by Stephen Deas
'The snappers must have eaten their fill. But it was all wrong after that.' All wrong because she was useless. She was too old and no one wanted her. Among the settlements a woman on her own could mean only one thing. She'd moved from one place to the next, never staying long, selling herself to stay alive, stealing when she could, until she got caught and sold to a Dust gang. She didn't remember too much for a while after that, just doing everything they asked. Anything.
'Whatever it took to get more Dust,' she breathed, and felt a pang of craving inside her. Even thinking about it, even after all this time… 'And then they had enough too, and left me for the snappers again. Them or the cold.' She laughed bitterly. 'Snappers don't like me, I suppose. Too skinny. Not good eating. I thought I was seeing things. There was a huge white dragon. And then there was Kailin Scales. And then there was you, and then Kailin Scales went away, and I was still alive, and even the Soul Dust was gone, as much as it ever can be gone.'
And she'd survived.
She felt the rise and fall of Kemir's chest. He was sleeping. She rolled away and lay next to him, watching the stars, feeling the heat from the slumbering dragon on the other side of her. She ran a hand over Snow's scales. They should have run away. They both knew it. They should have left when Snow found Ash. Right then, when the dragons were so distracted they might have got away. Instead they'd waited too long. Now the dragons would never let them go, but it didn't bother her; if anything it made her feel special. There were worse places to be.
Snow was deliciously warm. She could feel the sense of purpose that filled the dragons now, even while they were sleeping. It hadn't been there the day before. It was infectious. She wanted to do something. She had no idea what. She'd never had a purpose before, never had time for it. Not starving, not being eaten, not dying of cold and exhaustion – all that had been purpose enough. Suddenly she didn't have to worry about those any more.
Kemir had a purpose. The dragons had a purpose.
She'd thought about that all through the day, as the mountains grew shorter and steeper and sharper and more pressed together.
'I want to help kill the dragon-knights,' she whispered. She wasn't sure if she'd meant it for Kemir or for Snow, or whether she was simply speaking to the wind. 'Every one of them,' she added. 'I want to kill them all.' This surprised her. It wasn't the purpose she'd expected. Maybe it wasn't her purpose at all. Maybe the dragons had made her want it, in the same way that when they grew angry she grew angry too. Or maybe she'd caught it from Kemir. In the end it didn't really matter, did it?.
Nadira hunched her shoulders and closed her eyes. She made herself small and snuggled next to Snow. The dragons were dreaming, and from their dreams she knew exactly what was coming.
Yes. There were far worse places to be.
Returning the Cinders
There is one last price a dragon-rider must pay. When a dragon
finally dies, it burns from the inside so that all that remains
beneath the scales is charcoal and ashes. The scales survive.
They are light and strong, and above all fire and heat will not
penetrate them. Thus they are much sought after as armour.
When a dragon dies and only the scales remain, the rider must
gather them and return them to the eyrie and the dragon-king
from whence they came. Thus the dragon returns to the place
of its birth. Only from the cinders, say the alchemists, can a new
dragon be born.
51
The Alchemists
Jaslyn had come to see the alchemists once before. She'd been thirteen years old. Lystra was eleven, Almiri sixteen and very soon to be wed to King Valgar. They'd come with their mother and Lady Nastria on the backs of two dragons, both dead now. Jaslyn's memories were of huge dark caves and wizened old men and damp stone, and of Almiri being unbearable. Their mother had taken them down through endless tunnels to a place that had never seen the sun, lit only by a few lamps. The rush of some underground river had echoed everywhere they went. They'd come out into a huge cavern, and her mother had pointed at the purple stains on the walls.
'This is where our power comes from,' she'd said. 'These tiny little plants. The alchemists make them into potions. The Scales feed the potions to our dragons. The dragons do as we command them. Without these little plants we are nothing. Remember that, always.'
Jaslyn had hated every minute of it, but what she had hated most was the thought that her dragons did as she asked of them because of some little plant. They were supposed to do it for her. For their love of her.
