The Lost Legacy

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Most days the Valley was a clean slate of dust and silence. A prepped canvas anticipating its next showpiece.

Today that canvas was hers.

Krisia stared down at the Valley, perfecting the images running through her head. She could see it all in her mind’s eye – each piece of broken brick and stone, each fleck of paint and drop of blood. She honed the memories to a knife’s edge.

Things will be different this time.

She felt the weight of a steady hand on her shoulder as Rillon stepped up beside her, his weathered boots sending pebbles tumbling down the cliffside. They stood silently for a few minutes and watched the others take their places along the rust-colored ridge around the Valley.

Several hundred feet away, a woman stopped at the first of twelve stone posts which pierced the bare rock face. Krisia recognized Alda immediately – her distinct figure lean and strong against the evening sun, her movements containing a unique grace that only came with years of training. The Trial would begin any second now. With a deep breath, Alda raised her hands. Krisia sensed a flicker of hesitation in her friend’s movements and thought she could see Alda shoot her a quick smile. But the moment quickly passed, and the tall woman slammed her fists down onto the stone post, triggering the ancient glyph carved into its surface.

Krisia sucked in a quick breath as the matching glyph engraved on her leather gauntlet flashed a brilliant white. Needle-sharp pain pierced the skin beneath, and an instant later, she felt the echo of it in her temple. Her eyes blurred momentarily, and she blinked the tears away.

Below them, the Valley came to life. Faint, distorted shapes sprung into existence, houses and roads suddenly blinking into view. Within moments the Valley shimmered with the phantasmal echo of her childhood village, barely discernible in the sunlight.

In the distance, she saw Isaac pause before another stone. He, too, looked back, raising a hand in a casual wave before taking his place. She winced in anticipation and felt a sharp jabbing in her left forearm.

She turned to the older man beside her. Her mentor was staring at the image of the town with emotion swimming in his dark brown eyes, regret and shame and hope.

“Shouldn’t you be taking your place?” she asked, nodding towards the final stone post a few feet behind them.

Rillon turned to her with a familiar smile which emphasized the crows’ feet etched in his dark skin. “Let me act the teacher one last time.”

Her return smile was genuine, albeit a bit shaky. “We’ve gone over everything more than enough this past week – not to mention the past twelve years. You can’t prepare me anymore than you already have. Or protect me down there.”

“Ah,” his eyes slid sideways, toward the village. She could feel its growing presence with every stab in her forearms and brow. “That may be true. Sometimes I forget how much you’ve grown. But it should be me down there. If I had been just a few minutes earlier that day...”

“Stop.” Krisia grabbed Rillon’s arm and gave it an annoyed little shake. His grin returned. How many times had she done this when pleading for a new bauble, or more dessert, or some other childish thing? Her voice caught, and she had to clear her throat to continue.

“No matter what happens down there, I owe you everything.”

Her mentor’s eyes softened as he gazed down at her. A sudden breeze pushed his black braids forward, and he tugged free of her gently to sweep back the stray strands. He turned back to the Valley, his expression darkening. She knew the dragon had appeared.

The creature was frozen in midflight, motionless in the air a dozen feet above the inn – only a few houses from the red clay roof of her childhood home. Its scales shone a deep sapphire in the waning sunlight, and, even from this distance, she could see the majestic, sweeping horns curling back along its serpentine skull. She imagined the shining white fangs she had once been close enough to touch, the flaring nostrils exhaling heated air in her face, the glimmering silver eyes.

Rillon’s voice was now low, urgent, as if the dragon might hear him if he spoke too loudly. “Remember – you can only take one person with you from this memory. One. Do not attempt to bring them both out. Whichever one you choose, we will not judge. The other will remain in your heart.”

She was truly trembling now. She was about to see her parents again. The dragon’s appearance had finally made this real. Twelve years ago, she and Rillon had journeyed from her ruined home in Evris to the Hinter Clan, seeking permission to train for this day. Twelve years, she mused. Twelve years of poring over books alongside Rillon in their small hut atop the Jefor Mountains. Twelve years of archery drills with Alda and daily runs with Isaac. Twelve years of knife throwing and target practice. All to qualify for the right to take the Trial. The ultimate test for a Hinter warrior. The ultimate gift. A chance to reach back into her past – into the moment of her greatest regret – and do things anew.

