He whimpered. “Yes. Of course. Now I remember.” He slowly slipped the ring off his finger. Though he stared forward blankly, agonizing pain could be seen just behind the fog.
A red haze covered his eyes, and Stephania knew he was fully in her power.
Licking her lips greedily, she watched as he dropped the small ring into her outstretched hands. He sank to his knees, bowing before her, and quivering at her feet.
“Please. Just have mercy!” His dull, glazed eyes turned pitifully toward her, but she merely scowled, feeling as if she were looking down at a lesser creature. He was weak, easy to control. While she reveled in this power, something revolted inside of her when she realized she could shatter his mind.
Pushing away nausea and snarling in disgust, she slipped the ring onto her finger, relishing in his whimpers and the way that he clawed at his head in pain, unable to rid her influence from his mind.
“Please, my lady.” Foam collected at his mouth, and she snarled with repugnance.
“You worthless, weak creature.” She spat on his face. “Fine, you shall have my mercy.” In one liquid movement, she took the knife from his belt and hit him hard over the head with the handle. The resounding crack rang hollowly through the room. He fell to the ground, unconscious and released from her spell.
Hastily, she returned the knife to his sheath, and after searching the storage room, found a cheap wine bottle filled with the intoxicating liquid. She opened the bottle and poured some on the front of his clothes before dropping the bottle beside his hand, making it look as if he had drunk himself into a stupor. Most everyone in the village knew Grey drank, and it wouldn’t be unusual to find him with a splitting headache and a bottle of wine nearby.
Satisfied, her heart racing violently, she slipped out of the room and slunk into what was left of the shadows. As she masterfully weaved her way through the streets and houses, greed and pride flooded her, shoving away the revulsion of what she had just done. She could be a god or even a demon. After all, they already thought she was the latter. She could subjugate all of these mindless wretches and make them do or give her whatever she wanted. Finally, she could have revenge.
She heard a twig snap behind her, but before she could turn around, a hand grasped her hood and pulled it off her face.
Gasping in rage, her hand flew to the handle of her sword. She began to turn around, but a heavy hand landed across her mouth, and another, in one quick motion, had her arm pinned painfully behind her back, rendering her motionless and weaponless.
A familiar voice grated harshly in her ears. “Oh, you are in so much trouble.”
§
“What in the bloody realm of Susahu do you think you were doing?” Dalton threw her into the house and slammed the door behind them, his face red with rage and his hair a ragged mess.
“I was getting something back that he stole from me!” Stephania caught her footing, making sure there was plenty of space separating her and Dalton, and rubbed her wrist where it stung from him nearly dragging her all the way to their house.
“You can’t just walk into someone’s house and nearly murder him just for something so trifle!” He violently threw the ring onto the table and slammed his fist against the wood surface.
“Murder?” she scoffed. “I wasn’t even close to murdering him!” Grey’s pleading, deathly face flashed before her, and she blanched. Could she have killed him? Would his mind really have broken under her influence? She pushed these thoughts aside. “Dalton, he beat me that day. With a rope.” Her hot breath heaved in her chest, her anger making it hard to form words. “As if I were one of his dogs!” she spat at him, her cheeks red as the suns setting on a autumn day. Humiliation mingled with rage.
“Yes, and he was a fool to do that. Don’t forget the lengths I went through to punish him.”
Her face flushed in remembrance. It had taken Dalton three long months, but eventually he had ruled Grey guilty of abuse and the man had been punished with twenty lashes.
Dalton planted his fists and furiously shook his head. “But for the love of dragons! You never told me about him stealing your ring! You merely told me you lost it! If you had told me, I would have demanded it back and none of this would have happened!”
Knowing she was wrong, but stubbornly refusing to admit it, she hit the air, panting and cursing with rage and on the verge of tears. “Gods!”
The gleam of Dalton’s polished lyre on the table caught her eye. If only she could put him into a trance … Lunging for the instrument, she hastily began to pluck at the strings, singing orders to him.
