Fall of the Dragon Prince

by Dan Allen

  The spectators were packed so tightly in the landing area that not a single person had room to sit. Children were stacked atop fathers’ shoulders. Teens clustered on the tops of the open cages—all except Akara’s.

  The exhausted dragon eyed the scene with one open eye.

  The crowd from Neutat was the most obnoxious, chanting Terith’s name and joining in audibly painful renditions of clan songs.

  Ferrin stood by Terith on the upslope portion of the landing area, facing the crowd. The eligible clustered in the front of the mass, along with their escorts surrounded by hordes of bonneted and blanketed busybodies feisty enough to beat back the crowds of pressing boys straining for a look at Terith and his bloodstains.

  As for the women who held the front-most ranks in the crowd, the fact that Terith was about to become their ruler was a triviality that bore nothing on the only truly important decision of the day: would he choose Lilleth or Enala?

  Terith suppressed a shiver. There was no way out. He’d raced himself into the tightest corner he’d ever been in. He was either going to get the silent treatment or a very close encounter with one of Enala’s more dangerous kitchen utensils. Neither thought was very appealing, but one glance at the two girls who, in a show of solidarity were holding hands, reminded him about the numerous advantages of his situation.

  They were gorgeous, even more so now that they were suddenly available on a permanent basis, with no conceivable obstacle between him and whomever he chose.

  Enala gazed at his eyes, Lilleth at his feet. Neither let go of the other’s hand for fear of what might happen. Anxiety turned his empty stomach.

  Ferrin made a short speech about the change in rule. Then he placed his woven, iridescent robe, the garment of the champion of champions, on Terith’s shoulders. Terith smiled and waved, but his stomach tensed when he saw a dark speck in the distance.

  Pert.

  The crowd applauded politely at Ferrin’s gesture but silenced quickly, waiting for Terith’s decision.

  “Terith,” Ferrin said in a voice that sounded years younger. “You’ve stalled long enough. It’s time you made your choice.”

  Terith’s heart missed several beats at the word choice. He stepped forward three paces and locked eyes with Enala. There was loving expectation in her eyes, and for a moment he wavered in his decision. He was chief; he could choose either.

  But this was more than gaining a title; it was the binding of two hearts. He had already made his choice. He tried to tell her in his expression, but she only looked more hopeful.

  Terith turned his gaze a few degrees and his world shifted. Lilleth’s face was calm and assuring.

  There were times when the thought of disappointing her had kept him from taking the sort of path Pert had chosen. She was his closest friend and the caring confidant of his young heart’s turmoil after summers of war. She had a guarded romantic side as well—not as frolicking as Enala, but the same Montazi fire and passion flowed in her.

  Whose children would you rather have in your house all the time? Terith almost laughed at the odd thought and had to lower his eyes to keep from smiling awkwardly.

  Catcalls sounded from the crowd, some rooting for one sister or the other. Wedged in between the skirts of two middle-aged women was Mya’s awestruck face. If he didn’t make his choosing romantic, he’d have her to reconcile with. The boys of the village were watching from farther back where they could pretend to be passively disinterested.

  There was one way to know if he chose wrong. He wouldn’t be able to bond awakenings. He had never heard of that happening.

  Terith took another step forward. He gave a short bow to Lilleth and then Enala. He bent his knee.

  Heart thudding in his chest, he reached out and took hold of Lilleth’s hand. Her hazel eyes met his. Her eyes welled with tears as he clasped her hand in his gloved one.

  I should have taken off my glove!

  Terith quickly slipped his hand out of Lilleth’s to a shocked expression from Enala and murmurs from the crowd. Terith fumbled to peel off his leather glove and took Lilleth’s hand again. A cheer rose up from those in the crowd that could see the choice.

  “Will you be my mate, Lilleth, daughter of Ferrin?”

  Lilleth’s face made an expression of surprise and relief that Terith had never seen before.

  Enala put her hand to her mouth, frozen and unbreathing. She shifted slightly, but it seemed a hundred miles away.

