by Lana Axe
“Where’s Zamna?” Taren asked.
“He’ll be along,” Imrit replied. “I’ve woken him three times already. He’ll either get out of bed to help us or to kill me.”
Another sound came from the door, this one more of a slamming fist than a knock.
“Come in, Zamna,” Taren said.
The La’kertan stumbled inside, still groggy from the night before. He could have done with a few more hours of sleep, but Imrit was insistent. If Zamna tried to go back to bed, the old man would probably follow him and shove the book in his face. To avoid breaking his vow of not murdering anyone, Zamna chose to get up. He sank into the chair next to Imrit and glared at him.
“Now that we’re all assembled,” Imrit began, “let’s give Taren another chance to decipher these words. Morning light is the best to read by, and hopefully your gift of dragon blood is stronger when you’re well-rested.”
Imrit tilted the book toward Taren, who willingly accepted it. Cradling the book in both hands, he scanned the words before him. They meant nothing to him. “I still can’t read it,” he said. Leaving his bed, he passed the book to Zamna. Imrit’s expression was a mix of insult and impatience.
“Here’s an interesting line,” Zamna said, looking down at the book. “After bonding with a new master, the symbol’s powers will require activation, which can be achieved only through dragon fire.”
“We know that already,” Imrit said, crossing his arms.
“Yes, but look,” Zamna said, holding the book out for his companions to see. Drawn in gold was the exact item Taren had retrieved from Ailwen’s tomb.
“Yes, it’s Taren’s symbol,” Imrit said. “I know it well considering I sent him to retrieve it.”
“What of your symbol?” Taren wondered.
“Mine doesn’t look like that,” Imrit said. “Give me that book.” Taking care with the pages, he flipped through front to back while the others waited. When he had finished, he started over at the beginning.
“What’s he doing?” Zamna asked.
Taren shook his head.
“It’s not here!” Imrit exclaimed. “How?”
“What?” Taren asked. “What is it?”
“My symbol isn’t in this volume, only yours,” Imrit said. “There is no mention of a second symbol at all.”
“So yours is a fake?” Zamna asked.
“Certainly not,” Imrit shot back. “There has to be a second volume. Perhaps the two artifacts were not crafted at the same time.”
Taren felt an abundance of sadness for his former master. It had taken him a lifetime to locate the symbol and this book. Would there be time to find another tome? The symbol’s power had lasted long enough to allow Imrit a second life, but immortality might not be possible with his symbol only partially awakened.
“There’s a way to activate yours,” Taren said. “We’ll find it.”
“Dragon fire,” Imrit replied. “It activated yours, and it will activate mine. The artifact I carry was also forged in the dragon’s breath. Of that I have no doubt.” After a pause, he added, “I was not brave enough to face the flames as you did.”
“I wouldn’t have stood against the fire without a good reason,” Taren responded. “If you hadn’t been in danger, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Not true,” Zamna said. “You’d have done the same for me or even one of those insane Cultists.” Taren was not the sort to let another come to harm when he could save them. If his magic had any chance of shielding an innocent from that dragon, Taren would have gladly jumped in the way. Though he hadn’t found it in the tome, Zamna suspected the symbol would weigh a person’s worthiness. That could have been the reason it abandoned Ailwen in favor of Taren. A just master was far better than an evil overlord.
“Iracidae won’t help us,” Taren said. “But if I’m truly becoming a dragon, I should be capable of breathing fire.”
“Wait,” Zamna said, holding up a hand. “You aren’t thinking of breathing fire on him, are you?” The serious look in Taren’s eyes answered the question. To Imrit, he asked, “And you’re going to sit there and let him do this?”
Imrit sighed softly and stared down at his feet. “All my life I have sought the power of the symbol. I missed my chance with Iracidae. I should have gone into her flames myself.” Standing, he placed both hands on Taren’s shoulders. “My son, if there’s a way you can activate this artifact, I’m most willing to try it. The two of us will experience the full strength of our gifts together.” Tears spilled from the old man’s eyes.
