The Silver Dragon’s Magic

By Elizabeth Hector

Take flight a-dragon-back. The dark elves, enslaved for centuries, have a legend foretold of one who will come, Edraith the king, bringing justice and freedom and raising the dragon sword of the ancient kings. Legends tell of a connection to the dragons, both good and evil, of magic connected to the core of the earth.
A young slave who refuses to be chained and loves the wrong woman now raises that very sword and finds himself in a series of epic journeys, wielding a magic rooted in the blood of the dragons and giving him a dragon soul. He discovers in himself a depth of friendship and love that was never expected as he seeks a way for his heart and freedom for his oppressed people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663233035

Elizabeth Hector

She found her way into Narnia 50 years ago, never making it all the way back. When she remembers to come home, she lives in Butte, with two furry friends and her husband of over thirty years, making her living as a psychotherapist and preaching a gospel of gratitude and tolerance.

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Copyright © 2022 Elizabeth Hector.

Illustrations by: Jesse A. Hector and Elizabeth Hector.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-3302-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-3303-5 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 01/05/2022

CONTENTS

1 Sword in the Stone

2 The Dragon

3 Memory and Dream

4 The Dark Elves

5 Silver Borne

6 Mankin

7 Home

8 Outside Again

9 Unicorn Mountain

10 Changes

11 Winter Journey

12 Seeing Stones and Flying Horses

13 The Companions

14 Dragon Flight

15 Santar’s Daughter

16 Brothers

17 The Tournament

18 The Line of Champions

19 The Last Quest

20 The Dispossessed

21 Growing Up

22 After Long Silence

23 Dragon Song

24 A Clash of Kings

25 Traitor Sun

26 Recovery

27 The Weight of a Crown

ILLUSTRATIONS

Map – Alterx

It stood upright in a block of obsidian…

Erendil

George

Coquelicol

Elessar

One unicorn, whose horn and hooves shone blue in the moonlight, stepped closer to the fire.

Elessar took the first two of them out with arrows…

Peter held up a seeing stone….

Gryphon

Dragon Beach

The Silver Dragon’s Spell

Sir George Dragonlord Challenges…

Luke sent a magelight chasing Morgaine….

With the wind came the sound of wings

No, my love, I did not fail.

Reunited

The sky was alight with at least a dozen dragons…

Broken

Eren, I’m coming.

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ONE

Sword in the Stone

G eorge was a chronic runaway. A dark elven thrall, as were all of his family as far back as anyone could remember, he had been given hope, first by his grandfather and then by the most unusual of circumstances. And he still had the silver pledge ring of a beautiful woman to prove it.

He was the property of a grey elven landowner on the edge of Gontar, a man whose wealth was in silver and coal mines in the foothills of the border mountains. As a lad, when George had run, he had often just taken a day or an afternoon going into those foothills or up the river, knowing full well he would be caught. After all, there was no real solution for freedom for anyone of his race.

Or was there? The white elven prince Elessar, heir to the crown, had manumitted all of his own personal slaves some years before. It had been a wild rumor that went through the dark elven community, whispers that maybe things would be different when this young man came to power, if he lived long enough. And George knew the rumor to be true. The same beautiful woman who had given him the pledge ring had told him so, and suggested that he go to Elessar next time he had the opportunity to run. Then Elessar himself had told him, yes, his thralls were free men and women, with a voice and wages and health care and rights, but.... the last time George had seen the prince, the prince had warned him not to try coming to him. That was the first place Santar had come the last time George had run, and the law was that Elessar would have had to turn him back over to Santar.

At twenty-five (the elves of Gontar come of age at thirty-one) George already appeared to be a broken man. He worked the fields in heavy ankle chains, accepting all of the orders given by his grey elven masters and overseers, and to all appearances playing the obedient slave. And shortly after his twenty-fifth birthday, the chains were removed.

George bided his time, rubbing a healing salve into the scars left by the heavy manacles, jumping to obey every order, no matter how much it galled. He never met his masters’ eyes, and they never heard the arguments between George and his mother, George and his father, George and his older brother. The overseers never heard his friend Sandy or his younger brother asking him when he was going to go, or what the plan was to get away. The grey elves never saw the fire smoldering in the amber of his eyes.

