The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(29)

King Dargull of Anthar nods eagerly. For a long moment King Napier of Faodara studies me. Finally, he closes his eyes and nods his head.

“If this is the only way to bind the fire dragon under the mountain, then I agree,” King Napier says.

“It is the only way,” Melchior says. “But it is also a very important piece to a puzzle that will eventually shape itself into the death of the fire dragon.”



The dream fades as consciousness slowly settles over me. My eyelids are red from the light shining on them, and I am warm. I fill my lungs with air and stretch my body until my arms are over my head and my toes curl. I haven’t felt this good in a long time. Except my stomach. Based on how hungry I am, I must have slept well past breakfast.

I crack one eye open and the sun is shining directly into it, so I squeeze it shut and call, “Nona?” She doesn’t answer. The only things I hear are the ticking clock and birds chirping. I push myself to sitting and pause, closing my hands. Lifting my fists, I open them and watch as damp sand falls in clumps onto a short, bloodstained skirt.

I am sitting on sand, in a perfect, jagged slash of sunlight. I peer up and see a stone ceiling cracked to the sky, and birds flying in and out of the opening to land in the little mud nests they’ve built on the cave ceiling. Water drips from stalactites, ticking onto the cave floor….

In a massive, gut-wrenching burst, my mind recalls the fire dragon, the cave, and Golmarr. I suck in a breath of air and realize it doesn’t hurt to breathe. Pressing on my ribs—strong, whole ribs—I gasp again and hold my right hand up to my face. Sunlight gleams off of my perfect, clean skin, and my filthy shirt is torn off just above my elbow. I wiggle my fingers and then hold my left hand up beside my right. They are different. My left hand is filthy with dried blood and dirt. My right hand looks like it was just soaked in a tub and scrubbed with soap. It is clean and whole and…not bitten off at the elbow.

Something beside me gurgles and gasps, and I leap to my feet, expecting the dragon. Golmarr is lying in the sand, in the exact position I last saw him. He looks carved from stone, he is so still.

I rush to his side and fall to my knees. “Golmarr!” Blisters have formed on his chest where his vest burned it. His black hair and eyebrows are a stark contrast to his ashen face. He gasps a small, shallow breath of air, and I can hear it gurgle deep down behind his ribs. I know, with complete certainty, that he is mere moments from death. Tears sting my eyes and drip down my cheeks, splattering on the sand beside his head.

“I am so sorry,” I whisper, and put my hand on his cold cheek. As I stare down at him, my thoughts begin to swirl out of control, and the sunlight seems to grow brighter. I sway and close my eyes, and a scrap of knowledge surfaces in my mind like a bubble working its way to the lake’s surface. My eyes fly open, and I stare at Golmarr in silent, breathless shock. I know how to help him.

I put my other hand on his other cheek so I am holding his face, then use my thumbs to gently pull his chin down so his mouth is wide open. Moving my face directly above his, I summon all the good things I am made of—love, innocence, agency, joy, and a thousand other things—and then exhale them into his open mouth. They float out of me as a trickle of light, brighter even than the sunlight warming my shoulders, and pool at the back of Golmarr’s throat. I have to force myself not to recoil from the shock of seeing a part of me enter him. A moment later, when he inhales a tiny sip of air into his lungs, the light moves into him with his breath. As it slips down his airway, I shiver and pull away. My hands lose all their warmth and begin to tremble. Cold sweat beads on my brow as I stare at him, waiting to see what happens.

Golmarr gasps a massive breath of air and rolls onto his side, coughing out a big puff of orange smoke that smells like wet charcoal and blood. His eyes flicker open and focus on me, and he leaps to his feet, hand reaching for the sword that always hangs at his hip. But the sword is gone. He spins around searching for it, and then his eyes grow wide as he stares at something over my shoulder.

I turn and see him—the fire dragon, Zhun—where he lies dead atop the pile of rocks. His body looks like rusted stone, and his wings have been burned off so only the bones remain. My heart aches at the sight of him, and it takes me a moment to realize I am feeling sorrow for the great beast.

“Did I kill it?” Golmarr asks, scratching his head. Handfuls of hair break off in his fingers. He shakes the hair from his hand and strides up the rock mound. I gape at him, at his perfect golden skin, at the missing burns. Only his brittle hair and blackened, ruined clothing show the memory of fire. “Look at this thing!” he says, running his hands along the dragon’s dim scales. At the creature’s head, he pauses and scratches his head again. Where there should be an eyeball there is a dried, bloody mess with a dragon-and-emerald-decorated sword hilt sticking out of it. He pulls the weapon free. “My sword? But I don’t remember…” He turns and looks at me, his brow furrowed. His eyes take me in for the first time, studying my long hair, my bloodstained shirt and skirt, and stop on my legs. He lifts his sword between the two of us and snarls, “Who are you, and what did you do with Princess Sorrowlynn?”

My mouth falls open and shut, and then open and shut again. Finally, I turn and look over my shoulder to see if he is speaking to someone else, but we are alone. “What are you talking about, Golmarr?” I ask, thinking my hair might be confusing him, since it has been braided and piled on my head. I run my fingers through my waist-length hair and frown. It feels strange, so I hold a strand of it up and gasp. My hair has changed from kinky curls to glossy waves of brown. I lift my fingers to my face and try not to panic as I press on my skin and bones, wondering if my face has also changed.