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

by Sarah Dalton

  The port bustled. It was not as big as the Port of Kings, but there were plenty of merchants unloading their goods, and beautiful tall ships with pristine white sails flapping in the wind. Sailors sat on the decks, leaning back with their eyes closed to catch a moment of peace. But through all that, Reva saw one figure who took her breath away. She ducked down behind the crest of the dune and sucked in a deep breath to calm her heart.

  It cannot be, she thought. How has she made it here already?

  Reva allowed herself one more peek over the top of the dune to find that it was true and her eyes were not deceiving her. Sister Valeria was in amongst the people of the port. She was talking to a captain, smiling and nodding in such a way that it turned Reva’s stomach. The woman was playing on her image as a Sister. She was pretending to be holy, holding herself slightly hunched forward in a humble pose. She watched Valeria pat the man on the shoulder as if in thanks and then move onto another, this time a fisherman selling white fish from a tray about his neck. Then, after more flashes of her gentle smile, she moved onto a group of sailors throwing dice on the gangway.

  A hand grasped Reva’s shoulder and spun her around. Reva’s arms flew up defensively, but were brushed away.

  “Reva! Diego is here! He’s going to cut our chains. Reva, look, I’m free! And soon you will get to know what kind of Menti you are!” Lottie gushed.

  Reva took hold of Lottie’s hands, not even glancing at Diego. “We must work fast. Sister Valeria is at Monte Port.”

  Lottie’s legs were indeed free, and Reva noticed that Diego had found Lottie new clothes. It was a simple dress that was too loose at the waist, but it had been a good idea. Now Lottie could walk through Estala without notice.

  “Then we work fast. Diego, quickly.”

  Reva could not express the relief of being free from the shackles around her ankles. Despite the danger of Sister Valeria a few feet away, Reva could have thrown her arms around Karine’s friend Diego and hugged him until his ribs were sore. She rubbed the tender flesh on her ankles and wiggled her feet in the air while Diego moved on to the others with his small saw and cutters. He was a young lad, and clearly nervous. He often glanced up at Lottie and she smiled at him with encouragement.

  “He loved me once,” Lottie admitted as she passed a skin of water to Karine. Diego had brought olives too, which they ate greedily. “It was longer than a year since we last saw each other, but he did love me once. We were to be married had the Sisters not taken me.”

  Reva chewed on a fingernail, longing for Diego to hurry. With their legs free of shackles they could move faster, but they were still dressed as dirty prisoners. They had to get away from the port and they had to split up. It was their best chance at survival. This was the part of the plan that Reva had not yet figured out. Who would help her? Where could she go? She had half a mind to travel to Nesra’s Keep and beg an audience with the king, but who would let her in? She did not look like a noblewomen. She peeked above the sand dune again. Sister Valeria was still walking along the gangways of the port, and now she realised that Valeria was not alone. There were two guards with her. It was not a large enough party to capture them all, but it might be enough to hurt them. Perhaps Valeria had no intention of herding the prisoners up to take back to the Gardens; perhaps she was here for revenge. The thought was not a pleasant one.

  “Eat something,” Karine urged, handing Reva two olives.

  She took them, but they tasted bitter as she chewed them. It was the first morsel of food to pass her lips since their broth and bread before the escape. They had been working all day before the escape, then they had not slept—they rode all night and walked all morning. Reva did not want to tell them that they might have to fight.

  “We need to leave this place,” Reva said. “Diego, where can we go? Where will we be safe?”

  Diego’s mouth opened and closed. He was an attractive boy, with large blue eyes that struck Reva as kind.

  “If I were you,” he said licking his lips nervously, “I’d head south. If you can steal clothes or wash in the sea, you might find work at Tianti or maybe Ilkta Markets. But you must be careful. There are outlaws who travel along the market road. Some of you would be best going to Reyalon or to your families. Or…” he paused. “If you can get across the Sea of Kings to Xantos, they say there is a rebel camp in the foothills of the Ash Mountains.”

