Thorolf struggled to keep up with him, his wide eyes revealing that he’d never heard even this truth.
Erik paused. “But the elements were alone and undefended, incapable of communicating with one another, snared within the matter that was theirs to control.”
“Okay,” Thorolf said.
“I love a good creation story,” Eileen murmured, though her eyes were closed. She curled against his chest, and Erik was relieved that she had stopped shivering. He liked the sense of returning to his lair with his mate, of carrying a treasure more precious to him than the richest of hoards.
He felt complete. He felt potent.
The situation felt right.
Erik continued his story. “And so, out of the endless void were created a race of guardians whose appointed task was to protect and defend the integrity of the four sacred elements. They were given powers, the better to fulfill their responsibilities; they were given strength and cunning and longevity to safeguard the treasures surrendered to their stewardship. To them alone would the elements respond. These guardians were—and are—the Pyr.”
“Oh!” Eileen said, her eyes opening again. “That’s why there are stories of dragons that are centuries old, even millennia old. Because there were dragons.”
“Are,” Erik corrected. “The tale of Cadmus is from ancient Greece. That of Perseus is perhaps an older tale of conflict between our kinds.”
“But the bulk of stories about dragons are medieval,” Eileen said. “Saints defeat dragons over and over again, but by the Renaissance, the whole dragon mania all dies out.”
“Weren’t you the one who said that stories reflect reality?”
Her lips parted as she stared at him. “The Pyr have been dying out,” she whispered. “But why?”
“Yeah, why?” Thorolf echoed.
Erik understood that pride was at root, pride and divisiveness. “We were numerous, and like so many in positions of power, we took our ascendancy for granted. We believed that we could not be destroyed, especially by those we were charged to defend.”
“Who were we charged to defend?” Thorolf asked. “The elements?”
“One of the treasures of the earth that we as Pyr are charged to defend is the human race. And so it was perhaps that responsibility that made us underestimate humans, much as a parent might underestimate the intent of his or her own child.”
Eileen caressed his shoulder, a swift reminder that they had both been surprised by Sigmund. It was a reminder that they had endured much together, and it touched Erik as much as it surprised him.
Would he no longer fly alone? Maybe the sacrifice was his independence. It was an appealing notion.
“How so?” Eileen asked.
“Where once our rare appearances fostered fear and perhaps respect, familiarity made men bolder. They were no longer content to try to steal our hoards for their own—they wanted our abilities as well. Once Sigurd tasted dragon blood and then understood the talk of the birds as a result, the die was cast.”
“Saints killed dragons,” Eileen whispered, her face pale.
“Men still admired our power, but it was decided that healing cures could be made of our blood, our bones, our skins. They were no longer content to have us as mascots or to have us defend them. They wanted our substance to defend themselves. Bathing in our blood was said to give invincibility in battle. Ingesting an unguent made of our innards was reputed to dispel nightmares. Our blood broke kidney stones; our skin cured intemperate passion between lovers; our teeth gave grace to the bearer; our backbones granted luck in court. The fanciful list goes on and on in its distasteful detail.”
“Ick,” Eileen whispered.
“Major ick,” Thorolf agreed.
Erik caught his breath, trying to hide his bitterness. “The most troubling conviction, however, was based upon a lie. There was a tale that we carried a stone in our brow—some accounted it to be a ruby—that was an effective tonic for all poisons. The alchemists believed that this dragon stone had to be harvested from a live dragon. They were convinced that while dying, the dragon deliberately destroyed the efficacy of the stone. I will not trouble you with the vicious details of that process.”
He fell silent then, his own memories choking his words.
“Medieval kings were concerned with poison,“ Eileen mused a few moments later. Erik didn’t doubt that she had noticed that he was upset. He also didn’t doubt that she’d demand the rest of the story later.
He’d have to think about whether he was going to share it with her.
“There are a lot of stories about food tasters and poison antidotes,” Eileen said. “And heroes retrieving rare items like unicorn horns that reveal the presence of poison. Then they win the hand of the princess from her grateful father, the king.”
“Stories,” Thorolf scoffed.
“Reflections of popular culture and concern,” Eileen corrected sternly.
Erik continued. “The demand for this fictional stone led to the hunting and slaughter of dragons, far beyond that of adventurers proving their audacity. And so it was that a schism developed within the Pyr. There were those of us who still chose to defend humans, but there was a growing contingent who believed that humans had sacrificed their right to be defended by us. With each death of a Pyr, the numbers of those in defiance of the Great Wyvern’s initial mandate grew. Many dragons actively hunted humans, in animosity and often grief. . . .”
“Grief?” Thorolf asked.
“To be Pyr is genetic. We pass the power from father to son.” He paused to consider whether he should tell Thorolf of his own legacy, and decided to not risk overwhelming the younger Pyr. “And so each slaughtered Pyr was a father or a son to another Pyr, and each slaughtered Pyr was grieved by those who remained.”
“Humans kept making the split worse,” Eileen concluded.