Before dawn one morning, saying nothing to anyone, he took the pledge ring and jumped into the river, allowing it to carry him into the canyon, downstream into the border mountains. He was buffeted and beaten, swimming for his life, but eventually he caught a floating log and pulled his head above water, as he was swept farther into the mysterious wall that kept Gontar from the outside world. Santar’s overseers would search the hills, and they would go to the prince again, but they would never expect him to cross the border mountains. It was not something that could be done by an unarmed slave, traveling alone with no training or skills or food or weapons. All sorts of ghouls and goblins were said to haunt the mountains underneath; dragons and wyverns, harpies and dyre wolves, if one tried to go over. That a man had come across recently from the outside was not common knowledge.

Towards sunset, George saw the secret of the border range. The river disappeared underground into darkness – the wide mouth of a cave opening before him. He let go of his makeshift raft and stroked hard for the shore.

A very odd looking person pulled him out of the river. This person was taller than any elf George had ever seen, probably seven feet, and far thinner – despite his height he probably weighed no more than a well built elf of about six feet. He had coppery, greenish skin, white hair with a hint of green, and coal black eyes. This strange man looked carefully at George, then pulled him over to a campfire and flung a cloak around him.

Here, lad, get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death. Supper will be ready in just a moment.

George was too weary to question his luck, just nodded and stripped, wrapping himself in the cloak and huddling close to the fire. The stranger put his wet clothes up over a close by tree branch, as he went on talking to himself, or to someone who was not clear to George’s perception. The stranger started and stood up, then stared at George and looked back at whatever it was.

You jest – that can’t be right! He looked more closely at George. Dark elf, are you?

My name is George.

Just... George? No surname?

George ran a finger around the iron collar he wore about his neck. What need has a thrall for a surname?

And a Dragontongue name?

We don’t tell those to strangers.

No, of course, I wouldn’t expect so. My name – I forget my manners. I’m Clayshar duMarios, lately of Spryte. You’re a thrall? Whose?

Well, if you’re coming from Spryte – across the mountains? - I suppose you’re no bounty hunter. Santar Riverlord, a grey elven thane, lives on the east edge of Gontar, lands are right up against the mountains on the south side of the river.

Clayshar smiled slightly. You might say I’m bounty myself, not a bounty hunter, no. I’m on the run from a tyrant master too, although technically I was never a slave.

Pardon me for asking. What are you?

Half Faerie, half Nixie. I’m also an assassin and a journeyman mage.

Pleased to meet you. Mage?

So are you.

George gaped at him, then stopped and thought about it. His grandfather, the one who had given him his Dragontongue name, had been a seer, with a remarkable touch of magic about him.

Didn’t you know?

I’m not terribly surprised – my grandfather had some magic, he was a seer, gave me my name. But I’ve had no one to teach me, no one to test me and tell me what to do with it if I am. I’m a thrall.

So what’s a thrall doing this far down the river?

Running away.

Clayshar smiled, showing pointed, white teeth. Where to?

If I cross the mountains I’ll be a free man.

Unarmed? You won’t make five miles in those caverns.

You crossed.

I barely escaped with my life. I’ve been resting here for three days, friend George, recovering my strength. Would have turned back any number of times, but my master in Spryte wants my head so that was certain death.

George was silent for a few minutes, brooding. Clayshar took a trout out of the pan on the fire and put it on a plate. He handed it to George before taking a second trout for himself.

Why does he want your head?

I assassinated his brother. Clayshar chuckled softly. The price was right and the bastard had it coming, but I barely got away. Now... I don’t think even Narcon will chase me into Gontar.

George took a couple of bites of the trout. Are the mountains really that difficult?

Impossible without a way to defend yourself. Goblins under, dyre wolves and harpies over.’

So they’re real. What about dragons?

You’re dark elf. You have nothing to worry about from dragons. Most of them anyway.

Why not?

Legend says they’re your kin.

Well I can’t go back.

What will happen if you do?

If Santar catches me? He’ll kill me this time.

So I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve run away?

Not exactly, no. They beat me half to death last time. The time before that... He shook his head. I’ve spent time in the mines, had the miner’s lung, because I’ve run away. I saw my grandfather killed – he was protecting me – that was the first time I ran. I’ve spent the last ten years in shackles, each set heavier than the last.

What if you went back a free man?

Impossible. Dark elves are slaves – there are almost no exceptions. I carry Santar’s brand on my shoulder, I have the lash marks on my back, and there’s this collar.

Let me see that. Clayshar leaned close to George in the firelight to take a closer look at the collar. Iron?

What else? I kept losing the leather ones.

Your master doesn’t know you’re mageborn, does he? Clayshar closed his eyes a moment. Tomalo. The collar snapped in half, falling away.

Hey! George laughed, feeling his neck, a rich laugh that came from deep within him. You must be quite the mage?