“Your father would be proud to see you following in his footsteps, you know,” Rillon continued, cutting through her reverie.

Krisia rolled her eyes at him. “This is just a one-time thing, Rillon. I’m not exactly planning to make a living out of this.”

“That’s a shame. You’d have made a fine slayer.”

“A fine beggar you mean?” Dragons were even scarcer now than they had been during her father’s youth. Hundreds of years of hunting had made sure of that.

Rillon’s laugh seemed to take years off his grizzled face. “Fair enough. You’ll have time to decide what comes next once you’re back.” His attention was captured again by the growing mirage below. “It’s time. Stay strong and remember – spring, shoot, drop, run. Hold on tight.”

Spring towards the door of the house, grabbing her father’s bow and arrows from their hook. Shoot the creature before it can approach her home. Drop the bow – an object is easier to pull from a memory than a person. Run towards the edge of the Valley with her chosen parent, where the magic would perform its miracle and allow her to pull them through. Hold on tight to their hand until the end.

The plan had been drilled into her over the past year, ever since the Hinter Elders had granted their approval. She had spent thousands of hours with Alda over the years practicing that perfect arrow shot for just this moment.

Rillon turned to her one final time and embraced her tightly. She clung to his armor, letting the familiar scent of the well-worn leather sweep away her anxiety for just a moment. Her gauntlets gleamed brilliantly between them.

Her mentor dropped a light kiss on the top of her brown hair and then stepped away, walking backwards toward the final post. The painted symbols on his clenched hands began to undulate as he neared the carved glyph.

“For a brighter future, we face the fractured past,” he intoned, then turned and pressed his fists down.

Krisia almost fell to her knees as the last remaining symbol, just over the bone of her left wrist, flared to life. Her mind went blank, and she scrabbled to rip the leather off, to make the agony stop, to bring her back to herself – but the worst part passed. She blinked the fresh tears out of her eyes and forced herself to look back down at the Valley.

Before her stood a familiar town. Above it hung a terrible blue dragon. All was still and quiet.

She took a deep breath. It was time to face her past.

--------------------------------

The careful climb down the steep slope had given her time to reflect and prepare. Spring, shoot, drop, run. Hold on tight. Such a simple arrangement of words, a silly spell to bring a parent back to life.

Evris’ stone wall stood tall and imposing to either side as she walked through the open gates. She briefly scratched her nails along the once-familiar iron, unsettled by how the memory was alive to all her senses. The village had been – still was, somewhere else in this world – small, but mildly affluent. The guards had been trained in the nearby city of Bregon. Rillon had received training there as well, although he was uncharacteristically reticent about that time of his life.

Krisia realized she was holding her breath. She huffed a laugh, shaking her head at herself. The memory would not begin until the subject touched their past self, temporarily taking over the younger body. Until then – she averted her eyes from the frozen townsfolk, figures she had not seen for over a decade. The elderly baker poised with his hand out for coin – was he still alive now? The round-faced boy, pinching his little penny – what had he grown up to become? She had missed it all by leaving but couldn’t bring herself to lament the absence of these people and their ordinary lives.

She had traded them for the still figures positioned on the cliffs around her. She knew they watched her intently as dusk approached – Alda waiting for that fateful arrow, Isaac with his promise of rare orange wine to celebrate. Rillon ready to be replaced.

Krisia stopped before the bright green oak door to her childhood home. She had not looked at the dragon again, waiting for that moment, savoring the anticipation. Instead, she studied the fresh paint on the wood panels, paint her mother had commissioned for inside the house as well to cover –

She gripped the handle and pushed the door in.

The evening sun slanted into the small living area, illuminating the table with the remains of her father’s supper. His favored dagger, handle made from real dragon horn, lay on the dirty ceramic plate. The man himself stood behind the dining chair, his back to her, arm raised to the side. His leather armor was kept soft and supple from frequent caretaking. A few drops of liquid on the back of his right knuckles gleamed in the light. She took a step inside.

Her mother’s auburn hair glinted near the fireplace in the back corner of the room, further from the door. She had an arm raised as well, in the middle of a gesture difficult to identify without knowing the beginning or the end. The flowing sleeves of her crimson gown had been tied up at the elbow to prevent any accidents between the nice material and the embers glowing beneath the iron pan crusted with meat drippings.

She took another step. She slowly turned to her right.

