Kingdom of Beasts: The Dragon Sanctum, #3

By Constance Roberts

The Circus of Scales is no more.

After fleeing a scene of smoke and destruction, The Keepers arrive to new threats on the Sanctum's shores. Together with the circus refugees they prepare for battle, but a pagan prophecy may force enemies to become allies. While Ivy struggles to control her newly awakened powers, Titus must choose to give his loyalty to his blood or his bonds. Meanwhile, Celestia holds a precious magic within her that must be protected at all costs.

The fate of dragons everywhere rests in the hands of a lost prince and a circus girl.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Constance Roberts
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393045069

Constance Roberts

Constance Roberts is a retired flight attendant who turned in her wings to stay at home with her wildlings and to write. She is the author of a set of gender-bent fairytales and The Dragon Sanctum series. She and her husband live in St. Louis, Missouri where they spend the weekends playing board games with friends.

Book preview

Prologue

Forest of Bones

FEW OUTSIDERS HAVE ever crossed the spiked pine gates of the Tarthean war camp, so I’m not sure what to expect when the Circus of Scales is invited to perform in the exclusive compound one summer evening.

Long before our caravan reaches the thick, treacherous woodlands at the kingdom’s northern border, the wind carries wafts of sage smoke and cured meat. The air is denser here, both ethereal and vigorous, suggesting ancestral spirits protect even the fringes of their sacred homeland. The surrounding coniferous forest stands with pride, as if these lands are centuries older, and therefore wiser, than the rest of the continent. From my vardo wagon’s tiny window, I inspect every robust tree, every tenacious creature that scurries from the brush as we roll past. The energy is welcoming, but it carries a warning: Magic is not the same here. It is both gracious and unforgiving.

Evidence of that strange magic surrounds us the moment our caravan crosses the threshold of the woodland fortress. Two stoic warriors guard the gate, armed with sharp axes at their hips and menacing tattoos on their necks and arms. The men wear their hair shaved on the sides and long at the top, woven into intricate braids that swing down. They welcome us in a tongue I recognize as ancient words, the first form of speech used by people on the Emerald Continent, though the language has mostly evaporated over the centuries. I don’t know enough of it to even ask the price of grain, but I’ve caught snippets spoken in the coastal towns and more remote villages where we’ve performed. I love the way the words sound like knocks on a hollow tree, sturdy and natural.

After a quick exchange with Gorio, our ringmaster, the warriors instruct us to leave the wagons and take us down a trampled path to another spiked fence. This barrier is shorter, the entrance marked by an archway made of dark, twisted branches, trimmed with fairy sprouts and ivy. Crystal shards dangle from the apex, casting beams of colorful sunlight that tickle my skin as we pass through the entryway, giving me the mulled sensation that I’ve somehow crossed this threshold before.

Something eerie about this place. Luna shudders beside me.

I find it strangely familiar, I tell the aerialist, like maybe my spirit was here in a past life.

You believe in the old ways, Ivy? Sable, the other aerialist in Luna’s act, asks over her shoulder. Long dreadlocks sway down her back like black snakes. Her hair is braided and beaded, already set for her performance, but her shabby wool pants are a far cry from the tailored black silks she wears on the stage. You won’t be alone here, she gestures to the Tarthean villagers gathering to watch our procession. The women wear short skirts of leather and dragon scales, while the men sport fur-lined vests and bare arms. I note their accessories of animal teeth and rough jewels. I wonder if I would look more interesting with a few tattoos. There are still some Rubian kingdoms that preach reincarnation, Sable adds.

Just a fleeting thought. I shrug. Honestly, I’ve put little thought into what will happen when I die. I’ve been too busy trying to stay alive. Figure I’ll find out when I get there.

As will we all, Sable says with her usual cryptic tone.

Once, in Cloverly, a witch woman told me I was a dragon in a past life, Luna says wistfully.

Not possible. An elderly woman stands in our path, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. A strange scent wafts off her tattered robe, a mixture of sage and ashes. I can tell the woman was once tall, but is now shortened by a hunch. Tanned skin hangs from her jaw and cheekbones like old, worn-out leather. Her lips are a thin, unyielding line below her broad nose and sparkling brown eyes the color of muddy river water. Weathered hands clutch a cane in front of her, intricately carved from ashwood. Her fingers and neck are adorned with wooden runes and raven feathers.

I’m sorry? Luna trembles in the woman’s small shadow.