She was older and wiser now, but the feeling was still there, and it hit her in the pit of the stomach as soon as she landed. I hate this place. She looked at the cave mouths and trembled, and so it was a relief when Keitos led them through the jumble of stone houses instead. He bowed and nodded his head and mumbled platitudes, none of which she really heard, and took them into a squalid little hut where an old man sat at a bench squinting through a piece of coloured glass at a leaf. They stood in the doorway and waited, but the old man didn't seem to notice them. He just looked at his leaf. He was deathly pale, and all that was left of his hair were a few white wisps.
Eventually Keitos coughed.
'I know you're there, Master Keitos.' The old man didn't look up. 'I know you have visitors too. Three dragon-riders. I felt them land. Whoever you are, you'll just have to wait.'
'This is Princess Jaslyn, Master Feronos, daughter of Queen Shezira, our next speaker. Soon to be our mistress. With her, Rider Semian, also in Queen Shezira's service.' Jostan had stayed at the eyrie to see their dragons were well cared for.
The old man sighed. He stared at his leaf for another few seconds and then put it down and looked at them. 'Princess Jaslyn. Yes. You came once before with your mother. Five years ago, in the winter, when we were all covered in snow. Yes, yes. I remember.' He didn't get up or bow, or do any of the things Jaslyn was used to. 'Shouldn't you be at the palace?'
Jaslyn stared at him.
'Master Feronos is the wisest of us in the lore of stones and metals,' said Keitos nervously. He shuffled his feet and took a step into the room. 'Her Highness has brought something that she says is a mystery, Master. A liquid that is like metal.'
'A liquid that is like metal or a liquid that is metal?'
'Prince Jehal may be poisoning Speaker Hyram or King Tyan with it. Maybe both. And someone has used it to try and poison my mother,' snapped Jaslyn. She pushed Keitos out of the way and thrust the clay pot, still sealed with wax, in front of the ancient alchemist.
A gnarled, trembling hand reached out and took it from her. Feronos wasn't ready for how heavy it was. It tumbled from his fingers, and Jaslyn barely caught it before it smashed on the floor.
'Ahhh.' The old man nodded. 'I know this. It's been a long, long time since I've seen it. It doesn't surprise me that you don't know what this is. There aren't many that would. You have to be old like me to remember.'
'You haven't opened it, old man.' Jaslyn clenched her fists. 'How can you know what it is when you haven't even opened it.'
Silently, Feronos put the pot on his table and broke the seal. Very carefully he opened it. 'A metal that gleams like silver and runs like water. Very heavy. Nothing quite like it. Very hard to find.'
'I know that.' Jaslyn stamped her foot. 'Where does it come from? Who made it?'
'No one made it, girl. You cannot make this. As for where it comes from…' He shrugged. 'Not from within the realms we know, I can tell you that. We had some once. It came across the sea, I think.' His brow furrowed. 'Oh, now… who was keeping it? Not here. Somewhere in the west. Old Irios had some in Shazal Dahn, but he's gone now. Long gone.'
The old man seemed to drift away.
Keitos bit his lip. 'Our stronghold in the western deserts,' he said reluctantly. 'We like to keep it a secret.'
'But that's…' Jaslyn's gaze shifted to Semian. 'That's Speaker Hyram's realm!'
'It was a long time ago,' whispered the old man.
Jaslyn rounded on him.
'But it's poison, yes? It is poison?'
He shrugged. 'Drink enough of it and you'll sicken. Like a lot of things. Irios liked to work with it, but he went mad. They say the liquid metal did it to him. Sailors used to bring it to him. The alchemist's disease, they call it. Old age I say. Couldn't stop shaking. In the end he just walked out into the desert and never came back. Or that's what someone told me once, I think. Fumes in the air. But not a poison. Not unless you want to spend a decade waiting. No. Quicker to let age take its course, I would think.'
Jaslyn gripped the table. The world seemed to spin and rush around her. 'No. It is poison. Alchemist's disease. That's what Almiri called it too. And King Tyan, yes, he's been dying of it for nearly a decade, and Hyram, he's been ill for more than a year. Slowly getting worse. It is a poison. It is Jehal.' She clenched her fists. 'He's killing them so slowly that they don't know they're being murdered. Hyram has the right of it, and no one else believes him!'
