Dragonfate: Dragon's Flight

By Alexis Steinhauer

Book 2 of the Dragonfate series. For one year, the land of Alturia has been calm. War's Peace is broken, the few remaining dragons remain in isolation, and the people are rebuilding from the devastation of the Dragon War. Even Hallen has begun to reconcile himself to the magic binding him to half-Ruby dragon Kyaza—a process aided by Kyaza's long absence.
However, Kyaza's return to Allysdale casts things into an immediate downward spiral. A bloodstained note arrives, bearing a plea for help from two of their missing friends, their only clue a rune describing the Uuren Mountains. They have no choice but to head east. As they travel, surrounded by allies whose motives are dubious at best, things grow worse. Nightmares plague Kyaza constantly, warning him that someone he loves will soon suffer a terrible death. Ancient magics swirl about him, dangerous and unknowable, bound to a fate that he has been expected to carry for more than a thousand years.
Soon Kyaza realizes that he is not alone in this trap of secrets and shadows: Aldri Cinderfrost, last heir of the Silver Dragons, is enslaved by his Dragonfate and following a course that will inevitably drag them into opposite sides of the battlefield. . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexis Steinhauer
• Release date: Jul 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465921789

Alexis Steinhauer

Alexis Steinhauer is a cat-loving bookworm who likes tea, heavy metal music, dripping candles and dark stories. Her favorite place to be is in her nest of pillows with a book in one hand and either a cat or a laptop on her lap. She will laugh at just about any dad joke or cat meme you throw at her. Alexis is the author of Dragonfate: Dragon's Gold, Dragonfate: Dragon's Flight and Dragonfate: Dragon's Oath. She is also the author of The Felling. The Bone Harp Book 1. Her new series, Fabricated Men, is her current project and passion.

Book preview

DRAGONFATE:

DRAGON'S FLIGHT

by

Alexis Steinhauer

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Alexis Steinhauer on Smashwords

Dragonfate:

Dragon's Flight

Copyright © 2011 by Alexis Steinhauer

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Alturian Calendar

Ithelodrian Calendar

Pronunciation Guide

Translation Guide

Prologue . . . . . Tallae-Onmorra

Chapter 1 . . . . . Approaching Storm

Chapter 2 . . . . . Nicalan

Chapter 3 . . . . . Firelight

Chapter 4 . . . . . Only a Lullaby

Chapter 5 . . . . . King's Feast

Chapter 6 . . . . . Omens

Chapter 7 . . . . . Shattered

Chapter 8 . . . . . Mercy

Chapter 9 . . . . . Word of a Ruby

Chapter 10 . . . . . Fairy Tales

Chapter 11 . . . . . Feel No Pain

Chapter 12 . . . . . Thariel Whiteclaw

Chapter 13 . . . . . Flight

Chapter 14 . . . . . Dangerous Alliances

Chapter 15 . . . . . Dragon's Blood

Chapter 16 . . . . . Turn of Fortune

Chapter 17 . . . . . Departure

Chapter 18 . . . . . The Price of Failure

Chapter 19 . . . . . Another Quest

Chapter 20 . . . . . Why

Chapter 21 . . . . . Dark Warnings

Chapter 22 . . . . . A Magic Legacy

Chapter 23 . . . . . Back on the Road

Chapter 24 . . . . . Core of Ice

Chapter 25 . . . . . Hiluel

Chapter 26 . . . . . Flamewatchers

Chapter 27 . . . . . Mindsight

Chapter 28 . . . . . Avill Anaria

Chapter 29 . . . . . Lily of Healing

Chapter 30 . . . . . Dragonhorn Hatchery

Chapter 31 . . . . . Cloud and Illusion

Chapter 32 . . . . . A Wound to the Heart

Chapter 33 . . . . . Refuge

Chapter 34 . . . . . Let the Sky Fall

Chapter 35 . . . . . A Reason to Fight

Chapter 36 . . . . . Bond-Partners

Chapter 37 . . . . . Truth

Chapter 38 . . . . . Dreamscape

Chapter 39 . . . . . Tangled Paths

Chapter 40 . . . . . Vylaedor

Chapter 41 . . . . . Into Fate's Embrace

Chapter 42 . . . . . Forgiveness

Chapter 43 . . . . . Loss and Gain

Chapter 44 . . . . . Prepared for Battle

Chapter 45 . . . . . Blood Haze

Chapter 46 . . . . . Collision

Chapter 47 . . . . . Deathwarden and Bloodthorn

Chapter 48 . . . . . Devoted

Chapter 49 . . . . . Aeäldrar and Liniel

Chapter 50 . . . . . Traitor

Chapter 51 . . . . . The Dragon Guard

Chapter 52 . . . . . Into the Fray

Chapter 53 . . . . . Lye Edail

Chapter 54 . . . . . Dragon's Heir

Chapter 55 . . . . . Dusk

Chapter 56 . . . . . Violet Star

Chapter 57 . . . . . Binding Oaths

Alturian Calendar

For Alturia it is three hundred and sixty-five days the year, and there are fifteen months, cycles of the moons measured by Altea's phases, within that space of time. This is a calendar of the months, the first being the first month of spring and what the Alturians see as the first of the year itself.

Months- Days-

Leythin 24

Kerrivar 24

Thae 25

Vira 24

Beyintir 24

Ionol 24

Tyellas 25

Arregea 25

Pallas 24

Myrrun 24

Arag 25

Eyle 24

Iphril 24

Sul 25

Oldre 24

Ithelodrian Calendar

For Ithelodria it is three hundred and sixty-five days the year, and there are fifteen months, cycles of the moons measured by Altea's phases, within that space of time. This is a calendar of the months, the first being the first month of spring and what the Ithelodrians see as the first of the year itself.

