“Has it ever been done?” Kincaid asked. Jocelyn pulled her eyes from the fire at last, looking up at the dragon.
Elddreki lowered his head, his expression somber. “Yes. There was a time, a terrible time of great suffering, many centuries ago, when there was war between dragons.”
Jocelyn followed the dragon’s gaze back toward the flames, and saw that the tiny figures, now multiplied, had burst into a frenzy of activity. They dove on each other, shooting flames from their mouths, gripping one another with their talons as they rolled and wrestled in the air. Each of them still glowed with that bright and inexplicable light from within. One threw another down mid-flight, the defeated dragon landing hard on a mountainside that was somehow recognizable as jagged rock, despite being made from flame.
She could sense Kincaid’s fascination beside her as he watched the battle being waged, but she turned her face away from the warmth with a shudder. It was a terrible sight.
“I can see you share my distaste for the story,” said Elddreki, his voice pulling Jocelyn’s eyes back to him. “It brings me no pleasure to dwell on violence and conflict. It is why I have not been following the situation in Kyona as closely as some of my kin.”
“What do you mean?” Jocelyn asked sharply. “You’re saying there’s violence in Kyona?”
Elddreki did his rippling shrug. “There is conflict, and it is growing. That usually means violence is not far behind.” He sighed, his head tilting slightly to the side as he watched the flames. “Still, I cannot deny that I take some interest, given my friendship with your father. And his young friend who accompanied him into the mountains, who is perhaps even more heavily affected by what is happening.”
Jocelyn followed the dragon’s line of sight and started in surprise when she recognized the human figure now flickering in the flames as Uncle Jonan. He was deep in conversation with another man she didn’t recognize, and he looked uncharacteristically serious. The image leaped and jumped, showing them a series of unintelligible interactions between unknown people, the only consistent feature the tension and anger on face after face. The overview was clear—conflict was spreading unchecked across her homeland, just as Elddreki had said.
Jocelyn shook her head. Not unchecked. Her father was actively trying to intervene in the issues arising around the freedmen. And even though the king didn’t know it, he had an unimaginably powerful tool at his disposal with Eamon helping him. She sighed. She wished she could be the one still in Kynton, helping to find a real solution. It galled her that the best way she could contribute was to remove herself from the kingdom altogether. Especially when every time she thought of Lucy and everyone else at the settlement, she itched to be at home, fighting for the well-being of her own kingdom, not wandering Valoria on someone else’s quest.
“So what happened in the dragon battle?” Kincaid prompted Elddreki, not as easily distracted by the reminder of the trouble brewing in Kyona.
“It is a long and grievous history,” said Elddreki, his voice ancient and sad, “and I will not attempt to unfold all its pages for you. Suffice it to say, the conflict had its beginnings when immortal dragons paired with those who had chosen mortality. The grief of these unions was immense, and grief turned to anger. In the course of those wars, the terrible ability to forfeit magic to another was discovered. Some gave magic to other dragons, creating beasts with twice the power of a normal one of our kind.”
As he spoke, the images of Kyonans disappeared, and a pair of dragons took their places. One of the dragons opened its jaws wide, and somehow—it was impossible to tell how—its light passed into its companion. The glow of the second dragon became so bright Jocelyn could hardly look at it as it turned and fell upon a third dragon with an irresistible ferocity. But her eyes were drawn to the first dragon, which had lost its glow altogether. Just like the dragon at the start of Elddreki’s little drama, this dragon’s shape slowly flickered, becoming less distinct until it was nothing more than dancing flame.
“Are they still out there?” asked Kincaid, looking as awed as Jocelyn felt at the concept of a double-strength dragon. “Wouldn’t they live forever?”
“They are not,” said Elddreki. “They should have lived forever, those of them who were immortal, but receiving a dragon’s lifeblood, which is not your own, warps the receiver as well as the giver. Neither party survived the encounter, at least not indefinitely.”
