Dragonfate: Dragon's Oath: Dragonfate, #3

By Alexis Steinhauer

Book 3 of the Dragonfate series. Days are speeding by, and time is growing short for the inhabitants of the land called Altruaeda. Chaotic magics are tearing the world apart, monsters are emerging from their dark dwellings, and the threat to the few remaining dragons grows with every passing hour. Half-Ruby Dragon Kyaza has been charged with the task of restoring the land to safety, but as his own fate spirals further out of his control, his certainty grows that those who chose him have made a terrible mistake. . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexis Steinhauer
• Release date: Feb 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465797797

Alexis Steinhauer

Alexis Steinhauer is a cat-loving bookworm who likes tea, heavy metal music, dripping candles and dark stories. Her favorite place to be is in her nest of pillows with a book in one hand and either a cat or a laptop on her lap. She will laugh at just about any dad joke or cat meme you throw at her. Alexis is the author of Dragonfate: Dragon's Gold, Dragonfate: Dragon's Flight and Dragonfate: Dragon's Oath. She is also the author of The Felling. The Bone Harp Book 1. Her new series, Fabricated Men, is her current project and passion.

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DRAGONFATE:

DRAGON'S OATH

by

Alexis Steinhauer

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Alexis Steinhauer on Smashwords

Dragonfate:

Dragon's Oath

Copyright © 2012 by Alexis Steinhauer

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

This story is for the most amazing family in the world, which also happens to be mine. Kyaza and I wouldn't have made it anywhere without their help.

Lyrephrrile an'trivaulé!

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Alturian Calendar

Ithelodrian Calendar

Pronunciation Guide

Translation Guide

Prologue . . . . . Killer's Vow

Chapter 1 . . . . . Instinct

Chapter 2 . . . . . Racing Death

Chapter 3 . . . . . Advent of Despair

Chapter 4 . . . . . The White Hawk

Chapter 5 . . . . . Dance

Chapter 6 . . . . . A Stranger Inside

Chapter 7 . . . . . Silver and Ruby

Chapter 8 . . . . . Belief

Chapter 9 . . . . . Heartless

Chapter 10 . . . . . Captain's Quest

Chapter 11 . . . . . Gathering Shadows

Chapter 12 . . . . . In the Web

Chapter 13 . . . . . Steel Fangs

Chapter 14 . . . . . Banishment

Chapter 15 . . . . . One Hundred Tears

Chapter 16 . . . . . Site of Tragedy

Chapter 17 . . . . . Verdict

Chapter 18 . . . . . Inevitability

Chapter 19 . . . . . Priorities

Chapter 20 . . . . . Anédre

Chapter 21 . . . . . The Warped Glass

Chapter 22 . . . . . Roles to Play

Chapter 23 . . . . . Flamespinner

Chapter 24 . . . . . Slip of the Tongue

Chapter 25 . . . . . Trust Me

Chapter 26 . . . . . A Cryptic Message

Chapter 27 . . . . . Beneath the Axe

Chapter 28 . . . . . Blood Exchange

Chapter 29 . . . . . Horror

Chapter 30 . . . . . Past Evils

Chapter 31 . . . . . The Place of Light and Emptiness

Chapter 32 . . . . . Darkening

Chapter 33 . . . . . Empathy

Chapter 34 . . . . . Touched by Death

Chapter 35 . . . . . Steel and Shadow

Chapter 36 . . . . . The Firebird

Chapter 37 . . . . . Cradle of Stars

Chapter 38 . . . . . Morning Glory

Chapter 39 . . . . . One of Many

Chapter 40 . . . . . Blood Will Tell

Chapter 41 . . . . . A Parting of Ways

Chapter 42. . . . . The Wall

Chapter 43 . . . . . Fairy's Price

Chapter 44 . . . . . The Invincible Captain

Chapter 45 . . . . . Burning

Chapter 46 . . . . . Through Fate's Eyes

Chapter 47 . . . . . Guidance

Chapter 48 . . . . . Rubyscale

Chapter 49 . . . . . Night's Cloak

Chapter 50 . . . . . A Gust of Wind

Chapter 51 . . . . . Open Invitation

Chapter 52 . . . . . Fulfilling a Promise

Chapter 53 . . . . . Practice Session

Chapter 54 . . . . . Myself

Chapter 55 . . . . . The Measure of Life

Chapter 56 . . . . . Slivered Moon

Chapter 57 . . . . . Burning Cage

Chapter 58 . . . . . Laid to Rest

Chapter 59 . . . . . Phantasmal

Chapter 60 . . . . . The Noose Tightens

Chapter 61 . . . . . Rainfall

Chapter 62 . . . . . A Worthy Display

Chapter 63 . . . . . The Price of Love

Chapter 64 . . . . . Sunset

Chapter 65 . . . . . Arisen

Alturian Calendar

For Alturia it is three hundred and sixty-five days the year, and there are fifteen months, cycles of the moons, within that space of time. This is a calendar of the months, the first being the first month of spring and what the Alturians see as the first of the year itself.

Month- Days Within-

Leythin 24

Kerrivar 24

Thae 25

Vira 24

Beyintir 24

Ionol 24

Tyellas 25

Arregea 25

Pallas 24

Myrrun 24

Arag 25

Eyle 24

Iphril 24

Sul 25

Oldre 24

Ithelodrian Calendar

For Ithelodria it is three hundred and sixty-five days the year, and there are fifteen months, cycles of the moons, within that space of time. This is a calendar of the months, the first being the first month of spring and what the Ithelodrians see as the first of the year itself.