Months- Days-

Leytha 24

Kerrintor 24

Thaefis 25

Viraxan 24

Beyator 24

Iol 24

Syella 25

Arrea 25

Pallacor 24

Myrruel 24

Aragen 25

Vyre 24

Liphrala 24

Su 25

Colare 24

Pronunciation Guide

Aérean . . . . . ay-AIR-ee-an

Allysdale . . . . . AL-lihz-dale

Altruaeda . . . . . AHL-true-IE-duh

Alturia . . . . . ahl-TUE-ree-uh

Balaun . . . . . Bah-LAY-oon

Beryss . . . . . BEHR-iss

Gael . . . . . GALE

Garondolyn . . . . . gehr-ON-doe-linn

Hallen . . . . . HAHL-lehn

Iar . . . . . IE-ar

Ilacia . . . . . ih-LAY-see-uh

Iridina . . . . . EER-ih-DEE-nuh

Ithelodria . . . . . IE-thel-OH-dree-uh

Kyaza . . . . . kie-AH-zuh

Nedila . . . . . neh-DEE-luh

Nicali . . . . . nih-KAH-lee

Netalirash . . . . . NEH-tah-LEE-rosh

Rychelaea . . . . . RIE-chell-AY-uh

Tallyn . . . . . TAL-lin

Thandre . . . . . THAHN-drr (th as in there)

Thariel . . . . . THAH-ree-ELL (th as in thorough)

Tylmar . . . . . TILL-mar

Uuren . . . . . OO-rehn

Varaye'a . . . . . VAR-ee-ie

Vylaedor . . . . . vill-AY-dore

Zoriestri . . . . . ZORE-ee-ESS-tree

Translation Guide

Aethriavor'a . . . . . Air-walker

Anédre . . . . . Dragonfate

Arrum . . . . . Cloudbreaker (literally, breaker crafted from gloom)

Athadre Leth'si'tari . . . . . Dragonhorn Hatchery

Avill Anaria . . . . . Blade Poison

Dre . . . . . Dragon

Durma hrin'em-alchorre, lin azadar . . . . . Only flames from within another's heart may wake the sleeper

Eldhrin . . . . . Heartstone

Elym'rin taline . . . . . Thank you so much

Endelre'a . . . . . Truth-seeker

Iar Aedor . . . . . Iar's Blood

Kria-arrix lin va'asn . . . . . Creature of the sky, come to me

Laedanthri'a . . . . . Mind-speaker

Lagh . . . . . Go

Lye Edail . . . . . My love (the term is not a compound of two generic words, but literally the one who holds my heart)

Ne'althui Travar . . . . . "The Grey Teeth"

Ne'un Travar . . . . . The Black Teeth

Rrith'kyn . . . . . A Draconic term for the intelligent races smaller than they

Thandre . . . . . Dragon Guard (more literally, it should be said Guard of Dragons—as in, one who watches over dragonkind)

Unhathdar . . . . . Blackstone

Varaye'a . . . . . Lightning-singer

Vardurma'a . . . . . Fire-singer

Vylaedor . . . . . Bloodthorn

Legends have told us for centuries upon centuries of creatures called dragons. Ranging from the size of worlds to the size of a housecat, they thrive in all climates, in every corner of the imagination, in the heart of every person who is willing to keep them there. In some cases intelligence is theirs, in others they are companions such as horses, close to their master but without the gifts of speech and reason. In others, they are our enemies, monsters to be slain for the sake of peace and life. Their hides may be anything from scales to skin to fur and feathers, any color of the rainbow or made to blend into the background as a hunter's may. Yet for all their variety, all their persistence, the only place we may seek to meet one is within our own mind.

Now, I pray you, cast yourself into a different world, a different trail of thought; step into a place where dragons live and breathe, where they are as real in touch and voice as you or I. Where they face the same extinction every day that they have suffered in our world: the extinction of myth . . . yet where they battle every moment to fend off such a fate for another day . . .

Prologue

Tallae-Onmorra

Alturia

Year 1250, month of Vira . . .

Outside the cave Aldri knelt, wrapped in a soft brown cloak with the hood drawn over his long black hair. His eyes, gleaming sapphire blue, wandered restlessly over the muddy trail that led to the cave, and one long, dark-skinned finger traced an idle design across the ground. He wasn't certain what had drawn him from his bed in the middle of the rainy night; he had been near wakefulness for hours, rolling over and over on his heather mattress, sometimes breaking away from his dreams like a drowning man gulping air before sinking beneath the waves again. Aldri shuddered. They were not good dreams . . . not tonight, not recently. For four days he had been able to find nothing but horrific nightmares through the gateway of slumber. One after another, he had seen towns burned and blasted apart, devoured by hungry jaws of black smoke; he had seen families, pleading for mercy, torn apart by soldiers; he had seen black fissures opened in fields of bright wildflowers, and ferocious storms destroy both land and sky in lightning hail.

Aldri straightened, wiping his muddy fingertip against his cloak, and gazed out across the forest. This was one of the few places where one of his kind could find solitude; the cave could not be seen from the ground, nor by anyone wandering aimlessly up the hillside, but from here he could look out among the trees' sheltering trunks and view the entire green valley below. Trees flowed like a green carpet over the sloping ground, sinking into a deep bowl-like depression that was ten miles across, and rising to a higher lip in the foggy distance. Behind the cave was the remainder of the massive hill, rearing like a green mountain a thousand feet above and crowned by the rough ring of stony pillars at its peak. Beyond that, the land continued to dip and rise in a wild, unpredictable pattern, and the Forest of Nocturna devoured ever more land, year by year, as the miles marched by. There had been a time, while the Dragon War was waged over it fifty years ago, when the forest had been reduced by flames to just a few scraggly miles of trees and weeds who struggled for survival in the scorched earth. Now, just half a century later, even the vast Feilast Woods far, far to the south could not compare with the thriving land of Nocturna. It was home to creatures both harmless and vicious, home to everything from squirrels to elves to the huge mottled Bronze Tigers.

It was Aldri's home, the only place where he could be safe from the most dangerous of all creatures, the hunters who would probably trap him and cook him for dinner, and then use his hide for boots and his bones for canes. Aldri grimaced. Every time he thought of humans, both fear and sadness bloomed in his chest. They had murdered his mother, the one person in all the land of Alturia who had loved him . . . and for that, Aldri had never been able to forgive them.

Yet neither was he determined to get revenge. He was not a killer. No, he preferred to just stay out of their way, and let them forget that he existed up here in the remote, forest-flooded heights of Nocturna.

