The Dragon’s Price
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Bethany Wiggins
Cover art copyright © 2018 by Sammy Yuen
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
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ISBN 9780399551017 (trade) — ebook ISBN 9780399551031
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Contents
Cover
Also by Bethany Wiggins
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Locations
Characters
Glossary
About the Author
This story is dedicated to my daughter, GTW, for the water and lightning.
It is always her voice, begging me to answer, that starts the dream. “Sorrowlynn!” But when I open my eyes, I see two scale-covered feet with blood-tipped claws digging into black pebbles. A wave crashes over those claws, swirling the blood into the ocean and turning the water pink. I know not to look up. Looking up is what has made it impossible for me to sleep past sunrise for the past five and a half months, because if I stay asleep, I always look up at the beast and the two dragon heads attached to its one body—and every time two sets of eyes glare into mine, both heads lunge, and the only thing I can do to protect myself is throw my arms up to shield my face. The last time I did that, my arm got eaten.
Even though this is a dream, I know exactly how it feels to have my arm bitten off by a dragon—I remember the sensation of Zhun’s teeth sliding through my flesh and snapping my bones before he swallowed my arm whole. I try to open my eyes, but my body, lying in a small, hard bed in an Antharian stronghold, refuses to stir. Please wake up, I think. Wake up! But my body, weary from months of hard physical training, refuses. So I do the inevitable, the same thing I do every time I have this dream of black beaches and a woman’s desperate calling. I grit my teeth and let my gaze travel up the length of the dragon’s body until I am looking into two sets of blinking eyes.
A wave collides with the beast’s legs and fills the air with salt water, and I taste it. I shouldn’t taste salt in a dream, and yet there it is on my tongue. And now the two heads pull back and then lunge forward. Without a thought, I lift my arm to shield my head, and just as warm breath slaps against my face and sharp teeth snap down on my arm, grinding against bone, I see the woman standing far behind the beast, hands cupped around her mouth, yelling. But I do not hear what she says because pain has a sound all its own—a roaring, shrieking wail.
It is my hoarse scream that wakes me to my dim chamber, and the first thing I notice is the complete lack of pain in my arm. I whimper and hug my right arm to my chest, and burrow deeper beneath the blankets. With my mind, I probe the nearly dead coals in the hearth and pull out a spark of fire. It floats across the room and settles on the black wick of a candlestick. Next I tell the smoldering ashes in the hearth to burn. Flames jump to life, feasting as if on fresh logs, and not just their ashy remains. When autumn turned to bitter winter and no maid was sent to light a fire in the morning, I taught myself how to heat my chamber without getting out of bed. “Thank you, Zhun,” I whisper, for along with his treasure of knowledge, I inherited his fire magic. I quickly get out of bed and undress, trading my nightgown for a thick woolen shirt, woolen leggings and socks, and leather breeches that are worn over the leggings. My training begins promptly at sunrise every day, and based on the amount of light in the sky, the sun is just about to rise. As I run out the door, I buckle a sword belt and sword over my hips.
No one is asleep at sunrise in the western citadel. It is where the Antharian horse lords send their youth to be turned into the world’s fiercest warriors. The citadel, a massive gray fortress built into the side of a mountain, is surrounded on three sides by a stone wall at least four stories high and as thick as a house. The fourth side, the side built into the mountain, needs no wall to protect it. It is the only Antharian stronghold built to withstand dragon attacks, and that is the main reason I was sent here. Six dragons are still alive, and they are going to find me and kill me because I killed the fire dragon and learned their secrets—they have magic in their blood, and their treasures are passed on to whoever kills them.
A great, wide training field is located inside the wall, and as I cross it, the clash of sword on sword fills the dawn air. Enzio is leaning with one shoulder against the wall and talking with three young Antharian women. He pulls a black stone blade from beneath his sleeve and tosses it straight up into the air before catching it behind his back. The women gasp. “We Satari are as well known for our knife skills as your people are for the sword,” he says. “If any of you would like help honing your throwing skills, I will happily oblige.” His amused blue eyes meet mine and he winks. “Have I told you ladies the story of how I pledged to protect Sorrowlynn of Faodara when she saved my mother’s life?” The girls, all fierce fighters, sigh and start talking.
“Flirt,” I call as I approach.
Enzio pushes his dark curls aside and nods in agreement. “When the ladies are so lovely, any man would be a fool not to flirt.” The women laugh, and Enzio dips them a deep bow. “You best get to your practicing, ladies.” The women nod and leave, and Enzio’s gaze follows them.