That one is simple. Only gets complicated if the shackles are made of adamant. It’s the second trick you learn after the magelight.

Magelight?

Erech, Clayshar said softly, and a soft, glowing ball appeared in the air by his head. Go ahead, try it. It’s the easiest test.

Erech, repeated George, and the light burst into the air in front of him. The dark elf fell back in surprise and it dissipated immediately.

Clayshar chuckled. As I said. You have power. Why would you go back as a slave?

But how would I stay free? Someone told me once that I was not destined to wear chains. But how do I stay free?

There is a weapon waiting for you in a cave, not far from here, along the river back towards Gontar. My familiar told me where it is.

I don’t understand.

Now is the time of legends. You, apparently, are the man to wield it, the … bringer of justice and freedom for your people. Your destiny does not lie over the mountains, not yet.

George shivered at the translation of his Dragontongue name, tripping so easily off the tongue of the mage. This is impossible.

Get some rest, my friend. We’ll go find it in the morning.

George lay down by the fire, not expecting to be able to sleep with the wonder running through him. But his last memory was of the fay setting another log on the campfire.

George woke with a start at the sun coming over the mountains. The fay was sitting against a log on the other side of the firepit, naked sword across his knees, head fallen forward on his chest. The fire was still smoldering.

The dark elf reached for his clothes and found them dry. He tugged them on and touched briefly the pledge ring on his left hand. As silently as he could move, he reached for Clayshar’s sword. The blade came up in a wicked sweep and George jumped back.

Don’t try to out-thieve a thief, dark elf. You haven’t the experience or the skill for it.

Sorry. You said I needed to be armed to get across.

Clayshar rubbed his eyes and sheathed the blade. Trust me, will you? It isn’t time yet for you to cross the mountains.

George kicked the dirt at his feet.

I told you. There is a sword waiting for you, up the river, not very far from here. Now that my familiar told me about it I can almost feel its presence. If I’m wrong, I’ll give you this one and a few lessons in the magic to get you over.

What’s your stake in this?

Narcon’s brother – the one I killed? He was a slaver. He was rounding up children... he had killed someone dear to me, raped to death. I can’t stand slavery. And for you and your people, George, this is everything. Life, freedom, love, wealth, power... Clayshar looked at him, his eyes widening. Hell, you’re Edraith, aren’t you?

George gaped at him.

You want to know more? That sword that’s waiting for you? It’s Rhiannon, the sword of Arian the king. It was forged and spelled to kill a renegade dragon, seven hundred years ago. It’s hilt is solid diamond adamant, it’s blade is black adamant, with the Dragontongue runes reading: ‘The era is done. Now is the time of legends.’ It cannot be broken or shattered. It will never grow dull. If it is lost or stolen it will make its way back to its rightful owner. And it will teach you how to use it.

What would I do with Arian’s sword? I’m a slave, Clayshar.

Be free. Set your people free. That’s what your name means. Clayshar smiled thinly. I was right about that too, wasn’t I?

George nodded slightly. Where is this... sword supposed to be?

In a cave, a mile or so up the river.

I didn’t see any caves.

Let’s go see what we can find.

George slung Clayshar’s spare cloak around him, and the fay put on his pack and picked up his staff. Where are your shoes?

I don’t have any.

Can you use a quarterstaff?

George nodded, and Clayshar tossed him the staff.

I don’t know that we’ll have any trouble but better to be both of us armed in these mountains. Let’s go.

There was a makeshift trail along the river, sometimes as wide as a wagon track, other times no wider than a man’s foot, and treacherous. In one of the narrow stretches, not long after they started walking, the sky clouded over and it started to rain. Lightning flashed, with thunder right over head, and the entire mountain seemed to begin to slide into the river on either side of them. Elf and fay crouched against the side of the mountain as the path behind them washed away, and the path ahead widened, opening up into a wide cavern. Clayshar nodded at George and they ran inside for shelter.

At the back of the cavern, as Clayshar had described it, was a black sword. It stood upright in a block of obsidian – or maybe black adamant. In the darkness they might have missed it, but it pulsed with a purplish light, which seemed to call to George. As they both stared, the lightning and thunder moved away and the rain slackened outside.

What are you waiting for? Clayshar asked. If it isn’t meant for you, you won’t be able to pull it free.

Dark elf went to the dark stone and laid his hand on the crystal hilt. The sword seemed to leap out of the stone on its own; it was easier to draw than a hot knife through butter. It fit his hand perfectly, the balance of the blade so fine it felt like and extension of his own arm. He looked back at Clayshar and offered the staff back.