We hear you, Deathwarden.

Aldri jolted violently and swung his eyes instinctively upward, to the place where the Stone Crown gleamed wetly above the treetops. He had not heard the voice, exactly; it had just been there, as if the speaker was at once inside of him and all around him. And yet somehow, he had the vague feeling that it was connected to those stones, as a voice was connected to its speaker.

Then Aldri shook himself, silently scolding his imagination for conjuring such a trick. The night was dark and damp and perhaps dangerous, there was no denying that; but to hear ghostly voices speaking out of thin air? That was nothing less than madness. Aldri pulled his cloak close around himself, gazing with narrowed eyes up at the rocks. For a long time he just stood there, silent and unmoving, listening to the patter of the rain that gradually drenched him and weighed down the material of his cloak. Lightning blazed once across the sky, bleaching the world for a moment in a wash of silver, and a moment later thunder rumbled through the earth as if the hill's stomach was growling in hunger.

Thunder is what Lady Lightning calls her bodyguard, Aldri's mother had once told him, as she tucked him into a warm blanket on her lap and settled close to the fire with her cheek on his rain-dampened hair. He is a great black cat, like the Hern of the southern lands, but he is as large as a castle, so large that only the black clouds can hide his vast body. The sounds we hear after Lady Lightning appears are either his growling, while he complains that she never waits for him, or they are the sounds his paws make as they pound across the Sky while he pursues her. But Lady Lightning cannot help herself; while the Sky, her father, is dark and brooding, she takes the advantage and tries to make him happy by dancing, which she loves to do.

Will Thunder hurt us? Aldri had asked, hugging himself as curls of white steam rolled off his drying clothes.

Oh no, dear, no. He has no mind for small creatures like us. His only thought is for his flighty mistress. He only wishes that she would stay safe at home . . . and indeed she does, when the clouds are lighter and the Sky is not so upset. That's why there is not always lightning when it rains; the Sky still cries when he becomes sad, but he can get over it without the lady's help. The only reason we see her at all is because she takes such joy in her dancing that she sometimes forgets to twirl only above the clouds. Those are only accidents, Aldri. . . . Thunderstorms mean us no harm, no harm at all.

Aralde had often told Aldri such stories when he was small enough to curl up and listen to her until sleep took him. She had soothed his irrational fears countless times, even while Aldri's draconic father, who never knew of his existence, was away and battling in the Dragon War. She had protected Aldri from every harm, both fearful and physical, even until she died.

Unwanted tears joined the raindrops that streaked Aldri's cheeks, and he raised a hand irritably to scrub them off. He turned to go back into his cave.

Deathwarden, come to us.

For the second time that night Aldri heard the voiceless whisper, and for the second time he recoiled, his eyes flying instinctively to the Stone Crown.

Come to us, child . . . we have sought you for so long . . .

Who . . . who are you? Aldri glanced uneasily over his shoulder, but there was nothing there except the trees, bowed under the wind's feathery fingers and groaning softly.

Come to us, the voice repeated cryptically. You cannot resist the calling of Fate, Deathwarden. It is your right to meet it, to fight it, to control it—or to obey it. Come to us. . . . Come, and do what Fate demands of you . . .

Aldri closed his trembling hands into fists. Where are you?

You know. You feel us. Come.

Slowly, reluctantly, Aldri's eyes alighted once again on the gleaming tops of the rocky spires, and he stepped away from the cave mouth. He left the muddy trail behind, pushed branches aside with his hands, clambered up the steep, slippery hill toward the Crown. Freezing water seeped into his boots, making them slick and uncomfortable, and clawlike branches scratched his face and tugged at his cloak. He did know. He had no idea how, but he was positive that the voice—or voices—could be found at the Stone Crown. He rarely visited the place himself, and never at night. To him the ground always felt chilled and hard, and the mist that clung to it always seemed to swirl up like hands, reaching, grasping, but breaking apart once they closed on his ankles. He often felt as though someone was standing just behind him, breathing onto his neck and watching him with unblinking eyes, but whenever he turned to look, the place was empty. The very thought of approaching the Crown without daylight's warmer light froze his heart—but he had no idea why. He simply followed the rustling whispers, allowing them to guide him through the fluttering darkness and lead him up to the crest of the hill.

There were about two dozen rocky pillars, some twenty feet high and crooked like an old man's fingers, while others were smaller, stubby, only chest-high to him. Either they were natural, or so incredibly ancient that time and weather had worn all signs of carving from their bald faces. Smooth boulders and smaller rocks littered the ground all around the top of the hill, but inside the ragged ring of stones there was an empty space, a patch of ground devoid of grass or weeds. Now that bare dirt bubbled and splashed as the rain poured erratically down on it, and mud pooled in the surrounding grasses. As usual, mist swirled white across the earth, but in the night it seemed thicker, almost glowing. Aldri shivered as he stepped around a boulder and into the circle of stones. He paused on the grass at the edge of the rippling mud pool, fingers lightly brushing the slick surface of the towering stone to his right, and looked around at his shadowy surroundings.

Yes. . . . We feel your presence, Deathwarden. You have made the right choice.

I made the only choice, thought Aldri to himself. Who are you? he asked aloud.

We are the crumbled road, the stones already walked and discarded by the travelers of time. We are Fate's cast-off garments. We are the past, the storms and the rainbows borne by the sky in worlds now forgotten. What we are, you will be. What you are, we can no longer understand. But we speak to each other. Yes, we speak to you, and you hear us as only you can.

Aldri's eyes narrowed. He pushed back his hood and walked forward, standing on the churning mud in the center of the ring, and gazed up at the rough pillars looming over him. Tell me what you are, he spoke to the empty air. Step from your hiding places and show me.

At once a frenzied whispering, a cacophony of many voices murmuring and arguing together, swarmed into the air. Aldri turned, but although he could have sworn the speakers were standing just beside him, nobody was there. Slowly, one by one, the voices faded and the hilltop fell silent. Rain splattered on the rocks with a continuous dull tapping noise.

