A Dawn of Dragonfire: Dragonlore, Book 1 (11 page)

He shoved her back again, more roughly this time.  "Do not speak to me of this Sun God.  I know of him.  I know that he destroyed Requiem once, driving the evil of Dies Irae the Tyrant.  I know that his flame will burn everything it can consume."

"It will not consume those who serve it."  She was panting now, and she touched his cheek.  "Elethor.  Oh, my Elethor; you were the fire of my youth.  Now join your flames to mine.  I will grant you a firegem; you will become a phoenix, a great firebird, no longer a lizard of scales.  Join me in Tiranor and worship my lord at my side.  We will rule together.  We will cast our flames across the world and watch it burn."  She held him, pressed her lips against his ear, and whispered.  "Elethor, don't you love me?  Don't you remember all those nights we spent here?"

He let out his breath slowly, and his head lowered; suddenly he felt so sad to her, the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

"I remember," he said softly.  "Solina, I loved you more than anything—so much that it ached.  For seven years since you left, I thought of you every day."  He laughed bitterly.  "Every minute of every day.  I never loved another woman since you.  I don't know if I ever will."

She held him tight, eyes stinging.  "So come with me, El.  Come south with me.  They can no longer hurt us, no longer drive us apart.  I will kill anyone who comes between us again."

She trembled, remembering those years so long ago, her life in the courts of Requiem.  The pain flooded her, memories like rivers, streams of faces and words and feelings.

She had been only three years old when the dragons of Requiem burned her home.  Their claws toppled the white towers of Tiranor, and their flames burned their oases in the desert.  Solina had been too small to understand why the war raged.  She did not understand why her parents would not wake, why their blood covered her.  The dragon who slew them, the vile King Olasar, pitied her that day.  He kidnapped her from her home, brought her to his cold realm of snow and birches, far from the warmth and light of Tiranor.

She grew in his court.  A freak.  An outsider.  A Tiran girl not blessed by Requiem's stars.  She could not shift into a dragon like Prince Orin, like King Olasar, like all the Vir Requis she grew up among.

Deformed,
the children of the court would call her. 
Freak.  Cripple.
  They would shift into dragons, slap her with their tails, and blast fire at her feet and make her dance.  How she tried to shift too!  How she dreamed of becoming a dragon!  Yet she was a southerner, a desert child, doomed to be weak, scared, tormented.

And then… then her life changed.  Then Elethor was born.  A pure baby, younger brother to Orin and like a brother to her.  Solina vowed to protect this soft, beautiful child, to make sure he never felt loneliness or pain like she did.  She watched Elethor grow.  He was her treasure, her foster brother, her reason to live.  Even when he grew old enough to become a dragon, she still loved him.  She would run her fingers over his brass scales and kiss him, and he was
her
dragon, her protector.

He was only fifteen when she kissed him in this gazebo.  She was twenty, but still clinging to all the fear and rage of youth; in her mind, she felt no older than him.  They conquered their fear together.  For three years, they would hide in this gazebo, or in the forests, or in the tunnels beneath Nova Vita, and they would love each other.  A forbidden, secret, wonderful, horrible love.  For three years Solina felt pure joy… until Lord Deramon caught them in the forest, and told his king, and Requiem's rage rained down upon them.

"Solina of Tiranor!" King Olasar shouted in his court.  She stood before him, head lowered, tears on her cheeks.  "Despite the crime of your parents, who attacked our borders and sacked our temples, I raised you as a daughter.  I sheltered you, taught you, protected you.  And yet you cast your sin upon my son."  His fists trembled at his sides.  "Elethor is like a brother to you.  How dared you seduce him?  He is only a youth, five years younger than you.  How dared you bring such perversion into my hall?"  He pointed a shaky finger at her.  "You are banished from Requiem!  Leave this place now, and wander whatever lands you may please; if you are caught within our borders, your life is forfeit."

Rage bloomed within her.  She drew her dagger and screamed.

"You will not speak of my parents!"  Her voice was hoarse, torn with years of pain.  "I know what you did to them.  I know that you killed them, framed them for stealing jewels from your temples.  Liar!"  She ran toward him, knife raised.  "You cannot know how Elethor and I love each other.  You will not tear us apart!"

