53. Stone by Stone
Chapter 53
Stone by Stone
18 th Day of the Blood Moon
Cuinviel, formerly Catagan – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
“I am you, and you are me.” Salara closed her eyes as she pressed her forehead to Vyrmír’s scales, pulling their minds together and looking out over the world with his eyes. The landscape sharpened, and every scent grew more pungent and crisper. She could feel Vyrmír’s mighty heart beating – their heart – their blood hot as molten steel.
“Aer vailír, myia’n?ra.”
Be free, my light.
The dragon didn’t need another word. He dropped past the treeline and swept over the ground with the speed of a shooting star. He banked right as he came to a herd of deer being stalked by a pride of black lions. The same lions from which the Lorians had taken their sigil.
Vyrmír twisted sharply and swooped onto the largest of the animals, with a mane thick as a dark cloud and a body that rippled with muscle. It was a fierce thing, a powerful thing. But to Vyrmír it may as well have been a sheep. He snatched the lion in his talons and ripped the creature in half, carving clean through the flesh and bone alike.
When the Lorian Kingdom had first been born, the old Lorians had taken the black lion as their sigil for its ferocity and beauty both. The black lions were twice the size of those found in the South, powerful predators with territories that ranged for hundreds of miles. Salara had spent many hours on dragonback admiring them in her youth, which was why she wished she did not hate the sight of them so. Another – if smaller – thing the Lorians had taken from her.
Vyrmír tossed one half of the lion carcass into the air, then snatched it in his jaws and choked it down, blood sprinkling the wind. He kept the upper half of the body in his left talon as they flew.
Salara saw the city through Vyrmír’s eyes from miles away: Catagan, or Cuinviel as it had once been known and now was again. Much had already been rebuilt by the Craftsmages, though not in the image of what the Lorians had turned it into. The sight almost reminded her of before the Cuendyar.
Five winged shapes dotted the sky, with a sixth nestled not far from the white walls. The sight was a bittersweet one. To see dragons fly openly over a reclaimed Lunithíran city of old was a thing of beauty, a thing she had never thought she would see and a sight she was now sure she would never forget.
But there was one missing. Dravír and Irulaian had fallen on the eastern coast, slain by the traitors Lyina and Karakes, their remains dashed against the cliffs and lost to the waters of the Antigan Ocean.
The thought drove Salara’s mind deeper into Vyrmír’s as they shared in the grief. All of them had known the risks of flying to war. They had known them and been willing to take them ten times over. But that didn’t diminish the sense of loss that cut at her heart. The loss that had set her mind in stone. Never again would she allow one of her Draleid to fly these skies alone. Risks needed to be taken, but flying alone left them far too vulnerable. The Dragonguard had not survived so long, through so much bloodshed, by dumb luck. They were fierce and merciless.
As Vyrmír approached the city, he pulled upwards, spreading his brilliant crimson wings. Shouts rose from below, the Craftsmages and workers pausing their toil to cheer, steel clattering and hands clapping together.
The dragon soared over the walls and swirled around the newly erected tower that rose twice as high as any within the city.
Nymaxes and Baerys took positions on either side of Vyrmír, Taran and Indivar at the napes of their necks. The three dragons rose sharply, diving and darting about each other, chirping and shrieking. Both were far smaller than Vyrmír, but they were fierce warriors and a bonded pair. Though their eggs – like all others – had not hatched.
The three soared over the city, and Salara admired the flapping banners of the golden stag that hung from every tower. This city was theirs now. The Reclamation was no longer a dream.
Nymaxes and Baerys pulled away as Vyrmír alighted on the flat top of the central tower at the rear of the keep. A hundred and fifty feet wide with no battlements, just open smooth stone at the top. It was just as the old hatchery towers had once been, purpose-built for dragons.
Before Vyrmír’s talons even hit the stone, the Drac?rdare were moving across the tower’s top with buckets of water and baskets of cloths and mops. They sat themselves down not ten feet from the dragon as he dropped the severed carcass of the black lion to the ground and began tearing it to pieces. Vyrmír had made a habit of taking his meals to that particular tower over the past few days, and the Drac?rdare had not been long in learning.
They greeted Salara as she slid from the dragon’s back and walked across the stone, and she inclined her head in return. She was met by Ithandel of Vandrien’s Sunguard, who led her down the stairs and through the tower’s corridors, stopping at a door that appeared to have been spark-carved from solid gold. An enormous depiction of a dragon egg dominated the doors, split through the middle, dragons swirling about it. There was no elf alive that she knew of who could have carved it by hand in that time.
Salara removed her helmet as the guard pushed open the twin doors, and a rush of air swept her hair across her face. The chamber on the other side was enormous, adorned with swooping arches of white stone and golden eggs atop polished pedestals. Hundreds of alcoves were set into the walls, lantern flames flickering all about.
“Beautiful, is it not?” Princess Ervian Lunithír, Vandrien’s youngest sister, strolled through the newly built hatchery, a broad, beaming smile gracing her lips. She was everything that beauty should be: elegant, soft, graceful, awe-inspiring. Her hair was as golden as Vyrmír’s scales, her eyes the same.
“It is.” Salara stared straight at Ervian as she spoke, and the princess gave a wry smile.
Ervian cupped Salara’s cheek with one hand and placed the other over Salara’s heart. “I promised you the hatchery would be one of the first things built, did I not?”
