The King is dead! Long live the king!

  Sarella Estermont leaned against the chimney of the inn roof, watching the funeral procession in the streets below. The sun shone bright of the Bay of Belfalas, mocking the solemn mood of the dayt.

  The City of Belfalas and the country of Lath wept for their king. Edric Goding had been said to be a strong man and a strong king. He had held the Moonstone Throne for eighteen long years, and for eighteen years, Sarella had hated him. She might have rejoiced at his death, but for the fact that she had not been the one to kill him.

  The official story, spread by the royal council and other Goding sycophants, was that King Edric had died of a bad belly. Sarella, through her sources, knew the truth. King Edric’s own son, Ulfric, had poisoned him.

  That same Ulfric Goding now rode at the head of the column of knights and freeriders, the golden griffin of his house rampant on his surcoat. The colors of his house, black and gold, flew from every rampart of the city.

  The entire city guard had turned out to honor Lath’s fallen king. The cheers and cries of the Belfalas populous rose as the caisson of Edric Goding rumbled through the West Gate, the black wagon drawn by four white horses, all barded in the colors of House Goding. The honor guard, a full thousand knights, all with black and gold cloaks streaming, surrounded the caisson. Down below, peasants tossed flowers beneath the feet of the horses as they passed.

  Ulfric himself rode a tall black courser, waving lazily to the crowd every now and then. Sarella was too far away to see his face, but she thought he was smiling. He was resplendent, she had to admit that. His brown hair was cropped short above his ears, his beard neatly trimmed to frame his face. The lynx mantle made his broad shoulders seem even broader. He did look kingly, for a gaian, at least.

  But a gaian had no business with his ass in the Moonstone Throne. Lath had been an elven kingdom for 5,000 years. Ulric the Bold had smashed one of the proudest, long-enduring dynasties in the world when he rebelled against Talathan Istarion. His son and grandson, and their sons and grandsons, had held the throne for 150 years, but Sarella meant to see the end of them.

  As she watched Ulfric Goding ride through the streets of Belfalas, smiling smugly to the crowd as though it was not his own father in the caisson behind him, Sarella imagined what it would be like to sprint across the rooftops, drop down into the street, and ram her dagger into his eyes.

  She realized she was fingering the hilt of her dagger. There was no one else on the roof to see, but she still made herself take her hand away. Killing Ulfric Goding, even if she could get close enough to him, would do nothing. His son, Eldric, would be king after him. No, she couldn’t simply kill the king. She would have to pull his house down around him and stamp out the Goding line, root and stem.

  She needed dragons. The beasts were always on her mind. The Istarions of old had been dragonriders. The histories were full of tales of dragonknights and their armored mounts, of how they dominated the skies and turned the tides of battles.

  Dragons, however, were extinct. The last one was said to have died out more than 1,000 years ago. Or so the scholars said. The scholars were wrong, she was sure of it. There were sightings, too many to chalk up to chance. IF she could find and master a dragon, the realm would rise for her.

  Sarella through one final disgusted look down at Ulfric Goding and descended from her rooftop vantage point to the street below. The streets were packed with Belfalians trying to get a look at their new king. She shoved her way through, drawing angry curses from those she passed. She sneered at the unwashed Westerlings. They didn’t dare touch her. They knew she was their better.

  The heels of her boots clicked loudly on the paving stones as she sought the livery stable where she had left her horse. Without sparing a glance at the sullen stableboy, she swung into the saddle and kicked her mount into motion. She rode at a swift trot. The people in the streets made way for her as she headed for the rocks.

  The narrow tavern of the Ropeway might have had a name once, Sarella thought, looking at the weathered sign above the door, but the paint had long since faded from the salt and wind. She went inside, letting the door bang shut behind her. Pipesmoke, sour wine and sweat assaulted her senses, but she merely raised a hand to her nose and scanned the room. A dull-eyed serving woman poked her head out of the kitchen, but Sarella waved her away. She wouldn’t dare eat or drink anything in a place like this. The windows were clouded over with grime and sawdust on the floor looked like it hadn’t been changed in a year, at least.

  Only one table was occupied. Everyone else had gone to watch the funeral procession. Sarella strode across the room and took the chair opposite the grimy Westerling man.

  “You’re late,” he growled, hardly looking up from his cup of greasy wine.

  “I stopped to get a look at our new king,” Sarella said. “To remind myself of why I’m doing this. Tell me, do you believe the rumors about Ulfric Goding?”

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  That he poisoned his father when the old man wouldn’t die fast enough? Aye, I believe it.” He looked up from his wine. “Ulfric as king won’t be good for you elven types, I’ll tell you that. You look like you got coin. If I were you, I’d get out of the city and ride for whatever castle my family owns before that sot takes control. Speaking of coin, late costs extra.”

  Sarella tossed a leather coin purse on the table. The man snatched it up and peered inside. He withdrew a silver crescent, bit it to ensure its authenticity, then slipped the purse away. In return, he produced a thick, leather-bound book and pushed it across the table toward her.

