Dragon War

PROLOGUE   Eighth Age, Year 176 The Etherworld was a death sentence. It was lightless, devoid of warmth and nourishment. It leached energy from the souls of its victims and punished those who attempted to wield their magic. Perhaps the dragons had not been meant to survive the ravages of this desolate, inhospitable universe, but they had. They subsisted on the arcane energies that oozed from the threads of their prison. Khyvette Leilasorian had been born into this world. She had never known anything but the formless dark and the ceaseless agony in her blood. Time was warped and meaningless. She did not measure it by days or millennia; she marked her growth by what she learned as she absorbed information through the hive-mind. Currently, Khyvette was exchanging sluggish thoughts with her father, Osirian. The dragons, her kin, could not use their magic in the Etherworld—only the power of the hive-mind remained, for the thoughts of one were the thoughts of all. she returned. Ages ebbed as the two of them conversed. The Etherworld was stronger than the dragons. It made them slow and weak. It stole their strength. It punished them when they pushed their limits. Osirian sent Khyvette a memory to peruse. A scene unfolded behind her eyes, flooding across the eternal dark. The Eminarchs, the twelve dragon elders, were meeting in the Norythian Mountains. Khyvette searched the hive-mind to access the other Eminarchs’ viewpoints. Her own brain compensated for missing fragments, seamlessly stitching multiple points of view into a three-dimensional space to explore. Khyvette drifted away from her father’s vantage point to inspect a white drackling loping up the path. This was Valerion Equilumos—she knew him from prior visions wherein he’d entreated the Eminarchs to fight in the Great War. “Do you know what Necrovar did?” said Valerion, marching into the midst of the Eminarchs. He was not an impressive specimen. He had a decent skeletal frame but he was a runt, and his unpigmented scales inspired skepticism about the protein levels in his blood. “We know,” said Cylion Stellarion, the Foremost Eminarch. Cylion had died in the Etherworld during the Imprisonment, but this memory of him remained crisp and unblemished. Without emotions to influence or contaminate memories, dragons could achieve perfect recall. Valerion flared his wings. “Then you know you can’t allow this war to continue!” “Our edict remains the same as ever,” said Cylion. “We cannot fight.” “This might be your last chance to help our world,” Valerion argued. “Stop Necrovar before he grows too powerful. If you have any love for Selaras, you must save it.” “Love is an irrationality,” said Osirian, speaking for the first time. “Do it for your fang-ripping kin, then!” Valerion’s claws contracted, scraping against the ground. There was no sensation in the Etherworld apart from pain. Yet thanks to hive-mind memories, Khyvette knew the feel of smooth stone against talons, of warm sunlight on scales, of fresh mountain breezes whispering past wings. “Obviously you don’t care about the mortals who suffer,” Valerion went on, “but two dragons died in Necrovar’s attack.” “They were not sovereign dragons,” said Cylion. “They were bonded creatures who unwisely followed their mortal counterparts into battle.” “Oh, how foolish of me to forget. Not even draconic lives matter to you callous warts!” Cylion tilted his horn-crowned head. “You are aware of our laws, Valerion. Bonded dragons are none of our concern. When they latch onto a mortal, they forsake their ties to us.” Valerion emitted a string of alien sounds. Khyvette rifled through the combined knowledge of the kin—sovereign dragons had once taken it upon themselves to learn mortal languages, and by searching their collective brains for that knowledge, she could translate Valerion’s words. She needn’t have wasted the effort; the drackling was merely issuing insults. “If you’re so selfish, do it for yourselves. Necrovar eradicated the centaurs, the kobolds, and the dryads without batting an eye. He will turn on you once he’s conquered the rest of Selaras.” Osirian shifted his weight, and his movement drew Khyvette’s gaze. She’d never seen her father’s physical body—the endless night of the Etherworld was absolute for the dragons. Only through memory did she know the color of his scales, like forest ferns glazed with dew, and the moonlike glint in his orchid eyes. “Necrovar only kills bonded dragons,” Osirian told the drackling. “As long as we remain sovereign, we are in no peril. Are you distressed because of your disability?” “Disability?” “Your emotional condition,” Osirian clarified. “My condition is not what distresses me,” Valerion growled. “I know he’ll destroy the dragons, given the chance.” “What makes you believe you know what he plots?” said Cylion. “Because I’ve met him.” Silence reigned as the Eminarchs mulled over this statement. Isolated in her private pocket of the memory-vision, Khyvette considered the validity of such a claim. Was Valerion telling a—what was the mortal word for it?