Prologue

Generations ago, the Inquisition of the Priory of the Thrice-Dead Prophet decided two things: one, that their name was too long; and two, that dragons were a great evil upon the land of Nóra and needed to be vanquished. Their preoccupation with the latter precluded them from addressing the former.

In ages past, dragons were considered the caretakers of Nóra, guardians to whom reverence was paid in return for blessings in the form of bountiful harvests and troves of wisdom. Verdant green land marked the ground they touched, and pristine blue skies graced the air through which they soared, and so long as that remained true, none would think of them as anything other than benevolent.

However, the Inquisition, ever vigilant in its pursuit of anything that could be interpreted as a snake (though the interpretation was, at best, loose) set upon the dragons with ferocity until the guardians that once blessed and protected Nóra faded to legend, becoming bedtime stories used to frighten children.

Though the Inquisition was steadfast in destroying any and all accounts of the harvests, health, and other blessings granted upon Nóra by the dragons, it was inevitable that inquisitive minds would seek out the truths that could evade the Inquisition’s swords, torches, and stern talking-tos over the decades and centuries to come. It was also inevitable that these minds would go into hiding to also evade those aforementioned swords, torches, and stern talking-tos, though it was the inclination of some to view exile not as a punishment, but simply as an opportunity to read in peace and quiet.

Try as they might, the Inquisition could not rid Nóra of all the dragons, and those who survived fled to the northern reaches past the three Cliffs of Ard—the Tall Cliffs, the Small Cliffs, and the Awaiting-a-Growth-Spurt Cliffs—in a region known as the Draconic Highlands. Per the Inquisition’s teachings, this location is both forbidden and a paradox, because it forces them to admit they did not slay all the dragons, and they were much too prideful for that.

Within that paradox rests the crux of the matter: the truth. An inquisitive mind would find their truth where they would, but whether it was the truth was a different matter. Anything written contrary to the Inquisition’s narrow view was deemed forbidden, but a curious mind should always be intrigued by that which has been prohibited. Legends bred intrigue, and intrigue bred rumors, and despite the Inquisition’s best efforts, rumors would be heeded by a different sort.

Any forbidden knowledge was game for forbidden trade, and thus, peddlers, traders, poachers, and other general ne’er-do-wells would seek remnants of draconic lore: scales, claws, teeth…and sometimes the rare egg.

And when comes an egg, there may come a hatchling, and there may come a story to tell.

Chapter One

Luckily, there is a story to tell.

No, nothing of the sort where a chosen hero embarks upon a quest atop their scaled mount, soaring through the sky to stop a great evil. Remember, the Inquisition banned that sort of thing.

Rather, this is a tale of a simpler kind. One that began in the humble village of Baile, smack in the middle of Nóra, far from the crashing waves of the southern shores and the bustle of the trading ports to the east, but near enough to the ever-present smell of day-old bread, week-old fish, and far-too-old dung (both bovine and human).

Against that refreshing air, a wagon crested the northern horizon. Wagons never approached Baile; most merchants worth their salt would go out of their way to avoid the village. Nóran traders lived by a creed: “By land, by sea, not by Baile unless dung you wish to see.” Only the usual couriers ventured to the village to deliver grains and seafood, but even they were reluctant.

It was those few newcomers who did dare to approach that would become the subject of young Ailís’s attention. And this was going to be a great morning.

As she walked out of her house with her ma’s instructions for the market in hand, she looked at her brother beside her and pointed northward. “Hey Cam. Take a look.”

Camaráin, younger by four years, followed the path of her finger, squinting his dark eyes. He grunted. “Haven’t seen anyone new come around here in a while.”

Ailís flashed a smile. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Rolling his eyes, Camaráin planted his hands on his hips and said, “Not again, Ailís. The last time we did that, Ma got real cross with us.”

“Then we’ll just have to be sneakier about it.” She pushed him toward the market, where the well-trodden path marked the perfect spot to set up. “Come on, little brother. I don’t want to go to my dancing lessons, and you don’t want to do choring. What more could you ask for?”

“Well, you got me there.” He smiled, the wind tussling his mop of dark hair. “Let’s do it, then.”

The perfect spot loomed ahead, right at the clearing where the market opened up and the remnants of wagon wheels and footsteps had sunken in. Already, Ailís could feel her excitement welling. She had to find it where she could in this village.

Baile was quaint in its mundanity. Stalls lined the square of the morning market, peddlers announcing their wares and goods for all to hear until their voices grew hoarse or they were kicked by a horse. (It was known to happen. Nóran horses were temperamental.) The homemakers and home breakers perused the selections or took up space, as was the routine. Pockets of mud collected underfoot after the latest mist of morning rain.

See? Quaint. The villagers of Baile had dug themselves into their comfortable rut and very little was wont to pull them out of it.

