Chapter 8

Voissara’s departure marked the beginning of a long night.

Warders set off at once after the sapphire dragon, tracking her path through the forest. Above where Leras sat in discussion, Emerald mages labored to heal the burns across the boughs of the Venaliel kintree. Throughout both the upper and lower city, guards were deployed to calm the fear that had spread like wildfire among the populace.

Leras would have preferred any of their tasks. As it was, he suffered a thousand arguments from his mother for why he must change his mind.

The debate carried on longer than his patience had tether. It was only when he rose to his feet and declared his decision final did his mother relent. Eyes pink, tendrils spinning as slowly as he’d ever seen, she looked up at him, all eight decades of her life written across her face.

“I never wanted this,” she whispered. “Never wanted to have to choose between my people and my son.”

His temper cooled, guilt welling up in its place. Yet he clung to his purpose. Pulling her into an embrace, he whispered, “You don’t have to choose. This is my choice, Momua.”

She wouldn’t feel absolved of responsibility—she never did—but it allowed the discussion to progress. His father spoke then of the specifics of the journey: the supplies needed, the routes best taken. Most of all, he spoke of their destination.

“The Siv’Dual,” he murmured. “The Dragondawn, in our tongue. Garin and Wren claimed it lies in the heart of the Hyalkasi Range.” Bran shared a look with Ashelia. “Voissara’s visit makes me fear they found it.”

“Why would that be a poor thing?” Rolan spoke up. Leras’s older brother sat in a corner of the room, chair tilted onto its back legs, fingers caressing the strings of his kinwood lute. Leras knew the source of his brother’s glee. As a bard, Rolan reveled in living through momentous events, witnessing the turning of history with his own eyes. It was all the better inspiration for his compositions.

“If they told you where it lay,” Rolan continued, “we’d have a route to it.”

Ashelia gave her eldest son a sharp look. “Not ‘we.’ Bad enough I must let my bond and one son go. I won’t lose you both.”

“Already giving me up for dead, Mother?” Leras meant to tease, but regretted it as the agony returned to his mother’s eyes. “A jape,” he amended weakly. “Just a jape.”

Rolan cast him a scathing look, as if to say, You know better. “Very well, Momua,” he answered lightly. “If it pains you so, I’ll stay.”

It was Leras’s turn to glare. Knowing his brother, the words were as false as the aggrandized versions of the tales he put to lyric and rhyme. Their parents seemed to see it as well, but though their father hid a smile and their mother suppressed a sigh, neither acknowledged the suspicion aloud.

“If those two found the Dragondawn,” Bran said, “it means they’re caught up in all this ‘stolen soul’ business. What’s more, they might have something to do with why Yvärras went searching for it now.”

Rolan let his chair clomp to the floor, earning him a glare from their mother. Syllana, their little sister, slept in their parents’ bed after being frightened by the dragon’s visit.

The first prince ignored the reprimand. “Yvärras wouldn’t hurt them, and not only from our shared history. They’re useful. Helped her find this dragon soul, didn’t they?”

“For now.” Bran stared at his hands. “Though perhaps only until Voissara returns.”

“They’re under my protection and employ.” Ashelia’s eyes whirled, silver on slate. “Voissara said she did not wish to provoke war. Harming either of them would do so.”

Leras sighed and glanced out the window. Glad as he was to hear his mother standing up for his adopted aunt and uncle, he wondered if war would come no matter what they did.

One thing was certain: it would come if he stayed.

“I should have let her take me, the dragon.” He couldn’t meet his parents’ eyes as he spoke the words, yet he felt they needed to be said. “The result will be the same, won’t it? Either way, I must arrive at the Siv’Dual. Only this way, there’s more that could go wrong.”

His father gripped his shoulder and turned him firmly back to him. Leras reluctantly met Bran’s bloodshot eyes.

“No, lad. Don’t say that. Don’t give in. Many things could change during the journey north. The egg might hatch on its own. Yvärras might change her mind on if you’re even necessary for it. Hells, maybe there is no soul within you and they’ve a mistake.”

