword.  Tiranor attacking Requiem?  She clenched her jaw.  Tiranor had not attacked Requiem since the war nearly thirty years ago, a decade before Lyana's birth.  She knew little of Tirans, only that they were proud, tall, and fair—a beautiful and cruel desert people with sapphire eyes and blades that thirsted for blood.  Why would they attack Requiem?

But of course Lyana knew.  She whispered the answer through cold lips.

"It's Solina."

Solina.  The orphaned princess of Tiranor, taken captive to Requiem after the devastating war.  Solina, who loved Elethor, who had attacked the king, who had fled burnt to her desert home.

Lyana snarled, pulled back from Elethor's embrace, and drew her sword.

"It's Solina!" she repeated, louder this time, loud enough for the hall to hear.  "She killed Orin.  And I will kill her."

The hall erupted in cries.  Father and his men, warriors clad in steel, called for vengeance.  Mother called for calm.  Only Elethor stood silent, face pale and mouth open.

King Olasar stood, his unconscious daughter in his arms, and raised his voice.

"Silence!" he thundered.  Pain filled his eyes, but he narrowed them and stared upon the hall.  Mori hung in his arms, head tilted back, blood trickling.  The hall fell silent; all eyes stared at the king.  Lyana stood panting, sword drawn, grief like a talon clutching her.

The king turned his dark eyes toward Lyana's mother.  The priestess stared back, blood smearing her white robes, her eyes huge and haunted.

"Adia," said King Olasar, "take my daughter to the temple.  Heal her.  Let her sleep.  And Adia… prepare the temple for wounded.  Many wounded."  His jaw was tight.  "And for the dead."

Adia nodded, face pale but strong.  She walked forward and took Mori from the king's arms.  Carrying the girl, she left the hall, robes sweeping behind her.  Lyana watched the two leave, throat tight.  She knew what this blood meant, this tremble in Mori's voice, the shame in her eyes.

They raped her.  They will do the same to me if they can. 
Her eyes stung and her throat felt so tight she could barely breathe.

Next King Olasar turned to Lyana's father.  Deramon stared back, eyes dark under his bushy red brows, his heavy hands upon his weapons.  He stood clad in steel and leather, every inch a warrior, but Lyana saw the fear and pain that lurked behind his scowl. 
Father is as scared as I am,
she knew.

"Lord Deramon," said the king, "prepare the City Guard.  Summon every last man from your barracks, all one thousand.  Man the walls and patrol the skies.  Protect Nova Vita."

Deramon bowed, one hand on his sword's hilt, the other on his axe.  His armor creaked.

"My king," he said gruffly.  "It will be done."

With that, Deramon turned and marched out of the hall.  His soldiers followed, armor clanking.  Soon Lyana heard them shift outside—their wings thudded, and their howls shook the palace.  She saw them take flight outside the windows, great dragons blowing fire.

Only Lyana and Elethor now remained before the king.  The young prince had not spoken yet.  He was pale and his fists shook at his sides.  Lyana knew what he was thinking.  He was thinking of
her
.  The woman he loved.  The woman whose parents King Olasar had slain.  The woman who, Lyana knew, now marched against them. 
Solina, bane of Requiem, forever a curse upon this place.

She knew Olasar was thinking the same thing.  The king was staring at his son, the younger prince, now heir to his throne.

"Elethor," the king said, and for the first time his voice was strangely soft.  "Sit upon this throne until I return.  You rule in Nova Vita in my absence."

Still pale and silent, Elethor nodded.  As the king walked across the hall, Elethor approached the throne and sat, eyes staring at nothing, fists still clenched at his sides.  A tear streamed down his cheek.

"My king!" Lyana said as Olasar walked by her.  "How shall I serve you?"

Olasar paused and stared at her, and Lyana lost her breath.  She saw such pain in Olasar's eyes, such grief and rage and terror, reflections of her own turmoil.  Olasar's lips trembled only slightly, and his brow remained strong, his jaw squared.

"You will fly at my side, Lady Lyana," he said, voice soft.  "We call the banners.  We summon the Royal Army.  And we fly south.  We fly to war."

Lyana sucked in her breath.  Not since the war thirty years ago had the Royal Army—five thousand warriors led by the king and his knights—flown to war.

Orin.  My love.  My eternal prince.
  Tears stung her eyes, but she bowed her head.  She gritted her teeth, grief and rage like ice and fire crashing inside her.

"To war," she whispered.

They marched across the hall, boots echoing against the tiles.  Around them between the columns, Lyana saw thousands of dragon wings and blasts of flame.  When they reached the hall's end, the gatekeepers bowed and opened the doors, revealing Nova Vita.  Deramon's guardsmen ran between the birches, shifted into dragons, and took flight.

King Olasar marched into the courtyard and shifted.  His wings thudded, and he flew as a great black dragon, flames seeking the sky.  Lyana was prepared to shift too, but paused and looked back over her shoulder.

Elethor sat upon the throne across the hall, staring at her.  He looked so small in the empty palace, nearly lost in the grip of the twisting Oak Throne.

"Lyana," he said and stood up.  In the empty hall, his voice echoed and flowed to her.  "Lyana, I'm sorry.  Be careful tonight."

For the first time, Lyana realized that by the law of Requiem, she was now betrothed to Elethor. 
His older brother is dead; he inherited the right of succession, and he inherited me.

Lyana nodded, silent, jaw clenched.  She turned and left the palace, leaving him among the marble columns.  The dragons of Olasar's army, five thousand warriors, were taking flight, following their king to the south.  Already Lyana saw a fiery glow upon that horizon, sending red claws toward their home.  She shifted, flew to join her king, and roared her flame.

A wall of fire rose ahead, shimmering with sound and heat.

 
 
OLASAR

A fire rose in the south.  From the inferno flew the phoenixes, beasts woven of flame, large as dragons and cruel as wildfire.  Thousands shrieked and beat blazing wings, showering sparks.  Their cries seemed to shake the world.

"The sun herself has hatched," King Olasar whispered, "and given birth to countless birds of prey."

The enemy soared, lighting the night with fury.  The clouds themselves seemed to burn, roiling and raining ash.  The phoenix army swallowed the sky and stormed forward; they would reach him soon.

Olasar flapped his wings and blew fire.  He roared, a dragon roar that could shatter men's ears.  Behind him, his army answered his call.  Five thousand dragons howled, a song of rage and fire.