They appeared so gradually that Aldri wasn't sure when he could first see them. He blinked, but the faint white shapes, like wisps of cloud against a bright noon sky, did not vanish. They grew clearer, more solid-looking. The mist from the ground swirled lazily around their ethereal white bodies, like garments of dust and spiderwebs. Long hair shimmered with a pearly inner light; half-transparent skin gleamed white as if the full moon glowed down onto it. Colorless eyelids fluttered open, and eyes like shining pearls fixed on Aldri. His breath caught in his throat and he stepped back, but brushed against something cold, as solid as a brief gust of wind, and paralyzing ice seemed to shoot up his entire arm. He clutched his elbow and spun around to find himself facing still more of the ghostly beings. There were probably fifteen of them, and they had him surrounded.

Fool! he scolded himself. You walked right into their trap.

We mean you no harm, Deathwarden, said the voice that had drawn him here. For the first time, he realized it was a woman's voice. He saw her drift away from the others, nearer to him, with her misty gown billowing behind her like shredded cotton in the breeze. Her voice still spoke only into his mind; his ears stubbornly insisted that he should be listening to nothing more than the sounds of the rainy forest at night. We only want your help.

Help? . . . With what? he asked warily, stepping away from her. His arm was beginning to unstiffen. His boots squelched into the soft mud.

I am called Saehlaria, said the ghost. And no, we are not quite spirits of the dead. We are beings of Alturia, just as you are, and by elven scholars we are known as the Tallae-Onmorra, Spirits of the Mist. . . . As to what we need your help with, we are forbidden by our leader to speak directly of it to you. We may only give you your instructions.

Why would I help you if I don't even know what you need me for? said Aldri suspiciously.

Because your survival depends on it as well, the spirit-being replied, while the others circled slowly around the Stone Crown. Any time one of them collided with a boulder, their lower halves broke like torn clouds and then re-formed at the other side. You are not like others of your kind, child . . . you are the Deathwarden, granted strange abilities by the faeriefyre which burned you soon after birth. She gestured gracefully with her hand, and a blast of wind slammed into Aldri, blowing back his cloak and fanning his damp hair. He stumbled backward and raised an instinctive arm to defend himself—but immediately, the wind stopped.

He blinked his eyes open. Through his sleeve an irregular pattern was glowing a bright green-blue, from his wrist up to his shoulder. The same glow shone from an old burn-scar on the side of his neck. Aldri swallowed. He had had those scars as long as he could remember, but his mother had never explained where they came from. They often burned when the weather was especially dangerous, before a tornado or a massive thunderstorm, but they never glowed like this. What are you doing? he said quietly, touching the shining scars on his wrist. There was no pain, no itching, no nerve stimulation at all—nothing that would make him think twice about the scars, if they had not been shining like parchment with firelight on the far side.

As I said, those are old faeriefyre wounds. No child of your kind has been burned in such a way in hundreds of years. Saehlaria drifted forward and curled a hand around his scarred wrist, but though Aldri jumped, he was surprised that his muscles did not freeze at her touch. She felt as solid as icy water; her blank eyes stared straight into his. These scars and their origin are the source of your power, Deathwarden, though you have yet to discover its true potential. To learn more about yourself, and to stop the terrible fate which our leader has seen not for us and for you alone, but for all the land, you must listen to us. You must do as we say, or you and the rest of your kindred will perish.

And why should I trust you? wondered Aldri.

Because we can show you one of your abilities. Saehlaria floated backward and stopped a few yards from him; where she had touched him, his skin prickled as if fine needles were being scraped over it. He noticed that all the other spirits also ceased their roving, pausing at a distance from him and watching him with unblinking white eyes. The rain was falling more heavily now.

The spirit-woman lifted her hands, palms downward, from her sides, and bowed her head. Together, the other spirits did the same, moving forward until they formed a ring around Aldri with their fingertips touching. Many have died in these lands, they said together, softly. Many battled in this forest during the Dragon War. The land claims their bodies, and the air remembers their faces. To those with eyes to see, the dead are little less than the living.

For a minute, their words grew so quiet that it was just an indecipherable whisper, like any breath of wind that might weave through the rustling leaves of the forest. Aldri pulled his cloak close around his shoulders, uneasy. He could almost see through the spirits' bodies, but he had no doubt that if he tried to flee through their circle, they would be able to stop him. As his eyes drifted restlessly across the trunks of the trees, Aldri thought he saw something large move just beyond his sight. He thought two pale gleaming spots, like an owl's or a cat's eyes in the dark, shone out at him. But when he blinked and focused on the place, nothing was there.

Suddenly, pale faces appeared among the tree trunks. There were many of them, scores, and as Aldri looked around, he saw that they completely encircled the Stone Crown. They were human faces, not exactly solid, but not transparent like the Spirits of the Mist. They were like reflections in water, cast upon the air. Their eyes were dull, their expressions haggard or disinterested. When they walked forward, Aldri smothered a gasp as he saw their broken bodies.

Some of them were missing limbs. Others had great ragged holes in their chests, like they had been impaled, and others hobbled on wounded legs or clutched at their arms. Many had blackened, crusted or reddened skin, as if they had been burned. All wore armor, and most of the metal was streaked with mud and blood. Aldri knew dead men when he saw them: these were fallen warriors from the Dragon War.

Stop! he pleaded, closing his hands into fists and shaking uncontrollably. Make them disappear. Send them back where they belong!

We cannot, answered Saehlaria calmly. They are not really here. The things you see are for your eyes alone, from a new power awakened within you. They are but images, preserved by the memory of those who witnessed their deaths. The dead are dead forever, and this illusion cannot harm you . . . but from this moment forward, wherever you go, you will always be able to see these images of the dead, of any who have fallen because of violence. You are the Deathwarden; in time, you may learn what that means.

Aldri hugged himself and bowed his head, unwilling to look up from the swirling ripples in the mud. Why have you done this? he whispered.

We cannot unlock any of your other abilities, child; this one is a gift, to help keep you from joining these beings you see. To learn more, to learn to control these sights and others, you must first set your feet upon the path to help us.

