Free Dragon's Winter by Elizabeth A. Lynn Page B

at the child in Elinor’s arms, and saw the dragonfire in his eyes.
    “ ‘Kill him,’ whispered the leaders of his war band. ‘Kill the babe, lest he grow to manhood, and in turn come seeking you, or your children. At least take him hostage, against the old dragon’s wrath.’
    “But Cerdic shook his head. ‘That I will not. For this child has not harmed me, nor my kingdom, nor anyone in it. I do not kill children. Tell my father,’ he said to the Dragon-king’s courtiers, and to the woman, ‘that I have taken vengeance for my mother’s death.’
    “It was barely a day later that Lyr returned, to find his kingdom in turmoil, and his dragon-son dead. With tears of fire streaming down his face, the old dragon buried his son. What was the name, he demanded of his councilors, of the warrior-king who had overcome his son.
    “Shaking in terror of his anger, they told him, ‘Lord, the warrior said only that he was the son of the daughter of Morrim. And he said to us, and especially to the lady Elinor, “Tell my father that I have taken vengeance for my mother’s death.’“
    “Then Lyr perceived that the killer of his son Sedrim was in fact his son Cerdic, Sedrim’s younger brother. Wild with grief and remorse, he flung himself into the sky, and disappeared like a winged shadow into the blaze of the summer sun. Har, the son of Sedrim the son of Lyr, inherited his father’s kingdom. And the moral of the story is, at least as it was told to me: Do not lose yourself in Dragon’s country! For it is perilous for humans to know and love the dragon-kind.”
    The fire shifted and hissed into the darkness. Shem, limp in Thea’s arms, stretched suddenly, and sneezed without waking, boneless as a sleeping cat. “That is a fine story,” Thea said softly, with great delight. “Thank you, Hawk.” She rose. Her hair, left long, framed her face like wings.
    “The cradle for you, my heartling.” She brushed Wolf’s hair with one hand, and smiled at Hawk. “Good night, my guest.”
    Hawk left the next morning with a guest-gift—a length of soft silver-grey wool, Thea’s finest weave—in her pack, and the memory of Shem’s gurgling laughter.
     
     
    In the cold damp darkness of the tunnels, a slender man walked slowly down an endless corridor. The tunnel walls glowed, a spectral, greenish-white glow that pulsed and moved as though it were alive. The man muttered softly as he staggered from one icy wall to the other. An observer might have guessed him drunk, but he was not. The jewels on his once-elegant clothes were muddy and dim.
    “They will see. They will all see. He will see. I will bring him here, and he will see that I am strong. He always hated me. He always wanted my power, my power. It was my power. I should have been the one to have it; I should have been Dragon.”
    You shall be Dragon. He always hated you. A metallic whisper shivered through his mind. His power shall be yours. It was meant to be yours.
    “It was meant to be mine. I should have been the one to have it. I will have it. It is mine, I have it now, in my little box, my cold little box.” He laughed, a terrible soulless cackle. His pale face was thin and lifeless. Only his eyes burned, with a black, hungry stare that was not human.
    Suddenly his face changed. Color flooded into it; his thin mouth softened. The black horror in his eyes diminished. In a child’s voice, he said, into the chill, “Lirith? Are you—is it you? Please don’t be angry. I never meant to hurt you.” Then his features grew rigid. The black stare blazed out of them. He straightened. With light, firm steps, he walked down the corridor and stepped into a high cold chamber filled with cages. A man in tattered furs crouched near the door. He cringed as the other man passed him.
    Most of the cages were empty. In one, a man lay moaning weakly. His back and chest were bloody and marked with weals from a recent beating. A woman with long blond hair sprawled in another. As