A loud smack against the table startles me out from behind my book. Master Gormon stands directly before me, his walking stick still vibrating from the impact. “Recite yesterday’s lesson, if you please,” he demands in a voice which brooks no argument.
I clear my throat, close my eyes, trying to order my ragged thoughts. “In the twenty-sixth year of Saint Imbryl, when the Moon of…” I take a wild guess: “Vanorin? Yes, when the Moon of Vanorin was still new, the Gates to Dracora—the Realm of Dragons—opened into the world of men, and Dracoris’s daughter, Mhoryga, was cast forth in a storm of fire, which destroyed two cities.”
“And which cities were they, Princess?” Gormon demands, unwilling to let me skimp on any details.
“Ailas and…and Urdusen.”
“And where were they located?”
“On either side of what was once the River Orisys in northern Khylmira.”
It’s all quite dry information—locations and dates, nothing of any particular use, even if I did intend to follow through on this quest they have in mind for me. What it boils down to is this: According to lore, the great Lord of All Dragons, Dracoris, had seven daughters, each more beautiful than the last. Mhoryga, the youngest, was so beautiful—in fact, so glorious and filled with fire—that she grew too vain. She thought to topple the Dragon Father from his throne. Thus, Dracoris expelled her from his world. She fell through the Ten Realms of the Ilemanti until finally landing here. In the world of mortals.
Lucky us.
That was two hundred years ago. Since then, she has been working to build an army powerful enough to take Dracora by force. Though she is dragon through and through, she often takes the form of a woman so that she might acquire husbands for the purpose of breeding. Most of her children, I’m told, are born male. These enter the world in human form, but begin to manifest fire early on and, by the time they reach adulthood—should they survive that long—are able to take on dragon form. They, however, are neither so large nor so powerful as their mother, being generally the size of a cart horse. Not something you want to see swooping over your head on a battlefield, breathing fireballs down your neck. But not end-the-world-in-fountains-of-flame levels of terrifying either.
Mhoryga’s daughters, however…they are a different matter.
They say only one of the dragon daughters ever reached full maturity. She manifested as a mighty dragon queen, glorious as her mother before her, a true monster straight out of epic sagasand ancient days. Naturally, she set her sights on overthrowing her mother. The ensuing battle resulted in the Rothomir Waste, a disastrous ruination of land where once was a lush kingdom.
Mhoryga won in the end. Youthful flame wasn’t enough to vanquish vicious experience. But from then on, Mhoryga became more guarded with her daughters. She produced fewer and permitted fewer still to grow to maturity. I doubt she would ever have let any of her daughters live beyond infancy were it not for her own, ravenous need.
According to Chronicler Hieronymus Rogwyn—the author of the book currently in my hand and my personal nemesis—the air of this world does not agree with dragon blood. Mhoryga’s very nature resists existence in a reality so far removed from the molten magic of Dracora. So, to sustain her own life and flame, she must devour a steady diet of fiery magic. And the best source of Draconan magic to be had in this realm: dragon hearts. Specifically, the hearts of her daughters.
I shudder. The evil words seem to dance across the page before me, making a mockery of my reason. It all sounds like the stuff of fairy tales and faraway. No matter how many dry lectures Master Gormon inflicts upon me, I struggle to accept any of it as history. Much lessmyhistory.
Master Gormon’s questions keep coming, thick as a rain of arrows. “And what was the name of the first dragon princess to fully manifest?”
“Heliar the Dreadful,” I reply, and do not add,My sister. Because I don’t believe it. I won’t.
“And what is the significance of the Rothomir Waste to you, Princess?”
I pinch my lips between my teeth and draw a long inhale. “It is the final test which I and my champion will face on ourjourney to the Dracor Flame. It is broad, scarred, and full of peril. The fire which decimated the grounds also made it habitable forilemaara—demons of the Third Realm.” I swallow and offer a meager smile. “They aren’t known for their affability.”
Master Gormon sneers, every line of his face communicating disapproval. Any lighthearted remarks on my part are taken as a sign of my weak intellect, an unforgiveable sin in his eyes. “What,” he demands, in his most acidic tones, “are the names of the five Third Realm demons known to prowl the Rothomir Waste?”
My stomach knots. I don’t like speaking those evil names out loud; it always leaves a sick burn of bile in the back of my throat. Still, I open my mouth to obey, when suddenly a voice sounds from below. Master Gormon has set up our schoolroom on the second level of the palace library, on a little balcony overlooking the lower entrance. No one ever visits during lecture hours save occasionally King Alderin himself. But this is not Alderin’s voice I hear.
“Gods, I never did see this many books packed into one place before! Who knew dwarves were such readers?”
“Are you truly so ignorant?” a second voice answers. I recognize it at once—no one but Prince Taigan could possibly infuse his words with such contempt. “This is not a dwarfish collection; it belongs to the High King himself. He had it brought here for the help and advancement of the princess as she prepares for her journey. Dwarves neither read nor write.”
“Actually”—a third voice, dry and scratchy somehow, and immediately recognizable as belonging to the Learned Majestic Rune—“dwarves do indeed read and write, but not in ways that would be recognizable to ordinary human eyes.”
“Can you recognize it?” That first speaker must be Lord Elis, a pleasant contrast to both his companions.
“I am fluent,” the Learned Majestic replies, “in twenty-three languages and numerous dialects across both human and Utherlynd species.”
“Yes, but can you read dwarfish?”
Silence. Then: “No.”
“Well, that’s too rutting bad, isn’t it?” They’ve drawn closer by now. Their voices seem to be coming from under my feet. Will they take the stairs and climb to this level? “That dracori prince,” Elis continues, his cheerful tone suddenly edged, “would never have won yesterday’s trial had he not possessed firsthand knowledge of dwarves and their ways. Presumably every trial will be held here in Stromin Palace, which suggests there will be more dwarfish-inspired challenges along the way. I was hoping to do some research. You know, in preparation.”
“Don’t play the fool, Elis,” Taigan says. “No one believes you anyway. That is clearly not your purpose in coming here.”
“Oh, really? Then you explain to me why I’m giving up my precious free time to browse through vaults of dust and misery?”