Master Feronos carefully sealed up the pot and put it on the floor. He seemed slightly disappointed. Jaslyn strode back out of the hut and filled her lungs with fresh air.
'Highness!'
'Rider Jostan!' She looked at him in surprise. 'You're supposed to be at the eyrie, seeing to it that Silence is cared for exactly as I requested.'
'Highness, there are other dragons nearby. The white has been seen.'
Jaslyn blinked. 'What? Here? With the alchemists?'
'No. But two dragons were seen near the village a few hours before we came. A black war-dragon and a white hunter. It can only be ours. There are no other whites.'
She snorted. 'And who told you this, Rider Jostan? A peasant already in his cups? A farmer? Or was it the village idiot?'
'Your Highness, a captain of the Adamantine Guard. A legion of them protects the alchemists' redoubt.'
'I've never heard of such a thing. Nor did I see any Guard as we flew in.'
'They camp within the forest, under the cover of the trees.'
Jaslyn shook her head. 'No matter. We must return to the palace at once. Go back to the eyrie and have our dragons readied. Queen Shezira is on the point of making a pact with Prince Jehal. We must be back before the speaker is named. So we must leave now.'
Jostan looked unhappy. 'Your Highness, by the time the dragons are fed and readied the sun will be almost set. I beg you, please do not camp in the wilds of the mountains in the middle of the night while there are other dragons nearby. We do not know if they are friends or enemies or what their purpose is, but if one is the white… Remain here, Your Highness, in safety. We can leave at first light and still be back in time.'
'Rider Jostan is right,' said Semian from behind her. 'We will fly with you if we must and die to defend your life, but it is unwise to leave in such haste.'
Jaslyn growled and clenched her fists, but they were right and she knew it. She stamped back into the hut and snatched up the pot of poison. The Viper's venom.
'Very well. First light. Not a moment later.' She swept up her cloak and marched away, striding impatiently across the ground without knowing where she was going. Nastria should have come. Too many mysteries. Wait, wait, wait; we should leave now; I should be with mother. And what does Jehal get from poisoning her ten years from now? Why would he do that?
And why is the white here?
52
First Light
A low droning hum filled the Glass Cathedral. Hyram and Queen Zafir stood on either side of the altar. They wore jewelled dragon masks and and long robes of gold and silver leaf that flowed and spilled across the floor. They were supposed to stand absolutely still, like statues, while the sun rose, until the first light of the day spilled in through the windows.
Shezira watched them carefully. She'd been through the same ordeal when she'd married Antros. She'd had to be still for nearly hall an hour, and apart from giving birth to their daughters it remained the hardest thing she'd ever done. Antros, of course, had fidgeted constantly. Now Zafir was so still that she might have been made of stone. Hyram, she thought, was trembling very slightly.
The droning of the priests grew very slightly louder. The sun was nearly at the window. Shezira glanced over her shoulder, fehal was sitting somewhere at the back with King Tyan. Tyan had gone into one of his moaning phases, and she could hear him even over the hum of the priests. If he was trying to say something, he'd long ago passed the point where anyone could understand him.
She'd made a point of going to see King Tyan and spending some time with him. He seemed to recognise her. He couldn't talk and hardly moved, and when he did, he trembled so violently that everything around him went flying. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling, when she looked into his eyes, that he was still in there somewhere, hopelessly alone and mad with despair. Afterwards she'd found it hard to be angry with Hyram any more. She'd even suggested to Jehal that he should give Hyram some of his secret potions himself, that they should make peace, but Jehal had only shaken his head.
'Never,' he'd whispered. He was doing everything he could to discover how Queen Zafir had stolen them. It was all her doing. She had an iron wickedness inside her. A true dragon-queen.
Shezira looked at her, across the altar, trying to see it, but she could never get past how young Zafir was. Too young to be a speaker.
Finally, the first light spilled in and struck the altar. The priests stopped their moaning and closed in around Hyram and Zafir, waving their arms up and down, reaching for the sky and then the earth and then back to the sky. Whatever the symbolism of all these rituals, Shezira doubted that anyone but the priests understood it. No one cared about the dragon-priests any more.