Elddreki rolled his shoulders stiffly, as though the narrative caused him physical pain, but he continued. The shapes in the flame changed again, the struggles of battle disappearing, leaving only a few dragons circling the campfire slowly.
“In the aftermath of the war, many dragons were left desolate. Those who had chosen offspring had only to wait until their time, but those who had chosen immortality had an endless time ahead in which to grieve their losses. Some could not face such a fate. There were those who chose to put a limit to their lifespans by forfeiting their magic to whatever creatures they could find.”
A small horse suddenly cantered across a plain of fire, one of the dragons swooping low to approach it. The dragon breathed on the horse, which began to glow strangely.
“The creatures carried that magic, with strange and sometimes startling results. The dragons then expired, and died.”
Again Jocelyn’s eyes were drawn to the dragon who had forfeited its power. Somehow the sight of its glow disappearing, and its shape fading away entirely, was even worse this time.
Elddreki frowned. “Leaving the rest of the colony to deal with the consequences. It was after that point some of the dragons left, striking out from Vasilisa without any intention of ever returning.”
Just as he described, a series of mini dragons took wing, pushing out of the circle of the fire. Their tiny forms started off into the night, still aflame despite having left the campfire. Jocelyn watched them until they faded.
“What were the strange and startling results?” asked Kincaid slowly.
But Jocelyn thought she knew. “You’re saying that unicorns were horses who received dragon magic from a dragon who wished to die?”
“That’s right,” nodded Elddreki, and his human companions exchanged looks of astonishment. “Horses were not the only ones, of course.” He returned his gaze to the fire, and his companions followed suit. The horse had now sprouted a horn, and it threw its head forcefully as it galloped across the space. Other creatures joined it, prowling and sniffing.
“Wolves roamed the mountains at that time, and they were a popular choice. It is said that some dragons even traveled to the sea, wishing to fulfill the common dream of which I spoke earlier before forfeiting their lives. There they found fish big and strong enough to receive their magic. The dragons all returned to the mountains to die, but they left behind their abominations in the deep. They were particularly difficult to track down.”
“You mean…you mean mermaids?” Jocelyn gasped, watching the giant fish flopping around in the flames.
“And werewolves?” Kincaid added, his attention clearly drawn to the other creatures.
Elddreki shrugged. “I don’t know these words. All I know is it was an almighty mess. The consequences of these creatures roaming the land, carrying borrowed dragon magic, were far-reaching. The dragons who remained had to hunt them all down and destroy them.”
The creatures all faded, their unnatural glow—and their forms—disappearing into a normal campfire. The evening was mild, but Jocelyn had started to feel very cold. She rubbed her arms nervously, and Kincaid looked at her, concern in his face.
“Is your arm hurting? Do you want me to rebind it?”
“No, I’m fine,” said Jocelyn quickly, dropping her hands.
“So,” she said, trying to get Kincaid’s attention off her and back onto the dragon. “I thought you said these events happened many centuries ago, but you said you remember the unicorns yourself.”
“Ah yes,” said Elddreki, sounding reminiscent. “The magic-carrying horses were pecul
iar. The effect of the dragon magic on various species was different, and not predictable. No one knows why the horses invariably turned white and grew a horn from their heads, for example. And the wolves were absolutely savage, regardless of the temperament of the dragon who gave them his power. Fortunately any such wolves who reproduced sired normal wolf offspring, so the task of wiping out the warped creatures was finite. But the horses…” he shook his head, “…the horses had the peculiar quality that their offspring would inherit the borrowed power, although it grew weaker with each reproduction. Still, it took generation upon generation to fully wipe them out. The last of them were found in the time of my youth.”
Jocelyn glanced up at the dragon’s face and saw that he looked sad. “They were beautiful creatures,” he said softly. “It grieved me that they had to be destroyed.” He shook his head, and his voice grew stronger. “But it had to be so.”
“Why did the horses pass their power to their offspring when the wolves didn’t?” Kincaid asked, frowning. “And why did the power get weaker with each generation, when in dragons that doesn’t happen?”
