The Dragon Wakes (The Land of Fire and Ash Book 1)

by Sarah Dalton

  What would his older brother tell him to do? Reva is lost to you. Tania is here and she is beautiful. She may not be exactly like Reva, but she has many good qualities. Kindness, ferocity, spirit…

  “I know you,” rasped the soldier. “Prince Luca. You… you…”

  “Try not to speak, you will exhaust yourself,” Luca said. He worked methodically, gently unwrapping the bloodied bandage in the way Nico had taught him.

  “Doesn’t matter now,” said the soldier. “I’m a goner.” He pointed to the wound on his stomach. “Never seen a soldier come back from one of these. Your lad tried to heal it. I reckon it slowed it down some but not much else.”

  “He is resting at the moment. I will ask him to try again when he is well enough,” Luca said.

  “Aye, well I don’t care nothin’ about my life. It ain’t worth it. I wasted it, y’see. Never was s’posed to join the army. I needed the wage. Seemed like a good idea at the time. And I never liked that brother of yours. Always liked you more, to be honest. But then you went and killed the heir and all ’ell broke loose. Prince Stefan,” the soldier spat his name, “is no honourable leader. You need to watch ’im, Your Highness. He’s a nasty one. He drinks the blood of ’is enemies at night. They say it makes him stronger, but he ain’t strong at all. They say he’s the embodiment of Anios, not that anyone knows who Anios is. Some God of truth or somethin’ like it. No one believes it. Not even his best pal, that Brother. Mikkel. A funny bugger, that one.” The soldier paused to groan as Luca removed the part of the bandage covering his flesh. “There it is. My blood. We all have it, don’t we? I’ve seen Menti blood and it looks just like mine.” He grasped hold of Luca’s shoulder and pulled him lower. “Kill your brother. Do it soon. That one will take the world down with ’im. He’ll turn the realm into ashes.” The soldier’s eyes rolled back into his skull, and he rasped his last breath.

  Luca laid the man’s head down onto the tent floor and gathered up the bandages. It was then that he realised his hands were shaking. He closed the soldier’s eyes and turned to take the dirty bandages out of the tent and inform Geraldo of the death, when Brother Axil approached him.

  “He died,” Luca said.

  “I see that,” Axil said.

  Something unspoken passed between the two of them. Luca remembered their journey together, when he had been ripped apart by grief and guilt over the death of his brother. Brother Axil had told him to forgive himself, and told him that it was not his fault. But it was not until now that he began to see the truth in Axil’s words. He did not forgive himself yet, but he finally understood that one day he might be able to, and that was enough for now.

  “Geraldo will arrange the man’s burial,” Axil said. “How are you, Luca?”

  “Truthfully? I am taking in everything that has happened. Stefan… Stefan is Menti, and he is a dragon. He is more powerful than I am, Brother Axil, and that is frightening, for me, for Estala, for everyone.”

  Axil nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

  “What are we going to do about him?” Luca asked.

  Brother Axil’s cold blue eyes seemed sad then. “We are going to defeat him, Luca. That is what good men do when corrupted men harm the world. Stefan has crossed that line. He has become a danger to the realm, but I believe you have the power to stop him.”

  “He is stronger than I am.”

  Brother Axil led Luca out of the tent and into the centre of the camp. “He is stronger than you, Luca, but he is not stronger than us.”

  Luca nodded. The fight was not his alone. It was with the Menti rebels, too. He had Geraldo, Nico, Tania, and the others. And they could find more. They could travel and recruit more rebels to their cause. The thought of war made Luca’s insides twist and tighten, but the thought of his brother in power was worse. The thought of Menti slaughtered for who they are was worse. He would step up, and he would fight. He would do it for Matias, and Reva, and Tania, and Nico. He would do it for himself, so he could view his reflection and no longer feel shame.

  Stefan

  Stefan woke in the Shadow Valley with two thoughts on his mind: He was naked, and his face was burned. When he felt the raw skin on his cheek he cried out in pain. Then, he looked all around him, checking for Menti rebels. They had not followed him. That was good. The rest was not.