Not. Possible, the old woman repeats, her voice like a sack of jumbling stones. Your spirit could not have once belonged to a dragon. Dragons are ancient, sacrosanct creatures. They ruled this land eons before man was formed from the mud. Those two paths may occasionally meet, but they can never cross.

Pardon us. We were just speculating. Sable takes Luna’s hand and attempts to maneuver around the woman. The line of stagehands and other performers behind us has come to a halt.

With the reflexes of a snap dragon, the old woman flips the tip of her cane to Sable’s chin, tilting the aerialist’s face for thorough inspection.

You, the old woman drones, looking deep into Sable’s dark eyes, have a warrior’s spirit. You have seen some tremendous battles in your time on this realm.

Sable looks as though she’s going to slap this strange woman when the cane releases her chin. Instead, Sable shifts her jaw and shoots the hag a warning glare. It goes unnoticed.

Several people have moved around the three of us as we block the path. I’m about to disappear into the crowd when a strong hand grips my wrist.

And you... the old woman says, her sparkling brown eyes holding me in a trance. You have been lost a long time. A path like yours can only bring—

"Farmor, a young man with a long braid the color of ginseng root gently cups the old woman’s shoulders. He mutters some ancient words to her before turning a warm smile to us. Forgive my grandmother. She is particularly drawn to strangers. She thinks because she is our Seer, she can say whatever she likes to people."

I reactively smile back, still suffering a chill from the Tarthean woman’s cryptic words. Part of me wishes he’d have let her finish.

"Farmor, let our guests settle in before you start passing out omens. Father is very excited to see them. He is waiting."

The Seer regards her grandson with narrowed eyes and a frown, but she says nothing as he leads her by the shoulders into the camp.

The aerialists and I are at the back of the line now, following patiently behind as the old woman hobbles on her cane.

I’m Espen, the young man offers. He looks over his shoulder as he helps his ailing grandmother down the path. "You are welcome in Hejm." The grandson’s accent is rough, but his voice reminds me of clouds rolling over the moon, dark in the undercurrent and bright in his inflections. It feels like a voice I could have heard in a dream.

I begin to think perhaps I am in a dream when we come to the heart of the Tarthean camp. An entire village looms above us, suspended in the trees. We pass under sturdy homes constructed from dark wood and connected by an intricate system of plank bridges. Every few trees, a rope ladder hangs down from someone’s common room and buckets of water are hauled up straight from the ground. Dried herbs and wildflowers are strung on twine and passed from house to house on a clever system of pulleys. In all my travels with the circus, I’ve never seen anything like it.

My companions are in awe just as I am. Hello up there! Luna waves to some curious children looking down at us. Delight shines through her porcelain features.

Do you think we’ll have to sleep up there? one of the other performers asks behind me. I’m afraid of heights.

No, you idiot, answers a stagehand. We have the wagons. We’ll sleep where we always sleep. From his voice, it sounded as though he also preferred to stay on the ground.

As we tour the treetop village, Espen points out the essential buildings such as the apothecary and the smokehouse. Everyone in the community has a job, he explains; as long as they fulfill their duty, no one goes without food or medicine, or anything they need. When they are too old to work, they teach and are cared for by their families.

This concept of governing isn’t completely foreign to me. I was born a slave, so until I was recently purchased by the Circus of Scales’s ringmaster, I’d never had money of my own. Though the rations were meager, everything I needed was provided for me. The circus is better though, since I also earn a small wage. I make two coppers every time I preform with my dragon partner, Celestia.

Celestia is the best thing that could have ever happened to a no-name slave like me. She is a rare, white fire dragon and stands nearly twice my height. Covered in iridescent scales that shimmer in the moonlight, she loves sunbathing and stretching her wings. She purrs when I scratch behind her horns and doesn’t like baths. I wish more than anything she could fly free, but her chances of staying safe are better chained to the circus than being out in the world of dragon hunters.

No one could tame Celestia before I came along, though I don’t like to think I tamed her, so much as I established a connection of trust. When I was introduced to her, she was crouching in a soiled cage, snarling at anyone who dared to walk past. The ringmaster had reached his wit’s end with the creature, and she was on the verge of being slaughtered to harvest the crystal that rests in every dragon’s throat, the source of their magical powers.

Both Celestia and I were on our way out of the circus. Though Gorio had purchased me from my former master, I refused to perform. I saw the cruel ways they trained these poor creatures and wanted nothing to do with their savage pageantry and exploitation. I begged him for another job. Cook, stagehand, seamstress—though my sewing skills are atrocious—mucking out livestock cars, anything just to stay here and help the dragons.

