Dragon Dreams (The Chronicles of Shadow and Light) Book 1, Page 2

  Glines—a dragon who looked older than the dirt that he stood on—smiled. “Feeling spry.”

  Nachal chuckled as he slapped him lightly on the back. “Hold on to that feeling,” he said dryly. He pushed past the ring’s threshold and into the inner circle.

  “Think I’ll take a turn in the ring.”

  “This should be interesting,” Glines muttered behind him.

  Cerralys quit talking as soon as Nachal drew close enough to make out what he was saying to Stephen. He looked up, bringing his palms down to rest on the pommel of the sword that he had stabbed into the dirt.

  “Shouldn’t you be packing?” he asked in mild amusement.

  Nachal laughed. “Already done. Kick my laundry down the stairs to the laundering rooms while I’m gone, would you? It’s starting to smell in there.”

  Cerralys grimaced. “I don’t know which part of that statement is the more pitiful, the fact that you asked me to do something that you are more than capable of doing yourself or that you are only just beginning to realize the absolute stench that wafts from your bedchamber and oozes down my stairs.”

  Nachal flipped Stephen’s sword up from the ground with his foot. It landed in his palm dead-center. “I’ve been busy. I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You must have been extremely busy then,” Cerralys said dryly.

  Nachal nodded absently then handed the boy’s sword back to him. “Rule number one,” he said, “don’t let anyone intimidate you, not even the king.”

  “Especially the king,” Cerralys added in an undertone.

  He drew his own sword and faced off with Cerralys, his dark eyebrows inching up toward the hair that kept falling in his face as he smiled grimly. “How about we prove to him how unintimidated we are, Stephen?”

  Stephen looked as if he didn’t quite agree about the unintimidated part. “You haven’t trained with me yet, have you?”

  Stephen shook his head.

  “Now’s a good time.”

  Stephen sighed. “If you say so, sir.” He held his sword carefully in a grip that was too tight, obviously trying not to drop it again.

  “Loosen up your grip,” Nachal advised. “That’s it, just like that. Now stand like this.” He gently nudged him into the ready position. “It’s important to keep your sword in this position. Too high up and you can’t protect your body in time; too far down and you can’t protect your face and neck.” Stephen nodded, concentrating intently on keeping his sword in the right position.

  “When I tell you now, lunge in and try to score a hit.”

  “But he’s the king,” Stephen whispered miserably.

  “Not right now he’s not,” Nachal said grimly, turning to face Cerralys again. “Right now he’s your sword master.”

  He attacked swiftly and without warning, fighting with burning intensity from the first clash of swords. All of his frustrations, his pent up anger, his sadness and despair, he un-caged them all from within his heart and mind and gave them voice with his sword. The whole bailey went completely silent. It was a stillness that even he could feel.

  He darted backward just in time—a narrow miss—and then darted back in again for another volley of blows. But each one Cerralys defended against with adder-like quickness. He was too fast for him. He was always too fast for him.

  The longer he fought the harder it became to breathe. He started dragging great gulps of air into his lungs, trying to get enough to stay firmly on his feet. The sweltering air was thick and hot. Sweat beaded across his forehead, running into his eyes and making them sting.

  Fatigue suddenly slammed into him. He staggered and narrowly avoided Cerralys’s blade as it whistled through the air, sweeping toward the pulse that thrummed hard in his neck. It was then that he realized he should really try to sleep more.

  He parried the blow clumsily, staggering again as the swords collided. It took all of his concentration just to avoid getting skewered. Cerralys was a master, and right now he felt every inch the bumbling student.

  The air hissing into his lungs burned more fiercely now. Each blow rang through his entire body, resonating with every single bone. He feinted left, circled, feinted right, circled, lunged, parried, retreated a step, lunged again and then started to pound like mad on the answering steel, managing to force Cerralys back a single step. “Now!” he shouted hoarsely to Stephen.