Leras wondered if it would be worse to lack the dragonsoul or to possess it at this point. At least if it lay within him, he had a reason for his deficiency. But he only remained silent, meeting his father’s gaze.

“At worst,” Bran continued, “this bought us time. Time to figure out a plan. A way to get you through this alive.”

Time. He’d thought he’d had a century or more ahead of him. Even halfkin elves lived long lives. 

Now, his was measured in months.

Leras only nodded. He saw the wisdom in his father’s thoughts. Even if part of him wanted this all to be over and done with it at once.

His father squeezed his shoulder. “Never fear, lad. We’ll figure something out.” Releasing him, Bran turned back to his bond. “What of Aelyn? Should we tell him what’s happening here?”

Ashelia hesitated, then nodded. “I will have Master Fantir send the message—with discretion. Which reminds me… You must keep your party small and depart under the cover of darkness. I will have enough concerns to lay to rest after Voissara’s visit without adding more.”

Those concerns had been apparent throughout the night. The queen had been sending messengers out since the dragon had left the kintree, reassuring the Peers of the High Houses that all was well. If Leras knew anything of Highkin elves, though, good gossip was never long repressed.

“‘Visit’—is that what we’re calling it?” Rolan quipped with a strum of his lute. When their mother gave him another dour look, he only grinned.

“But you must have more protection than what your father can provide,” Ashelia continued, speaking to Leras now. “Faerna will accompany you, and I’ll request that Rynari do the same.”

Leras fought to keep his expression placid. Rya would be a welcome addition; Faerna, less so. Knowing it would ease his mother’s mind for both of them to go, however, he kept his reservations quiet. “I’ll be glad for them to come.”

“Yes, they’re both competent warriors.” Bran nodded. “Excellent choices. Prendyn can inform Faerna. I’ll go to House Ymalis tonight to let Rya know.” He stroked his beard, brow furrowed. “No avoiding Elidyr knowing. Maybe if it was another warder, but he won’t go long without discovering his niece’s absence.”

“No,” Ashelia agreed. “You may as well tell him while you’re there.”

Leras noticed his mother’s gaze lingered on her prince consort. Leras wondered if she was debating asking him to stay. Brannen Cairn, after all, was not the man he used to be. Setting into the latter half of his fifties, he had slowed and often complained of aching joints and slow-healing wounds. 

But they all knew it would be impossible to dissuade him. Too much of Tal Harrenfel remained in him to let his youngest son brave the World alone. Even if he had lost his sorcery, Bran remained handy enough with a blade.

Leras hoped that would be enough.

* * *

By the time he exited his parents’ chambers, Leras staggered with exhaustion. The tension of the discussions, the encounter with the dragon, the life-altering decision—to say nothing of the copious intoxicants imbibed the evening before—had all taken a toll.

And yet, despite it all, he felt…elated.

Elated. Leras shook his head. He hadn’t felt half as excited by the prospect of becoming a warder. This moment felt like the one he’d truly waited for. A chance to test his mettle. To prove his worth. To show the World he was more than a prince, more than the son of a queen and a hero.

More than a stunted half-blood.

He pressed a hand to his chest, the cloth of his shirt cool with nightfall and Elendol’s dense humidity. A dragon’s soul resided in him. Though none of his family sensed it, neither did they deny it. It could explain all they’d seen from him. The glimpses of the Lattice. His suppressed sorcery. His defiance of a mighty voidspawn at only five springs old.

Leras moved to the railing and leaned against it. The heat of confrontation had dissipated, leaving him chilled and shaky, yet he reveled in the solitude. With their journey set to begin the very next night, it promised to be the last moment alone he’d have in some time.

He took in his home. The werelights hovered before him, dimly illuminating the leaves, the trees, the branches with warming light. He breathed in all its musky fragrance, its earthy notes. He listened to the chatter of the birds, the insects, the monkeys. The murmur of his family’s conversations continuing in the room behind.