  “A rebel camp?” Reva asked.

  “There are Mentis there. The same Mentis who tried to rebel against King Davead when he outlawed sorcery. If you can get there, the other Mentis will give you shelter.”

  Reva pulled Diego into her arms. “Thank you. Thank you for everything you have done for us. Now, go. Go and remain safe.”

  “Where are you going to go?” Karine asked, as Reva watched the young Diego hurry away from them.

  “I think I am going to the Ash Mountains of Xantos,” Reva said. “I think I want to find the rebels and learn what it is to be a Menti.”

  Karine squeezed her hand. “I would like that too.”

  Reva gazed down at the broken iron chains lying in the sand. “It is strange but I always think of Unna castle when I see iron. Part of me misses it.”

  “What’s Unna Castle?” she asked.

  “It was the place I had lived before I was caught by the Sisters. It was not a happy place to live, but I miss it all the same.”

  “Why does iron remind you of the castle?”

  “There was iron all over the castle. Francis had it designed with iron spread all over the walls and door, and even our bed. I was encased in the iron.”

  Karine frowned. “He knew what he was but I suppose he did not know who you were. Raina—”

  “My name is Reva.”

  “Reva, iron does not only suppress our Menti powers, it does more to us, more to women.”

  Reva turned to look at Karine.

  “The iron stops our babies from growing. It interferes with our breeding. Do you understand?”

  “What?” Reva breathed.

  “You told me once that you could never bring a baby into this world. You said you left all your unborn children in your old home. Yes?”

  “I did,” Reva admitted.

  “It was not your fault, Reva. It was the iron in the castle. It stopped you from giving birth to a healthy child.”

  “And… and it makes them… deformed?” Reva asked, her voice quivering.

  “The iron confuses our magic. Sometimes the child can be half a person, and half the shift-form of our being. So… so perhaps whatever you are when you change…”

  Reva felt her knees weaken. Karine had to grip her by the elbow to stop her from falling into the sand. The world spun around her in a hazy blur. Could it be true? She had lived with the guilt of her miscarriages. She had worn the pain on her body, from her scars and her sagging stomach. She had believed herself at fault; she had known it, deep down. It had been part of her, part of what she had believed was her. And yet… and yet… What if it was true? What if it had been the iron all this time and she had never known? Karine gripped her by the shoulders, shaking her back and forth, but why? Because she was sobbing. She was sobbing and she was not doing it quietly.

  The women crowded around her. So many faces staring down at her. Did they know? Did they know her shame? Or was it shame no longer? She fell backwards and slid down the soft dune. It was never my fault.

  Ammie would be happy for me.

  Francis would forgive me.

  I have a chance for another life.

  Or so Reva thought. Until she heard the screams and the lash of the iron-chain whip. Karine fell away from her, with her hands outstretched, and Reva clasped a hand over her mouth. She blinked once… twice… and she saw Ammie laid on the ground with her lifeblood pouring away.

  Not this time.

  As Sister Valeria and the two guards attacked the prisoners, Reva felt a ripple surging through her body. Her arms became wings, her legs became scaled, and her back stretched o
ut into a tail. She towered above the women. Sister Valeria redirected her attention from whipping Karine to Reva’s new form, and the whip fell from her hand. Karine pushed Valeria away, and Reva moved on instinct. It was instinct to lunge forward and clasp Valeria in her jaws. The blood of the Sister was warm but tasted bittersweet. She lifted the woman—screaming and writhing against her sharp teeth—and carried her out to the sea. Reva was vaguely aware of the common-folk screaming and shouting as Reva tossed Sister Valeria out to sea. She watched the woman who had put her in chains land in the water, and she roared. She roared out her pain and her anger. She roared for her lost parents, lost husband, lost friend, and lost children.

  She roared fire until she could roar no more.

  And when it was over, she found herself curled up, naked—Reva again—being lapped gently by the tide. Karine rushed to her side.

  “You are a dragon, Reva,” Karine said. “A dragon.”