“You did.” Salara savoured Ervian’s touch. She had not felt it often of late.
“Enough nests to hold four hundred eggs in just this one chamber. As large as any at Ilnaen.” Ervian pulled away and gestured about at the alcoves in the walls, each of which lay empty.
“And yet, they may as well be used to hold rocks.”
Ervian narrowed her eyes and glared.
“I’m sorry.” Salara pressed her fingers into her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, Salara.” Ervian once more cupped Salara’s cheek, setting her heart fluttering.
“You are always so full of hope. I don’t mean to cut you down. It’s just hard…” She lifted her gaze to survey the hatchery. “It’s beautiful. All of it. Not even before the Cuendyar has a more beautiful hatchery existed.” Salara could physically feel her heart darkening in her chest, feel the weight of it bearing down upon her. “And yet, it will never know a hatchling’s cry. Never echo with the beats of tiny wings or the cracking of shells.”
“Stop it.” Ervian pressed a finger over Salara’s lips, golden eyes staring into hers. “We focus on what we can control and leave what we can’t to the gods.”
“I trusted the gods before, Ervian…”
“ Salara .” Ervian’s voice dropped into that tone it took when she had reached the end of her patience.
They’d had this argument many times over. Despite everything, Ervian still believed in the gods. Still trusted them. Still prayed to them. Salara could do no such thing. She still believed they existed. Their marks were everywhere; they were undeniable. But she could not bring herself to think they were anything other than malevolent or, at best, uncaring. No god that was good would have allowed The Fall to happen… would have taken the life from the dragons. She sighed. Some arguments weren’t worth having.
“Focus on what we can control,” Salara repeated.
“You lead our people on the field of battle, fill their hearts with courage, watch over them. And I will build our home anew, stronger than it ever was before.”
A third voice sounded, echoing in the open chamber. “Salara.”
Queen Vandrien stood on the far side of the hatchery, her hands resting on the low parapet of an open arch set into the wall. She had her back to the chamber, looking out over the city.
Ervian smiled once more and squeezed the sides of Salara’s head before planting a tender kiss on her forehead. “Be patient, my Ayar Elwyn.”
“Am I not always?”
“As much as the sun is cold.” She ran her thumb across Salara’s cheek. “Patience,” she whispered as she ushered Salara towards Vandrien.
Salara stepped up beside the queen, drawing in a slow breath and exhaling as she watched the sunlight spill over the city. They stood there in silence for a time until Salara spoke. “I assume, judging by how firmly Ervian cautioned me towards patience, that we are to remain here for some time longer?”
“Wheels are in motion, Salara. This war will not be won in a day. Nor a week, nor a month, nor a year. The first phase of our plan succeeded. We have reclaimed Cuinviel, and Visenn and Falisín set fire to Aonar and its ports. The mines still stand, but the Lorian’s gold will not be moving any time soon.”
“All at great cost.” Salara’s thoughts drifted to Irulaian and Dravír, and to Olmaír Moridain.
“At immeasurable cost,” Vandrien agreed. “Do not think I weigh those lives lightly, Salara.”
“I know you do not… I know.”
“Our plan to take the city was a success. But I am more than certain we will not find the same success twice. We are in the heart of Loria now. The only thing that keeps Fane, Eltoar, and the Uraks from burning this place to the ground are you and the dragons. Each step we take from here must be careful and planned. There is no room for error anymore. No forgiveness for mistakes. We must be patient.”
“I’ve sat on my hands for the better part of four hundred years… I had thought now was finally the time for action. We have them on their heels. The Uraks press them from all sides, and the South is in full rebellion. Now is the time to pull the blade across their throat, Vandrien, not step back and let them fortify their position.”
Vandrien looked to Salara, an unreadable expression on her face. She held the silence for a few moments. “Did I say you must sit on your hands?” A grin stretched her lips. “I said there is no room for error. That we must be patient. Not that we must do nothing.”
“My queen?”
“A Lorian force marches east from Berona.”
Salara straightened. “What would you have us do?”
The queen raised an eyebrow.
“Patience,” Salara whispered.
“Patience.” Vandrien looked back out the arched window at the city beyond. “We wish to build a nation that stands for millennia. And so what is a few days? I told you we would have vengeance and that you would be the tip of our spear. Have I spoken a word of a lie?”
“You have not.”
“We will let the Lorians march, wait until they reveal their desires. And then we will act accordingly. The time will soon come where you will face Eltoar Daethana and Helios in the sky. The stars demand it. And when that day comes, Salara, you will emerge victorious, and dragon will fight dragon for the last time. Perhaps your presence will draw him from Elkenrim. And if it does, the city will be ripe for the taking, as will Berona. I have sent word to our forces in the east to be ready. And the seeds we have planted have both grown and flowered. King Hoffnar of the Lodhar dwarves proceeds as planned. Patience, Salara, is an attribute all predators share. Soon the black lion will die on its back, the jaws of a dragon around its throat.”
“I am yours, Myia’nari. I should not have questioned.”
“Always question, Salara, lest my pride swallow me whole. Luilin asked that you pay a visit to the Onarakina on your return. They struggle. I wish you to ease that struggle while your patience thins.”
“As you command, my queen.”
“I do not command it. But I ask.”
Salara smiled as she inclined her head. She dropped so that her right knee hovered just off the ground. “Myia’nari.”