He would leave later that night, but this was his farewell to Elendol.

He lingered only a moment before rubbing his chin. Once more, the stubborn stubble peppered his jaw. Among everything else he had to do, he would have to shave. He wondered if he would be afforded such time while out on the road.

Turning, he tottered down the stairs to his room. Entering, he found it felt different from before. Soon, he might not see it for a year or more.

If I ever return.

A servant had fetched his saddlebags so they lay empty on one side of the room. Despite his head feeling stuffed full of cotton, Leras set to packing. A variety of clothes would be needed as they braved various terrains, weather, and seasons. Even after Bran’s counsel on what to wear, his mind flailed at imagining snow in such piles as his father described, entirely unknown to the City of Spring.

At one point, he abandoned his tasks and went to his desk drawer to withdraw the tablets within. Again, he held the Four Roots of Sorcery in his mind and tried spawning a spark, a droplet—something, anything. But though a dragon’s soul was supposed to slumber within him, he felt as little magic as before. The Lattice remained invisible and out of reach.

Sighing, he placed the tablets back in the drawer. He needed to pack as light as he could, and these couldn’t be called anything but extraneous. It was time to lay the dream to rest.

For now.

* * *

The late morning saw Leras walking across Low Elendol to enter the Agarae warehouse.

Though most buildings in the Mire were erected among or around the roots of the kintrees, this one stood on its own. Positioned on the northwestern outskirts of the city, it had a foundation of stone and walls of dead wood set up in a rectangle, flouting the usual Gladelysh architecture. 

What it lacked in elegance it made up for in efficiency. Whatever else could be said of Captain Prendyn, owner of the building and its commerce, he ran a shrewd business. Casks of wine, crates of spices, and barrels of rice filled the area from wall to wall. The air was full of the scents of old wood, the goods they contained, and, most of all, the promise of profit.

For all its industriousness, Leras found little to admire. The people bustling among the cases moved with the irritable resilience common to the laborers of the Mire. Weaving between them, he was given little more than a glance, his demure clothes warranting no more. 

Leras made his way to the far corner. There, the more select and exotic goods were kept, and only the most trusted workers were allowed among them. A guard tried to stop Leras, but relented at a flash of the royal glyph-seal, the Venaliel bull stor recognizable to every elf in Gladelyl. He moved around a collection of bright, delicate vases until he saw the stout profile of his friend.

“Niom.”

The dwarf started, though the reaction was measured. Even surprised, he maintained care around the luxuries placed in his charge. “Dead gods, Leras! You trying to lose me my job?” The next moment, concern swept away all irritation. “The bloody dragon! It’s all anyone’s talking about. Is your family—?”

“Fine, don’t worry.” Leras held up his hands. “Everyone’s fine. But something’s changed.”

Wariness returned to the dwarf’s eyes. “And what’s that? That witch Tilasna could be around at any moment, you know. She won’t be pleased to see you again.”

Leras knew well how the overseer abhorred any interruption to her stringent schedule, even a visit by their prince. But with the fey mood stolen over him, he couldn’t help but tease.

“Didn’t stop you from smoking iceleaf with me in the corner two weeks past.” As his friend’s scowl deepened, he abandoned levity. “But this is serious.”

“You said everyone’s alright.”

“They are.” Leras had mulled over what to say the entire walk over, yet he still didn’t know if it would be enough to convince Niom.

Only one way to find out.

“The dragon, Voissara—” he began again.

“It has a name?” Niom interrupted.

“‘Course she has a name. I told you, dragons are as intelligent as you and I. She came because something happened to a dragon. It…” Leras glanced over his shoulder and leaned in closer. “Its soul was stolen.”

“A stolen dragon soul?” The dwarf glared from beneath his bushy orange eyebrows. “You’re not playing me for a fool, are you, longlegs?”

