A Promise of Storms (The Dragon Queen Book 3) Read online

  A Promise of Storms

  The Dragon Queen — Book 3

  J.R. Rasmussen

  Copyright © 2021 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

  Map of Surrounding Kingdoms

  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/

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

  1

  This was no kind of autumn at all.

  Nature was doing her part, to be sure. The mornings had gotten crisper, the evenings colder. There was already a hint of brightening at the ends of the oak leaves, and green, infant pumpkins had appeared in the patch behind the kennels.

  Which meant there ought to have been merry gatherings around a crackling fire in the keep. There ought to have been chilly nighttime astronomy lessons in the sage hall’s towers, and equations so complicated the older students would be working at them for months before someone emerged the winner and won a prize. There ought to have been hot cider, and spiced cakes, and apple fritters.

  There was none of that.

  What Griffin got instead was an iron-framed mirror with two bloody handprints on the glass. In place of the scents of cinnamon and cloves and honey, the pungent, oily odor of the wormwood candles that ringed the burned-out shell of a room. Not to mention the ceaseless clacking of the spoons, and Nott’s grating monotone.

  The handprints were a particularly annoying touch, as the cuts inflicted to make them still smarted. Nott had run a blade across both of Griffin’s palms the moment they’d entered the remains of Mithrin’s laboratory, theorizing that, as Mithrin himself was so fond of blood magic, the use of blood in tonight’s ritual was bound to improve their odds of reaching the mad magician.

  Like all of Nott’s theories to date, this one seemed to be coming to nothing.

  “This isn’t working,” Griffin grumbled.

  Nott sighed, something that, for him, qualified as a dramatic display of emotion. “Nor will it, if you don’t concentrate.”

  “I am concentrating. Although I’ll admit it’s a bit hard to keep one’s mind from wandering, when staring at one’s own blood.”

  “There’s one place you’re going wrong, then,” Nott said. “You should be staring at your face. And melding it with Mithrin’s, in your mind. Focus on the similarities between the two.”

  Griffin stepped away from the mirror and crossed his arms. “There are no similarities between the two. Mithrin was a short, bald, soft-faced man, and I bear no relationship to him whatsoever. Blood or otherwise. Which is almost certainly the real reason this isn’t working, and never mind how I look at my face.”

  This was not his first such outburst, and would not, he suspected, be his last. Neither Griffin nor anyone else could explain why Mithrin was able to contact Griffin in the latter’s dreams, when it was known that the dead could not haunt the living. Nott’s prevailing thesis was that Griffin was descended from the mad wizard, and that Mithrin had exploited their blood bond to cast a spell that would otherwise have been impossible.

  Griffin firmly (and repeatedly, and often loudly) rejected this ridiculous notion—ridiculous mainly because he simply couldn’t bear the thought of being related, even distantly, to such a monster.

  “Have you considered,” said Nott, “how much time you spend speaking about yourself in terms of what you’re not?”

  “What are you talking about?” Griffin asked.

  “You’re not a magician, you cannot do this or you’re not the right person for that. Now you’re very determined that you are not a descendant of Mithrin.” Nott shrugged. “Perhaps you ought to focus more on what you are, so you can get on with being that. Generally, I mean. I doubt it would help you much with this particular task.”

  Griffin gave him a weary look. He was sure there was a not/Nott pun to be made, but he was far too tired to think of it. “It’s a bit late for wisdom, isn’t it?”

  “Never too late for wisdom, I would say.”

  Perhaps not, but it was late. There was no point in standing here arguing until it got even later. The why of Griffin’s tie to Mithrin was less important than the how, and neither was as important as the what: no matter the reason, that tie was, indeed, there. And since Mithrin was the only one who knew the recipe for one of the few weapons that could defeat a dragon, it seemed a good idea to make use of it.

  Griffin grimaced at himself in the mirror. “You really expect that my face will just, what? Transform into Mithrin’s?”

  “I don’t know that I’d say I expect anything,” Nott said. “But I do have high hopes for this one.”

  This one referred to a ritual from some far-off land or other, ferreted out the summer before, when the magisters were researching customs for contacting the dead. With the proper spell pulling at the intended deceased, the mirror—an ordinary, mundane one—was supposed to help pierce the veil. And allow the dead to pierce it back.

  It hadn’t worked for the magisters trying to contact Borald then, and there was little reason to believe it would work now. Still, the attempt must be made, if only to rule it out.

  Over the past month, they had employed a dizzying—and occasionally sickening—variety of spells, potions, tonics, and locations, in the attempt to get Mithrin’s connection with Griffin to work both ways. They’d tried everything from the relatively straightforward magic practiced by the Cairds, to complex and arcane rituals from ancient times and distant kingdoms.

