A Dragon's Flame

A Dragon’s Flame

Copyright © 2019 by Mercedese Jeffries

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-1227-2 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-1226-5 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-1228-9 (eBook)

Prologue

Anyone would expect the classic story of a rescued princess to be about her knight in shining armour heroically slaying the dragon that guarded her. This is not the case, however, in my mother’s tale, and for that reason her story is a forbidden one. I’ll give you the short version.

At sixteen years of age, Princess Mirabelle was stolen away from her palace in Moonbright City, located in the Kingdom of Forthwind. The guards attempted in vain to fight off the dragon and protect the princess. The dragon had a long slender body, almost like that of a snake—if you ignored the arms at the base of a long neck and legs in front of an even longer tail. Its body gave it speed that the guards could not keep up with, and its impenetrable red scales helped it disappear into the fire it breathed upon the castle. It seemed, though, that what astonished the kingdom most was how the dragon flew with no wings, almost as if it lifted into the air by sheer will. Well, they weren’t that far off.

The kingdom watched helplessly as the dragon grabbed their beloved princess and flew too high in the sky for anyone to know which way it went. Her light brown hair swaying in the wind was the last thing they saw before she disappeared from sight. It was seven years before they ever saw her again (how oh-so sad). She was twenty-three when she returned on horseback with the hero who rescued her, and already with child—me. This man was handsome, with a skin tone a slight shade darker than Mirabelle’s, amber eyes, and dark brown hair; he seemed to be a good match for Mirabelle.

As always with a returning princess, the whole kingdom wished to know her story, and the gruesome details of how the dragon was slayed, but neither Mirabelle nor Sir Richard spoke a word of her ordeal locked in the tower in a location they also refused to reveal. Under the belief that recounting the events of seven years of isolation would be too much for the princess to bear, eventually everyone gave up asking questions.

Alas, for the sake of my story, I must reveal what happened in those seven years. During the first four, the events that occurred were as expected: knights and nobles from many kingdoms journeyed far and wide to rescue the princess from the dragon that held her captive, only to meet their burnt, or bloody ends. In order to pass the time, Mirabelle would keep herself occupied by, of course, scratching the days on the wall as they went by, or by reading whatever materials the dragon found with the remains, or in the nearby camp, of the failed rescuer. She would also talk and sing to herself to reassure herself that she didn’t lose her voice during the time when there was no one to talk to.

It was in her fifth year that the dragon realized she had grown very quiet, not speaking or singing—she even gave up ticking away the days. He had actually quite enjoyed how she kept herself distracted, because it had helped time pass for him, as well.

It is a dragon’s sworn duty to guard a princess with its life, and if she is not rescued by her thirtieth birthday, she is to be taken somewhere she will never be found: the Island of the Vanished. Ah yes, very original, and sounds like a dreadful place, but it is quite the opposite actually. On that island, these women are free to live their lives as they please, without the responsibilities of the royals they used to be, and over the centuries, they’ve turned it into quite a paradise. Many men would agree with me about an island full of women.

Mirabelle, however, wanted desperately to return to her kingdom and become the next queen of Forthwind with her knight becoming king at her side. She didn’t know about the island, but even if she did, she wouldn’t have changed her mind. The dragon knew this, and as he looked up at the tower, he saw her gazing forlornly out the window.

After guarding princesses for almost a century, he knew better than to use the human tongue to speak with her. It wasn’t an uncommon story among dragons that upon conversing with the princess they were guarding, a dragon would take pity and feel such sorrow for the princess who wished to return home, that it would grant her the rescue she wished by accidentally leaving an opening for the knight to drive his blade under the dragon’s impenetrable scales and straight into the heart. This was known as a coward’s death among dragons. Despite knowing all this, for the first time in a century, the dragon began to speak with the princess he currently guarded, surprising her at first, but eventually this cheered her up.

She started to speak and sing again, knowing now that there was someone around who was happily listening to her and engaging her in conversation. Over the next year, they grew more and more fond of each other, and Mirabelle actually found herself fearing for the dragon’s life every time a knight came, brandishing his newly sharpened sword. Each time, the dragon would return with more and more wounds, which she would clean and dress with herbs and bandages. Mirabelle knew he was beginning to lose his will to hold her captive. Rather than feel a glimmer of hope at this revelation, Mirabelle felt sad, for the only way she would ever leave the tower would either be—unbeknownst to her—on her thirtieth birthday, whereupon she would never see her kingdom again, or on the dying breath of this dragon she cared so much about.

