Dragon Black, Dragon White

by Macy Babineaux

  “No,” Hephta said. “This is who you are. You can change it back any time you wish.”

  To test her words, he looked back down at the black reptilian gauntlet and willed it to become a human hand once more. He let out a nervous sigh of relief as the claws began to recede, the scales melting away to reveal human flesh.

  “I was your caregiver,” Hephta said. “For a short while after you were born. Your mother’s name was Sidonia. And your father was—”

  Sorian Nightshadow. He knew the words that were to fall from her lips before she uttered them. Some part of him had always known. It explained everything. Why he was so different from everyone else in his family. Why they despised him. Why he had always felt so alone.

  “How?” he asked. “Why?”

  “To protect you,” Hephta said. “Your father was against it, but he finally gave in to Sidonia. She became hysterical. The war with the Wildfires had escalated out of control. Their forces nearly decimated, each side had turned to using assassins to strike behind enemy lines. Your mother, bedridden after your difficult birth, became nearly mad with paranoia. She suspected every servant or visitor to be a Wildfire spy, intent on killing her children.”

  Zak felt as if he were being hit by a tidal wave, thoughts and questions rushing into his mind faster than he could process them. But one realization stuck harder than the others. “Nevra,” he said. “She is my sister?”

  A sad look crossed Hephta’s face. “Indeed she is.”

  If what the owl-mage was saying was true, then he had just the day before witnessed his sister murdering their father.

  “Your mother made me promise,” Hephta said. “I took you out to the end of the dock and placed you in a basket. Then I wove a spell much like the one I cast upon your boat yesterday. It was meant to carry you far to the south, to a family of owls that lived near the coast. But one of the Mossknots must have snagged you out of the water along the way.”

  Just like old times, she had said.

  Now his confusion took an angry turn. Not only was he not a Mossknot, but they were never even meant to foster him. The Mossknots and stolen him, like everything else.

  “Why was my sister not sent away as well?” he asked.

  “Sorian would not have it,” Hephta said. “That was where he drew the line. To this day I do not know if it was because he cared so much for her, or so little.”

  Zak plopped back down onto the stool, stunned.

  It was Magda who spoke next. “I wish you had more time to take this in,” she said. “But we simply do not have that luxury. The demon is no doubt spent from weaving his spell. Now would be the time to strike, when he is weakest. But we do not have the resources. So we have to use this time to build an alliance, one strong enough to rid our world of him once and for all.”

  Her words fell like drops into an empty bucket. He heard them but could not process them. Only the words of Hephta rang in his mind.

  Your mother’s name was Sidonia. And your father was Sorian Nightshadow.

  And now the leader of the owl-mages was saying something about a war, one that he was to be a part of? He knew nothing of war. He knew how to push a flatboat. He knew how to spot the dropline of a crab trap. He knew how to weave a net and drag it through shallow water to poach crawfish.

  He had just made his hand turn into a dragon’s claw. But he knew nothing about how to be a dragon, how to fight, how to fly. How was he supposed to defeat a demon, one who had pinned his father to thin air as if he were a scrap of paper?

  Zak looked at Magda, not really seeing her there. But he watched as she uncapped the tip of her walking cane and took out a scroll. She unrolled it and lay it flat on the table where he and Myrian could see it plainly.

  “This was found in the archives several years back,” Magda said. “One of our soothsayers, dead now, began to see the signs of an evil force returning to power.”

  The parchment showed a black figure, like that of a man, but twisted and foul. Circling it were more figures, seven by Zak’s count. Six were dragons. One was a woman holding a spear. The dragons were all different colors. They were blue, red, green, white, black, and—

  He pointed to the sixth dragon. “Is that yellow or orange?” Either way, no such clan existed, at least not now.

  “Neither,” Magda said. “That one is gold.”

  10

  MYRIAN

  “There are no gold dragons,” Myrian said. “That’s a child’s tale that no one even tells anymore.”

  “Perhaps,” Magda said. “But so were demons.”

  Good point, Myrian thought. She looked at Zak, sitting there on the stump with his hands in his lap. So he was a dragon, and a prince as well. King, actually, if what he said about Sorian being murdered was true. But being king might not mean anything, not after yesterday.

  He was clearly in shock over what the other owl, Hephta, had told him. And why wouldn’t he be? If she had been raised by a family of rats, only to find out she was dragon royalty, she didn’t know what she might think.

  And then there was this business with a pact. She was to be part of it, along with Zak? None of this made any sense. She pointed a finger at the drawing of the white dragon.

  “You are saying that is supposed to be me?” Myrian said. “It looks nothing like me.”

  “Prophecies are interpretations,” Magda said. “They are not always perfect. I do not know if that is you. But I think it very well might be.”

  “I have no time to indulge hundred year-old interpretations,” Myrian said. “My family needs me. I need to fly back home.” She stood and headed for the walkway.

  “You have to ask yourself,” Magda said, “how you can best help your kind.”

  She stopped, looking over her shoulder.

  “When the demon regains his strength, he will descend upon each kingdom,” Magda said. “One by one he will finish what his dark spell started. This,” she pointed at the scroll, “is our best hope.”

