The Dragonprince's Heir

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE DRAGONPRINCE'S HEIR

First edition. June 26, 2012.

Copyright © 2012 Aaron Pogue.

Written by Aaron Pogue. Cover art by Courtney Cantrell and Lane Brown. Cover design by Amy Nickerson. Editing by Jessie Sanders.

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Also by Aaron Pogue

The World of the FirstKing
Taming Fire
The Dragonswarm
The Dragonprince's Heir

The World of Hathor
Gods Tomorrow
Expectation
Restraint
Camouflage
Faith (coming in 2012)

Short Stories and Collections

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My name is Taryn Eliade, firstborn son of Daven Carrickson. I've been called a nuisance and a little lord, a kingsman and a traitor. I've been called the dragon-born son and the heritage of Chaos. I was born the Dragonprince's heir, though I knew little of his legacy.

In the summer of my fourteenth year, at the waning of the dragonswarm, I went on a quest to choose my destiny. Along the way, I learned the painful truth.

1. The FirstKing's Heir

The king brought seven regiments of the Guard to the gates of the Tower of Drakes. He brought every man in the legendary corps of the Green Eagles. He brought four wizards, six noblemen, and a servant for every stone in the fortress's legendary walls.

I perched in the battlements near the great north gate and watched them creep across the summer-seared soil of my father's domain until all I could see for miles and miles was a tide of tired men.

"They're not very impressive," I told the empty air. "Too slow. Too clumsy." I strained my eyes across the vast plains beyond the army, toward the land where the great kingdom of man had once stood. I sighed. "I'd trade them all for a handful of Father's dragonriders."

A shadow fell across me. "You may still have a chance." The voice was dark as midnight, cruel and cold, and it matched the skin of the hand that knotted in my shirt and hauled me sharply off the battlement. I fell to the walkway behind and bruised a hand catching myself. My knee cracked hard against the seamless stone, too, but I ignored the pain and threw myself to my feet. I would not cower before Caleb.

Caleb. Tall and dark and terrible. He loomed over me. Despite the summer heat he wore his uniform—cotton, steel, and silk—and his fine crimson tabard showed the Tower all in black, a dragon rampant on its crown. He wore the dull bronze ring my mother had given him, and the sword my father had crafted from elemental earth. He looked prepared to entertain a king.

Instead he glared down at me. "Where are you supposed to be?"

I tried to meet his gaze. "I go where I please."

One corner of his mouth turned down in a frown. I nearly flinched. He flicked his eyes toward the army beyond the wall. "You have your orders."

"I am not one of your knights, Caleb. I do not follow your orders."

"Nor do they, it would appear. Where is Toman?"

Toman. I almost cursed. I had no wish to see him disciplined. I'd thought for sure it would be Jen's turn to watch over me.

I glanced past the stones at the approaching army. "He spotted something among the king's men," I lied. "Thought it would be worth reporting. He's likely looking for you even now."

"And he didn't take you with him?"

I squared my shoulders. "I am not a fragile trinket, Caleb. I can be trusted on my own for half an hour."

"You are your mother's son," he growled.

"And proud of it!"

"Hm. Yet you defy her plain requests?"

"I don't!" I sounded like a child, even to my own ears. It made me angry. "She told me to keep out of sight. Do you suspect the king can see this far?"

Caleb turned his eyes to the army again. I looked, too. They were coming now. A retinue of gold-trimmed carriages and finely-dressed attendants emerged from the sea of men. The Green Eagles came with it, two-hundred soldiers moving in step, all with the same deadly grace.

Among them, more than one head was turned in our direction. Three hundred yards out, still, but some seemed to be watching our hidden place. I shivered.

"I only want to see the king," I said.

Caleb glared down at me for a long time. "Taryn," he said at last. "This is not a carnival pageant. Do you understand? This...This is serious."

"I understand," I said, trying to sound patient and reasonable. "Mother has made that quite clear. And I will spend the next few days locked in my room and living on bread and water. If I will not meet the king at all—"

"You will not meet the king!" Caleb snapped, horror in his eyes at the very thought.

"I know. So I thought it would be better to catch a glimpse now, before they arrived, lest curiosity drive me to some wild misbehavior when the king and all his men are in rooms just down the hall from mine."

He gave me another glare instead of an answer, but his meaning was clear enough. He stepped back and extended one arm. It pointed to the nearest guard tower and the narrow spiral staircase that would take me back to the courtyard, to the tower, to the luxurious room where I would be prisoner. I didn't look. I held Caleb's glare and swallowed nervously.

"No," I said. "You have no authority over me. If Mother wants to deny me this, too, then send her to tell me."

His eyes narrowed, and despite all my resolve I fell back two steps before I could stop myself. My hands were shaking.

His were clenched in fists. "Your mother is preparing herself for trial, little prince. She's fortifying herself against a challenge that should never have been hers to answer. She has no time to waste chasing after you."

Anger and pain flared up hot in my chest at that. No time to waste on me. Of course. I tried to say, "She never has time—"

But Caleb was not finished. "Nor have I," he growled. "I should be by her side. We must present a powerful front."