  They’d tried to find a way for Griffin to speak with Mithrin directly, and they’d tried to find a way for Nott to use Griffin’s mind as a sort of conduit, through which the sage could speak with Mithrin instead.

  They’d tried when Griffin was asleep and when he was awake. On one memorable occasion, they’d even tried with him submerged in the pool below the waterfall, until he was certain he would drown.

  All in vain.

  Mithrin hadn’t even appeared in one of Griffin’s dreams for weeks now. Whether whatever magic Nott was doing was actually making matters worse, or the mad magician was simply being difficult, Griffin could not say. Though were he forced to wager, he’d have put his silver on the latter. Working at night had the advantage of the veil being at its thinnest, but it also meant the dead could observe them.

  In other words, Mithrin knew what they were up to. And why would he make things easier for the man who had, only a month before, turned him to stone, then smashed the stone to bits?

  Because he hates the dragons even more.

  Griffin nodded at his reflection. That was the argument he meant to try first, if he ever got to talk to the mad wizard again. Convi
ncing him to give them the elixir recipe freely sounded easier than somehow tricking him into it. Not that either prospect seemed precisely easy. Griffin was hardly a master manipulator.

  But he’d best get on with the trying, in any case. “All right,” he said to Nott. “One more time, then.”

  Nott drank from the waterskin at his belt, while Griffin stretched his neck and got back into position, palms pressed to his bloody handprints, staring into his own sunken eyes.

  “Focus on the tapping,” said Nott. “Concentrate.” With that, he began to drum together the iron spoons he held between the fingers of his right hand. The candles flared up. The wormwood smell (which Griffin detested) grew stronger.

  Griffin focused on the rhythmic beating of the spoons, while Nott began to speak, his voice low, slow, soft. “Look into the mirror.” Tap, tap, tap. “Look into the candlelight. Look into the darkness.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Look into the reflection of the realm of the living.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Nott went on and on, making poetic mirror analogies, talking about the realm of the living and its reflection in the realm of the dead. It was all meant to put Griffin into some sort of trance, but the constant reminders that the dead were, at that time of night, all around them only broke his concentration. It made him think of his parents.

  They were surely watching. What did they make of all this? Of his attempts to talk to Mithrin, to get the mad magician to cooperate?

  Stop thinking about them, he ordered himself. They might be who you want to see in this mirror, but they aren’t who you need to see.

  “Look into your own eyes,” Nott said. “And see the dead reflected there. Focus on your eyes. Only your eyes. Look at nothing else.”

  Tap tap tap.

  Though he felt a bit silly, staring into his own eyes, Griffin did as he was told. They’re hazel. Like my mother’s.

  “You don’t see the face around them. You don’t see any face at all. You see only those eyes.”

  Tap tap tap.

  As was often the way, when one started feeling silly, that feeling only grew. The solemn tone of Nott’s voice, the near ridiculousness of the words, started to seem funny.

  Tap tap tap.

  Don’t laugh.

  Mithrin is a jolly sort of man.

  That was true. If Mithrin was watching them, he was undoubtedly laughing. Griffin felt his lips twitch, though he dutifully kept his gaze fixed on his eyes.

  “They’re not your eyes,” Nott said. “They’re the eyes of someone else. Someone we call upon now to come through the veil. They’re Mithrin’s eyes.”

  Nope. Still my own eyes. Griffin suppressed another laugh. Nott had sacrificed a great many nights to this endeavor, and he was as exhausted as Griffin was. More so, with all the magic he was doing; he had to fit extra physical labor into his days to recover his balance. The least Griffin could do was show some respect.

  He redoubled his efforts.

  tap tap tap

  He let his gaze soften and blur at the edges. He cleared his mind of everything but the thought of Mithrin’s eyes, in the glass behind his own.

  tap tap tap

  Whatever spell Nott was casting as he spoke was building now, so strongly that Griffin could actually feel the magic in the air.

  Mithrin’s eyes. They’re Mithrin’s eyes.

  Nott was still talking, but Griffin was no longer listening. All his world became the eyes in the mirror, the candlelight, the endless tapping. It didn’t even sound like the spoons anymore.

  tap tap tap Mithrin’s eyes tap tap Mithrin

  And then they were Mithrin’s eyes.

  The face Griffin was staring at was no longer his own. The hands reaching up to press against his bloody palm prints were smaller, softer.

  Griffin could feel them, touching his own hands, cold and dry.

  And then the face came through the mirror.

  “Why did you do that? It was working!” Griffin wrenched his arm out of Nott’s grip and turned toward the sage, who was no longer tapping the spoons together. The spoons were, in fact, on the floor. Griffin guessed Nott must have seen Mithrin start to come through, and taken a fright, although as a rule he was anything but skittish.