“It is difficult to explain the level of animosity within our ranks at that time,” Erik said. “We have tempers, which made it worse, as did the fact that there had never been such a division among our kind. We fought one another over our alliances and the death toll rose yet higher. It rose so high that the Great Wyvern herself intervened.”
“Your divinity revealed herself?” Eileen couldn’t fully hide her skepticism, and Erik smiled.
“Not directly. Our metabolisms changed. We gradually realized that those who chose to defend humans remained as always we had been. But those who chose to fight against humans changed. Their blood ran black instead of red, and they were denied the joy of the firestorm.”
“The destined-mating bit?” Thorolf asked with real interest, his gaze fixed on the radiant glow between Erik and Eileen.
Erik nodded. “We recently recovered a treatise that argued that those who turned their backs upon our initial mandate were denying the spark of the divine within themselves. They chose the darkness over the light, and that choice manifested in the hue of their blood and their fertility. They deny the Great Wyvern’s command, and she, in turn, takes potency from them. It is said that Pyr are born, but Slayers are made.”
“Slayers are the ones who fight humans?” Thorolf asked.
“And they fight the true Pyr, for they view us as erroneous in our choice. And so it was that we who had never been divided were divided, and that which had been one force split into two.”
Erik pivoted and hovered in the air, confronting the younger Pyr. “And so it is that I ask you to choose your alliance. I will not lie to you. The Slayers have powerful assets. They have recently roused Pyr from the dead and enslaved them to fight on the Slayer side. They can cut smoke. They say they have gained possession of the Dragon’s Blood Elixir, which was long rumored to give immortality.”
“You guys are losing big-time,” Thorolf said.
“We have not lost yet. I do not believe that we will lose.” Erik smiled. “But then, it is my duty to believe in our triumph, no matter how high the odds against us.”
“You said you were leader of the Pyr,” Tho
rolf said.
Erik nodded, then let his voice drop. “I knew your father and your grandfather. I will not tell you that they would have chosen the true path, because it would not be a fair comparison—their choices were not made in these times. I will tell you that I had nothing but respect for them both, and that I would be honored to have you, as shard of their talons and sparks from their blaze, fight in the ranks of the Pyr.” He inclined his head. “And now, Thorolf—son of Thorvald, son of Thorkel—choose.”
Erik thought the choice was obvious and was assured of his own success. He’d made a persuasive argument, after all, and he knew Thorolf’s legacy.
But the younger Pyr shocked Erik completely with his suspicious question. “How do I know you’re not a Slayer lying to me?”
A Slayer? How could Thorkel’s spawn even suggest that Erik was one of those foul creatures?
Chapter 20
Erik was struck speechless but fortunately his mate was not.
Eileen laid her hand on Erik’s shoulder, encouraging a shower of sparks. “The firestorm,” she chided. “Weren’t you listening?”
Thorolf dropped his gaze.
“And look,” she said, gesturing to the scab on Erik’s forehead. “He bleeds red.”
“Right!”
“And they’re teaching you about your abilities. Don’t you think Slayers would want to keep you weak?”
Thorolf nodded thoughtfully. Erik was a bit annoyed that Eileen had to punctuate his lesson to get it through the younger Pyr’s head.
On the other hand, Thorolf was learning a great deal in short order. Erik tried not to judge the other Pyr so harshly.
“Count me in,” Thorolf said then, his grin turning roguish. “I’m kind of fond of humans, and usually cheer for the underdogs.”
Erik felt a profound sense of relief. “Then I ask you to return to Niall.”
“I’m on it,” Thorolf said, and his tone turned grim. “But this time I’m gonna nail that landing. You should watch.”
“Sadly, I have not the time.”
“You wanna know, though.”
Erik grinned despite himself. “I do. You’ll just have to nail all subsequent ones.”
“Right.” Thorolf cast a wink at Eileen. “See ya,” he said, then descended toward the clouds.
Erik watched, seeing Thorvald and Thorkel in the silvery rhythm of the younger Pyr’s wings, and remembered a time long past. A lump rose in his throat and he was glad, glad to the tips of his talons, to be honored with the company of their descendant.
Erik would defend Thorolf. He would teach him everything he knew. And he would trust him with the truth of his legacy.
He glanced down to find Eileen watching him, speculation in her eyes. “You weren’t sure what he’d do.”
“No.” It was surprisingly easy to share his doubts with her. “His father and grandfather could be impulsive and unpredictable. Loyal, though, and fierce.”
“You’re glad he’s here.”
“Very.”
She yawned and snuggled into the collar of her coat. Her garments had already dried from the heat of the firestorm, which reassured Erik that she wouldn’t catch a chill. Her battered satchel was tucked between them and he had her knees caught up with his other arm. “I feel like I’m in a big hammock,” she said sleepily. “Just rocking gently in the wind.”
“I like to think that I have somewhat more character,” Erik said. “Or even charm.”
She laughed. “More of a sense of humor, definitely.”
Erik couldn’t hide his smile. “I thank you for that.”
She smiled back at him, an accord between them that was more than the raw desire of the firestorm. “Long ride ahead?”
