A Dawn of Dragonfire

ELETHOR



He stood in his workshop, white columns rising around him, and stared at the statue. The woman was carved of marble, skin smoothed, body nude and flowing. Elethor had spent hours gently chiseling her full lips, her straight nose, her hair that cascaded like silk. And yet, for all his effort, he thought the statue fell from the true grace of Solina.

If only you were still here, Elethor thought, hammer and chisel in his hands. If only I could see your true beauty again, not content myself with this cold marble. If only I could caress your soft skin, and kiss your lips, and hold you one last time.

He sighed, laid his tools on the table, and sat on a bench. Around his workshop, six more statues of Solina stood, some nude, others clad in flowing gowns of stone, all beautiful and all painful for him to see. And yet he kept carving her, laboring for months on each effigy.

I will create one every year until I see you again, he thought. Seven statues. Seven years. Seven lost hopes of seeing his love again.

The sun was setting, he noticed; he had been working all day without sensing the time pass. He rose, lit an oil lamp, then stood between the columns of his workshop. The house rose upon a hill, commanding a view of Nova Vita. Elethor often stood here, between these columns, gazing upon the leagues of birches, the houses of white marble, and the herds of dragons that flew above. The city was still beautiful to him, even if sadness had dwelled here since Solina departed.

Soon the sun dipped below the horizon, and the stars emerged. The Draco constellation glittered before him, the stars of his forefathers, the light of his people. He was a prince of Requiem. Those stars blessed him, and the people of this city served him, yet Elethor would forfeit both for the touch of a hand, a breath on his neck, a whisper of her voice.

"Solina," he whispered. A woman of sunlight and a prince of stars. Solina. The fire of his night. The pain that coiled forever in his soul.

As he watched the night, he saw a slim, sapphire dragon flying toward the hill. The starlight glimmered on the dragon's scales. Elethor heaved a sigh.

"Perfect," he muttered. "A visit from Lyana. Just what I need."

The blue dragon glided through the night, fire flickering in her maw. Soon Lyana landed upon the hill beyond the columns, her claws kicking up grass and dirt. She gave her wings a last flap, tilted her head, and regarded Elethor.

"You were missed at dinner," she told him, baring her fangs. "Your father is upset."

"I wasn't hungry," he said flatly.

Lyana spat a flicker of disdainful fire. With a growl, she shifted. Her wings pulled into her back. Her fangs and claws retracted. Her scales faded. Soon she stood before him as a young woman. She wore silvery armor engraved with dragons—the armor of the bellators, Requiem's ancient order of knighthood. A sword and a dagger, their pommels shaped as dragonclaws, hung from her belt.

Elethor hated the sight of her. He hated that upturned nose. He hated those green eyes that always seemed so haughty. He even hated her curly red hair, if only because he knew she was so vain about it.

"Not bloody hungry?" the young knight demanded, chin raised. She was a slight girl, a good foot shorter than him, but always strutted around like a giant. "Elethor, I don't give a damn if you just ate a walrus. You are Prince of Requiem. With your older brother in the south, it's your duty to sit at court. Lord Deramon asked for you, and—"

Elethor groaned. "Lyana! I don't want to hear any more of your lectures."

The girl was insufferable; she had been especially bad since betrothing Orin last summer. If before she had boasted of her knighthood—which was bad enough—Lyana was now set to be a princess, then a queen someday. It had inflated her pride to intolerable levels. She was perhaps shorter than Elethor, and five years younger, but she still acted like she was his mother and he was an errant boy.

She marched up toward him, tightened her lips, and raised her chin so high, Elethor thought her head might fall off. She snorted—a loud sound of pure disdain.

"Oh, I see," she said, hands on her hips. "Maybe you think that because I'm a girl, and because I'm young, that I should just be quiet and pretty. Is that it?"

Elethor sighed. "Here we go again."

He turned and headed back into his workshop, but Lyana followed him, ran around him, and faced him again. She glared.