Well? asked the fay.

It … it jumped into my hands.

Then it really is yours, Edraith. Will you return to Gontar?

As a free man? Let’s see Santar try to take me back now.

Image%2002.JPG

TWO

The Dragon

I t took George and Clayshar most of the remainder of the day to hike out of the canyon into Gontar. At one point George cut a harpy out of the air as it dove at Clayshar. Clayshar told George a little more of the lore of Rhiannon; the sword would be ordinary enough (other than it’s size, of course) against ordinary enemies, but against magical foes it would guide him. George laughingly observed that it must have been the sword’s magic then, that had allowed him to cut that harpy down.

The sun was setting behind Mount Targon in the west when they emerged from the canyon. Here there were bridges across the river, and they crossed from Torin’s lands to Santar’s. Clayshar spotted a poster on a tree as they walked along the road.

What’s this?

Don’t know. I can’t read. It’s not legal to teach a thrall.

Clayshar nodded. Looks to be almost the same Commontongue as is spoken in the outer lands. Not so surprising, you and I have been speaking it. Gontar was not always so isolated from the rest of the world. It says here that the dragon of Mount Targon – that single peak I see in the west? – has taken to raiding the city of Gonteng and the surrounding countryside. Some thirty cavaliers have tried, and died, in the attempt to kill it. King Rork offers the hand of his youngest daughter, Erendil, in marriage for the slayer of the dragon.

George froze and softly touched the pledge ring on his hand. Read that again.

King Rork is offering the hand of Princess Erendil to the man who kills the dragon.

Really? That’s what it says?

I haven’t lied to you yet, have I?

Does it put any stipulations on race?

No, why?

I have a sword that has slain dragons. I have a dragon killing sword. George started laughing. But what about dragons are my kin?

Sounds like this one’s gone renegade. Do you know anything about this princess?

I drowned in her eyes about four years ago.

That sounds serious.

George held up his left hand with the silver pledge ring. My only possession that was worth taking with me. This is her ring.

This was four years ago?

She and her father, one of her older sisters, and her brother, Elessar, came to Santar’s. They were there for about three days. We talked. It didn’t matter that I was dark and she was white. It didn’t matter that I was a slave and she a princess. It didn’t matter.

Four years ago.

I lost my heart. We only give that part of our hearts once. I’ve been doomed ever since.

Any idea if she feels the same way about you?

I hope so.

Would she be open to you as a legitimate suitor?

I don’t know if she would have a choice if I kill the dragon.

Would you want her that way?

Absolutely not. That’s slavery, just in the other direction. What was so special was that … that fell away and it didn’t matter, the differences didn’t matter.

Did you sleep with her?

Clayshar, I was still a thrall, and she is a royal princess. I could have lost my head. And we were both so young...

It was only four years ago.

The years between twenty and twenty-five are important ones for us. She might have, if I’d asked it. She didn’t. I didn’t. I did kiss her.

And you’ve never forgotten.

I’m a dark elf.

I’ll bet it doesn’t keep you from other women.

George laughed. She never asked me to be faithful. Not under those circumstances. We could never hope to be together. But now.... He took several leaps and let out a whoop.

So where are we going, anyway?

Mount Targon, to kill the dragon.

How far is it?

I think it’s about thirty miles to the lake shore, then three miles across to the island. The mountain is on this side of the island, so not more than five miles from there.

Do you want to keep walking, or find a place to sleep?

I feel like I could go on forever, and I don’t want to stay anywhere near Santar’s lands. You?

I’m a little tired, but we can walk a while.

Dawn found them at the lake’s edge, looking across at the mountain, having avoided a number of patrols through the night.

Now how do we get there? asked Clayshar.

There’s a bridge on the far side, going into the city.

How far is it?

George shrugged. Forty miles, more or less.

We could swim this, if it’s three to the island.

The dark elf finally felt his own exhaustion. We’ve walked fifty miles in the last twenty-four hours, and you want to swim Lake Gontar?

I’m half Nixie – water is a natural element to me. Swimming is easier than walking.

I won’t make it, not without some rest.

If you had a few hours’ sleep?

George smiled. I can do this.

Come on then. Clayshar led the way back up into the woods. They found a hiding place under the brush, pulled their cloaks over their heads, and slept.

George woke when the sun was just past its zenith. He woke Clayshar, and they went down to the shore. After a short discussion, they cut some branches from the wood, and lashed them together into a raft. Onto the raft went Clayshar’s pack, clothes and shoes, and his sword and staff, and George’s clothes and sword. Clayshar tied a rope to the raft and to his shoulder, being the stronger swimmer, and roped George to him as well.