An outlander was typically all that could pull Ailís out of hers. Even if it was but a moment’s curiosity, she could not help but stop at the crest of the market, feign some interest in the produce her ma instructed her to purchase, and drag her foot back and forth, back and forth, until a nice, deep divot formed. She certainly couldn’t help it if Camaráin did the same beside her, standing at about a wagon’s width away, until a deep enough indentation formed that the inattentive eye simply could not see. When Ailís looked down, she had to summon the shock required to see her freshly-cleaned skirt had once again been dirtied by mud, and therefore she’d need to duck behind an empty stall to try and clean it—typically the stall beside the vegetable stand where her ma always told her to purchase fresh produce (strangely, that stand never had fresh enough vegetables, according to Ailís). And it was there that they’d wait.

When the sound of clattering horseshoes approached, she knew it was time to peer around the corner of the stall. Directing the tall horse-driven wagon was a courier she had never seen before, someone who did not smell of fresh seaside catches—or what had been the fresh catch however many days ago. The driver was a young man whose face brimmed with self-importance. Had Ailís not known any better, she’d have thought him to be a prince or lord from one of the stories her uncle used to read to her, his face framed with prominent cheekbones and long, blonde hair that were the image of gallantry. But alas, the illusion was broken the moment the front right wheel of his wagon caught in the divots, sending him plummeting to the ground with a wet thud.

It was difficult to stifle her laughter, but Ailís managed. She glanced at Camaráin, hand over her mouth as amused spittle escaped between the slits of her fingers. It was far from the first time Ailís had entertained herself in such a way, but she had never seen the horses buck as they did, worsened only by the concerned marketgoers crowding around both the fallen merchant and his temperamental steeds.

The horse jolted, prevented from taking off only by the quick thinking of a well-attuned carer, but the rear of the wagon had shifted and was now stuck in the divot, entrenched too deep, and whatever cargo sat within began to jostle and roll and bounce.

Some right out of the carriage. Some rolling past Ailís’s vision and stopping around the corner.

Brushing the specks of mud off the hem of her skirt, she looked at Camaráin and inclined her head toward the corner. “Come, little brother, before someone sees us,” she said, leaving, “before someone tells Ma again” unspoken.

Camaráin was all too familiar with the tone and was quick to crawl after her. There had been plenty a time when the attempted escape from trouble was ill-planned or ill-executed—on both of their parts. Even now, they would be hard-pressed to avoid chastisement from their ma for the mud already soaking their clothes. Freshly cleaned clothes, at that! But it was preferable to being spotted at the scene of a merchant’s damaged wagon.

An oblong shape ceased its rolling some paces down the path behind the storage tents. Ailís hummed to herself, impressed at the size of the object and how it managed not to crack or splinter. Even more impressive was how far it was able to roll in the mud as though it had a mind of its own and was intent on escaping. It wouldn’t have been the first time such a thing happened in Baile; the Harvest Festival of four autumns past was still a sore subject amongst the smiths (and the bakers as well, for some reason).

But when Ailís kneeled beside the object, her breath caught. There was a rank stench nearby that was certainly part of the reason, but she was also shocked.

Years ago, when she was wee, younger than Camaráin even, her uncle Iósaf would often regale her with stories of dragons. Not the kind to frighten her into obedience as the Inquisition would have applauded and endorsed, but of a warmer nature, where dragons were not beings of wickedness but rather benevolent creatures such that belonged only to the legends. It had been years since she had last seen her uncle and her ma would not tell her why, but even after all this time, the imagery of Iósaf’s tales remained with her. The serpentine forms as they glided through the sky, the blessings upon the earth wherever they traveled…

And the eggs from which the dragons hatched.

Her eyes widened.

“Cam!” Ailís hissed in a sharp whisper, trying and failing to keep her voice down amidst her excitement. “It’s…it’s…”

Camaráin had already been walking toward her, adjusting the strap on the bag fastened around his chest. “It can’t be,” he said, equally shocked.

Her hands shaking, Ailís reached out and touched the egg, its scales coarse against her fingertips. A steady vibration hummed at her touch, cool as a gentle breeze and without the potent aromas that often accompanied such breezes in Baile. “But what is a dragon egg doing here?”

“And why did he have it?” Camaráin added, gesturing to the merchant still being tended to at the main thoroughfare, judging from the clamor of well-wishes, whinnies, and mocking laughter from that one hawker who always was amused at others’ misfortune (it was a wonder he ever sold anything, but people liked wool). “And where did he get it to begin with?”

“I don’t know, but…” A smile grew wide on Ailís’s face, revealing her canvas of half-grown adult teeth and half-loose baby teeth. “I don’t think he’s supposed to have it.”

“No one is! Dragons aren’t supposed to be exist anymore!”

(Again, the paradox of the Inquisition claiming to have slain all the dragons while also admitting their existence beyond the Cliffs of Ard.)

Ailís gestured toward the egg. “And yet, here’s proof of one.” She opened her messenger bag, empty of the produce she promised she’d purchase and deposited the egg inside. “There’s still plenty of things in his wagon. I’m sure he won’t miss this.”

Camaráin grinned. “We should get home. Before the Inquisitors start asking questions.”