"Well, I have news for you, Prince Elethor Aeternum. I will lecture you, as often as I like. And you will listen to me. I am engaged to your older brother, remember that. I'll be his wife this summer and queen consort when he's crowned, and if you think I will be quiet and subservient to you, well… you better think again. Do you understand me?"

"I understand perfectly," he said.

Her eyes narrowed, shards of green fire. "Do you?"

He nodded. "I understand that you are an intolerable, overbearing, supercilious—"

"Watch it, Elethor!" She raised her hand, prepared to strike him. "You forget that in addition to being intolerable, overbearing, and supercilious, I am also a knight in Requiem's army. And I can kick your backside across this forest if I must."

He snorted. "Yes, you are a soldier. A soldier like my brother Orin. You two are brave, strong heroes of Requiem. And I suppose you think I'm but a lowly sculptor, so weak to your noble eyes."

Her face flushed. "Don't put words in my mouth, Elethor. I don't think you must be a soldier like your brother, but damn it, do something with your life. Do something more than stargaze, chisel, and bloody mope all day."

He roared with rage, fingers trembling. "My life is my own to live! Not yours. Not my father's." He raised his fist; it shook with anger. "I'm so sorry, Lyana. I'm so sorry I can't live a life you approve of, that I'm such a failure to everyone. Maybe I should go to court and talk of battles and politics and ancient histories; you and Orin would love that, wouldn't you? Maybe I can grow a couple inches taller, until I look more like Orin too. Is that what you want to hear?" He glared at her. "But I'm not him, Lyana. I'm very sorry that I can't be tall like Orin, handsome like Orin, brave or strong like Orin. Maybe I should have gone south to Castellum Luna, and Requiem's favorite son could have stayed among you instead of poor, weak Elethor."

He was speaking from anger. He knew that. He knew he'd regret those words later. And yet he could not stop it; Lyana always brought this out from him. He turned his back to her, fuming. He liked to think of himself as a calm man. He was an artist. A scholar. A poet. He was not some hot-headed brute. And yet whenever Lyana was around, he wanted to beat his fists against the walls… or strangle her. Whenever she scolded him, he felt like an angry, hysterical child. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths and count silently to ten. He stared at his new statue, letting Solina's marble beauty soothe him.

I miss you, Solina, he thought, remembering how they would run through the forest, hide in caves, whisper and laugh about Lyana and Lord Deramon and all the others. I am a ruined man without you.

Behind him, he heard Lyana sigh.

"You've carved another one," she said softly.

The sadness in her voice stoked Elethor's anger. He spun toward her, fists clenching.

"That is none of your business. This is my workshop and I will sculpt what I please."

He expected her to shout, to rail, maybe even to strike him. But Lyana only seemed so sad, and somehow that was a thousand times worse. She touched his cheek.

"El, I worry about you," she said, eyes soft. "We all do. Since she left, you… spend all your time here in your workshop. Sculpting her. Whispering her name as you sleep. Gazing at the stars all night as if she glowed among them. When will you let her go?"

Elethor shut his eyes. They stung, but he would shed no tears around Lyana.

"I love her," he whispered.

"And your family loves you!" Lyana said, voice more emphatic. "I love you. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. Look at me, Elethor. Open your eyes and look at me, and look at the world you live in. Those days are gone."

He did open his eyes. He looked at his brother's betrothed, this young woman of green eyes and red hair and words that cut him.

"You cannot know what it's like," he said, voice choking. "You did not lose somebody you love."

She sighed, and before he could stop her, Lyana embraced him. She laid her head against his shoulder, arms around him.

"No," she said softly. "But… if I were to lose Orin, I don't know how I would live. I love your brother. I love him like the stars, like the sun after night, like spring after frost. If he were to leave, I would be as a shattered jug." She looked into his eyes, hand against his cheek. "But it's been seven years, El. It's time to return to your family. You must let the past remain what it is—the past. Your future lies ahead, Elethor, if you dare walk down its path."