Something like a mocking laugh parted his lips as he stormed over to her.
Gasping, she stumbled backwards.
He wrenched the lyre from her hands and threw it onto the couch before roughly pinning her down on the furniture as well, making sure her hands were immobile. Foreign words tumbled out of his mouth. A heavy fog settled over her mind. She could no longer sense the magic.
He released her and stepped back, unable to look into her eyes. Tears clouded his own eyes, and his teeth ground against themselves.
Her ears rang with fear, and her eyes began to water, her body hot and agitated, her breath shaking in her chest. “It didn’t work.” Her voice was barely audible.
He sneered and grunted, shaking his head. “No. That little trick doesn’t work on me.”
Her eyes fixed on his, and she melted into the couch. “B—but how did you know?”
Dalton stepped back and wrenched the glove off his right hand. He paused, his anger evaporating into depression. Whispering a few indistinct words, he watched with passive indifference as faint brown sparks hovered over his palm.
Unable to look at her, he held out his palm to her, and with a heavy sigh, he said, “Because I’m a Duvarharian.”
She gasped, her hand gripping her chest, her heart freezing. “No. It’s impossible.”
Yet on his hand were numerous dark brown swirls of a kind she instantly recognized as Duvarharian. He must have used magic to keep the markings hidden from her all these years.
From a side table, he picked up a hand mirror and slowly handed it to her as if he were afraid she would take it and throw it across the room. She almost did.
Forcing herself to grip the mirror in her trembling hands, her eyes locked onto his. She shook her head, unable to look at her reflection. She had seen them once in the stream when it had all felt like a dream. She thought, if she saw them now, she would have to wake up to this new reality.
Dalton gazed at her mournfully, a hollow gap of sadness, disappointment, anger, and pain opening in his eyes.
Trying and failing to calm her rapid breath, she held up the mirror.
A stifled cry left her lips, and her hand flew to her mouth as she gazed in horror and almost wonder at the bright red swirls on her neck and left hand.
“And so are you.” Dalton choked out, a catch in his throat, his eyes misting mournfully.
“I am—” She swallowed, as realization took over her and shock dulled her senses. “I am a Dragon Rider.”
Part- Three
Awakening
Chapter 24
Nemeth’s Home
Nearly 3 Years Earlier
Stephania’s heart pounded in her chest. Her hands were slick with sweat. She licked her dry lips. Her ears rang with fear. Oh gods. What happened?
“Get out, girl! Get off my property!”
Stephania shrank back in horror, her foot snagging on the corner of the old, thick rug. “But, Ms. Nemeth, you said I can come anytime!”
“Bah! Liar! You little thief! How could I have said such an outlandish thing when I have never met you?” The old woman raised the heavy broom she was sweeping with. Her white hair was uncombed and disheveled. Her dress was stained, dirt lining its hem. Dark circles hung under her eyes like a bad memory.
“But Ms. Nemeth! It’s me, Stephania!” Stephania’s scream echoed in the small cabin as she tried to dodge the heavy broom ha
ndle. She was too slow. The thick wood smacked into her arm. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she scrambled up from the ground. She clutched her throbbing arm where a large welt had begun to show. “Ms. Nemeth, please, I—”
“Get out, girl. And pray I don’t report you as a thief.” She raised the broom again, menacingly stepping toward the young girl.
“Please, Ms. Nemeth, it’s me, Stephania,” she choked through her tears. Why did Ms. Nemeth not recognize her? What was wrong with the old woman? Why did she look so ill? Did she really not remember Stephania?
“Don’t you remember? We were friends, and I—”
“I remember no such thing.” She shook her head and snarled. “Friends.” The old woman’s eyes shone out hauntingly from her shadowed face. “I’ve never even seen you before, girl. Now get out!”
Sobbing uncontrollably, Stephania picked herself up and ran out of the house, hearing the old woman behind her screaming hateful and nasty things.