To help this story move along, I’ll tell you now that dragons are very capable of taking on human form. How else do you think they go unnoticed outside of kidnapping a princess or fighting a knight near the tower she is being held in? They need to keep the princesses fed and happy somehow; it’s less troublesome when they do not try to run away . . . or find other depressing ways of escaping their captivity. A dragon will take on his human form and enter a town to sell the gold and other items scavenged from dead knights, and buy food, sewing materials, books, and so on with it. When a dragon guards his first princess, the tower she is kept in is actually pretty barren and miserable. Over time, the gold accumulated by the dragon is used toward beautifying the living space and making it more comfortable; therefore, being held captive in the tower is less depressing for each princess following the last. It’s actually quite symbolic: the better a tower looks on the inside, the more successful the dragon has been at guarding princesses. To a dragon, this places a value on the worthiness of the knight who strikes it down.

Anyhow, back to the story, more and more often, the dragon would visit with Mirabelle in his human form; needless to say, at first this was a shock to Mirabelle. It was probably inevitable that they would fall in love with each other from the moment he first appeared to her in that form, and upon crossing one very distinct line, what never should have happened had an unexpected result for the dragon. He found that he was no longer able to change out of his human form and back into a dragon; since that day, he has and always will be human. Upon making this discovery, the other dragons started to call this the Cross-Blood Curse, named for the act itself and its results. My father, Ri’zhaar—the human ear mishearing his name as Richard—did not agree to call this a curse, for he loved my mother too much. The moment he mated with her, though, his flame died and was rekindled within me.

Ri’zhaar was no longer welcome among the dragons, and who could blame them, really? He was human now—looked like one, aged like one, and was no stronger than one—and there was no going back. So he left with my mother under the false story that he was simply a common adventurer from a distant and unheard of kingdom who slayed the mighty beast that held her captive. They were soon wed and became the next king and queen of Forthwind. Oh, how the kingdom would react if they ever found out the truth . . .

Chapter 1

I beg your pardon? I ask.

You heard me correctly, Aleesha, Father answers. I feel a flash of annoyance as he mispronounces my name. Although I do stress to you that this is a request, you are free to refuse, and I can try to find someone else.

You’re the only one we can trust with her, though, Mother adds.

Trust is never meant to be between a dragon and the king and queen of a kingdom, I remind her.

But you are not a dragon, Father points out.

Nor am I human, I jab back, glaring at him, and who do we have to thank for that?

The three of us remain silent, unable to continue this conversation. When I was little, it was easy for me to overlook what I was and what my parents did, mostly because I never realized the seriousness of it all. However, as I grew older, my flame burned brighter and the dragon within me became more and more out of control. My father, with the help of a witch named Martha, contacted his father, an elder dragon named Zha’rhid, to ask his advice. The dragons already knew what I was and could tolerate it—barely. Humans, however, the petty creatures they are, would not be so kind should they discover what I was. So, to keep my parents’ secret and me safe, I had to leave the kingdom, kidnapped by Zha’rhid at ten years old, the youngest princess ever to have been taken by a dragon.

Now, thirteen years later, they tell me my younger sister, Lyra, does not wish to bear the responsibilities of a royal, and her only hope of that kind of freedom is for me to take her and hold her captive until her thirtieth birthday.

Despite my own feelings, I was having trouble understanding why she wanted to leave. She wasn’t born half dragon like I was, Father’s flame died before they even found out Mother was pregnant with me; there was nothing to pass on to Lyra. She could easily live in the castle, peacefully, leaving the matter of a dragon taking her up to chance.

Please, Al’zhah, my mother says, saying my name slowly. Would you consider it?

I hesitate. I’m not sure about this plan; I’m tempted to say yes, because it would mean I’d have my sister back. The last time I saw Lyra—before losing her for what I believed to be forever—was just before Grandfather snatched me up and flew me away. I remember it all too well—her light brown hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and I remember her amber eyes looking at me in shock as I tried to reach her. That vivid memory haunted me for years, and it never faded in my mind—I wonder if the same could be said for her. There is a part of me that hopes this could be our chance for happier memories beyond that dreadful day.

But first I have to know how she feels about this.

Yes, I’ll think it over. I sigh. But I am making this her choice, too. These sorts of things are meant to happen on a whim, at the dragon’s time of choosing, whether the royals like it or not; they are not meant to be negotiated. For Lyra, I could make an exception to this rule, but for my parents, I could not. Steeling myself, I continue. You two have bent the rules enough as it is. From this moment on, the situation is out of your hands—you will have our answer by morning.

Mother and Father are stunned, but they can hardly be surprised that I’m being so cold. They sent me away and I haven’t seen them since I was ten—now they are asking me to take my sister, guard her, and kill any knights who come to rescue her from her captivity. Lyra is nineteen and, as of three days ago, only just found out the truth of what her sister is, and what her father used to be. When she was six, she was always quick to forgive—whether that changed or not after my departure, I don’t yet know, but either way, for her to hear that her older sister was not kidnapped, but sent away, must be testing even her limits.

Should we send her up to you? Mother asks quietly.

I pause, thinking about it. I haven’t seen her in so long, but I knew some part of me isn’t ready just yet. Later, I say. For now I would like to speak with Abigail. Abigail was my nursemaid when I lived in the castle, and if there was anyone who could help me get my thoughts straight, it was her.

