Both of them carried swords. Imladrik bore Ifulvin, Thoriol an unnamed blade from the armoury. Once he became a rider it would be rune-engraved and named.
Imladrik raised his blade before him in a gesture of salute.
‘Soul of ancient earth!’ he cried. ‘Wake from sleep! Let your spirit rise, let your heart beat, let your eyes open.’
Thoriol mimicked his father’s movements. He shut his eyes, mouthing the words he had been taught in Kor Evril. A thin line of sweat broke out on his brow.
Imladrik felt the familiar thrill of power shudder through him. The cavern mouth gusted with fresh smoke, swirling and tumbling over the dark rocks.
You know my voice, he mind-sang. You sensed my presence in your long slumber. Come now, answer the call. I have been calling you since you first stirred. Listen. Awaken. Stir.
The gusts of smoke grew stronger. The air before the cavern entrance seemed to shimmer from sudden heat, and a low hiss emerged.
Thoriol held his ground. Imladrik heard him begin his own dragonsong, haltingly at first, then more assuredly. He had a clear voice; a little tremulous, perhaps, but greater command would come in time.
My will is before you, mind-sang Thoriol. Bind your will to mine. Our minds shall be joined, our powers merged. We shall become one mind, one power.
Imladrik felt his heart burn with pride. He remembered singing the same words, many years ago, just as nervous and uncertain as Thoriol was now. It was a momentous thing, to summon and bind a dragon. Once forged the link could never be broken; the names of a dragon rider and his steed ran down together in history: Aenarion and Indraugnir, Caledor Dragontamer and Kalamemnon, Imrik and Maedrethnir.
‘She approaches,’ Imladrik warned, maintaining the summoning charm but letting Thoriol’s voice take over the harmony of the song. ‘Do not waver now, I can feel her mind reaching out to yours — seize this moment.’
Thoriol kept singing. His words were clearly enunciated, echoing through the aethyr with perfect clarity. Our minds shall be joined. Our powers merged. One mind, one power.
The shadows at the cavern entrance shuddered, shook and were broken. A golden shape, sinuous and dully reflective, slid slowly into the shrouded sunlight. It uncurled itself, stretching out lazily, extending a curved neck atop which rested a sleek, horned head. A pair of golden wings unfurled, splayed out to expose rust-red membranes blotched with black streaks. Two filmy eyes opened, each slitted like a cat’s.
The dragon’s back arched. Like all her kind, she was massive — many times the height of the figures that stood before her. Her shadow fell across them, throwing down an acrid pall of hot air and embers.
Imladrik gazed up at her. She was magnificent. Though only half the size of the great Draukhain, she still bled that mix of raw potency and feral energy that was the truest mark of the dragon-breed. Her hide glistened as if new-forged metal. Her enormous heart, still sluggish from her long slumber, began to pulse more firmly.
Thoriol took a step closer, his blade raised. Imladrik could sense his trepidation. Every fibre of his being longed to help him, to ease the passage between them, but this was something Thoriol had to do for himself.
The stirring of a hot-blood, a Sun Dragon, was a rare thing, and such spirits were hard to tame. Though they couldn’t match the sheer power of the Star Dragons or the cool splendour of the Moon Dragons, they brought a wildness and vivacity that thrilled the heart of any true Caledorian. This one was young, perhaps no more than a few centuries. Imladrik could sense her fearlessness, her savagery.
At that instant, he knew her name: Terakhallia. The word burned on to his mind as if branded there.
Our powers merged. One mind, one power.
Thoriol’s mind-song continued. His voice became more powerful. Imladrik listened with pride. Terakhallia drew closer, taking cautious steps down the slope towards the young acolyte. Her great head lowered, bringing her jawline almost down to the level of Thoriol’s sword. For a moment the two of them stayed like that, locked in the mystical dragon-
song, bound by a symphony as old as the winds of magic.
One mind, one power.
Then, without warning, Terakhallia belched a gout of ink-black smoke, coiled her tail, and pounced into the air. The downdraft was tremendous, knocking Thoriol to his knees and nearly sending Imladrik reeling.
Thoriol cried aloud. The bond was cut.
‘Father!’ he gasped, instinctively, his blade clattering across the stones.
Imladrik recovered himself and watched, grimly, as the serpentine form rippled up into the heavens. Terakhallia’s golden body flashed in the sunlight. Her blood-red wings flexed, propelling her upwards like an arrow leaving the bowstring. It was over so quickly. Once aloft, a dragon moved as fast as a stormfront, thrusting powerfully on wings the size of a hawkship’s sails.
Imladrik felt his heart sink. For a moment longer he watched the Sun Dragon gain height. He had the power to call her back. If he chose, he could command her; alone of all the asur living, he could have summoned her back to earth.
But that would have been unforgivable. He would not do it, not even for his son.
Imladrik glanced at Thoriol. As he did so, catching the boy’s anguish, he felt a pang of remorse.
‘Why?’ asked Thoriol, standing up again with difficulty. ‘What did I do wrong?’
Imladrik shook his head. ‘Nothing, lad. They are wild spirits. Some answer, some do not. It has always been that way.’
Thoriol’s face creased with misery. The exertion of the dragonsong was considerable; he looked suddenly drained, his shoulders slumped, his blade discarded. ‘I knew it,’ he muttered. ‘It was too soon.’
Imladrik went over to him. He knew the pain of a severed link, of a bond that was not completed. ‘There will be others, son. Do not…’
‘You knew!’ cried Thoriol, his eyes wide with anger. ‘You knew. Why did you even bring me?’
Imladrik halted. ‘Nothing is certain. Dragons are not tame.’
‘Neither am I.’
Thoriol pushed past Imladrik, ignoring his lost sword and limping down the slope, away from the cavern entrance.
‘There are others!’ Imladrik called after him.
Thoriol kept on walking. Imladrik watched him go.
Was he too young? he asked himself. Did I push him too fast?
He went over to the sword and picked it up. The steel at its tip was scorched from Terakhallia’s fiery breath. The Sun Dragon was long gone, free on the mountain air. She would not return for many days, and when she did her soul would be even wilder, even harder to bond with.
Imladrik felt failure press on him. Perhaps their spirits had been misaligned. Perhaps the boy needed more time. Perhaps he himself was to blame.
He tried not to let himself consider the alternative, the possibility that burned away in his mind like a torturer’s blade: that Thoriol did not have the gift, that unless the fates granted Imladrik and Yethanial another child, mastery of dragons would die with him and the House of Tor Caled would never produce a rider again.
I could not live with that.
Moving slowly, his heart heavy, Imladrik began to walk. He would have to hurry to catch Thoriol; when the boy’s temper cooled, they would talk, discuss what had happened, learn from it.
Even as he thought it, though, he knew that the failure would change everything. Something new was needed, and he had no idea what it would be.
Imladrik shook his head, pushing against the ashen wind and picking up his pace. His mood of exhilaration had been doused; the descent to Kor Evril would be harder than the climb.