“They like your pretty blue eyes, Enzio,” someone calls, and I turn and face Golmarr’s older brother, Yerengul, wrapped in a thick green cloak. “But just to warn you, Antharian women always initiate the first kiss, so don’t try anything unless you want to taste steel.” A wave of melancholy hits me at the sight of Yerengul. He is only two years older than Golmarr, and the way he moves, the angle of his jaw, and his dark furrowed brow remind me of Golmarr and how terribly I miss him. I never knew missing a person could be a constant physical ache.
“And why don’t you
ever flirt with the ladies, Yerengul?” I ask. “You’re as handsome as Enzio.”
He steps in front of me and lifts my left arm, gently pressing a scar on my shoulder, hidden beneath my tunic. “I used to flirt, but none of the women sparked that fire of love in my heart. I’m still searching for a woman who can do that. How is this feeling today?” He moves my arm above my head and backward to rotate my shoulder. Yerengul has been trained as one of the horse clan’s medics. When they go out to battle and someone gets wounded, Yerengul is the man who sews him up.
“It feels fine,” I say, wincing as he pushes against the muscles around the scar.
His black eyebrows draw together. “Still sore?”
“Yes, but only when you bend it backward and push on it.”
Yerengul frowns, and a familiar gleam enters his eyes. “If your wound has healed enough that you’re sarcastic when I touch it, it is certainly doing better. I want you to only use your left arm today.” He walks to an old, wooden wine barrel, which has several rust-speckled sword hilts sticking out of it. The term waster sword materializes in my mind. Though I have never laid my hands on a waster, I know exactly what they are for—cheap, sturdy, dull swords made exclusively for practicing. Yerengul lifts a sword and smiles a sly, slightly malicious grin.
“You’re scaring me, Yerengul,” I say. He laughs and slaps the sword hilt into my left hand.
“No need to be scared. I figure you can work out a little of your sarcasm this morning.”
I lift the sword, testing the weight of it. “This weapon is not balanced. It is heavier than I remember waster swords being.”
“So you have trained with a waster before?” Yerengul asks, though his dark eyes are skeptical.
The truth is, the memories I have of practicing with a waster sword are not my own. In fact, I don’t know whose they are. There is so much information crammed into my head, transferred there from when I killed Zhun, the fire dragon, and inherited his treasured knowledge, that sometimes I get lost in other people’s lives and forget what I have learned myself versus what other men and women learned and passed on to me. I grip the practice weapon tighter and force my left arm to lift it. “I have never touched a waster, but I know what one is. This is heavier. A lot heavier,” I add, frowning as I try to swing the weapon.
“That is a weighted waster sword, Sorrowlynn. An Antharian rarity, and the reason we horse lords are reputedly the strongest swordsmen in the world,” Yerengul says, his voice filled with amusement. “It weighs more than twice what a normal sword weighs. It is meant to build up your strength and endurance. This”—he rests his hand on a wooden post as tall as his shoulder—“is a pell. Did you ever practice with a pell in Faodara?”
I shake my head. Never, not even once, did I practice the sword in my homeland. My time was spent in my bedroom or being tutored, with occasional dancing and riding lessons. Images of swords sinking into wood flash in my mind. “It is used for building strength and precision in sword-fighting…right?” I look at Yerengul, with his arm wrapped around the pell like a woman’s waist.
“Yes. This pell is for you to practice against. Pretend it is your enemy. Focus your strength on every strike like you mean to kill.” He steps away and loosely folds his arms. “Let’s see how much wood you can hack away with your left arm before it gives out.”
I nod and adjust my left hand on the hilt. I know exactly how wide to space my feet to counter the unbalanced sword, how to hold the weapon when gripping the hilt with my weaker hand, and the precise angle to strike to cause the most damage. Practicing with a pell is an exercise of focus and force. This I know, just as surely as I know how to read, though I have never held a weighted waster sword in my hands before, and I have never struck a pell.
I squeeze my left hand on the sword hilt and clench my teeth. With every muscle in my body tightened to lend power to my swing, I strike with all the strength I possess. The blade hits the wood and sinks in. I tear it back out and swing again, and one tiny chip of wood falls to the ground. “I am still so weak,” I say, looking at my left arm.
Yerengul walks to the pell and puts his arm around it again, running his thumb over the shallow gouge. “I disagree,” he says.
“You do?” My voice is skeptical.
He nods. “Nearly six months of intense training with me has made you incredibly strong. A few more weeks of practicing with a weighted waster and your left arm will be as strong as your right, and then you’ll be ready to leave. You can go search for my little brother without being turned into prey.”
