The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(67)

“I will divide this in half. You may pick either pile, Nayadi. You take half of the pile now, and when you have brought me the fire dragon’s scale, you will get the other half,” I say.

She forces her eyes away from the treasure to look at me. “What is the worth of a single dragon scale?” she asks.

I shrug. “They have no worth, for there are none except those attached to the beasts.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then why are you paying me so much to bring you one, Melchior, son of Mordecai?” I frown at her words. “I know who you are, old man. And I know how old you are. That is what I want—eternal life, not your gold. Tell me how to get that, and I will bring you a dragon scale.”

I take a deep, patient breath. “I have watched almost every person I have ever cared for die from old age or disease. Eternal life is not necessarily a treasure, though once I thought it was.”

“Then tell me how to become like you, a wizard, so that I can bind the stone dragon that is destroying my kingdom beneath a mountain, the same way you bound the fire dragon. That is what I want in exchange for the fire dragon’s scale.”

I shake my head. “You don’t know what you’re saying, child. The price will be high. Everything comes at a price.”

“I am no child! I am nineteen. And any price is worth saving my kingdom.”

“Very well. If the ability to work magic is the payment you wish, then you have only to perform this feat and you will have it, but I make no promises regarding the stone dragon.” She blinks at me and smiles. I stare into her striking blue eyes. Such a pity. Such a high price to pay. “Hold out your swords.”

She reaches over her head and crosses her arms, sliding a short sword out from a sheath behind each shoulder. She lowers them before me, and I pull energy from the air and touch each blade. When I am done, the metal has turned from gray to a pale, silvery blue. “You have seven days before the magic leaves your blades. Seven days to face the fire dragon before your weapons are worthless against his scales.”

“Why don’t I just kill him?” she asks.

“Because you cannot.” Her eyes burn with defiance at my words. “It is not in your destiny to kill him—at least not with your own hands. But your choices today will one day bring about his death, and set in motion the defeat of Grinndoar, the stone dragon.”

“We’ll see,” she snaps. In one swift move, she crosses the swords behind her back and thrusts them into their sheaths. Without a backward glance, she strides from my room.

“Such a high price,” I whisper.



I blink, and no time has passed. Golmarr still sits on the bed beside me with Nayadi’s wrist in his hand, and she is still staring at me with her clouded eyes. “You tried to kill Zhun, didn’t you?” I ask.

The old woman nods. “When I took his scale, I stabbed him.” She touches her face. “His blood burned my eyes and gifted me with a tiny piece of his magic, but stole my sight.”

I see her through Zhun’s eyes, as she tears the scale free with one sword, and then thrusts the other deep into his chest. I see the blood rain down on her as the fire dragon takes flight in his columned, underground prison.

“Was it worth it?” I ask.

“It will be when the time is right,” she says, studying me with hungry eyes.

“But you can still see.”

She shakes her head. “Not in the way you do. I see energy, not flesh.”

“Nayadi, what’s wrong with Sorrowlynn?” Golmarr asks, releasing her wrist. “She healed me, and now she can’t warm up.”

“She needs to feed on what Zhun fed on,” the crone says.

“Fire,” I whisper. That has always been the answer.

“Yes, fire,” she says. “But you don’t know how to feed on fire, do you?”

I shake my head.

Nayadi smiles, and my skin crawls. “Then you might die.”

Golmarr’s hands close into tight fists, and his breathing accelerates. “There must be something you can do,” he growls. “If she dies because she saved my life—”

“I can’t,” Nayadi snarls. “She has to do it herself.” The crone leans toward me again and closes her eyes, as if basking in the golden aura she spoke of. Golmarr grabs her frail arm and drags her toward the door.

“Out. Go!” he orders, pushing her into the hall. He slams the door shut and looks at me. “You stay there. I will have Enzio stand watch at your door while I get you some food.”

I nod and curl my knees up against my chest. The sound of Golmarr’s boots echoes on the wooden floor as he leaves the room and strides down the hall. Before he has gone down three stairs, I am drifting to sleep.





It is the smell of bacon that wakes me, and I open my eyes to bright morning sunlight. I am still in Golmarr’s bed, and the last thing I remember is him leaving the room to get me some food. On the bedside table is a bowl of cold stew and a piece of dry bread.

I pull the covers back, and my Satari clothes are creased with wrinkles. Standing, I try to smooth my blouse but give up when the wrinkles refuse to straighten out. My stomach growls, and I forget the wrinkled clothes as I quietly pad across Golmarr’s bedroom on bare feet.

When I open the door, the smell of bacon and the sound of distant laughter swirl around me. The laughter dies down and is replaced with a deep, muffled voice. As I descend the wooden stairs, the voice becomes clearer. It is Golmarr’s. He is telling the story of how the fire dragon burned his hair, and how he knelt at my feet and had me hack his hair off with the hunting knife his father gave me. And people are laughing.