Gorio did not accept my bargaining. He said I had stage presence and that was why he bought me. If he couldn’t get his coin’s worth from me, he would sell me at the next auction.

Nothing he did could break me. I was beaten, starved, even left to sleep outside with nothing but the rags on my back. In a last-ditch effort, he threatened to lock me in a cage with the wild, fire breathing dragon that was just as impudent as I was.

One night, his men dragged me to her cage. I had seen Celestia before, but never up close. Flames burned in her piercing, glowing eyes. A rumble sounded in her throat and I couldn’t tell if she wanted to scorch me or rip me to pieces first.

I’m not afraid, I lied, voice trembling.

Gorio had been ready to call my bluff.

The men threw me into the wet, putrid hay and slid the bar shut. Gorio set the lock himself as I scurried into the corner opposite the beast. The ringmaster told me if I was still alive in the morning, I could either choose to stay or be sold to coal colonies.

I expected to meet my end fairly quickly. Instead, we stayed on opposite ends of the cage, sizing each other up like two strangers sharing a carriage. I spent agonizing hours watching those burning eyes stare at me, then flit to a passing howl in the night. Just when I thought she’d lost interest in me, those glowing orange eyes would settle on me again.

I don’t like this any more than you do. I don’t know why I said it. Perhaps I wanted to shatter the silence that was fraying my every nerve.

The dragon twitched her nostrils as if to acknowledge me.

Honestly, I don’t know why you put up with him. I’ve seen you scorch the goats they bring you. Nothing is stopping you from doing the same to me. I nodded to the laughter coming from the ringmaster’s private wagon.

She huffed, her tail flitting back and forth like an agitated snake.

I’m just saying that’s what I would do if I could summon a firestorm, I told the dragon. The talking calmed me. It seemed to calm her too. As long as I spoke, she regarded me with an interest beyond what I may taste like. So I told her everything. How I was born a slave. How I don’t remember my parents, but I doubt I ever met my father. I tell her about the brief time I was in an orphanage, but I figured out I would have slightly more freedom and food as a transient urchin, so I ran away the first chance I got. I was soon caught and sold to a workhouse.

I had been shuffled around from master to master, doing everything from emptying chamber pots to keeping beds warm.

I’d liked the idea of working in the circus, but not as a performer, I told Celestia. Neither do you, it seems.

Celestia let out a puff of smoke. The dark, magical scent was intoxicating.

What about you? I asked. Where did you come from?

One of the stagehands had told me they had snatched her as an egg from the wild. It made sense. It’s rare to get a dragon her size when bred in captivity. The circus physician had guessed she was about six years old when she’d been bought, but where she’d been and what had happened before, no one could be certain.

No one before seemed to be able to tame her, either. Most likely they had allowed her to keep growing in order to fetch a higher price. The bigger the dragon, the bigger the magic crystal, and she’d be worth heaps of gold whether her last master decided to sell her or slaughter her.

I bet you came from a warm nest high in the hills where you could look out over the entire world, I said. Maybe you had another egg or two to keep you company. I bet it was a beautiful, peaceful place.

Celestia let out a sound I had never heard before. A chortle that was both musical and heartbreaking. Those blazing orange eyes stared at me like she could actually understand every word I said.

I know how you feel. If I have any siblings, I wouldn’t even recognize them. I’ve never really had a family, either.

Her melodic sigh came again, and she shifted her weight so she could lay her head in the straw. Her face was barely two feet from my hand. I admired her long, graceful horns, curling ever so slightly behind her like a diving crane, and the spikes that line her spine, accenting her glimmering scales.

My heart went out to this poor creature. It was a crime against nature to keep a masterpiece of creation like this trapped in a cage instead of among the revered Stars where she belongs.

In a reckless, instinctive move, I reached out my hand. I almost didn’t care if the beast gobbled me up—I wouldn’t have to work in the coal colonies if she did—but her curious eyes suggested that she wouldn’t.

She lifted her narrow head, the long horns tilting backward as she extended her neck. She gave my hand a sniff, then snorted out a puff of smoke as if testing my resolve.

My arm trembled, but I didn’t move. The tip of her nose tapped my fingers. With bated breath, I let her inch closer until my entire palm was atop her snout.

The moment we touched, an energy surged through me, hot and wild like the lick of soft, burning flames. I’d never experienced any sensation like it. Celestia cooed and shook out her wings.

When Gorio found us the next morning, I was fast asleep against the warm, beating drum of her belly.