Month- Days Within-

Leytha 24

Kerrintor 24

Thaefis 25

Viraxan 24

Beyator 24

Iol 24

Syella 25

Arrea 25

Pallacor 24

Myrruel 24

Aragen 25

Vyre 24

Liphrala 24

Su 25

Colare 24

Pronunciation Guide

Allysdale . . . . . AL-lihz-dale

Altruaeda . . . . . AHL-true-IE-duh

Alturia . . . . . ahl-TUE-ree-uh

Cyl . . . . . SILL

Éa . . . . . AY-uh

Eluvea . . . . . ee-LUE-vee-uh

Faerie . . . . . FAY-ehr-ee

Gael . . . . . GALE

Hallen . . . . . HAHL-lehn

Ilacia . . . . . ih-LAY-see-uh

Iridina . . . . . EER-ih-DEE-nuh

Ithelodria . . . . . IE-thel-OH-dree-uh

Kyaza . . . . . kie-AH-zuh

Lylvenawood . . . . . lil-VEE-nuh-wood

Nedila . . . . . neh-DEE-luh

Nicali . . . . . nih-KAH-lee

Raelin . . . . . RAY-eh-lin

Rychelaea . . . . . RIE-chell-AY-uh

Tallyn . . . . . TAL-lin

Thandre . . . . . THAHN-drr (th as in there)

Thiraxia . . . . . theer-OX-ee-uh (th as in there)

Uuren . . . . . OO-rehn

Verde . . . . . VAIR-day

Vylaedor . . . . . vill-AY-dore

Zoriestri . . . . . ZORE-ee-ESS-tree

Translation Guide

All the translations listed below are in Draconic unless they are marked otherwise. They're as accurate as they could be made using English (Common) lettering and sounds.

Anédre . . . . . Dragonfate

Arrum . . . . . Cloudbreaker

Avill Anaria . . . . . Blade Poison

Brreiathril'a . . . . . "Thought-bender"

Éadurma . . . . . Flamespinner

Endelre'a . . . . . Truth-seeker

Gytaláar'a . . . . . Illusion-weaver

Hlathkir . . . . . Hello

Laedanthri'a . . . . . Mind-speaker

Lëarin (Faerilíca) . . . . . My naïve friend

Li'hrra . . . . . Princess

Lye Edail . . . . . My love (the term is not a compound of two generic words, but literally the one who holds my heart)

Lyrephrrile an'trivaulé . . . . . May the stars cradle your soul (it is not a collection of words, but the expression of an idea—the stars could just as easily mean whatever deity the recipient believes in)

Rhystha-Anvein . . . . . Wingless beings of vapor (correct emphasis implies a phrase with more eloquence and less literality—hence, Spirits of the Mist)

Shiörii (Faerilíca) . . . . . Clumsy/tactless one

Tallae-Onmorra (Elfine) . . . . .Spirits of the Mist

Thandre . . . . . Dragon Guard (more literally, it should be said Guard of Dragons—as in, one who watches over dragonkind)

Varaye'a . . . . . Lightning-singer

Vylaedor . . . . . Bloodthorn

Zölazad'a . . . . . Sleep-caster

Who has never heard mention of the stuff of Fable? It is a common enough saying for very uncommon things. Who with an adventurous heart and a love of magic, myth and mystery has not wondered just how such a saying came to be? What is Fable? Is it a place, an occurrence, a memory? Or is it something so far beyond the reach of our everyday lives that we can never hope to understand it?

Fable is all of these things, and it is none of them. Fable is a place where strange creatures live, where nonexistent plantlife flourishes. It is a thing that cannot be found, yet a one that none of us can entirely escape. There, the impossible and the credible walk hand in hand, so close together that we cannot tell the difference between their faces. Fable is the thing buried deep in the pot of gold at the end of every rainbow; it is the place where we go to dream at night; it is the direction that thoughts fly to while we should be concentrating on our homework. It is a thing of wonder and danger, of tragedy and joy, of love and hate. And there is another secret about Fable: it belongs in each and every one of us, for it is only within us that it lives.

Because Fable has another name to us, one we all recognize in our hearts and in our minds. We call it imagination. . . .

-Prologue-

Killer's Vow

Alturia

Year 1239, month of Arag . . .

It had been eight days since Mincer rescued him, and the boy still did not speak. It worried him; the boy still cringed at his touch and, though Mincer had never drawn it against him, he still watched Mincer's three-headed flail, Rune Smasher, with the wariness of a cornered animal. The wounds from the beating those brigands had given him had healed with incredible speed, the cuts and whip-marks drawing closed and sealing into brown scabs, the bruises yellowing and fading without trace. He did not seem hurt beyond the capacity for speech. Perhaps he was mute?

No. Mincer sank his shaggy head into his hands with a grunt, glowering into his campfire. Leafy trees swayed to the song of the wind all around, dark and brooding where the firelight kissed their scarred trunks. No, he has a voice. He moans in his sleep.

The boy had slept for the better part of three days after Mincer first brought him to the campsite. He seemed to be haunted by the worst kind of nightmares, for he rolled restlessly, moaned as if in pain, and cried noiselessly into the furs Mincer had stacked for his bed. Mincer had woken him from them dozens of times. He found it wearing on his own reserves of strength to sit by his side for hours and hours, talking with false cheerfulness, telling inconsequential stories, taking the boy's mind from the pain and whatever dark visions clouded his thoughts.

He knew what the boy was; he could guess only too well at the kind of life he had led. Mincer knew he should probably put the creature down and be done with it, but each time he came to that decision, he remembered how he had found him, and realized he could not do it. The boy was alive, with a mind and a heart of his own no matter his race, and Mincer did not care to rip those away from him.

Mincer had been wandering the woods aimlessly that day, sunk in his own thoughts and paying little attention to his surroundings. His hand, as was its habit, stroked slow circles across the tip of Rune Smasher's haft; it was never far from his reach. Hern—massive black cats who hunted in packs—prowled the Feilast Woods in masses, and though he had hunted down and killed dozens of them, it took weeks of planning and careful scrutiny to bring down even one den, and they bred like rabbits. Even Mincer could not fight more than three or four at a time, and packs' numbers could rise as high as three times that.

