A Song of Stone (The Dragon Queen Book 2) Read online

  A Song of Stone

  The Dragon Queen — Book 2

  J.R. Rasmussen

  Copyright © 2020 by J.R. Rasmussen

  Cover Design © 2019 by Wicked Good Book Covers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Map of Cairdarin

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Dear Reader

  Maps also available at http://cairdarin.com/maps/

  1

  The fact of it not being real does not make burning alive any less unpleasant.

  Griffin propped himself up on one elbow and wiped sweat from the back of his neck. The dreams were coming more often now. And each time he slid screaming into the abyss, it was more difficult to return.

  But he’d made it this time, again. He was all right. He was fine.

  Tossing off his light summer blanket, he crossed the short distance to his window and rested his forehead against the (relatively) cool glass. Dawn was coming soon, the sky brightening just enough to suggest the dark line of the stream, and the shape of the manor beyond. Griffin watched them come into focus—it was certainly preferable to closing his eyes—while he concentrated on drawing breath, and letting it back out again, and the gradual slowing of his frantic heart.

  It was beginning to feel like he spent more time in that pit than out of it. Sometimes he was thrown in, sometimes batted in by a powerful wing. Sometimes he simply stumbled, fool that he was. But once he was inside, it was always the same: the opening above filling with a monstrous red head. And then with dragon fire.

  The first time, he’d had the sense to wake up before the flames even touched him. Now it seemed he burned for hours. Long after he became aware he was dreaming, and ordered himself awake.

  He ran his hand over his face, then blinked out at the manor once more. A tiny flicker of light caught his eye. A candle, most likely, burning in a third-story window. Was that the archmagister’s chambers? Perhaps a dream had driven Arun out of bed, too. More likely he’d risen early to work on his enchantments, before far less interesting administrative chores claimed his day.

  Perhaps Griffin ought to tell the archmagister about the dreams. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Deryn. It hadn’t seemed important. It was to be expected, after all, that his mind would respond with some anxiety to first killing one of just nine dragons left in existence, and then being informed that most of the surviving eight resented him bitterly for it. Particularly Orovont’s sister, the red queen. It would make anyone a bit nervous, surely, to find himself the object of a vow of vengeance made by the most powerful creature in the world.

  One against whom they had no defense, apart from spinning rumors and illusions. One they would, no doubt, not be able to avoid through such methods for much longer. Adalant would come for them, all of them, not only because of what Griffin had done (although that could hardly help matters), but because she believed it to be the natural order of things that dragons should rule over men. She would come because she could.

  Griffin swallowed, his tongue sticky, as he once again entertained a thought that had been plaguing him the past few nights: was he certain that fear was the only thing driving the nightmares?

  Perhaps there was a more sinister cause. What was it that Duncan had said to him, in the early days of the curse?

  I dream of fire. I always dream of fire.

  But that curse had been greenwing magic. And black dragons could cloak themselves. What, then, could red dragons do?

  Could they send a man dreams? Warnings?

  Promises?

  Something—a thread of mist, perhaps—passed across the manor, momentarily shuttering the window he’d been looking at. Still lost in thoughts of his dreams and what they might mean, Griffin only half paid attention as the speck of candlelight flickered out, then in again.

  Until the mist reversed its course, circled back, and blotted out the candle a second time. Something mist did not ordinarily do.

  He straightened, squinting into the hazy light. The shape passed again. Not mist, and not a cloud, either. It turned, gliding toward his window, though it never came truly close to the battlemage hall. It only crossed the stream, then veered aside. Griffin craned his neck to follow its progress.

  And watched it alight on the roof of the keep.

  Its silhouette, becoming more and more clear as the sun peeked over the horizon, was distinctly dragon-shaped.

  The dragon had gone by the time Griffin burst out of the battlemage hall, but there was little need to wonder where. Judging by the speed with which the kitchen staff were scurrying out of the keep and toward the manor, it was inside.

  That must have been quite a shock for them, accustomed as they were to being the only ones awake and about at that hour, apart perhaps from the kennel master and kennel hands. One didn’t expect to see a dragon coming through the keep’s doors at any time, but especially not before breakfast.

  Griffin shook his head as he ran, as if he could shoo away such nonsensical thoughts. Sleep must be clinging to him still. And perhaps his visions of dragons along with it. He almost began to convince himself that this was all part of the dream, until he nearly collided with the archmagister, the latter still in his nightrobe and breathless from running himself. For once, no blackhounds trailed behind him.

  “You saw it too, then?” Arun asked. Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and grabbed the elbow of one of the fleeing cooks. Griffin couldn’t make out his words, but the cook shook her head.

  “I don’t know, Archmagister,” she said. “None of us took much trouble to notice what color it was, or to ask it any questions, busy as we were with getting away from it.”

  “It didn’t hurt anyone, though?” Arun glanced up at the keep, then back at her. “Or act aggressively at all?”

