The Return of the Dragon Queen

by Farah Oomerbhoy

  The Return of the Dragon Queen

  The Avalonia Chronicles, Book 3

  Farah Oomerbhoy

  The Return of the Dragon Queen: The Avalonia Chronicles, Book 3

  Copyright © 2019 Farah Oomerbhoy

  1st Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of fictional characters to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All right reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63489-268-1

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63489-267-4

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-63489-266-7

  Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-63489-281-0

  Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2019912244

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: 2019

  23 22 21 20 19    5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  Editing by A R Editorial Solutions and Proof Positive

  Cover design by Steven Meyer-Rassow

  Map design by Josh Stolarz

  Interior design by Kate Tilton’s Author Services, LLC

  * * *

  * * *

  Wise Ink Creative Publishing

  807 Broadway St. NE, Suite 46

  Minneapolis, MN 55413

  wiseink.com

  For my children, my Lightbringers

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. A Queen in the Making

  2. A City of Slaves and Thieves

  3. The Pink Palace

  4. The Pirate Prince

  5. Enemies and Allies

  6. Caeleron Castle

  7. The Castle Dungeons

  8. The End of the Road

  9. To Take a Castle

  10. The Rightful King

  11. A Fall from Grace

  12. Destiny Awaits

  13. Return to Pixie Bush

  14. An Old Enemy

  15. In Search of Druids

  16. Chasing Legends

  17. A Path Forward

  18. Destiny Calls

  19. The Thirteenth Tapestry

  20. The Siege of Stonegate

  21. The Dark Fortress

  22. Dragath

  23. The Last Stand

  24. Old Scores Settled

  25. The Final Battle

  26. The Return of the Dragon Queen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  “I am disappointed, Morgana,” said a deep voice from the shadows.

  A thunderstorm raged outside the Star Palace and lightning flashed, revealing a man sitting in a high-backed velvet armchair. His face was worn and darkened by the sun. A short white beard covered his face, and his hair was peppered with numerous salty strands. Rain pelted incessantly against the ornate windowpanes, which rattled in the wind. Two massive fireplaces glowed in the darkness, throwing fleeting shadows around the room.

  “It’s not my fault we lost Elfi,” said Morgana, turning away from him and standing in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames as they danced before her. Smoke and a cloying sweet scent filled the space, making it difficult to breathe. “Lucian underestimated the girl. I will not make the same mistake.”

  The man’s dark eyes narrowed. He wore plain black robes and no adornments on his neck or fingers. He set his lips in a thin line as he reclined with his elbows on the armrests, his fingers linked together in front of him. “You should have gone yourself. You should have taken the Dagger to Elfi and exterminated the fae once and for all. You still fear the fae queen. Now, because of your cowardice, Abraxas has returned, and they are one step closer to destroying the book.”

  Morgana’s shoulders straightened. “I am not afraid of her. I didn’t want to risk losing the Dagger in the battle. Now the Grand Duchess of the Day Court thinks to bargain with me, the High Queen of Avalonia.” A feral sneer formed on her face. “I will have to give her a reminder as to who exactly she is dealing with. I will go and retrieve the book from Andromeda myself.”

  “You’d better. I cannot afford any more mistakes. And don’t forget who made you high queen. I can just as easily unmake you.”

  Morgana pushed her shoulders back. “The battle at Elfi was merely a setback. Brandor has confirmed their support. We are moving the goods to the dwarven fortress of Greygate as we speak. Once we secure an alliance with the dwarves, you shall have your new weapons, and our armies will decimate the fae. Avalonia will be ours before winter sets in.”

  “Good!” The man clasped his hands in front of him. “Have you appointed a new archmage?”

  Morgana nodded. “He is on his way to Eldoren.”

  He studied her, his eyes narrowed. “And the girl?”

  “I will handle her,” said Morgana.

  “No!” The man pushed himself up slowly from his chair. “I will handle the girl.”

  “I can stop her—give me another chance.”

  He shook his head. “This has gone on too long, Morgana. I left it to you, and you failed. I told you not to kill her, that we need her alive, but you didn’t listen. My plans are far too important to leave anything to chance. Not when the Dark Lord is ready to rise. I told you to capture Aurora Firedrake, but you didn’t. You had a chance to stop her in the ruins and you let her go. Now she’s back with powers that no one has ever seen before. But we still need her for the final part of the plan. You just do as I tell you. I want the girl in my possession before winter sets in.”

  A faint smile curved Morgana’s lips, cruel and sinister as she looked at the man before her, the expression in his eyes identical to her own. “It shall be done, Father.”

  A Queen in the Making

  The clash of swords rang in my ears as I sidestepped and turned, slashing at my attacker, slicing him across his arm, and kicking him sharply in the stomach. He doubled over and shouted to his companions: rough, armed men who had been following us all day.

