But contrived or not, what could be done about it now? Nothing! They were both in this net, with this Tor’gan pulling at the strings. And what if it was a trap? What could they do with – what, eleven dragons? Twelve? There would be no running away, that much was for—
Enough, Olam. Now you are making problems where there are none. People you trust said the dragons were good. That should be enough. And if you can’t trust them…
“You are right, Arfael,” Olam said. “Sometimes we must trust to fate, hope that the gods have a plan. Not that I believe in the Gods, you understand; not all of them. Still, it certainly feels like someone is pushing us along this path, doesn’t it?”
Arfael nodded. “Yes it does,” he said, “I have spent the last week wondering how they knew where I was. There must be magic here, and you say she is not a witch? How can she not be? Unless, as you say, the gods have a hand in it. Maybe we’ll find out when we get there.”
“Maybe we will at that, old friend. Anyway, I think it’s time we moved on, or we will have to camp here for the night.”
Olam rose and waited for his reluctant friend to follow. Ealian, as usual, was not in much of a rush, either. It was a wonder they had made it this far. They left the small camp behind and started along the bank of the river-like stream. Olam hoped he was right about where the stream eventually led; it could be quite a detour if there were another stream, and another valley.
Ealian grumbled as he mounted and matched his step a few paces behind Olam. Arfael took up his usual position. Reluctant or not, he was always in front, though he was not as far in front.
Despite the hour, the air still lay thick around the sprawling grassland of the central plain – or was it the northern plain now? Olam had never had much reason to travel north of the Great Western Road. There were very few villages this far from the road – other than Taris, but that was more of a fortress than a village. Indeed, the Bren’alor Valley – with the village of Braylair at its centre – was the only settlement for twenty miles in any direction. Doubtless, they planned it that way, what with the dragons and all. He absently wondered how they had managed to keep it a secret all these years. It cannot have been very easy for the villagers, or for the dragons. They must have quite a bond; it would only take one disgruntled villager, whispering in the wrong ear, for the whole secret to come crashing down around them. Saying that, maybe it was not a secret. Maybe folk did know, but refused to believe the stories were true. Whatever it was, they certainly were lucky to have remained hidden.
After a short while, the grassland began to give way to the hard ground of the Northern Plains. The tall face of the Karan loomed over them. Olam looked down at the stream. It had been getting narrower and faster the further north they went. The entrance to the valley could not be far away; they were almost at the cliffs. But where was it? Kirin’thar said the entry way was narrow – barely wide enough for a cart, and that the track was no more than tightly packed earth.
They continued along the bank for another mile. It was beginning to get hard on the horses’ hooves. Arfael had taken to walking again. Much more of the rough trail – if they could still call it that – and Olam would have to walk, too. It certainly didn’t look as if anyone ever used this path, and definitely not for carts.
Maybe there was another way in. On the other hand, maybe we are lost.
Suddenly, Olam saw it.
The Bren’alor pass was indeed narrow… and hidden. A line of thick bushes and tall fir trees twisted around the track in such a way that the pass was only visible from one direction – north. Olam wondered if they had planted the trees that way on purpose. Without a doubt, it made for an effective camouflage.
The three stopped.
Olam glanced at Arfael.
His friend seemed no worse than a few hours ago, but no better, either. The big man was standing still, casually glancing at the hidden pass as though it were nothing of import, and definitely not the road to a valley full of dragons. At least he was not getting angry, changing. That was Olam’s worst fear; how would he deal with the Kin this close to a dragons’ den?
Ealian spoke up, “We haven’t come all this way to stand and stare, Olam. Let’s be on with it.”
Without a by-your-leave, Ealian heeled his mare purposefully toward the narrow gap.
Olam blinked. What had gotten into the boy, suddenly taking charge like that? Or was it still Ealian? Maybe Alacin had taken over, now that they were approaching the dragons. Olam followed and, for once, Arfael didn’t try to lead.
