Amalia gave him long enough to get to the end of the hallway, listening for the echoes of his voice to turn the corner, before she moved.
What is he thinking? She shook her head as she kicked into a jog. He can’t fight a horde of dragons! Another turn, deeper into the castle. The central courtyard. Everyone’s going to die.
She threw open the doors. The morning mist still hung on the grass and trees, tickling her face and her tongue.
“Gorman!” She took a deep breath to calm the fear and anxiety in her voice. “Gorman, are you here?”
“Princess?” Her tutor was near the roses. “What are you doing awake? Is something—?”
“Gorman.” She cut him off as she hurried toward him. “They’re on their way. Dragons. Right now.” She took a breath. “And I need your help.”
“Wh…what?” The air between them began to fill with the acrid scent of sweat and fear. “How…why…they’re supposed to be dead!” He began to babble. “Francis killed their king, and they all died, just all at once, vanished, what, how are they…?”
“Gorman! Please, stop! Listen to me!” Her words were unable to penetrate the thick fog of panic that had taken hold of the old man’s brain; he moved back and forth like a broken marionette, unable to make any decisions through the terror.
Maybe if I… Amalia reached toward his face, but her fingers curled back as she remembered her father’s reprimand, his command to never, ever touch someone’s mind again.
Keep listening to him, and people are going to get killed.
She set her jaw and completed the motion, pressing her hand against the grizzled whiskers of Gorman’s face. Skin touched skin.
A young boy stands at his mother’s side, his head only up to her knee, as he stares up at the scaled horror flapping overhead, spewing lava and covering his home with choking fumes and burning light. His mother screams as they both watch his father, the last to leave the house, enveloped by the same fire, burnt to nothing in front of their eyes, his flesh crisping and melting away from his blackening bones, his cry drowned out by the roar of burning death. The child has no tears, not yet, but his soul is rent, torn inside; a great hollow forms as he sees this incarnate force of nature taking his life from him, searing away joy and happiness, creating a wound that would scab but never vanish.
“Almaeda.” Amalia breathed the Mother Goddess’s name as a protection against evil, then focused her will against the horror in Gorman’s mind.
Come back. She reached out for the young boy’s hand, took it in her own. Wake up. Come back.
The child looked toward her, stared at her with an old man’s eyes, then blinked.
And the image was gone, Amalia removing her hand from Gorman’s face.
“I’m…I’m sorry, Princess.” His hair and collar shifted as he shook his head to clear it. “I was just…what is it that you said you needed?”
Amalia took another breath. “Father is rousing the armies and sending words to the vassal Kings and Queens. He’s planning to take the field against them.”
“No!” Gorman’s outcry startled Amalia, causing her to jump. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. It’s just…we aren’t prepared for this. By the time he has enough troops assembled to stand a chance against even one or two of the beasts, Aetheria will be ash and cinder. We need to evacuate, to get everyone out of here, to safety.”
“That’s exactly what I need you to do.” Amalia turned her head downward, composing her thoughts. “And I need somewhere safe, secure. Father…father doesn’t want me involved in the battle.”
“Of course not!” Gorman came around to the side opposite Marchen and threaded his arm through hers, leading her. “If something happens to him, then the kingdom falls to you. You can’t both be involved!”
But I will be. “If everything goes according to plan, there won’t be a battle. I think that I can stop it…but I can’t be certain. If things go wrong, do I have your word that you will do as you’ve said, evacuate everyone? Including yourself?”
She heard his swallow before he answered. “Yes, Your Highness. I swear it.”
“My father is leading his men into folly. I can’t stop him.” She fought back a surge of fear. “If I can’t keep the battle from happening, he won’t survive.” They turned into Gorman’s offices. “But hopefully, together, we can preserve Aetheria.”
“As you command, Your Majesty.” Amalia turned at the change of address, and he laughed. “Just practicing. You sounded very Queenly all of a sudden.”
Amalia released her arm from Gorman’s. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Chair.” Marchen tugged her to the right, stopping before a wooden seat. She ran her fingers over the arm of the chair before turning and sitting. “Take care of yourself. I’m counting on you.”
“I will do my best, Amalia. I promise.” His footsteps backed out of the doorway, then the hinges creaked and the latch clicked.
The room was quiet, except for Marchen’s panting and fidgeting, and Amalia’s own breath.
All right. Her hands tightened against the chair as she turned her consciousness inward.