They backed away and fell to the floor, leaving Hyram and Queen Zafir standing alone in the orange dawn light. The masks were gone. They each reached out one hand towards the other, their fingers touched, and it was done. They were bound together, joined as one in the Cathedral of Glass, never to be split apart. Hyram was a king again.
Afterwards, as the kings and queens walked amid a surfeit of petty princes towards the enormous breakfast feast that awaited them, Almiri fell in step beside Shezira.
'Is King Valgar well?' asked Shezira. They both knew she wasn't enquiring about his health.
'Resolute. King Tyan?'
'Bought.'
'King Narghon?'
'Will do whatever Fyon tells him to, and Fyon has always doted on her nephew. Silvallan's going to be the hard one. He has reasons to be friendly to both Hyram and Zafir, but if Hyram's cousins turn against him, Silvallan will go with the tide. What have Sirion and his court got to say for themselves?'
Almiri pursed her lips. 'They've said very little.'
'Yes.' Shezira glowered at Hyram's back, some yards ahead of them. 'He's put them in a difficult position. He was their king before he became speaker, and acts as though he still is. But he's not the one who will suffer. If he gets his way and names Zafir, he'll stay at the palace. Sirion will remain on the throne and wear the crown, but Hyram's shadow will still be there. What does he do? He's an honourable man, I know that. Hyram's breaking a pact that their grandfather made. He needs to understand that I'll win without him and without Silvallan if need be. But it would be much better if the dragon-lords were united.'
Almiri smiled. 'Hyram's not quite himself. Ten years of peace and harmony shouldn't be ruined by one mistake of judgement. Let Zafir be the villainous witch that she is. Who can say what else she might put in the potions she feeds him? And she says she steals them from Prince Jehal, but does she?'
'King Tyan has hardly made a miraculous recovery, has he?' King Valgar was watching them. Shezira nudged Almiri away. 'Go back to your husband.'
'There is one thing, mother.'
'Yes?'
'Prince Dyalt needs a bride. I know Hyram asked after Lystra a year or more ago.'
'Yes, and I told him that Lystra was already t
aken. I thought Dyalt was supposed to marry some Syuss princess.'
'He was, but she died. Drowned in a lake. You know what the Syuss are like when they see water. Besides, Dyalt is the king's youngest son and so not far removed from the throne. His father thinks he ought to do better than one of the Syuss, and I think you should offer Jaslyn's hand for Dyalt.'
Shezira snorted. 'Would they have her? Just as well I sent her away.'
'You bought Valgar with me and Jehal with Lystra. Jaslyn is your daughter and your most likely heir. Dyalt could be marrying himself to your throne, and if you do become speaker, they will wonder which one of us will succeed you.'
'Will they?' Shezira tried not to laugh.
'They can always hope. Mother, they'll have her.'
'Dyalt is fourteen; Jaslyn is too old for him.'
Almiri laughed and shook her head. 'Mother, how old is Hyram? How old is Zafir? Make the offer.'
'No.' Shezira shook her head. 'No, I can't do that.'
'Why, mother? Why?'
'Because that would be far too direct and Hyram would be certain to learn of it.' She grimaced. 'You make the offer. I have made no decision as to who will succeed me, but by all means let them think it will be Jaslyn. For the peace of the realms. If they stand by the pact, and only if they stand by the pact.'
Almiri's eyes sparkled. She smiled and turned away to walk at her husband's side. Shezira went on alone. She wondered about her daughters sometimes. Were they all they seemed to be, or did they manage to hide some part of themselves, even from her? Offering Jaslyn to Dyalt was a clever ploy. Jaslyn would probably never speak to either of them again, but Dyalt could hardly say no.
My most likely heir? She chuckled to herself. You all have to get rid of me first.
53
The Fire Within
The dragons took off as soon as the sky was light enough to fly. The very tips of the mountains shone like they were on fire, while the slopes below were still dark with shadow. Snow and Ash knew exactly where they were going, which was more than Kemir did. He tried to spot the alchemists' valley, but the first he knew of it was when Snow flew between two mountains, over the top of a narrow cliff, and plunged vertically down.
