Chapter 9
“Stories were told that the dragons chose their home because an ancient spirit offered them sanctuary. When that spirit died the dragons left the mountains, abandoning the Dragonairs to their doom. These were the stories told but I know the truth, which was far more tragic, though I am sworn to secrecy.” – excerpt of Litania’s diary
It didn’t take long for Wren to realise she was lost. Rooms appeared where she swore there had been none, a hallway that opened up as she passed through a door, and a garden that she had never seen before. She plunged back into the labyrinth, determined to find something – anything – familiar. When she rounded a corner, half expecting a staircase leading down, she found that it led upwards. It spiralled upwards, flanked by little grooves into the stone where torches flickered to life as she passed. Their fleeting warmth brushed her skin.
Rationally, she knew she should go down but something, a gnawing sensation on her mind, propelled her up. Not fast, as caution and a trickle of anticipation, mingled with a quiet stirring of fear, slowed her advance. When she finally reached upwards it was onto a wide hallway, far larger than any she had seen before.
Every surface gleamed gold, warmed by the bright glow of crystals embedded into the ceiling above. They seemed to hum quietly, a musicality Wren had never heard before, luring her along the polished floor past ancient faces that adorned the wall. The old paintings depicted battles and rules, stories Wren had never even heard of. She followed one along of what she thought looked like a peasant girl; from humble beginnings in one frame, then standing before a dark storm alone with only a small white dragon by her side. The next few frames were missing, the paint scratched away. Only a fragment of the final frame remained, presumably the same dark-haired girl, though older, standing in a fine white dress with jewels in her hair, and a sword held high and a crown fastened on her head. By her side was half of a dragon, white as snow, with eyes like the sky itself.
Something was carved at the bottom. A name, maybe, though in a writing long forgotten. Wren reached out instinctively and ran her hand over it, then raised it up and found her hands lingering over the dragon. She stared into those jewel-blue eyes.
“Orvana,” intoned a deep, resonating voice – Lorca.
Wren spun, wrenching her hand away. “How do I get out?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Not this way.” The smile fell as he looked past her, straight at the golden doors that marked the end of the hall. “This palace is made of ancient magic. It used to have a mind of its own and would never let you go somewhere you weren’t allowed. That was a long time ago, though, it shouldn’t have…”
She stared at him, wanting to tear the rest of the words from him. “Shouldn’t have what?”
“You shouldn’t have been able to get here…Then again, you shouldn’t have been able to step into this palace,” he murmured, though more to himself. He glanced at her with a new scrutinising gaze. “Who are you?”
Somehow, his question sounded more like ‘what are you’, rather than who. She shifted restlessly beneath his piercing gaze and quickly looked back the mural, as if it might be more interesting.
“I need to go. I need to find somewhere safe for my village and given you’re not here to help I’ll have to do it myself,” she said waspishly.
If he was offended by her biting tone he gave no sign. Instead, he continued to look curious.
“If you can walk into that room beyond those doors I may reconsider my refusal,” he announced carefully.
She glanced at him, wary but surprised. “Oh?”
It had been out of the blue, that change of heart, that Wren couldn’t believe him. Yet when flashes of her village burst through her mind, people she cared about, whom might be taken, enslaved – worse – she paused. On the cliffs she’d become accustomed to take risks, to climb where others hesitated. It paid off and someone had to take the risks. She’d begun to hunger for it, that thrill of a risk.
So, she turned to the door, lifting her chin stubbornly. All she had to do was get inside and her village had more of a chance than before. Her mind hadn’t gone past the fact he said ‘may’ and not ‘will’ help. With a deep breath she strode up to the door and without hesitating reached out to open the doors –
Only they swung open before she had a chance to touch them. Behind her, she heard Lorca suck in a sharp breath, shocked. Somehow, there was something about her he didn’t want to believe, and she wanted to know what it was…mainly if it might be something to help sway his favour.
She recalled a story of how the original Dragonairs had come to the mountains, how they came from the south and entered into the city, beckoned by dragons. It never said how they got up so easily, so Wren always assumed there had been tunnels. Only, she’d never seen any signs and she’d scoured so much of the mountains. So, in time, she’d believed they had arrived by other means, perhaps on the backs of dragons. Stories were often muddled up versions of the truth.
With wary eyes she strode inside, determined not to back down and spun around so fast the golden room, bright and polished, gleamed so intensely her head spun. When it sharpened Lorca was there, in front of her, watching with hooded eyes. He didn’t seem to notice – or care – about the floors of pale white stone that were polished to a gleam, the walls painted with vibrant murals of dragons, of perches for dragons with ornate carvings, not even of the fire that burned behind her. She hadn’t seen it but felt its warmth, the soft crackle filling the otherwise silent room.
“I’m here.”
He tore his gaze from hers and lifted it to a place behind her. Slowly, Wren turned and followed his gaze to the fire with a golden pit encased in gold. In the middle of the fire, jutting up like a defiant flower, were two stone hands cupped together, like they might’ve once held something. If they did, it was long gone.