  “Behind you!” Tristan barked, taking on three others.

  I spun and ducked just in time to avoid another sword that came swinging toward my head. Sweat ran down my brow and between my breasts, and strands of loose hair stuck to my neck and face as I twirled swiftly, holding up my sword and bracing my legs. My arms shuddered as the mercenary’s broadsword connected with Dawn. The smooth, polished metal of my dwarven-made sword shimmered as the burnished gold rays of the setting sun illuminated the rubies on the hilt, which glistened like the glowing embers of a fire. Using my fae strength, I pushed my attacker away and tightened my grip on my sword.

  “I thought I told you to go back to Elfi, Aurora,” Tristan growled as he knocked out one man with the hilt of his sword. “Why are you following me?”

  “I’m not following you,” I lied, adjusting my stance and eyeing my attacker. “I’m just trying to find the book, like you are.” I let my fae senses take over just as the man lunged for me. Blood roaring in my ears, I twisted the weapon in my hands deftly, disarming him.

  Neither Tristan nor I wanted to use our fae magic for fear of giving away our location. These were simple mercenaries, soldiers without magic. They were more of an irritation than a threat to us. We had been careful, keeping our identities glamoured while we scoured Brandor for Andromeda and the book. The Grand Duchess of the Day Court had disappeared from Elfi afte
r the battle of Abraxas. She had betrayed the fae and allied with Morgana in the hope that Morgana would make her Queen of Elfi. But when her plan to take over Elfi failed, Andromeda took the book and ran. It was now her only leverage with Morgana.

  For now, we had been lucky; we hadn’t come across any Drakaar yet. They seemed to be regrouping since their defeat at the battle of Abraxas. But I knew they would be back. Morgana would not give up so easily. I was all that stood between her and absolute power over the seven kingdoms of Avalonia, and she had no intention of letting me live past my eighteenth birthday.

  “I don’t need you here,” said Tristan, standing over two of our attackers as they bled on the ground; the others had fled. “I can track Andromeda on my own. You should leave this city.”

  “I can’t go back, Tristan. I need your help. It is the only way to make things right.” I pointed my sword at my attacker’s chin. “Where is she?”

  The mercenary held up his hands, fear showing in his dull brown eyes. “Who?”

  “The one who sent you to kill us,” I said plainly.

  Shaking his head, the mercenary said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I met a man—he gave us your portrait. They promised us a fortune for your head.”

  “Who paid you?” growled Tristan.

  The man shook his head again, looking between Tristan and me. “I can’t, they’ll kill me.”

  “And you think he won’t?” I glanced at Tristan, who stood almost a foot taller than me, looking as menacing as ever.

  Tristan and I had taken to wearing the traditional clothes of the Brandorians—loose billowing pants, a soft white muslin shirt under a short leather tunic, a turban wrapped around the head, and high brown boots. I had decided that dressing as a man was far easier and allowed me to move more inconspicuously. But somehow these mercenaries had managed to find out who we were. They had to be silenced, or Morgana would send more than just lowly soldiers my way.

  I touched my sword to the mercenary’s neck, just enough to draw a little blood. “Tell me who paid you, and I will let you go.”

  The man looked around, eyes darting back and forth like a trapped animal. But the street was darkening, and no one interfered.

  “It was—”

  His words were cut short as his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, and he went still, his mouth open in a silent scream. He fell forward at my feet, an arrow protruding from his back.

  Tristan bent down and pulled out the arrow. “Ash,” he said, inspecting it more closely. Then, just as quickly, he dropped it and stood up. “The tip is made of blackened iron.”

  My eyes betrayed my horror. “How do they have arrows made of blackened iron?”

  “I don’t know.” Tristan’s voice was tense as he grabbed my hand and scanned our surroundings. “Morgana has obviously been keeping busy, arming her soldiers with magical weapons. These arrows were meant for us. We need to get out of here now.”

  The burnt-orange sky cast an eerie glow over the desert city as we ran through the narrow, dusty streets of Nedora, the capital city of Brandor. Built hundreds of years ago from a small trading outpost, Nedora was a much older city than Sanria, with a haphazard maze of streets in the inner section of the town, which slowly expanded over years to create the sprawling city it was today. It was ruled by the powerful Detori dynasty, a ruthless, bloodthirsty family, with lies and backstabbing an everyday occurrence in their court.

  This city was quite different from Sanria on the western coast of Brandor, where my friend Santino Valasis, the pirate prince, resided. It was said that the Detoris were the ones responsible for the death of Santino’s elder brother, Alfonso, the Valasis heir, although it had never been proven. The heads of these two families were the richest and most powerful emirs on the Council of Five. In recent years, it was Santino’s father Roderigo Valasis, the Emir of Sanria, who had become the most influential prince on the council. But fortunes could change at any time, and the Detori family and the Valasis family were constantly vying for control of Brandor.