The water was cold, but both fay and elf kept a good strong pace, slow but steady, making ever for the near shore of the island. The sun was beginning to dip behind the mountain when they stumbled ashore, right into a white elven hunting party.

Ho, what’s this? A big white elf, richly dressed and not much older than George himself, pulled the raft ashore behind Clayshar. A fish man, a fugitive slave, and a fancy sword... and a wizard’s staff? Fancy sword indeed, look at this, Elric.

Leave it, growled George.

Stolen, no doubt, said the big man, as one of the others slapped George. Where did you get it, thrall, and what have you done with your collar?

Don’t know. I seem to have lost it.

He was slapped again, but he didn’t seem to notice.

And where did you steal this fancy blade?

I didn’t steal it. George pulled himself up between his captors and stared the white elf in the eye – he was every bit as tall and built as the other. He told the exact truth. I found it in a cave, stuck in a boulder of black stone. It jumped into my hand, and I later killed a harpy with it.

This time it was the big white elf who slapped him. No myths. The truth.

That is the truth.

You think I don’t know who you are? You’re Santar’s incorrigible, the one called George, who’s usually wearing chains. And you’re a liar. Now tell me the truth.

I just did. Sir.

Tiron! Another voice, younger, merrier, and kinder interrupted the interrogation, and George allowed himself the slightest breath of relief. Prince Elessar appeared behind Tiron. Bring them over to the fire before they die of cold.

Elessar, he’s a thrall and a troublemaker at that.

And your point being? Bring them over to the fire.

Aye, cousin. Come, thrall.

George’s captors hauled him over into the firelight, and Elessar met his eyes. There was a warning there. Elessar looked over at Clayshar.

Him I know. What, or who are you?

My lord?

His royal highness, Prince Elessar, George said softly and respectfully.

My name, your highness, is Clayshar DuMarios. I’m half Faerie and half Nixie. I come from the east, from Spryte.

Welcome to Gontar, Master DuMarios. Tiron, are there any dry clothes on that raft?

Aye, and this. Tiron handed the adamant sword to Elessar, who took it gingerly. He studied it a moment, then laughed ruefully.

Bring their clothes and allow them to dress. It’s too bloody cold to be standing out here naked and wet. No, don’t worry, George is not a danger to me, he knows better than that.

Tiron and the others disappeared into the darkness beyond the firelight.

Elessar was grinning. I knew about the manacles, George, Santar was boasting not a month ago that he had finally broken you, much to my sister’s dismay. He said he had taken them off and you hadn’t run in two months.

He finally stopped watching me, my lord. George returned Elessar’s smile.

How did you get rid of the iron collar?

Clayshar removed it.

Elessar looked sharply at the fay. Mage?

Clayshar looked frantically at George.

He’s a friend, I think.

A better friend than you know yet. Well?

Aye, your grace, a mage. So is George, if he’ll learn it.

That doesn’t surprise me at all. I hope you’re teaching him.

Some.

Elessar looked again at the sword in his hands. I told you not to come to me. I told you to go over the mountains.

I was going to. Clayshar persuaded me to come back, with the promise of a sword, waiting for me in a cave.

This one?

George nodded as Tiron and the others came back with the clothes and the other items from the raft. As George and Clayshar dressed, Tiron pointed out the brand on George’s shoulder.

Don’t you know who this is?

Of course. Santar’s chronic runaway, the one he broke a couple of months ago. Right, George?

I try, m’lord.

Tiron shook his head. The law, Elessar. We should clap him in irons and send him back to Santar.

Fewmets, Tiron, that’s the last thing I would want to do. Elessar snickered. Even if the master were someone other than Santar.

Elessar –!

You’re not sending me back? George asked quietly.

I can think of at least one person who would never forgive me for that.

George smiled and took a deep breath.

What are your plans?

If you’ll give me back my sword, I’m going to go kill the dragon.

Tiron stared at him. Fully armed and armored cavaliers haven’t been able to get a sword stroke in. You’ll be killed and eaten before you can blink.

Better than being beaten to death by Santar, and better dead than a slave. Your highness, may I have my sword and continue on my way?

Absolutely. Elessar held out Rhiannon, hilt first. Best of luck.

Thank you.

Can I feed you first? We have plenty, and I’d like a chance to talk with you privately.

Elessar –! started Tiron again.

