by May Sage
"Praise to lazy nobles everywhere," Elza said, holding up a glass of mead.
Cook, who never needed much of an excuse to join in a toast, poured a glass of her own, saying, "I'll drink to that!"
They drank the honey drink with Cook and ate in her kitchen, companionably devouring bacon, eggs, and pies in a silence occasionally punctuated with moans of approval. The royal kitchen well deserved its countrywide reputation.
And then, the two females went to the privy courtyard of the royal keep and shifted.
Elza had lived long enough to be used to the process, although it had never ceased to be painful. Each of her bones broke and twisted before the humongous red creature burst outside of her skin with a triumphant roar.
Her beast was fearless and mighty, and also proud, so it shocked Demelza to the bone when she watched inside their skin, as the red dragon bent down her head, tilting it to one side in sign of submission. She was bowing to Saskia. Bowing.
The black dragoness before her didn't seem playful at all. In fact, for a moment, Elza was a little afraid that Saskia might bite her throat and rip it out. But the creature towering over her only advanced to sniff her. Then, she leaped in the air, extending her endless wings.
By all gods, she was beautiful. Beautiful, and the length of the entire keep, from one end of her wing to the other.
Elza's beast blinked and jumped high up to join her. She didn't think she'd ever felt quite so determined to prove her worth. She'd beat her to Durandan, dammit!
Demelza didn't beat Saskia to Durandan. In fact, not even close.
She flew faster than she ever had, as if the flogs of hell were right behind her, pushing every single one of her beast's muscles. Meanwhile, Saskia seemed to coast up front, leisurely batting her wings as if she was just taking a stroll through the countryside.
They passed the mountains of Aul, south of Telenar, and flew past the woodlands, before reaching the seaside.
Landing on a golden beach, Elza's beast immediately laid down on her back, before rolling over on the warm sand. Meanwhile, the black dragoness, nibbling at her sharp talons, watched her with distaste.
"You're a disgrace to the name of dragons everywhere," the beast told her, mind to mind.
"See if I care," Elza's dragon replied, before rushing to the water, burying her head under a wave.
Not many dragons enjoyed water, particularly this far south of Midgard; they were close to the energy walls guarding them from the evils beyond. But Demelza had a dash of siren blood in her veins, courtesy of her grandma Syn. Despite the fire in her belly, water was where she felt most at home.
When she emerged back to the surface, her beast was startled to find the black dragoness next to her.
Saskia was watching her curiously. Then something wicked flashed in her eyes, and the next instant, she was using her wings to splash huge waves at her.
So much for the severe, austere beast! Elza laughed and joined in play, chucking water with her tail and wings.
Saskia's great head suddenly snapped left and Elza's beast followed the direction of her gaze. In the distance, there was a boat, retreating away from the bay as fast as it could. And no wonder. They might have thought the two dragons were actually fighting. Most boatmen were humans, or at least shifters. No mortals with half a brain would willingly approach warring firebreathers.
The black dragon walked back to the beach. Elza sighed and followed. Their play had been disruptive enough for a day.
King
To his left, a fire pit, and the screams of those who had not yet learned how to take the pain. To his right, the initiated dragonlords training in formation. His army was mighty, unlike any other in the realm. Ash marched forward, ignoring all around him, until he'd reached a man with dark hair and green eyes; the one person he trusted, the soul he was bound to.
There was a mark in the palm of Ash's hand, and the same one had been engraved on the man's shoulder, long ago, when he'd been but a boy.
Ash had felt a strange pull to the north over a decade ago. Recognizing it for what it was, he'd immediately shifted and flown to his rider.
"Damion."
"Ash."
"Did you hear?" he asked, his voice tight.
The man lifted his eyes from the sword he was spelling and sighed. "Tell me this is not about your sister again."
"It's more than rumors this time. The wolves talk of a black dragon the size of mountains. A beast so mighty they dared not land when they saw her on the coast. She may be alive, kept by the weaklings to the east."
Damion set the sword aside altogether and got up on his feet. "For as long as I've been here, there always was, and always will be, talk of your sister. Rumors of a sighting, someone who offers to sell information. But it has been a hundred years since a baby was taken from you. If she was alive, she'd be an adult right now. She would have found her way back here."
These words were highly logical, and Ash had heard them a hundred, nay, a thousand times at least, from various advisors over the course of his many years. Ash knew that Damion wasn't simply attempting to appease him for his own gain; he didn't have any political design, any reason to want the king's attention on other matters. He believed them.
Some ten years it had been since they'd met. Ash had heard a call of distress deep in his heart, the kind of summons that could only have come from one of two people: the mate that fate had designed for him, or the soul brother who was destined to ride him.
Ash knew everything about the Riders. In Farden, such knowledge was prohibited, because the weak dragons to the west were frightened of what they could do once they found their kin. In Absolia, tales of mortal dragonlords were whispered to children and later studied in school classrooms.
Ash hadn't been certain whether he'd find a mate or a rider as he flew north to answer the call to his soul, but he'd hoped for the latter. He was too young to find a mate. He'd welcome it, of course, but at less than a hundred years, it wouldn't have been his priority. A rider, however...