  He climbed to his feet and assessed his location. On the journey to the foothills of Zean, he had remarked how most of the Shadow Valley appeared the same, and now he thought it again. He had been lying in a small patch of rough grass next to a barren tree. His boots were gone, as were his clothes. The sun was high in the sky, warming his skin, aggravating the soreness of his face. He longed for shade, but there was nothing except the barren tree.

  Water, he thought, as he staggered forward. He knew enough about the sun to figure out how to travel east, which was where he believed the Dark River flowed. Water would cool him. Water would quench his thirst.

  He moved stiffly, with aching muscles, and a tired back. He was exhausted, like a lame horses worked to death.

  As Stefan stumbled through the yellow grass of the Shadow Valley, he thought of the battle at the rebel camp. He thought of his own transformation into dragon, and then he pondered that the facial burns had not been enough to punish him for what he was. He did not deserve to live. He was tainted. He was Menti. Brother Mikkel had always told him that he had been chosen by Anios. Stefan had never been chosen for anything before, let alone by a God. But what kind of God of Truth would choose a liar? All Menti were liars. They lied with their sorcery. It was false, all false. Only men could live true. Menti were like animals, at the mercy of their desires and powers.

  Yet Stefan was one of them.

  He longed to fall to his knees and weep. But he did not. He took another step. And as his feet faltered over a tree root, he balanced himself and kept going.

  Father will kill me, he thought miserably. I have failed. I am good for nothing. Alberto will take the crown. I am Menti.

  It was those last three words that echoed in his mind. I need water. I am Menti. If I can reach the river… I am Menti. Perhaps Brother Mikkel… I am Menti. It punctuated his every thought. I am Menti. I am Menti. I am Menti.

  When the dark river came into sight, Stefan broke into a run. It was a limping run, like a mongrel dog with a deformity. He staggered forward, almost hopping in his haste to reach the river. The water was enticing, teasing, so close and yet far enough away to make his body hurt with the effort of reaching it. When he was just a few feet away, Stefan lost concentration with what his feet were doing, tripped, and landed on his belly just shy of an arm’s reach from the river bank. He crawled the rest of the way repeating his mantra: I am Menti. I am Menti. Fresh water might help to heal him but it would never take that away from him.

  He wriggled down the bank of the Dark River towards the water. Here the grass was as green as emeralds, but the water ran dark. Stefan tried not to think about why the river was such dark shade of blue. Instead he concentrated on how the gushing waters would cool his burned skin. He was glad for the foam forming on top of the river as it rushed towards the Ash Mountains. He did not wish to see his reflection.

  He edged forward, wondering how much a death by drowning would hurt. Gripping the grassy bank, he eased his face into the water and cried out in pain when the coolness hit the inflamed flesh on his cheek. The burns were bad, he was sure of it. His brother had ejected white hot flame towards him, and he had suffered for it. Stefan would have killed his brother had it not been for the Menti whore who helped him. He drank from the river, thinking about Luca and how close he had been to killing him.

  Stefan’s claim to the throne was never secure, not with Luca still alive, even if the boy was a filthy Menti. I am Menti. But Stefan could hide his powers, while the whole of Estala knew about Luca and the death of Matias by now. Luca’s shame was out in the open, but Stefan could hide his away.

  He rose from the river and walked along the bank to wh
ere the water was calmer, offering a mirror on the surface. There, he dropped to his knees and gasped. He closed his eyes against what he saw. I am Menti. And then he thought, I am a monster. When Stefan opened his eyes, he knew it was true: He was a monster.

  Luca’s fire had burned the entire left side of his face to the point where it was barely recognisable as a human face. His skin was blistered and red; his eyebrows and eyelashes were burned clean from his skin, and even much of the hair on his scalp had been burned away. He ignored his reflection, leaned forward, and cupped his hands to fill them with water. Then he poured the water over his head, and down his painful burns.

  “I am Menti,” he said.