  Sarella read the title embossed into the leather cover. The History of the Great Eruption of Mount Basal in the Year 1349 and the Lingering Effects on the Isle of Tol Morad and the Surrounding Area by Grand Advisor Chevalith Wormwood, Scholar of Silmyr. If the title was any judge, it would be a ponderous read indeed. She lifted the stiff leather cover. The book had the peculiar scent of an old library. It was hand written on thick vellum, not printed in the new fashion. The leather spine creaked. It was clearly stolen, probably from the library in Leyfyll Citadel, or maybe from the University at Green Falls or Vinter. Lath boasted some of the best libraries in the world, surpassed only by the Grand Library in Silmyr, far across the sea in Aluna.

  “And what secrets and I supposed to find in a dusty old book about a volcanic eruption that happened 90 years ago?” Sarella asked. If she had just paid fifty crescents for a useless old book that only Cyril would be able to interpret, then this rogue was about to find out just how well she could use the dagger at her belt.

  The man smiled at her, revealing a mouthful of yellow and brown teeth. His breath was abominable. Don’t these Westerlings know how to care for their teeth? she wondered.

  “None, if all you do is read it. But I hear you’re looking for dragons. Everyone in their right mind will tell you the dragons are all gone, killed off a thousand years ago, but there are those who claim that when Mount Basal blew its top, a dragon was seen in the smoke plume. Not a dragon of smoke, mind you, a real one. There are still those alive who saw it with their own eyes.” He stretched a grimy hand across the table and tapped a scrap of paper marking a spot halfway through the book with a thick finger.

  The yellowed vellum cracked as Sarella opened the book to the indicated page. She stared at the sepia-toned drawing with a mixture of anger and amusement.

  “I take it you know him, then?” the rogue asked.

  Sarella did not deign to answer. She ran her fingers over the image. He looked so young, exactly as she remembered him. The artist had captured every feature, depicting him standing on a cliff overlook, Mount Basal in the background. The caption beneath read: Our guide, a local demon. It had been more than sixty years since she had last seen Amon.

  She closed the book with a thump. “He’s long dead.” He had to be. He had gone off into the wilderness to die.

  The man smiled again. Her stomach turned at the sight of those rotten teeth. “He, or his twin brother, has been living on Tol Mora, right in the shadow of Mount Basal, for half a century.”

  “What name does he go by?”

  “No name that I’ve heard, just a description. Looks an awful lot like that demon in the book. White hair, horns, a bit shorter than his kind usually is. Don’t know if you want to go looking for him, though. I always hear how you elven types don’t care much for demons. Still, if anyone knows what’s living under Mount Basal, it’s him.”

  Sarella took her leave, the book tucked under her arm. She had a lot to think over. Outside, the wind had come up, blowing in strong off the Bay of Belfalas, carrying the sharp scent of the salt sea. It tugged at her cloak and hood as she rode smartly away from the docks.

  She had rented rooms in a better inn, in a better part of the city, far from the docks district and its stink. Ensconced in the comfort of her room, she poured over the old book. Nothing in it indicated the presence of a dragon except for one line in the epilogue. Some of the locals in the village of Farshire, which lies in a quiet mountain valley at the foot of the mountain, having claimed for years that a dragon lives at the heart of Mount Basal. We found no evidence of this, nor did our guide have anything to say on the matter. The locals claimed to have seen a dragon exit the mountain amid the ash plume. We were on the mountain during eruption and saw nothing of the sort. Scholars always discounted the fantastical until proof was shoved under their noses.

  If the scholars hadn’t cared much about dragons, they were fascinated with Amon. The artist had drawn him again and again and he was made mention of many times in the text. …Our guide showed us a wolf den today. He claimed the villagers had killed the wolves for eating sheep…Our guide showed us where the mountain griffins roost on the peak called the Overlook and gave me the claw of one he had killed the year before…

  The beeswax candles gave off a sullen light. Sarella found herself flipping back to the page with the drawing of Amon standing on the cliff. She traced the lines with her finger. If he was still alive, somewhere on Tol Morad, then he might have the information she needed. She remembered the last time she had seen him, nearly 60 years ago now. She remembered their last job, their last fight, the words flung in anger, the dagger she’d tried to drive into his heart. She might just have to finish the job, if he was still alive. That demon had lived long enough. But first, she would make him tell her everything he knew about the possibility of a dragon living under Mount Basal.

  “Did you find anything interesting today?”

  Sarella snapped her head up, fixing Cyril with a glare. He knew she hated to be interrupted while she was reading. Cyril Rolen was a tall, brown-haired elf of middling years. That hair color hinted at some gaian ancestry in his lineage; the drab color was not often seen among elves. She herself had silver hair, not white, not gray, but true metallic silver, and she was only half elf. Her mother had been gaian, the lady Elicia Estermont. Her father had been Talathan Istarion, the Bright King, the last elvenking of Lath. She had his hair and his eyes. The Godings thought that they had destroyed Istarions in their entirety. They were wrong. She was heir to the Moonstone Throne, even if she had been born on the wrong side of the sheets. She was the rightful queen of Lath.

  She ripped the page from the book and shoved it in his direction. It was the page with the drawing on Amon. Cyril winced a bit at the tearing vellum. He was an academic type, one of those who held books one step below sacred. His expression turned dark as he looked at the drawing.

  “Him?” he asked, disgust coloring his voice. “Isn’t he dead?”

  “Apparently not,” Sarella said. “What do you know of Tol Morad?”