by N M Zoltack
But then, one day, Horatia felt as if she had been mortally stabbed, and she knew, she just knew that one of the dragons had been killed yet again.
A strange beam of light fell from the sky and touched her. The strangest feeling washed over her, and Horatia feared this might be the end, that she was dying, but no. An uncharacteristic wind blew by, causing her to shiver, and she went to rub her arms to warm herself when her hands burst into flames.
Magic. She had magic, and it did not take long at all for the other Valkyries to realize they had magic as well.
A sign from the dragons perhaps that they had not forgotten their Valkyries? That they were attempting to strengthen their Valkyries? They did not know, but they would not allow this precious new gift to go to waste, and they began to train in earnest to see what they could do with their newfound power.
Twice, they had been visited, first by a man who had magic as well but whose attitude alone told Horatia all she needed to know.
Not only good and decent persons had been given magic by the dragons.
Was that done purposely? The man had clearly been rather ambitious. Did the dragons have designs for him? Did they seek to back him in some fashion?
Horatia hoped that was not to be the case, but how was she to know? She would not judge the dragons for their decisions.
And then another came, a most curious woman who wished to be considered worthy. Worthy of magic? Worthy of the dragons? Worthy of just what exactly, Horatia still did not know.
Eventually, the training, the avoidance of the dragons… it all became too much for Horatia, and she sought… She did not even know that which she sought, but she left just the same. Her feet brought her toward the beach when she felt as if her lungs were filling with water.
Another dragon had died. Only one remained, and while a sense of overwhelming loss washed over her, Horatia also could feel a surging connection to the last remaining dragon. Somehow, she had been tethered to the dragon.
Horatia took in a deep breath as the drowning sensation left her, and she noticed a woman closer toward the beach. The woman turned about, and Horatia instantly recognized her.
Cateline Locke.
But no. Something within her told her that was not the case, and as she stared at the woman's dark hair and dark blue eyes, somehow, knowledge came to the Valkyrie.
“Vivian Rivera,” Horatia said. “We meet at last. Not for the first time, and yet just the same.”
The princess recovered from her own shock and dipped her head, slowly moving her hand away from her hilt. “Horatia. It has been some time.”
“And yet, it is not time for our paths to truly cross.”
Horatia did not know why she said this, and she felt as if another controlled her body as she turned and walked away. Perhaps being a Valkyrie meant she served the dragon so closely that the dragon’s will overtook her own. She might not be Horatia for much longer.
Could she live with that?
She might not have a choice in the matter, a thought that displeased her greatly, but what could she do?
4
Queen Rosalynne Rivera
The Queen of Tenoch—Tenoch Proper? Could she even claim that now with the war going on yet between Tenoch and Vincana? No, she supposed she could not.
And to think she, Rosalynne Rivera, was betrothed to Marcellus Gallus, the Prince of Vincana.
A union between the two of them made a great deal of sense, but to learn that the prince had been with his fellow Vincanans when they had attacked the castle just now…
And then to learn from her father’s advisor, Aldus Perez, that someone was hunting down the council members of the former queen—Sabine Grantham—and was killing them one by one left such a foul taste in Rosalynne’s mouth.
Rosalynne was in her bedchambers, alone save for Ulric Cooper. At one time, he had been a servant, but now, he was so much more.
A soldier.
A guard.
A knight in all but shield.
A warrior.
A friend.
A confidant.
A savior.
Even before he had saved Rosalynne's life in the most recent battle, she could not deny that she wished herself a free woman so that she might give in to her feelings for him, but she was a queen, and peace was far too precious a commodity for her to risk thinking of herself and her heart first and foremost.
“Ulric, will you go and see to it that Emerson Feene, the constable, is well guarded?” she asked.
Ulric grinned at her, crossed over to her door in three long strides, and opened it. He murmured to someone and then shut the door and came to stand at the foot of her bed.
“I meant for you to go and see to him personally,” she said dryly.
“We were only just attacked,” Ulric protested. “The balcony door has been broken. I will not leave you unprotected.”
“No one has come after me,” she argued.
“And yet, I had to save you.”
Rosalynne merely shook her head and averted her gaze as a slow, shy smile spread across her face. She brushed her chestnut-colored hair behind her ear.
A knock at the door prevented her from relaying her gratitude once again. Ulric went to see to the matter, and when his posture shifted such that he stood fully upright, at attention, his hand even falling to the hilt of his sword, she felt a flash of fear.
Ulric shut the door and faced her without moving from his spot.
“Emerson is dead, is he not?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Wymond Ward will be…" She trailed off as she noted his unchanging posture. "There's more, is there not?"
“We have a prisoner,” he said stiffly.
“Who?”
“Bjorn Ivano.”
Rosalynne inhaled sharply. Bjorn Ivano. She never thought she would see the man again. Indeed, she had told him to never again return to Atlan. Why had he come? TO fight alongside the Vincanans?
“I must go and see him.”
“Now?” Ulric asked.
Rosalynne hurried to the door. Ulric opened it for her, and the two of them made the long trek to the dungeon.