  He did it again, thinking of his brother Luca. Maybe, just maybe, if he poured enough water over his head, he could be born again. Born clean and pure this time. He rose to his feet, and stepped down the bank towards the water. His thumb throbbed once more. He had forgotten about the injury, but he looked down at it now. His hand was swollen, the thumb a purple colour. He had not noticed it before, so concerned was he with his face. Well, no matter; so much of him was broken anyway. He stepped into the water and strode in until it rose up to his shoulders.

  He kept going. He wanted to submerge himself in the water. The Order of Insight believed that water could cleanse the soul, which was why they often drowned their sacrifices. Stefan had taken part in them before. They were the threefold deaths. Drowning, hanging, stabbing. Stefan thought of the captain and the way he had struggled under the sea water. Then Stefan had driven the knife into his gut before the Brothers had strung him up at the entrance of their cave.

  Stefan’s death would not be threefold, but at least it would be cleansing. He took another step forward and the water hit his nose.

  “Your Highness!”

  Stefan ignored the voice. He needed this. He needed to swallow the water and let it all go. Let go of Luca, of his father, of the struggle to be who he was supposed to be. I am Menti. That was not who he was supposed to be. No one wanted that, least of all him.

  “Prince Stefan!”

  He lowered his head into the water and closed his eyes. The water filled his ears so that he no longer needed to hear the voice. Stefan released the air from his lungs and waited for the water to fill every empty space in his body.

  But a splash sounded behind him, and arms wrapped around his body. He pulled away from those arms as they dragged him back towards the river bank. He tried to shout, “No, I am Menti!” but the words were little more than a gurgle. Back he was pulled, back to the river bank, back to the world, back to the things he longed to forget.

  “What are you doing, my prince?” It was Brother Mikkel. Of course it was Mikkel. His faithful Governor never failed to protect him.

  “I… I…” Stefan coughed up water, spitting it all over himself. “I am Menti.”

  And then he began to cry. Brother Mikkel held him as he cried, naked as a baby, wet as a newborn, and sobbing like one too.

  “So be it,” Mikkel said. “You are Menti, what of it? Anios has made you that way, but it does not mean you must act like the others. This is a test, my prince, is it not? There are no other dragon Mentis, are there? I know of none. You are still chosen. You alone still hold the most almighty of powers in Estala and Xantos and beyond. You, my sweet, sweet, prince, are the chosen leader to cleanse this world and bring Anios back to us.”

  Stefan inhaled, healing his lungs. “I am?”

  “You are.”

  Brother Mikkel helped Stefan to his feet, removed his robes, and wrapped Stefan in them. Mikkel stood before the prince in a light roughspun tunic. The Brother wrapped his belt around his waist, the one with the lightning bolts etched into the leather, and suddenly, Stefan seemed more like himself in that belt.

  “I lost my sword,” Stefan said with a laugh. “When I shifted into the great dragon I lost all of my belongings, and all of my clothes.”

  “Most shifters do,” Mikkel replied. “That is one of the ways we seek them out. If we hear tales of men or women appearing naked in towns and villages we seek them out and hunt them down.”

  Stefan mused that had he not been born prince, he might have been one of those shifters hunted down by the Brothers. But, of course, Stefan was not any kind of shifter. He was a dragon. He was the only dragon in the known world and that meant he was not like the others. Thank Anios for Brother Mikkel. Had he not discovered Stefan, he would have drowned like a common Menti. He would never have come to realise his quest was not yet over. Anios had not deserted him. He rubbed his throbbing thumb and leaned against Mikkel as they made their way back through the Shadow Valley.

  “We will make our way back towards the Golden Bay,” Stefan said. “There we will seek a healer and my injuries will be tended to. Then we will travel to Estala, if there are enough men left to sail Father’s ships home. Lord Ramsiran will have to wait. I need to be back at Nesra’s Keep immediately.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness,” Mikkel said. His thin lips formed a smile. “And what will we do once we reach the kingdom of Estala?”

  But Stefan did not answer. He simply returned the smile.

