Dragon War

Chapter 2

Khyvette raced through hive-mind memories, stitching together fragments of shared knowledge in an attempt to understand.

Osirian’s thoughts were growing faint. The Etherworld was taking its toll on him. He was suffering for his overuse of the hive-mind.

she asked.

Khyvette was quivering. It wasn’t the cold of the Etherworld that made her scales shiver and limbs tremble—it was a combination of things she did not, could not understand.

It was the timbre of her father’s mindvoice. It was the memory of sunlight. It was the idea that the grass and trees and mountains and skies of Selaras might fall to Necrovar and be destroyed.

he finished weakly.

Khyvette shook her head, though the movement was pointless. No one could see her, trapped in shadow and bound by a power she couldn’t escape, nor would Osirian be able to sense it telepathically. His mind was barely perceptible—he’d wasted too much energy telling her these things. The Etherworld had diminished him, punished him for his rebellion.

Khyvette told her father,

he whispered, as his mental signature flickered and faded,

CHAPTER ONE“Never stake your hopes on miracles.”

~ Calzani Proverb

Twelfth Age, Year 610

Keriya Soulstar stood on a balcony of the Imperial Palace, heart racing with eager anticipation. Her braided hair whisked across her back as she turned to smile fondly at her three companions.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she said.

Fletcher returned her smile. Viran nodded as if today’s mission were nothing out of the ordinary, brushing away unruly locks of raven hair that had fallen across his brow. Valerion Equilumos—dragon, legendary hero of the Second Age, and Keriya’s many-times-great-grandfather—gazed at her with one sparkling purple eye. The other socket was empty, shadows dancing in the hollow space.

“I cannot remember the Eminarchs,” he said. His memory was spotty and unreliable. A necromagical spell had rotted the threads of his brain for centuries before Keriya had restored him to his true form. “But you’ve done enough to impress the most stoic slab of scales. You’ll be fine.”

Keriya drew Sethildras, the legendary sword that had once belonged to Valerion, and proudly held it aloft. Diluted winter sunlight winked off the white-gold blade. Taking a breath, she reached inside herself to embrace her power.

She sank into her consciousness easily, painlessly, and saw her glowing magicsource. Two months ago, through some unexplained miracle, her soul had shed the darkness that had once blocked it from her view. Since then, it had obeyed her every command. She rolled her shoulders, her smile widening. After seventeen years of being unable to wield and scorned because of it, her newfound ability to use magic was intoxicating.

Keriya relished the feel of her power, letting it warm her inside and out. Magic was a dream manifested. All she’d ever wanted was the ability to wield, to make a difference in the world.

Now she had it.

Reflecting threads from her source, she performed a spell she’d practiced every day for the past eight weeks, encasing herself and her friends in lightmagic. A flash burned her retinas. She experienced the sensation of rapid expansion, as if she were stretching across the universe. Then she was small and compact again, and she was elsewhere.

Teleportation was her favorite spell, and she’d thrown herself so wholeheartedly into her magical studies that she’d already mastered it. It was energy-intensive, but they hadn’t gone far. To the south, Noryk’s walls and skyscrapers were visible. The tiered ridges Keriya now stood on were extensions of the great white cliffs where the Imperial City perched.

An ache bloomed in her chest. Thorion had shared a memory of this place with her before his death. These were the Norythian Mountains—the ancestral home of the dragons.

I wish you could have been here to see this, Thorion, she thought, drinking in the breathtaking sight of the slopes. Here, the fresh air held no trace of the winter. Moss and exotic plants lurked in gullies. Peaceful waterfalls trickled through narrow chasms, providing a comforting haze of humidity.

Valerion’s eye danced with emotion. “I never thought I’d see this again. These mountains were destroyed at the end of the Great War, before I . . .”

He trailed off, his lopsided countenance darkening. Keriya laid a hand on his shoulder, offering wordless support. He’d split his soul in half as part of his plan to end the first global conflict against Necrovar—and he’d suffered for that mistake for the last ten ages.

“I’m still not sure how the dragons recreated their home,” Fletcher admitted, smoothing his scruffy brown hair, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, and brushing off the front of his shirt. He was dressed in finery today, bedecked in white silk attire that bore the Imperial Crest: the four guardian beasts of Allentria entwined around a sun-like centerpiece.

“I assume they did it with valemagic,” said Viran. He’d been similarly outfitted by Imperial tailors, as had Keriya. While she thought the fancy garments looked ridiculous on her, they made Viran look regal. He’d added a black cape to his ensemble. Combined with the stubble on his lean brown cheeks, it gave him an older, kingly air.

Valerion nodded. “A creature who commands valemagic may achieve rudimentary control over all twelve types of magicthreads.”

“Wow,” Fletcher breathed, gazing at the soaring vistas with renewed appreciation.

Keriya knew firsthand the potency of valemagic. She’d tasted its fire and burned in its magnetic pull. At the turn of the new year, she had used it to free the dragons from the Etherworld.