The clink and clank of armored steps indicated an Inquisitor or two had already begun doing just that, and fluster of the merchant’s answers was all the sign the kids needed to know they had time to get home. Rolling in the mud of a Baile street was a harrowing experience for the uninitiated.

Keeping her laughter to herself, Ailís scurried along the back of the market with her brother in tow until at last reemerging into the main throughfare, where the fallen merchant’s wagon had lain fresh trails in the mud. Home was just ahead, at the end of the line of identical houses, all crafted from the same carpenter’s hands and probably supplied by the same tree.

Theirs was the one likely carved from the stump or by the carpenter’s handless apprentice. It was a floor shorter and still looked half-finished after all these years, but at least they’d never got lost on the way home. Their ma always said, “It has character.”

Ailís opened the door and was welcomed by the aroma of fresh soda bread, a much-needed reprieve from the odor of the markets. The loaf sat on the dining table at the edge of the room by the window, and she could not help but be drawn to it. She licked her lips and tapped her fingertips together, looking over both shoulders to ensure the coast was clear before reaching for the nearby knife. The blade slid against the wooden table, cutting a swath through the air as Ailís held it high, and—

“Ah-ah-ah!” a voice called from the other room.

Ailís groaned and dropped the knife, the metal clattering on the table and nearly falling to the floor. “How do you always know?” she asked, craning her head to her right.

Ma emerged from around the corner, drying her hands with a flour-stained towel. Her dark brown hair was tied in a messy bun, allowing the spots of dough to show on her round face. Tossing the towel over her shoulder, she walked to the other side of the room, doing little to acknowledge Ailís and Camaráin beyond a brief smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time you thought ‘being sneaky’ meant ‘loudly shuffling your feet along the floor,’” she said with tired eyes. “Only this time, I’ve learned not to fall for the, ‘But, Ma, the loaf was always this small!’”

“I told you she wouldn’t believe you,” Camaráin whispered beneath his breath, rushing off to his bedroom and quickly taking his bag off his shoulders.

Ailís repeated her brother’s words with a mocking tone, scrunching her face and sticking out her tongue as she watched him walk by.

Ignoring the children’s banter—or perhaps too exhausted to acknowledge it—Ma turned back to the counter and began laying down more flour. “Did you get the eggs from the market like I asked?”

Ailís’s initial instinct was to say, “I got an egg,” but she thought against it, knowing not only would Ma not appreciate the ambiguity, it also would be ill-advised to state that she only procured one egg. Instead, she remained silent and flashed her teeth in what passed for a smile.

With an exasperated sigh, Ma turned and looked at her daughter with annoyance. “Ailís, what were you doing at the market for so long? You brought nothing home, you’re late for dance, and—” She gasped, as though finally looking at the mud speckling the hem of Ailís’s skirt. Shaking her head, she gestured her daughter in the direction of her bedroom. “We’ll talk about this later. Go get changed. You needed to be ready for your dance lessons half an hour ago.”

“Yes, Ma.” Ailís hung her head low, making a great show of it even though she did not feel quite as despondent as she should have been. Her bag bounced against her hip as she walked and she tucked it closely to her chest.

Raising an eyebrow, Ma crossed her arms as Ailís walked by. “What are you hiding?”

Ailís didn’t stop walking. “Nothing,” she said, a hint of anxiety coloring her voice.

“Ailís.”

“Nothing,” she repeated.

“Stop, Ailís,” Ma said, taking long steps after her daughter and reaching for the bag strap.

“I said, there’s nothing!” Ailís cried as she was spun around, her arms pressing against the top of the egg, pushing it down. The canvas’s threads began to fray and tear as she continued to grasp her bag, not at all selling her assertion that she had nothing to hide.

It was only when the bag tore open and its contents hit the floor with a thud that it was apparent that said assertion was, in fact, a bit of a crock.

Ailís’s eyes remained on the egg for too long. When she looked up, Ma’s eyes were equal parts anger and confusion. All Ailís could think to do was hold up her torn bag and say, “See! There’s nothing in here!”

A deep frown stretched across Ma’s face. “Ailís,” she said calmly, almost alarmingly so. “What is this?” She gestured to the floor.

Creaking footsteps from behind indicated Camaráin emerged from his room and stood in Ailís’s periphery in silence.

“Well,” Ailís said, allowing the empty canvas bag to fall back to her hip. “I got an egg.”

Ma hardly appeared in the mood for jokes, but before any words of admonishment could be unleashed, a sound drew both their attention.

A cracking. Not of the floor…but of the egg. Not from the point of impact…but from the top of it.

Ailís kneeled beside it, her eyes glimmering with astonishment. “It’s…it’s…”

The oblong shape of the egg teetered back and forth, a shard breaking loose in a startling crack, followed by another, and then another. A small silver-scaled leg reached through the opening, talons clutching the edge. A meek chirp sounded within as a second leg took hold and toppled the egg over. A serpentine face peered out, its head no larger than that of a housecat.

Her breath catching in her chest, Ailís could hardly believe what she was seeing.

Dragons had returned to the land of Nóra. Score one against the Inquisition.