She almost killed him that night.  A few steps more, and she could have plunged her blade into his heart.  Yet Orin—brutish, cruel Prince Orin—stood as a dragon by the throne.  Like a coward, he did not face her as a man, but blew fire upon her.  The flames shot toward her, a screaming inferno.

Elethor shouted and pulled her aside.  He saved her life, she knew… but dragonfire burned bright, and tongues of its flames still seared her.  She screamed, ablaze, and fell.  Welts and smoke rose across her.  Never had such pain filled her.  It made her weep, roll on the ground, and claw the air.

For days she lay abed in a temple, bandaged and feverish.  The priestesses tended to her in darkness.  She cried for Elethor, but they would not let her see him.  When finally she rose from her bed, and her bandages were removed, she bore her line of fire.  The scar split her face, snaked down her torso, and crawled down her leg. 
A reminder,
she knew. 
A pledge.  A battle scar.

"Solina!" he shouted from the walls as they cast her out, goading her with spears, sending her into the wilderness with nothing but a waterskin and loaf of bread.

She dared not look back at him.  She walked, barefoot, leaving the city behind.  She heard his dragon roars calling her name, but she did not want to remember him this way.  She would remember the Elethor who held her in the tunnels, laughed with her, whispered with her.  She walked south for days, leaving Requiem, heading into the swamps of Gilnor.  All of autumn she walked, until in winter she reached a land where no snow fell, and heat rose from sand.

Tiranor.  Land of her parents.  Land of the Sun God, of flame, of power.  Her people welcomed her with joy—the last, lost daughter of the great Phoebus Dynasty.  They crowned her with ivory and raised her to be their queen.  In desert temples of stone, she worshipped her new lord the Sun God.  She swore that if he gave her the strength, she would kill his enemies in Requiem.

"He gave me so much."

A chest of firegems, crystals that held flames from the sun itself.  With them, she could become the phoenix.  With them, her followers could soar as beasts woven of sunfire.  Soon all the temples of Tiranor praised her name, flew with her to battle, and vowed to destroy the weredragons who worshipped night and stars.

"But you, Elethor," she whispered in the gazebo as Requiem burned, "you don't need to die.  Come south and rule with me.  We will be together again… like we were born to be."

She saw in his eyes that he had relived their lost years too.  He removed her hands from his shoulders, took a step back, and stared at her.

"You come with fire," he said.  "You come with death.  You murdered my family and you burned my home.  How can you now ask me for love?  Did you do all this from some… some mad notion that if you destroyed everything I have, I would be with you?"  Pain cracked his voice.  "I loved you so much, but I don't understand this."

She shook her head sadly.  "Elethor, oh Elethor, how to make you understand?  I did not kill and burn for you alone."  She touched her scar.  "I killed for this.  For how they hurt me, and how they hurt you.  I killed for my lord, the Sun God, and all that he's given me.  But I do not wish to kill you."  She took a step toward him, breathing heavily.  "But if you refuse me, Elethor… if you fight me, I will hurt you.  Turn me down and I will kill you.  I will kill everyone who huddles in your tunnels."

He stared away from her, watching Requiem burn between the gazebo columns.  "I am king of this land now.  I never wanted the crown.  I never imagined that I'd wear it.  But I am King of Requiem, and I cannot abandon her.  I cannot abandon all those who still live here."

"You will abandon them."  She grabbed his shoulder, digging her fingernails into it, and spun him around.  She snarled.  "You will surrender this land to me, Elethor.  You will return with me to Tiranor.  Do this, and I will spare your life, and I will spare those of your people who still live.  Refuse me, Elethor… and you will all die.  You will die in fire."

He stared aside, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.  She saw the turmoil on his face.

"You know my answer," he said.

She pulled his face to her and stared into his eyes.  "You are loyal to your friends.  That is admirable.  How would you serve them by refusing me?  Would you watch me burn them?  Because I would make you watch, Elethor.  You would watch them die in agony before I killed you."  She turned her back to him and spoke through clenched teeth.  "Go to your tunnel, weredragon, and think.  Think of those you love.  Return here at sunrise to surrender to me.  If you still choose to fight me, my fire will consume the world."

With that, she left him and walked downstairs to the courtyard.  Her fingers tingled and a trembling smile found her lips.

