Page 15 of Court of Embers (Dragonesse #2)
Chapter
Eight
A s we rose above Sylvaene’s forest, we saw flashes of brilliant green dragonfire between the canopies, hints of scales gleaming between the leaves. They congregated around the fallen bodies, torching them and the surrounding forest, leaving scorched, but purified, earth behind.
Smaller dragons without riders were blasting the withered areas where the dead dragons’ oozing spit had left smoking, decaying patches of ground.
But these dragons were few, the ones left behind to clean up the blight left behind.
Most of the Jade Leaves were soaring above the massive canopy of Sylvaene Eyrie itself, their eyes focused on the distant horizon for more enemies.
They twined between the gargantuan tree’s leaves, perched on balconies jutting from its tower-wide trunk, before slithering back into the sky.
And in a lush clearing at the base of the eyrie, the pyres were being built.
Rhylan dipped for the clearing, both of us full of muffled thoughts.
Is it wrong that I’m no longer so concerned about Tyria? I thought dryly. She can hate us, but dead dragons flying around…such a thing wasn’t recorded when Vhaiothez rose up. The only time the dead were made to walk the earth was in the Age of Flame and Shadow.
The Age of Flame and Shadow, those long-distant eons past when Ustrael lived, and the dragons rose up against her as one in a war that nearly destroyed the world.
We’d all studied the texts, the sacrifices our Ascendants had made, and we all knew that while Aurae had salvaged the souls of the dead, sending them on to Nakasha and Sunya, Ustrael had made free with their mortal remains.
If they haven’t noticed the same thing we have, then they’re not the dragons I believe them to be .
Rhylan circled the clearing, wings spread wide, announcing his presence clearly to the dragons below.
Only a few nodded in acknowledgement, and we landed at the edge.
Most of them were focused on forming tree-like pyres of dried cordwood.
The beauty of the arrangements belied the sadness of their necessity. A green-scaled draga sat cross-legged on a broad, smooth stone at the edge of the meadow, weaving garlands of lush wildflowers even as tears dripped silently down her cheeks.
Darian and Esme . Rhylan’s thoughts held a heaviness that physically slumped my shoulders beneath their weight when I drew my eyes back to the dead.
Darian had not shifted in death, the emerald dragon’s body stretched out long across the ground, his scales blackened and pitted where the ooze had touched him. His wings were melted away, his head and neck nothing but pocked bones.
His mate, Esme, hardly had identifying features left to her after Kalros’s attack. A clump of brilliantly copper hair still clung to her skull, but most of her, from the crown of her head to her upper thighs, was gone.
I’d known neither of them well, but I still took a moment to close my eyes and whisper a prayer for them to Sunya.
Several other bodies were interspersed among their carnage, and as Rhylan moved to help the other dragons haul cordwood, I approached the cross-legged draga. Her garland spilled over her perch, thick with ivory, cobalt, and vibrant yellow flowers.
“Do you want help?” I asked quietly.
She looked up at me, the pale jade eyes of her House stark against her brown skin, and nodded silently, offering a sewing basket.
I took up a needle and thread, starting a new garland with a length of twine and the baskets of flowers the young draga were delivering.
We worked in silence, the pyres forming as the garlands grew, and the sun began to tilt towards its descent.
When dusk had painted the woods in dark shadows, the garlands were draped over the pyres, and the dragons carefully moved Darian’s body to the largest one, curling Esme’s remains in his arms.
The flower-weaving draga remained at her rock, fingers bloodied from wielding a needle all day. When she spoke, her voice was harsh with tears.
“Your father cursed us. My brother would still be alive if he had just done the right thing, and not left with us a pointless fucking war. It’s nothing to do with us at all, but look at the price we’ve paid.”
I nodded, unwilling to speak in my father’s defense. He had cursed us all, and nothing I could say would lessen this draga’s grief.
“Everyone knew he wanted Rhylan for the throne. Why didn’t he just name him?
” she demanded, but I had the feeling she wasn’t speaking to me any longer; she was venting her rage to the world at large.
“What held him back, what stupid fucking reason did he have? What was so godsdamned important that he should leave us all to pay with our family’s blood? ”
A fine question, and one I had no good answer for. Apparently everyone else had known, thanks to Nasir becoming Rhylan’s Preceptor, that my father had tapped him as the next Drakkon. He could have avoided this all by naming him his successor, bypassing this Interregnum entirely.