Aldri shuddered. He did not want to help them, especially not after they had conjured this nightmare for him, but something deep inside of him knew they were right. He was . . . different. He had often felt things no one else could, sensed things and heard things no one else was able to detect. Once, a long time ago, he had felt a terrible flare of agony in his chest and known without knowing that some creature had just been killed. Following that sense, he had led his concerned mother into the forest, where they had come upon a dead bear and the Bronze Tiger that had killed it. The bear's chest had been clawed and badly torn.

He would have liked to remain at his cave in the Forest of Nocturna, but he knew he could not. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the ground. The dead were still coming into the Stone Crown, more and more of them . . . perhaps hundreds of deathly white faces. He averted his eyes and focused instead on Saehlaria—which didn't help much, since he could still see them through her.

What do you need me to do? he asked.

She gave a slight nod of approval. As I have told you already, we cannot tell you in plain words; we may only tell you how to begin.

I know.

Then listen well, for the night is fading and so are we. We will not be able to repeat ourselves. Danger threatens Alturia and Ithelodria, and Fate has chosen you, Deathwarden, to help destroy it. It will take both faeriefyre and dragon's fire to do this . . . and though you possess both, you shall command only one. You must locate the other. She was fading, becoming more and more transparent; her long hair was rippling out around her as if she were underwater. Aldri could clearly see the faces of the dead through her blurring features. To begin your quest you must make your way east, across the mountains which few others are able to traverse. There you will find the children of faeriefyre, wraiths of the cold moon; and the heir to dragon's fire. . . . There, you will make a choice to join or to fight against them both. Either way, your decision balances all our lives. Two lands divided will fear and hate each other, as is the way of the world . . . but you, Deathwarden, creature of dragon's blood and faeriefyre, will have the chance to bring them together instead . . . or to destroy them both. She was fading more quickly now, and so were the others. She was little more than a vague white smudge on the shadowy air.

I don't understand, said Aldri, frowning in confusion. Do you mean the Uuren Mountains? Who are the children of faeriefyre, who is this heir? With each word he spoke, they grew fainter. He took a step toward them, as if he could reach out and bring them back to answer his questions. Wait! What do you mean for me to do?

Do as we say, child. . . . Farewell. . . .

With that, the Spirits of the Mist faded and Aldri was left alone on the hilltop among a crowd of the dead.

Chapter 1

Approaching Storm

Year 1258, month of Pallas . . .

Gael shook her head wonderingly. That's truly amazing.

With a flutter of black feathers, Ogal laid the golden rose blossom on her opened palm, then squawked as if in triumph and flapped back to his perch on Tallyn's shoulder. The dragon girl laughed. It's easy now, she replied, stroking the raven affectionately. It took some practice, but I think I finally managed to guide us without bouncing off walls.

And very well, at that, said Iridina. Gael glanced out the window and saw the proud Ice Dragon's jaws stretch in a yawn; the tall frill that crested her head and neck shone like a blue-liquid mirror, catching the golden light of the sunset to the west. The passage of Etherea works for you well, Tallyn.

Thank you. Tallyn lowered her sightless eyes; only the slightest tightening of her lips showed Gael that she was not entirely pleased with that remark. Sympathy nudged at Gael's heart—she knew better than anyone how difficult it was for Tallyn to live without her eyes, for Gael had spent more time with her than anybody else. Tallyn never complained, and hardly ever let her mask of easy carelessness slip, but still the pain was there.

Something of Gael's thoughts must have flickered across her connection with Iridina, because the dragon blinked one golden eye in the window and suggested mildly, Perhaps Gael will play for us once before we move off to sleep?

Over in the corner, Hallen gave a soft snort that made Gael smile. He was stretched out on his stomach in front of the empty fireplace, propped on his elbows and fiddling with a chunk of half-carved wood and a delicate knife. By hours upon hours of practice—mostly out in the country, in the hills or at the top of a cliff where her inexpertise wouldn't bother anyone—Gael had already proven herself to be very skillful with her ruby flute, but Hallen was still liable to stop talking abruptly or roll his eyes at the sight of it.

He's much milder than he used to be toward dragons, thought Gael, leaning over the arm of her chair to lift the flute's tube from the leather bag at her feet, but even for Kyaza, he can't seem to like them. She slid the flute out into her hands, running deft fingers over the dark, ruby-studded wood. It was carved in the sinuous shape of a dragon, twined around a smooth rod with its wings tucked tightly against its back. The detail was astounding; every scale, tipped with a tiny, glittering chip of ruby, stood out cleanly among its brothers.

Kyaza. Gael's throat tightened, and she lowered her eyes, pretending to examine the flute for dust so Hallen would not glimpse any emotion on her face. No one, not even Hallen or Tallyn, had seen or heard anything of Kyaza since he left Allysdale almost a year ago. Occasionally Hallen would feel a scratch or sting that was not his own, or for no evident reason he would grow very tired over time, but other than that the connection between them had been wholly cut off. Gael missed Kyaza so badly that it sometimes gave her a physical ache in her chest. Iridina never pried into her thoughts or forced her to explain anything, but Gael could tell that the Ice Dragon at least guessed at Gael's feelings for the half-dragon boy. At any time Gael could freely lift this burden and share it with her, but she preferred to remain silent and ignore it as much as possible. After all, Tallyn never complained, and Kyaza was her brother—surely she missed him at least as much.

What will you play, little one? Iridina questioned, flicking her pointed blue tongue through the open window in Gael's direction. Gael pressed her lips together, considering the ruby flute with a slight frown, before she came to her decision.

The music was slow in coming, beginning with a series of low, thrumming notes that tickled the ear. Tallyn tilted her head to listen more closely as Gael's fingers fluttered across the dragon's spine. Hallen stopped playing with his carving, and Hallen's mother, Aunel, looked up from her knitting to listen. The soft melody soared high into the air and trickled downward again, then up and around, slow and fluid as the flow of a silvery forest stream. It was music to soothe, music to recall memories of happiness and to lift spirits gently even from the depths of sorrow, but it was not what might be considered cheerful. Gael had experimented for a month before she perfected it, having drawn the song from one of Iridina's memories during the war: a memory of Iridina curled around a campfire and a cluster of humans, her pale, sparkling bulk warding off the night while a man played this tune on his flute.

