Stormrise
: Chapter 16

She took off so quickly that I gasped and threw myself forward onto the base of her head, burying my face and throwing my arms wide, grasping her long fur with as much strength as I could muster. Her body undulated beneath me as she half-glided, half-ran across terrain I could not see, both for the darkness and for how swiftly she bore me.

The night wind stole my breath whenever I lifted my head, so I kept it pressed to her neck, her warmth seeping into me and keeping me from shivering. It was like no ride I’d ever imagined—swifter than any horse and so fluid that it seemed her six mighty legs barely touched the ground. Exhilaration and a wild giddiness left no room for terror, and I reveled in the strength and majesty of the creature who had become less fearsome the moment I mounted her.

I felt safe. And free. And utterly invincible.

Too soon, we reached the base of a gently sloping knoll, and she came to a stop. I slid from her neck, my pulse still racing from the joy of the ride.

“The power of the dragons is strong here,” she said, “but I fear things have changed since the days of Mennek. I will wait here.”

I nodded and looked up. Lights shone at the top of the knoll, which didn’t seem so great a climb as I made my way toward them. I reached into the leather pouch at my belt and felt for the writing instruments I’d tucked inside for easy access, my boots soft as cat’s whiskers in the grass. The night was clear, starlight and a bit of moon helping me along my way. Now that the thrill of riding Nuaga had passed, the fear of being discovered grasped at me, making every errant sound suspect. Leaving Jasper and the others was no small thing. I felt as though I had severed myself from a living entity—a special unit of the high king’s army, to which I’d pledged my life and service.

The penalty for deserting was death. I knew my value, and part of me hoped that Jasper would make an exception. But I couldn’t risk it. I’d simply have to make it back to camp before morning light. That way, no one would ever know I’d gone.

I pressed on, eventually reaching a broad clearing. From there, it was easy enough to move quickly across the tended expanse. The lanterns—or torches—glowed at intervals, welcoming me.

I was fairly out of breath by the time I reached what was certainly the wall surrounding the commune. It was made of rough stone and about shoulder-high, with a sputtering oil lamp hanging every several paces. Clearly it wasn’t meant for keeping out intruders, but would it be wise for me to enter by the gate?

I couldn’t risk it. Taking a small running leap, I hoisted myself over the top of the wall and landed in a squat on the inside. Once I was certain I hadn’t been seen, I picked my way carefully toward the cluster of low buildings that seemed to grow from the earth itself.

Each structure was identical—a wide dome with a thatched roof and windows that were merely thin rectangles covered with translucent glass that would let in light but not a view. This worked in my favor as I crept past dome after dome, until I came to the end of the row and entered what seemed to be the heart of the commune, consisting of three structures. The one in the center was clearly a small temple to the Great God, its door propped open for access at all times, its outer walls set with an intricate mosaic of dragons and warriors. I didn’t draw too near, as lanterns glowed on either side of the door, casting a bright light I wanted to avoid.

The structures on either side of the temple were similar to the domes that sat in the circle enclosing them, except they were oblong instead of round, and much larger. Both sat in darkness; neither seemed a likely place for the Archives.

I walked between the temple and the dome on its right to see what lay behind. My breath caught as I saw the form of a dragon rise up in the darkness—a glorious, lifelike sculpture, rearing on its hind legs and arching its neck toward the sky. Its mane was full and flowing, and my heart whispered that this was the fierce T’Gonnen, whose magic I swallowed every night.

“Nuaga,” I whispered. “Your mate is honored here.”

Silence met me, and I tore my gaze from the statue and looked instead beneath it, where a stone stairway led into darkness. I scanned the area to make sure I was still alone. Then I unsheathed my dagger and crept down, my back sliding against the wall at one side. At the bottom, a substantial door was faintly lit by a tiny oil lamp on either side. Carved into the door was a single word: Archives.

I ran my fingers lightly over the carving, a thrill rushing through me. I grabbed the iron handle and pushed.

It was locked.

I pulled instead, but the door didn’t budge. I leaned my forehead against the rough wood and willed myself to think of a way to break in without creating a lot of noise.

“Who’s down there?”

The voice shot through me like an arrow, and I lifted my head and swung around, dagger poised and ready. The steps were too steep to see anything but a pair of boots and what looked like the hem of a skirt.

“Is that you, Naden?”

I tightened my grip on the dagger and backed against the door. Maybe she’d give up and go away if I remained perfectly still.

