A Dance of Dragons: Series Starter Bundle (11 page)

Cutting through the forest was slow moving
as they maneuvered around low branches and tall bushes. He held the
reins steady, keeping Ember's movements controlled and not
frantic.

Even from afar, the smoke permeated his
senses, making his breath feel tight and his eyes burn. It seemed
endless, as though the smoke came from the ground itself, bursting
forth from the soil to wreak havoc on the world.

After what seemed like an eternity, a bright
flame flickered in the distance. He spotted it an instant before
Ember.

Flinging his feet to the side, Rhen landed
almost upright a split second before her forelegs lifted from the
ground and she jumped away, backing from the bright orange blinding
her eyes. He let her. Better Ember act on her fear, better she feel
some control.

Besides, he had work to do.

Rhen stretched out his hands, reaching his
palms before him, and crept closer and closer until he felt the
pull. His fingertips burned, still feet from the flames, but they
called to him. His body zinged, energy bouncing from limb to limb.
He let it build—let the need go crazy. And then, as though sucking
in a large breath of air, he pulled with his mind and the fire
listened, crashing into him like a wave.

As a boy, Rhen had loved playing with
flames. He would stand by the candles in the great hall, poking at
them with his fingers, letting his palm absorb their heat, until
one day his mother ran over with a scream and pulled him away.
You cannot do that
, he remembered her exclaiming quite
vehemently as she checked his chubby hands for burns. But there
were none. Because it never burned him, and until that boyhood
moment, Rhen had never realized that it was strange, that it wasn't
normal. Ever since that day, he had kept these powers to
himself.

The fire spoke to him. He couldn’t create
it—he had tried that many times to no avail. He couldn't even move
it or shape it or aim it. All he could do was absorb it and let the
flames fill his body until he felt like all he needed to do was
open his mouth to breathe smoke.

But at times like these, he was grateful for
the gift, or curse, whichever it was.

So he stood, letting the heat crawl under
his skin, letting it bubble under the surface, until the onslaught
passed and he could feel the breeze on his cheeks again.

Rhen opened his eyes.

Like giant claws, the trees rose from the
ground, bare and blackened, stripped of leaves and life. But the
fire, at least, was gone.

He spun.

"Ember!" But he didn’t see her behind him
where the forest turned green again.

He whistled, body stiff and alert, until
thunderous hoofbeats reached his ears and Rhen relaxed. Moments
later Ember emerged, but she stopped beside an untouched tree, not
stepping one hoof into the blackened soot of the burnt forest floor
before her.

"Come here," he commanded.

She stepped back.

Rhen crossed his arms.

She shook her head.

He stomped.

She did too.

"So dramatic," he rolled his eyes and
stepped forward, giving Ember the victory, scratching the soft
patch in her forehead until she finally showed her forgiveness by
padding into the ash.

"I'm sorry," he whispered before swinging
into the saddle.

Moving opposite the wind, the two of them
pushed onward.
It's worse than a battlefield
, Rhen thought
as he looked around. Tree trunks rose up into sharp, blackened
points and then stopped. A field of topless trees, of stake-like
spires, stretched out before them. All color was gone from the
world. Little clouds of ash followed Ember's footsteps, blackening
her russet coat.

But worse was the eerie quiet. No birds
chirped. The wind licked his face, but there were no swaying
branches or whispering leaves. When they came upon a splashing
stream, it sounded as roaring as a great river, as though the
crashing waves were the size of a man instead of a toad.

Rhen had never ventured this far into the
Northmore Forest. No one did, aside from the missionary his father
sent once a year to ensure the Arpapajo were still adhering to the
laws of the land and speaking the king's tongue. There was no need.
They lived a secluded life apart from the rest of the world, and as
far as Rhen was concerned, they should keep it that way.

Everyone spoke of the strange people, still
dressed in poorly sewn animal hides, running around with
stone-tipped arrows and paint on their faces. It was a bedtime
story to frighten young children into sticking close to home.

Yet out here alone without the forest to
cover his movements, Rhen almost felt as though he were being
watched. The hairs on his forearm rose, and he darted glances from
side to side, searching for movement.

He might be a prince, but no one in these
woods would know what that truly meant—and even if they did, he
wasn't sure that they would care.

I better not die out here
, he joked
and tried to calm his rising nerves,
Cal would never let me hear
the end of it.

And then he spotted green in the
distance.

The origin of the fire.

Rhen pressed Ember forward, forgetting
caution as his excitement and nerves compounded into a sudden burst
of energy.

But as he neared, his confusion grew. It
almost seemed like a village. Was it possible the Arpapajo had
burned their own home down?

He searched the ground but there were no
bodies in sight. A pile of smoking wood, burnt down to little more
than rubble, caught his attention. It drew a line in the fire—one
side black and one side green. Had it been a house?

The start of the fire for sure, but it was
now completely unrecognizable.

Rhen dropped to the ground, noticing a great
wooden structure behind the collapsed heap. A second house?

He moved quickly, searching the length of
the twisted branches and bark for some sort of door. A breeze blew
in, lifting a slip of tanned hide and Rhen caught it with his hand,
flipping it over his shoulder as he entered.

Dried fruits hung from the ceiling.
Carcasses that were half-cleaned and now buzzing with insects were
piled along the wall. A putrid smell filled his nostrils and he
retreated quickly.

There was nothing human in there.

He spun in a circle. If this had been the
food house, maybe the other had been a living house? He turned one
more time, trying to differentiate a wooden structure from the
trees behind it.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And then all of a sudden a smaller hut
materialized from the woods, almost invisible against the
forest.

He ran, pushing back the now obvious skins
of the door.

Blood was the first thing he saw. At his
feet, a great red circle spread against the entrance of the home,
dried into the dirt and stained that way. He followed the line, and
farther into the room was another spot, also dry but on a raised
wooden expanse that must have been a bed.