Seeing his mentor brought to tears tugged at the young man’s heart. If their positions were reversed, Imrit would certainly be willing to help him. He could never refuse his former master’s request. “I’d be honored to give you this gift,” Taren said.
“You’ve lost your minds,” Zamna protested. “You’re as crazy as those Dragon Cultists who fed themselves to the fire.”
“Not in the slightest,” Imrit argued. “I have no desire to be reduced to ash. I have the same gift as Taren, and it will preserve my life.”
“You don’t know that,” Zamna replied. “Let’s finish reading this book first.”
“There’s no mention of my symbol in there,” Imrit said. “I’ve been through it front to back. Only Taren’s symbol is depicted.”
“All the more reason to wait,” Zamna said. “Taren?”
Taking a deep breath, Taren reluctantly agreed. “Let’s read it all the way through,” he said. “That’s the only way to be certain. If there’s a safer way, we have to find it.”
Grumbling, Imrit returned to his seat. He had never been a patient man, and that wasn’t about to change. “If you insist,” he said.
It took three days for Zamna to finish reading the entire book aloud. Constant interruptions tested his patience as Imrit and Taren insisted on discussing nearly every line. Breaks for eating and sleeping were kept short, so Zamna took liberties with trips to relieve himself. It was the only time he could stretch his legs and enjoy the fresh air. Inevitably, one of the other two would come looking for him and corral him back to Taren’s cabin for more reading. In all his life, Zamna didn’t think he’d ever spoken so many words. His throat was tired and ready for rest. A vow of silence would be a blessing, and he made note to ask Ynaja about it as soon as he returned to La’kerta.
Within the tome, many truths were revealed. The method and spells used in shaping the gold into its current form were described in detail. A precise winding of the metal strands was required to form a specific shape, one that could channel the magic throughout it without losing power. Zamna didn’t understand a word of it, but Taren and Imrit nodded as if they had already discerned as much.
Zamna took more interest in the tools and forging involved in the symbol’s creation. Though he was no metalsmith, he understood more of hammers and forges than magic. Taren’s symbol had taken years to complete, and Zamna marveled at the stamina required of the elves who crafted it. He could never spend so long on the same project. His mind wandered far too often, and he lost interest quickly. Briefly, he mused that it might be the reason he gave up on his own studies at the temple and jumped at the opportunity to travel with Taren. It was his fear of failure that kept him from trying his best—a flaw he hoped to remedy when this business was finished. He could at least finish listening to what Ynaja had to teach him before he decided to dismiss it all.
The room fell silent as Zamna recounted the story of the symbol being presented before the dragon. It was a powerful moment as described in the tome.
Fialynne, maiden of elves, placed a kiss upon her creation. Lovingly her hands cradled the symbol as she brought it forth and presented it before Violaceae, mightiest among dragons. Upon Fialynne’s creation, Violaceae did breathe life upon it, an eternal flame wrapping itself around the golden strands.
Grateful for the lack of interruptions, Zamna chose to live in the moment. He clearly saw the scene play out before him, the ancient elven craftswoma
n presenting the symbol to the violet dragon. Never before had the La’kertan taken such pleasure in reading. In fact, he’d never sat down and read through any books of old tales. Another thing that he’d have to change once this journey was at an end.
As the tome went on, it described others who wielded the symbol across the ages. Two became permanent dragons, either choosing to remain so or forgetting how to change back. The text was unclear on that point. Three others willingly chose to part with the artifact, thus ending their own lives. Their reasons remained their own, as no explanation was given.
“That’s it then,” Imrit said as Zamna closed the volume. “We have enough knowledge to craft our own symbol if we wanted to.”
“Yet so many questions remain unanswered,” Taren added.
Zamna held his breath and ground his teeth. If they asked him to read through it again, one of them would have to die. His back ached from sitting, and if he didn’t spend a day away from staring at the book, he would likely become permanently cross-eyed.
“No, it has answered our questions,” Imrit responded. “We now know how to activate the symbol I carry. It has a different maker and dragon, but it remains of the same craft as yours, the one described in the tome.” The old man sounded sure of himself. “The path ahead is clear. We must proceed with the dragon fire.”