  Reva stared up at her friend. Had she imagined it? Had she truly stretched out her arms until they had become wings? Had she watched her skin turn to scales and breathed hot, yellow fire onto Sister Valeria in the sea? Had she taken another person’s life for the first time ever?

  Yes, she knew. She had done all of those things. Karine was right, she was a dragon, and now, she knew, she had a path to follow.

  King Davead

  There was news at last. It had been more than a week since he had returned from his flight, and he had barely slept since then. It had been foolish, what he had done; he knew that now. But his curiosity had overcome his caution, and he had flown out to the Ash Mountains.

  There he had seen his son, Prince Luca, working. Working hard. He watched the boy build some sort of home with his bare hands before digging trenches in the stinking air beneath the Xanti sun. For the first time in his life, Prince Luca was acting like the son he had always wanted Luca to be. He was strong, capable, and not afraid of work. It was a far cry from the weakling he had come to know.

  In his hawk form, King Davead had felt that the situation was simpler than he had ever known. He wanted his son to live even if he was Menti. He did not care what he had said to Stefan—he wanted Luca to live. But he did not know how he could ensure Luca’s safety without revealing himself as a Menti like the others.

  Davead had known he should return, but when he saw his son run down the hill to warn his rebel friends of the attack, he could not tear himself away. He had watched. He had watched with his tiny bird-heart fluttering against the small bones in his chest. He had watched Luca fight brave and true against Prince Stefan’s forces, and he had found himself rooting for Luca. He cheered when Luca won in battle. He even cheered when the Menti fighters helped his son and saved him from the occasional near-miss. He saw Stefan, a contrast to Luca, sitting atop his horse watching the battle from above.

  But the Menti were going to lose. Davead kept the Hag’s words in his heart, trying to make himself believe that he still wanted the Menti dead. But the truth was, seeing his son fight so bravely had moved him. If the Menti died, then so did his son. He flew up to the hill where Stefan watched the battle. Perhaps he could reveal himself to Stefan somehow. Perhaps his son would listen to him. But then he saw Prince Luca striding up the hill to face Stefan and decided to wait to see what would happen.

  Luca offered himself to Stefan to let the others live. It was a noble move. It was stupid, but it was noble. Davead knew that Stefan would not let the rebels live even if Luca was put in chains. But then, Davead had been king for a long time and he understood the politics of war. Luca did not.

  His two sons fought. Davead was agitated by the fight, yet he still could not decide whether to stop it once and for all. He flew around them, flapping his wings, disturbed by the vicious blows the boys aimed at each other. No parent wants to see their children trying to kill each other. Not even a king.

  Then he saw the Brother of the Enlightened creep up behind Luca. Stefan knew what the Brother intended, he was sure of it. He had seen the way Stefan’s face had stretched with an all-knowing smile after he realised that the Brother was not with the rest of the men. The boy had not done anything to stop the Brother. Stefan was about to win the fight by dishonourable means. Rage had filled Davead’s bird-heart until he acted on instinct alone. He flew at the Brother, pecking and scratching at his eyes. Brother Mikkel had cried out in pain, but not before he sliced at the king with his dirk, cutting him below his left wing. Davead had called out, risen up into the air and flown away before he was hit again. He flew with his wing in trouble, flew slowly over the sea, sometimes dropping so low that he thought he might plummet into the sea and drown. But he had not. He had made it back to Nesra’s Keep, and since then he had berated himself as a coward.

  He had left his sons in that God-forsaken land, still at each other’s throats. He had left them in the middle of the battle and he had no idea what the outcome would be. The worst part of it was that he had to pretend not to know anything of the incident in the Ash Mountains. He had to act as though he had not travelled there and back alone, with only the seagulls keeping him company. He had a hard enough time trying to explain his long absence from his chambers, and the gash across his ribs.

  The last week had been unbearable. But now, there was news.

  “His Royal Highness, Prince Stefan Sarinthia.”