  As he stood, Lilleth threw her arms around his neck. Her commitment was a complete mirror of Terith’s. Her hands cupped his face as she found his lips and kissed him. Then she laid her cheek against his again and tearfully smiled with unrelenting joy.

  Terith let the emotion flow through him, as he did when sharing the power of his awakening with his dragon. But this was different. It was Lilleth’s love flooding into him, an awesome feeling of complete surrender.

  This was it. This was his future. He held her, feeling her body against his as if it were moving through the leather and becoming one.

  The bond was made.

  A vision of Pert and his dragon flashed into Terith’s mind—

  shadows of Lilleth’s awakening showing in his own mind.

  Terith drew Lilleth behind him protectively as heavy wingbeats sounded overhead. His hands itched for the razor-sharp knives tucked at his calves.

  Sounds from the spectators were a mixed rancor of belated cheers and jeers.

  “Sorry, Pert. The time is gone,” Ferrin said resolutely, looking up at Pert.

  “Then no one succeeded?” Pert’s voice ripped the air with intensity as his dragon’s wing strokes beat the air only a few feet over the cowering spectators as his dragon landed in front of Terith and Ferrin.

  “Only one,” Ferrin said, “the champion of Neutat. The sign of the light came when he arrived. Terith is the chief.”

  “Impossible! Terith fell. He went into the deep.”

  Terith stepped forward from the crowd that pressed around him on three sides. Lilleth clung to his arm.

  Atop his dragon, Pert turned from Ferrin and locked his eyes with Terith.

  Pert’s riding leathers were charred and blackened as if he had walked through the flame of a furnace, but his face was whole and new.

  Healed! How?

  Pert looked at Terith, rage and disbelief showing in his unscathed black eyes. “I saw you fall!”

  “I came back . . . as did you.”

  “Hear this, runt,” Pert said menacingly. He glanced at Lilleth and then back at Terith as a cruel smile stretched across his bitter expression. “There is nothing that I can’t take away from you. You’ll lose it all, Terith.” It was virtually a promise to kill them both when they were alone and unprotected.

  “You made oaths to the Montazi,” Terith stated, feeling his jaw stiffen with the resolve of a regent. “Do not break them on my watch.”

  The cursed rider yanked the reins, forcing his beleaguered dragon into the air. Pert turned to share his livid, seething expression with the gathered crowd. “Enjoy your time at the top.” He gave a sick laugh. “The higher you climb, the farther you’ll fall.”

  The velra lifted skyward, its chest heaving air.

  “Get down!” Terith shouted as the dragon released a belly full of fire over the crowd, turning rain to scalding steam as dozens of spectators dropped to the ground in terror, saved by damp earth and a slim margin.

  “He’ll get over it,” Ferrin said, a hollow phrase for an awkward moment. He turned to the business of dispersing the crowd.

  Not until I’m dead, Terith thought.

  By his side, Lilleth shook slightly.

  “What is it?” Terith asked, sweeping a lock of hair away from her face.

  “He killed Remo and Tamm,” Lilleth said in a hollow voice. “I saw it when he looked it at me. He did it in
the cave . . . Pert cried out for help to Remo and Tamm. He tricked them into stopping. And . . . now they’re dead.”

  He took their strength too, Terith realized. So that’s how he healed.

  Terith lifted Lilleth in his arms and held her head against his chest.

  Behind his chosen bride, Enala clasped her arms around her waist, a look of disappointment, hurt, and confusion on her face, while the other eligibles returned to the crowd.

  Lilleth shuddered again.

  “What is it?” Terith asked.

  “Pert will try to kill you now—I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want to make him threaten you. I’m so sorry. I—”

  “Lilleth,” Terith said.

  She looked up with desperation showing in her soft brown eyes.

  “We have bonded. Our spirits forever united. No matter what happens, I will never let my love for you die. No foe has the right to take that from us.”