As they bypassed the mostly empty cells, Rosalynne’s stomach churned, and she halted, holding out her hand toward Ulric. When he did not take her hand, she seized his and squeezed without releasing it. “I am sorry you were ever locked up down here.”
“You found Noll’s murderer, and she has been killed. Justice has been served.”
“Not yet for Adair Ainsley,” she said grimly.
It had taken Rosalynne some time to learn the identity of the man Bjorn had killed in her name in the marketplace. The man might have been a thief, but he had stolen only food to feed his starving family, a family Rosalynne had difficulty locating. She hoped that did not mean they had perished, but perhaps they had fled Atlan. Many had, if they could afford to.
She could still see the dead man's body and his thin blond hair, could still hear the cries from his children, still recall the deadness in his wife's eyes.
Rosalynne shuddered. Ulric squeezed her hand and gently released it.
Head high, Rosalynne marched to the cell that housed Bjorn.
The man from Maloyan looked much the same as she recalled from their last meeting, although perhaps he was a bit leaner and more muscular since then. His dark-brown hair was as short as ever, his nose just as sharp, his eyes as piercing.
Bjorn licked his lips. “A bit of water,” he rasped.
Rosalynne nodded to Ulric, who relayed the request to a guard. The queen said not a word and accepted the cup from the guard but did not hand it to the prisoner.
“Why did you come here?” she demanded.
“I couldn’t stay away.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Did you fight in the battle? Were you captured during the attack?”
“No one believes me,” he mumbled. “Why should you?”
“Tell me.”
“When t
he fighting started, I rushed to your bedchambers.”
“To seek revenge?”
“To be of service to you, but you weren’t there. Your maid was, and I tried to save her. The Vincanans burst inside, and I had her climb the vines on the castle wall, but the vine snapped. We both fell, but I grabbed another vine. She… She wasn’t…”
Rosalynne closed her eyes. Amee. She never would approve of Rosalynne being alone in her bedchambers with Ulric, but that was to be the case. Ulric had appointed himself her personal guard, and nothing she could say would dissuade him.
Not that she tried overly hard to discourage him.
“She died,” Bjorn finally said.
It was a plausible story, and it might well even be the truth of it. Rosalynne did know that Amee had died, had fallen to her death. Already, Rosalynne had prayed to the Fates to protect and watch over Amee still.
“Why were you in the castle at all? Why did you return to Atlan when I expressly forbid it?” she demanded.
Try as she might, despite a long interrogation, Bjorn offered no further information, and Rosalynne learned nothing of importance and only more agony and frustration.
It seemed even old enemies of hers were coming back to haunt her.
5
Advisor Aldus Perez
Even though Queen Rosalynne refused to recognize Aldus Perez as such, he remained very much an advisor to her. Whether or not she remained the one to sit on the throne, however, well, that concerned him not.
Aldus removed himself from the secret passageway. He bypassed the chapel and peeked inside. Much to his surprise, the vicar was not contained within, and Aldus did not bother to hide his sneer. Although the two of them—Aldus and Albert Leeson—acted as if they were working together, they knew well that was not the case. Albert had his own agenda in mind, and Aldus knew the vicar did not have the queen’s best interests. Despite his best efforts, however, Aldus remained ignorant as to Albert’s true intentions.
For now, however, Aldus would do what he did best.
Scheming.
When the battle had broken out, Aldus had considered for a moment joining in, but he had barely passable skills with a blade, and he did not wish for anyone else to discover he had gained magic.
Instead, he waited until the battle ended, and then he had killed the last of Sabine Grantham’s council.
Sabine, ah, Sabine. A beautiful woman, to be sure, with eyes that at times appeared steel blue or else gray and blond hair so very long it reached her elbows. A woman whose attention he had enjoyed greatly after her marriage to King Jankin ended with the morbidly obese man’s untimely death.
Although he wondered if Sabine had played a role in Jankin’s death, he had never managed to learn that detail. Perhaps it did not matter. Sabine was no longer queen, having chosen to be—or at least trying to be—an alchemist.
Yes, Aldus understood Sabine like no other. The two were very much the same, both ambitious, but he had magic, and she had knowledge. Together, they could make quite the dangerous pair for any who opposed them.
A pox-faced guard marched down the hall, and Aldus waved him over.
“Tell me,” the advisor commanded, “do we have many prisoners?”
“We have one of special note, yes,” the guard said. He rubbed his red, watery eyes.
“Tiberius,” Aldus said slowly, and the guard nodded.
Yes, Tiberius Davis. He was the guard Greta Grantham, Sabine’s mother, had used as a spy. He had turned against her, as had Sabine, and now, Greta was dead, killed for the crime of murdering the sole son of King Jankin.
Ever since turning against Greta, Tiberius had made a concerted effort to be a good and loyal guard, but honestly, who could trust him? But then again, Aldus trusted no one, not even Sabine.
Trust could lead to one’s downfall, and Aldus had far too many plans. The crown was not necessarily his goal, but if it proved the only way for him to have power…
“Will you bring me to this prisoner?” Aldus asked.