He had been broken out of his reverie by the sound of raucous laughter, and realized only belatedly that he was not far from the road. He normally avoided the road and the slim chance that some travelers might be passing across it and recognize him. He had allowed his curly black hair and beard to form a thick hedge around his face since he came here, and he dressed in cured hides rather than fine cloth and shining armor, but he was generally wanted for treason and usually took no chances. He toyed briefly with the idea of leaving the laughing men to their business and retreating back to his camp, but before he could make up his mind an unusual sound cut through the trees to his ear. He tensed, cocking his head to listen.

It came again, from the same direction as the laughter: a cry of pain. Not a shout for help, only a broken, agonized sound that could have been dragged out of its maker's throat with a barbed fish-hook. Mincer could not ignore that. He turned and ran without thinking, pulling Rune Smasher into one hand and clasping his other around the chains to keep them from swinging or tangling.

They were obviously bandits, and not well-off at that. Their weapons were ill-kept and crude, their quilted armor stained and ripped, their faces haggard with hunger. Mincer would have let them pass by as nothing more than worn travelers, save for the wild glee that twisted their dirty faces as they laughed and hooted at the person lying at their feet. Three of them held splinter-filled clubs that might have been broken chair legs, and swung them repeatedly down on their victim; he twitched and moaned, but seemed past struggling. Mincer realized that they meant to kill him.

Anger surged through him, and he charged forward with a ferocious bellow, breaking through the brush onto the road, whirling his three-headed flail above his head. The brigands raised their faces in surprise, their hands frozen in midair, blood running sluggishly down their splintered weapons. Mincer did not hesitate. He smashed one man aside with his shoulder and whipped Rune Smasher in the other direction; the chains curled around another's head. A precise jerk from Mincer's powerful arm, and the flanged weights swung inward, crushing his skull to bloody fragments.

The bandits were talking to him, reasoning, backing away all the while. Mincer roared incoherently at them, and when they still failed to retreat, launched himself forward and flipped his three brain-spattered flail heads into another man's body. He flew backward and smacked into a tree with a sick crack, blood gushing from three gashes in his shattered chest.

The other men did not stay to force their opinions on him any longer. Green with fear, they turned as one and fled.

Muttering to himself, Mincer glared down at his weapon. It would take hours to clean. He looked around shortly to assure himself there were no more brutes hiding in the trees, then moved to the victim's side. He laid Rune Smasher down rather than stain the holder on his belt by replacing it there.

He was a boy of about ten years, naked and soaked in his own blood. His back had been viciously ripped apart; they were worse wounds than any Mincer had seen a person recover from. He had obviously been whipped hard before they set to him with the clubs. Long, jagged strips of wood were embedded in the torn flesh of his back and shoulders, and more of it saturated his dark hair where someone had landed a blow to his forehead. He was shaking violently, hugging himself, tears drawing pale tracks through the dirt and blood on his face.

Are you all right? asked Mincer grimly, though he knew the answer too well.

The boy opened his eyes, and Mincer started in shock at the sight of the irises: they were jewel green, brighter and more vibrant than new leaves, streaked with tiny flecks of glowing gold. They were not human eyes. Mincer clamped his jaw and reached over for his flail again.

A strangled sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sob, broke out of the boy's throat. He turned his head away a little and squeezed his eyes shut. Mincer froze. He knows, he thought. He knows that I'm going to kill him.

He hesitated. When he looked down, his mind told him he was gazing at a monster and a murderer; but his eyes insisted equally that this was a human child, hurting and bleeding, in need of immediate help. If he were human, thought Mincer, his hand hovering indecisively over his weapon, I wouldn't let him die.

He's not human, argued another part of his mind, speaking from experience. And I don't know exactly what breed he is. If I help him, he could turn on me and kill me. He pressed his lips together, hard. I know what he must be capable of; not all those wounds are new. Good or evil, he's fought and killed before.

He scowled, memories flitting through his mind: great, dazzling dragons cutting through the air like liquid lightning, their translucent wings glowing with the light of the sun behind them; houses collapsing, burning, while their owners sobbed and screamed and fled. Smoke pillaring up into the sky where dragons clashed, their fire of all colors painting a terrifyingly beautiful picture of light and agony, their riders' long lances gleaming white as they raised them to the sun. Not all dragons are evil, thought Mincer reluctantly, remembering vividly his own draconic friend, Netalirash. He had never had one dearer or more noble. And since this war began, far too many of them have been dying. I can't just let it happen again.

Abruptly Mincer moved his hand and unclasped his heavy bearskin cape. He'll probably die anyway, he consoled himself. And this situation will be taken off my hands. He reached around the boy and draped the cape over him. If there had been fire in his blood the cape would have caught, but it did not; Mincer knew enough about his kind to recognize that fear had sucked it from his veins. He grumbled under his breath, cursing the bandits, then picked up Rune Smasher and, disregarding the fluids that dribbled into the cups on his belt, fitted a head into each one and looped the haft to the belt itself. Then he scooped the boy into his arms.

The child stirred, opened his eyes and looked at him, raw terror and anguish in his face. He tried ineffectually to pull away, but the movement sent a spasm through him. He coughed, blood welling up through his teeth and spilling over Mincer's cape. Mincer waited awkwardly, but the fit seemed to exhaust the boy; he shuddered and slumped limply against Mincer's chest, unconscious. I wonder how much of this he will remember . . . assuming he survives.

Mincer had carried him to the campsite, his home, and dressed his wounds as best he could—having fought Hern many times before, it was a skill he had perfected, but there was simply nothing he could do to patch such extensive damage to any real effect. There was a narrow but deep wound in the boy's side that Mincer could only attribute to a sword; pale flakes of dried salve and herbal powders stuck to the congealed blood there, showing him that someone had treated it in the past few days. He sighed as he soaked a patch in healing juices and bound it up. He would need to travel to Altshell and buy more bandages. The boy woke from time to time as he worked, but seemed bleary with the pain and offered no resistance before drifting off again.

