Prologue

There hadn’t always been dragons in the Valley. Fifty years ago, executions like these had been carried out by the Dawnglaive themselves in the palace courtyard, the King looking down from the balustrade and the peers of the realm lining the steps. That was before Tedric’s time, but Kennel-master Jannes had spoken of it, grim and curt as she tightened her kit and inspected her hounds’ paws in preparation for the queen’s last escort. “There’s worse ways to die for a woman found unfaithful,” she’d said. “Worse and longer. Fire may be a mercy compared to the sword.”

She rode silent near the front of their column now, her mount’s reins and the queen’s spell-forged chains in one steady hand.

Nephele D’orais didn’t look dangerous enough to warrant the extra precaution. She looked small and young, bundled in her greatcloak with late frost forming on her pale lashes. It made her wide eyes childlike. She looked barely woman enough to be a Lallathine Sister, let alone a queen.

Besides, what use were Lalaith’s arts against four swords, a Jeborahn war hound and a dragon? Even if Her Grace could charm enough sympathy out of them to be freed, she wouldn’t make it far over the frozen ground in her thin velvet slippers, and the dragon –

Well. The dragons had annihilated the Dawnglaive all those years ago. There wasn’t a man, woman, or alchemist left in the realm who could face one now.

At the head of the column, Ser Ailys oc Sadhe raised a silent fist in halt.

Jannes dismounted while her mare pranced and snorted, and handed the queen’s chains to Tedric without a word.

Hal – his sole fellow guard between the four of them – drew up behind Tedric once she’d gone. “Dragon sign?”

“We’ll know soon.” His own mare stood still and patient, her warm breath sending little puffs of steam into the air. Tedric gave her her head so she could nose at the ground for any tender shoots that may have survived. He had been so distracted by their purpose that morning that he hadn’t thought to ask the stable hand the mare’s name. “Won’t we, girl?” He patted her neck and felt her begin to chew as he scanned the perimeter.

When Jannes came back, the hound loped at her side. “Rollo’s found the way into the valley. We’ll leave the horses here.”

Tedric’s boots had barely hit the ground before a cold bit of snow hit the back of his neck. He turned to see Hal dusting snow from his gloves and nodding his chin to the left.

A cluster of ysandre blossoms clung to life in the shelter of a fallen log, their translucent petals limned in frost.

Hal raised his eyebrows and mouthed bad omen.

Tedric flicked snow back at him. It was ill luck to joke about a condemned prisoner.

“Rollo!” Jannes whistled.

The hound stood with his massive head pressed against the queen’s hip, eyes closed and tongue lolling while she ruffled his ears. At Jannes’ whistle, he opened his eyes and wagged his tail once.

“Traitor,” Hal muttered.

The queen’s hands froze in Rollo’s ruff, and then she folded them awkwardly into her cloak, manacles clanking.

“Ass,” Tedric mouthed at him as they resumed their journey.

The farther they descended, the stronger the stench grew. It started like an itch at the back of the nose, and grew until the eyes stung and the air breathed like poison. It was easy to fancy that the mist rising from the valley was choking them.

When they reached the bottom, Rollo started to whine.

They all drew closer together, following the two points of his ears through the mist.

When it cleared, it took a moment for Tedric to make sense of what he was seeing.

A beast the size of two ships on end lay ahead on the ground, limbs splayed at impossible angles and gushing smoking blood from lesions in its hide.

The dragon was dead.

“Do we tell the King?” Hal asked, sounding for once uncertain.

“Aye,” Ser Ailys said, her voice uncharacteristically high. “Sure and we’ll walk up to his grace and beg his pardon his favored pet’s gone and died. And who exactly are we to say’s done it? Mages, perhaps? The Knight Captain of the Dawnglaive’s ghost? His Grace’ll have our heads as traitors.”

Jannes stalked forward and drew Ailys’ sword from her saddle’s sheath. Ignoring her protest, she set her boot to the beast’s snout and gave it a shove.

The dragon didn’t move. It was truly dead.

Jannes returned the sword to Ailys, jaw tight and working. “Cut out its tongue and put it in your saddle bag, Ser Knight. The head’s too big for your steed.”

Hal looked at Tedric, eyebrows raised.

What did this to dragons?