“You’re really going ahead with this?” Zamna asked in disbelief. “Why are you so determined to set each other on fire?”
“It’s not that at all,” Imrit said. “And I’m the only one at risk, so go and hide someplace if you don’t want to watch.”
Zamna crossed his arms and stood his ground. “Right now both of you are whole and healthy,” he said. “This experiment of yours might destroy both symbols.”
“There was nothing in the text to suggest that,” Imrit argued.
Unconvinced, Zamna tried one more time. “How do you even know that you can breathe dragon fire?”
Taren didn’t have an answer. Uncertainty flashed across his face as he looked at Imrit.
“All master sorcerers can cast fire spells,” Imrit replied. “Even if he isn’t a master of fire, he has abundant skill.”
“That isn’t the same thing,” Zamna pointed out.
“He’s right,” Taren agreed. “It might not work at all.”
“So now you don’t want to try?” Imrit asked. “Tell me you haven’t turned your back on me.”
“No,” Taren replied. “I haven’t.” Imrit would never be complete without a fully active symbol inside him. If Taren could activate it through his own magic, then he owed his former master that much. “I’ll try my best.”
Reaching into his herb satchel, he retrieved a small vial of bright red liquid. Removing the stopper, he sniffed the concoction. It was a temperamental recipe, one that had the tendency to turn sour and lose effectiveness. Smelling it was the best way to judge whether it was still potent. The scent of cinnamon and pepper permeated his sinuses, proving the potion was sound. Whispering an incantation, he activated the liquid, setting it bubbling in the vial. Before it could spill over, he tipped the vial to his lips and swallowed. The liquid burned on his tongue, proceeding down his throat and making its way to his stomach.
“What was that?” Zamna asked.
After a few coughs, Taren blinked the tears from his eyes. “A potion to enhance my fire abilities.”
“Don’t do this,” Zamna said. “Let’s return to Iracidae for help finding the other tome.” It was the best suggestion he could come up with.
Taren had already made up his mind. “She commanded me to leave,” he said. “I will not go back to her.”
“Then let me go,” Zamna said, taking a step toward the door.
“This is what must be done,” Taren responded. “We have to stop denying the truth. Only dragon fire can awaken the artifact.”
“Quite right,” Imrit said. “I’m ready.”
Zamna hadn’t expected Taren to agree so readily with his mentor. Surely the young man had a shred of wisdom left in him. “This is absurd,” Zamna said. “You’ll burn down the entire ship.”
“Taren has fine aim with his spells,” Imrit said.
Setting his jaw, Zamna ceased his argument. There was no convincing the stubborn old wizard. The two of them were determined to walk this foolish path, and no word from him would stop them. Taking a step back, he distanced himself from his companions but remained in the room. He intended to keep space between himself and the flames but stay on hand in case he was needed. Squeezing his eyes shut, he whispered a prayer to the Auk on Taren’s behalf. If the young man accidentally killed his mentor, the guilt would destroy him.
Standing with his left arm stretched in front of him, Imrit braced himself for the fire. His posture was strong and straight, suggesting his pure confidence in Taren’s abilities. “I’ve waited a lifetime for this moment,” he said. “Too long the symbol has lain dormant. Now it shall awaken. Together we will embark on a journey through magic that most can only dream of.”
Taren took several deep breaths, hundreds of doubts racing through his mind. The potion burned in his stomach, finding its way to his magical stores. Red magic glowed on his fingers, his eyes flashing with red fury. Tapping into the symbol’s power, he felt it flicker to life. Every inch of the metal buzzed with power, urging him to begin his spell. Taren found it comforting that the symbol was willing to help. Was it eager to reawaken its sleeping kinsman? A sensation of pure delight entered his soul. He and Imrit were about to share ultimate power.