  Reva

  Reva had spent most of her life by the coast. She had always loved the saltiness of it all, and the cold breeze that came from the sea. The first thing she did was remove her dirty footwraps and paddle in the ocean. It was a more northern sea than anything she was used to and the cold water made her gasp, but she loved it all the same, even when the sand rubbed against her blistered skin.

  The women were exhausted, yet they had a vibrancy that Reva had never noticed before. They were reborn with freedom. Together they hurried along the beach heading south. They needed to find a secluded spot to leave the beach and head towards Madero, a small village outside Monte Port. They had to be careful at Monte Port, for the Sisters sent goods to be loaded onto ships there, and they often imported food and drink up to the Gardens. Reva knew that the Sisters would be preoccupied with the fire and the missing animals, but she would not be surprised if they had already sent people down to the port to watch for them.

  When they were further along the beach, she told the girls to show more caution. They walked closer to the cliffs, staying out of the open stretches of the beach. Reva longed to walk in the sea again, to let the cool water soothe the sore skin on her ankles from where the chains had rubbed her raw, but she could not. She had to keep a level head and think one step ahead of the Sisters.

  By the time they reached Monte Port, the adrenaline of the escape had begun to wear out. They were dehydrated and hungry. Reva considered stopping to catch and cook crabs before they carried on to Madero, but she was worried it would slow them down too much. They helped each other as they climbed the sand dunes to the east of the port. Reva stopped and assessed the best way to circumnavigate the port without being seen. They would need to hang back, and climb the dunes bent low to stay out of sight. Then they would need to stay away from any roads or paths that seemed well worn.

  “I’ll go on ahead,” Lottie said as they climbed the last dune. It was steep, and Reva had sweat running down her back. Lottie’s face was pale and she gasped for breath as she tried to speak. “I’ll speak to Diego and beg him to help us.”

  “Be careful,” Reva warned. She had a sick feeling in her stomach that something awful was about to happen. She imagined Ammie’s stab wound and the red blood seeping out onto the forest floor. Forgive me, Ammie, she thought. Forgive me for not coming back for you.

  They found a secluded spot tucked between the last two dunes and decided to wait there for Lottie to return with Diego. Reva rested her head against Karine’s shoulder and longed to sleep. Her eyelids drooped and stuck every few moments, but then her mind would wake her. Lottie had been in a prisoner in the Gardens of Anios for almost a year. What if this Diego had moved away from the village? What if Lottie was found on the way to Madero? A young girl in chains would not be treated well. There were worse people in Estala than the
Sisters of the Enlightened, though there was little worse than being kept in chains. She ached. God, she ached. She had not realised how much until that moment. If a physician had told her that her body was broken from head to toe she would have believed him.

  Reva shook herself to stay awake. She decided to check on the others. It was dangerous for them all, even tucked away in between the dunes. She crawled along the line of women, most of whom had drifted into slumber. They are so tired, she thought. But they are so brave. Her throat thickened with emotion as her gaze drifted from one face to another. These women had followed her. They had braved it all for the hope of finding a better life. Instead of sitting back and accepting their fate, they decided to carve their own destiny, and she loved every one of them. But she was sure that there were fewer faces than before. She was missing people, and that made her heart skip a beat. Had they lost women in the Dourwood Forest? It seemed the most likely. It had been dark and everything had happened so fast. Great shame washed over her. She pushed them too hard. She left people behind. But how could she have done it any other way?

  Reva crawled slowly up the sand dune to get a better look at Monte Port. It had been months since she had seen anyone apart from those in the Gardens, and it seemed jarring to see people moving around once again without chains or robes or armour. She saw nobility wearing doublets, merchants in thin but colourful jerkins, and women in long dresses that swept down to the ground. For the first time in her life she missed those dresses. She missed the reds, blues, and greens of the fabric, and the intricate pieces of embroidery on the sleeves and bodice. At one time she had hated learning how to embroider cloth, but now she would happily sit for hours and stitch her own dress in order to be rid of the dirty, ripped tunic she wore.