Imladrik gazed up at her. She was magnificent. Though only half the size of the great Draukhain, she still bled that mix of raw potency and feral energy that was the truest mark of the dragon-breed. Her hide glistened as if new-forged metal. Her enormous heart, still sluggish from her long slumber, began to pulse more firmly.
Thoriol took a step closer, his blade raised. Imladrik could sense his trepidation. Every fibre of his being longed to help him, to ease the passage between them, but this was something Thoriol had to do for himself.
The stirring of a hot-blood, a Sun Dragon, was a rare thing, and such spirits were hard to tame. Though they couldn’t match the sheer power of the Star Dragons or the cool splendour of the Moon Dragons, they brought a wildness and vivacity that thrilled the heart of any true Caledorian. This one was young, perhaps no more than a few centuries. Imladrik could sense her fearlessness, her savagery.
At that instant, he knew her name: Terakhallia. The word burned on to his mind as if branded there.
Our powers merged. One mind, one power.
Thoriol’s mind-song continued. His voice became more powerful. Imladrik listened with pride. Terakhallia drew closer, taking cautious steps down the slope towards the young acolyte. Her great head lowered, bringing her jawline almost down to the level of Thoriol’s sword. For a moment the two of them stayed like that, locked in the mystical dragon-
song, bound by a symphony as old as the winds of magic.
One mind, one power.
Then, without warning, Terakhallia belched a gout of ink-black smoke, coiled her tail, and pounced into the air. The downdraft was tremendous, knocking Thoriol to his knees and nearly sending Imladrik reeling.
Thoriol cried aloud. The bond was cut.
‘Father!’ he gasped, instinctively, his blade clattering across the stones.
Imladrik recovered himself and watched, grimly, as the serpentine form rippled up into the heavens. Terakhallia’s golden body flashed in the sunlight. Her blood-red wings flexed, propelling her upwards like an arrow leaving the bowstring. It was over so quickly. Once aloft, a dragon moved as fast as a stormfront, thrusting powerfully on wings the size of a hawkship’s sails.
Imladrik felt his heart sink. For a moment longer he watched the Sun Dragon gain height. He had the power to call her back. If he chose, he could command her; alone of all the asur living, he could have summoned her back to earth.
But that would have been unforgivable. He would not do it, not even for his son.
Imladrik glanced at Thoriol. As he did so, catching the boy’s anguish, he felt a pang of remorse.
‘Why?’ asked Thoriol, standing up again with difficulty. ‘What did I do wrong?’
Imladrik shook his head. ‘Nothing, lad. They are wild spirits. Some answer, some do not. It has always been that way.’
Thoriol’s face creased with misery. The exertion of the dragonsong was considerable; he looked suddenly drained, his shoulders slumped, his blade discarded. ‘I knew it,’ he muttered. ‘It was too soon.’
Imladrik went over to him. He knew the pain of a severed link, of a bond that was not completed. ‘There will be others, son. Do not…’
‘You knew!’ cried Thoriol, his eyes wide with anger. ‘You knew. Why did you even bring me?’
Imladrik halted. ‘Nothing is certain. Dragons are not tame.’
‘Neither am I.’
Thoriol pushed past Imladrik, ignoring his lost sword and limping down the slope, away from the cavern entrance.
‘There are others!’ Imladrik called after him.
Thoriol kept on walking. Imladrik watched him go.
Was he too young? he asked himself. Did I push him too fast?
He went over to the sword and picked it up. The steel at its tip was scorched from Terakhallia’s fiery breath. The Sun Dragon was long gone, free on the mountain air. She would not return for many days, and when she did her soul would be even wilder, even harder to bond with.
Imladrik felt failure press on him. Perhaps their spirits had been misaligned. Perhaps the boy needed more time. Perhaps he himself was to blame.
He tried not to let himself consider the alternative, the possibility that burned away in his mind like a torturer’s blade: that Thoriol did not have the gift, that unless the fates granted Imladrik and Yethanial another child, mastery of dragons would die with him and the House of Tor Caled would never produce a rider again.
I could not live with that.
Moving slowly, his heart heavy, Imladrik began to walk. He would have to hurry to catch Thoriol; when the boy’s temper cooled, they would talk, discuss what had happened, learn from it.
Even as he thought it, though, he knew that the failure would change everything. Something new was needed, and he had no idea what it would be.
Imladrik shook his head, pushing against the ashen wind and picking up his pace. His mood of exhilaration had been doused; the descent to Kor Evril would be harder than the climb.
Chapter Five
Drutheira stared out at the sun setting over the Arluii. Neither of the others had spoken to her since the grim trek down from the gorge, not even Ashniel. Occasionally she had caught them looking sidelong at her, but the accusatory gazes had quickly fallen away. They were still scared of her. Sullen, but scared.
Now, crouched around a meagre fire and with the wind snatching at their robes, the questions came haltingly.
‘You’re sure you finished it?’ asked Malchior.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ snapped Drutheira.
‘But Hreth–’ started Ashniel.
‘It wasn’t Hreth. Khaine’s blood, even you could see that.’
‘Kaitar,’ said Malchior.
‘Yes. Or whatever was inside Kaitar. And we banished them both.’
Drutheira found it hard to concentrate. Her mind kept going back to the final glimpse of Sevekai as he sailed over the edge. The Hreth-thing had been little more than a grasping bundle of ashes by then, but Sevekai had been alive.
She shouldn’t have cared, and didn’t know why she did. They had shared a