Blindly, she ran home.
“Stephania! By gods, child, what’s wrong?” Dalton gathered the young woman into his arms, crushing her in his embrace.
For a few minutes, she did nothing but sob into Dalton’s shoulder.
He looked down and spotted the red welt on her arm. Rage rose in him.
“Who did that to you?” his voice was harsher than he had intended, and he felt her flinch against him.
He heard her choke something out through her tears. It sounded like “Nemeth”. He blanched, disbelieving his ears. How could the old woman have done such a brutal thing to her favorite youngster in New-Fars?
“Stephania,” he whispered softly. “What happened?”
Stephania, through her tears and snotty nose, told him how she had gone to Nemeth’s house. How she had welcomed herself into the home as always and stolen into the kitchen to find something to eat. How the old woman had yelled at her, denied knowing her, and had chased her out of the house with her broom.
Nausea rose in Dalton’s throat as he shook his head. “I don’t know why she did that, Stephania. Sometimes when people get old, they forget things.”
The young girl only sobbed louder. “She was my only friend! How could she have forgotten me?”
Dalton smoothed her hair. “I don’t know, Stephania. I just don’t know.”
§
Dalton slowly stepped out of his home, latching the door quietly behind him. It had taken him a few hours to get Stephania to calm down, even though he had resorted to using magic to soothe her troubled mind. While she slept, he had healed her arm, unable to bear to see the angry welt on her.
He knew something was wrong. If his suspicions were correct, he knew who Nemeth was, and what she was. She wasn’t some human prone to memory loss. No. She was so much more. And yet, only one reason could force her to forget Stephania. Sometimes for magical creatures, when their time ran out, it ran backwards.
He looked up at the moon—the crescent-shaped heavenly body was shining a thin sliver of light on the land.
If what he suspected was true, then he would have to hurry.
Not bothering to take the time to saddle his old, slow mare, he jogged down the road, cutting across fields to Nemeth’s house.
Only too soon, he was standing in front of her small cabin. He paused, feeling the weight of where he stood. His eyes roved over to the stone under the tree. If the legends were true, then the man in that grave had once caused all of New-Fars to be destroyed. Dalton shivered, his eyes glowing warmly in the dark, his heart pounding with excitement and fear in his chest.
He stepped up onto the porch, hesitating. A chill came from the cabin, not from the night air, but from the feeling and presence of death. Shuddering, he placed his hand on the cold door knob and slowly turned. The door shuddered open with a creak.
A dark figure lay on the floor.
Dalton rushed over, dropping to his knees, and rolled the body over.
Nemeth’s dark face was pale, her eyes staring back at him. A ragged breath rattled her chest.
“Tyrion?” She reached out and grabbed Dalton’s shoulders, her grip surprisingly strong.
Dread sank in Dalton. He was right. Nemeth’s time on Rasa was coming to a close. She was now only living in her past until it all faded away.
“Yes, Nemeth. I am here.” He brushed the hair out of her face, playing along, wondering if his lie helped ease her pain, or if it was only cruel.
A thin smile spread across her face. “My love. I gave him the amulet.”
Dalton frowned. “What amulet? To whom?”
She chuckled, but then coughed violently, blood trickling out of the corner of her lips. “To my son, of course. It saved him from the Sleeping. He’s still awake. I found him!” Her eyes shone brightly and her grip relaxed from Dalton’s shoulders, her hands sliding down his arms.
He took her cold hands in his, willing them to be warmer.
“The amulet protected us both. It gave me strength. I escaped the Sleeping. I gave him the Zelauwgugey.”
Dalton’s eyes shot up. The Zelauwgugey? Could she really be talking about the famous Lyre of legends, the very essence of the forest? It had been supposedly destroyed long ago. Was it possible this old woman had possessed it all this time? He had to be sure.
“What is the Zelauwgugey?” He was almost scared to hear the answer.