Elddreki sighed, once again stirring the flames. “I cannot answer that. It is one of the many things we do not know. Magic is unpredictable. It can be safely carried by dragons, and safely passed from a sire to a dragonling. But other, lesser, creatures should not bear it.” He paused, his eyes flicking to Jocelyn. “Or so we have always thought.” His gaze returned to the fire. “In other creatures its effects do not necessarily follow any pattern we know. Whether—and how—the magic passes from one creature to its offspring is just one example of its unpredictability.”
“Did any dragon ever forfeit power to a human?” asked Kincaid curiously, and Jocelyn drew her knees up more tightly against her.
Elddreki looked at Kincaid in astonishment. “A human? Of course not! No dragon would be that foolish, not even one in the grips of despair.”
Jocelyn rubbed her arms once more, and Kincaid glanced over at her again, his expression inquiring. She ignored him. “I’m tired,” she said. “Thank you for telling us that story, Elddreki. I will keep your confidence.”
The dragon nodded. “You look tired, young human. We can speak more tomorrow.”
Jocelyn nodded, turning her back on both her companions and the fire as she settled for sleep.
Jocelyn rose with the dawn, more than ready to continue their journey. She had slept poorly, her dreams plagued by the images from Elddreki’s magic flames. The tiny fire dragons had chased her endlessly, all while an unnatural glow grew inside her, threatening to burst into flames that would consume her from within.
There was very little conversation as they ate a simple morning meal and prepared themselves to travel eastward. By the time the sun had fully cleared the horizon, they were walking toward it through gently sloping grassland, the landscape becoming less scrubby and more cultivated with each passing minute.
Elddreki glided above them at first, but after about an hour, he landed alongside Jocelyn, falling into a loping gait that matched their human pace.
“So now I have answered your questions,” he said, as though seamlessly continuing their conversation from the evening before, “it is your turn to answer some of mine.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Jocelyn warily.
“I wish to know more about your origins,” the dragon said. “It is time I explored further into this power of yours.”
Jocelyn swallowed. After the evening’s stories, and her unnerving dreams, she was less eager than ever to talk about her unnatural ability. “I don’t know its origins,” she said quickly.
“When did you first become aware of it?” Elddreki insisted.
“I don’t know,” said Jocelyn again, with a shrug. “Before my earliest memory, I think. It took a long time to figure out what it was, but it’s just…always been there.”
“So you are confident you had it from birth?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” Elddreki looked ahead again, walking for a moment in silence. “You have a brother, yes?”
Jocelyn acknowledged it, feeling apprehensive. It was one thing to tell Kincaid and Elddreki about her power, but to betray Eamon’s secret as well was unthinkable.
“You said he’s your twin, right?” interjected Kincaid unexpectedly.
Jocelyn nodded, her mouth clamped firmly shut.
“And what is his power?” asked Elddreki placidly.
“What do you mean?” squeaked Jocelyn, knowing her surprise was unconvincing. “I never said he has power.”
Elddreki turned an astonished gaze upon her. “You’re saying that although he is your twin, born of the same parents in the same pregnancy, you have power and he does not?”
Jocelyn squirmed under that unblinking gaze, knowing she would never be able to successfully deceive the dragon.
“I didn’t say that either, but…please, Elddreki,” she tried. “I don’t want to betray—”
“Nonsense,” the dragon cut her off dismissively. “Neither Kincaid nor I mean your brother any harm, do we Kincaid?”
“Of course not,” said Kincaid. “And I think we’d both already figured out that Eamon must have power, anyway.” He grinned at her discomfort. “So what is it? I’m hoping for physical destruction instead of mental confusion. Do things break when he touches them? Or is it in his words, too?”
“What a terrible thing to hope!” Jocelyn glared. “Are you an enemy of Kyona that you like the idea of the heir being cursed with the power of destruction? It’s bad enough to have a princess who sows confusion. Not to mention how terrible that would be for poor Eamon.”
