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Not a bad day. I introduced the first two characters, the Prime Talons, and set them on intersecting paths. And I'm ahead on my word count, as I wanted to be. It's a lot easier at the end of the month if you have some slack.

If you read this, please don't forget it's a (lightly edited) first draft, OK? Thanks!

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Chapter 1: Mazya

The first time the priestess Mazya saw the mark of the Talon, she didn't know what it was. She did not even realize she was seeing something, and for a long moment she simply stood still, frozen by wonder at the glittering silver coil. Then reality caught up with her.

She should not be "seeing" this at all. This, or anything. She was blind; she had been blind for almost forty years; she had nearly forgotten what "seeing" was. When the shimmering symbol flickered into being, she was puzzled more than anything else. Nothing else showed in her darkness, only the sinuous curve of the mark. What was this? How could it even be there?

At last she just accepted it, and drew a breath. "Lithi? Do you see that?"

The slender creature uncoiled from around her throat. She felt the tiny forefeet grasp her collar, the soft brush of the ithi's skin against her jaw. See what?

"The silver mark."

No. I see nothing like that.

"But I do."

Lithi was silent for a long moment. How can you?

"I think... no, it cannot be." She had unconsciously bowed her head and shoulders, and she straightened, feeling a soaring exhilaration and a devastating fear, all at once. The stories of the Dawn Dragon were so much a part of her life that she knew, even if she could not believe, that she was looking at the mark of the dragon. A Talon.

There was a way to test. If it were true, if she were chosen, she would be able to see the Talon, but no one else would. "Am I standing near a mirror?" she whispered.

Yes. Why? Lithi's curiosity was roused. She felt his head lift, thrust forward, jerk about as the ithi tried to see what she saw.

Mazya let her breath leave her lungs in a long silent sigh. Her heart had begun to race, and she had to calm herself. Tentatively, she reached up and touched her head just above her right ear. She could feel it as a coolness, and her fingers traced it down – three delicate lines, joining and forming a graceful curve behind her ear; then a trail slightly curving forward down her neck, with another line breaking off to curl under her earlobe; then, continuing to where her neck met her shoulder, a recurve halfway around her nape.

She groped about, losing her usually keen sense of where she was in the shrine. Chair, chair, she must have a chair, or she would fall to the floor. When her hand found rounded, carved wood, the arm of a chair, she dropped into the seat so abruptly that Lithi hissed in concern. "This can't be," she murmured. "It can't be me. I'm not fit."

You are the most fit. You are chosen.

The words in her mind were not Lithi's. They resonated like the deepest string on a guitar, deep and yet light, sexless and ageless.

"Dragon," she breathed. "Steleduil, my lord. Is it truly you?" How she knew the voice was Steleduil's and not Nathduil's, she had no rational answer. She just knew.

Go forth and collect the others. The time is near.

She had been a priestess all her life. She was trained to be obedient. "Yes, lord," she said, and without further question, she rose and walked on shaking legs to the quarters of the high priest, her seeing-stick wavering before her.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~

After she told High Priest Johe-Sunan what she had seen, he did not speak for several minutes. She heard him rise, and by the change in the air, she knew he stood before the big window which gave a view of the entire valley far below them, his breath as deep and slow as if he were going to meditate.

At last he said, "I had thought that this might happen in my lifetime, but I had hoped it would not." When she didn't reply, he spoke again, his voice heavy with sorrow. "This will all be gone in a few months. All the valley."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" He turned, his robes rustling sharply with the movement. "Has Steleduil spoken to you? Do you know something you haven't told me?"

She shook her head. "I have told you all, my lord. But this is the first time during the struggle that anything was in the valley to be destroyed. We have nothing to indicate exactly how wide the damage will be. Even our geologists can't give us a definite answer to that. Some of it might survive."

"Yes. Yes, you are right." He still sounded stunned, as stunned as she felt. They were talking in calm, commonplace voices about their greatest legend coming to life in their own time. He drew in another breath. "So, you must go find the others. Do you know where to start?"

She started to say no, but then realized that she did know. The information was in her mind, placed there by the dragon, waiting for her to call on it. "Yes, I do," she said, marveling. "I must go to Mirone."

"To the bard hall?"

Mazya nodded.

"For information?" Only the bards approached the knowledge about the Dawn Dragon that was possessed by the shrine.

"No, my lord. For the next Talon."