Again, the sensation of the clearing, the river; moisture coated her face, and the sound of the roaring water grew in volume, from a suggested whisper to a roar.
Now, open your eyes.
It was harder this time, willfully creating sight where there was none, but the memories of her previous experiences guided Amalia, gave her something to focus on until she was standing in the sunlight, watching the river rush past, the whitecaps cresting over the rapids. Birdsong reached her ears, but her half-smile at the sound was cut short by the rumble of thunder on the horizon.
What is that?
Unbidden, Amalia’s awareness expanded, rising up over the trees to see the onrushing storm.
Those aren’t clouds.
Where clouds should have been, there were dragons, two dozen scaled forms in a rough line, pouring over the skyline and pumping their wings as they flew toward her.
Mother! Amalia cast her mind out, searching for the Dragon Queen’s presence. You must stop! Mother! Can you—”
Then everything went black again.
~~~
What’s going on? Amalia’s thoughts were slow, deadened, like sound in water. Why can’t I see anything?
You wish to see? The voice was unfamiliar; deep and frightening, it tore at Amalia’s consciousness like claws. Then see!
A room faded into view. A warm fire crackled in the fireplace, kettles of water hanging over it with steam filling the space. A young midwife bustled around, her face glowing in the firelight and her smile wide as she looked toward the Princess.
Is this…?
Amalia’s point-of-view panned downward, to where a tiny, suckling babe lay at a breast, covered only by a thin blanket. The child’s eyes were closed, and a hand moved, strong fingers stroking the small face, the soft cheek. She could feel the baby’s insistent nursing, its snuggling movement, its skin under her fingers.
The midwife moved to Amalia’s side, grinning down at the newborn. “Do you need anything, Your Majesty?”
“No, Cetra, thank you.” The voice that came out of Amalia’s mouth was not her own, but it was intensely familiar, stirring something in her breast. “Is the King on his way?”
“Yes. He should be here…” She trailed off as High King Marcus opened the door, peeking around the wood before coming fully into the room. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”
His eyes glanced over to the nurse before focusing on the baby and its mother. His lips trembled, a half-smile, half-sob. “Elise. Is…is everything all right?”
It is. Amalia felt her throat choke, closing up from emotion. Elise.
“Of course, Marcus.” The hand moved to hold the back of the infant’s head, fingers playing with the new, downy hair. “Everything’s just fine. Come say hello to Amalia.”
I don’t want to see this. Dread welled up in Amalia’s heart, and she felt the image shudder as she fought to break away, but whomever had brought the vision to her held her mind in place. I already know what happens!
You must. Anger, fury, a volcano unleashed. Do not turn away.
Marcus moved across the room, choosing his steps, until he stood in front of Elise. He knelt by her side, stroking his wife’s hand and looking into her eyes, then turned to his daughter, whose nursing had slowed and seemed to be drifting to sleep.
“Amalia. Hello.” He touched her head, careful.
“You won’t break her, Marcus.” Elise laughed, musical and gentle. “She needs to get to know you.”
He glanced up at her, nodded, then crept closer, kissing the baby’s head. “Hello, baby. How are you?”
The baby stirred, shifting and burbling, before she turned her head and looked up at the two of them.
Her eyes were red, glowing, with pupils like a cat’s.
“Oh!” Elise put a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t expect—”
Marcus’s reaction was more extreme. He recoiled, throwing an arm up as if to shield himself from an attack. “What…what is this?” His eyes widened, then narrowed, moving from the child to Elise.
“Marcus, calm down.” Elise’s grip shifted to better support her daughter. “Please. Just let me—”
“Whose is she?”
Elise shook her head, alarm growing in her heart. “No, you don’t understand. I didn’t—”
Marcus turned toward the baby’s face again. “No, she is no man’s child, not with eyes like that.” Shock, disbelief, and renewed fury rose up. “Did one of them come to you, lay with you while I was away?” He hissed, spat at her. “You and your…your half-breed monster are going to bring them down upon us again, destroy us all. Why?” Tears threatened behind his mask of anger. “I thought that—”
“No, you don’t understand.” Elise moved, but her legs were weak from the effort of birthing and she had to put a hand out to steady herself. “I didn’t know—”
“Didn’t know what?” Marcus stormed across the room. “That she’d give you away?” He reached out and snatched the child from Elise before withdrawing; Amalia broke out in tears, jarred from the sudden transition. Her red eyes scrunched up as her cheeks changed to match their hue.