"Then go!" I snapped. "Just go. Go stand by Mother's side, and I will cower here in the shadows. Go meet with the king, and I will pretend I don't exist. Just leave me alone—"

"I cannot," he said quietly, and I could count the number of men he'd killed in the coldness of his voice. "I have my orders. And I respect your mother too much to defy them."

He might as well have stricken me. The words took my breath. I felt the force of them beneath my collarbone, a dull crushing weight across my chest. "I respect her," I tried to say, but my words shook.

"Then go," he growled, arm still extended, and I could not disobey. I passed him, head hanging, and headed to the gaping black maw of the tower's door. I hesitated one pace away to cast a final glance down on the field outside the gate.

The king's retinue had nearly arrived. They were slowing now, a hundred yards distant, and at any moment a runner would come to ask their admittance. I could just see the fearsome faces of the Green Eagles. I could see the king, thin and dried up like an apple left out in the summer sun, but he still sat tall in his saddle. He still wore the crown that glinted gold in the sun. And there were his wizards, too, all four of them stepping forward to stand between the retinue and the gates.

Four men, more dangerous than all the army arrayed behind them. They wore simple robes of black, and not a weapon to be seen on any of them, but they carried the secrets of reality in the palms of their hands. I stared, wide-eyed, trying to drink in every detail, but Caleb shoved me between the shoulder blades, and I stumbled into the tower. It took all my attention to catch my footing on the steep, narrow steps, and Caleb followed behind me like a terrible shadow.

I hated him. I hadn't always felt that way, but I had feared him all my life. Father loved him. Mother loved him. She certainly needed him. But long after the expectation of imminent destruction had passed from this place, Caleb remained the shadow of death in my father's bright halls. I remembered happy feasts. I remembered storytelling and ballads sung. I remembered joy in the Tower of Drakes, but I had never seen it in Caleb.

Still, he had served me in his way. Caleb had taught me to fight when I was four. He had never taught me to use a sword—my father's weapon. He had refused me every time I asked. But he had given me my first knife when I was six and taught me how to use it to maim or kill. I was ten when he taught me the mace, and twelve when he taught me to use a crossbow.

He had taught me how to fight, and he had taught me never to give up. I was captured now, but I was not yet dead. Before I had only dared to catch a glimpse of the king from afar, but Caleb had robbed me of that, so I would show him how well I'd learned. He would leave me in my room, and I would wait for him to go. And then I would take my rightful place in my father's hall.

I felt the smile on my lips, and it was grim. My eyes fixed on the spill of light below me, the door upon the courtyard, and I stopped myself hurrying the final steps. It would not do to give the plan away. Behind me Caleb's pace never changed. We stepped out into the sunlight and he strode at my side like a general on the field of glorious battle. I tried to hang my head, to walk in quiet submission, hoping he would not recognize my new determination.

I needn't have worried. His attention was on other things. Twice his head whipped back toward the gate, and he began to grumble under his breath. At last I caught some words: "...should have been here by now. What are they waiting for?"

We made it to the foot of the tower, two hundred paces from the great gate, with Caleb muttering to himself every step of the way. His expression grew darker, his pace grew faster, and I forgot all my plans as I watched him in fascination. There was no sound from the gate, no runner from the king's retinue, and it troubled the old warrior greatly.

At the foot of the massive tower was a platform, made all of seamless marbled stone, raised half a pace above the courtyard and stretching twenty paces square. Caleb stopped with one foot on the steps to the platform. He turned at the shoulders, throwing a third glance back at the gate, and I saw his eyes go wide. The grumbles died on his lips.

I turned. I saw only the gate I had known forever. It was all of one piece, with a grain like polished wood but hard as the paces-thick stone of the soaring walls. There were no ropes or chains, no mundane mechanism to raise the gate or swing it wide. Instead it operated on my father's sorcery—the same magic that had shaped it out of raw timber. It would open at a word of command from any of a handful of trusted lieutenants. It would slam shut at a cry of alarm from anyone within the fortress, and no might of man or beast could force it down.

Yet Caleb stared at the gate as though it were our doom. I frowned up at him, and looked at the gate again. Then I took a step closer, straining my eyes to see. Perhaps...perhaps there was more than the grain of polished wood. Perhaps there were cracks in the door's smooth surface. Perhaps there were seams, belying human handiwork instead of the magic that had made this place. I stood stunned.

But behind me Caleb overcame his own shock. He bellowed, "Guards! All swords to the walls!" It was a cry I hadn't heard in most of a decade, and I had been just a boy then, but still it struck a chord deep within me. It affected others, too. I heard bundles dropped, heard slapping feet, saw weapons drawn by men moving, all as one, at a sprint toward the walls.

I would not have believed it. Ten years we had lived in peace, and this had been an easy home to us, but the memory of the dragonswarm still burned strong—or Caleb's authority still held such sway. I marveled. I started to turn, to ask Caleb what was going on, but I had no chance.