Chapter 20
Flames danced in the pit of Taren’s stomach. The symbol’s power was eager to be called forth. Taren could feel its yearning within him as he tapped into its magic. Calling forth the fire, he directed it at the man before him. Though he’d expected it to come from his hands as it usually did, the fire instead climbed up his throat and escaped through his mouth, as if he were a true dragon. It was a strange sensation at first, but he settled into it, marveling at the power of the symbol.
Imrit stood frozen to the spot, embracing the kiss of dragon fire. He gave no indication that he was in pain, nor did he announce the awakening of his symbol.
Taren held the flames back, refusing to put forth more effort. He felt the symbol’s desires, urging him to give it the reins. Fearing he might lose control, he fought against it. The black pattern on his arm burned beneath his scales.
Despite Taren’s efforts to contain it, the fire began to grow. Orange-red flame spewed forth from his mouth, erupting like a terrible volcano. Taren’s body shook, his right arm searing with pain. The symbol was taking over. Anger boiled in his stomach as the symbol brought forth its true desires. It would murder Imrit if it could.
Still holding his arm against the flame, Imrit did not back away. Soon the fire grew too intense, blisters erupting on his skin. He cried out in agony and pain, but still he held his ground.
Zamna could take no more. Taren was clearly distressed, and Imrit would rather die than admit defeat. Diving for the old man, he knocked the sorcerer from his feet, the flames scorching the La’kertan’s clothing. Rolling across the cabin floor, Zamna smothered the fire from the old man’s clothes before tending to his own. Fire continued to bellow from Taren, reducing two wooden chairs to a pile of smoldering ash. The herbalist dropped to his knees as the fire died out, a gurgling sound escaping his throat.
“Imrit,” Taren called, sobbing. “Forgive me.” His heart burned with regret as he knew he had killed the man who had loved him like a son.
“He needs your magic!” Zamna called back. Imrit was far from dead, but his burns needed immediate attention.
Crawling across the floor, Taren reached his mentor and placed both hands on his chest. White magic spread from his fingertips but refused to enter the old man’s body. Tearing at his magic, he tried to force it to his will. Still it ignored his command. The symbol burned inside him, mocking him, its malice stabbing at his heart. “The symbol won’t allow it,” he whispere
d.
“You’re an herbalist!” Zamna shouted. “Use a potion!”
Snapping back to reality, Taren dove for his satchel. Yes, he was an herbalist. Where elemental magic failed, he still had a skill the symbol could not taint. Digging through the potions, he tossed a few aside, ignoring them as they crashed against the wooden floor. Retrieving two vials and three pots of ointment, he turned back to Imrit.
The old man moaned softly as he lay on the ground, his head slowly turning from side to side. “Drink,” Taren commanded him. Tipping the first vial to the old man’s lips, he gave him no choice but to swallow. The second followed immediately after the first, and Imrit lay still. Both potions together would dull his pain and ease his mind, allowing him to drift to sleep while his wounds were tended.
Zamna opened one pot of ointment and recoiled at its potent scent. It smelled worse than the scent of burning flesh left behind in the small room.
“Dab it gently over the blisters,” Taren told him as he opened the second pot. Together the two applied ointment to Imrit’s injured arm, surveying the damage at the same time. The burn was severe, worse than Taren had treated before. It was obvious Imrit’s symbol had not protected him. His blistered and blackened skin proved as much. “My symbol would not allow me to awaken Imrit’s,” he said as he sat back on his heels.
“What do you mean?” Zamna asked.
“I couldn’t control the fire,” he said. “I think my symbol tried to kill him. For some reason, it doesn’t want the second symbol activated. I don’t know what to do.”
“Maybe Imrit will know once he wakes,” Zamna said. He seemed unconvinced by his own words.
Together they lifted the old man to the bed and allowed him to rest. It took great effort for the La’kertan to keep his thoughts to himself. He had told them what they were doing was reckless, but they’d dismissed him. Magic could not replace common sense, and Imrit had paid the price.
The dragon’s tome had tumbled to the ground, landing upside down, its pages wrinkling. With tears in his eyes, Taren retrieved it, intending to set it aside. But the words on the page leapt out at him, as if penned in dragon fire. He gasped and nearly fell over as he read the hidden words.