Mazya's other senses were keen, and although he moved quietly for such a big man, she knew when he shifted and went to his desk. The warm sun fell on her left cheek as he left the window, and the rustling of his robes was loud to her, as loud as the creak of wood when he sat. He was silent for yet another moment, then drew something – paper, a quill, ink, from the sounds – toward himself. "We will make arrangements for your journey. The other Prime Talon will also be moving, and he or she may make trouble for you, so we must go to one extreme or another. We must send you with heavy guard, or with a small escort and trust to speed and secrecy."

"My lord, there are places I may be forced to go where a military force, even of monks, would rouse suspicion and fear. I believe I should take only one person to help me."

"Then we must choose that person wisely."

~:~:~:~:~:~:~

Two days later, Mazya stood in the courtyard, wrapped in a coat against the wind. On her right was the warm bulk of a donkey, Nardo, a mature and placid animal, saddled and ready, held by one of the acolytes. His musky smell was comfortable to her. She could feel the steadiness, the calm acceptance of the animal, and that steadied her.

On her left was another scent, and another kind of presence entirely. Captain Koras, the soldier chosen to guard her, was a mature woman, but she was not placid. Her scent was of leather and oiled steel, and her movements were minimal, efficient and quick. Her voice was dry and even sarcastic, but she wasn't steady as Nardo was. Under her apparently relaxed stance beside Mazya, she was humming with energy that seemed to swirl about the priestess like the breeze that tried to bite through Mazya's coat, and once, her fingers drummed on her sword hilt. She was eager, like a hunting dog straining on the leash.

Mazya fervently prayed there would be no need for her skills, no need to slip the leash and release the hunter.

Also around her were other sounds, so many that she was almost deafened by them. Nardo was being loaded, and Koras was being given her final orders by the Rangers commander. An immense bustle attended Mazya's departure, for the entire shrine, awestruck, had gathered to watch her leave. Around all that din, piercing it occasionally, she heard the Rangers' voices, sharp and crisp. They were in charge of evacuating the valley, but before they began, they had to close the trail that wound up Mount Stelenath to prevent anyone else from entering, which would be a difficult undertaking. They then must prepare the inns and resting places along the trail to receive the population who would leave. Some would not; she could hear some Rangers scoffing about that, and she sympathized. How could anyone live in the shadow of the shrine and not believe the Dawn Dragon existed? Two officers were having a low-voiced discussion about whether to force these recalcitrant people out of their homes, or leave them alone to be killed.

Mazya remembered the days of her youth, when, at midday, she could look from the windows of the dormitories and down into the valley, its beauty only fully exposed during the short hours when the sun was directly overhead. The length of it was spread before her then, green with crops in the spring, brown with harvests in the fall, dotted with the small, neat villages, most of them near the river which split the valley almost evenly in two, a silver rope with the threads of streams flowing from it, some widened into canals to water the fields. All around the valley rose the steep rock cliffs that enclosed it like a bubble, and which had enclosed it completely until 200 years ago and the battle which Johe himself had witnessed. That battle had torn off the roof of the cavern, released the river, and created the valley. Mazya recalled the sight perfectly, and her own love of it, so she did not blame the villagers for not wanting to leave behind what their fathers and grandfathers had built. But surely, she thought, a few generations isn't long enough for them to forget that the dragons always lay waste to this place with their struggle. Crops could be sown, homes built, children born and raised, but in the end, this was a battlefield, and the battle was not far away.

Before her, she heard people bowing just before she caught the scent and presence of Johe-Sunan. She bowed, but his big hands cupped her shoulders and drew her up. "Travel safely, my daughter," he said formally, and kissed her on the forehead.

The time had come, and suddenly, in the face of the high priest's simple farewell, Mazya's daze of disbelief fell away. Fear flooded in to take its place. She was the Prime Talon. The fate of humanity for the next 200 years depended on her success or failure. How could this be? She was unworthy. She was old and blind. How could she achieve it?

She whispered, "There must be some mistake. How am I to do this?"

Koras' dry voice said, "You could start by getting on the donkey."

One step at a time. Just as she'd been taught to do any difficult task. She smiled, and Johe-Sunan squeezed her shoulders, then guided her foot to a stirrup. She swung up, straightened her robes comfortable around herself, and said simply, "I am ready."

Koras mounted her horse and took up the donkey's lead line. Mazya felt Nardo shift beneath her, then step forward. His small hooves made sharp clicking noises on the flagstones.