The pass had steep sides and hard-packed dirt on the ground. It seemed remarkably well maintained for a middle-of-nowhere path. There were no loose rocks, bushes, potholes: it was a good trail, and wide enough for a decent cart. Olam looked up at the evening sky. It was quite dark in the pass, despite there being maybe two hours of daylight left. Hopefully, they would make it to this village before nightfall. He did not hold with Arfael’s comments about the Brea girl and witchcraft, but he had always thought it wise to use caution around strangers – especially those with a hold on a dozen dragons.
Before long, they came to a sturdy wooden bridge. Wide enough for two horses to walk side by side. Its span crossed the stream near to a fording that was likely used for cattle, or maybe sheep. Yes, it was all very well organised. The inhabitants of Braylair must be conscientious, hardworking folk.
Once across the bridge, Olam paused to take his first proper look at the Bren’alor Valley.
It was a sight to see; the tall cliffs that encased the valley rolled eastwards for what must have been ten miles. Tall trees, twenty-thirty spans high in some cases, circled what he could see of the grassland. Ahead, maybe a hundred paces away, were the beginnings of a road – a real road… with cobbles and edging.
“We are here.” Olam smiled in self-satisfaction. “Kirin’thar said, ‘maybe four miles.’ By the looks of that road, we should be there with some daylight to spare, hopefully.”
Arfael grunted. “Then let’s not waste time talking.”
CHAPTER 8
The Blood
At some point, Ealian Tanner, you are going to have to let me speak. I can’t hide in your head foreve, Alacin said.
Ealian listened warily to the voice in his head. In the beginning, he could almost pretend it was his own thoughts. Almost. But not now; Alacin was definitely there. Ealian could feel him. The ancient Cren had carved out a niche in the back of his mind and built himself a house in the space that he’d made; or at least, that’s what it felt like. The not-quite-a-headache feeling had gone, and in its place, a soft humming, a sense of separation. A part of his mind echoed back every touch, taste, and feeling, as though Ealian had experienced each sensation for a second time, if not quite as powerfully as the first.
At some point, maybe, Ealian told Alacin – or rather, he thought to Alacin – but not today. If you are to live inside my head, you must learn your place: me first – you second.
That’s unfortunate. I was hoping we might get along, Alacin replied.
I didn’t say we couldn’t, Ealian said, but there has to be a boss! There always has to be a boss. And since it’s my body, not yours, I will be in cont—
Ealian stopped thinking and listened.
Are you… groaning? he asked Alacin. How can you be doing that? Am I to hear everything? Every whimper, every moan?
I’m not just a thought floating in your mind, Ealian. I am here, I am whole. We share a body, yes, but there are two souls in it now, two separate people. Like it or not, you are going to have to share. Let’s not forget, you would be dead without me! Surely that affords me some… respect.
“I wondered when you were going to get to that,” Ealian said out loud.
“Get to what?” Olam asked. The Eurmacian twisted in his saddle and stared quizzically at Ealian.
“Nothing, Olam, I’m talking to him.” Ealian tapped the back of his head, just behind his left ear.
Olam shrugged, then carried on eating
his apple.
You can’t bring that up, Ealian thought. You didn’t give me a choice. How do you know I wouldn’t rather have died than share my head with a stranger for the rest of my life?
Would you? Would you rather Pengar and Tanri had left you to die? We were both born again that night. Yes, it is your body, but we were both reborn into it. The Black – as you call it – had you, Ealian; you were gone. Even if you had somehow survived, Ealian Tanner wouldn’t have. As for being strangers, I truly hope we can become friends. It will be… difficult if we don’t.
Ealian huffed. We can be friends, but there still has to be a boss. I’ve been thinking about it, we’re going to disagree about lots of things. If someone is not in charge, we will end up going around in circles. And, like I said, it is my body, so I should be the boss.
Ealian – Alacin’s thoughts seemed placid, resigned, until now – I hadn’t realised that you don’t understand what a true friend is. Maybe in time…
Ealian cringed outwardly. What’s that supposed to mean?