I could’ve come home and become Dragonesse by right of bloodline, mate bonded to Rhylan under happier circumstances.
But I was not in the picture then. I was tucked away, forgotten and believed dead by his own design. He had wanted the world to forget I’d ever existed at all.
And that would have left Yura as the bloodline Dragonesse to Rhylan’s Drakkon. It would’ve been unthinkable for my father to train Rhylan as his replacement, and not arrange for his own surviving daughter to bond with him.
I thought of when Rhylan and Kirana had told me of his deathbed confession—that nobody was to retrieve me until after he’d taken his last breath…and that if it was at all possible, they were to leave me there, in permanent exile.
“Because he knew,” I said suddenly, both out loud and in my thoughts.
Darian’s sister looked at me, fury and grief at war in her eyes. “What?”
It was the only thing that made sense. He knew what Yura was . He’d side-stepped forcing Rhylan into a bond with her and making my sister Dragonesse, and kept me out of Yura’s sight.
But what in the Nine Hells would’ve possessed him to come up with such a convoluted plan, instead of simply Judging Yura and her House?
From across the meadow, Rhylan rose up from carefully laying a body on a pyre, his draconic eyes gleaming crimson once more as he stared at me.
Did he ever tell you that he suspected? I demanded.
Rhylan shook his head slowly. No…but he was not in his right mind. He’d been slipping since you and your mother were exiled, and by the end…he was unrecognizable.
Because he knew she was a flesh-eater, and…gods, their whole House could be in on it. What if Aerona was involved? You said no one’s seen her since he died.
True. I suppose one would feel the need to go into hiding if they had a hand in the Drakkon’s death . Rhylan glanced upwards as Cai arrived, gliding over the clearing with Tyria in his claws.
“I’ll drag her out and make her answer,” I hissed under my breath.
The draga was watching me warily. “What are you on about?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t do anything but help give last rites, but I promise you, the one responsible for this will pay. I’ll make sure of it.”
She nodded shortly, her attention already back on her brother’s pyre. “See that you do.” She tossed the bloody needle in the basket, and strode down the slope of the hill to the ceremony.
I followed, my thoughts whirling, following Tyria’s beckoning gesture. Rhylan stood behind me; the older sons of Tyria’s House sat in a line, all of them making a terrible groaning keen in the back of their throats. The sound rumbled through the forest like thunder.
And behind them, what seemed like a thousand people, all the dragonbloods of their vast House.
Tyria glanced at me, pointing to the ground next to her. I stood there obediently, well aware that if I were Dragonesse in name, it would be my sworn duty to take on Sunya’s rites at any funeral I attended.
Tyria looked at their bodies, her face like stone, and held out her hands.
“Aurae of the Fang, heed my words. These were my children, one and all. Guide them safely to the Gates. Nakasha of the Scale, we give you our flames and prayers. Take them under your wing and defend their souls with tooth and claw.”
She lowered her hands, and I raised mine.
“Sunya of the Claw, I beg you to hear me. They died bravely in the defense of their House. Their flames are bright and their wind is pure, as Father and Mother created. Weigh their souls, and expect the substance of courage and honor on your scales. Grant them peace in the Eternal Cycle.”
I had always felt a certain affinity for Sunya, and I hoped, in the deepest part of my heart, that she heard my prayers and accepted them.
Even on Mistward, I had tithed a portion of what little I had to her glory, and though it felt wrong to expect her to heed me…
perhaps she would take that into account.
I lowered my hands, and Tyria nodded. “Send them on with the Mother’s flames. Father, spread them across Akalla, and let them become part of your Cycle.”
We stepped back, and the dragons inhaled, releasing their grief on a fiery scream. The pyres ignited, garlands instantly blackening to ash, the wood glistening with embers. The wind took it, swirling sparks upwards into the night.
Tyria gave the pyres one last look, her lips pressed flat. The flames reflected in her pale eyes, glittering like dragonfire. “Come with me.”
Rhylan nudged me, and I climbed onto his back, settling in the saddle as Cai took Tyria. We followed the green dragon, spiraling upwards and away from the funeral and mourners.