Around them was silence. No one cheered. This was a solemn occasion. But the whisperings of hundreds of robes told her that they all bowed, all the priests, priestesses, acolytes, servants, and Rangers. Then she was through the gate, Nardo settling back on his haunches to take the downward incline.

When they entered the tunnel, the Path of the Twilight Dragon, Koras' horse snorted and shied, startled by the wind and the echoes from the walls so far apart and the ceiling so high. Nardo, however, just plodded on, his head bobbing sleepily.

In all her 65 years, Mazya had only been through the tunnel three times, the first when she came to the shrine as an acolyte and the others when, still an acolyte and not yet sightless, she had accompanied one of the priestesses on a mission. But she remembered always being overwhelmed by its size. Twenty men could walk abreast in it, arms extended, and four villager's houses could have been stacked in it without touching the ceiling. A horse or donkey took twenty minutes to walk from one end to the other. Lithi, who had never been through it, hissed and gripped her collar. I don't like this place.

There's nothing here to harm you, she said.

No, nothing could live here. But I don't like it. The walls are filled with anger.

She stroked the ithi's soft skin. She had been told that Lithi resembled a snake, but his skin was the texture of the fuzz on a peach, without scales despite his appearance. He arched into her hand and settled down again.

Koras was not talkative, and with so little to occupy her senses, Mazya was in a half-doze when, some time later, Lithi's voice in her mind said, Soldiers are ahead. At the end of the tunnel. In another moment, Mazya could hear them, a small group of men and women, talking quietly. As they drew closer, the band made a sudden, loud rattling sound. Mazya flinched. "Koras?"

"Just some of my friends saying goodbye."

The sound had been wood on wood. Probably spear shafts against shields. She smiled, and when one of them cheered her, she waved. Several of them called out jokes to Koras, who retorted in kind.

This informal leave-taking lightened Mazya's heart.

Then the trail bent downward, and she focused her attention on Nardo's shifting balance.

As the long trail took them downward, Mazya settled into a serene state of mind, focused on the swaying of Nardo's back, the heat of the sun on her hair, the soft sounds of hooves in dirt, and the scents of wild herbs and scrub brush that grew alongside the trail. Lithi slid from her neck and lay with his head on her thigh, his tail curled securely around the saddle horn. When they made their first brief stop, to water the animals, Koras commented as the ithi stretched himself on the saddle, "Why did you bring a snake along?"

"Lithi isn't a snake. He is an ithi."

"It looks like a snake."

"The ithi were created, it is said, by Stelenath, when that dragon was a Dawn Dragon. A very long time ago, perhaps a thousand years or more, he made them, and no one, not even the ithi themselves, knows how or why that came to be."

"It still looks like a snake to me. Except for those little feet."

"Pet him."

"What?"

"Stroke him."

"You're joking, right?"

"No. Stroke him."

After a moment, Koras said, "It's soft. Like fine leather, or fur, or something. But it looks like snakeskin. That," she added, drawing back, "is weird. But I still don't know why you brought it."

"Him."

With exaggerated patience, Koras said, "All right, him. Why did you bring him? We don't exactly need a pet."

"He acts as my eyes, at times." She tried to think of some way to explain to a soldier. "If ever we get into trouble, release Nardo. You will have both hands free to fight that way. And Lithi will guide me to a safe place to wait for you."

"That's good to know," Koras said, deeply skeptical. Lithi ran up Mazya's leg and settled under her coat at her breast. "That is revolting."

Mazya laughed, and she heard suppressed amusement in Koras' voice when the captain ordered her to stay put until the horse and donkey were watered.

 

Chapter 2: Niam

The baron of Hawk's Rest leaned forward in the window embrasure, gripping the sill, his face as still as the stone that framed him. Far below, the gates of his outer bailey opened and allowed the little procession to go out – a huge, elaborately decorated carriage and ten liveried outriders. On either side of the gate, the cortege passed between rows of his men, lined up in formation with a military precision that made the outriders look like peasants. As soon as the last outrider had passed out onto the road toward the village, his men went quietly back to their duties.

His thin lips curved in a smile. They were good men. He'd trained them himself, sparred with them, even fought duels with some, and he believed they were better than the king's own guard. Had he given a single command, just a gesture of his hand, all those men standing at attention as the king's tax collector went by in his padded, silk-lined carriage would have just as swiftly descended on the eleven men, slaughtered them all, and burned or buried the evidence.

