Ember and Ash

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

The earth did not always tremble and quake from the force of their every weighted footfall; the air did not always smell of sulfur and rot. Blades of emerald green grass grew here like butter-soft moss. Dappled sunlight pressed afternoon kisses to the tops of ancient white oaks. Faefelle's Aditus Valley was once a place for budding romances atop fragrant beds of silver moonflower. Children laughed and cheered as they played pretend, their mothers confident in their safe return once dusk arrived.

Today, four years after the coronation of the Ignis King, it is all somber variations of burnt black and ash grey and cloying fear.

It is this ash that billows up around me as my riding boots plant in a sure stance and my fingers let my arrow fly. A prayer to the gods plays silently on my dry lips which chafe against the fabric of my mask. It feels like every drop of water and blood in my body is evaporating as I stand in the residual heat from a day of dragon fire. But this arrow and the parchment secured to it with a message to the hidden Aeris Court is more important than my health, my life.

For I believe, after years of sluething and lying and scheming, I've learned how to slay an Ignis Dragon.

It's ironic, really, that amongst all this fire I so hate, in the realm the Ignis King stole, I pray now to keep the spark of rebellion alive.

I hear the whizz of the fletching as the arrow pierces through the air, as it flies above the heads of sleeping scaled beasts. The sight of it is lost to me in the dark of midnight, but my hearing has always been keen.

Sweat runs down my body. It soaks into my tunic and breeches before evaporating into billowing steam. I have heartbeats before I need to run back to my horse, before the ever-present heat and the polluted air drags me under. Already my head swims and eyes water.

Thunk.

The relief of the sure sound of my stone arrowhead embedding itself into the side of the wagon is so profound my knees shake. The wagon that is already moving, drawn by horses whinnying in protest due to the exertion in these conditions. They head back toward a hide-out that the remaining members of Court dare not tell me the location of. If I were to be compromised, if when tortured I broke and spilled my secrets, there would be no way to warn them. All I know is it is far from Faefelle, from the Valley, from the dragons the Ignis King keeps like macabre pets.

The same way he keeps me close as a personal guard and a trusted hunter of rebels and enemy spies. The young one who came from nothing, raised on the streets with hate for the Aeris King and his family, all too eager to serve when Ignis took over. A skilled archer with shoulder-length ravens hair and an ever-present partial mask that covers from my neck to the bridge of my nose. A way to hide unsightly scars.

At least, that's who the fire court believes I am, what they believe the mask is for.

It kills me, truly, to watch the Ignis King as he sits atop his stolen throne. Lounging as though posing for a portrait, slack and debauched. To watch the juice from honeyed green apples drip down his hands, each finger adorned by gaudy rings a size too small. Rings that once belonged to the Aeris King.

He came from nowhere, this man of fire. Claimed to be a merchant who eventually entranced the air court with promises of new trade routes which would increase our kingdom's already prosperous market. With a sorceress who kept small reptiles on her shoulders which puffed smoke at parties. In months he took control of everything. Had forces we did not know existed from the kingdom of Stygian inside our walls. Soon after he stationed those once cute reptiles, now winged dragons the size of houses, in the valley to keep our people in and aid out.

By the time I reach the village that surrounds the castle my horse is slick with sweat and my thighs ache from the canter.

I pray I don't smell of sulfur and dragon fire as I dismount and enter the newly-named Inferno tavern. With the Ignis royal crest on my cloak and the weapons I wear no one should ask questions, but talk travels quickly. I flip a coin to a servant boy who runs to tie up my horse with a grin.

My body finds a stool at the crowded bar, and though I am exhausted, though I am coming down from the dose of adrenaline acts of rebellion always gives me, I accept the drink placed before me.

Godsdamn this job. But goddess bless shots of spirits that burn as they go down.

I am on my fourth, going one for one with the barmaid I have been trying to glean information from for weeks. When the edges of my vision swim, I begin to believe her glasses are filled with water when mine are clearly not.

“I know nothing of Aeris Court sympathizers or rebels, boy,” she shouts above the roar of the Pleasure Quarter's newest haunt. The space is stuffed with perspiring bodies, and I am quickly overheating in my cloak, leather gloves and mask. Thankfully, due to the kinds of activities that go on here, I am not the only patron to hide their identity. And truly, it is nothing compared to dragon fire.

I lean across the bar and grab her wrist as she goes to pour another. Lightly, I warn her. “I know what takes place upstairs. I know how you afford to go home to a townhouse in the Merchants District.”

Ahh, now I have her attention. Her eyes dart around, making sure no one else is listening.

Her scowl shows my guess is correct, that they are drawing income from something they shouldn’t be participating in. My smile is hidden behind the mask. “Are you still sure you know nothing?”