  Several things happed then, nearly simultaneously. Cerralys looked at Nachal and then dropped his sword until it was point first in the dirt, leaving him completely defenseless. Stephen lunged. Nachal watched the utter peace envelop Cerralys’s expression before he panicked and lunged too, only a split second after Stephen. His heavier momentum and absolute terror got him there first. Their blades met with a sickening sound of screeching steel, less than an inch from Cerralys’s chest.

  Stephen fell to the ground, dropping his sword, while Nachal’s numb fingers dropped his own. “What,” he asked with his hands on his knees, panting heavily, “was that?”

  “Training.”

  “Suicide,” Nachal breathed.

  “Training.”

  Their eyes locked. Nachal sighed as he slowly straightened. “Training for whom?”

  Cerralys’s lips twitched. “For Stephen, of course.”

  “Humph,” Nachal grunted. Then he looked around and laughed. “I think we drove off the rest of your students, old one.”

  Cerralys ignored him and helped Stephen up off the ground, dusting him off a little. Stephen was staring at the king with wide eyes that weren’t blinking. “I almost killed you!” he whispered in horror. “I almost killed the King of the Dragons!”

  Nachal winced, remembering that he had said nearly those exact words only a few hours ago. Cerralys looked at him with laughter dancing in his eyes before he turned back to the pale, shaking boy. “It seems to be my day for such experiences.”

  “Not even funny,” Nachal growled at him.

  Stephen just shook his head, still in shock. He was trembling visibly from head to foot. Cerralys put a warm hand on his shoulder. His smile was very gentle. “Never enter Nachal’s room unannounced, Stephen. He’s very ill-tempered in the mornings.” Stephen’s wide eyed gaze swung to Nachal—giving him the sort of look a baked lobster might give the person dining on it, were it alive—and Nachal felt a smile hover on his lips.

  “I hadn’t eaten yet,” he said dismissively.

  Cerralys laughed. He turned to Stephen again. “You did well today,” he said. “Can I share with you a few things that might help?”

  Stephen nodded slowly. His face was gradually regaining color again.

  “The taunts of others may hurt, but only you can choose how deep the hurt goes. If you let it undermine your confidence in yourself, you have let them win and let yourself down in the process.” He placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders now and stared intently into his face.

  “It takes courage to move forward, when all you want to do is turn back. I’m not merely speaking of battles either. True courage comes minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. It is not in the battle that it is found, but in life. And when the time comes when a vitally important choice must be made, you will find the courage you need to make it already there. Because in the smaller moments of your life you moved forward instead of turning back.”

  Stephen’s wide, green eyes looked at Cerralys as though spellbound. A long moment passed and then the king suddenly smiled at him, breaking the spell, and pushed him gently away. “Go. Break your fast. Get a drink and rest.”

  Stephen nodded. “Yes, sire.” He looked down at the sword he had just picked up and then over at Nachal. “I think you’d probably l-l-like your own sword back, Prince Nachal,” he stuttered. “It’s m-m-much nicer than mine.”

  Nachal winced at the title. “Just Nachal.” He smiled to soften the request. “And, yes, I’d like it back.” He turned amused eyes toward Cerralys but kept talking to Stephen in a voice that was completely casual. “It’s an ugly sw
ord isn’t it? It was a gift for my tenth birthday from the king.”

  “It’s n-not ugly, sir,” Stephen protested. “It’s the best sword I’ve ever seen!”

  Cerralys scowled at Nachal as he accepted the sword and put it away. Nachal grinned wickedly back at him, his eyes glittering vindictively.

  “Just training for Stephen, huh?”

  “Of course.”

  Stephen had had enough. He walked away from them in disgust, shaking his head in absolute confusion.

  Cerralys watched him walk away with fondness in his eyes then he turned and gestured to the bag on the ground. “Leaving now?”

  “Yes. I came to say goodbye.”

  “There’s something I think you should have first,” Cerralys said, turning toward The Hall. “It’s in the library.”

  Nachal nodded and followed the king in speculative silence.

  When they reached the main entrance hall, they both turned right. Along the right hand wall, to the right of the main set of stairs, was the entrance to the king’s study. They entered the room and Nachal shut the door behind him.

