A Time of Darkness (The Circle of Talia)

A Time of Darkness

Dionne Lister

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Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia
www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov

ISBN: 978-0-9873078-5-9

This book is dedicated to the three people who have supported me more than any others in the last year. To my husband, who has supported my transition to authorhood by picking up the home-related slack and also accepting I will be in my own little world quite frequently, and to my parents who have been encouraging and have never once said, “You’ll never do it.” Thank you all for believing in me. I love you.

Zim watched orange embers leap from the funeral pyre as he breathed in acrid smoke. Glowing ash eddied about before sailing skywards on waves of warm air. Symbothial’s body, unmade by the fingers of flames, returned cinder by cinder to the mountains protecting Vellonia.

The dragon prince turned to his mother. The queen’s silver scales reflected the blaze, and Zim almost expected to burn his clawed hand when he placed it on her arm. “Mother? Symbothial, my beloved cousin, hath made his final flight around our wondrous city. We are the only ones left out here. Everyone has paid their respects and gone. Please, let me take you inside.”

Queen Jazmonilly turned sad eyes to her son. “I remember when he first hatched; it was a joyous occasion.” Jaz allowed the smallest of smiles to soften her face before anger swiped it away. “I can’t believe he’s gone, and in such a violent manner. He is the first dragon to be murdered in hundreds of years—and for what?” She shook her head but allowed Zim to guide her to the mountain that was their castle.

After escorting Jaz to her chambers, Zim headed to his father’s private reception room where the ongoing discussion about what to do with Bronwyn and the panther continued. In previous discussion
s, Agmunsten had hinted he knew more than he could say, and Zim agreed they shouldn’t kill the murderers yet, but Jaz didn’t concur. If it were up to his mother, the captives would have been put to death before Symbothial’s funeral. Zim was glad his mother needed a rest and wouldn’t be joining the meeting.

He stopped outside the double doors and breathed in. He knew where everyone stood on the issue, and it wasn’t all in the same place. The steel handle turned easily in his giant, scaly hand, and the door opened silently. Zim went through the dimly lit antechamber to his father’s main reception room. A chandelier cradling scores of candles hung above a long stone table. The table was the color of honey flecked with ants, the same as the floor and, like much of the furniture in the castle, was hewn from the stone within the very room.

King Valdorryn, Zim’s father, sat at the head of the table, an elbow resting on the slab, his chin cradled on one hand while the long claws of the other tapped the polished stone. Zim had never seen him so indecisive. “So, my father and king, what, if any, decisions have been made?”

Zim sat to the right of his father and looked opposite to Agmunsten, who had dark circles under his eyes from the healing he had been administering to Arcon. King Edmund sat next to Agmunsten. Next to Zim sat another dragon—Bertholimous. Bertholimous was Valdorryn’s advisor and Master of War; it was his job to train dragons for fighting and to decide tactics in the event of war. He was addressed as either Bertholimous or Master.

The dragon king straightened on his bench seat and looked at his son. “No decisions have been made! I’m losing my patience. We had all come together, Talians and dragons, to discuss the impending gormon invasion, but now we’re bogged down on this other matter. We have not decided whether the realmist girl and the panther go free. We all know what Agmunsten thinks. Bertholimous is advising caution, King Edmund does not want them killed, and I can see no clear way ahead at this stage. If I let the girl and panther go free without a very good reason, your mother will never speak to me again. And to tell you the truth, Son, I’m inclined to agree that what has happened is inexcusable.” Valdorryn turned his glowing eyes to Agmunsten. “So, Realmist, tell me again why I should not kill the murderers.”

Agmunsten’s eyes widened at the dragon king’s sudden forcefulness
, and he tensed his stocky frame. He knew he couldn’t drag this out much longer. Agmunsten was a powerful realmist with hundreds of years experience, wiser than anyone, but not invincible, not against a dragon. Bronwyn and Sinjenasta would be dead within days if he didn’t provide a good reason for saving them. But how to tell them what he knew without exposing Drakon, the dragon god’s role in this? The dragon god would have made it clear by now if he wanted them to know of his involvement.

Agmunsten scratched his head and sighed. “So, my word as first realmist has no sway here? You’re not going to just trust me on this?”

King Valdorryn shook his head. “You know I can’t. What are you hiding, Agmunsten? Is it worth the life of the human?”

“It may very well be. Are you sure you can’t just pardon them on my word?”

“No. Symbothial was a member of the royal family: my family. Not only that, but what message will it send to our enemies? Have you not thought that someone put them up to this? Surely the girl could not have dreamt this up by herself, and we all know it wasn’t an accident or self-defense.” Valdorryn stared at Agmunsten, daring him to disagree.

“Well, you’re right: she wasn’t the instigator. I know who was, but I doubt you’ll believe me.” Everyone leaned towards Agmunsten, and he wished he hadn’t said anything. But what choice did he have—if Valdorryn reacted the way he thought he would, Bronwyn and Sinjenasta would die and The Circle’s fight against the gormons would be hopeless. Why couldn’t that be reason enough for the king? Agmunsten quietly cursed at the power the dragon queen held over her husband. If it weren’t for her interference, Bronwyn would be free by now.

“Bronwyn and the panther have bonded. I’m guessing it was the panther who was trying to kill Symbothial, and Bronwyn was only helping.”

“Only helping? You make it sound like they were preparing a meal together. She
only helped
murder a dragon, and in Vellonia—the last place we should feel unsafe.” King Valdorryn’s breath snorted in and out of his nose. Agmunsten worried that if the king opened his mouth again, fire would come lashing out.