  We ran out of the alley and into a more crowded street as we slowed to a walk. “What would happen if one of us got hit with an arrow of blackened iron?” I asked Tristan as I straightened my short tunic and adjusted my turban, which conveniently kept my long hair hidden.

  “If a High Fae gets injured by a weapon made of blackened iron, especially if it was magically forged as that arrow was, the wound will not heal as it is supposed to,” Tristan explained. “If it hits a vital organ, it can be deadly even to an immortal.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “We need to find out where that blackened iron came from.”

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “Among other things.”

  The streets were still buzzing with the sounds of the bustling market—sellers shutting down their brightly colored stalls and gathering their unsold wares or haggling for the last trade of the day as twilight started to set in. Camels lazed by a fountain in the shade of a crooked palm tree as children played a hopping game by the side of the street. The fragrant smells of spiced pastries and meat roasting on open pits filled the humid air as we hurried past the dusty alleys and roads back to the inner section of the city, where we had taken rooms at a local inn. Or at least that’s where I thought Tristan was going, so I followed him.

  My grandmother had tricked me into agreeing to become betrothed to Tristan even though she knew Rafe was not marrying Katerina Valasis as she had led me to believe. She timed it perfectly, knowing Rafe was on his way to see me. He’d arrived just in time to watch me become betrothed to the Prince of the Night Court in the presence of all the fae nobility. When Tristan realized what my grandmother had done and that I was still in love with Rafe, he’d left Elfi.

  He had been tracking Andromeda and the book for weeks now. I had followed, keeping myself glamoured and hidden, but he knew I was there—and I was lucky he knew, or I would have had to take on the attackers on my own. I probably could have handled them myself, since I was becoming good with a sword and had been getting a lot of practice. But it was always nice to know that Tristan was around. His sword skills were unmatched in Avalonia and beyond.

  I had tried everything from apologizing to trying my luck and ordering him to help me rescue my granduncle. None of it had worked; he was determined to brush me off every chance he got. If only he would talk to me and let me explain what had happened.

  But Tristan was having none of it. He always seemed exasperated when he saw me. “Leave me alone, Aurora. Go back to Elfi.”

  “Not until you talk to me.”

  He whirled around, stopping suddenly in a small grubby street. “There is nothing to talk about. We were betrothed out of necessity. I took an oath, and that’s why I am bound to you. But that doesn’t mean I have to spend every waking hour listening to you chattering.”

  My spine bristled as I tried to keep calm. “I’m not chattering, I just want to talk.” I threw my hands up in the air. “I need your help, Tristan. I can’t do this alone.”

  “So you keep saying.” He clasped my shoulders and pulled me toward a dark corner of the street, so close his breath was hot on my face. He smelled of cloves, cinnamon, and pine trees. My breath hitched as he gazed down at me. His dark eyes were the color of the sky at midnight. “Then talk.”

  “I, um . . .” I hesitated, suddenly at a loss for words. “I want to apologize.”

  “You did that already.” Tristan’s gaze was pure steel, his eyes swirling with silver sparks. “But what I would like to know is what you believe you are apologizing for.”

  I looked down, my eyes level with the leather straps that crossed his powerful chest and kept the swords on his back in place. Tristan was a warrior through and through, with centuries of experience and a hatred for all things mage. I didn’t blame him for being upset, but I could not change the way I felt about Rafe, even if I tried. And I had tried. But Rafe’s face haunted my dreams every night. I kept seeing his eyes looking at me with such hu
rt and anger. Not so different from how Tristan was looking at me now.

  “I never meant for it to be this way,” I said, finally finding the words and looking up at his devastatingly handsome face. “You knew from the very start how I felt about Rafe. I never kept it a secret. Everyone knew.”

  “Yes, but when you agreed to become betrothed, I thought . . .” He paused and shook his head, his face going blank. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

  I looked away and Tristan moved back. “I have to go. There is an informant waiting for me at the teahouse by the western gate.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Tristan shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  I followed him through the narrow streets, past short, squat sandstone houses with flat roofs, to the western district of the city. Lanterns were being lit along the way as we passed Detori soldiers, their crimson uniforms trimmed with gold, standing out in stark contrast in this drab and poor part of the city. The big, bearded soldiers patrolled the streets and dark alleys at night, sporting huge, curved swords at their waists. They paid us no attention, except a cursory glance as we hurried past.

  The teahouse Tristan spoke of was not what I expected at all. I had pictured people sitting around in a small shop sipping tea and nibbling on cakes like in the little cafés in Elfi or Eldoren. But this Nedorian teahouse was quite the opposite and, despite the name, quite frankly not a teahouse at all.