What in Alturia is the matter with him? Mincer grumbled to himself now, tossing a fresh log in the fire. The fire spat upward, flinging a cloud of smoke and twinkling motes at the clear night sky—it would be dawn soon. Mincer scrubbed a callused hand over his bearded jaw. He had not slept at all tonight; the boy had fallen into nightmares early, and Mincer had gone to wake him. He yawned and got up, stretching. The boy did not normally sleep during the day anymore, but would lie still and stare listlessly up at the roof of Mincer's tent, moving only to flinch when Mincer approached him. Mincer could snatch his quota of sleep during daylit hours, between going to check on his charge and cooking food. Luckily, he had enough dried meat sealed in stone boxes underground to last him for another month, and so had not needed to go hunting yet.

Mincer turned to go to the place, under the wrapping of a tree's knotted roots, where he had buried his winter stores. The boy had not eaten at all for the first two days, shrinking from offered food as if it were poison, but Mincer knew his kind—he knew swallowing it would not kill him. The boy had only begun to eat when Mincer threatened to force-feed him, and even so, he ate very little and coughed it back up as often as not.

There was a shovel leaning against the tree. Mincer grasped it, rolling his shoulders to shake off the sleepy stupor of long thought and silence, and stabbed it purposefully into the churned earth where the tree's roots curled in an oval shape and overlapped. He had spent two days digging and chopping through the tough roots to create the hollow where he settled his boxes, and he had planted yellow vrecodal moss all around the base of the tree, knowing the overpoweringly bitter scent would keep hungry animals at bay. He had no desire to wake at midnight and find a pack of Hern snuffling around his campsite.

A broken sound behind him made him turn, a frown creasing his face. He listened for a moment, and it came again. His eyes fixed on the tent. He left the shovel sticking out of the dirt and went to the canvas construct to investigate.

It was a spacious enclosure, tall enough for Mincer to stand upright in, lined with black furs. It was snug and warm even in the winter; right now, with the summer heat outside and the body heat of its occupant inside, it was stifling. Mincer crossed the yellow canvas flooring, stepping over a tangle of bandages both clean and bloody and an assortment of jars containing salves he had mixed himself. The air hung heavy with the stink of blood and healing, and the various herbs that swung in bundles from the wood-framed peak of the tent.

The boy lay on his Hern-pelt mattress, under a pair of half-shredded blankets; he had torn at them in his sleep before now, and he was much stronger than he appeared. He clutched them in white-knuckled fists. His dark red hair clung to his neck and forehead with sweat, and he groaned softly, face twisting as if someone was stabbing him, caught in the trap of some evil nightmare. Mincer leaned down and shook his shoulder briskly. Hey, he grunted. Hey!

His charge jolted awake, eyes flying open and landing immediately on Mincer; both he and Mincer recoiled. Mincer always forgot just how intensely unnatural the color was. He calmed himself and stared back, considering. The boy dropped his eyes, covered his face with his hands, and hunched down on the ground, shoulders shaking. His eyelids were bruised, his skin so pale that a white scar above his eyebrow showed darkly against it. Mincer did not know how to tell if he had a fever—his skin was always so hot anyway—but none of the wounds had become infected. He concluded that the boy's illness must be from deep stress and lack of food. If he doesn't eat more today, I'll need to force it down his throat, he thought resignedly. That should be entertaining.

Are you- Mincer began to ask the pointless question again, but stopped in alarm when the boy's shivers turned to rough coughs. Hey! he said again, sharply. Are you all right?

The boy cupped his hands over his mouth, tears streaming down his fingers, his body rocking under the force of the repeated, hacking coughs that tore from his throat. He could not have answered if he wanted to.

Mincer hesitated. Why me? he wondered, casting out after some explanation for Fate's ironic sense of humor. If he is good, he will still recover and tell others that he saw me, and at the very least I'll need to leave the Feilast. And if he is evil- But that did not bear thinking about. If he was evil, Mincer would need to kill him. It was a simple fact. If he did not, the boy would set out to slaughter thousands more. Such a thing would be in his nature, and unavoidable.

Mincer immediately regretted the uncharitable thought; the boy had not attempted to harm him yet. And he was just that—a boy. A child. Mincer did not know what he had seen or done that gave him these nightmares, so he could hardly blame him for it.

Finally, he forced aside the instinct that warned him of a killer's presence, and sat down on the thick cushion of Hern fur. The boy cringed when Mincer reached out to him, but Mincer ignored the reaction. I'm not going to have you whipped, boy, he stated unsympathetically, and gathered the boy to him as he might have his own son, if he had had any. Calm down, he commanded.

The boy continued to cough, great, wrenching things that stained his fingers red. Mincer wrapped him in a heavy Hern hide and held him, waiting, knowing there was nothing else he could do. When he first patched the boy's injuries, he had realized that not all of them were the result of a whip and a few poor clubs—there were many old scars there as well, and fresher marks that he could only guess were left by claws and teeth, in addition to the sword wound that would have killed a human outright. The surface wounds were healing well, but Mincer had no idea what was broken inside of him. He had bound a pair of cracked ribs, and that was all he could determine.

It seemed a long time before the boy finally quieted, then stopped. He covered his face with his hands as if he did not notice the bloody streaks his fingers put there, and pulled away from Mincer. Mincer eyed him cautiously.

Are you all right now? he asked, not expecting an answer.

The boy silently turned his face away.

Mincer shrugged and got up, and left the tent without argument. He went back to his shoveling.

He was sitting beside the fire, eyelids drooping, stirring the pot of stew automatically, when a movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. His head snapped around and he grabbed for Rune Smasher—only to see the boy standing a few yards away, flinching at the sudden movement as if he expected a blow.

Mincer paused suspiciously. Hello.

This was the first time the boy had left the tent since Mincer originally put him there. He was wearing the plain leather pants Mincer had sewn up and left for him, and his torso was still encased in layers of bandages, but his feet were bare. He looked a little unsteady and watched Mincer warily with those bright, glistening eyes; his mouth was a thin, pained line.

They stared at each other for a minute before Mincer relented. Come here, he offered, motioning with his hand to the place opposite him. Come on, boy, sit down before you collapse. When the boy hesitated, he took his hand pointedly off Rune Smasher's haft and held both up in the air. Can you understand what I'm saying? he asked, speaking each word slowly and distinctly. Do you understand Common? I'm not going to hurt you. Sit down.