Friends don’t control one another. Friends work together. I’m sorry you don’t understand that. It’s going to make what I have to do all the more difficult.
And what’s that supposed to mean? You’re not doing anything without my say so.
A stab of panic, mixed with anger, rose in Ealian’s throat. How could the ungrateful…? Was Alacin threatening him? It certainly sounded like it. Ealian’s mouth suddenly felt dry. He tried to work moisture onto his lips, but couldn’t. It had just dawned on him what Alacin had meant by “two of us now.” The Cren could take over whenever he wanted to; that thing in his head had control over his body just as much as he did. Alacin had to go. One way or another, Ealian had to find a way to rid his body of this intruder. And quick, before the Cren could control more of him.
Don’t be a foolish child, Ealian. Tor is going to need my help to battle the witch. I know things that could turn the coming conflict in our favour. We do not have the time for you to recite my life story to Olam. I lived for over three hundred years! You must let me take over if I’m needed.
Witch? What witch? Did I miss something?
He was sure no one had mentioned anything about witches. He would have remembered something like that. Was Alacin trying to trick him?
You were not paying attention. This conflict is as much about the Powers as it is about conquest. Those who would use it for evil can control Ein’laig’s Legacy. I suspect we will come across some of them in the coming days and weeks. And only I… only we will have the knowledge to deal with Ash’mael’s minions.
Ealian squirmed in his saddle. The bloody Cren was making sense. Damn, why does he always make sense? It was very annoying. All right, Alacin. You can speak to the dragons. But, damn it, I want as much warning as possible before you have to take over. Gods, I can’t believe I am saying this. Is my life ever going to be my own again?
I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you—
Suddenly Arfael spurring his horse and galloped off.
“Where is he going in such a rush?” he asked Olam.
Ealian turned to look at the old man. The blood was draining from Olam’s face and his fingers were clutching at his hair as if he were about to pull it out.
“Oh no, I was afraid of this,” Olam said. “He has caught the dragons’ scent. Come on, we must stop him before he finds their den.”
* * *
Brea dropped the saucepan onto the kitchen floor. It made an almighty clang as it bounced under the table. Without saying a word to her mother, she rushed to the back door and flung it open. The ducks and geese chattered and gabbled with excitement as she shooed them away. She made steps of two boxes and a barrel as she hitched herself up onto the back fence.
“What is it, Brea?” Affrair, her mother, shouted from the kitchen window.”
“Something’s wrong,” Brea shouted, perching on the high fence. “I think it’s the Cinnè’arth. It has gone straight to the den. Find Reagin, ask him to come to the cave; we may need him. Ask him to bring the Millers, too.”
Brea saw her mother nod, then disappear into the kitchen.
She knew Affrair wouldn’t waste any time finding Mr. Reagin. Likewise, the old man would be half way up the hill before his feet touched the ground. Her mother was good like that: completely dependable. Brea just hoped their assistance would not be required.
Once clear of the fence, Brea threw herself into a flat run. Head down, she paid little attention to the path. Until, after the longest three minutes of her life, she reached the foot of the slope, exhausted, and with a pain in her side that felt like a horse had kicked her.
She had seen Coln Brewen watching her as she ran across the field. The man had dropped his hoe and set off after her. He had caught up with her by the time she started up the incline toward the cave entrance.
“What is it, Brea? What has happened?” Coln asked, reaching for her arm.
“No time to stop, Coln. I don’t know what’s happened, yet, just that Rek is scared,” she said over her shoulder.
“Slow down, child, slow down. We must call the council. Don’t go running headlong into the cave without thought or preparation.”
Coln grabbed at Brea’s wrist again. She spun free.
“You call the council if you want, Coln. I’m going to help Rek.” She scurried up the pebbly track.
Coln coughed a curse, but Brea heard him follow her.
Coln was a good man, but, like most of the councillors, he was nosy. Brea wondered what he could possibly do to help, as nobody but she was allowed into the inner caves. Maybe he could stand guard, watch for the others while she dealt with the Cinnè’arth – if she could deal with the Cinnè’arth. Why was Rek scared?