Nodding, both parents turn to leave. As they reach the door, my father turns back as if to say something, but no words come out. I can see it in his eyes, though: relief, obviously, for how well I seem to be getting on as a dragon. The human life was just not for me, but trying to live as a dragon isn’t easy, either.

When the door clicks into place, I look around the room, my old room. Everything is the same as before I left: a bed with one end pressed against the wall to my right, the dresser at the opposite wall on my left, a bookshelf at the far side of the bed, and a mirror on the door side. Large glass doors on the far wall lead to the balcony outside. There is also a padded chair between the balcony entrance and the bookshelf, with a small table next to it. I smile at that; that chair holds some of my happiest memories. As a child, I was a very small dragon—I was able to coil my body in Abigail’s lap as she read—but then as I grew older, I’d wrap my body around the chair and just rest my chin on the armrest. Relative to other dragons today, I am still smaller, but I would have to wrap my body around the bed if Abigail tried to tell me a bedtime story now. I smirk in amusement at the thought.

I turn to the mirror and my smile fades. Walking over to it, I examine the figure in the glass. She is tall, but not tall enough to tower over anyone; she has fair skin, hazel eyes and long, dark brown hair. For clothing, she is wearing a dark blue hooded travelling dress and a pair of leather knee-length boots. I am so focused on the reflection that I don’t hear Abigail as she enters the room.

Such a sadness in your eyes, yet there are no tears, Abigail says as she starts toward me.

I turn and greet her. Hi, Abi. She quickens her pace and wraps her arms around me. I return the embrace, holding her tightly. It’s been too long. How have you been? I ask.

Life in the castle has slowed since you left, she says tiredly. That is probably a good thing, though, since I have slowed down, too. She separates herself from me and steps back. Looking her over, I realize just how much things have changed in thirteen years; Abigail is an elderly woman, only a couple of inches shorter than I am. Her hair is now all grey; I remember when it still had some brown left in it. Right now she is wearing a loose dark green dress covered by her long black cloak. She must’ve just come back from the market.

I wasn’t that much trouble was I? I ask, grinning innocently.

Oh, you were a little terror from the moment you were born, Abigail scoffs teasingly. You made poor young Ruth faint that day.

All those years she gave me trouble were probably revenge for that one moment, I reminisce, giggling. Then I’d just turn into a dragon and spit embers at her feet.

Ripping your dresses while doing so, she retorts. Not to mention, you set the drapes on fire!

Only that one time! I say defensively, crossing my arms and turning away. And besides, I’ve worked on my aim since then.

We stand there, laughing for a few moments, forgetting the years apart. Then my gaze wanders back to the mirror and my good mood sours instantly.

Nodding in that direction, Abigail asks, Why did you keep that mirror when that was how you looked at yourself, and still do?

That is not me, I say, crossing my arms and glaring at the woman in the mirror. She glares back as if taking my statement as an insult. That is Aleesha, the beloved firstborn of King Richard and Queen Mirabelle. As far as the world is concerned, she no longer exists.

Abigail comes to my side and places her hands on my shoulders. Then let me see Al’zhah, she says slowly, smiling at the mirror. Maybe she can give me a smile.

I give a light chuckle. Keeping my secret from those who lived and worked in the castle was almost impossible; the only ones who knew were the maids present at my birth. Three of them: Ruth, Abigail, and Lena, and of those three, only Abigail wasn’t afraid of any form I took that wasn’t human. Ruth was taller than Abigail; if nothing has changed with her then her hair will still be a copper red, and I will actually be about as tall as her now. Lena’s hair was all black, and she was just under Abigail’s height last I saw her, but Abigail looks so small now, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lena is now taller than Abigail.

I look up at the mirror and make eye contact with the woman staring back at me, almost daring her to try and stop me. Do your worst, she seems to be saying back. I watch as my skin tone darkens and black scales begin to surface. My brown irises take on an almost golden colour, like candlelight in the dark. Finally, my nails lengthen and sharpen into small talons, and I can feel the fangs growing from my upper jaw, threatening to slip past my lips. This is the form I was born with, and one that no other dragon is capable of, just me. Seeing my reflection, I’m not sad or angry anymore. It isn’t like the transformation makes me happy, either; I’m just . . . calm. For Abigail’s sake, though, I manage a small smile.

That’s better, she comments. Your scales are a different colour, though. How did that happen?

It is not that they changed colour, I say, turning from the mirror and sitting on the bed. Dragons shed their skin like any other reptile, which Father neglected to tell me, by the way, and Grandfather didn’t tell me because he expected Father would’ve prepared me better. It would have been a lot less frightening had one of them warned me. This happened when I came of age.

Ah, yes, your father spoke with me about how he loathed missing that day. Sounds like it’s a special one for dragons, Abigail says. Could you tell me that story?

I look up