Slowly the last notes rippled into silence, leaving the quietness of the room to press against their ears like wads of cotton. Gael lowered her flute, listening to the steady breathing of her draconic bond-partner. Iridina puffed a cloud of purplish smoke through the window at them; it smelled like dragon's fire, a warm, pleasant, earthy scent that was Gael's favorite in the world. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and lifted her head to smile at the beautiful dragon. Thank you, she told her silently, gratefully. Iridina blinked tranquil golden eyes at her.

You played it well, the dragon responded softly. As always.

I wonder who thought up that wonderful little song? mused Aunel, her knitting needles clicking into action again. It's beautiful.

Yes, it is. Tallyn stroked Ogal's head with her forefinger, her expression thoughtful and distant. Gael looked at her curiously, wondering what kind of memories she was reliving.

You aren't bad with that flute, Gael, observed Hallen. He rubbed a thumb over a corner of the wooden lump in his hand, and busied himself again whittling it into shape. By now, thin flakes of wood were scattered all across the floor around him. Gael was surprised; normally Hallen chose to listen to her music in silence, and ignore the fact that the flute existed at all.

Now, suggested Iridina, perhaps we should all head for our beds. A storm is coming tonight.

A storm? echoed Aunel in apparent surprise, looking out past Iridina's head to the sky. It was muffled by clouds, all of which shone like puffs of golden smoke against the greying horizon. Will it snow, do you think?

No, I do not think so. Not this early. The trees have only just begun to shed their summer garments.

Good. Aunel looked relieved. Will you stay here tonight, then, Gael? Or are you going back to your parents' house? You know the blue room is always open to you.

Gael looked up at Iridina questioningly. Whatever you like, the Ice Dragon told her silently. I am heading for my cave either way, once I see you safely asleep.

You're too protective of me, thought Gael with a smile. She turned to Aunel and nodded gratefully. The blue room sounds wonderful, she said. Thank you, Aunt Aunel.

Of course, dear.

For a few minutes silence fell again, and the light outside slowly faded to a blue-grey dusk. Iridina's white-blue scales seemed to shine with a dull halo in the dimness. Gael was startled when Hallen climbed to his feet, put his wood in his pocket, and moved to light a candle; until the flickering orange glow grew into existence and touched warmly on everything in the room, she hadn't realized how quickly the light was failing. With a soft rustle, Iridina unfurled her mirror-like wings and heaved herself to her feet. I am leaving now, she announced. Good night to you all.

Good night, Iridina, everyone chorused. Gael smiled and blew her bond-partner a kiss, adding with her thoughts, I love you. She could no longer imagine how life had been before Iridina, when her mind had been sealed and lonely—she had never realized how lonely until Iridina joined her. It was an unsolvable mystery to her just how Hallen could be so happy without Kyaza to share his thoughts with.

Ouch, she thought with an involuntary wince. That was the wrong place to wander. She shook her head firmly and fixed her eyes on Iridina, watching as the Ice Dragon bounded away from the house, opened her shining wings to their full extent, and leaped into the sky. Iridina tucked her two legs up underneath her, her tail snapping like a whipcord as her powerful wings pulled her up into the air. In seconds she had wheeled around and shot out of sight, and the thumping of her wings faded to nothing. Gael knew she would go north, to the cave the Allysdaleans had finished hollowing out for her half a year ago. It was filled now with her treasure from the Uurens, and with much of Aérean's as well—any that was not being used to rebuild the province of Allysdale. Gael slept there sometimes, but not too often; her father was protective of her, and liked to have her nearby. Tonight, she knew that Iridina wanted her to be in a dry bed if it was going to rain.

Iridina and Gael were bound by a magic called Dragonfate, to share their minds with each other. Each felt the other's pain, both emotional and physical, though they did not share physical wounds. There was no describing the connection between them—not sisters, nor mother and daughter, and yet not quite friends alone. Iridina was her bond-partner, and Gael's dearest companion.

Hallen, Gael's cousin, was dragon-bonded to Tallyn's brother, Kyaza. Their bond had been an accident, caused by the darker shade of Dragonfate magic and the touch of dragon's gold, and they did not get along as Gael and Iridina did. They were careful around each other, at best . . . which was one reason Kyaza had left them, nearly a year ago, to wander on his own.

Tallyn, would you send Ogal to my parents with a note? asked Gael. I'd like to let them know where I am.

Certainly. Where is it?

Just a moment. Gael glanced around for a scrap of paper and a coal pen, and found a pen on the small table at her elbow. Aunt Aunel, do you have any-

Here. Hallen scooped a yellowish fragment off the mantel and reached across Tallyn to give it to Gael.

Gael tore the paper in half, aware of how expensive it was in Oen right now; there was no paper-mill near the city at all. Thank you, she murmured to Hallen, her hand already scratching down the few explanatory words. She folded the piece and wrapped a length of string around it. Tallyn?

Here. The dragon girl extended a delicate-looking hand and took the note. She felt along the string and tied the message to Ogal's scaly leg. Go, Ogal, she whispered to the raven, stroking his chest. Take this to Gael's parents, and then return.

Registering his acceptance with a soft squawk, Ogal fluttered off her shoulder, careful not to batter her with his wings, and soared out the window. As soon as he disappeared, Aunel asked Tallyn, You will keep your window open until he comes back?

Yes.

Good. Hopefully, he'll make it back before it rains. Aunel set her knitting aside and stood up, brushing down her blue healer's robes. Now, I think we should all go and get some sleep, before the storm wakes us tonight.

The single lighted candle flickered as Hallen picked it up. Gael rose from her chair, slinging her bag over her shoulder and tucking the flute, safely back inside its case, away. She reached out a hand toward Tallyn. I'll help you, she offered, if you want me to.

For a second Tallyn hesitated, as if she was unsure whether to accept; then she gave a nod, her face resigned, and grasped Gael's fingers. Her hand was very warm with the fire flowing through her draconic blood, and though her fingers were slim and shorter than Gael's, her grip was amazingly strong.

Hallen handed Gael his candle. I'll help Mother with the shutters, he said. Good night, you two.