Peace, Tiron, I am not the First Champion of Gontar for nothing. I think I can take care of myself. Harudar, serve me a couple of plates, and give Clayshar some dinner as well, will you? George, over this way.

One of the elves (a dark elf without a collar) served up several plates of beans, and Elessar led George a little way off.

Do you know what you’re carrying? Elessar asked, without preamble.

A dragon killer, Arian’s Rhiannon, George answered. You... recognized it.

Elessar nodded. I recognized it. I don’t think you’re going to die. I don’t think you’re going to fail in this.

George smiled and took a bite of beans. Harudar? Is he...?

He’s one of my servants. He’s a free man. You are going to terrify my father, you should know that.

Because?

Because of the lore attached to that sword, and to the line of Arian the king. My family thought your line was wiped out a long time ago. You scare me a little bit too.

I didn’t scare your sister.

Elessar laughed out loud. No, you did not. She loves you – she’s been pining for you all these years.

I never thought I would have a chance.

Do you still have her ring?

George held up his left hand. And she knows my name. I have deeply personal reasons for wanting to kill that dragon, my lord. I am a dark elf, and I lost my heart four years ago to a girl I never thought I would ever have.

I hope for both of your sakes that my father is as good about keeping promises as my little sister is. Can I give you a coat of mail?

George took a deep breath. I think I’ll be better off trusting the magic of the sword. I’m not used to mail, and it might just slow me down.

Done then. Fewmets, I wish I had the courage to break with my father now and come with you. Good luck.

Thank you.

They finished their meal and brought the plates back. Clayshar was putting his pack back on.

Elessar, are you just going to let them go?

Aye, Tiron, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Why?

Because it seems like an excellent plan.

To let them walk into the dragon’s mouth? Elessar—

None of the cavaliers who have died had a sword spelled specifically to kill renegade dragons, Tiron. Didn’t you recognize it?

No. Wait, that old story? It’s poppycock! Fairy tales!

And you have a faerie standing right in front of you. George might be the man to do this.

And sweet Erendil would have to marry a dark elf.

Elessar shared a chuckle with George. So she would.

That doesn’t bother you?

Not if it wouldn’t bother her, and for some reason I just don’t think it would. Go on, George, Clayshar, and good luck again. See you at court in a few days.

Lord prince. George and Clayshar set off into the darkness.

Elessar, by just letting them go, you are breaking the law.

Aye, Tiron, I know. But it’s an unjust law and my conscience is quite clear.

Seriously?

That law doesn’t give a man like George any chance at freedom. Right, Harudar?

You could buy him from Santar, sire.

I tried, once.

Regardless, Elessar, it is your father’s law.

Elessar looked up at his cousin. So arrest me, Tiron. What’s the matter, don’t have the stomach for it? Arrest me. I broke the law. And you become my co-conspirator when you allow me to get away with it.

I can’t arrest you. You are my prince.

And if I become disgraced and dispossessed you are that much closer to the throne.

Who says I want it? Tiron sat down heavily. But Erendil. You want to see her married to... to him?

Whether I would or no, she would.

Tiron shook his head. How? How does she even know him? He’s a slave, from across the river from my father’s lands.

"Will you keep it a secret?’

You’re asking me to keep a number of secrets tonight. Sure, all right.

There was a week, four years ago, that Elizabeth, Erendil and I all accompanied my father on a visit to Santar’s. George was the gatekeeper, recovering at the time from miner’s lung. He flagged the house, got us some water. My innocent little sister, who has never in her life misbehaved, promised him a kiss for a second drink of water.

A kiss?

His majesty intervened before she could keep her promise. But she couldn’t sleep that night, and ended up talking with George. Next night, same thing. Third night, I covered for them while she was out in the garden, alone with him, and I am relatively sure she kept that promise.

Good heavens.

She’s still a maid. She also swore that she would marry him, and no other. She told me that his family history was the story of Arian the king. And he’s pretty clearly a descendant of Arian.

Because of that sword? He told us a pack of lies, Elessar. I don’t where he came up with it, where he filched it, but—

That’s not a blade that has been seen anytime in the last few centuries, and it’s not a blade that can be successfully stolen. That was Rhiannon.

Are you sure?

I do read that much Dragontongue. The era is done. Now is the time of legends. Oh, yes, cousin, that was Rhiannon. And his story matches the myth.

Fewmets.

There’s more. Did you see the ring on his hand?

You’re going to tell me Erendil gave it to him?

Only because she did. And he gave her his Dragontongue name in pledge.

And you’re going to tell me he’s Edraith?

She hasn’t told me that detail. But I’d give you odds.