Kincaid was frowning now, but Elddreki cut in before he could speak. “Your power is not confusion, Jocelyn. I have already identified that, remember?”
Jocelyn sighed, deciding not to argue with the dragon. “We’ve had lots of theories over the years, trying to figure out how they work. But one thing we know for sure. We are two sides of a coin, our powers equal and opposite. And Eamon’s power isn’t bad like mine. It’s good.”
“Your power isn’t bad,” said Kincaid stubbornly, but Jocelyn ignored the interruption.
“He can control it much more than I can, as well, and his hasn’t been growing stronger the way mine has. At one stage we thought it was comfort and discomfort. Just as people tend to be uncomfortable around me, Eamon puts people at their ease, without trying to.”
She smiled fondly as she thought of her absent brother. Although come to think of it, she had been missing him less than she had expected to, since being able to talk freely with both Kincaid and Elddreki.
“He can also undo the damage I so often create. He knows me better than anyone, and he can always tell when I want to say something, but it will be too dangerous. He says it for me, and it’s much better received.”
She chuckled. “No one would guess it, not even my parents, but I’ve made some very popular and effective suggestions on state matters, via Eamon.” She shook her head, getting back to the main point. “But discomfort and comfort are not the right concepts. We’ve given it a lot of thought, and experimented a great deal, and we’ve concluded that if—” she looked at Elddreki, “—I said if—mine is confusion, his is certainty.”
She looked around at Kincaid in satisfaction. “Much better than destruction, right? Who wouldn’t want a crown prince who creates certainty and confidence every time he opens his mouth?”
But Kincaid looked far from impressed. “He sounds awful,” he said shortly. “I dislike him already.”
Jocelyn’s smile disappeared, her mouth falling open in astonishment. But her shock quickly turned to anger. “How dare you criticize him?” she demanded. “You don’t even know him. He’s not awful.”
Kincaid shrugged one shoulder, not looking in the least repentant. “He sounds boring and pompous,” he said. “Like he thinks he’s always right.”
Jocelyn stopped walking, barely refraining from stamping her foot like a petula
nt child. “He’s nothing like that. And I won’t let you speak about him that way. He’s my closest ally—my only friend half the time.”
“And whose fault is that?” asked Kincaid, his eyebrows raised. He had stopped walking too. “It sounds like he won’t let you have your own voice, so it’s no surprise if you struggle to form other friendships.”
Jocelyn rolled her eyes. “You sound like my mother.”
“Thank you,” said Kincaid, with stiff dignity. “From all I know, Queen Elnora is a wise and intelligent person.”
For a moment Jocelyn just stared at him, in all his haughty dignity. Then the humor of the situation suddenly struck her, and she burst out laughing. Kincaid slowly unbent, looking at her with an endearing mixture of amusement and irritation.
“The idea of you being delighted to be compared to my mother,” she gasped, and Kincaid grinned sheepishly.
Jocelyn wiped her eyes, growing serious. “But honestly,” she gestured to herself, “none of this is Eamon’s fault. He didn’t choose it any more than I did. And he doesn’t tell me not to speak. He thinks I hold myself in far too much, but it’s not his decision to make—it’s mine. He just covers for me, because I ask him to.”
“If you say so,” said Kincaid, still doubtful. “But I don’t think he’s done you any favors by helping you muzzle yourself.”
“No,” mused Elddreki unexpectedly. “Confusion and certainty don’t sound right to me at all.” The dragon had watched their little spat in a detached way, his mind clearly somewhere else.
Jocelyn let out a huff, impatient with Elddreki’s contradiction of the conclusion she and Eamon had reached from meticulous exploration of their powers. “Well, what do you think it is then?”
“I’m still trying to ascertain that,” said Elddreki vaguely. He tilted his head to the side. “Tell me about your conception and birth.”
Kincaid again choked, and Jocelyn spluttered in protest. “I can’t do that! You’d have to ask my parents.” She wrinkled her nose. “Although I very much hope you won’t.”
Legacy of the Curse Page 25
