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Silent.
Into that silence flows the screaming howl of the fire alarm, a clever little system Cairncliff bought from the dwarves, and the shouts of the volunteer fire department, doing exactly what they’re trained to do, bringing water from the nearest well and protecting the neighboring buildings. But all of that fades to a dull, background hum, little more than the buzz of insects in a sunlit summer field.
The flames paint Rayne’s face in crimson and gold. She’s very beautiful, this woman, whether she’s a dragon or a human. She’s beautiful, and the numb, distant part of my mind that’s still at least slightly functional recognizes that she probably just saved my life.
Because I would have stood in the center of that fire, staring at my life’s work as it went up in flames, until the roof fell down on top of me. Maybe I would have been able to shift into my dragon form quickly enough to escape. Or maybe I would have died in there, died while I was debating what little piece of clutter I wanted to try to save. I would have died for ashes, and left no one to mourn me but Olin, my old human servant.
Rayne’s eyes are wide, and her cheeks are coated with ash. I want to reach forward, to run my finger along those curves, to wipe away the ashes. To thank her. Something inside my chest twists like it wants to be free, and I open my mouth, although the Mothers only know what I’m going to say to her.
But the siren changes as my lips part, growing so loud and shrill I can feel it in the back of my teeth. That means something, my numbed brain informs me, and suddenly I’m back in the council chambers watching a group of burly, intimidating dwarves go over the peculiarities of their alarm system. We were all still wincing from their demonstration when the dwarf with the longest beard reached forward and, with a sly little grin from beneath his massive silver whiskers, twisted another knob. The sound that came out of that machine was like nothing I’d ever heard before, some unholy shrieking, like all the vengeful dead rising from their graves at once.
“And this one,” the dwarf had yelled over the din, “is for more’n one fire.”
Reginald, in his first term as head of the Cairncliff Town Council, had made a face that suggested he could not imagine ever needing to use this miserable device. But he’d voted along with the rest of us to purchase it, just in case.
We’d had a smattering of fires in the years since, but I’d never again heard that horrible second scream of an alarm. Not until now. Weary faces in the crowd twist, gasp, and point. Someone drops a bucket, and despite everything, I hear its hollow thud as it hits the ash-slick stones of the street.
I move very slowly, like I’m underwater. One might think the fire would arise in the Market District, or in one of the slummy pubs by the docks. Or on the docks themselves, where the sailors and shipwrights and fishermen often work with fire and tar.
But no. Everyone is looking up, toward the one place that’s higher than the rise where my father built his shop. Toward Noble’s Hill.
It’s not quite morning, not yet, but the night began her slow retreat as I watched my shop burn. The sky above Cairncliff is a beautiful shade of blue, darker just above the Knife’s Edge Mountains, then fading to a brilliant cerulean over the ocean, where just a few brave stars make their last stand against the advancing daylight.
It’s a spectacular backdrop for the thick column of black smoke rising from the bluff on Noble’s Hill. My eyes trace the smoke to the feathery tops of the pine trees, then even further, to the stone outcropping, and the brutal logic of it sets in.
Why set fire to my shop? What possible reason could there be to burn down Geredan’s Antiquities? Sure, I have business rivals, but I doubt any of them actually feel strongly enough to commit arson. But what if the point wasn’t property destruction or petty vengeance? What if the point was exactly this: me, sitting on the cobblestones beside my ruined shop, watching the flames?
And not at my house. Not guarding the door. Not guarding my mother, the Champion of the Throne of Claws. The woman who said she would only be safe in the Iron Mountains, and who is most decidedly not in the Iron Mountains.
“Doshir,” Rayne whispers.
Her hand closes around mine. I squeeze her fingers, wanting to say yes. Yes, I hear you, and yes, I know where that smoke is coming from.
Yes, my entire life is burning.
I swallow hard, then force myself to my feet. My fear is cold and heavy, like a stone strapped to my back. I turn toward Rayne, ready to tell her that we should go up there, we need to see what’s happening. As if it wasn’t already perfectly clear.
And the crowd makes a noise like a wave hitting a stone.
I turn back toward the mountains, toward Noble’s Hill, and for a moment my heart twists in my chest in a dull little spasm of hope. Because the wings rising over the bluff where I first kissed Rayne, where I’ve built a garden and a home and a life, those wings are black.
My mother is a black dragon, and the part of me that wants so desperately to believe that she is rising from the flames like a phoenix, that the indomitable force who shaped my childhood just like she’d shaped the rest of the Iron Council is flying once again, screams that it’s true, that it’s her.
But these black wings are massive. They’re much, much larger than my mother’s, and there are more subtle differences too, differences that are probably invisible to the humans and elves and dwarves around me. These wings are more deeply serrated, their claw tips more pronounced.
My mouth tastes like ashes. The crowd gasps as heavy wingbeats stir the air, their low thudding pulse audible even over the screech of the alarm. I watch as Rensivar rises into the predawn sky, the underside of his wings glowing crimson with the reflected light of the flames beneath him.
Someone screams. Somewhere in the crowd, someone keeps repeating the worddragon, over and over, as if naming the nightmare taking shape before them will somehow help them control it. But why, a distant voice inside my head wonders. Rensivar has been in hiding for generations. Why reveal himself now? Why show himself in Cairncliff, to me?
Rensivar rises quickly, his wings beating the smoke rising from the exact spot where I’ve built my home. He pivots, then turns toward the Knife’s Edge Mountains, flying low and fast, his massive ebony form quickly vanishing into the shadows. And the answer comes to me.
Because who is going to believe me? My own mother hid her growing suspicions that Rensivar was still alive; she figured the august members of the Iron Council would either laugh at her concerns or may have already been compromised. And if my mother didn’t have a chance, then what hope would her misfit, outcast son have of being taken seriously within the Iron Mountains?
My mother. My gut twists, and I feel sick. The smoke rising from Noble’s Hill is thicker now, a great roiling column of inky black streaking across the brilliant blue sky. It’s going to be a beautiful day, some part of my brain notes, and then my body is moving. I’m on my feet, pushing through the crowd still staring at Noble’s Hill and the firemen hastily organizing another party.
And I’m running. My lungs ache and my legs burn as I retrace my steps, pushing hard against the cobblestone streets of Cairncliff and up the steep incline to Noble’s Hill. It feels like a nightmare, like I’m running through wet sand, and no matter how fast I go I’ll never escape the monster at my heels. Little white spots dance across my vision; sweat stings my eyes.
I duck into the alleyway. The wooden door to my garden stands open. Right. I left it open, didn’t I? I hesitate just a moment as my pulse thunders through my temples, and I hear another voice gasping behind me.
