She chewed her lip with dagger teeth, drawing lines of dark blood. Flames burned the back of her throat. “None of your business,” she said at last.
“All your business is my business,” said her Father. “You have a look of revenge about you. Don’t try to deny it; I know the signs. It’s best not to think of it now, however. You are nothing without your wings. Oh, you can flame bright enough to destroy this whole city of yours. But that’s just it, daughter. It was your city. Your demesne. Yours to keep or devour at will. Now it’s gone, and you have nothing.”
“I have my children.”
“For what good they do you!”
Hri Sora turned to him then, planting her feet and throwing her head back. He towered over her, but she was still his firstborn, and she met him eye for eye. Her lank hair swelled behind her in a cloud, and her fists clenched at her sides. The fire in her eyes dominated every womanly vestige. She was a dragon, through and through.
“Give me back my wings!”
“And let you challenge my authority again?” He swept his gaze across the crumbling ruins, then back to her. “Not likely.”
“Give them to me!”
“Why should I? You’ve done your worst, Hri Sora. You’ve earned yourself a place in history, both in the annals of Faerie folk and the legends of mortals. You have no need of wings or flame now.”
But she did.
Somewhere in the world was a dark hut where a man lived—a man she had been unable to kill even when her flame was hottest. She remembered him now, though she wished more than anything to forget. She remembered those years of crawling about in the mortal dust when she had always been meant to fly!
“Amarok.” She whispered the name like venom. “My dear one.”
“What’s that?” said her Father.
Hri Sora did not answer. She drew a long breath, sucking flames down into her lungs. “I must have my wings,” she said. “I must. But I will not tell you why.”
“In that case,” said he, “I do not care to give them back.”
“Everything has a price,” she said. “Name it!”
In the jet-black depths of the Dragon’s eyes, flames flickered. He looked upon Hri Sora’s stance, took in the smoldering fire ready to burst from her breast. She was a beauty, he thought, or had been when he first turned her. A shame, really, that she’d puffed herself up so! Nevertheless, she had done more to strike terror of his name into the hearts of all peoples in all worlds than had any of his other children. His firstborn . . . his prize. Even the Knights of the Farthest Shore had failed to quench her flame.
“There is a price,” he said slowly.
“Tell me!”
He could make her do anything now. She would be willing to dive into the Final Water, to swim to the Farthest Shore and set fire to that unreachable realm if he asked her. Wretched fool! But he could get some sport from her yet.
“I want,” he said, “the Flowing Gold of Rudiobus.”
Her flaming eyes did not blink. She neither moved nor spoke for some time. At last she said, “It is hidden.”
“Most definitely.”
“Kept safe by Queen Bebo.”
“Indeed.”
“She who is oldest and strongest of all Faerie queens.”
“The same.”
Hri Sora shook her head slowly. “No one knows where it is. No one knows what it looks like. It is the chief treasure of King Iubdan Tynan, and no one else has even seen it!”
“A fine addition it will make to my Hoard. Don’t you agree?”
The dragon woman blew a spurt of flame. “What you ask is impossible! Who can penetrate Rudiobus without a call? Who can take from Bebo and Iubdan what they wish kept secret?”
The specter smiled. “There is one other who knows the secret of Rudiobus. Or so rumor would have it.”
“Who?”
“Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith, Queen Bebo’s own cousin, highly favored in the courts of Rudiobus. Of all Iubdan’s merry subjects, it is said she alone knows the truth behind the legends of the Flowing Gold.”
Hri Sora considered this. “It is well,” she said. “But one must still penetrate the boundary protections that Bebo herself established. No one can enter Rudiobus uninvited. To even set foot in Gorm-Uisce Lake without leave would be death.”
“So much for the power of the firstborn,” said the specter with a mocking laugh.
She snarled at him, spewing drops of blood from her lips. If only she might tear him to pieces here in the nightmarish remains of her demesne! But he was without substance, no more than a shade. No fire of hers would ever harm him, she knew.
There was nothing left, then: No power without her wings; no city to call home. Only the hideous memory of former fires and that burning, driving lust for revenge. Such a pathetic creature she was, reduced to this form.
Unless . . .
Hri Sora smiled. This form was pitiable, but her mind was still good. And dragons command many powerful enchantments. An idea took root, and her smile grew.