Good night. With one hand holding the candle and the other on her friend's elbow, guiding her, Gael walked slowly up the stairs at the back of the room. She turned at the landing and followed another few steps in the opposite direction, and came up into the hallway. The wooden walls were painted white, punctured by dark doors on either side, and a white rug lay across the floor. Two tall windows opened straight ahead, offering a view of the rolling hills to the north; they looked grey now, drained of color beneath gloomy clouds. Gael led her friend to the first door on the left and opened it, knowing that Hallen would close the shutters when he came up.

Tallyn eased from her grasp here and took four measured paces into the room, across the white crocheted rug on the floor, before she turned and sank down onto the soft white blankets on her bed. Thank you, Gael.

She sat with her blinded eyes cast down, fingering her sleeve. Gael recalled vividly the day Tallyn had lost her sight, after forty years of guiding herself with a dragon's acute vision—though Tallyn appeared to be about sixteen years old, half-dragons did not age as humans did. As a half-dragon, she could take on either human or draconic form for whatever length of time suited her. She and Gael had flown after Kyaza when he ran to save Iridina from a terrible death at the hands of War's Peace—a group of humans who despised dragons above all else—and Tallyn had battled with her own mother. One blast of Aérean's golden fire directly into Tallyn's face had burned away her eyesight forever. It had taken Tallyn a long time to adapt to being blind.

Will you be all right? Gael asked, lingering in the doorway indecisively.

Oh, yes. Tallyn drew the pillow across her lap and clasped her hands together on top of it. I can feel my way around this room even without Etherea.

Gael's curiosity got the better of her. How does that work, then? she inquired. Etherea? I thought half-dragons couldn't do it?

She knew that Tallyn had been taking lessons from Iridina for months now. Iridina hoped that Tallyn could learn to reach out with her mind not only to other dragons in human form, but to animals and humans as well—and even to her solid surroundings. Half-dragon mental abilities were more limited, but it seemed that with enough practice, they could be improved; Etherea was what dragons called the world seen through their thoughts, when they detached themselves from their natural senses and allowed their minds to drift, touching everything around them. According to Iridina, Tallyn was already very adept at using it.

There have been very, very few half-dragons throughout history, Tallyn reminded her. It isn't often that a dragon will take human form frequently enough to learn to care about a human in that way. All we know is that our mental shields are lesser, and our minds are not as forceful—even as our muscles are not as powerful. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. Still, we're dragons. Apparently with enough work, we can learn to do some things that true dragons know by instinct. But I can't describe exactly what Etherea is like, any more than you or I could describe to Aunel what a mental voice sounds like. She laughed a little. It just doesn't make sense until you feel it for yourself.

Gael reflected on that for a moment. It helps you, though?

Very much. You saw; I could guide Ogal with my mind to fly outside and bring you that rose, even though he is as blind as I am. I had never been able to touch an animal's mind before, or to feel where the window opening was and where you held out your hand. Now things like that get easier every day.

Smiling, Gael stepped back, her hand on the soft rose petals in her pocket. I'm glad, Tallyn. If you need me, though, let me know. Sleep well.

Sleep well, answered Tallyn.

In her own room, the blanket and curtains were made of a soft blue cloth and a blue rug was spread across the floor, giving it its name. Gael didn't sleep here often; normally she made a point of either returning to her parents' house before nightfall, or going with Iridina to sleep under the shelter of her wings, wherever they happened to stop when Gael grew tired. Still, the room was pleasant and cozy, with a tall mirror propped on an elegant stand of intertwining brass wires in the corner. She could see herself in it, her pale face lit with a dance of wavering firelight above the collar of her blue healer's robes. She smiled a little, setting the candle on the edge of the table beside the bed and perching on the down-stuffed mattress, pulling her foot up to unlace her boot.

Her hands moved mechanically, as the wheels of a cart would roll if prodded down a hill, while her eyes rested on the clouds looming in the distance. That looks to be quite a storm, she thought with a frown. I hope Iridina will be all right. She knew that the Ice Dragon was more than three centuries old, and therefore had survived hundreds of storms, but Gael could never quite shake the memory of her first flight with Iridina, when the force of the wind had hindered her flight so badly that she needed to land to keep Gael safe.

A soft thump in the next room made her pause, listening, wondering suddenly if Tallyn needed help; but a minute of silence passed, and she relaxed again. She pulled off her other boot and pushed them under the edge of the bed, then padded barefoot to the broad window. She lifted the light material of the curtains aside with one finger, peering out through the widened gap at the dark thunderheads. They hadn't seemed to look quite so evil a half hour ago, but now she could see the snap of lightning glancing against their puffy sides like white, many-forked snake's tongues. Or dragon's tongues.

I wonder where Kyaza is now? Gael let the curtain fall across the window and reached out to draw the shutters closed; she set the wooden bar across them, then, sitting on the edge of the mattress again, unfastened the throat-clasp of her outer robe and let it slide off. Underneath, like all healer women did, she wore a light shirt and skirt, and over those a thinner ankle-length robe whose sleeves were light and half-transparent, like a dragonfly's wings. They were all made of the same two shades of blue: mid-tone greyish blue like a hazy early-morning sky, and a dark clear blue like the cloudless sky would turn soon after sunset. Normally healer's robes were comfortable in both spring and summer until they put on heavier fabrics for autumn and winter, but Gael didn't care anymore about the cold—not since Iridina. Gael's blood was not fiery like Tallyn's or Kyaza's, and her skin was of a normal temperature, but neither cold nor dry heat really bothered her. Iridina's fire across their link kept her comfortable.

Leaving her robes lying across the foot of her bed where she could find them in the morning, she slipped into a comfortable nightgown and scooted into the center of the bed, sliding under the warm blankets and drawing them out of habit up to her shoulder. Thanks to Iridina's presence and Aérean's treasure, most furnishings in this house, including things like blankets and clothes, were made from good quality materials. Hallen had probably put together that intricate stand for the mirror himself, and he must have carved the weeping willow into the back of the door, but however nimble his fingers were, one thing Gael knew he would never be caught doing while he remained alive was sewing.

She yawned and slid her arm under the soft pillow, closing her eyes. There was a smile on her face as she drifted into peaceful slumber.