If there was blood, there must have been an
attack.

And if there was an attack, there must be
foreign invaders.

Which meant one thing: his kingdom wasn't
safe—no, his family wasn't safe.

Rhen whipped around, bringing his fingers to
his lips to whistle for Ember when a shape caught his eyes. A
smaller bed sat to the left of the entrance and it looked…

He crept closer, slowly, trying not to make
any noise.

His heart pumped wildly in his chest. He
flexed his fingers, reaching his hand out to grab the animal skin,
cursing himself for being unarmed.

He pulled back and brought his hands around
a thin throat, making to choke the body before his brain caught up
with his muscles, and he realized it was just a boy. Not a
mercenary, not even a fighter, just a child.

Rhen sat, his body heavy with surprise.

The boy hadn't even stirred at his
touch.

He leaned down, bringing an ear to the
immobile chest, and there was a soft thud of a beat—very faint and
very slow, but still there.

Rhen scooped the boy into his arms, taking
just a moment to loosen the small fist from a crudely created rock
knife, and then sounded his whistle loud and clear. By the time the
two of them emerged, Ember was waiting—dare he say it,
impatiently.

But her look softened when she noticed the
small figure in his arms, and she knelt to the ground, making it
easier for Rhen to climb on without jostling the fragile body he
held.

"Back to the stream," he told her.

Ember stuck to the unburned forest, keeping
out of the sun as best she could, moving as carefully and quickly
as possible.

Within minutes, they reached the same stream
as before, but this time the edges were lined with soft grass
instead of ash. Clean water was exactly what they needed, not
something blackened with soot.

Rhen slipped from Ember as she knelt down
and settled the boy on the grass. Digging through his things, he
pulled out a canister of water and gently opened the boy's mouth.
Being careful not to pour too much, he tilted the bottle.
Reflexively, the boy swallowed, opening his mouth for more. Rhen
obliged with another small dose, but then stopped. He didn’t want
all of that water coming back up and out the boy's mouth.

Next, Rhen dipped his hands into the stream.
Without drying off, he patted the boy's cheeks, his forehead. Going
back for more water, he wet the boy's hair and arms, and then
repositioned the body so the child's feet slipped into the water,
hopefully absorbing it.

Rhen leaned down. Already the heartbeat
sounded stronger.

He poured some more water into the child's
throat before sitting back up.

There was no blood, no wound, and no
foreseeable reason why the boy had gone so long without food. He
seemed old enough to take care of himself, maybe ten or twelve.
Scrawny still, but surely able to hunt in the absence of
adults.

No, this seemed like something else. Perhaps
the result of a mental incapacity.

But Rhen thought back to the blood, the ash,
the burnt pile of wood. Perhaps it was just a lack of will.

Rhen understood that—the feeling of failure
when a loved one died, of helplessness, of wanting to drift away
never to be found again. But he had overcome it, with help.

Rhen looked at the boy again. His skin was
dark, born that way and not just tanned from the sun. His hair was
black and chopped so haphazardly that it stood out at all different
directions. He had lived with wooden huts instead of stone castles.
With animal skins instead of fine silks.

So different from the people Rhen had grown
up with.

And yet, still the same somehow. Still
fragile, just like someone else Rhen remembered—someone he so often
tried to forget.

He reached for the water again.

If this child was truly alone, then Rhen was
the only one left who could save him.

A thunderous boom sounded through the
trees.

Rhen dropped the bottle.

It fell, rolling along the ground, sinking
closer to the water. He dove, catching the canister just before it
fell into the stream, but half of the contents had been emptied. He
turned it, looking through the top to judge the remaining amount,
when something just behind the bottle caught his attention
instead.

A footprint.

No
, he corrected himself,
a
bootprint
. Something that could never belong to an
Arpapajo.

Invaders had been here.

Rhen looked at the boy, torn. He really
shouldn't leave, not when the child was still so weak. But his skin
had brightened. He looked better. And those prints could be the key
to saving a lot more than one boy. They could be the key to saving
the kingdom.

He had no choice.

Decision made, Rhen stood.

Scooping the boy up one more time, he gently
placed him under a tree, hidden from the riverbank in case anyone
approached.

"Keep him safe," Rhen whispered into Ember's
ear. She stomped a hoof, letting Rhen know she would not let him
down.

"I'll be back soon," he said, but still
grabbed his sword and scabbard, belting them tightly around his
waist.

Sloshing through the water, Rhen moved to
the opposite side of the bank to examine the print further.

Most definitely a boot.

He looked close by, scouring the ground
until a second print identified itself. Rhen stepped closer,
repeating until he had a solid trail to follow. Crushed branches
and chopped bushes created a line through the normally untouched
forest, a track that was easy for Rhen to find. He was used to
stone, something that left a much more invisible path. Compared to
that, this was simple.

Before long, Rhen happened upon a camp. A
few tents were set up. Weapons lazily rested against a tree. A fire
was still warm though the flames had died. And behind, stacks of
logs were piled up, tied together in tight bushels like those
resting beside the fires in his family's castle.

The loud noise must have been a tree
falling, but why? Why so much wood? Unless they were planning to
make camp for a long time—or for a much larger crowd—an army,
perhaps.

His mind spun.

This was more proof than Rhen had ever hoped
to find, more information than he was prepared for. The king had to
know, immediately. Biting his lip, Rhen reassured himself that his
father would believe him. With news such as this, with stakes so
high, surely just this once, everyone would believe him…

Rhen moved to turn.

But before his feet had even shifted,
something heavy slammed into the back of his skull.

The last thing Rhen thought before he
crashed to the ground, slipping into the darkness, was
Damn it,
Cal, why must you always be right?