  The old owl-mage was mad. If Zak was right, the demon had killed the Nightshadow king in his stronghold, where hundreds of dragons lived only to guard his life. What were seven going to do against that kind of power?

  But then, her words also rang true. Myrian could return home, only to find everything in ruins. Her family might all be dead now, and the thought hurt more than the arrow that had lodged in her flesh. If the demon rose up, no one would be able to stop him. And if time was short, she needed to make a decision now, one that might affect the fate of her world.

  Zak lifted his head, and she looked into his eyes. What she saw there made up her mind. She no longer saw the nervous peasant boy from the lake shore. She saw a steely resolve, a determination to fight.

  “I saw this thing,” he said, his voice somehow changed as well, becoming stronger. “It will not stop, not until it is destroyed. And we must destroy it.”

  She sighed, lowered her head, and nodded. This was madness. But then, everything that had happened over the past day was madness as well. At least now she was choosing it on her own terms.

  Myrian walked back to the table. “You want us to find these other dragons,” she said. “To convince them to stand with us against the demon?”

  “Yes,” Magda said, her old eyes narrowed at Myrian.

  Myrian sighed and looked down at the scroll. “Very well," she said. "Then where do we start?”

  11

  ZAK

  He stood out on the edge of the high platform looking out across the open hills, the mid-morning breeze on his face.

  They would start with him learning to become a full dragon. If they were going to find the others in time, he would need to fly.

  He looked down through the branches, the ground seeming both far away and frighteningly close at the same time. His head swam. He thought he might lose his balance, just fall from the edge, his body breaking across the branches as he fell. That would end all this at least. He thought—

  “Don’t look down,” Myrian said fr
om behind him, her voice sharp.

  Zak closed his eyes, lifted his head, and opened them again. The dizziness began to pass. The strength in her voice was reassuring, but they were still very high up, and he had little idea what he was doing.

  “Should we not be doing this on the ground?” he asked.

  “No,” Myrian said. “When I was five, my father took me high up to the north tower of the castle.” He heard a hitch in her voice as she paused. She did not know if her father were still alive or dead.

  He knew the fate of his own father, though, not the one who had pretended all those years. His true sister had killed his true father, with the help of this Vish’Kazir. And he would do whatever he needed to do to stop the menace and avenge his family.

  “You were saying?” he said gently.

  “Yes,” she said. He heard her take a deep breath through her nose. “That day my father told me the best way to succeed is by being unable to fail.”

  In other words, fly or die, he thought. Every story he had heard of the Moonglows made them sound gentle and loving. But they were still dragons, and he supposed perhaps they were not so gentle after all. But it had worked for Myrian.

  His back was to her, but he couldn't get the image of her from his mind. As he listened to her voice, he could see her behind him, hands on her hips, the skin-tight armor hugging her body. In the midst of everything that was going on, he should not be thinking of wanting her. But he could not help himself.

  “As the owl told us,” she said. “Time is short. We need to fly soon. Take the form you were born to take.”

  Zak closed his eyes and concentrated. He had done it with his hand. Now he just needed to make it happen to his entire body.

  He imagined himself as a huge black dragon, his neck long, his jaws huge, with wings and a tail whipping out behind him. He clenched his eyes tight, pushing, straining. And nothing happened.

  Then a voice was at his ear, a light whisper that sent goosebumps rising across the back of his neck.

  “Stop trying so hard.”

  She was standing right behind him now, her lips so close he could feel her breath. He could smell her, too, like the soft petals of a honeysuckle warmed by the sun. He felt himself stiffen. He wanted to lower his hands, to cover himself so she would not see. But that would only draw her attention down there. Better just to hope she didn't notice.

  “Don't think about it,” she whispered. “Just let it be so. Become the dragon.”

  And she was right. It was beginning to work. With her voice and the closeness of her body distracting him, he stopped consciously struggling and just let himself become what he was born to be.

  Zak felt his muscles strain against his skin. He heard the distant creak of his tendons and bones stretching. There was some pain, but it was the kind one might feel pushing out of a piece of clothing two sizes too small. Not agonizing, but liberating.

  He felt himself grow, hoping absently that the platform beneath them was sturdy enough to hold a full-sized dragon. And he heard Myrian step backwards away from him.

  He felt his body expanding, his neck elongating, the lower half of his face stretching out, his mouth seeming to fill with teeth. He felt the tail snake out from his tailbone, curling on the wood below. And strangest of all, he felt leathery limbs sprouting from his shoulder blades. It was like growing a new pair of arms or legs, only these felt light, strong, and so very alien.

  Zak hunched forward, unfurling his new wings. So this was what it felt like to shift into another being. After all this time, he was no longer jealous of those he had thought of as his brothers and sisters.

  He looked down and flexed his claws, the shiny black nails like curved daggers. The power felt intoxicating. He craned his head behind him to look at Myrian.

  She was looking up at him, a bright smile on her face. She seemed so small now.

  “I did it,” he said, feeling the sound rumble all the way up his long throat, marveling at the change in his voice. It was far deeper and stronger now.