But that would have done nothing, really, except put off the inevitable. If the king had to send a hundred men like that simpering, giggling, perfumed idiot, he would have his taxes eventually. So Lord Niam had allowed the man to stay in his home, eat his food, complain about his accommodations, and smile in his face while he robbed Hawk's Rest of every spare coin he could detect. At least he hadn't stayed long. An interminable three days, but that wasn't long compared to what some other barons suffered. He could thank his wife for that. The clever woman had not only hidden much of their wealth by sewing it into her hems by the time the collector arrived, she had also seen to it that the man was never quite comfortable in any room of the keep and that meals were always a little over-spiced or too well done.

The clash of steel in the inner bailey caught his attention, and he leaned out to look. His eldest son was sparring with one of the guard, and doing well. He watched critically for a few minutes, then decided that an energetic sparring match would do him some good after three days of smiling courtesy. He would go down.

As he closed the window, he saw a flash of silver in the glass. Again? He studied his reflection. Yes, there it was. He reached up to touch the cool silvery curve over his ear, then turned his head to see that it still ran down into his collar. He was beginning to believe there was something wrong with his vision, because Elian, the only person he'd told about it, could see nothing.

He had been avoiding mirrors for the past few days, but now he trotted down to his rooms to find one of Elian's. He was no coward, and he was going to see, in a clear glass, if this thing existed or was just a trick of light.

Lady Elian entered her room as he stood there, staring into her mirror at the silver mark. She was not a pretty woman – her features were all too large for her bony face – but she was clever and an excellent wife. Besides having done her duty by managing the keep and giving him sons, she had also brought to their marriage a sharp intelligence and sound common sense. Now she stood calmly in the doorway, watching him.

"It's there," he said, frustrated. "It's there, I tell you."

"I believe you," she said calmly.

"Can you see it?"

"No. But I know you, and if you say it is there, then it is. It is something visible only to you."

"Now you want me to start believing in magic," he scoffed.

Her long brows soared. "The only alternatives are that you are mad, that you are joking me – both of which are highly unlikely – or that the explanation is simply something we have not yet discovered." Her words trailed off at the end, as if her mind had wandered. "I think... excuse me," she said, and turned and left the room.

He stared after her. He had never seen her lose a train of thought like that. Yet another odd thing in his well-ordered life.

He spent the next two hours in the practice area, sparring with his experienced men and training the newer, younger ones. He was a tall man, but lean and compactly built, so that when fully dressed he looked shorter and weaker than he actually was. This fooled many of the new recruits to underestimate him, for which he punished them ruthlessly. None ever underestimated an enemy once they had fought him.

He was proud of the fact that, although he was pressing into middle-age, he could still win a match against any man in his guard. He was built all of muscle, bone, and sinew, a spare man on whom Nature had wasted no material, and what he had been given, he had developed and maintained at a level that inspired his men. Even his face was lean and hard, the only softness being in the heavy lids that shuttered his deep-set eyes. He had no vices, unless vanity over his martial prowess would be considered one. Long ago, he had been a feared warrior, nicknamed Hawksblood, and when he appeared on a battlefield, he never lost. But that had been when there were battles to fight, before this king had built up his vast army and forced every baron into subservient peace under the sceptre. Niam might hate the king and all his practices, but he did admire how that army had been recruited, trained, and equipped in secrecy before being set upon all rebellious barons. Now, instead of feuds, there were negotiations, a word which made Niam's mouth twist every time he had to say it, and the barons had been forced to reduce their defenses and the numbers of their guards and weapons. King's messengers, and king's spies, were all over Elegar, keeping the king's peace even in the remote northern beaches and the deepest forests. Now Niam feared that his two sons would never get a chance to prove themselves in battle.

He washed himself under the pump, pleasantly fatigued, and dried with a rough cloth. Dragging on his shirt and tunic once more, he headed into the keep. Now that he was not in combat, his mind persisted in going back once more to the silvery mark on his head and neck. He touched it absently, felt the coolness. He wondered what it would take to get it out from under his skin. It was alien, and while he was a man who did not know fear, he was uncomfortable with its presence.

Elian was in the hall when he pushed through the heavy door of the keep. Wordlessly, she handed him a scroll encased in leather. The shine of the leather and a slick feel to it told him that she had cleaned and polished it before bringing it to him. "What's this?" he asked as he took it.

