Dragon Empress

Chapter 5

Why? The toxic question lodged behind his heart, turning him cold.

“Fletch?”

He pulled away from his private conversation to look at Keriya. The manic light had faded from her eyes, thank Shivnath—but now she, too, stared at him with concern.

“Sorry.” He straightened his uniform, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. “Just trying to come up with answers.”

“Aren’t we all,” said Keriya. “I’ll have a new plan next week, and it will be good this time, I promise.”

“Careful, Drachrheenar,” said Khyvette. “We all have valemagic in our souls. You’ve just made a binding vow.”

“Ah, I’d better stick to my word then, hadn’t I?”

They were trying to lighten the mood, Fletcher could tell. Maybe his inner turmoil had shone on his face, or maybe Khyvette—and possibly even Keriya—had sensed it. He was grateful for their efforts, though he couldn’t shake the icy feeling that clung to him.

A low, brassy horn sounded from far away. Fletcher turned to see a dark ship approaching the narrow strait between Cinder Isle and the mainland.

“The Syrionese,” he gasped. “We’re going to be late!”

“Go,” said Keriya, making shooing motions at him. “I have to scout a new Rift location with G’shídrian. Tell the Syrionese I’ll meet them at the gala!”

“Right. See you tomorrow!”

Khyvette crouched, and Fletcher scrambled up her outstretched leg, settling between her wing joints at the base of her neck. Her wings snapped open and she leapt from the mainland cliff. Twirling with the grace of a dancer, she angled toward the island.

The ocean air calmed Fletcher, and the verdant hills and artful turrets of Cinder Isle brought a smile back to his face. Valemagic was beyond his ken, but diplomacy came naturally to him. He loved liaising with different factions. He was good at it.

The island city had been rebuilt post-war, since the Moorfainians had wrecked it. New towers perched on tiered cliffs, rising in a semicircular arc from the harbor. Khyvette angled toward the highest ridge on the island’s west end and touched down on a landing pad, stirring up puffs of reddish dirt. Fletcher dismounted, pushed his glasses up his nose, and ran toward the three creatures awaiting him.

Danisan Carvaziae wore his usual all-black garb. Long, pointed ears poked through the sides of his headscarf, which covered most of his pallid face. His catlike obsidian eyes remained visible, and they shone with affection as they met Fletcher’s.

“I missed you,” said Fletcher, grasping Danisan’s clawed hand and standing on tiptoe to kiss the elf’s veiled cheek. Their conflicting responsibilities kept them apart more often than not, so it was a blessing when their paths coincided.

“The ship is ten minutes out,” said Gavoch, one of Fletcher’s dwarf friends. He’d overseen Port Cinder’s rebuilding efforts, and now led its dwarven population. “Our nereid scouts have alerted us to another vessel accompanying it.”

Fletcher scanned the Waters of Chardon. From the landing pad, he could see for leagues and leagues on a clear day. He marked the Syrionese ship by the ribbons of steam wafting from its smokestacks, but saw nothing else.

“How far out is the vessel?” he said.

“Very close.” Gavoch’s gravely voice quivered with excitement. His skin, as brown and textured as the bark of an ancient oak tree, buckled around his golden eyes as he grinned.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Fletcher, bemused. “Is it invisible?”

“Better. It is underwater!”

“The Syrionese call it a submarine,” Danisan explained. “It runs on voltmagic.”

“And it moves by tunneling. Tunneling through water!” Gavoch cried. He had a penchant for tunneling. It was a dwarf thing, or so Fletcher gathered.

“The main ship is about to dock.” Danisan’s low voice carried the subtlest hint of apprehension. “My people will not be happy to see me living here. They will view it as betrayal. They dislike consorting with foreigners and outside nations.”

“Yet they’ve come to consort with us,” said Fletcher. “Maybe they’ve changed.”

The elf’s eyes tightened. Fletcher squeezed his hand and added, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“Of course I will come. I wouldn’t abandon you and force you to speak with strangers alone.”

Fletcher fought to keep a straight face. Danisan could take on legions of shadowbeasts without batting an eye, but having conversations was beyond him.

“Quhai l’easse shai phreiré.” The third mortal on the launchpad, another human, spoke up. Fletcher dug in his pants pocket and fished out a silver ring. It didn’t look like much, but it contained a lifemagic enchantment that translated languages.

“Sorry, go again?” he said, slipping it onto his right index finger.

“The eastern wharf is prepped,” repeated Enwha, aerial commander and ambassador of the Ghoren Islands’ faction. A mischievous grin widened on her face. “Race you there?”

She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the creature behind her: a dragonfly of epic proportion. An artfully sculpted tree-resin saddle sat on its back, resting between two sets of gossamer, veined insect wings.

“It won’t be a fair race.” Khyvette spread her own wings, membranes rippling in the breeze.

“You may have the advantage of size,” Enwha conceded, striding toward her faithful odhonata mount, “but we have the advantage of speed.”

With practiced agility, she hoisted herself into the saddle. She pulled a set of dwarf-made goggles down from her shaved head, settling them over her amber eyes for wind protection. “Perhaps you’re scared, since you know how formidable skimmers can be. We played a key role in expelling the Moorfainians, as I’m sure you recall.”

“Oh, I remember.” Fletcher grinned and retreated to Khyvette. “A race, then—on the count of three. Gavoch, if you’ll do the honors?”

Gavoch rolled his bulbous eyes, but indulged them. “One.”

Fletcher scrambled up Khyvette’s foreleg. Danisan joined him a moment later, moving with the preternatural speed and grace of his species. His muscled arms slid around Fletcher’s waist.