  The term study was really a misnomer. It was actually an annex of the library that was housed through another door on the far wall. The library itself was an immense room that spanned two full floors in height and was lined from floor to ceiling with the same dark mahogany bookshelves that lined the study. Each of the hundreds of shelves within was covered with literally thousands upon thousands of books.

  Cerralys walked through the first door, past the second, and into the vast caverns of the main floor of the library. Large desks were scattered all over as well as chairs of every size and shape. All of them were extremely comfortable. He knew this for a fact because, when he was small, he decided that he wanted to try each and every one of them. It had taken him almost a full day. The one he had finally decided was just right was on the upper levels. A stuffed blue one, sitting in front of a cozy hearth. That spot was still one of his favorites.

  He looked around at the library as they walked through. People were milling about, plucking large and small tomes from the shelves, leafing through them, and carrying them to their tables.

  Cerralys made his way up the circular staircase without glancing at anyone else. The staircase took them to the library’s second floor landing. Up still yet another circular staircase, this one smaller, and they arrived at the upper stacks of the northernmost shelves. The king quickly pulled a book down, seemingly at random, and pulled a thick, yellowed piece of parchment out. He handed it to Nachal without looking at it then made his way quickly back down the double stairs to the privacy of his study.

  Nachal found his chair in the study and sat down. His gaze kept straying to the paper that he was carrying. It was old, he noticed, and folded crisply in half. The crease was sharp from the compression of the book that it had rested in.

  “Open it,” Cerralys ordered quietly. He went to stand in front of the window and looked out absently at the courtyard below. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back.

  Nachal unfolded the paper carefully and felt his breath catch. “A map to El`ness Nahrral,” he whispered in wonder. Every detail was exquisitely and painstakingly crafted. He had never seen another map to equal it, and he had certainly never seen another map to El`ness Nahrral. He tore his eyes away from the intricate details of the impossible map that he held in his hands and looked up at the king. “There are no maps to the elven isle. Anywhere. Where did you find this?” His tone was almost accusatory. How could he have had a map like this—a map to Auri—and never told him about it?

  “I made it,” Cerralys whispered.

  That was not the response Nachal had been expecting. He blinked. “You made it?” he asked incredulously. “How?”

  Cerralys smiled slightly. “The usual way I suppose, with ink and parchment.”

  Nachal scowled at him. “How did you know the location?”

  “I made it from memory, little one.”

  He sat back in his chair, stunned, the paper in his hands forgotten for the moment. Cerralys had made it from memory? He shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understand,” he finally said. “How could you make it from memory?”

  “After the war,” Cerralys said quietly, “I found myself there.” He smiled softly and shook his head. “I was out of my mind. It was like the isle drew me to it so that it might heal me. I did heal, Nachal, but it wasn’t the isle, it was an elf. Her name was Jenna,” he whispered as he looked away. After a long moment he began speaking again. “We eventually decided to leave the isle and come to the mainland. Between one shore and the next she was gone. Our ship was attacked. I was the only survivor.

  “Before I left the isle, I promised the queen that I would never reveal its location. But I cannot keep that promise anymore.” He looked down for a moment, lost in thought. “I know that you don’t understand, but believe me when I tell you that I do this only because I must. A sacred trust is something that should never easily be broken.”

  He finally turned to face Nachal fully. His eyes were deeply troubled. “Without the map, you will not be able to find the elf, and you need to find her. Bring her here to me when you have. I need to speak with her.”

  “What should I tell her?”

  “The truth,” Cerralys smiled slightly. “That her king wishes to meet with her.”

  Nachal shook his head, smiling too. “She already has a king. She doesn’t need another.”

  The king chuckled and looked out the window again. “You’ll figure something out,” he said. “You always do.”

  He nodded. He would have to. He looked down at the map in his hands and folded it carefully. He wrapped it in the oilskin from his bag and tried to put it in there gently, but then pulled it back out, shaking his head. The oilskin wouldn’t protect it sufficiently. He needed something sturdier. He looked around the room to the numerous bookshelves. “Can I borrow a book?” he asked, getting up to look for one that would fit.