  “It was working,” Griffin said again.

  He could scarcely believe it. After weeks of effort, he’d retained very little hope that any magic would allow them to contact the dead. He certainly hadn’t expected this (silly, truly) ritual to work.

  But that hadn’t been his imagination.

  “You saw it, didn’t you?” he asked Nott.

  Nott didn’t answer. He’d taken Griffin’s elbow again, and was doing his best to pull him toward the doorway. The candles went out, leaving them in darkness apart from the wall sconces in the corridor beyond.

  Perhaps whatever was bothering him had nothing to do with Mithrin, or the mirror.

  “What’s—” Griffin began.

  “Dragon!” Nott rasped, yanking at Griffin’s sleeve.

  “Which one—”

  “Red dragon!”

  Well. That would explain it.

  Griffin needed no further encouragement to hurry. He rushed down the corridor behind Nott, toward the open door to the cavern. “Where?” he asked.

  “Here, it would seem!” Nott dropped to the floor as a column of flame burst through the very doorway they’d been hurling themselves at.

  Crimson flame. A redwing’s fire.

  They rolled into the nearest study room a mere instant before the fire rushed by. Griffin got to his feet again, hesitating. If they went back into the corridor, they would be vulnerable. If, on the other hand, they didn’t get out of the corridor, they would be trapped with their backs against the proverbial wall—which was, in this case, a mountain—and no way to escape.

  “I never thought I’d wish to be a battlemage,” Nott said. “But I’d give a great deal for a shield spell right now. I’m quite certain I won’t be able to control dragon fire.”

  Griffin shook his head, as much in bewilderment as to confirm Nott’s inability to affect a redwing’s fire on his own. “What are they doing? Why attack the cavern, of all places? Do you think they know we’re trying to contact Mithrin?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  Griffin eased into the corridor, just far enough to catch a glimpse. He saw no sign of either fire or a dragon. “Let’s go. If they know we’re down here, there’s no point in trying to hide.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Nott, “but I can’t say I’d object to trying, all the same. Now I find myself wishing for contriver magic. A cloaking spell would be nice.”

  “Or a cloaking cloak. A pity the only one we had was burned back there with everything else.” Griffin swallowed and took a step forward. “Stay behind me, and stay close to the wall. I’m big enough to shield you, and if I get burned you can heal me.”

  The latter was, of course, patently false. If a redwing wished for Griffin to burn, then burn Griffin would, and neither Nott nor anyone else could stop it. But false comfort was, on occasion, preferable to no comfort at all.

  They darted to the next study room, then from there to the end of the corridor. There was still no dragon, but the flickering light beyond the door told Griffin there was most definitely fire.

  He peered out from the shadows. The bookshelves and worktables in the cavern were in flames.

  “He’s outside.” Nott walked out into the cavern, moving around the burning furniture. A particular stiffness in his face told Griffin he was communicating with somebody above. “Deryn says it’s Ismant. Someone saw him fly down into the pit, then back out again. The rest of the magisters are going … no, getting … they’re getting into formation to mount a defense.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “I’ve got to go and help.”

  Griffin pushed the smaller man behind him and led the way once more, balancing the need to move quickly, lest the smoke overwhelm them, with the need to m
ove carefully, lest the fire did.

  They crawled and jumped, weaved and ran. But all their dodging didn’t save Griffin from badly burning his arm, losing a shirtsleeve before he rolled out the flames.

  Still, there was something wrong about it.

  It’s not bad enough.

  The notion was little more than a glimmer in his mind. There was no chance to think.

  Naturally, when they got to the ladder that would have led them up to the grounds, they found it on fire, too.

  Griffin looked up into the moonlit sky and saw Ismant circling above. The dragon dived, jaws open wide, and spewed more flames into the pit.

  It made no difference; everything that could be set on fire was already on fire, apart from Griffin and Nott, who jumped back beneath the overhanging rock as soon as they saw him coming.

  Ismant didn’t land in the cavern, or pursue them in any way. Instead he changed course, turned over in the air, and headed upward again.

  Griffin and Nott craned their necks to watch him go, then hurried out from under their cover. Though they had no way out of the pit, Griffin wanted to at least see what the dragon was doing, to the extent he could.

  How much of the magistery was on fire?

  The keep was made of stone; it would not burn. But the manor, the affinity halls all had more vulnerable parts. And what of the kennels? Griffin’s legs felt like they’d turned to water, and he staggered at the thought of the blackhounds trapped in fire.

  The sky above darkened with the dragon’s form, and Ismant once more wheeled over the pit, spitting flame …

  … which stopped short of the cavern, as if pouring over an invisible bowl.