And so, he'd found Damion. The boy had been in chains, his flesh marked like cattle and his spirit broken.
It had taken days for him to speak. Months later, Damion had shared his ordeal.
He was from a small village, hailing from a long family of mages, respected through the lands of the Northern Var. He had three sisters; a twin and two younger ones. Their family was providing spells and cures to all in the region, great and small.
There should have been plenty enough to go around, as magics weren't cheap, but his parents' greed and arrogance, as well as his sisters' ignorance, had all but ruined the family by the time he'd turned eighteen. Ash didn't recall the details. One sister wore a lot of dresses, the other one required books and expensive ingredients for studies. The third, Damion didn't speak of.
And so, one day, his twin had fetched him from the back of the family shop and asked him to speak with their parents downstairs. He washed and went and did as he was told. When he arrived at the front of the shop, Lars and Daria Astria were waiting with a client. A broad, tall, tanned man adorned in fine, gold-stitched, precious-stone-encrusted clothes. A wealthy man from the south, no doubt. Damion hadn't questioned it.
"Damion, meet Gawlr Draulsrn, from the Sands. Gawlr has a job for you."
"In the Sands?" Damion had repeated. That was two kingdoms south and, surely, they also had mages there.
"No questions, boy," said Lars impatiently. "He needs healing salves made on the way there. Take your supplies and clothes for a week."
It had all sounded very strange, for it would take more than a week to get down to the Sands in any vehicle. But Damion did as he was bid, heading south.
That day, he was put in chains. That night, he was branded and hit so hard when he protested that his flesh would forever bear the mark of the flogger.
He'd been sold, and by his own family, for some coin. Five thousand, his captor was so good as to tell him.
Ash had wanted to ride back no
rth and burn their home to the ground when he'd heard that, but Damion had stopped him. He didn't want his family dead, just out of his life.
Sometimes, he did speak of the sisters with fondness. To Ash's understanding, they'd been children, even younger than he at the time. They'd had no clue of the deeds of their folks. But each word was coated with sadness and pain when he spoke of them.
As the years went by, he'd stopped speaking of them entirely, letting go of the ghosts of his past.
The two men were alike in many ways; strong, resilient, determined, but Damion was the very opposite of Ash in one respect. Ash would never stop searching for his sister, until he found an answer, while Damion was done with family.
The rider was too jaded to understand the king.
Ash sighed, wondering why he'd come here.
"But you want to go, in any case," Damion said with a shrug, while picking the sword back up. "So, do it. If it's going to poison your mind for the rest of time, just go."
Ash smirked. That was why he'd gone to his rider.
"However, you know what it'll mean if you enter Farden with a detachment of guards and knights."
War. There was no other way.
"Do it diplomatically; contact their king and ask for an audience. Or sneak in by yourself, without telling anyone here. Just pretend to go for a stroll or something."
Ash snorted, turning without a word, glancing to his right and left. There only were six men following him right now; a light guard. They remained at a distance, but there was no doubt that they'd heard every word. Two of them were wolves, two bears, and two dragons; all had advanced hearing abilities.
"How do you suppose I manage that?"
Damion shared a rare smile, before extending his hand. Ash grasped his forearm and let him channel him. The next instant, all six guards were on the ground, unconscious.
"You're frightening, sometimes."
Damion shrugged, taking his cloak from the back of his chair, and handing it to Ash. "I couldn't do that without you. They're out for an hour, max. Go grab supplies, then you can sneak out. I'll stay here so they don't think to look for you for a while."
Ash pulled on his rider's arm to hold him against his chest for an instant, and left the camp from the back, taking the long way back to the castle.
"Wait here! We do not tolerate vagabonds in this court."
Ash lifted a brow. Shit, Gragnar sounded intimidating. He turned, lowering his hood, before the sorcerer shot him with some nasty spell.
"Calm down, cousin. It's just me."
The royal warlock gasped and immediately got on one knee.
"Your grace."
He was so very formal, as always. Had been since the moment Ash had been crowned, some seventy-five years ago.
As the throne had been vacant from his birth, following his father's demise, Ash's mother was regent until he came of age. For twenty-five years, Ash had trained in the quiet countryside with his cousins.
Ash's first act had been naming Gragnar royal warlock. The boy had been with him from the very start, was his closest relative and second to none in his kingdom—except Damion.
So, the "your grace" was overkill.
"Chill. I'm just passing through. Keep it to yourself, will you?"
Gragnar frowned. He was no Damion; propriety meant a great deal to him.
"What do you mean? Where are your guards?"
And so, Ash had no choice but to explain it all. It might have delayed him further otherwise. When he was done, to his surprise, Gragnar didn't even try to object.
"Very well. I know better than to put myself between you and your life-long ambition to give the throne away."
Definite disapproval. At least, he wasn't attempting to stop him.
"Go, with my good wishes, cousin. And may you find every happiness you deserve along the way."