He turned away from her, almost violently, freeing himself from her embrace. She stared at him with huge, damp eyes, mouth open. Elethor stormed away, leaving her among the statues, until he stood outside in the night. Under the stars he shifted, took flight, and soared as a brass dragon. He roared and blew fire in the darkness, fueling it with his rage.

Once you and I would have laughed at Lyana, he thought. Do you remember, Solina? You used to imitate her, walking around with nose upturned, scolding the plants for growing, berating the sun for turning, and calling yourself the Lady Know-It-All.

Now such jokes had lost their humor. Now it seemed life itself had lost its light. Orin had burned Solina and betrothed Lyana, and now Elethor remained here, trapped and lost, his love gone into deserts beyond immeasurable wastelands.

Cold air streamed around him, scented of snow. He circled over Nova Vita, so high that the air thinned, making him heady. Whenever he could, he flew this high, far above the herds, higher than his father flew, or Lyana, or anyone else. He used to tell Solina, Come, ride on my back and we'll explore the skies.

But she would never ride him or anyone. I am a proud child of Tiranor, she would say. We do not become dragons, and we are no poorer for it; I walk where I must go.

Elethor looked over Nova Vita, the heart of Requiem, the only home he'd ever known. The palace stood ahead, white columns rising like pillars of moonlight, and near it rose the Temple of Stars, its dome carved from polished silver. Around these great halls rolled hills covered with birches, the trees rustling and sweetly scented in the night. From the foliage peeked homes of white stone, workshops, and squares full of statues and fountains. Three white archways led to underground tunnels where Requiem stored its treasures: ancient books, magical artifacts, and sacks of golden grain for winter. Finally, two great forts bookended the city, their bricks craggy and their banners thudding: Castra Murus, a squat garrison housing the City Guard; and Castra Draco, its four towers housing the Royal Army.

The structures—even the two forts—seemed part of the landscape to Elethor, blending with the forest as naturally as boulders or rivers. It was a beautiful home—he had always thought so—but for Solina it had been a prison. A place of exile. Of pain.

Once, he knew, a million dragons had flown here, and Requiem had been a wonder for the world. It had been three hundred years since the griffins burned this place, killing all but seven dragons. Today fifty thousand Vir Requis lived here, descendants of the Living Seven—a small light, a whisper after the great song of the glory days. Yet we are rebuilding, Elethor thought. We are making a new age of glory. His father carried the torch of Requiem now; Orin and Lyana would follow. Elethor was second in line, and he would not sit upon the throne, for which he was grateful. He wanted nothing more than a life of reflection, sculpture, and stargazing.

"And a life with you, Solina," he whispered. "I pray every night that you return to us someday… that you return to me."

A cry pierced the night.

Elethor frowned and stared south. A lone dragon flew there, wobbling, wings shaking. She was a slim dragon, female, with golden scales. She cried again, a cry of anguish and fear.

Elethor's breath caught.

"Mori," he whispered.

He flapped his wings, narrowed his eyes, and dived toward her. His sister blew weak flame, cried again, and began tumbling toward the forest. Elethor swooped, fear twisting his gut. Air whistled around him. Mori spun toward the distant trees, wings limp, sparks flying from her maw. Elethor caught her ten feet above the ground, wrapping his claws under her. She was so thin, so light in his grip. He lowered her gently onto the snow.

"Mori!" he said. "Mori, can you hear me?"

Birches rose around them, naked and icy. His younger sister blinked at him, thinner than he'd ever seen her. Her wings splayed out around her, and her tail flapped weakly.

"Elethor," she whispered.

His breath caught. Mori had always been a timid thing, but there was new fear in her eyes, a haunting pain that tore through him.

They shifted into human forms. Mori lay in his arms, gazing up with huge gray eyes. Her gown was torn and bloody, her face pale, her lips trembling. Dried blood filled her brown hair.

"What happened, Mori?" Elethor whispered, feeling as if snow filled his belly.

She held him, staring up into his eyes. Her shaky breath frosted.

"They killed him, Elethor," she whispered. Her fingers dug into his back. "They killed him. And they're coming here."