Elise tried to follow, but fell to the ground, naked. “Give her back to me.” Her face came up, and her voice became a growl. “Give her back NOW.”
“No.” Marcus looked down at the child in his grip, scowling. The firelight flickered in his eyes.
What…? Amalia felt a tremor. This isn’t...what’s going on?
“I won’t let you destroy my father’s kingdom like this.” Marcus bowed his head. “Our people are more important than one bastard child.”
“She isn’t a bastard!” Elise fought her way back to her feet. “She—”
Her words were cut off when Marcus dropped the baby into the fire. Within a second, the child’s cries changed to screams, the little limbs flailing as she fell face-first into the flames.
“AMALIA!” Elise’s skin rippled and burst; her muscles surging and growing, her bones splintering and transforming beneath her flesh. Within an instant, the room was splintered, wood chips falling from the ceiling as the sunlight broke through the smashed roof, and Amalia looked down on her father from twenty feet in the air.
Elise, the Dragon Matriarch, shrieked in anguish. The sound toppled what remained of the nursery, sending out shockwaves that threw Marcus to the ground. The door was blocked by falling debris, but Amalia could hear the sounds of men on the other side, struggling to open it.
Another wordless scream from the great dragon as she focused on Marcus, fighting to get back to his feet. Flame burned in her belly, kindled by rage, before streaming forth in a fountain of scorching red.
Let me go! Amalia struggled again, but the other presence held firm. She felt sick, her mind struggling to reconcile the images, the scene of idyllic happiness with this hellish nightmare of rage unleashed.
Then the anger was gone, replaced by deep sadness and dawning horror.
“No.” Elise’s whisper reached Amalia’s ears, the sound of irrevocable loss. A great red claw stretched forth, prodded the flaming wreckage, retreated. “I…I didn’t mean…”
Amalia stopped resisting. She could feel the emotions her mother had felt, the overwhelming sorrow and sadness, as if they were her own.
The door burst open, and armed men, men with bows and swords, poured in. They attacked the dragon, arrows sinking into her flesh like thorns, drawing hot blood while she stood, watching these people that she knew, hatred and fear in their eyes, intent on her death.
Then a wingbeat, two, and the scene retreated, shrinking from view as tears sizzled down red scales, into the open sky.
Then it faded, and Amalia was alone, except for the one that had captured her.
She has borne that horror for seventeen years. As it spoke, the voice transformed, becoming more recognizable, less foreign. Some of my earliest memories are of those thoughts, those terrors.
Glorianna? Amalia shook her head. Why…why are you showing me this? I wanted to speak to…to Elise.
I know. Glorianna chuckled, the sound coming from the recesses of Amalia’s brain. And it was noble of you. The humor left her thoughts, and they became cutting, cruel. But your father does not deserve such nobility. He deserves only death.
Amalia’s memories replayed the image of her father dropping a squalling baby – me! –into the fire, of the hatred and anger on his face.
He…he really did that to me?
Yes. There was no mercy in his heart for a child, even one borne to his beloved. A pause. Marcus took your sight from you. He condemned you to darkness forever. A low growl rumbled. He stole you from me, from Mother. We could have been happy together.
The dragon fire ignited in Amalia’s own breast. She felt the storm within her, the desire to render her enemies to cinder, to dust. Her fist clenched and her teeth ground against one another as the feeling coursed through her veins, setting them aflame.
Now you understand. Glorianna appeared in the Link, slinking toward the Princess.
But…Amalia stepped back, putting a hand up. How can I trust you? You told me—
You must understand. I knew that you would tell Marcus, side with him once I sent you away. Her thoughts slithered, threading through Amalia’s mind. Her anger at Marcus was rekindled when she found you were alive, and she did not want you to see that rage within her. Two heartbeats. She hates him and fears him, for what he did to you and to her. When he is gone, she will be able to rest again, to be at peace…and you will be welcome once more.
Glorianna’s words mixed with Amalia’s anger at what she had suffered at Marcus’s hands, and clear images, this time of her own making, formed within:
Elise, in draconic fury, descending on Marcus from above, her claws extended.
His recognition of her, his visage transforming into the hateful mask from her vision.
His sword extended, bellowing a challenge.
No.
No?
Amalia tugged once more at the Link, and this time Glorianna made no attempt to hold her. She felt the grain of the chair beneath her fingers, felt Marchen’s comforting warmth on her feet.
No? Glorianna’s voice echoed, repeating the question.
No. She stood, strode to the door, opened it. I’m going to do it myself.