“Two—”

“Yah!” With an exultant cry, Enwha urged her skimmer into the air. Its wings became an iridescent smear as it kicked off with six segmented legs, zooming away to the northeast.

“Cheater,” said Fletcher, tracking the skimmer as it bobbed and weaved down the rocky slope.

“I’m not concerned,” Khyvette said loftily. “I can cheat far more effectively than that.”

A swell of energy bubbled in Fletcher’s chest, vibrating in his soul—an echo of the sensation Khyvette experienced whenever she wielded. With a flash, she teleported. Blinking to clear his vision, he saw they now hovered high over the easternmost wharf.

Khyvette let out a wheezing breath. She bobbed in the air, struggling to maintain her altitude. The ghostly energy in Fletcher’s chest fizzled out, creating an ache behind his sternum.

he asked. He’d never experienced that painful secondhand sensation before.

Fletcher suspected there was more to it. Pain lingered in his chest, and something about Khyvette’s too-casual mindvoice didn’t sit right with him—but he had no time to press the point. The Syrionese ship chugged along the cerulean strait below, angling toward the docks. Khyvette descended to the stone pier to greet it, arriving moments before Enwha and her odhonata touched down.

The Ghoori warrior wrenched off her goggles, her dark-brown cheeks warm with the flush of wind and flight. “No fair!”

Khyvette rearranged her wings in a draconic shrug. “You never specified the parameters of the race, nor forbid the use of magic.”

Enwha slid off her skimmer, patting its scaly face in consolation. “Poor Syrhes. Your victory was stolen.”

Its faceted eyes glinted as it leaned into her touch. It bore no bridle—Enwha was a Tier Nine wielder, and used lifemagic to communicate telepathically with her odhonata, just as Fletcher used valemagic to communicate with Khyvette.

The motley group made themselves smart, straightening their clothes and smoothing their scales in advance of the ship’s arrival. The Syrionese vessel was reminiscent of Moorfain’s destroyers: long, metallic, with steam-powered engines. It came to a shuddering halt at the dock, and wharf workers fell into their now-familiar routine of securing the ship and ushering out the newcomers.

It was a far cry from the first time foreigners had arrived without warning, after ages of Allentria being friendless and isolated. That had sparked a panic, which had almost escalated to a battle. Fortunately, those first visitors had been the Ghoren Islanders, and Keriya had recognized them in time to avert disaster.

A group of five Syrionese emissaries glided down a shiny gangplank. Like Danisan, they towered head and shoulders above the humans on the dock. Long, bare toes peeked out beneath their silk robes as they approached. They had black hair, pallid scales, and dark eyes—all but the tallest among them, whose irises were a vibrant cyan set against dark scleras.

“Welcome, friends, to the Empire of Allentria,” said Fletcher, stepping forward to greet them. “I’m Fletcher Earengale, the Chief Imperial Ambassador, and this is my bondmate, Khyvette Leilasorian. I know Allentria’s history with its former allies is tarnished, but we’re glad to see you here, and we hope to begin a new era of cooperation between our nations.”

Khyvette had helped him hone this speech, and the Syrionese appeared impressed with it. He saw translation rings glittering on their clawed fingers, gifts from the dock welcome committee.

“Ambassador Earengale.” The tallest of the five, the one with the odd eyes, inclined their head. They had a low, breathy voice, and fanged incisors so long that the serrated tips poked out over their lips. “I am Tethryn Indrossae, Lead Envoy of the Syrionese Coalition. Allentria’s sordid history nearly deterred us from making the voyage, but word has spread of the dragons’ return.”

Tethryn’s vibrant gaze floated over to Khyvette. “The stories do not do you justice,” they whispered. “Selaras has been dim without your light these past ten ages.”

As one, the five Syrionese bowed to her.

“Rise, honored guests,” said Khyvette. Despite the translation ring that filtered her words into Allentrian in his mind, Fletcher could tell she was speaking in the Syrionese tongue. She had a gift for learning languages, and Danisan had taught her the basics.

Tethryn seemed pleased with this little touch, for they nodded approvingly as they straightened. Their scaly face hardened once more as their attention landed on Danisan. “You are far from home.”

“So are you,” Danisan retorted.

“Out of necessity more than anything else. Though I do not begrudge the trip, now that I have seen a dragon with my own eyes.” Tethryn directed those piercing eyes at Fletcher. “This must be the fabled Dragon Speaker.”

“Nope,” said Fletcher. Legends had spread about him, to be sure—a phenomenon he still found disorienting—but he knew who people were referencing when they asked this question. “That would be my best friend, Keriya Soulstar.”

“Another rheenar? Allentria is indeed blessed.”

“The blessing of the dragons’ return and the rise of rheenarae is a double-edged blade,” said Khyvette. “We were only able to return because Necrovar destroyed the magical balance.”

The shorter elves shuddered at Necrovar’s name.

“We heard of that, too,” said Tethryn. “According to rumor, the Dragon Speaker met the Shadow in battle, but emerged triumphant and resealed him in the Etherworld.”

“The rumors have it right,” Fletcher said proudly, remembering how Keriya had imprisoned Necrovar during the Battle of Indrath Necros—the Final Battle, as people now called it.

“I am curious,” Khyvette said in a conversational tone, “as to where these rumors originated. How did word reach you half a world away?”

“We share a border with Jidaeln.” Tethryn flicked their wrist in a dismissive fashion at mention of the country. “We learned of Allentria’s plight when the dynast joined the Shadow War.”

“Naturally,” said Khyvette. “But how did the overseas community hear of Necrovar’s re-imprisonment?”

She was digging for information, trying to find the root of the rumors that had attracted the world’s attention. Dozens of ships had shown up over the last year, all bearing the same stories.