The Raging Fires Read Online Free PDF Page B

backward to avoid the shower of coals.
    I turned to Cairpré. His face had hardened, like a craggy cliff, yet it showed the shadowed lines of his fear. His wild brows lifted as he repeated Urnalda’s final words. “Fincayra’s darkest day be upon us.”
    “My son,” whispered Elen hoarsely. “You mustn’t heed her demand. Stay here, with us, in Druma Wood, where it’s safe.”
    Cairpré’s eyes narrowed. “If Valdearg has truly awakened, then none of us is safe.” Grimly, he added, “And our troubles are worse than even Urnalda knows.”
    I stamped my boot on a glowing coal. “What do you mean by that?”
    “The poem The Dragon’s Eye. Haven’t I shown you my transcription? Took me more than a decade to tie together the pieces and fill in the gaps—most of them, at least. Rags and ratholes! I planned to show you, but not so soon. Not like this!”
    My gaze fell to the remains of my psaltery, nothing more than broken bits of charcoal and blackened strings amidst the leaves strewn over the grass. Near one of the rowan’s roots, I spied a fragment of the oaken bridge. It was still connected to part of a string—the smallest one of all.
    Bending low, I picked up the string. So stiff, so lifeless. Not at all like the willowy ribbon I had held only moments before. No doubt if I tried to bend it now, it would shatter in my hands.
    I raised my head. “Cairpré?”
    “Yes, my boy?”
    “Tell me about that poem.”
    He let out a long, whistling breath. “It’s full of holes and ambiguities, I’m afraid. But it’s all we have. I’m not even sure I can remember more than the last few lines. And you will need to know more, much more, if you are, in fact, going to confront the dragon.”
    At the edge of my vision, I saw my mother stiffen. “Go on,” I insisted.
    Doing his best not to look at her, Cairpré cleared his throat. Then, with a jab of his hand, he pointed to the distant, mist-laden hills. “Far, far to the north, beyond even the realm of the dwarves, lie the most remote lands of this island—the Lost Lands. Now they are scorched and reeking of death, but once they blossomed as richly as this very wood. Fruited vines, verdant meadows, ancient trees . . . until Valdearg, last emperor of the dragons, descended. Because the people of the Lost Lands had rashly killed his mate—and, by most accounts, their only offspring—he set upon those people with the wrath of a thousand tempests. He tortured, plundered, and destroyed, leaving no trace of anything alive. He became, for all time, Wings of Fire.”
    Cairpré paused, looking up into the branches of the towering rowan. “Finally, Valdearg carried his rage southward, to the rest of Fincayra. It was then that your grandfather, Tuatha, engaged him in battle—driving him back into the wastelands. Although the Battle of Bright Flames lit up the skies for three years and a day, Tuatha finally prevailed, lulling the dragon into enchanted sleep.”
    I peered at the fragment of the psaltery in my hand. “Sleep that has now ended.”
    “Yes, which is why I spoke of The Dragon’s Eye. That poem, you see, tells the story of their battle. And describes how Tuatha relied on a weapon of magic, great magic, to triumph in the end.”
    “What was it?” asked Rhia.
    He hesitated.
    “Tell us,” she insisted.
    The poet spoke softly, yet his words thundered in my ears. “The Galator.”
    Instinctively, my hand moved to my chest, where the jeweled pendant, possessing powers as mysterious as its strange green radiance, had rested so long ago. Rhia’s eyes, I could tell, caught my movement. And I knew that she, too, was recalling the Galator—and its loss to the hag Domnu, that thief of the marshlands.
    “The poem,” continued Cairpré, “ends with a prophecy.” Grimly, he studied my face. “A prophecy whose meaning is far from clear.”
    He seated himself on a bulging root, his gaze focused on something far distant. After a long moment, he began to