She shook her head, her eyes sliding out of focus. “Oh, Tyrion. So silly of you to pretend like you have forgotten. It is the forest lyre, of course. The last pure artifact of my people. It contains the life of the forest, the forest’s essence. Silly, don’t you remember how it claimed vengeance for you? And now,” she coughed violently again, spraying Dalton’s face and chest with blood. “And now,”—it seemed her words pained her—“it is the only thing that can save them.”
“Nemeth, what do you mean?”
He squeezed her hands, searching her face.
“Don’t worry, Tyrion. He will give it to the dragon girl. And she will wake us.” A small smile spread across her lips, and then her face was still.
“Nemeth?” He gripped her wrinkly, bony fingers tightly in his own. “Nemeth!” Dalton clenched his teeth and bowed his head, letting her still hands slide out of his. A heavy sigh left his lips. She was gone. Gently, he pulled her eyelids down over her glassy eyes.
Seconds passed away into minutes as he sat, kneeling beside her lifeless body. Questions swirled in his head, only a few of which he had answers to.
His eyes traveled down to the dirty hem of Nemeth’s dress. His heart pounded in his chest. If everything she had said was true, and if what he had believed all along was correct, then …
His hand reached out. He wanted to stop himself, almost scared of what he would find, but his thirst for knowledge, for all things secret and unknown, drove him forward.
He grasped the soiled fabric between his fingers and moved it aside.
His breath caught in his throat.
Instead of normal legs and feet, he was staring at the hind legs of a goat.
Nemeth was a Faun.
His head spun, and he collapsed from his knees onto the ground, steadying himself. “By gods.”
If Nemeth was a Faun, and if the tombstone was really that of Tyrion, then she must be Tyrion’s lover—the Faun without horns—the destructor of New-Fars. If that was who she really was, then the lyre had been in her possession, not destroyed or lost as thought, and somehow, she had escaped the Sleeping. That would mean that one day Stephania would be given the lyre, and she would be the one to break the curse.
Chapter 25
Dalton’s and Stephania’s Home
Year: Rumi 6,112 Q.RJ.M.
Present Day
It had been a few days since Stephania had learned she was a Dragon Rider. A few long days. Neither Dalton nor Stephania had said a single word to each other, and neither had left Dalton’s property.
Now the young woman was sitting on her bed, her knees pulled tightly against
her chest, as the last couple of days’ events flashed through her mind over and over again.
She still couldn’t believe it.
All her life she had known she was different, but it had never made sense why. She had deeply despised the villagers for fearing and hating her so much, but now she understood why they had. She possessed the power to control them. All of them. Whether they realized it or not, they instinctively knew she could; that’s why they were so hateful and afraid. She was the predator and they, the prey.
She was afraid of accepting the truth, but eventually, she had gathered all of Dalton’s major legend books and leafed through them, trying to wrap her mind around this new reality. She had done nothing but read them one after the other since she had found out her origin. Instead of seeing them as fairy tales, she was forced to interpret them as reality. The world seemed to make a little more sense now that she understood that magical creatures really did exist, even if they couldn’t be seen.
But even so, she felt an empty hole inside of her. So much was missing. Who were her parents really? Where were all of these magical creatures? What about the pagan sprites? The Fauns? The Centaurs? The great winged cats? Phoenixes? Nymphs? What had happened to magic? And then the biggest, most dangerous question: Who am I?
A sickening feeling grew in her. She felt a new connection with Dalton. He knew what it was like to be an outcast, to be something totally different than what you hide behind. However, a bitterness rose within her.
All her life, he had told her nothing about who she was, where she came from, or even who her parents were. And though he had never outright said it, he had led her to think with all her heart that she was a human.
It was to protect her from something, she knew that much. But what? And why wouldn’t he tell her? What was he trying to hide? The muttered excuses he had always offered to her questions led her to think maybe even he didn’t fully know what he was protecting her from.
Child of the Dragon Prophecy Page 24