“Look, all I know is that we don’t see folk preaching about the old King around here. But those men," her head tilts to a table with three bodies around it, "tend to talk about the dead princess and what a crime it was to kill her. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

One finger at a time, I release my hold on her wrist. Without a word, I nod my thanks and press a silver mark into her palm. More than triple what I owe for the four shots.

I am in the middle of the crowd, trapezing around swaying bodies heading toward the patrons in question when a canter of sickly sweet smelling wine is poured onto me. If this had happened last night, I would have kept walking. Tonight, however, after seeing the Valley and what it now represents, I am in no mood.

Slowly, I turn in the direction the wine came from. A male approaches, two others behind him as if to intimidate me. We stand eye to eye and I wait as he takes me in, sizing me up.

“You’ve been harassing my barmaid. Royal guard or not, I don't take kindly to strangers.”

“I can promise you this is not something you want to be doing.”

I always warn once before taking action. It’s only fair.

The male laughs, his dark eyes roll, and he pulls his long hair back into a leather tie, appearing to prepare for a brawl. “I can promise you that you’ll regret coming into someone else’s tavern and asking the wrong kinds of questions.”

One of those words must have been their trigger because the two behind him lurch toward me, one going high, the other low.

Each earns a knife to the side as I duck and pivot, leaving the blades deep within their bodies. If they see a healer soon, they should be fine by weeks end. When they hit the floor, my attention turns to the one with the threats yet no action.

Other patrons have moved back, leaving us in a small clearing. Some cheer, hoping for a good, entertaining fight. The slightest tilt of my head is all it takes for him to snarl and charge forward.

My left arm raises, bent at the elbow, and blocks the wild swing he sends towards my face. I take the opportunity to grab his shoulder and send my knee into his stomach—hard. I bounce back on my toes, crack my neck, taunt the giant male by chirping, “snap your elbow when you throw your next punch, don’t swing recklessly. Here, like this.”

I demonstrate, punching the air in slow motion, extending fully and twisting my hips into the movement, exaggerating it all. Our crowd roars with laughter, hoots and hollers filling the stuffy room.

Tall, muscled, and dense hates this. Done bending over his middle from the blow to his gut, he straightens and comes back for more.

Again he lunges in with his right, creating an easy opening for me to dodge and grab his extended forearm. I use my right leg to sweep his out from under him, take advantage of his momentum as he falls, and bring his arm down across my swiftly lifting knee.

The snap of bone is audible, even with the shouts and cheers and now screams coming from the male.

“You’re dead,” he moans out between sharp, labored breaths as he kneels on the floor. “I’ll kill you, you masked bastard--”

I sigh, quite bored of this. “Learn how to throw a punch, and then we can talk about the matter of you killing me.”

Before they can recover I make it to the table where the three potential Aeris sympathizers are now standing. They grow nervous at the sight of me, the official crest I wear. Though they all stand a head or two taller, they just witnessed what I can do in a fight.

"Come with me." Is all I say.

Once outside, I lead them to the alley behind the tavern.

"I swear, we didn't do nothin'--" One of them begins.

My fingers find the edge of my skin-tight black mask and I pull it down my face. Two of the three take a staggering step back. One gasps so loudly I flinch, fearful he's drawn attention to us.

"Aeryn? Princess Aeryn, is that you?" One asks, bewildered.

"It cannot be, the Aeris family had hair of white and gold--"

"Yes," another says, "and with blue eyes of old." His own eyes narrow to slits, silently accusing me for the brown coloring of mine. For the black of my hair.

When I remove the thin brown glass that one of our Court inventors had given me to further conceal my lineage when I returned to Faefelle as Aleks, not Aeryn, they fall to their knees.

"By the gods," another breathes, head bent in respect.

I smile. "Rise, people of the air."

This is my favorite part of new recruits: their surprise upon discovering not all of the Aeris Royal family was murdered the night the Ignis King took over. That part of our Court still lives. That we are rising. That once old enough I came out of hiding, cut my hair, changed my name and used my talents with weapons to win a spot of influence in my enemy's guard.

Personal protection of the Crown Prince, Ruairi, by day. Assumed rebel hunter by night.

The ignorance of men drunk on new power is astonishing.

"Aye, it's me. And I have a proposition for you."

My heart still races each time I give my well-rehearsed speech.

"What say you to a Faefelle without Ignis Dragons? Without the Fire Court or the Ignis King? Join my rebellion, help return the Aeris Court to the great halls of the castle--let us put out their fire with a counter spark of our own." My chin lifts. From the looks in their eyes, the wonderment and ripe hope, I know I have them.

"Rise, people of the air, and help your rightful queen win a war."