Cautiously, the boy obeyed. He moved awkwardly, measuring his steps, as if he was not quite comfortable in his own body. He never took his eyes from Mincer's face.

There, said Mincer, satisfied and relieved, as the boy settled down and tucked his legs under him. "Isn't that bet—hey!" He snatched the steaming pot of stew off the fire as the entire wing of flame swerved and leaned toward the boy, reaching for him, trailing pale yellow tendrils over his arm. The boy tensed at Mincer's abrupt movement, but watched him with more bewilderment than fear now, as if he was unsure of Mincer's sanity.

It took Mincer a few seconds of incredulous staring to recall that ordinary fire could do no harm to the boy, because of the inhuman blood in his veins. It licked up and down his bare skin in a hungry, loving caress, neither catching nor scorching, and the boy made no move to pull away from it. Mincer clamped his mouth closed, opened it, closed it again, and finally forced out, Would you mind moving back a little? I'd rather my entire camp not go up in flames when that gets ahold of your bandages. He paused, then asked again, Do you understand me?

The boy hesitated, meeting Mincer's eyes. He gave a reluctant nod, glanced down at the fire and slid backward, out of its reach, though it still snaked longingly in his direction. Mincer blew out a relieved breath and looked into the pot that he held, the thick folds of his bearskin cape between his hands and the hot metal. He set it down and cast an inquiring glance at the boy. Are you hungry? He pointed at the pot and mimed spooning food into his own mouth.

This time it was faint amusement that flickered across the boy's face. He shook his head.

Mincer frowned. How are you feeling, then? he improvised.

The boy shrugged and glanced away.

Do you understand the common language? Mincer was beginning to feel like a fool.

A brief nod.

Can you speak?

A pause, then another nod.

Mincer hid his frustration. Does speaking pain you?

He shook his head.

Then why don't you? exploded Mincer. The boy pulled away a little, biting his lip at some surge of pain, watching Mincer as though preparing to avoid an attack. Mincer snorted. I'm not going to hurt you, he said. Really. I've just been carrying on with a very long monologue for more than a week now. . . . He muttered a few uncomplimentary words to himself under his breath. Do you have a name? he asked abruptly.

Again that moment of hesitation, then he murmured unwillingly, I am Kyaza.

Mincer's eyebrows climbed. It was a very simple name. Kyaza . . . ?

He shook his head. Only Kyaza.

Mincer chuckled. Good. I was expecting something long and tangled and unpronounceable. Possibly with a title or two before it, and a second name after. He shrugged and reached for one of the bowls at his side. Why don't you eat something? It helps.

A faint, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of the boy's mouth, but he shook his head again.

Resolving to press him again later, Mincer changed the subject. What kind of dragon are you? It was the question he least wanted the answer to, so he asked it first. The name Kyaza was only vaguely familiar to him—specifically, he thought he might have heard it mentioned once before, years ago. He didn't recall whether the name belonged to a good dragon or an evil one. His heart twinged when the boy winced. No good dragon would be unwilling to say. Tell me, he urged, keeping his hands firmly on the bowl and ladle so they would not stray toward Rune Smasher.

The boy's gaze, too, slid toward the weapon, then back to Mincer's face. He hung his head and bit his lower lip. Ruby, he admitted softly.

Mincer swallowed. Ruby. The worst of the evil. How did I deserve this? He set the bowl down carefully and laid his hand on Rune Smasher's haft. The boy's bright eyes moved beneath half-closed lids, flicking to watch the movement. He did not stir otherwise.

Ruby, Mincer repeated, mind whirling. Ruby Dragons were the most vicious of their kind. They were bloodthirsty, greedy tyrants who saw humans as nothing more than food or, at the very best, slaves to serve their selfish whims. In the Dragon War that raged across the land of Alturia even now, the Rubies were at the very fore of the evil dragons' armies.

Yet now Mincer was the one hesitating. The boy had spoken the name of his race, knowing that Mincer would feel obligated to do away with him upon hearing it, but he had not attacked or tried to flee. Mincer scrutinized him carefully, running his tongue over his dry lips, indecisive. Even wounded, he was certain the boy could fight if he needed to. If he had meant to kill Mincer or run away, he had had plenty of time in the past eight days. Yet here he sat, unmoving, braced for a killing blow as if he meant to accept it.

Scowling, Mincer picked up his weapon and wrapped the chains around his left hand, in a position from which he could uncoil it and strike in an instant if he needed to. He saw the boy shift very slightly, as if he wanted to retreat but would not allow himself to. Mincer could not help but admire his courage.

A long, tense minute passed, and at last Mincer lowered the flail into his lap. The boy glanced up, disbelief in his face. Not hope, only undisguised shock and doubt.

You . . . aren't going to kill me? He stumbled over the words, though whether from surprise or unfamiliarity with the common tongue, Mincer did not know and did not care to guess.

Mincer shook his head. Not unless you prove to me that you deserve it. I'm not in the habit of killing children, Kyaza.

The boy chewed his lip and scanned Mincer's face, as if seeking some sign of a lie. He relaxed very slightly, but said, Oh, I deserve it.

Again Mincer's eyebrows rose. "You want me to kill you?"

He shook his head, fingers curling into the grass at his side. N-no. I am . . . he searched for a word, grateful, for your restraint. He paused. But I do not understand it.

Eat, then, and I'll explain. Mincer grabbed up the bowl and thrust it at him.

I don't-

Or you can go back to bed, finished Mincer, meeting his gaze without fear. Dragons could capture human minds with their eyes, in a kind of serpent's hypnotism, but Mincer had spent enough time around them to know that backing down or avoiding eye contact was just as dangerous. And he had never dealt directly with a Ruby before. Eat.

Kyaza grimaced, but leaned forward, reaching through the flames and catching the bowl in his hand. He drew it through the fire and the wooden surface caught; he whispered something and stroked his fingers over the flames, and they died down. Mincer watched without comment; dragons had many strange abilities, and he had seen much more astonishing things during the years he spent in their company.