  After a dull day of listening to the woes of pampered Lords, King Davead sat up in his throne.

  “Stefan?” he whispered.

  And then his heart fell. If Stefan was back, that meant a different fate for Prince Luca. He gripped the arm of his great gilded throne, and rage filled him up from his feet. If Luca was dead, it was from some wrong deed, most likely performed by Stefan the Snake.

  The great doors opened and his son strode into the throne room with his head held high. There was a great gasp from the lords and ladies of the court. The boy did not look well. He was sweating. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his gait was disjointed, as though he was trying harder than usual to walk. But the gasp from the crowd came from the sight of the monstrous red scars on the left side of his face. He had been burned from scalp to neck, and his face was a terrible mess of blistered skin. When he came closer to the throne, Davead saw that his nose was running. The boy sniffed and wiped it with a handkerchief from his doublet pocket. He also had no sword, the king realised. That was most irregular. He had taught his princes to always carry their swords.

  Before his son could speak, King Davead barked, “Court is over. I will speak with my son in my private chambers.”

  Stefan clenched his jaw shut, and his eyes flashed. As the king rose to his feet, he wondered if the flash of anger he saw in his son’s eyes was more like triumph. He had no time to worry about that now. He needed to be alone with his son so he could find out Luca’s fate away from the keen ears of his Lords and guards. It would also be best to remove this monstrous version of his son from the eyes of the court. He would not have Luca’s death gossiped about in the kitchens of Nesra’s Keep, nor his son Stefan’s injuries. He would not have his reaction to Luca’s death remembered by the court—for, despite his anger, Davead was concerned that he would openly weep for the death of his son. He had wept for Matias in the privacy of his chambers, but after his week of little rest or sustenance, he wondered if he would be able to control his emotions as well.

  “Father, we have much to discuss,” Stefan said. His voice sounded thick, either from some snivelling cold, or from the burn injuries. Davead did not like to look upon his son’s face, it was too disturbing. “It was smart to go to your chambers.” He held his hands behind his back as though attempting to straighten his back even further. Davead wondered if it might also be an attempt to hide his trembling hands. “Father, will you not mention my injuries? As you can see, I came back from the battle gravely wounded.”

  Davead did not respond. He could not stand the sound of his son’s voice, and he did not trust himself to speak, not while they were still in the
presence of his guards. Once alone, he could say all he wished. But as they traversed the twisting corridors of Nesra’s Keep, he must remain silent and solid as a good king knows to do at the right moment. His mind was filled with the images of that fateful night on the Ash Mountains, but he refused to let it show. He strode as fast as his legs could carry him. Stefan sniffled next to him, and Davead resisted the urge to swat him away like a fly. What was it about the boy that angered him so? It had always been the case. He knew that, seeing Stefan so injured, he should pity his son now, and show concern about his wounds. But he could not. There had always been something off, something unlikeable, about his character. No, Davead knew in that moment he had never loved him. He had not. Before he had seen Luca working and fighting bravely he had liked him little, too. Davead had struggled to love a man he did not respect. He had loved Luca that night. It may have been fleeting, but he had loved him.

  Davead commanded that his guards stay outside the doors of his chambers. He showed Stefan in and then bolted the door behind them. He thought about pouring wine. He always did when he had guests in his chambers. But he had not thought to bring a serving boy into the room and it would not be kingly to do it himself.

  “Father, I have bad news,” Stefan started. Despite the grave announcement, his voice sounded almost upbeat, under the thickness of his illness. “I must tell you something of the upmost importance.” Stefan paused and fiddled with the high neck of his doublet. “It is so stiflingly hot in here. May I open the windows to your balcony?”

  “You may.”

  Davead watched the boy cross the room and open the large shutters, letting the sea air filter into the space between them. Stefan was quite ill. He seemed weak. He had to heft the shutters to open them. At one point Davead almost boomed for him to hurry it up. He clenched his hands into fists and resisted the urge to beat his son senseless. Was Luca dead or not?