Zim spoke into the dangerous silence, “So why did the panther want to kill my cousin?”

Agmunsten cleared his throat. “Maybe you should be asking the panther’s name.”

“For Drakon’s sake, get on with it! I don’t have the patience anymore, not while I’m grieving the death of my nephew. If I don’t have an answer from you this time, I will order your realmist and her creatura be executed tonight.” No one had seen this side of the dragon king before.

Agmunsten’s skin prickled in response to the tension vibrating in the room. He inhaled and spoke, “Sinjenasta.” The dragons’ scales paled; the color seemingly absorbed inwards, fading quickly. This was a phenomenon Agmunsten had heard of but had never seen. Dragons could change color, although it usually only happened when they were highly agitated. The head realmist had heard that during the last battle against the gormons, legions of flame-colored dragons had dotted the sky.

             
Valdorryn opened his mouth and shut it again. He looked at his advisor and his son. No one spoke. The dragons were hard to read, and Agmunsten had no idea if they believed him or not, although their silence was a good sign.

             
The dragon king shook his head as if to clear it. He looked at Agmunsten. “Are you saying it’s
the
Sinjenasta—the human that Drakon turned into a dragon to sacrifice in the first Gormon War?”

             
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Agmunsten resisted the urge to shrug the tension out of his aching shoulders.

             
Bertholimous cocked his head to one side. “But I thought it was just a story, a myth to make the dragons feel indebted to the humans. And besides, a lot of dragons haven’t heard the story. I only know because I read it while studying to be Master of War.”

             
“I’m afraid not,” said the realmist. “In fact, it’s a myth that makes the humans fear your god. Drakon betrayed Sinjenasta. He declined to explain that in order to defeat the gormons, he would have to sacrifice himself. I don’t know what he’s been doing, or where Drakon has been keeping him, or even why he’s here now, but he is, and he’s bonded with Bronwyn. I have no doubt that whatever happened was ordered by Drakon.” Agmunsten peered at the dragon king. “So, Valdorryn, who would you rather upset—Queen Jazmonilly, or Drakon?”

             
The dragon king squinted his eyes. “How do you know it’s him, hmm? You weren’t alive during the Gormon War. How can you know?”

             
Agmunsten clenched and unclenched his fists. “Bronwyn told me his name and when I questioned him, he all but admitted Drakon was involved. I have ways of knowing when people are telling the truth. Look, Valdorryn, I know this is hard for you to accept—that your god may have wanted one of your own killed. But if I’m right, what does that tell us?”

             
Zim listened and knew where Agmunsten was headed. He remembered finding that the spires had not been charged properly and Symbothial’s reaction when he confronted him. His color returned, but it was with a sad voice he answered the head realmist. “My cousin betrayed us.” Zim turned to look at his father. “I know this is hard for you to believe. I didn’t want to think it either, but I can’t ignore the facts any longer. Symbothial wasn’t maintaining the spires properly. It was his job, and we all know how important it is. When I checked them a while ago, the rivers to three of the spires were blocked … more than enough to let any gormons through. When I spoke to him, he acted like it wasn’t important.”

             
“That’s not enough to condemn him. Maybe he was just being careless because we’ve been safe for so long; it’s easy to become complacent.” King Valdorryn’s voice trailed off as he lost the energy to make excuses. He had to admit there was only one decision he could make, and he was dreading having to explain this to his wife.

The dragon king sat up straight and looked into Agmunsten’s eyes. The head realmist swore he could see small lightning bolts sizzling in the dragon king’s dark eyes. “I hereby pardon Bronwyn and Sinjenasta for, for murdering, ahem, killing, my nephew, Symbothial. I’m still reluctant to free your realmist and Drakon’s puppet. In fact, I will not free them unless they promise there will be no more killing of dragons within Vellonia. If they can’t promise me this, they can stay locked up. Bertholimous, please take Zim and Agmunsten and see to it that this promise is made. If it is, arrange for rooms to be provided for Bronwyn and her panther.” Valdorryn stood. “I will see you all tomorrow, if I’m still alive. I’m off to explain things to Queen Jazmonilly.”

Agmunsten cleared his throat. “Thank you, King Valdorryn.” He swallowed and dared another request. “If you don’t mind, I would like to keep Sinjenasta’s identity a secret, especially from Bronwyn.”

The dragon king nodded and shuffled out, shoulders drooping a little lower with each step. The others looked after him in sympathy, glad it was not their job to advise Zim’s mother of the decision.

Bertholimous spoke over his shoulder as he followed his king out the door. “Okay, let’s get this over with. Let’s see if we can free Bronwyn and Sinjenasta.” The Master of War walked quickly. He had many questions for Sinjenasta. What luck—he was about to speak to the only surviving creature of the Gormon War. The information Sinjenasta could tell him may mean the difference between banishing the gormons for the second time or dying in the attempt.

Chapter 2

Bronwyn lay in the dark, separated from the cold stone floor by a thick bed of straw. She kept her eyes closed—in the darkness it made no difference—because she had no wish to be reminded of where she was—not that she could forget. Sinjenasta’s thoughts intermittently sounded in her mind, but she ignored him, not knowing how to block him from talking to her.

The only way of distinguishing time was by the delivery of her meals. The dragons were generous, considering. Three meals a day were provided to the captives. By Bronwyn’s estimation, they had been locked up for six days. They were the longest six days in the young realmist’s life. She refused to eat and was beset by nightmares of Symbothial whenever she slept. Each time she woke from one of these vivid dreams, she expected to see the sword in her hand and blood fanning out from the dragon’s floating carcass.