Mincer tossed him a spoon. It sailed cleanly over the flames and Kyaza caught it reflexively. So, said Mincer, filling his own bowl, just what is it that you don't understand?

The dragon boy took a moment to gather his thoughts, stirring his stew with disinterest. Mincer wondered if he would prefer a chunk of raw meat. You have . . . helped me, he said at last, lifting his eyes to Mincer's. They flashed, casting back the firelight like a cat's. He had obvious trouble speaking Common; he stumbled over his own tongue, and the words emerged with curled vowels and R's that rippled like growls. You are not one of the men who, ahh . . .

Attacked you? suggested Mincer derisively. No, I should say not. They're gone, and if they want to keep all their limbs, they won't be coming back. He poked his forefinger at Kyaza's bowl. Eat, he repeated.

Kyaza obeyed, chewing and swallowing carefully once before he spoke again. Why? he asked. Why did you help me? I know you recognized what I am.

Mincer almost choked. Eyes watering, he lunged for the waterskin and took several gulps before he glared at the dragon boy. "You expected me to murder you," he said, comfirming.

Looking uncomfortable, Kyaza shrugged. Why would you not? The others were willing to, even before they- again the brief search for a word- realized, that I am not like you.

If every Ruby Dragon looks on humans that way, it's not a wonder they want to enslave us all, grumbled Mincer, shaking his head. Those men were far from the best examples of our race, little dragon. And as I said, I'm not in the habit of slaughtering children, I don't care who or what they are.

I am no child, by human reckoning, replied Kyaza quietly.

Mincer nodded. No one knew exactly how long a dragon could live, except that if they weren't immortal, it was a very, very long time. They aged much more slowly than humans; he was not certain, but he guessed this boy could be anywhere from twenty to forty years old.

One other thing piqued his curiosity. How can you stay in human form for so long? he questioned. Most dragons could take the shape of a human for only a day at most, and that was a strain it could take days to recover from. Kyaza had been in human form when Mincer found him, and had not changed since.

The young Ruby's expression turned bleak. I am half-human, he answered, looking down at the bowl in his hands. My mother took her human shape often enough to learn to- he hesitated- love a human. I think it is his blood which makes it . . . possible, for me to take either shape for as long as I need to.

I see. Mincer studied him thoughtfully. It was well known that Rubies despised humans—he wondered what kind of unique circumstances had changed that for this boy's mother. He did not think Kyaza was lying. Who was your father?

I . . . would rather not say.

Fine. Then eat. Mincer brushed aside his own question without complaint; he understood. Since I'm helping you, your health has become my responsibility. Eating will help you recover. Get that entire bowl into your stomach, and I'll be satisfied.

Kyaza looked up. Am I your prisoner here? he asked, his voice breaking a little.

Mincer stared at him. Kyaza was clearly not joking. "No, absolutely not. I couldn't force you to stay here even if I wanted to. You're a dragon, for goodness' sake. You're free to leave whenever you like—although in your condition, you might not make it far."

His relief was plain, though he quickly ducked his head, his long hair falling across his face to hide it. Thank you, he murmured.

Year 1241, month of Thae

The Dragon War was over. Mincer walked back to his campsite thoughtfully, idly clasping and releasing Rune Smasher's haft and reflecting on the truth. A rejoicing minstrel following a well-guarded caravan had imparted the news to him this morning. While Mincer, hooded and buried behind the tangled growth of his hair, had been the caravan's guest for dinner, he had heard a hundred conflicting tales about it. Only one thing seemed to be repeated over and over again: after the last battle, where nearly all the surviving dragons in the land had gathered and clashed, the evil dragons had been chained down and slaughtered like sheep. Thousands upon thousands of humans everywhere were still celebrating, though the final blow had been struck more than a week ago; the war had lasted for eighty years and torn Alturia and its people apart. The few good dragons still living had wearily withdrawn into their own secluded domains, where no humans would disturb them and where they could cause no trouble for humankind.

Rumors abounded, telling of how the dragons had gathered the four human kings together and spoken to them, promising they would not return for a long time, if at all, unless they were needed. Wilder tales suggested that the king of the province of Indrasia had relinquished his throne to his heir and taken the shape of a dragon, revealing at last the source of his strength in battle. Others claimed that the dragons had bestowed magical gifts upon the kings, crowns and swords and cloaks that would grant them the wisdom and charm to lead their people into a better age. Mincer didn't believe them, though he did believe that the number of dragons still living in Alturia had been reduced from thousands to scores, if that. A few evil dragons had escaped, but the kings were organizing their knights to begin the process of hunting them down; people claimed that in a matter of months, Rubies, Blacks, Stones, Emeralds and so many others would be no more.

Mincer didn't know how he was going to tell Kyaza.

The young Ruby had stayed with him, though even after two years he remained distant and brooding. It was a rare word he spoke that had anything to do with his past, no matter how often Mincer asked. Mincer could only gather that his memories haunted him; he still rose hollow-eyed and quiet more often than not, after being tortured at night by his dreams. Mincer had given up trying to drag him out of all but the worst of them—it was simply too taxing on both of them.

Mincer had fallen unconsciously into the role of teacher, and it was mostly by addressing Kyaza's ignorance that he learned of him. He knew Kyaza had taken human form only once in his life, and that was just a few days before Mincer had found him; everything had been strange to him, from walking upright to using his hands to speaking through an unfamiliar mouth. Kyaza was well acquainted with Common, but never having had the need to use it much before, he had at first been slow to piece his sentences together. Mincer helped him in every way that he could, but Kyaza often shied away from him, whether it was from an unwelcome topic of speech or a comforting hand Mincer would put on his shoulder. He hated to be touched. He was so flighty, Mincer woke every morning half-expecting to find him gone. A few times he had, in fact—but when Kyaza did leave the campsite during a restless night and wander the Feilast for a day or more, he never went far.