You’re talking treason. You know that, don’t you?

A few minutes ago I was sending those men to their deaths. Elessar looked at his cousin. If I really want to follow my father as king in Gontar, I’m better off with Edraith as a friend than an enemy. And there is nothing I want more than to see my sister Erendil happy. She’s pined for that man for four years; if he kills the dragon, she has hope.

George and Clayshar made camp at the base of the mountain. Clayshar was exhausted and went right to sleep. George was too tense and restless with the upcoming encounter with the dragon, and considerably cheered by his encounter with Elessar. A few hours after midnight he gave up on sleep, took his sword, and started up the mountain alone.

Near the midpoint of the slope, Rhiannon guided his hand to an opening in the side of the hill. He plunged in and called a magelight, blessing Clayshar for teaching him that lovely little trick. When he noticed a red glow ahead in the tunnel, he dismissed the magelight and crept along silently. He rounded a turn in the tunnel, and there it was. Lying on a mountain of gold, treasure, and other jewels, was a dragon.

Olaur Findraith was a giant among his kind. He was a lean, serpentine monster of bluegreen and gold, reaching a full fifty feet from nose to tail. George couldn’t tell in the cave, of course, but the wingspan of such a creature would have to be about eighty feet. This was the dragon who had been guardian of the treasure of Arian for at least four hundred years; it was an old and cunning creature, as well as a huge one. And it appeared to be asleep, smoke rising from both nostrils, wings folded along its back.

George saw it, one eye cracked open under the gilded lid, watching him. George sat down on a stool by the door where he had entered, studying the serpent. What a monster! No wonder no one had been able to kill it – no one would have been able to get near it.

I know you’re shamming. Might as well open your eyes, he said in a mild voice.

I smell elf scent. Not white elf. Something different, dark and magical.

Dark elf, dragon. And I’m told that I’m mageborn.

That would explain it. The dragon lifted its head. Well, what would you like, little elf? A sack of gold? Take it, there’s plenty to spare.

I’ve come to claim what is mine, dragon. This treasure belonged to my ancestors, so it belongs to me. I want you out.

Interest now flickered in the dragon’s eyes, as he watched this dark, ragged little person, fearlessly telling the guardian of the hoard to get out. Such arrogance. Do you really believe you can expel me?

If I can’t, I suppose I’ll have to kill you, Findraith.

The dragon sat up and roared, flaring a stream of fire at the ceiling. I am Olaur Findraith, elf! I am the guardian of the hoard!

You are Findraith. You are not here by the authority of the owners of the treasure.

I am the owner!

You are not. I am the heir of Arian the king.

And your proof, little elf?

George stood up and took Rhiannon from behind his back. He saw fear flicker in the dragon’s eyes and began to understand. You recognized this, did you? It has been many years since Rhiannon last tasted dragon’s blood, and I think it’s probably thirsty.

How dare you bring that blade in here!

It belongs here, with the rest of Arian’s treasure.

Get it away from here!

George ran. Not away, but towards the monster, Rhiannon guiding him. It slashed through the dragon’s wings, then absorbed a burst of fire from the dragon’s breath and sent it back into the beast’s eyes. As Findraith writhed, reaching for his diminutive enemy, George brought the blade down on the neck, behind the horny plate. The dragon reared up again, shrieking. As it came down again, George got under the neck and held the blade straight up. Findraith skewered his head on Rhiannon and died.

George pulled out his sword and collapsed.

George woke slowly, a screaming headache pounding through his skull. Someone handed him a goblet, guiding it to his lips. It was wine, laced with spices, and something else. His head cleared slightly, and strong hands helped him to sit up.

Oh, my head.

Relax a bit, lad. One cannot go ‘round killing renegade dragons without upsetting the earth magic just a bit.

George opened his eyes, focusing slowly on Clayshar. Behind the fay were two short, stocky, bearded men.

So where am I now?

Arian’s bedroom. Yours now, my liege, said one of the short men.

George, said Clayshar, this whole mountain is hollow. It’s a fortress, with rooms and passages and halls. There’s space for a thousand at least.

And the dragon?

You killed it, said the other short man.

Beautiful work, said the first.

You... saw?

All of us, Clayshar nodded.

It was all the sword.

You wielded it, lord, the first of the two little men stepped forward. If not for your courage, it couldn’t have been done.

Who are you?

I’m Balin Mountainlord, sir, at your service. This is my second, Jalin. There are about two hundred of us left, the dwarves of Mount Targon. We were slaves to the dragon, and you set us free.