  “I don’t believe so.” The cook’s breath hitched a bit. “But it’s a dragon, isn’t it? Most of us aren’t magicians. We’re in no position to face a dragon, are we? Best to fetch you, we thought.”

  Arun dismissed her with orders to warn the rest of the magistery to stay inside until further notice, then hurried after Griffin to the keep. Their eyes met briefly, just before Griffin opened the doors and went inside.

  It took a moment to adjust to the light of the fire already crackling in the great fireplace—partially blocked by the dragon, who stood in front of it, facing them. It was a bit smaller and a great deal slimmer than either of the dragons Griffin had met previously. But by the time he’d taken a few steps toward it, he could see that its scales were a bright, almost poisonous green.

  This was the first greenwing he’d seen; perhaps they were all this size. With the fire behind it, its face remained in shadow, its head moving this way and that as it studied its surroundings.

  “Good morning.” Arun stepped ahead of Griffin, within arm’s (and fire’s) reach of the dragon, his tone calm and courteous. Only someone who knew him well would have detected the chill in it. “I’m Arun, the archmagister here. I hope you’ll forgive your strange reception. We weren’t expecting you.”

  “Weren’t you?” The dragon’s voice—female—wasn’t nearly as dour as Fendrath’s, nor as aristocratic as Orovont’s. It was smooth and untroubled. A bit dreamy, immediately bringing Deryn to mind. “I was afraid of that. I tried to get a messenger, but I wasn’t at all certain he would do as I asked. People behave very strangely when they see a dragon, don’t they? Although my sister insists that it’s not only because they’ve seen a dragon, that men are just a bit daft and simple, is all, and that we can’t expect much of them.”

  Arun cleared his throat. “Well. You’re here now. Would you like to sit? Can I offer you something to eat? Raw mutton, perhaps?”

  “Oh!” The dragon sounded pleasantly surprised. “That would be very nice. Though cooked would do nearly as well, if it’s what you’ve got.”

  Griffin went back to the kitchen to see to this request, his mind simultaneously spinning and blank. He could barely take hold of anything that could properly be called a thought.

  What was a green dragon doing here? And where was the mutton? The interruption to the breakfast preparations had left the kitchen in chaos. (Though it smelled so wonderful that even in his agitated state, Griffin couldn’t help but pluck a fresh, flaky roll from a platter on one of the long counters, and munch on it as he searched the room.)

  Most likely the dragon had come to claim the enchanted harp the magisters had gotten from Orovont last winter, and used to reveal the door to Mithrin’s corridor. Fendrath had warned Griffin that it belonged to the greenwings, a
nd that they would want it back.

  Surely that was it. Surely this visit had nothing to do with their outrage at what Griffin had done. However much they might disapprove of human interference in dragon affairs, they knew what Orovont had been. What his sister still was. They must have gotten past their initial umbrage by now, and realized that Griffin had had no choice.

  He finally found several joints of lamb brining in a vat in the cool cellar below. When he returned to the others with two of these on a platter, he found Arun seated near the fire, and the dragon sitting back on her haunches, dog-like, on the stone floor at the head of the same table. It was a pose Griffin had seen before, but always struggled not to laugh at.

  As he set the somewhat unappetizing lamb before their guest, he was able to study the dragon more closely. He decided the greenwing silhouette was the most handsome of the three. Her horns curved straight back, giving the impression of being intertwined with her delicate ears. (The shape of the horns, Griffin had come to learn, was the next best way to differentiate the types of dragons, after their color.) The two short fangs protruding downward from her upper lip were the same golden shade as her eyes.

  “Thank you.” The dragon lowered her head to sniff the meat, then looked at Griffin. “You’re very large.”

  Griffin resisted the preposterous urge to reply with the observation that the dragon was, in turn, rather small. “I am a bit, yes.”

  “And your hair is red, isn’t it? Well, reddish. What passes for red, among men. Would you be Griffin, then?”

  Griffin’s stomach rolled as he answered (or perhaps confessed) that he was. She’d heard of him.

  Of course she had. They all had. The question was whether that knowledge would lead to his immediate and agonizing burning. Or perhaps dismemberment.

  It appeared not. The dragon had already shifted her attention to a tapestry that hung near the fireplace. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she considered the figures of the sibling deities of Cairdarin. The three of them stood together, sheathed in light, surrounded by admiring men, hounds, and various small animals. “Are those meant to be Eyrdri, Hart, and Tairn?”

  “Yes,” said Arun.

  The dragon sniffed. “That isn’t how I remember them.”

  Griffin raised his brows as he sat down across from the archmagister. His conversations with dragons had always been too distracting, for one reason or another, for him to pause much over the fact that they’d actually met the deity he prayed to. “No?”

  “I’ve noticed you like to believe them beautiful.” The dragon’s tone had gone a bit sour. But then, some amount of hostility was to be expected. Her kind had been defeated in a war against those very beings. “But it’s my opinion that Eyrdri has a very big nose, if you want to know.”