I love you, Elethor,
she thought, breathing hard. 
But if I cannot have you, I will destroy you.

 
 
MORI

She stood in the corner, hugging herself, and listened to the adults argue.  Elethor had returned with the news:  They had until dawn to surrender.  Everyone seemed to have an opinion, which they were shouting.  Bayrin Eleison, who would tug her pigtails in childhood, shouted that he'd charge through the Tirans and kill Solina himself.  Lord Deramon grumbled that surrender might be the only option they had.  Others stood around them—the Lady Lyana, a priest, two wounded lords, a group of guards—calling for war, for prayer, or for surrender.

Only Mori was silent.  She stood in the back, cloaked in shadows, and dared not speak.  She worried that if she opened her mouth, her voice would tremble, and tears would fill her eyes.  An iciness lived in her belly, twisting and growing.  Her shame still ached, a deep pain she worried would never leave her.

She remembered his tongue, a wet serpent, licking her cheek.  She remembered his stale breath, his hands crushing her, his body above her, her mouse dying under her chest.  She remembered the pain, and she closed her eyes and forced herself to take deep breaths.  Before, in the battle, she had found no time for shame.  Now it flooded her.

"Stars, I've heard enough!" Bayrin shouted, so loud that Mori's ears ached.  "You can't be serious, Father.  To let Elethor go with this… this creature of fire back to her lair?"

Lord Deramon was glaring at everyone and everything.  "How do you suggest we fight the phoenixes?  Dragonfire only feeds them.  Claws cannot cut them.  Even if we could stop them from entering the tunnels, we'd eventually die of starvation and thirst."

Bayrin crossed his arms.  "Our water reservoirs and our silos are here underground.  We have enough to last all winter."

"And what then?" Lady Lyana interjected, clutching her sword so tightly her knuckles were white.  "Will you have us linger underground all winter, only to starve in spring?  That's assuming we can even hold back the Tirans that long."

For a moment everyone shouted together, and Mori felt like a mouse herself, a small thing that made its home in shadows, unseen and frightened.  She looked at her brother Elethor.  He stood between her and the others, eyes dark.  Only he seemed to notice Mori; he looked toward her, and his eyes softened.  His chest rose and fell, and such sadness seemed to fill him that Mori wanted to embrace him. 

Our father is dead.  Our older brother is dead.  Elethor and I are all that's left of our family.  We're all we have.
  Tears filled her eyes and her lip trembled.

"What do you think, Mori?" he asked softly, his voice barely heard over the shouts of the others.  It was not a plea for advice, she knew.  Elethor was not asking for help.  What he was really asking was: 
How are you holding on?

She looked away.  His eyes were too much like Orin's.  Gazing into them hurt too much.

"I don't know," she whispered, and that pain between her legs flared, and the shame inside her cried to her, calling her a harlot, a disgrace, a soiled thing.

Bayrin, her brother's gangly oaf of a friend, laughed mirthlessly.  "Finally, an honest one among us.  The Princess Mori doesn't know what to do.  Neither do I.  Neither do any of us.  At least the girl is honest."  He guffawed; it sounded close to tears, close to panic, a last attempt at humor to hold back the horror.  "So tell me, Mori, maybe you know this:  Will we die from starvation, fire, or the thrusts of Tiran swords?"

Bayrin would always tug her braids in childhood, stuff frogs down her dress, and mock her mercilessly for having one finger too many.  Today Mori missed the trickster Bayrin; the frightened and bitter Bayrin seemed infinitely worse.  She clutched her hands behind her back, twisting her fingers.  She felt her eleventh finger there, her luck finger, the plucky pinky itself as she sometimes called it. 
Bring me luck today,
she thought. 

"I need to learn more," she said softly.  "About the Sun God.  About this magic of phoenixes."  She turned and began walking away.  "I'll visit the library; it's not far from here.  I'll learn what I can and return."

She felt their eyes on her back.  Their argument died, and an odd silence filled the tunnels.  The wounded lay around her feet, moaning and clutching wounds.  Other survivors stood along the walls, rows of them leading into the darkness below.  These tunnels delved deep, Mori knew, eventually leading to the Abyss itself, a realm of hidden horrors.

She heard her brother speak softly behind her.  "Mori.  Mori, are you all right?"