After returning to Selaras in all their glory, the dragons had spread across Allentria, bringing renewed hope to war-weary citizens. Eventually they’d congregated around Noryk, where once their mountains had loomed. They had resurrected the peaks, raising them from the plains surrounding the capital city.

This, of course, had caused quite a disruption in the human world. The Allentrians were too grateful for the dragons’ return to protest, especially since Noryk and its major roads and waterways remained untouched—and because everyone believed this marked the end of the war against Necrovar.

A flutter of nerves ran through Keriya, recalling her to her mission. She sheathed Sethildras and lifted her chin. “Right. Let’s do this.”

The group set off toward the summit of the ridge. They passed beneath a series of stone arches adorned with shy, creeping vines and soon found themselves on a plateau with a cavernous rocky overhang. Keriya’s breath caught in her throat. There, arranged in a semicircle, were the twelve most powerful dragons alive.

“Don’t worry,” Viran whispered in her ear. “They’re your family.”

Without realizing what she was doing, her hand strayed from her side and sought his. Viran twined his fingers between hers and gave a quick squeeze.

“Good luck,” he said softly.

Keriya tried to squeeze back. She wasn’t sure she managed it; her fingers had gone numb. She released Viran and continued while he remained in place. Valerion also kept his distance from the draconic council, but Fletcher stayed by her side. As one, the two old friends knelt before the Eminarchs.

It was hard not to be overcome in the presence of such magnificent creatures, a dozen glittering marvels in a rainbow of hues. Keriya’s heart swelled and a chorus of power sang in her blood. She felt better, stronger, just by being near them.

“Rise, Dragonspeaker,” said Nordrion, the shiny blue-black colossus who’d been the first to escape through the Rift.

“Thank you.” She straightened, and Fletcher followed her example. “This is my best friend, Fletcher Earengale. Fletcher is important in the human world. Because of his efforts, the elves and dwarves joined our current battle against Necrovar.”

“I gather from your inflection that this is a feat for a human,” Nordrion said in a flat tone.

Keriya pursed her lips. She’d forgotten how off-putting a creature devoid of emotion could be. She reminded herself that dragons did not have the capacity to be insulting—but neither did they have the ability to be impressed.

She nudged Fletcher with her elbow. He unslung his rucksack and cleared his throat.

“I’ve brought gifts to the draconic people on behalf of the Empire of Allentria.” He stepped forward, bravely facing the twelve titans, each of whom could have splattered him with a swipe of their paws if they chose.

“Fletcher is an ambassador,” Keriya explained. “He’s here on behalf of our Imperial government to bring offerings of goodwill.”

“Khyvette will accept your boons,” said Nordrion, indicating a female dragon with scales of dark jade and horns of pale ivory.

“Bring the gifts to her,” Keriya whispered to Fletcher. Fletcher nodded and produced a long parcel from his pack. He laid it at Khyvette’s forepaws and unfolded the oiled cloth to reveal a red-gold phoenix feather.

“This is from G’shídrian de Tagri’thai, Heart of the Flame’shikrim,” said Fletcher.

Half again as long as his arm, the feather glowed beneath the sallow sun. G’shídrian refused to come to Noryk, citing that he needed to stay in the Fironem and protect his people, but he’d sent this present to the Imperial City. Like every mortal in Allentria, he knew how important it was to impress the dragons at this critical juncture.

“It’s enchanted,” Fletcher continued, “full of wieldable firemagic, so if you . . . oh.”

His chestnut eyes widened. A leaden weight settled in Keriya as she realized what he must have concluded: G’shídrian’s present was useless if dragons could command fire-threads with valemagic.

Still, she dutifully translated his words for the Eminarchs. Khyvette impassively accepted the gift. She raised a single talon and hooked it into the wrapping, pulling the feather toward her.

“Next is a gift from Kzar Ilkhar,” Fletcher continued, withdrawing a second parcel. He unwrapped it and Keriya saw the dwarves’ present for the first time. It was a fat, sparkling emerald as large as her head.

“This gem has a brother in the dwarves’ central city,” said Fletcher. “If you’re ever in need of their help, touch your emerald and speak. It will carry your words to its twin.”

Keriya doubted the dragons would have much cause to contact the dwarves, but at least it was pretty. Unfortunately, the precious stone paled to a dull rock next to Khyvette’s scales.

She hid a wince as she translated the gem’s properties. This was going badly.

Fletcher seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for he squared his shoulders before producing a third parcel. “This is from Taeleia Alenciae, Lumina of the Allentrian elves,” he continued, presenting Khyvette with a glass vial that contained silver fluid. “It’s liquefied timemagic. You can pour it on any inanimate object to preserve that item forever.”

Fletcher had confided in Keriya that the magicthreads had come from Taeleia’s soul and had been liquefied through means no one would explain. Keriya hadn’t had the heart to point out that dragons could innately wield timemagic. It was the generosity of the thought that counted.

Now it was time for the final present. Tension thickened the air as Fletcher withdrew a small parcel that, supposedly, contained the most valuable gift of all.