Dragons of Kings (Upon Dragon's Breath Trilogy Book 2)

by Ava Richardson

  I lifted my face and thought about what she’d said about the wind, and sure enough a thrash of leaves came to me on the breeze—that was Saffron.

  I followed her. Saffron seemed much more intent on speed than silence. Beside her hurried steps, I picked out the cries of nocturnal birds, frogs croaking near the river, the buzzing of insects, and other animals moving through the dense jungle leaves. It seemed the island was even more alive at night—and probably everything would be trying to kill or eat me.

  Sometimes I really missed Torvald and a soft bed and the comfortable chair in my library.

  Glancing back at me, Saffron muttered, “Not far now.” She clambered down a path that sloped to the river.

  “Just where are we going?”

  She pointed down the river and to a rise, a place where the trees thinned. I smelled a change in the air, too. It seemed brisk, bringing with it the salt tang of the ocean.

  “We’re near the shore?” I said.

  Saffron nodded. Her teeth flashed white in a fast smile. “You’re finally learning to read the wind.” Her smile faded and she glanced around us. The way she was frowning—the expression barely visible in the moonlight—left me certain this was not just a simple night of training.

  “Why are we here?” I asked, uneasy now. I followed Saffron as she moved up the hill and away from the cover of the jungle trees. She halted on one of the larger boulders and stood so still she could almost be mistaken for a statue—or one of the Iron Guard.

  Stopping beside her, I glanced around. Below us, the surf hit against jagged rocks with a rumbling and then sloshed away again. The spray blasted up into the air, bringing the tang of ocean and kelp. Saffron’s caution was infecting me. I kept looking around us, certain someone was watching, but I could see nothing other than the rough cliffs that led up to Den Mountain and the spill of moonlight on the ocean.

  Saffron nodded and pointed just ahead of us.

  Following her gesture, I spotted a squat tower. Or, to be more precise, what remained of a ruined tower on a spit of rock. The tower stood out, unmistakable against the dark water and darker gray boulders, its smooth walls rounded and the top long ago shattered and left a jagged edge. Just beyond it, I glimpsed a small beach and the white froth of the tidewater washing up on the sand.

  “It’s an old lighthouse,” I said. That much seemed obvious, seeing how the place marked the ocean side of the island and made the rocky shore stand out.

  “A what?” Saffron glanced at me, her head tipped to one side. She tossed her one long braid back over her shoulder and shook her head. “It’s the Hermit’s tower.”

  “You never said a hermit lived on the island. Right next to the dragons. He’s probably the lighthouse keeper.”

  “What is this lighter house you keep speaking of?” Saffron started walking to the tower, picking her way over the rocky shoreline.

  I struggled to keep up with her, but told her, “A lighthouse, not a lighter house, as in a place where there is light to mark land for anyone who sails. The old books spoke of such towers all along the shoreline of Torvald, as well as beacon and watchtowers here. They guarded the kingdom, helped warn of danger. I’ve read they even helped guide dragon riders through storms. Along with the Dragon Horns, that was one of the ways the riders of Torvald communicated.”

  Saffron’s head came up and she paused long enough for me to catch up with her. “The Dragon Horns?”

  Spreading my hands wide, I told her. “Huge horns said to have been made in the earliest days, and encased in gold and bronze. Bigger than a grown man’s height and loud enough to be heard for miles and miles. They were sounded to alert the Middle Kingdom of danger and they also sounded out for celebrations.”

  Saffron shook her head and started for the ruined tower again. “How can anything be so loud? But we haven’t come to the Hermit for stories like that. We need his help—his books.”

  “Books!” I hurried to catch up with Saffron. “Why didn’t you tell me he has books? This salt air isn’t good for them, you know. Unless they’re cared for, they can get moldy—it’s too damp here.”

  “Why do you care so much for books?” Saffron said, the words grumbled.