There, pressed against the sickly green wall, half hidden behind her mother’s carved wooden hope chest, curled a little girl. Her mousy brown hair, at some point tied back neatly with a bow, had come half undone, curling in tangled snarls around her face. Her brown eyes were wide and dull; her tan cheeks tear-streaked. The dress she wore was a lovely pink cotton.

For a moment, the green walls pressed in on Krisia. She imagined that there was a third version of herself, observing the adult take in the girl. Watching her match the posture, meek and supplicating.

No. Stay focused.

Krisia shut the door, strode into the room and touched the top of that little girl’s head.

--------------------------------

The first thing she noticed was the throbbing pain in her right wrist. Broken, Rillon had observed as he carried her out of the ruin that day. Caught in the rubble.

She cradled her arm against her chest, adjusting to both the discomfort and the smaller, weaker body of her eight-year-old self. Breathing hurt as well. Broken rib, too. Rillon had looked at her with such sympathy in his eyes.

Spring. Shoot. She could have handled the bow in her child’s frame, fragile though it was. But there was no way she could pull back the heavy string with a broken wrist. She had never corrected Rillon, never told him that her bones had been broken before the dragon arrived.

After a few moments, she realized hers was not the only movement in the room. Her parents were gesticulating, in the middle of an argument that Krisia could recite beat for beat.

“You promised this wouldn’t happen again,” her mother hissed, finger jabbing towards her daughter huddled in the corner.

Her father sighed deeply and crossed his arms. Though his eyes simmered, he spoke calmly. “You know it wasn’t intentional.” He waved his hand vaguely towards Krisia in the corner, and she sank deeper behind the chest. “She needs to learn that there are consequences to –”

“Damn you and your consequences! I won’t have you ruining our reputation because you can’t control yourself.”

“Then stop testing me.”

Krisia had closed her eyes to block the rest out when the ground shuddered slightly, reminding her of the reason she was here. She forced her muscles to relax. She had gotten past this. In her adult body, she had the strength and skills to hold her own against the Clan’s own warriors. She forced herself to pay attention.

Her mother tensed, dropping her hand to her side, the crimson fabric fluttering at her elbow in the rising heat from the fireplace. She looked over at Krisia for a long moment, and Krisia held her breath as she met her mother’s blue eyes. An ache flooded her chest, more acute than the pain in her ribs. My mother is here. Here. I could touch her. She glanced towards the bow hanging on an iron hook by the door, at the quiver leaning against the wall beneath. Peeking above the scarred leather was the black-fletched arrow her father always kept prepared, lethal to dragons. Another faint rumble shook the ground. Spring. Shoot. Drop. Run. Hold on tight. She turned back.

“I should have married Eskrill. At least then she’d have his green eyes to recommend her, instead of that muddy brown. How we’re to get her married off with that plain face, I will never know.” Her mother had crossed her arms and was leaning against the wall next to the fire, face set and obstinate as she glared at her husband. She did not notice Krisia sag back down from a readied crouch. Both adults were too focused on their own argument to hear the shout of warning from outside.

“Through my standing and connections. The reason you did marry me and not that farmer’s whelp.”

“Don’t start – will you shush girl –” her mother whirled back to Krisia, who had finally let out a small noise.

Her father turned toward her as well, and for the first time since inhabiting her former self, Krisia fully felt the terror of that day. This day. His face was a mask of barely controlled rage, his brown eyes chilling where they should have been warm. Two long strides were all it took before he stood nearly before her, directly in front of the bright green front door –

Which exploded inward, carrying half the stone wall with it.

Dust thickened the air, hanging heavy and oppressive around Krisia. She fell into a coughing fit, each hack further wrenching her broken rib. Right wrist held gingerly against her side, left hand pressing down on her chest, she stumbled to her feet.

Blue scales glittered in the last golden rays of dusk as the dragon roared its rage directly into the destroyed house. Its breath swept through like an irate summer wind, scattering what clothes still clung to their hooks and what dishes remained on the racks. It found no answer. Its query lay unmoving beneath the fallen stone. The creature began to pull back, a tension running through its body as it prepared to launch itself back into the air.

As it turned, a silver eye stopped on Krisia. The grime floated between them, none of it settling on the shimmering grey horns. The stream of heat puffed from its nose cooled to a comfortably warm breeze. The two of them froze, each observing the other. Understanding.

This was it.