The guard hesitated and then nodded. He spun on the balls of his feet, and Aldus fell into step beside him.
“Did you find fighting the Vincanans difficult?” Aldus inquired.
The guard stiffened, staring straight ahead as they headed toward the dungeon. “I fought as well as I could, and they… If it had not been for a knight, I would not be standing here right now.”
“A knight?”
Tiberius gave a clipped nod and said no more.
Was the guard not that well exercised in weaponry anymore? Or were the Vincanans truly that fearsome?
“You must pray to the Fate of Life—” Aldus started.
“You do not need to tell me what to do,” the guard said, his tone as stiff as his body.
Aldus fell silent. Either Tiberius did not care for the advisor—but then why bring him to the dungeon?—or else the guard was bitter toward the Fates. Perhaps the latter was the case, and Aldus could well understand that a mere guard did not seem to know how best to get ahead in life and had nearly been killed in battle. What, then, would have been the point of his life? As far as Aldus knew, Tiberius was not married and had no children. He would leave behind no legacy at all.
Then again, Aldus himself had no wife and no children either.
Well, no child who still breathed.
The dungeon was a cold and damp place, and Aldus inhaled deeply, his nose wrinkling at the scent of mold growing along the stone walls. That had not been there the last time he had ventured here.
Aldus stared into the cell at the strong jawline, the short hair, the eyes that contained a vast amount of contempt.
And Aldus smiled. “Tiberius, if you would give us a moment alone…”
The guard departed with an awkward bow. Perhaps he had not escaped the battle without injury after all, and his exiting left Aldus alone with the former champion, the exiled Bjorn Ivano from Maloyan, and Aldus’s smile only grew that much wider.
6
Prince Marcellus Gallus
The Prince of Vincana slowly sank down to sit on the sandy beach. The ship had been sacrificed such that the dragon could be killed, and the winged terror would fly no more.
Two dragons were dead.
As was Marcellus’s father.
Killed by his own son.
Marcellus Gallus rubbed his forehead and inhaled deeply through his nose, held the breath, and then released it through hardly parted lips. With his father’s death, did that make him king now?
Marcellus had never wanted a crown, never wanted a throne. That had been his father's ambition for him, and now, two continents were at war when the people of Dragoona needed nothing more than to unite under the banner of life versus the dragons and their promised death.
With a heavy sigh, he glanced around. His shoulders slumped. He hadn’t realized just how much carnage the dragon had wrought against his forces. Between the battle at the castle—as ill-advised as he thought it to be—and the dragon, combined with the Valkyries leaving to take up their sacred mantle of being the dragons’ warriors…
The dragon’s warrior. Only one dragon still lived and breathed fire yet.
For the first time, Marcellus’s emotions overwhelmed him. He felt sick to his stomach over having killed his father even though the man had proved himself a tyrant time and again. When he first learned the Valkyries had departed, Marcellus had accepted the news easily enough, but when one considered just how vicious and tyrannical the dragons were, he felt betrayed by his fellow warriors-at-arms. Yes, the Valkyries had never truly belonged to Vincana, but he had trained alongside them, had known some of them all his life.
And the dragons—dragon. Marcellus had always thought that if the dragons ever returned, it would be a boon, a blessing, a triumphant occasion marked with revelry and rejoicing. Instead, their rebirth had brought about far too much terror and trauma.
And death. So much death.
The prince ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. He might
not be wearing a crown upon his head this very moment—indeed, he was not certain where it actually was—but he felt the weight of it all the same, and the weight was increasing every single day.
The dragons that returned… They must die and remain dead this time, but how could they accomplish that goal? When the first died, beams of light had shattered, flinging everywhere. Nothing of the like had occurred yet with this dragon’s passing. Did that mean to suggest this dragon was not fully dead yet? But the dragon had been submerged for hours now.
Without his having to ask, the legionaries set about gathering their dead.
Flavius Calvus approached. “Marcellus…”
“Flavius. I…” Marcellus scrambled to his feet. “Those who are not helping with the dead should come with us. We can return to give them a proper goodbye…”
The prince winced. He had abandoned his father’s body.
“Where will we be heading?” Flavius asked.
The commander of the Vincanan army had no notion at all what Marcellus had done, although Marcellus thought he had told the older man that Antonius had perished.
“We must make for the camp,” Marcellus ordered.
He and his warriors had left some men behind to watch over their prisoner—Vivian Rivera, once known as Cateline Locke. She had risked her life in an attempt to convince him to wed her sister. He hoped she had found the means to free herself, but in case she had not…
Vivian was an enigma. Intelligent, strong, brave, loyal to a fault. It was her loyalty that worried him the most. She would turn against him, without a doubt, for the sake of her sister. For the sake of Tenoch as well? He could not be certain.
The more he thought of the two sisters—one with dark blue eyes and darker hair, the other with dark eyes—the more he wished he could just turn around, locate a ship, and sail the Vast Waters back to Vincana.
But he would not abandon Tenoch to the plight of the last remaining dragon. All three had been lashing out with fury and furious fire since they had been somehow resurrected, and he could only assume the last living one would be the most difficult to bring down.