“That fire once housed a special stone – an egg, we all presumed – and it was guarded every day by that flame,” he said, like he was reciting a child’s tale.
Beside her, he seemed sombre, lost in the past, with a pain she’d never seen before – raw, unflinching. It was hard to watch.
“Will you help me?” She asked softly, gingerly.
He stepped up to the pit and paused. “If you can reach into this fire and touch the stone hands I swear by the Spirit of the Mountain, Evala, I will do whatever I must to help you save your village, hide them, protect them with my life.”
“Does that include the dragon?” Wren asked, not at all believing his sudden offer, though she wished it was true.
To her surprise, he turned and nodded, just once. “Yes.”
A dragon would scare off slavers. After all, who would defy a beast of fang and scale and fire? Still, what he asked…A Climber was nothing without their hands and she’d seen what bad burns could do. It’d keep her off the cliffs…and how would she get back if burned?
“If I burn my hand I can’t get back down to the village,” she said, turning her gaze to the fire.
“A burn would mean you wouldn’t ever climb again, yes. As for your village you’d be flown down,” he replied.
So, all she’d have to give up was her climbing. It was an easy choice. She stepped up to the pit, the fire bright on her skin…but it wasn’t punishingly hot. In fact, she barely felt that lick of heat at all. She drew in a deep breath, steadied her nerves and shoved her hand into the fire.
Her eyes were shut and she expected the sting of the fire, that cry of pain from her mouth.
It never came.
She opened her eyes, slowly, afraid of what she might see; a hand so badly burned she didn’t have a chance to feel the pain, flesh burning before her. What she saw was none of that. The fire danced on her skin, tickling softly, and felt warm to the touch but not painful.
What the…
“It seems you have yourself a dragon, Wren,” he declared and spun around, striding to the door.
She tore her gaze from her hand and hurried after him.
“That’s it? You’ll help?”
The door opened before them and, as they went through, he slanted her a bemused look. “I said I would if you did what I asked. You did, therefore I am yours.”
She’d done it. She had a way to save her village, she thought with a burst of jubilation.
Unlike before the way out was easy and the walk through the city itself was brisk. At the cliff edge Wren went to lower herself down to climb but Lorca put a hand to her upper arm, stopping her. He gestured for her to step back from the edge. A little confused she did just that until he seemed satisfied, then her confusion grew as he walked a little way from her and stopped. She opened her mouth to ask what he was doing when he suddenly burst into light – a bright flash of white, so blinding she had to look away. As it dimmed she slowly turned back and gasped.
A dragon stood before her, staring at her with jewel green eyes.
“You…You’re the dragon? Wait – you’re a Dragonair?”
It had seemed fanciful to believe there were people whom could take a dragon form. Suddenly, all she saw – his existence in the mountains, how he knew so much about the ruins…the dragon she saw.
The dragon bowed his head fractionally, a low grumbling noise resonating from his chest. He walked over to her and then dropped down to his belly. With a deep breath she carefully climbed onto his back, hunkering down low and grasping firmly on the spines of long neck, which mercifully stopped at the base of his neck.
She pressed her lips together to stop herself from making a sound as he moved, rising slowly to his feet and walking over to the edge. Her heart seized as he unfurled his colossal wings, stretching them wide, as though easing a stiffness from them.
Then he leant forward – and jumped.
For a moment they seemed to fall before the wing caught his wings and he steadied. Wren was locked on his back, too uneasy to move, to dare to open her eyes.
Open your eyes, Wren. The soft, resonant voice of Lorca brushed through her mind, strangely calming.
When she opened her eyes, she gasped. They soared through the mountains; vast peaks capped with snow, a wild world unto itself, an ancient land that would not – could not – be conquered by mere men. It was easy to imagine a thousand dragons soaring the skies, the Dragonairs leaping to the air with them, a mirage of colour and scale and fire. She imagined younger dragons taking to the skies clumsily for the first time, shooting down the sides of steep cliffs, waiting at the last moment to snap open their wings, catching the gusts of winds that propelled them up to where their elders circled protectively.
As the last wall of mountains sloped down, giving way to the vast land below where, somewhere, her village was. She couldn’t lift her gaze, however, from the horizon. Though the land was flatter it rose and fell in waves, smoothed over, as if by the winds. Vast tracks of land were a crisp green, dark lines cutting through them, roads perhaps, like the veins of the land itself. A land she hadn’t even thought about before. Elise had been right, her eyes had always been on the mountains, not on what might lay beyond it.
For the first time Wren saw the beauty Elise did.
Hold on, said Lorca, giving her only a little warning as he dipped down and started to glide downwards, flapping every so often as gusts of wind whipped up.
She hunkered down, biting back her own nerves to see if her village was still there – or if it was little more than smouldering ruins.
Lorca shifted his wings and gave two hard flaps, slowing hard and stretching out his limbs. A few seconds later they hit the ground with a thump. Wren was off his back before she could even let herself think – and she froze.
All she saw was the village – burning.
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