A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3) Read Online Free PDF

shells
like a little girl, or do you want to find this big weapon the crazy
old man talked about?"
    "Collect shells."
    He paused, turned toward her,
and held out his hand. "Let me see."
    She shook her head.
    He grabbed the conch, wrenched
it from her fingers, and tossed it into the sea.
    "You bloody piece of pig
shite!" she shouted and tried to kick him, but he held her
shoulders at arm's length, and her short legs only kicked the air.
    "Call me what you like,
soon I'll be pig shite with a weapon to take the throne." He
spat. "You'll be thankful I let you trail behind me then. Now
come along. This is where the old loon landed with his raft. Shift
with me and let's find this damn Genesis Isle he came from."
    She raised her hands to the
heavens. "Damn it, Leresy, how are you going to find his
island? Kaelyn said it's barely bigger than a rock, and there are
about a million islands around here. The man was crazy! Cawing like
a bird and dancing around. What weapon could he possibly have been
seeking?"
    "I don't know. We'll find
out."
    With that, he shifted into a
dragon and took flight.
    Damn,
flying feels good, he
thought.
    That grizzled fool Valien had
insisted nobody shift upon the island. The man was paranoid, sure
that imperial dragons were scouting the sea and would see their fire.
But Leresy knew his father. The old man had his prize; the boy
Relesar was his.
    Give
the dog a bone to chew, and he'll keep himself busy, he thought.
    He rose higher on the wind,
inhaling the salty air. The southern sun, warm even in winter,
heated his red scales. He sucked fire into his maw and blasted it
skyward.
    "Erry!" he cried down
to her. The urchin still stood upon the beach in human form,
scowling up at him, hands on her hips. "Are you coming, or are
you going to stay and sulk like a baby?
    She spat and shifted too. She
soared as a copper dragon, eyes narrowed and fire trickling from her
nostrils. They flew east, the direction Bantis's raft had come from.
The sea sprawled below them, blue and green under a clear sky, and
Horsehead Island—their home since fleeing Requiem—dwindled behind.
    Erry shot up to fly beside him,
snorted a blast of fire, and glared. "I can't believe you're
still obsessed with your damn throne. I thought you gave that up
when we moved here. What about all that sweet talk? Living on an
island paradise. Forgetting about the war. Making love every day,
eating wild grapes, and wearing grass like beautiful savages."
    "Well, that was before I
heard about this big weapon."
    "And now I suppose if you
do find some weapon, you'll want to fly back to Requiem." She
growled. "Well, I'm not going with you, Leresy Cadigus. Not
for any throne or palace or gold."
    He hissed. "You'd rather
stay alone on this island, a dirty and miserable outcast? You'll
turn into another Bantis." He shook his head. "I'm not
letting that happen to me. I'm not turning into some crazy-haired,
wild-eyed old man. I'll find that old bugger's weapon and slay my
father once and for all."
    "Leresy!" She slapped
him with her tail. "There is no damn weapon. The man is crazy.
His weapon is probably just an angry sea sponge he thinks he can
slay monsters with."
    "A sea sponge with teeth
can work," Leresy said. "I'll give it to my father and
tell him to wipe his arse with it."
    She sighed. "Always poetry
with you."
    He flashed a toothy grin and
flew on.
    Their island dwindled behind
them, a patch of gray and green shaped like a horse's head. The sea
stretched on. The world became nothing but blue—the sky above, the
sea below, and two dragons in the middle. As they flew, Leresy found
himself antsy. Back at the island, there were many
distractions—swords to sharpen, huts to build, boars to catch, trees
to fell, and Erry to bed. But here, trapped between blue and blue,
nothing stopped his memories from resurfacing.
    An image flashed before him, and
Leresy winced.
    Suddenly he wasn't flying over
the sea but was back in Lynport.
The barrels of gunpowder