“Naden?” Her boots made soft shuffling noises as she descended the stairs.

In one swift move, I sheathed my dagger and assumed the second stance, figuring I’d rather be discovered without a weapon. I tensed as the woman neared the bottom, her boots stopping suddenly as her eyes met mine.

“Dragon’s blood, who are you?”

“A seeker.”

She looked me up and down, her brow furrowed. “You’re a soldier.”

“I only want to read something.”

“In the middle of the night?” She took one more step, now standing three from the bottom. “I hear deserters are executed on sight.”

I raised my chin. “Are you in charge of the Archives?”

“What if I am?”

“I’ve come to read The Lament of Nuaga.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “We’ve seen the smoke from your fires. Why are you here?”

“We’re training for a mission.”

She eyed me for several moments. “Your second stance is very practiced, but still discernible by a master.”

I couldn’t mask my surprise. “You’re a master?”

“Not officially. Do I look like a man to you?”

I bowed and said nothing, sure that silence would be better at this point. The not-a-Neshu-master descended the final three steps and stood facing me, lamplight dancing across the fine lines on her face. She must have been at least sixty, though she carried herself like a much younger—and stronger—woman.

“We are a peaceful commune,” she finally said.

“I come in peace.”

“You come fully armed in the dead of night, wearing a breastplate.”

She had a point. “Will you let me in?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you have a name?”

“Storm.”

“You’re not from Province Ytel.”

“No.”

For an eternity of seconds, we stared wordlessly at each other. Then something in her posture shifted, as though she sought to look taller.

“I can’t let you in,” she said. “You’ll have to come with me.”

My heart sank. I didn’t want to fight her—she wasn’t my enemy. But I needed to get inside the Archives, and she was in my way.

I let my shoulders sag, hoping to look defeated. As she reached for me, I knocked her arm with an uppercut, catching her off guard. She sprang into the second stance, but I already had the advantage of surprise and slammed her against the wall in three swift moves. Before she could recover, I grabbed her head and knocked it against the stone. She slid to the ground like a sack of buttons.

My heart hammered against my skull as I pressed two fingers to her neck to check her pulse. Hands shaking, I searched her until I found a long key inside a pocket, attached to a chain hanging from her belt. I pushed it into the lock and opened the door before kneeling by the woman’s side and returning the key to her pocket. I would not be branded a thief as well as an assailant.

I couldn’t leave her lying there. Still stunned by how quickly I had decided to attack her, I took her by the boots and dragged her through the open doorway. As soon as she was sufficiently out of the way, I pushed the door shut.

A single oil lamp hung on the back wall, casting just enough light for me to replace my footing as I crossed the small room, its ceiling so low I felt my head would brush it at any moment. Beside the lamp hung a wire basket that held a bundle of thin sticks. I pulled one free, then used it to light the row of smaller lamps on the rough wooden table in the middle of the room. My gaze flicked to the motionless woman as I blew out the flame, unease prodding me like unwelcome fingers.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

I took a pair of silk gloves from an oblong dish on the table and slipped them on, assuming they were needed to protect ancient documents. Then I turned to the rows of scrolls along the wall behind me, tucked into individual alcoves of carved stone. A quick scan told me that these were historical scrolls, arranged by year. The opposite wall held a similar array of scrolls, but upon a closer look, I saw sections labeled Words of the Great God and Dragon Lore.

My heart pounded as I moved toward them. So many alcoves. So many scrolls.

And then I saw it. A long, marble-faced drawer spanning the width of the alcoves, bearing an aged plaque that read, Legacy of Nuaga and the Dragon Clan. I ran my gloved fingers across its surface, and a tingling warmth coursed through my hands and up my arms.

The drawer was heavy and unwieldy, but it opened without resistance. I stood for several breaths staring at its contents. On beds of silk in individual compartments, enormous teeth, iridescent scales, and braided lengths of golden and white and fiery-red hair rested in silent splendor. I sucked in a breath, marveling at the perfect condition and palpable power of these artifacts.

I could feel them. Like a vibration in my veins and chest.

The scroll lay in the center of the drawer. I hesitated, fingers hovering, before lifting it from its nest of silk and bringing it to the table. Slowly, I unrolled the parchment and placed stone weights on its upper corners. I didn’t allow myself to look at the writing until the scroll lay flat and I had adjusted the lamps so that I could see clearly.