Krisia felt in her singing blood, in her cracked bones, the same rage with which the dragon had targeted her family home. She knew the sorrow in that silver eye, reflecting her own pathetic figure. Krisia glanced toward where she could see the tattered edge of her father’s armor.

This was it. Spring. Shoot. Drop. Run. Hold on tight.

Krisia fell into a careful curtsy, her left hand sweeping along her cheek and extending toward the dragon. She painfully held up three fingers on her right hand and touched them to her bottom lip as she dipped her head. A long-dead traditional offer, found in a footnote in one of the many books she had studied on dragons. A footnote discussing an abandoned – forbidden – practice.

A pause followed. She heard approaching footsteps and shouted orders. The town guards. She waited, just a few heartbeats longer.

She felt the tiniest prick on her left forefinger and looked up directly into a terrifying display of teeth, poised to strike. The rightmost fang was ever-so-gently pressing down, just enough to draw a drop of her blood. An acceptance.

“Please,” she breathed. “Take me away.”

The dragon – a female dragon, Krisia suddenly realized – pulled her head back and then down. An invitation.

The footsteps slammed to a stop. A younger Rillon stood in the destroyed entry to her home, staring in horror at the sight – a child facing off with a vicious beast. He drew his black-fletched arrow back for a killing shot.

Krisia sprung towards the edge of the dining table, visible through the cracked stones and shards of glass. Her father’s dagger still lay on his discarded plate. She grabbed the iridescent grey handle with her left hand and snapped her wrist out, not allowing herself to think, to doubt, to see Rillon’s face. Thousands of hours of training took over.

It took him cleanly through the throat. His eyes widened with surprise as the bow dropped from his limp hands.

It’s not real. None of it’s real. This didn’t happen. It didn’t happen like this.

She ran towards the head of the dragon, grabbing with her injured hand and skidding down the side, failing to grasp the slick scales. She managed to push her foot off a larger piece of stone and scramble far enough to grip the left ear. Her pink dress ripped on a broken scale just behind the soft ear flesh, but she paid it no heed. She had finally spotted what she was looking for.

Right between the two beautifully curling horns was a section of scales which peaked in the air rather than lying flat. Precisely shaped as if to protect a rider from the wind as dragon and companion raced through the sky together.

Krisia slid into the spot and held on tight. “The border of the town. Hurry!” she yelled, desperate to be heard over the increasing din as the guards finally arrived in their rush from the town gate. “Fly as fast as you can. Once we’re out of the border, head directly up into the sky. There will be more arrows coming our way.”

She didn’t know when – or if – the language link would form between them, as was common long ago. But the dragon immediately surged forward, up and above the ruined house, then shot toward the town wall.

Hold on tight.

A rush of air blew back her tangled hair, ripping the pink bow out to dance in its wake. She laughed the purely delighted laugh of a child, a thrill of exhilaration running through her. The guards shot their arrows, but none had the aim or talent of Rillon. The wind from the dragon’s enormous wings sent the shafts scattering.

The wall approached, the air above shimmering with the brilliant white energy of the spell. The dragon slammed into it at top speed and for an instant, Krisia was flying on nothing as her ride blinked out of existence. Then the magic poured in, and through, and around her, and she and her dragon were sailing up into the darkening sky, leaving behind a Valley that was once again barren rock.

The Trial was done; the twelve summoners released from their watchful vigil. They had witnessed the birth of the first Dragonrider in close to three hundred years and been able to do nothing to stop the blasphemous act.

Krisia’s body was her own again. She flexed her right wrist and adjusted her grip as the dragon gained enough speed and power to clear the cliffs. Two broken souls, running toward freedom.

They rose above the edge.

Rillon stood directly before her, his braids tousled with the force of the wind from her dragon’s wings. His dark eyes, once so full of love and kindness, were empty. She felt the force of her betrayal like a physical blow, and she watched as Rillon drew his bow and notched an arrow.

Even if he was going to kill them, she was so grateful to see him, whole and healthy. To know that the memory was just that and nothing more. She tried to convey all that she felt to him as their eyes met, all the love and gratitude and apology.

You saved me, Rillon. But this one – she saved me first.

The dragon flapped her wings one final time, and the two of them sailed over Rillon’s head. He stood poised for a beat longer, then lowered the bow. He didn’t turn around as they flew on, heading away from the Jefor Mountains, and Krisia watched him until he was no more than a speck in the distance.