  Cerralys crossed to a shelf and tossed him a tome the size of the Eldrian Sea. He grunted as he caught its hefty weight. “I was hoping for something more compact,” he said dryly. He set the heavy tome down and picked up a smaller one. Then he folded the oilskin and map carefully within its pages and put it gently into his pack. That would have to work.

  He put his bag back down by his feet then glanced up at the sudden quiet of the room. Cerralys was looking at him intently. His eyes were deep with hidden emotion. “Be safe, little one,” the king whispered.

  “Of course. That goes without saying.”

  Cerralys shook his head. “It’s not a matter for jest, Nachal. Obsidian is gathering an army. Stay out of his way. Find her, but stay hidden.”

  “I intend to,” Nachal said solemnly, all traces of levity gone.

  “One other thing,” Cerralys moved to sit in the chair opposite Nachal’s. “El`ness Nahrral is only approachable by air or ship. Since you will not be traveling with a dragon, you will need to take a vessel.” His eyes suddenly took on a mischievous glint. “Take my advice. Make sure that you have a full elf on board as you make the final approach to the isle.”

  Nachal laughed. “How exactly?”

  The king smiled a secret smile. “Trust me.”

  Nachal shook his head and stood, grabbing his bag. “I have no idea how I’ll manage that. All the full elves are on the isle.”

  “You’ll manage.”

  The room went quiet as they looked at each other. This was goodbye. “I’ll see you soon,” Nachal said gruffly.

  Cerralys nodded. “Soon,” he echoed. Cerralys listened in complete silence as Nachal’s footsteps finally faded away then he looked down at his hands. They were clenched, and his knuckles were bone-white.

  Chapter Three- Du`lna Forest

  Nachal found Stephen waiting for him at the portcullis. “You can’t come with me,” he said without preamble.

  “I wasn’t going to ask to come with you.”

  “W
hat then?”

  “I just—” he looked down, avoiding Nachal’s gaze for a moment “—I just wanted you to know that I’ll look after him for you. The king I mean.” He looked up. His face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes were bright with fierce resolve.

  Nachal smiled softly. “Then I leave in peace. Thank you, Stephen.”

  The boy nodded then stepped back as the portcullis was raised. When Nachal went through, he turned back, gazing at Stephen for a long moment in silence. “I’ve never heard him speak to anyone as he spoke to you this morning,” he said quietly. “He believes in you, Stephen. Take it from someone who knows.” He turned back around and started down the path. “Because, for some reason, he believes in me too.”

  He hiked hard and made it down the steep decline of the cliff in less than an hour. He eyed the clouds gathering swiftly above. A storm was gathering. Darkness was permeating everything, covering the land in sweeping shadows where very little light pierced through.

  He made it to the cover of the Du`lna forest before the light was completely gone and entered its enchanting presence with a released breath.

  These trees were his friends. He had often played here as a boy, pretending he was a knight of valor on a mission of mercy for some poor, benighted soul. He chuckled as he remembered. Many fond memories of his boyhood were in these trees, almost more memories than at The Hall itself.

  Here in these trees he was free from the prying eyes of those who trained with Cerralys. He was free from the speculation of his origins and free from the expectations of his position. He was free to be anyone he wished.

  He never wished to be someone different than who he was though. That would have been something that he would never have thought about. He liked who he was, was grateful for where he grew up. He grew up a boy among dragons. A child—a human child—among the Dragons of Light.

  But because he had been raised among the Dragons of Light, he had—maybe more than any other human—seen the cost of darkness. Cerralys had suffered much because of his brother. He and the Luminari were unable to destroy Obsidian and those that fought with him. It was a war that none could win. They were evenly matched, nearly split down the middle, and equal in power. For every one that fell from among Obsidian’s ranks another fell from the side of the Dragons of Light. The casualties had become too heavy for them to continue without wiping out their species completely, and both sides became locked in a precarious stalemate.