Before long, Brea reached the mouth of the cave. A fair-haired man with sun-browned skin was sitting on her rock. There was a young man standing by him. The fair-haired man – he was maybe forty-five, she thought –looked familiar; she was certain he was one of the men the Lier’sinn had shown her. She was not sure who the young man was, though. He looked familiar, too. Maybe he was from the group who travelled with the Cinnè’arth.
Regardless of her curiosity, she had no time to stop and chat. She barely nodded as she wheeled around the side of the young man and turned into the cave. She was about to enter when the fair-haired man grabbed her arm.
“Miss, I would not go inside, were I you.”
The older man spoke with genuine concern, but Brea had little time for pleasantries.
“Well, you’re not me, sir. I’m going; release me!”
“You should do what he says.” The younger nodded in agreement with his friend. “You have no idea who has just run into there.”
“Oh, I know who you are. Now let me go.” She tugged at her restrained arm again.
“Brea?” the fair-haired man asked. “You are the Soul Guardian, yes? You are a bit young, child.”
“I’m as old as I need be, sir. Now, for the last time, let me—”
“Let her go! This is no business of yours,” Coln shouted as he rounded the top of the path.
Oh wonderful, Brea thought. Now Coln is adding his two coppers worth.
The old man looked down at the grip he still had on Brea’s wrist. He quickly released her, flinching, as though her skin was hot. “Sorry, my dear,” the old man said. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Thank you,” Brea interrupted. “You can come as far as the table, but no further. And I mean, no further! No matter what happens. It would be very bad if you followed me all the way in without warning them you are coming,” she said over her shoulder.
The older man nodded. Brea heard them following her into the cave as she sped her way towards the inner passageway.
She had barely rounded the tunnel entrance when she heard the growling and snarling coming from the dragons’ den. At least they were all still alive. Don’t try anything brave, Rek.
Finally, Brea reached the entrance to the den. Tor
had placed himself between the Cinnè’arth and his family. His black scales shone in the firelight. Tor’s teeth clicked together as he snapped at the beast. The Cinnè’arth ducked and tried to pass, tried to run deeper into the cave, but Tor let out a stream of fire that blocked its way. Rek was making a brave display as he looked down at the intruder from the safety of their raised sleeping area. His mother, Tiama, held him back with apparent ease. Calming him down with softly spoken words of encouragement – even though she looked fit to rip the Cinnè’arth limb from limb, if it made the slightest move toward her son.
As for the Cinnè’arth, Brea didn’t think it had fully changed; no scales, talons, or pointed teeth. However, it shook wildly and was clearly in a rage. It would not be long before Tor had to act to protect his family, which probably meant killing the beast. The Cinnè’arth wasn’t likely to surrender, once the change had fully taken over.
Quietly, Brea crept up behind the Cinnè’arth. Tor shook his head surreptitiously. He clearly wanted her out the way, hiding somewhere safe. But she couldn’t just leave. She was the only one who could calm the situation… literally. If she left…
She took the dagger from her belt while stealing a few steps towards the Cinnè’arth. Without her usual hesitation, she cut across her left palm, deep enough for her blood to flow freely. She waited until her palm was red. It didn’t take long. Brea took a deep breath to steady her nerves, then ran along the hearth and dived onto the Cinnè’arth’s back.
The beast reacted quickly. Raising its arm above its head, it took hold of Brea by the scruff of her neck. With a swift movement, it tossed her forward. It was all Tor could do to catch her before she struck the rocks with bone-breaking force. Brea felt the wind pushed out of her. Silver speckles danced across her eyes as she tried to focus. Her back, where Tor had caught her, felt like Coln had whacked her with his hoe.
For the moment, the beast turned his attention on her. It still hadn’t fully changed, but she could see its gums were bleeding. Every time it touched the hearth, the stone would melt, and more scales would bloom over the Cinnè’arth’s arms.
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