  “Be that as it may.” Arun (who himself had an unusually long nose) straightened in his chair and folded his hands on the table, managing to look dignified despite his nightrobe. “Might we hear the reason for your visit? Or perhaps we could start with your name?”

  Griffin was surprised they hadn’t even gotten as far as introductions while he was in the kitchen, but perhaps that was because it seemed to be something of a touchy subject. The dragon looked put-upon, and her voice took on a sulky note. “My name is Storavild, in your speech. I’m sure we can all agree that it is a perfectly idiotic name. You may call me Story. Everyone does. Or did. When I knew humans before.”

  Before, presumably, referred to before she’d been bespelled into a thousand-year sleep by some of those humans she’d known. Griffin felt it best not to follow that particular line of conversation. “I think Story is a wonderful name. It makes you sound like a bard. Er …” He paused, wondering how he could already have made himself sound so stupid. “That would be a compliment, for us. Bards are held in very high regard.”

  “Storytellers are held in high regard by us, as well,” said Story. “Hence my choosing it for my short name. I’m glad you like it.” She turned back to Arun. “I see you have your hands folded.”

  “Erm …” Arun glanced at Griffin, who shrugged slightly. This conversation was making as much sense as any other he’d had with a dragon, which was to say, very little. “Yes, I do,” the archmagister said. “Is that … does that mean something, in your culture, that I should be aware of?”

  “What an odd question.” Story raised one foreleg above the table, flashing her talons. “Whyever would we bother to establish etiquette for hands? But it does mean that what I heard is true, about you making yourself an enchanted arm. You couldn’t very well fold the hand of a mundane wooden one, could you?”

  “No, I suppose I couldn’t.” Arun blinked, perhaps surprised that word of his new arm had reached the greenwings, though he had little reason to be, in Griffin’s opinion. The archmagister knew perfectly well how fond of spying and intrigue dragons were. He’d been depending on that very thing for Pendralyn’s survival.

  “That one is wood too, though, isn’t it?” Story lowered her neck to peer at Arun’s arm.

  He obligingly pulled up his sleeve to show off his handiwork. “Mostly wood. And a bit of copper. Sort of like hinges, for the fingers.”

  “You can move them like ordinary fingers?”

  “Yes, and the wrist, too.” Arun waggled the fingers in question, half smiling at the dragon’s wide eyes. “It works every bit as well as my old arm. Better, really. It’s a bit stronger.”

  “I’m fascinated by human enchantments,” Story said. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to have a closer look, before I leave? I’d like to get a sense of the magic. Perhaps you can explain a few things to me, as well.”

  “Certainly, if you’d like.” Arun’s tone was considerably warmer now than when they’d first entered the keep; Griffin knew from the experience of several somewhat interminable meals that there was nothing the archmagister enjoyed so much as an extensive and exhaustive discussion of enchanting. “I’m fascinated by dragon enchantments as well, as it happens. Perhaps we can discuss that harp of yours, while we’re on the subject. I suppose you’ll want to take it with you, in any case.”

  “I will.” Story paused to pull a leg of lamb off the platter with her wide jaws. She chewed for a shockingly short amount of time before swallowing. “But the harp isn’t why I’m here. You asked for the reason for my visit. It’s a sort of diplomatic mission, I suppose you could say. I bear a message from my sister. Esmerild, that is, who is our eldest. She would like you to arrange for a gathering, to be hosted here at your magistery.”

  The archmagister sat back in his chair, pulling his sleeve back down. “What sort of gathering?”

  “To discuss the matter of our common enemy.”

  “Is that so?” Though his voice betrayed nothing but polite inquiry, Griffin caught the eager gleam in Arun’s eye. The archmagister had little love of dragons, and no more for the previous winter’s adventures, but the fact remained that the greenwings might well be the magistery’s only hope—only green fire could kill a red dragon. That the dragons would initiate a meeting, without the humans having to beg for it, was a stroke of good fortune.

  “Yes,” said Story. “We know you haven’t got the elixir of dragon breath. Fendrath told us, after Orovont died.”

  “Did he?” Arun crossed his arms, drawing her eye to his enchanted fingers drumming against his sleeve. “How kind of him.”

  “Of course he did.” Story returned her gaze to the archmagister’s face. “I would hardly be here, if I didn’t know it was safe, would I? I don’t think you need to look so stern about it, though, he obviously won’t have told Adalant. And I haven’t heard that she’s found out by any other means.”

  Griffin said a silent prayer of thanks that the redwings, at least, were still in the dark. He’d killed Orovont before the latter could report the truth back to his sister: that there had been only one dose of the elixir of dragon breath, and that Mithrin had left no recipe behind. Knowing she might (and likely did) have spies everywhere, Arun, Nott, and a handful of other trusted magisters had been doing all they could to keep that truth from Adalant, conspicuously importing great quantities of herbs and other potion ingredients, retreating behind locked doors to work on projects they would not name, moving empty barrels into storage rooms. Quietly spreading rumors that they were ready to defend themselves.