  I threw my hands wide again. “Saffron, books are more to me than just past knowledge. Everyone in Torvald has been forbidden to learn, but my father rebelled against that. He taught me the value of knowledge. And if this hermit lives in one of the old towers…well, what if some of his books are very old. He might know about the old lighthouses, and even the watchtowers and even where the Dragon Monasteries once stood. He could have maps and…and a dozen other things we need to know.” I strode ahead of her, then had a second thought and glanced back. “But this hermit of yours—he’s friendly, right?”

  Saffron only shrugged an answer and headed for the tower.

  As we got closer, I saw the tower was stones closely fitted against each other. It must have once stood three times its height. Stones that had once made up the upper part of the tower lay scattered around, looking as if they’d been blasted apart. That thought left me uneasy. Only a dragon could cause such destruction. Had the dragons torn this tower down? Or was it smaller to better hide it among the boulders of the shore?

  One thing was for certain—it no longer acted as a lighthouse.

  “There’s no lanterns burning,” I said when we reached a narrow door, blackened with age and salt. Someone had used panels and bits of sea-weathered oak to board up the windows and make the door.

  I raised my fist to knock.

  “Wait,” Saffron said, reaching for my arm, but it was too late. I’d already rapped my knuckles against the wood.

  I barely heard the knock over the rumbling surf that surged up against the beach, but it was still loud enough. However, no one answered. Maybe the hermit was asleep. I pushed at the door and it creaked open.

  I glanced at Saffron. “It’s not locked.”

  She pulled her bone-handled knife from its sheath. “It should be.” She stepped into the dark room.

  Swallowing hard, I followed.

  A narrow entrance and short hall turned once and then opened into a larger room with a stone floor. Glancing around in the dim light that fell into the room from the open door, I could see nothing but what looked like a roughly hewn chair now broken apart, an iron grate set up in a crumbling fireplace and an old, sagging cot. Everything looked dusty and poorly kept. “Are you sure someone lives here?” I asked.

  Saffron just waved for me to be quiet and stepped deeper into the tower room. A stone stairway led to an upper level where the floor and ceiling were made of wood. A fire burned here in another iron grate. This room held empty shelves and two huge chests that seemed to be more like seats, one set underneath each set of windows. Glancing down, I glimpsed a darker stain upon the wood. I caught at Saffron’s arm. “Look…blood!”

  “The Hermit might be hurt.” Saffron pushed past me, heading up yet one more flight of stone steps. I drew out my knife and started up the stairs after her.

  The stairs curved around the wall of the tower, narrow and steep. A solitary window let in a shaft of moonlight.

  The uppermost floor revealed something like a storehouse with two lamps burning, an overturned table, and an odd array of glass tubes, most of which had been shattered on the floor. Bits of hand worked metal lay among the shards of glass.

  For a moment, I thought this hermit of Saffron’s must have left—and he had taken most of his books with him. I could see empty wooden shelves but no books. The room smelled of cherry-scented tobacco and a clay pipe lay on the floor, broken in half.

  And then something groaned.

  Saffron darted around the table and bent over what seemed to be a pile of rags that had been left on the floor. She tucked her knife away and lifted something, and I saw then that the rags were actually an old man’s body.

  He gave another groan and then coughed, spitting up blood. Saffron cradled the old man’s head in her lap. I could not
tell his age. His long beard gleamed white, but his short hair was streaked with dark hair still. He looked pale and battered, his face cut as if he’d been in a fight. A ragged, gray tunic stained with blood covered his chest, and heavy leather breeches and boots revealed skinny legs. Next to him lay a small crossbow, but there was no sign of any bolts, meaning he’d spent them all. But against what?

  Saffron glanced up at me, blood on her hand and her face pale.

  Fear flooded me, left my breath quickening and my hands shaking.

  Someone had attacked this man—had mortally wounded him to judge by the blood now staining the floor.

  Glancing around, I could see no windows in this room, and I wondered now if the blood we had seen below was that of this hermit or of his attackers.

  Kneeling next to Saffron, I glanced at the man’s wounds. I knew the marks of a sword, and this man bore them.

  “This is your hermit?” I asked Saffron.

  She didn’t answer, but waved at me. “Find some water. Something to give him to drink.”