The circus has taken us all over the Emerald Continent. We’ve performed on top of frozen mountains, seashore cities, every town along the Feathered River, even in the palace at Meridian City, but never anywhere as amazing as this treetop village tucked away in the dark forests of our kingdom. I’m told the Circus of Scales makes its rounds through the continent every few years, but the Stars only know if I’ll ever step foot in this hidden realm again.

We reach a clearing where Gorio and the rest of the circus workers have formed an arc around a large stone dais. Branches of ash wood were and stacked in a triangular shape for what looks like a ritual pyre. Stone steps lead off the dais and up to a tall, narrow building, but it’s not the strange architecture that catches my eye. A full dragon skeleton, down to the last rib bone, straddles over the roof, looking down at the audience below. A bed of moss and ivy cradles its massive feet and trails down the walls of the fortress. The sight stops my breath. I can’t decide if I’m horrified or hypnotized.

Morverda, Espen says the name like a prayer. The Mother Dragon. She was one of the first creatures to walk this land.

Hollow eyes staring down at us captures my gaze. What kind of dragon was she?

There are none like Morverda, Espen answers. "She held the power of skapa. Creation. The Mother Dragon could breathe life into the land, forming unbreakable bones from stone and impenetrable hide from the flora. She gifted a crystal to each of her hatchlings, gifting them with magic to forge and protect the world we know today." Espen speaks with such reverence, I feel a chill run through my chest.

It’s obvious the Tartheans don’t get many visitors, and that Espen enjoys sharing these ancient stories. I’m completely mystified, but a skeptical smile rests on Sable’s lips.

If this is the mother of creation like you say, how did she come to be? Who made her? To anyone that didn’t know Sable, her tone may have sounded dismissive, but I know the aerialist is genuinely interested, otherwise she wouldn’t have wasted her words to begin with.

Espen blanches as though she’s climbed up to the rooftop and spit on the ancient relic. "That is not knowledge the Bones have granted us yet. Olvr det lige."

Forgive us, I step in. We were taught different beliefs.

"Of course you were. You are utensv. Outsiders. With his thick accent, I can’t tell if he’s being condescending or understanding. He goes on. Magic has power far beyond our mortal understanding. It is through magic that life and death complete the circle of all things, but it is the Bones that guide us. Our Seer can ask for wisdom, but only if the Bones wish it, will they grant it."

And what if they don’t? Wish it, that is, Sable questions.

It’s true, the Bones can be fickle, he says with a confident grin on his freckled face, but the Bones never lie.

Neither do the Stars, Luna says.

The Stars? Espen cocks an eyebrow.

I explain, Our prophecies come from the Stars, through Starscript. There are scriptors on the Ruby Continent that can interpret the writing in the sky.

Espen’s eyes narrow. "The writing in the sky... yes, I’ve heard of this utensv religion. He shrugs. Moryt ec ta. It is poetic if nothing else."

I wish I had some understanding of the ancient words so I’d know whether to be offended. I don’t catch a hint of derision in his eyes, but it’s just as well. I don’t consider myself devout by any stretch—just pious enough not to test the Stars’ wrath.

Where do you keep these bones? I ask. I’d love to see how they work. Surely the Stars won’t fault me for curiosity.

Our Tarthean guide shakes his head reluctantly, but before he can answer, his grandmother beckons him from her spot in the clover.

Espen, the old woman hisses, "Quit flirting with the utensv and take your place by my side."

"Farmor, I am not— Espen retorts, then gives as a bashful, apologetic smile. Excuse me. I look forward to your performance."

We’re not sure where to go once Espen leaves us. The others from the circus sit around the dais, mixing in the crowd of dragon hide and inked limbs. Luna, Sable and I claim a spot in the back just as large drums are being dragged on stage. The Tarthean men carrying them are adorned with identical blue paint swirled on their faces. Strings of raven feathers hang from their necks, matching the decorations on their instruments. To my surprise, a handful of dancers flood the stage and make a V formation around the pyre like a flock of geese in flight.

I lean over to Sable. "I thought we were the ones performing."

Sable shrugs. I’m sure like any good warlord, Gavriel Tarthe likes to make an entrance.

Just as the words leave her tongue, bangs from the drums burst through the chatter of the crowd. The pyre, which was dry as a bone a moment before, erupts in flames. As if awoken by the mystical fire, the six dancers sprout to life, stomping around the stage in a rough style of dancing I’ve never seen. I see now the mix of males and females are in two sets of costumes. One group wears identical green tunics, trimmed with sharp animal teeth along the hem and neckline. The others are more complex: long, flowing sleeves dyed