George blinked, and looked back at Clayshar. I guess I’ve started then. Balin, you are not slaves to me. I’ve been a slave all my life and I won’t have it.

Clayshar told us. We will serve you, my lord, and we will work with you. You’ll be our king, we’ll be your loyal people, and we’ll be free together.

I’d like to see Santar get me now.

Clayshar handed him the goblet of wine again. Sleep.

What’s in this?

Milk of the poppy. It’ll help to heal you.

Was I injured?

Some burns. Mostly it was the backlash of the magic.

Why didn’t you warn me?

I keep forgetting you just don’t know very much.

How long have I been out?

Two and half days.

So long? I need to go before the king. George started up, then lay back, just as quickly. Ow.

No rush, my friend.

Elessar will believe I failed.

Not likely. Relax. Sleep.

If I keep getting headaches like this, I may never use my magic.

Sleep, George. We’ll move slower now.

THREE

Memory and Dream

T he next day George was a little better, and able to move around a bit, but he tired easily. The dwarves were eager to show him as much of the mountain fortress as he was up to touring, and he was delighted to discover, among other things, a hot springs bath in the base of the mountain. In addition to this, they found him fine clothes which fit him well and replaced the clothes that had finally fallen apart after the fight with the dragon.

Up one flight of stairs from Arian’s bedroom was Arian’s study, connected to a dusty library room, lined floor to ceiling with ancient books. Clayshar was astonished and deeply impressed by the library, and began reading off titles to George. George drifted a little closer, interested in spite of himself, and discovered, to his own surprise and delight, that he could read the Dragontongue. He asked Clayshar how that was even possible.

You have more magic in you now, even, than you did a few days ago when we met, Clayshar said softly. I believe you absorbed some of the dragon’s magic when it died – probably part of the reason for your headache. And I’d heard of such a thing happening, especially when the dragon killer was a dark elf.

What else do you know about what happens to dragon killers?

It’s a very rare thing. Dragons don’t often go renegade; they are wiser than we are, older as a race and they live much longer. For a dragon to go renegade... some horrifying magic, generally, has been used to drive it insane. I wonder.

Such as?

There are wards around the city of Avalon – the main city of my homeland. Ostensibly, the wards are there to keep dragons out. If a dragon were to be trapped in Avalon, theoretically it would either die or be driven mad, until it went renegade enough to break its way free. That may be this one’s story. There is an old story in Avalon of an ocean colored dragon, who broke free, but it wasn’t nearly that size.

Findraith was here for almost four hundred years.

Then it might have been the same one. Anyway, what you were asking. When renegade dragons are killed, there is something about the gratitude of the earth magic. You’re going to be in for the ride of your life, George. Eventually, nothing will be denied you.

Sounds like enough to drive a man mad.

Could be. You’ll need to be careful.

George went back into the study and called a mage light. He sat down at the oaken desk and opened the book on the desk. It turned out to be a journal, the journal of Arian himself, and George was delighted to be able to read it.

I’m reading history. This is the story of a king who lived seven hundred years ago. I can read this.

Don’t wear yourself out.

Am I using magic as I’m reading?

Until you’re used to being able to do it, yes.

George sat back in the chair, noting the comfort of it.

How are you feeling?

Still wiped out. Maybe I can go tomorrow. The dwarves have an idea for taking the head of the dragon to the court.

I would trust them. Will you tell me something?

George nodded. Anything, Clayshar. Just ask.

You were clearly already familiar to the prince.

George nodded.

And you wear Erendil’s pledge ring.

George grinned.

How on earth did that happen?

You want to hear my story, of how I met them and how I made a friend of the one and fell in love with the other?

I do.

Very well, I’d love to tell it. I was twenty-one, and I had been in the mines for two years. I was keeping Santar’s gates, because I had the miner’s lung and they brought me out to recover.

Why were you in the mines?

Because I’m an incorrigible runaway. Now do you want to hear the story or not?

I do. I’ll be quiet.

In the seventieth year of King Rork, Elessar was twenty-two and Erendil, the king’s youngest daughter, was twenty. Elessar had cut his way through the Line of Champions that summer, all the way to First Champion, and he had freed his personal household slaves, beginning an experiment in manumission of which his father the king did not approve. Indeed, in Elessar’s class and family, the only one he knew approved was his sister Erendil.

That fall, the king invited his three youngest children, Elizabeth, Elessar and Erendil, to accompany him as he visited some of his outlying vassals. One of them was Santar, a rich grey elven lord with both silver and coal mines on his lands