He nodded in agreement, knowing she was watching him closely.
“Aren’t you too tired?”
“Sometimes one’s own state is not of import.”
She touched his cheek with her fingertips, her gentle caress both surprising him and warming his heart. “Don’t push yourself too hard, Erik,” she counseled softly, and he savored how she said his name. “I’d like to talk more about that possibility of a shared future.”
Erik didn’t reply. By the time he had marshaled his argument into coherent order, Eileen had already fallen asleep. He held her closer and settled into a familiar rhythm, one that allowed him to cover long distances at a good speed. He was calculating their travel time when Erik felt the wind turn in their favor.
He smiled, because this wind would improve his speed.
His luck was, indeed, turning.
While Erik flew, Boris crawled, easing ever closer to the sanctuary where the Elixir was stored.
Anger gave him strength.
Because he knew that Magnus had lied.
Boris was exhausted, broken and bruised and blackened, but the revelation of Magnus’s lie infuriated him. The evidence was clear. Boris’s wounds were not healing. He did not have the power to recover that he had possessed just six months before.
Which meant that one sip of the Dragon’s Blood Elixir did not make a Slayer immortal and omnipotent forever. It meant that the Elixir faded over time and needed to be restored within a Slayer’s body at intervals.
Boris understood why Magnus had been so coy about sharing his treasure, and solved the riddle of why Magnus had shared the Elixir at all.
The fateful sip wasn’t the only sip. It was the first sip, the addictive sip, the sip that turned the Slayer who thought he was gaining immortality into Magnus’s minion forever.
Because as long as Magnus controlled the source of the Elixir, Magnus determined who won those subsequent sips and who did not.
The name of the Elixir’s custodian could change.
Boris finally reached the threshold of the hidden site and found it guarded only by Magnus’s dragonsmoke. That was no barrier for Boris, although it cost him dearly in his current state to do what he had done easily just days before. He hovered between forms and cut the smoke with his talon, then crawled across it in human form.
He had only a hundred feet to go.
He followed the cavern that wound into the darkness and chill of rock, listening for any hint of another presence. There was none. Boris was alone, and that made him move more quickly despite his pain. Magnus was a fool to believe that dragonsmoke alone could protect his prize! Magnus was a moron who deserved to be replaced.
By a brilliant successor.
Boris had the perfect candidate in mind.
He emerged in the central cavern, catching his breath at the sight of the massive vial. It had been carved of rock crystal, not poured of glass, and contained facets and imperfections. The container, and the steps that wound around its perimeter to the summit, had been carved of the stone centuries before.
There was no sound in the cavern, nothing except the distant echo of dripping water. It could have been a sanctuary outside of time, a haven beyond time.
The cloudy red liquid swirled with its own currents and glowed faintly, illuminating the cavern with its vermilion light. The imperfections played tricks, making it look as if the Elixir were filled with mysterious shapes, half glimpsed before they faded from view. Watching it swirl was like watching clouds form and disperse in a summer sky.
But Boris knew that there was only one thing suspended in the solution in the massive vial. A dead dragon of cinnabar was preserved in the liquid—his body, in water, created the liquid; his rare color was the source of the prize and its powers.
It was a revolting notion, even for Boris, but knowing its abilities gave him the willpower to consume it.
Boris moved with haste, doubting that the vial would be left unguarded for long. Steam rose from its open top, filling the cave with vapor that gave him new energy with every breath.
He needed a second sip, and he would take it while Magnus was absent. There would be no terms or conditions this time.
Boris dragged himself up the spiral of stone steps that had been carved around the vial itse
lf. He was panting by the time he had reached halfway, but he kept his eye on his goal. He shifted shapes as necessary, each change exhausting him.
Boris was crawling when he reached the top step. He dragged himself over it and slithered on his belly to the lip of the vial. He was breathing heavily, within a heartbeat of breathing his last, when he bent to dip his head toward the seething surface of the Elixir. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and stretched out his tongue to lap the surface.
But before Boris could sip, something erupted from its depths.
Boris cried out in shock, thinking that the preserved cinnabar Pyr had returned to life.
But it was Magnus, massive and vital, who lunged from the cloudy depths of the Elixir and seized Boris by the throat.
“Tell me a story,” Eileen whispered hours later. Erik had flown while she slept, and though he was aching with exhaustion, he knew he couldn’t risk stopping.
They flew over the Atlantic, its darkness stretching in every direction and the darkness of the night sky high overhead. Eileen weighed nothing to him in dragon form—it was the weight of his own body that worked against him.
Erik had thought Eileen was still sleeping, but glanced down to find her eyes shining in the darkness.
“You should sleep,” he advised, hearing his own exhaustion.
“Then tell me a story, please.” She adjusted her pose and caressed his shoulder with an affection that touched his heart. “You must be dead tired.”
“Not quite.”
“Maybe telling a story would give you something else to think about.”
That made a certain sense. “What kind of a story?”
“One in which the dragons are the good guys,” she said, her tone mischievous. “Then you’ll enjoy it, too.”