“Not in the slightest.” He hesitated, knowing what he had to say next. But if there was anyone he could confide in, it was Niom. “The dragons think I stole it. Or that it’s inside me, at least.”

The dwarf stared at him for so long, Leras wondered if he’d turned into a statue. When he summoned a nervous smile, his friend finally roused himself and shook his head.

“You’re a fool, chum, but not this much of one. You’re telling me you’ve a dragon’s soul in you? And how are you supposed to have stolen that?”

“It’s a long story.” Leras glanced around again, but still saw no sign of the overseer. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, I have to ask something of you.”

His friend’s gaze grew guarded—not in a way that meant he would say no, but that Niom feared what he was about to agree to. “Let’s hear it.”

“The short of it is I have to go to the dragons’ lair up north. My father and a few others are accompanying me. We leave tonight. And I want you to come.”

Among all the absurd things Leras had said in the past few moments, this affected Niom the most. His eyes darted about, as if searching for something he’d lost.

“Leras,” he muttered, reluctant to meet his gaze. “I’d go, you know I would. But I can’t—”

“I’ve thought it through,” Leras interrupted. “I know you’ve said you don’t want my House’s help, but you’d basically be under royal employ. It’d be a favor to the queen for you to go, and my mother would be happy to look after your family—”

“No.”

Leras stilled his tongue. He couldn’t force himself to look at the dwarf. Few had called him friend in his life. None were as important to him as Niom.

“No,” the dwarf repeated. “Who’s going to keep my nest of siblings from bouldering over Ma? She needs my help. She needs me. It’s more than just the money. It’s…” He looked aside, his face collapsing like a felled tree.

“I know. I understand.” Leras spoke the words quietly, but he knew they had to be said. Niom had been a pillar to his family since he was fourteen springs old and his father succumbed to the rotlung. In addition to earning all the money needed to take care of them, he was like a father to his six younger siblings.

This had always been too much to request.

Leras turned his face away. “Sorry I asked, Niom. It was selfish of me. Of course, you must look after your family.”

Niom took in a noisy breath, but before he could speak, Leras noticed a wiry woman clad in billowing cerulean silk striding toward them. It was all he could do to keep the scowl from his face as she stopped and glared down her narrow nose at both of them. Overseer Tilasna had never liked Leras’s visits. Considering they often led to trouble, Leras could hardly blame her. Not that it made him like her any more.

“Prince Kaleras,” she said stiffly. “I apologize, but I must request that you refrain from distracting my employees, Niomadrum in particular. This caravan must depart by noon tomorrow at the latest, and with that monster’s ‘visit,’ we are far behind—”

“No need to apologize.” Leras kept his tone lighter than he felt. Around the overseer, he always tried to irritate her with a distant superiority. It was his small way of getting back at her for the injustices she inflicted upon his friend. “I just had some of the queen’s business to discuss with Niom. I won’t delay him a moment longer than necessary.”

“We’re nearly done, Overseer,” Niom said, adding a sense of finality that made Leras’s chest ache.

The waspish elf squinted at each of them, the splintered tendrils in her eyes swimming like fish against the current. “A few more minutes can be accommodated,” she allowed. “Your Highness.”

With a cursory bow, she retreated to a distance, but didn’t let them out of her sight. 

Leras turned his back on her to face his friend. Niom wore a deeper scowl now. Though beholding the dwarf’s anger felt like standing too close to a blazing hearth, he knew it wasn’t aimed at him. More likely, he aimed his ire at himself.

With a slight smile, Leras clasped his friend’s shoulder. After a moment, Niom returned the gesture, his grip crushing. Leras made no protest.

“Keep well, my friend, and your family as well.”

“You, too, chum.”

They shared another smile, then released one another. Leras blinked and looked away, irritated the overseer witnessed their farewell.

“Well,” he declared, “I’m off. Don’t work Niom too hard, eh, Overseer?”

Sharing a final look with his friend, Leras strolled from the warehouse, pretending his chest didn’t weigh heavier than before.