A Stranger
After their play on the beach, they'd headed to the large, handsome brownstone keep of the Earl of Durandan. It was an old fortress, built at the base of a mountain, and overseeing the seashore. The town inside its high city walls had a busy harbor where many merchants from the rest of the continent landed every day. No doubt they were missing one arrival, as the ship that had watched them had fled with the tide.
Dragonesses weren't known for their inhibition, but arriving naked wasn't the done thing, so they'd shifted and landed in their dragon forms. Demelza owned a garment or two spelled to remain intact, acting as a second skin as she changed from beast to woman, but they hadn't exactly planned their excursion south, so she'd been wearing leather armor, now to be added to the long list of frocks she'd destroyed over the course of the last two centuries.
Then they'd gotten changed before heading to the great hall where Saskia, in her capacity as lady of the Durandan, was to receive the subjects that had come with queries, requests, and complaints.
Elza had attended many such meetings herself from childhood. Her parents had seen that she'd been well versed in politics. Since she'd come of age, a hundred and seventy-five years ago, she'd headed such ceremonies many a time in their stead. The lords of the Falls enjoyed traveling the lands from time to time, and when they did so, they left her in charge.
Saskia was well educated, very wise for her age—a mere hundred years—and incredibly strong, but her education had visibly failed her when it came to such matters.
The first couple who'd appeared had come from the mountain and asked for Saskia's intervention; they had a dispute with their neighbors about the land to the south of their property. It had no fence, and the neighbor had often used their piece of land. Now, he claimed it was his.
There were many ways this should have been solved. The one thing no lord should have said in that situation was, "Why don't you just eat them next time?"
The couple looked at her in horror. "My lady?"
"You're dragons. They're taking what's yours. Eat them."
Elza hid her face behind her hand to smother her smile.
"They're also dragons, Lady Saskia."
"Ah. So, you're afraid of losing. Better give them the land, then. You didn't have the sense to fence it, they took it, it's theirs. Next!"
At the tenth plea, Elza had a hard time keeping herself from laughing out loud.
Someone was going to have to say it, and no one looked like they might have the balls to do the job, so it fell to Elza.
"You really suck at this."
The woman shrugged.
"I know it, they know it. What happens here is of no matter in any case. They'll need to put their request in writing and have it reviewed by Nathos' men. I'm only here because Nathos likes me to show my face from time to time. He makes an excuse about once a year to send me home. Apparently, if I don't turn up, he gets trouble from Darayn."
Elza lifted a brow.
"Darayn? Is that your uncle's partner?"
She hadn't known that Nathos had a lover. And if the furtive looks and flirting she'd seen between the earl and Xandrie's elder sister earlier was any indication, there would be trouble if the relationship was serious and exclusive.
But Saskia snorted. "Partner? I think not. Ew. Darayn is too hot. Besides, uncles shouldn't be allowed to have sex lives. That's disturbing. Darayn raised me after my father died. I mean, Nathos adopted me, but with his duty to the crown and all that, he wasn't a hands-on parent. She runs the household when there's no one else here. She was patrolling, according to my maid, but no doubt she'll soon hear of my presence and come to let me know about my many failings. Mostly, not returning home often enough, and being uninterested in getting pregnant."
Elza winced. She certainly could relate to all of that; her own mother sang that tune often enough.
The eleventh claimant crossed the hall and Elza got to her feet.
"I don't think I can watch you anymore without laughing in their faces, and that'll certainly not help. Do you mind if I explore the lands?"
Saskia sighed. "I wish I could skip, too. Have f
un."
If he’d ever spared a thought on how death would come at him, Ash would have imagined dragonfire, blood, surrounded by a thousand enemies. Not this. Not this slow, agonizing decline, tainted by the taste of betrayal. He wasn’t dying here, alone, because of his sworn enemy; no one even knew he’d left his castle yet.
No one, save for his kin, the man he’d trusted above all others.
It was no coincidence when the raids had started, following him wherever he went, but he’d brushed it aside. The lands were perilous, he knew that. It meant nothing.
He couldn’t lie to himself anymore, after the Royal Warlock had blasted the town where he’d stayed into oblivion. He recognized his own magician’s spells.
The magician was attacking him on enemy territory; if, no, when, the dragons of Farden saw what had happened to their people, they would declare war on Absolia.
Ash had no clue why anyone would wish that. It was insanity. There were as many dragons in Farden as there were in Absolia, according to their spies; fighting against them meant the potential extinction of their kind.
Ash could have flown out. He was quick enough to change and get out of the way. But there were children about, bears and little dragonlings, frightened and crying for their mothers, so he’d done what he could. He’d shifted and flown, not away from the danger, but right to it, meeting it head on, and taking the worst of the blast.
Gragnar’s blow had been fire and Shadow. A lesser dragon - one less versed in protection spells, or with a weaker bloodline - wouldn’t have survived it. Ash was still breathing now, but only just. If aid came to him now, he might see another morrow; but he’d fallen in deserted lands, unknown to anyone who might wish him well, so, instead, he was dying, thirsty, broken, and despairing for his people.
Here ended the line of his ancestors.
The gods were kind enough as to show him the shape of an angel before he closed his eyes. A beautiful creature with golden brown skin and brilliant eyes.