  I nodded, stood and glanced around.

  Whoever had done this had not just gone after this hermit but had been savage with the man’s few things. I could find splinters of glass and wood, scraps of paper and splatters of blood.

  At last I found a small, metal flask and a scrap of cloth and took them back to Saffron.

  She took them and told me, “We need to bind these wounds and get him to Zenema.”

  The Hermit coughed and put a bloodstained hand over Saffron’s. “No need. I won’t be long for this world.”

  I thought that once his eyes might have glittered fiercely under his thick eyebrows, but now they seemed dull and fading.

  “No, we’ll get you to Zenema,” Saffron told him, her tone urgent and fierce.

  “Zenema cannot heal me. Not this. Not now,” the old man said, his voice weak and fading.

  “Saffron.” I knelt again by her side. “He’s right. He does not have much time with us.”

  She shook her head, but she asked the old man, “What happened? Who did this to you?”

  Instead of answering Saffron, the old man glanced at me and for a moment his eyes brightened. “At least I had the chance to serve the True King. I die without regret.”

  My skin chilled. I glanced at Saffron, but she was still bent over the old man, pressing the rags I had bought to his side and trying to offer him a sip from the metal flask I had also brought her. The old man pushed away the flask, and I asked him, “Why do you say that?” He could not know that I was in fact descended from the true kings of Torvald.

  The old man gave a wheezing chuckle. “Knowing things—that was my life, my king.” Turning to Saffron, he gripped her wrist. “Three men came to the island, flying no flag. I saw them at the village, heard them ask after a girl with red-gold hair and a lad with more knowledge than was good for him. The villagers told them about the dragon-girl. I came to tell Zenema that Enric has come for his blood kin. He found you, Saffron. As I said he would.”

  Saffron gasped. When I glanced at her, I saw her face had paled so every freckle now stood out. “You knew about me?” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  “That you are a Maddox? Yes, child. But it matters little what I knew now… All that…matters is to get you to safety. I bought you time. I shot one and he fell into the sea, but the other two tracked me here. One I wounded, but the last escaped with him back to their boat.”

  “You think they work for the king?” I asked.

  The Hermit spat on the floor, and blood tinged his spittle. “Enric. That is what I think of him.” He glanced at Saffron. “She’s the only good thing to come out of the Maddox line… her mother and father—”

  “You knew my mother?” Saffron stiffened. “Why did you never tell me?”

  The Hermit sighed. “Such a kind soul…” He clutched his side and gasped. “No time now. I made a promise to hide you—and I kept it for as long as I could. Now, others must help you. Look to the north, to the Three-River clans…” A sudden spasm shook him. His face twisted with pain. His eyes fluttered closed and for a moment I thought he was gone. But he opened his eyes again and gripped my wrist, a surprising strength still in him. “Find what I’ve hidden for you, my king. Take back what is yours by right. Get to the clans. Stop Enric. Trust each other.”

  He let out a rattling breath and went still.

  Saffron lowered his body to the floor. I scrambled to my feet. I had never seen death so close. Looking over to Saffron, I asked, “Who do you think came here?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to think we were still safe on Den Mountain. I didn’t want to leave. “The dragons will look after us, won’t they?” I asked her.

  Saffron looked at me, her eyes bleak and her face still pale. “The Hermit of the Western Isles is dead. And I am certain King Enric’s spies killed him. What can protect us from assassins who come in the night?”

  3

  Old Clothes & New Friends

  Bower and I buried the Hermit near his tower, piling rocks over his body. He seemed to weigh next to nothing, and Bower easily carried him down the stairs and to a rocky slope overlooking the tower and the sea. He had died to save me, it seemed. And to serve Bower as the new king. But staring at the pile of rocks over the Hermit’s body, moonlight spilling onto the gray stone, I couldn’t believe the Hermit had actually known who I was and never said a thing to me. Not once when he’d been teaching me to read had he even hinted that he had known my father and mother.

  Amelia.