"Look at it and see. I don't know why," she added, her brows drawing together, "but for some reason I felt compelled to bring it to you. I had forgotten it was even in our library. You won't like it."

"Why not?" he asked over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs. She followed him into the library, where he opened the case and spread the scroll on the reading table.

It was old and beautifully illuminated. At the top was a painting of two dragons, one red and one black, rising from what looked like clouds. They faced each other, their teeth bared and foreclaws raised to strike. Scowling, he said, "I know this story. It's a fairy tale. Why are you giving me this to look over?"

She sighed. "I told you that you wouldn't like it. But something you said when you were looking in my mirror made me think of it. I don't know why. I really have no memory of ever seeing it before, yet I had no trouble finding it."

He sank into a chair. "All right, I'll look it over."

With a nod, she left the room. He read, but it told him nothing. As he had called it, it was a fairy tale, one of those invented by bards and adored by people who needed something or someone to blame for their sad, tired lives. The idea of a battle between dragons for control of the world intrigued him, but it was still all moonlight and nonsense.

The pain struck within his head, sudden and so intense that he dropped his face into his hands and moaned. As it faded, almost as swiftly as it had attacked, he heard the reverberating voice in his head, a voice like a copper drum.

It is not a fairy tale. I exist. And now you will help me.

He looked around wildly. He was going mad. He must be.

You are not mad. You are the Prime Talon.

The what?

I am Nathduil, the Twilight Dragon. When you have helped me defeat my ancient enemy, I will be the Dawn Dragon. You do not believe me?

I believe that I have had some kind of brain seizure. Or am dreaming.

Did I not compel your woman to bring you my name? Do you not bear my Talon, the mark no other can see?

He said nothing. Despite his rational self, he was beginning to believe this was actually happening.

You must go forth and seek the other Talons and their talismans. There are four. I will guide you. Then you will bring the Fist to the mountain, choose a Reach, and give your power to me on the day of the summer solstice so that I may defeat my enemy. When you do, I will reward each of the rest of you with whatever you desire.

He rubbed his forehead. According to the fairy tale, Dragon, you don't like humans.

I don't. But I don't hate them, as your singers and storytellers claim. And I treat my Talons well.

What can you give me that would make me leave my keep and travel the land for months?

I will give you the rule of this island.

Stunned, he let his hands drop onto the table, and he stared blindly at the opposite wall for a long moment. Do you mean you will make me king of Elegar?

Yes.

There was something so matter-of-fact about the way the dragon said it, as if it were not anything grand or troublesome. How? How can you do that? Some kind of magic?

I do not understand that term. As the Dawn Dragon, I will have power over the earth and sky. I will send a disease to destroy the king who is now. I will aid you in other ways, until you are king yourself.

For a moment he let his mind drift on the idea, his expression softening in a way that would have surprised anyone who did not know him well. To be the king... to no longer be the servant, but the lord... for the chance of that, he'd do anything. Even if it were insane.

"What must I do?" he said aloud.

I have told you.

"That is all? Find the four other Talons and bring them to Mount Stelenath for you? What is a Reach? How is the power given to you? Will it kill us to do it?"

Only the Reach is sacrificed. He or she will carry the talismans to me. You will lose nothing but your talisman. You will gain a kingdom.

How will I find the other four?

I will show you where they are. Only you will be able to see their mark. You are the Prime Talon. You must go forth and make the Fist.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~

He told Elian all of it. He believed that, when he told her, she would agree that he was mad to consider listening to that voice in his mind.

Instead, she touched the side of his head. "Yes, your skin is cool there." Her fingers traced the path of the mark down to the nape of his neck. "I would like to be queen," she murmured. "The dragon has made a good choice for his champion."

And just like that, it was decided.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~

He left Elian in charge of the keep, and his captain of the guard in charge of the keep's defenses. He chose his eight best men to accompany him. His sons begged to be allowed to come, but they were too young still, and would be more of a hindrance than a help. He trusted Elian to keep them in line.

On the second day after his conversation with a dragon, he set forth as commanded, heading for the East Road and the city of Cardu, where the dragon had told him his first Talon would be found. He rode his best horse and carried his family sword, and his men were all well mounted and armed. But they wore no armor and carried no pennant. He did not want to draw undue attention to himself. By the time they reached the East Road and turned south toward Cardu, they would be an anonymous party, a lordling with his retinue, unrecognized by almost everyone.