—a lie? “I was young,” Valerion said into the hush. “Barely out of my egg. He came to visit my mother, but he was there for me. He wanted to kill me. I think he views me as a threat because I was born with emotions. It’s like I’m bonded, and he hates bonded dragons. I can still remember the tremble in his voice—fury masking fear. Not that you’d understand such things,” he added, his snout crinkling as if he smelled something foul. A nearly imperceptible rustle stole through the Eminarchs. Eyes flashed as the elders glanced at each other, but Khyvette, who was connected to each of their memories, couldn’t hear thoughts exchanged. This wasn’t telepathic communication. It was a primal instinct burning through blood, whispering between souls. “Your theory is not unfounded,” Tolbrayth said at length. “As such, I call for a vote to grant Valerion sanctuary from Necrovar.” Valerion bared his undersized fangs. “This isn’t about me, this is about Selaras!” “If we offer sanctuary, we risk drawing Necrovar’s wrath,” Osirian observed. “He will target us as he targeted the drackling. We shouldn’t endanger ourselves in defense of Valerion, who is unlikely to do much for our species.” “What?” Valerion’s tone changed in a way Khyvette could not define. She saw tears pearling at the edges of his eyes—an impractical waste of vital fluids. “For reasons we need not enumerate, Valerion, you will never be helpful to the draconic race,” said Mirele, a golden female. “You are emotional. More to the point, you are a liability. Giving you protection would be unwise.” Valerion’s ears flattened. His nictitating membranes rose briefly in a misguided attempt to blink the tears away. The movement made them spill down his scales. “From what I know of emotions, it is my understanding that this discussion may be upsetting to you,” Cylion told Valerion. “Just remember that we are acting in accordance with what’s best for our kin.” Khyvette wondered how upsetting a discussion like this would be. There were no ancestral memories she could consult for reference—once a dragon bonded, it left the hive-mind. And though sovereign and bonded dragons could have basic telepathic contact, sovereigns limited their exposure to emotional, irrational minds. “Valerion did not bond with a mortal, he was born this way,” said Tolbrayth. “It would be unjust to ostracize him the way we ostracize dragons who bond voluntarily. We should offer him the same protection we would offer any of our sovereign kin.” “We have heard both sides of the issue. Let the Eminarchs vote,” Cylion decreed. “All in favor of harboring Valerion Equilumos?” Only Tolbrayth put his paw forward. The rest of the Eminarchs remained as still and unmoved as the mountains. “I don’t care if you protect me,” said Valerion, shooting a withering scowl at Cylion. “You’ve made it plain that you have no use for me, so our paths part here. You’ll never see me again.” “Mind the edict, Valerion,” said Cylion. “No sovereign dragons can fight against Necrovar. Don’t do anything irrational. You may not be valuable to us, but you represent us.” “Don’t worry—I’ll make sure I’m in no way associated with you.” “The Eminarchs ask that you remain prudent. Remember, drackling: he who fights too long against demons becomes one himself.” “Then I am already a demon,” Valerion retorted, looking around pointedly. With that, he spread his wings and jumped into the air. thought Khyvette, watching the drackling’s receding form as it was lost in a swath of cloud, The Osirian in the memory-vision wasn’t the one speaking—the response came from her father in the Etherworld. Past-Osirian spread his wings and launched from the enclave, taking to the skies. Khyvette went with him, submerging herself in his memory of flight. Osirian continued, Khyvette asked as emerald plains unfolded beneath her. she retorted. Her father was silent. Khyvette sank further into his memory while she waited for a response. If she focused on the feel of sunlight, she could ignore the icy grasp of the Etherworld on her scales and the fiery fangs of its hunger in her veins. If she immersed herself in the scent of summer grass and sweet winds, she could forget the ever-present stench of death that permeated her prison. Osirian’s statement pulled her from the memory. Darkness flooded in, obliterating the borrowed vision of Selaras. She crouched low to the invisible, frozen ground of her prison to conserve strength. This much use of the hive-mind was draining. There was another lull in the conversation. She couldn’t be sure if it lasted for minutes or millennia. Her father’s mindvoice reached her at last, deep and soft: thought Khyvette. Osirian paused before adding, Khyvette considered this unexpected statement, dissecting it for hidden meaning. she observed at length.