Mincer taught him to walk quietly, a thing which, once he gained his natural level of balance, he excelled at. He learned the names and alchemical uses for all things that grew in the Feilast and the surrounding lands. He learned what signs to look for that would lead him back to their campsite, how to detect the presence of nearby animals, how to track and hunt as a human did—the last he strongly disliked, neglecting his practice with the bow in favor of running his prey down and killing it with his bare hands, or luring it to him with a honeyed voice and soothing words which all animals could understand. That was another of the strange gifts granted to him by his dragon's blood: when he spoke, no matter the language he used, animals knew what he meant. If he concentrated, he could understand them in turn.

When he grew more restless than usual, Mincer would hand him a carved wooden sword and begin a bout of sparring. Kyaza was stronger than he knew, so Mincer received a near-crippling number of bruises in the first few months, before Kyaza learned to pull his blows. But he did have talent that went beyond his draconic strength; his balance and coordination were extraordinary, his reflexes faster than any human's, and he had the instincts for movement and choice that could, with time, make him a master swordsman. His only drawback in the field was distaste for it, for he made no secret of his aversion to bloodshed, and Mincer could and would not disguise a sword as anything but a killing tool.

Mincer trudged back into the clearing where the fire circle and the two canvas tents made up their campsite. He glanced toward the sky to see that it was very late; the sun must have set hours ago, and his feet guided him home without his noticing the loss of the light. Ragged clouds drifted like pale ghosts across the curtain of the stars. The summer constellations were all awake and watching: the Serpent, the Sailboat, the Witch, the Crow. The Dragon would not spread his wings across the sky until the first frosts coated the ground in the mornings.

At first he thought the clearing was empty and Kyaza was asleep in his tent, but when he walked toward the combed ashes of the fire he saw the dragon boy curled on his side at the base of a tree, where he must have fallen asleep waiting for Mincer. Mincer knew he had barely slept at all in the past week, and he looked peaceful now; he did not want to move him. So he aimed to walk past him and fetch a blanket—Kyaza would not need the warmth, but habits were hard to kill.

As Mincer neared him, Kyaza woke and uncoiled like a snake rising to strike; but the tension went out of him when he recognized Mincer. Mincer frowned; this was not the first time such a thing had happened. On the first few occasions he had started so violently he almost fell over backward.

Kyaza studied his face, taking in his grim expression. Worry flickered through his eyes. Is something wrong? he asked.

Mincer was too tired to be tactful, and knew that if he didn't answer now, Kyaza would probably be awake all night expecting a forest fire or an invasion of starving Hern. The boy had an unfortunate habit of reading disaster into the faintest of signs. He described his chance encounter with the caravan as concisely as possible, and watched as Kyaza's expression became stony. When he finished, the Ruby turned away. I'm sorry, said Mincer doubtfully, not knowing what else could help.

Sorry? Why? Kyaza half-turned, looking back at him. He kept his voice level, but even in the dark Mincer could see the bitterness in his eyes. Your people won. You are free. Thousands of lives have been spared by the ending of the war. There is no reason to be sorry.

Mincer realized he had said the wrong thing, though he couldn't fathom why. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. Didn't you have family among the other Rubies?

He blinked once and took a slow breath. Everyone I cared about was dead before you found me, he stated expressionlessly. Do not feel sorry for me, Mincer. I don't deserve it, and I don't want it.

Why not? pressed Mincer. What did you do during the war that was so horrible, eh, boy? Were you so different then?

Kyaza shrank away from him, eyes narrowing to glittering slits in his fury. I was a monster, Mincer, he said with deadly softness. I don't care who you were or what you saw—I was worse than anything you can imagine. I still am, and you are blind not to see it. His mouth twisted. Believe me, you don't want to know any more about me than you do, lest you take my nightmares for your own.

Mincer stared at him incredulously; this was more venom than he had ever seen his Ruby charge express. You don't know what I saw in this war, he began, trying to reason with him, calm him down.

This war, Kyaza spat. This wretched, wasteful, cursed war. Yes, I know its dark facets all too well. I have only one thing I can tell you about it—and I have only one promise to make you for myself, though I will not blame you if you disregard my poisoned word and choose to slip a blade between my ribs tonight. He closed his eyes, forcing his ragged breathing down. This war was the beginning for me, he said, more calmly, the pain, the sorrow, the endless years of death and blood. He opened his eyes, steely and hard as frozen gemstones. I swear that it will not be the end as well. . . . If I have a choice, I will never, ever kill again.

Before Mincer could get more than a single warning syllable out, Kyaza whirled around and fled into the darkness.

-Chapter 1-

Instinct

Alturia

Year 1258, month of Myrrun . . .

The scent of smoke choked the air; the clouds of ash and dust burned her throat. A heavy weight compressed her chest, and something sharp transfixed her left hand, holding it pinned like an insect to a board. She was barely conscious; the sounds above her seemed warped, growing louder and then quieter, blurring together—shuffling noises, voices, scraping as of metal on metal. None of it seemed to make sense, though in a distant way she was certain she should have understood it.

One thing she was certain of: she could hardly breathe, and needed to get free. With no thought for the weight of the thing on top of her, she moved her free hand and braced her fingers against it, heaving upward. For one brief moment her arm froze, and she was not sure she would be able to push it off, but then the thing fell aside and left her free to breathe.

A little distance away, someone let out an exclamation. Rocks slid and wood grated as they hurried toward her.

Instinct drove her aching body upright, forced an explosion of awareness into her as her mind automatically flew free, touching her surroundings. She felt the coarseness of splintered wood; the thickness of ash floating in the air; the cold, broken shards of stone that had seemingly been blasted to pieces. Bodies lay crushed underneath mountains of rubble. Only ruined walls stood where once there must have been somebody's home.

My home? Her head hurt; she wasn't sure. She had no idea what she was doing here, or what this place had been.

Or even who she was.