  “Yes,” she said. “But now you need to fly.”

  Zak turned his head back and could not help himself. He looked over the edge.

  I don't think I can do this, he thought. His body felt heavier than a wagon full of hammers. And yet his new wings felt as light as paper. How were they supposed to carry him aloft?

  He felt something pushing at the base of his back, sliding him forward on the wooden platform. He looked back again and saw that Myrian had become a white dragon again. The flat butt of her forehead was pressed against him, shoving him forward.

  “Here,” she grunted. “Let me help you.”

  “No,” he said, turning back around and flailing his claws for something to grab onto. There were no branches near him, so he clawed at empty space, his back legs pushed out of the lip. “Stop!”

  “Better start flapping,” she said, still pushing.

  Zak felt himself topple over, and even though he was gripped with panic, he did what she said. He beat his wings furiously.

  He spun in the air, his back right leg striking against a massive limb just underneath the platform. He felt himself let out an angry cry. All four of his limbs pawed at the air, and he flapped his wings as hard as he could.

  He tumbled into open space, the ground rushing up towards him as he spun around completely. Then he felt the push of the wind against the underside of his wings.

  The falling slowed. He stopped spinning. Wings still beating, he looked down. The ground, knotted with roots, was only a stone’s throw below him. He was hovering in mid-air, buoyed by his own efforts.

  I did it, he thought, for the second time in a span of minutes. I really did.

  He looked up to see Myrian’s head poked over the side of the platform, her silver eyes narrowed on him. Was she smiling? Dragons were like gators in that respect, he thought. Their mouths were so long and the curled upwards near the back of their jaws. They always looked like they were smiling.

  “I'm flying,” he cried up at her.

  “No,” she said. “You are hovering. Take to the skies and I will join you.”

  He felt as if he were using all his strength just to stay in place, but then he realized he was beating his wings haphazardly, frantic just to keep from falling. If he concentrated, he could actually push against the air with them. When he did, he felt himself begin to rise.

  He headed out from under the thick branches of the tree, towards the open air. He tucked his front legs against his chest and let his tail and back legs slacken, streamlining his body. Then he stretched his wings wide and snapped them back with a powerful thrust that propelled him out and up.

  The wind rushed against his scaly face now. Scabby, they had called him, and now he understood why. His body had tried to grow the suit of armor that all dragonkind wore. And each time, Nan had scrubbed and torn it from him, tossing it in the swamp. All his life, he had been robbed of who he truly was. Every time his body tried to tell him, his so-called family had ripped it away.

  But now he was finally free to be who he really was. He spread his wings out again and shot downward again, catching a gust of air beneath him and rocketing high up into the sky. He felt truly alive for the first time in his life.

  And then Zak saw something out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see another huge body coasting along beside him impossibly in the air. Her scales were white, her mischievous silver eyes looking over at him.

  “Well done,” she said over the rushing wind. “Now we need to head north, to Everfrost Keep. Point the tip of your right wing at the rising sun and follow me.”

  His heart thumped within the cavity of his massive chest as he watched her flap her white wings and tilt to turn north. He felt the pull towards her greater than ever now. But with them both in dragonform the feeling was different. She was a magical creature now, alluring in a way he could not articulate. Watching the sun glint off her white scales as she turned stirred something ancient and primal within him. This
did not feel like some boyish crush, but like the pull of celestial bodies on one another.

  Zak mimicked her motion, shifting his weight to one side and was delighted as he tilted. The wind caught beneath his upturned wing, nearly spinning him too far over. But he caught it in time, pushing back against it to maintain the desired angle. He glided right alongside Myrian and leveled back out.

  I can do this, he thought. He reckoned he was doing quite well for his first flight. He looked over at Myrian, her eyes looking forward.

  What he felt for her was powerful, but would anything come of it? He had shivered when she drew close and whispered in his ear. But as he looked at her flying beside him, he wondered. They were literal opposites. The hatred between the Wildfires and Nightshadows was legendary, but he knew the Moonglows felt no love for the black dragons either.

  If the lore was true, they had fought their share of wars against one another. The ribbon of strange energy that formed the border between their lands was supposedly the remnant of their last conflict, a magical barrier resulting from the clash between their clans’ wizards.

  Zak had never seen the Ribbon of Madness, but every once in a long while, Pa Mogan's boat had traveled close enough to see the eerie haze of it from over the tops of the cypress trees. That dull purple glow had made him feel sick just to look upon it. He could not imagine being near enough to touch it. He had heard there was a cult that worshiped the ribbon, and that each year they would make one of their acolytes walk through it. Nobody knew why. Perhaps they thought it would make them a god. But from the stories, every single one went stark raving mad. He had heard tales of the newly crazed tearing their eyes out, raking their own flesh from their bodies with bloody fingernails.

  He had thought such stories might be told just to frighten little boys and girls. But after yesterday’s events, he was not so sure.

  He looked straight ahead at the horizon. He could see the mountains far in the distance, and he focused on them, trying to take his mind off of Myrian and everything else.