  Aon crowded up against Terith as familiar faces gathered around them, calling congratulations. “Here’s water, Lord. There’s food in the keep if you need it.” Terith took the skin with a grunt of thanks and downed half of it in a single gulp.

  Ferrin drew in front of Terith and waved off the rest of the well-wishers, but the greeters refused to disperse until the better half of the thousands of spectators had embraced them both, many of his friends and many of hers. For Terith, the time passed in a moment, with Lilleth’s warm hand in his.

  Soon Ferrin, Terith, and Lilleth were alone, save the strongmen and keepers who waited to attend to the few returning competitors. Enala’s absence was an unspoken void.

  Terith drew Lilleth closer as his mind took a moment to weigh on his nagging worries about Pert and the gathering Outlander horde in the plain beyond the Montas.

  Memories of a fight—flame and swords—passed into his sight. The scene was so encompassing Terith felt as though he were falling forward into it.

  “I see battle raging,” Terith whispered. “Is this real?”

  “You have bonded with my daughter,” Ferrin said with a note of reluctance. “Those are the visions of her awakening.”

  Terith sought Lilleth’s eyes, replacing the scene with something imminent and peaceful. “Did you see this when you saw my future?”

  Lilleth gave a tremulous nod. “Yes . . . and more.”

  “Are you sure it couldn’t have been something from my past?”

  Bergulo trudged over and put a meaty hand on Terith’s shoulder, nodding to Lilleth. “Apologies, lady.” He spoke to Terith. “Chief—used to saying that to Ferrin. The rally signal went out this morning from Erden while the challenge was still on. The horde is nearing the shallows.”

  “How long before they strike—weeks?” Terith asked.

  “It’s possible. I don’t mean to worry you. This is your summer of promise and all.” He nodded to Lilleth. “It’s just, the men were all wondering . . . are you to going ride out with us against the horde this summer?”

  “I am a rider with an oath. I keep that oath.”

  Lilleth dropped her head slowly against Terith’s shoulder. “Terith . . .”

  The dragon rider caressed Lilleth’s hair and then whispered into her ear, “Go with Ferrin. I’ll be with you soon. I need to finish with my dragon.”

  Lilleth summoned her strength and left the field guided by Ferrin.

  “What of Akara?” Bergulo asked as he and Terith walked together toward the champion golden dragon. “If you ride with us, you’ll want a sturdier mount. Ferrin rides a strythe. If you prefer that, it’s yours.”

  “Akara has done enough,” Terith said. “If I ride her until she dies, her strength will never be passed to a second generation. The strong must live to reproduce.”

  “She’s an incredible dragon,” Bergulo agreed. “Sure you won’t just keep her through the summer?”

  “And then another winter, and so on. I have to free her eventually. She’s proven herself. Sooner the better. More offspring.” Terith said the words, but it would take all his will to make himself do it.

  Akara lay with one eye open, tethered by a chain in her cage.

  Terith opened the cage, drew out his knife, and slashed the lashing joint.

  The chain dropped.

  Akara’s head rose.

  Terith stroked her face and then broke open the metal ring on her spine piercings. He tossed the reins into the tall grass.

  “You have earned your freedom, Akara. You never need carry a rider again.”

  Akara stood, lifted her head cautiously and shook it, feeling the new freedom of tetherless neck spines.

  “Go!” Terith called, his shaking voice betraying emotion. “You are a champion.”

  She hopped once, gave a shrill cry, and took to the air, disappearing over the ridge and down into the canyon.

  “But for me, one summer more,” he said quietly. “One last campaign.”

  Bergulo clapped his heavy hand on Terith’s shoulder. “I’m with you, Terith. To the end.”

  Chapter 19

  Toran’s fortress at Erdal.

  Reann had managed to pull off her risky scheme for getting Verick’s notes back in his coat, made up excuses for her daylong absence with Trinah, and began to cope with the reality that she was the fifth heir of Toran.

  Washing dishes, she nearly dropped a plate when she realized that she was working as an unpaid servant in her very own castle. She set down the dish with a slight tremble—her dish—then picked it back up and washed it a little better.