The woman groaned softly; I looked over my shoulder to see her still lying where I’d left her. I didn’t have much time. Taking a great breath, I began to read, each word exactly as I had learned it, each stanza in place.

Until.

My heart beat furiously as I came to what had been “Where is Onen?” and saw more.

So much more.

Where is one not loath to answer

Brave Nuaga?

Willing sacrifice to offer,

Selfless, like T’Gonnen.

She who knows the pain of parting

Knows its power.

Deep beneath the Hold in caverns,

Waiting to awaken.

Through the ages, sons from fathers,

All Ylanda

Waits in safety for the Dragons

Once again to join them.

Breath of Dragon, searing, cleansing,

Necessary.

Bear the mark and bring your boldness

To the sleeping Dragons.

Call to them with words predestined

Over ages

In the ancient tongue of Dragons—

S’danta lo ylanda.

If the line of kings is severed

Then the Dragons

Ever will belong to those who

Snuff Ylanda’s bloodline.

Destined to command and lead them—

Dragon she-king,

Through her mark, the bearer’s presence

Satisfies the calling.

Wake, O Dragons! Do not tarry!

Save your people.

Let us usher in the reign of

Loyal, brave Nuaga.

There was nobody named Onen. Dalen’s copy of the Lament had come from a partial manuscript, which must have been torn in the middle of the word “not.” And so it had been passed down for who knew how long, with the rest of the Lament lost to those who believed it. Perhaps for generations.

Except for Tan Vey. He obviously knew the full Lament and had united the northern tribes with the intent of claiming not only the kingdom of Ylanda, but also the dragons.

How much time had I wasted because I didn’t have the knowledge I needed to trust Nuaga? To answer her call?

I looked up to check on the woman again, but she wasn’t there. My blood iced—she’d gone for help, and I hadn’t heard her leave. I needed to be quick.

I scrambled about the room, searching for something—anything—to write on. Finally, in desperation, I unrolled a fairly recent history scroll and tore off a section at the end, whispering apologies to the Great God. I dug my writing tools from my cloak pocket, created a quick ink from my inkstick and spittle, and set to copying the remainder of the Lament.

Willing sacrifice to offer,

Selfless, like T’Gonnen.

There it was—the call for sacrifice. I chewed my lip as I wrote, my heart pounding. For Papa and Storm and Mama and Willow, I would do this. If waking the dragons meant that they—and thousands of others—would live, then I had no need to shrink from my own death.

I reached the fourth new stanza.

Breath of Dragon, searing, cleansing,

Necessary.

My hand trembled as I copied the words. This was what Nuaga wanted. Needed. The mark of the dragon.

My own flesh.

Bear the mark and bring your boldness

To the sleeping Dragons.

Without the mark of Nuaga’s breath, I would not be able to wake the dragons. She knew that—and now I knew it, too.

S’danta lo ylanda.

Hadn’t Dalen once told me that “ylanda” meant “dragon”? What did the rest mean? Was this all it would take to wake the dragons and save my high king and my kingdom?

That, and the burning of my flesh?

“Nuaga, I’m ready. I’ll receive your mark.” I hurried to finish the last few words, my strokes rushed and uneven. “I’m saying yes. Please answer me.”

Rain. Her voice coursed through me like a warm breeze.

“I’ll receive your mark. I’ll wake the dragons.”

I never doubted you would.

“I’m here,” I said. “I’m coming.” I let my hurried ink strokes dry as I rolled up the Lament and placed it in its drawer, then returned the silk gloves to their dish.

Sudden voices at the door arrested me, and I froze as I reached for my copy of the verses.

“He’s still here, as I said he would be.” The woman’s words were laced with pain.

A middle-aged man, his face creased with sleep marks, pushed past her and strode toward me. “You. Step away from the table.”

I stepped away and assumed the first stance.

The man reached inside the neckline of his sleep gown and pulled out an amulet that seemed familiar. He held it in his fingers—tentatively, as though he feared it—and I remembered the amulets in Madam S’dora’s shop. And the one around Kendel’s neck. Holding the amulet at eye level, he grabbed my arm with his other hand and held fast. At first, nothing happened, and I forced myself to be still. Then the amulet glowed a deep orange, as though lit from within. The man cried out, letting the amulet fall and bounce against his clothing.

“Out! Out!” He gestured wildly to the woman as he staggered backward. “He’s filled with T’Gonnen’s magic!”

Before I could react, they were both out the door, which slammed heavily behind them. The silence that followed was punctuated by the resounding click of the lock.