Chapter 2

Nicalan

Ithelodria

Year 1258, month of Pallacor

It was always a memorable experience, making one's way down the Maanda Thoroughfare. It was filled with color and noise, merchants and traders and buyers lined up before brightly decorated booths, their clothes swirling in the gusty air and their myriad voices, low and high, soft and gravelly, forming an indecipherable buzz. The massive grey bulk of the castle squatted on the hill at the north end, and the nobler houses clustered their quarter at the south. Pathways branched off in innumerable directions between, disappearing among houses and shops alike, leading to the middling homes, the gardens, the fountain-centered court and regular shops, the slums. Every time a person wandered across the Thoroughfare he was certain to see something new or interesting, even if his mind was elsewhere. And it just might lift his mood a little . . . unless he happened to be from the destroyed land of Nicali.

For any Nicalan who ventured from the obscure safety of the backwater roads, it was taking a chance between being crowded and sneered at and threatened, or having everyone jump back and watch in silent scorn as the dragon-winged individual passed. Either way, it was not safe. Nicalans had been killed before just from exposing themselves in this way. Accidents, these mishaps were called, and if anyone dared to give an opinion to the contrary they were effectively silenced.

Tylmar Crowe was the only Nicalan who risked it almost daily. Whether it was from boredom, carelessness, or an urge to spite the people who had true control of this land, depended on his mood; but at the same time, the Thoroughfare was a good place to practice his trade. It was busy enough that few people would notice if another brushed up against them . . . if they suddenly reached down to find their purse empty of coins.

Now he watched a fat human merchant waving colorful ripples of silk in the air, trying hard to draw the attention of a cluster of young women not far away. Tylmar had seen this man, as well as all the others, many times before; he was not surprised when his flourishing and shouting drew a fresh crowd to his stand. Some looked excited, others curious, others amused. Some looked briefly and then walked away, but with an armored knight strolling down the Thoroughfare not ten yards away, nobody felt like arguing the high price of the silk.

Tylmar snorted softly and leaned back against the wooden crate behind him, dangling his booted feet over the edge of the one he was seated on. He was mostly out of sight, half-hidden by the glaring red curtain that was draped over the side of a crockery trader's stall. His fingers went to his throat, to the slender leather cord strung around his neck and the teardrop-pendant that hung from it. The pendant was a deep blue, the color of a clear eastern sky at sunset; it was semitransparent, about the size of the last joint on his finger, and bright as a well-polished shell or jewel. It hung from the leather cord by a plain brass crown, wrapped around its narrow end and closing like a tent's peak, with a loop for string or chain to go through. Tylmar was a Varaye'a, a Lightning-singer; even though he had never been trained, if he needed to he could use his pendant to create a brief flash of lightning. He had discovered long ago that it was a worthless ability for any Nicalan in the Zoriestran capital city, though, so he did his best to keep it to himself.

He was fourteen years old, with the slim build of most Nicalans and very light-toned fair hair. His face was fine-boned and shaven, his eyes a clear and steady grey. His ears were shaped like spearheads, a good four inches long and dusted with tiny, teardrop-shaped sky-blue scales. The wings that rose from his shoulder blades were dragon's wings, muscular blue-scaled ribs fountaining down in an arc and tapering to jagged bony points just above ankle level. The membranes stretching between the ribs were a slightly lighter shade of blue, with a dark lattice of veins outlined by the sunlight that shone down through them. His clothes were battered, neither made to keep out the cold nor to lessen the heat, and in a wood-framed leather case slung over his shoulder was his harp, about two feet long and, aside from his pendant, the only thing he dared to call his own.

Hey! You there, stop!

Tylmar pricked his ears, eyes swinging toward the speaker. It was the knight he had noticed earlier, shouldering his way through the crowd after a little boy who raced ahead of him. The child was Nicalan, about five years old, with glittering white wings and natural white armor plating his arms and bare feet. The armor was like a shell, almost reflective in its brightness, and hard enough to deflect a small injury—a stubbed toe, a scraped knee, a knife. Before Nicali had been captured by the Zoriestran king two years before Tylmar was born, he knew that all Nicalans had worn their armor freely to prevent such clumsy mishaps, but now it was forbidden to show the armor anywhere a Zoriestran could see. He straightened up, alert, as the little boy stumbled down the Thoroughfare with something clutched to his chest. The wingless Zoriestran citizens parted for him as if he might infect them with some dangerous sickness on contact, and there was a collective gasp as the knight chasing him pulled his gleaming sword free and shouted, Move!

The little boy whimpered and pumped his legs harder, hurtling rapidly down the Thoroughfare and closer to Tylmar, still hidden behind the curtain. Whatever he was holding, it was small, concealed beneath his bony fingers. Silently Tylmar slid from his perch, wings as stiff as toothpicks with tension. He watched the knight's long-legged stride eat up the distance between them, saw the little boy glance over his shoulder at the rattling of armor, noted the disgusted or surprised faces of the Zoriestrans pressed to either side of the Maanda Thoroughfare. His pendant pulsed with warmth like a heart against his chest, hidden again under his tunic, willing to blaze out and strike the knight down.

He clenched his teeth and put a hand over it, forcing the power down.

The child saw him then, met his eyes. The boy's face shone with sweat, his dark hair clinging to his neck, and even from here Tylmar could see his joints trembling. By contrast, the knight's eyes under his full-faced helmet were furious, but whether at the boy's thievery or the fact that he was running, Tylmar could not tell.

Help! the boy pleaded, his boots skidding on the cobbles as he tried to slow enough to turn down the passage behind Tylmar. Without thinking Tylmar put out a hand and caught his elbow, saving him from the fall. The boy's arms flew out and he yelped, and the object he held soared from his grasp. For a moment it arced backward, then banged with a sharp clank into the knight's flanged helmet and burst, exploding wet white fragments everywhere before the bulk of it fell onto the hard ground.

The knight stopped dead, growled and tore off his helmet, dragging his gauntleted arm across his eyes to wipe away the juice. In the brief second before he stamped his metal boot down on it, Tylmar saw with a sick feeling that the object was an apple. Round and golden-red, the size of