Those are the words I have been waiting to hear all these months. You can go search for my little brother. Hope seems to render me weightless, and the thought of seeing Golmarr again makes it hard to keep myself from throwing my arms around his brother in gratitude. I recall the words of Golmarr’s parting letter, for I have read it so many times it is memorized: There are myths about an Infinite Vessel that holds all the history of the dragons. As surely as you are reading these words, know that I am, at this very moment, on a quest to discover the Infinite Vessel. “Do you know where he is yet?”
Yerengul shakes his head. “I have received no word from him or of him, but as soon as I do, I will—” A horn blares, ringing above the sound of Yerengul’s voice. He snaps his mouth shut and looks toward the wall’s tunnel at the exact moment I hear the pounding of hooves. He draws his sword and takes a tiny step so he is between me and whoever is about to come through the tunnel. I know that Yerengul has been given the job of protecting me with his life. He has taken that charge very seriously, never letting me out of his sight unless I am in my chamber, and always standing between me and any possible danger. He is doing it for Golmarr.
King Marrkul and his oldest son, Ingvar, ride into the yard with a small mounted party on their heels. Marrkul halts and instructs the other riders to continue on to the stable. Still mounted, his eyes sweep the yard, quickly scanning the trainees, who are now standing still as stone and watching him. When his eyes find me, he turns his horse and rides to my side.
“Father, what brings you out of the city of Kreeose?” Yerengul asks.
“My son’s betrothed,” he says, nodding at me—the woman his son followed into a dragon’s lair in the hopes of keeping her alive. King Marrkul reaches down and clasps my hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Good morning, Princess. It is always a pleasure to see you.” He lets me go and takes Enzio’s hand. “And how are you faring in my fortress, Enzio? Are you learning a lot about sword-fighting?”
“Yes, sir, and growing stronger every day,” Enzio says. He pushes the sleeve of his tunic up and flexes, showing off his toned biceps. King Marrkul throws his head back and laughs.
Yerengul offers his father a hand down. King Marrkul stiffly dismounts and presses on his lower back. “My bones are getting old, son.”
“You must have traveled through the night to get here. Is all well?” Yerengul asks, his voice quiet with concern.
King Marrkul nods, but his black brows pull tight together as he runs a scarred hand over his long, bushy beard. “I have brought Nayadi. She keeps having visions, but refuses to speak of them without Sorrowlynn present. She insisted I bring her here today, before the midday meal. Hence, the night of riding and the early arrival.”
My empty stomach drops. Nayadi is the Antharian’s ancient witch. Six months ago, she accused me of bringing darkness to the grasslands. The next day was the worst day I have ever experienced. An ice-wielding dragon attacked the kingdom of Anthar. When Golmarr killed the beast, he inherited its treasure, which was hatred for Zhun, the fire dragon, and since I had killed Zhun and inherited his treasured knowledge, that hatred was transferred to me. Golmarr tried to kill me before riding away. I can practically feel the icy ground under my back and see Golmarr’s furious eyes as he stabs his sword into my left shoulder. A warm hand squeezes my arm, and I find Enzio at my side. “I
won’t let the witch touch you,” he whispers fiercely.
“Nayadi might look terrifying,” Yerengul says, “but I assure you, she’s harmless. She’s never hurt anyone, or anything.”
I nod to let Yerengul know I’ve heard him, but that does not mean I believe him.
My hands feel covered in frost as I step into the dark, quiet citadel. I rub them together and realize how insecure this makes me look, so I force my arms to be still at my sides and follow Ingvar to the great hall. The wooden tables are empty. No one is in the hall except the old, half-crippled warrior who cooks for the citadel’s trainees. When he sees his king, he touches his forehead and then crosses his arms at the wrists—a warrior’s salute of honor.
“We are looking for Nayadi,” King Marrkul says.
The old warrior points up at the ceiling. “She said she’d meet you in the princess’s chamber.” His voice is as hard and rough as his scarred face.
I fight a shudder of repulsion. “She is in my chamber?”
The warrior shrugs. “You’re the only princess here.”
I look askance at King Marrkul. “Why is she in my chamber?”
“I may be king, but I have never claimed to know the reasons behind Nayadi’s actions,” he says, and waves his arm for me to lead the way to my chamber. I hurry upstairs to the second floor.
At my door, King Marrkul presses his finger to his lips—a reminder that Nayadi demands utter silence when she is having a vision unless she asks a question or speaks directly to someone. The door swings open on silent hinges, and Marrkul steps aside, letting me enter first.