  What if they knew?

  What if Verick knew?

  Within the day, her curiosity had grown into tangle of inquisitive intentions.

  More had to be known. If Verick was a villain who intended to kill the heirs—including her—as she thought he was, she needed more proof than a diary entry. If he wasn’t, as she desperately wished, she needed a reason to believe that he could be trusted.

  She had to know more. The gala was only a few days away. Her time at the castle was coming to an end. But she couldn’t reveal herself as Toran’s heir not knowing if Verick would kill her.

  Her plans took her back to the kitchens, where help was often skulking around looking for scraps.

  “Wretch.”

  “Ret,” he corrected, hands balling into fists.

  “Whichever,” Reann said. “I need your clothes. Lend them to me.”

  Ret narrowed his eyebrows. “And what am I supposed to wear—that skirt?”

  “Wear whatever you like. You’ll have the evening off. I need to do some work.”

  “You mean snooping.”

  “It’s none of your business anyway.”

  “And it’s yours?”

  “Yes. And it’s important.”

  Ret gave Reann a crusty look. “You’d better finish all my chores and not leave them half done like last time. I got demerits from the head butler.”

  “That was a rare circumstance,” Reann said softly. “I’m sure I can get them all done this time.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Good. Take off that tunic.”

  Reann held up a blanket from the wash. Ret pulled off his tunic and trousers and wrapped himself in the blanket with a confused look that said, How am I supposed to explain this one to the guys back at the dorm?

  Reann grabbed the clothes and called thanks over her shoulder, rushing off to the nearby armor room, avoiding the women servants’ bunkhouse where there would doubtless be awkward questions about why she was changing into Ret’s clothing.

  The armor room was empty of people, as it usually was, since any servant caught in a room they didn’t belong in either got demerits or got assigned to clean it—polishing armor was simply the worst.

  Light from a window high on the exterior wall slanted into a mostly vacant al
cove where odd weaponry hung on the wall. Reann stepped into the nook that was sheltered from the door, should anyone walk in. She hung Ret’s attire on a dull spear point and quickly removed her skirt and blouse. Then she turned to reach for Ret’s tunic.

  She stopped when she saw her reflection in a shiny shield. The flaxen slip she wore—inadvertently left by a visitor last summer—followed her features nicely. It was a bit on the small side, but not too small, she thought, noting that at least it covered the essentials. What caught her eye the most was her face. She looked older since the last time she had taken stock of herself, and not so frail. It was more of a woman’s face, but young. The thought brought a smile to her lips. Even her hair had grown—

  Hair!

  Reann clamped her hands over head but her tied-back locks spilled out incriminatingly from under her hands. She couldn’t hope to impersonate a boy with her wavy locks of brown hair tied back in ribbon. The boy servants didn’t wear tall collars that could hide long hair either.

  Reann’s hair was naturally curly. Her frayed ponytail reached to her shoulders. It was a comely fashion at best, and undeniably modest.

  Now it was the problem.

  Ret’s hair was straight and dangled past his eyes, usually obscuring at least one, if not both. He didn’t wear a hat either.

  There was only one solution.

  Cut it.

  Reann considered the massacre. She gazed into the polished bronze, trying to imagine what she would look like with hair draping only just past her chin.

  She loosed the ribbon that held her hair back, parted her hair down the middle, and let it fall in waves past her cheeks. Her eyes widened and then twinkled with interest.

  She was going to look fantastic.

  To seventh hell with modesty, she thought.

  Reann reached into Ret’s trouser pocket and found his pen knife. Boys were so useful for that sort of thing. It almost made them worth having around.

  The first cut hurt. She could almost feel the hundred severed hairs crying out in pain. But she kept sawing at her locks with a blade that turned out to be dangerously sharp.

  “A little less knife sharpening and little more attention to me,” she said as she hacked another painfully long section of hair. Moments into the act, the reality of it struck her.