Calm down, said one of the people scrambling toward her. A word leaped to her otherwise empty mind: human. She cast her thoughts toward him, feeling, and encountered solidness as she might with her hands. He was powerfully built, with weathered skin and creases around his eyes from many years of squinting into the sun; he was simply dressed as a farmer, but blood, dust, and ash covered him.

Something terrible happened here, she thought suddenly. She straightened just a little from her tense position, tilting her head and blinking sightless eyes as she listened to the humans' approach. Something destroyed this place. Something powerful. That power still crackled in the air, leaving a sour taste in her mouth and causing her bones to vibrate. And yet, she had no idea what it might have been.

Are you all right? asked the human farmer, coming to a halt in front of her. His companion, a shorter man dressed in heavy armor, with a sturdy sword belted at his waist, unclasped his cloak and threw it over her shoulders.

Dispassionately, she felt over her surroundings again. Two other humans stood at a distance, watching intently. Bits and pieces of debris seemed to have been scattered beyond the main wreckage, amid the tangled stalks and leaves of what had been a flourishing garden. She didn't think this had happened too long ago.

How did you survive this? What happened? inquired the knight, when she still did not answer. She turned her face toward him, a slight frown pulling at her mouth as she forced herself to make sense of his words. It took a moment to piece them together: her thoughts were still scattered.

Another minute passed, and the farmer shifted awkwardly. Well, who are you, then? he asked. She felt his eyes narrow as he studied her face. Are you—oh! He flinched back, and his companion looked at him in surprise. You—you're the dragon girl.

Dragon. The word was familiar, but meant nothing to her. She took a step back—and tripped over the hem of the knight's cape. He made a concerned noise and stretched out a hand to grip her wrist.

She didn't think. All her instincts screamed at her to defend herself from that sudden movement; and as the man's cold gauntlet closed around her arm, her other hand snapped out and the heel of her palm smashed into his throat. She heard a crunch and felt something give way, and he fell backward, clutching at his neck while blood bubbled over his chin. The farmer stood in shock for an instant, then lunged forward as if he could restrain her.

The shout of warning had barely passed his lips before the side of her hand struck his cheekbone, snapping his head to the side. She clearly felt the bone crack, and he collapsed like a felled tree.

She ran, not knowing why or where. Her feet barely touched the sharp rubble as she leaped away from the ruined building, springing like a deer into the hills beyond. She felt the soft whisper of the wind in her hair, the press of damp earth beneath her toes, the swaying dance of each blade of grass; though her eyes could see nothing, her mind guided her by effortless instinct. She dodged every molehill, flew up each slope and down the other side without stumbling, and stepped easily over every sharp rock that the grass should have hidden. At first people called after her, but those sounds soon faded.

It could have been hours that she ran, swift and tireless; she was not certain. It was not fear that drove her on, but the sheer exhilaration of running, the feeling of the ground flying by beneath her feet, of the wind whipping her face and arms, of the two hearts in her chest pumping strength into her veins. She did not grow tired of it—it was thirst, finally, that made her slow and stop.

The river was swift and deep, filled with fish of all kinds. Smooth rocks were embedded in its banks, and tall grass craned over it. In places, bubbling foam swirled on its surface. She was breathing hard when she stopped beside it and listened to the splashes and gurgles of its progress, to the plop of a fish leaping from the water in a spray of icy droplets.

Fearlessly she went to the edge, slid down the slick bank, and squatted where a dense cluster of stones and grass made a shelf of earth solid enough to bear her weight. She cupped the frigid liquid in her good hand—a small, bleeding hole had been bored through the palm of her left—and drank until her thirst was sated; then she leaned back on her toes, eyes closed, and contemplated the ever-changing swirls on the river's surface.

It did not exactly bother her, being unable to remember her life. Perhaps that was because she could not remember why she should be worried in the first place, but it was still true. She searched her mind and found knowledge of several languages, fragments of information about the land she lived in, and enough instinct and shadows of memory to tell her how to survive in the wilderness . . . but not much else. She had no idea how she had learned what she knew.

She knew that she lived in a land called Alturia. Elves, dwarves, and humans lived here and claimed lands for their own; dragons lived more solitary lives. She knew that she was half-human, half-dragon, and should have been able to change between human and dragon forms. She did not remember how to do that, but doubted it was anything as simple as willing the change to occur. She knew she was ambidextrous, and familiar with the feeling of holding a weapon in each hand. She knew she was blind, but understood the concept of sight through the eyes, which made her wonder if she had always been so. And she had no memory at all of any occurrences in her life, nor of family, friends or enemies.

Oh, good, you are alive.

She lifted her head, broadening her perceptions. Her questing mind came across something that confused her, something of which she had no knowledge at all: fluttering toward her, wings sweeping up enough wind to flatten the grass, was a person. She was not quite human, for she had long ears like lance-tips and hedges of dragonlike spikes on each shoulder, and wings like a dragon's—sized to suit her body—spread wide to catch the air. The girl was not yet fully grown, perhaps thirteen, with her voluminous hair pulled into a braid that would fall past her knees if she stood upright.

The girl backflapped, wings straining, and touched the ground at a run. I had wondered if you survived, she said, coming nearer. I searched the rubble, but could not find you; I would have stayed, but those men came, and I needed to hide. How are you?

She did not know how to answer, so she remained silent and still, crouching at the edge of the river with the knight's cape pulled close about her. Due to the dragon's fire inside her blood no cold would touch her, but she was otherwise dressed in only the barest rags, and some part of her warned her that this was not acceptable.

Can you speak? asked the girl, stepping closer. Some radiance, some warm power radiated from a point in front of the girl's heart. The strength of it both pulled and repelled, though how it could affect anyone other than its bearer, she had no idea.

She thought about the question for a moment, considering which language the girl was speaking, then threading the syllables through her mind again until they made more sense. The girl spoke Common, a language generally understood from one end of Alturia to the other, though distance and mixing of other tongues created strange accents and pronunciations. This girl's words carried a strange inflection, a slight but lyrical lilt. Her voice was softer than cat's fur, smoother than liquid.

After a minute's contemplation, she gave a single nod of her head.

"Then tell