  It was a good name. A forthright sort of name I decided. But it was all I knew of her. I had a scrap of cloth with her name on it—all I’d been left of her. I knew even less of my father. They had left me here on the shore of the island, and Zenema had found me and raised me with her clutch of dragons. I had grown up with Jaydra at my side. But now my heritage seemed to be coming after me.

  Thinking of my parents now, I found no trace of hatred or pain that had once haunted me. I’d once thought they had abandoned me. But the Hermit said he had kept a promise to hide me. Had he promised my mother such a thing?

  And had Zenema known who I was all these years? Was that to protect me? Or was it to protect the world from me?

  I didn’t know the answer, and now we’d been robbed of any help the Hermit might have given us. His warning also left me worried. Did Enric, my blood kin, hunt us because of Bower? Or was I the one Enric wanted to find?

  Bower touched a hand to my shoulder. The eastern sky was beginning to brighten with dawn’s first light. “We should look for what he said he hid.” I glanced at Bower and followed him back to the tower, feeling suddenly tired and wishing I had thought to come earlier to see the Hermit—Bower and I might have saved him. Or maybe we would have been caught by Enric’s men.

  With a shudder, I stepped inside and out of the cold, dawn wind.

  “I’m going to search upstairs.” Bower said, moving quickly. He must be as chilled as I. We’d spent the night burying the Hermit and now…now I had no idea what the Hermit might have hidden for us to find. Had that just been the fancy of a dying man? Or had he really left something to help us?

  The lower room seemed only a place to live, but I lit a small fire in the grate. The furnishings already looked broken into bits of wood, so why not use them as kindling? The Hermit had been something of a healer, and herbs hung from the wooden ceiling to dry. Cobwebs also clung to the corners and I glanced around.

  What was there to find other than dust and mice?

  Climbing the stairs to the next room, I moved the heavy curtains beside the narrow windows. I pulled them back, letting in the pre-dawn haze.

  Below me the choppy waters of the sea washed over the rocks, leaving strands of kelp and white foam. Turning to the room again, I scanned it. What had the Hermit hidden? Some clue perhaps as to why my family had left me here?

  Heading to the empty shelves, I searched them, but found only a dried scrap of thyme. I turned and headed to one of t
he chests. It opened easily, and I stared at more dust and chunks of wood that might feed a fire. I let the lid thud closed and headed to the second chest.

  On this one, the hinges seemed to be rusted shut. It took my pounding on it with a fist and struggling with the latch, but at last the top creaked open with a protest. Bright colors greeted me.

  Linens and clothes lay inside, all wrapped in pretty bits of silk cloth. I lifted out soft gowns and tunics in pale creams, pastel blues and greens. From the cut of them they seemed to be for a woman, and they reminded me a little of the clothing I had seen being worn in the towns of the mainland. But these were finely made, and of a different style than anything else I’d ever seen.

  Digging deeper, I came across embroidery—a vine entwined around letters. And I knew then these had to be some of my mother’s things for the embroidery was an exact match to that on the scrap of cloth that had been left with me.

  Had my mother meant to return for these things—and for me?

  Or had she left them for me?

  I had always wondered why Zenema had taken me for lessons with the Hermit. Zenema had never wanted me to spend time in the nearby village, and she had hidden me from any passing sailors who stopped to provision from the island. Now I began to see she and the Hermit must have been hiding me from anyone who might take word of me to Enric.

  “All this time…” I muttered the words and pressed a hand to the fine silks.

  Had the Hermit meant to pass these things to me?”

  Glancing down at the skins I wore—smooth and so comfortable they almost seemed like my own second skin, I doubted I could wear anything from my mother. But I dug deeper into the chest. And there I found a forest green leather jerkin and soft leather breeches that matched.

  And these looked to me to be like the clothing I had seen on the cliff drawings—they were the clothes of a dragon rider.

  Zenema had showed me the cliff drawings. They decorated the sea cliffs near where she had found me. On them, people rode dragons—always two to a dragon, and the riders had on leather jerkins in a dark green, breeches and boots and helmets. I found no helmet in the chest, but I could not resist the rest of it.