A Day of Dragon Blood (7 page)

Every house lost a soul
, Elethor thought.
Every house mourns.

He parted from Deramon, leaving the old warrior to clank and snort his way toward Castra Murus, the squat barracks of the Guard. Wind whistling under his wings, Elethor dived toward Requiem's palace. Even now, over a year since Solina had killed his father and brother, it felt strange to rule here. He still did not feel like a king, only the young prince. Every time he flew toward this edifice of marble, Elethor wanted to turn tail, flee into the forest, and spend his days sculpting, stargazing, and forgetting this war.

And yet every time, he tightened his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and flew between the marble columns into the hall of his fathers.

Upon the marble tiles, he shifted back into human form and walked, boots thumping. The throne lay across the hall, woven of twisting oak roots. But today Elethor did not walk toward this ancient seat. He crossed the hall, stepped through a doorway, and entered the east wing of the palace. Here, in a great chamber of stone, hung a dead wyvern.

Elethor stood before the corpse and stared.

Stars, look at it,
he thought.

Lady Treale had found the creature, burnt and bloated, in the southern swamps by the bodies of Tanin and Yara. Some had wanted to bury it, others to burn it. Elethor had refused.

"Clean it and stuff it," he had told them. "Hang it up for us to study."

More eyebrows had risen when he insisted they hang the creature in the palace. Surely a dusty courtyard, or a barracks, or even a temple could store the beast? But no. Elethor had insisted. He wanted this creature here, in his home, under the same roof where he slept, ate, and waited for fire. He wanted to look at this creature every day, to stare at its fangs, its claws, its dead glare. This thing had killed two of his people; he would keep it close.

He felt so small standing before the wyvern. It hung on chains thicker than his arms. It must have been fifty feet long from nose to tail's tip; longer than but the greatest dragon. Dark scales covered it, square and metallic like plates of armor. It had only two legs, not four like a dragon, but those legs ended with claws as long, thick, and sharp as the heaviest greatswords in Requiem's armories; they made dragon claws seem like mere daggers. The beast's jaw thrust out into yet another blade, this one longer and wider than a man; Elethor imagined that it could crush through a dragon's scales like a spear into a spring doe.

Last time Bayrin had returned with news, he had reported an army of these beasts, twenty thousand strong. He had claimed they could spew acid, burning flesh off bones like fire eats leaves off trees. Elethor clenched his jaw as he stared at the great, hanging corpse.

Wings thudded and emerald scales flashed outside the window. Claws clattered against marble tiles behind Elethor. He turned to see, through the doorway, a lanky green dragon land in the palace hall.

"Bayrin!" he cried out.

His friend had been gone to Tiranor for three moons. The green dragon looked exhausted; his tongue lolled, his chest heaved, and his ears drooped. With a snort of smoke, he shifted into human form. Where a dragon had panted now stood a gangly young man, his shock of red hair wild, his eyes green and weary.

"Hello there, El," Bayrin said and walked toward the east wing. "Good to be home, and...
stars above,
what's wrong with your
face
?"

Standing in the doorway, Elethor uncomfortably scratched his beard. "It's... a beard. I figured I'd grow one."

Bayrin squinted and leaned closer. "
That's
a beard? I thought a weasel was attacking you; I was just about to tear it off." He shook his head in wonder. "By the stars, you're turning into your father, El. And what the abyss is that behind you?" He elbowed Elethor aside and stepped into the east wing where the dead wyvern hung. "Are you hiding any mistresses here, or... oh
bloody stars.
"

Facing the hanging wyvern, Bayrin gaped. A strangled cry fled his throat, and he drew his sword.

"It's dead, Bay!" said Elethor and pushed his friend's sword down. "Don't cut my head off!"

Bayrin let out a stream of curses, slammed his sword back into its scabbard, and shoved Elethor back.

"Merciful stars, El! I just spent three moons in Tiranor counting those creatures. The last thing I need is to find one here!" He gave the beast a sidelong glance. "Even if it's dead, stuffed, and hanging from chains. Stars, they're ugly critters, aren't they? Almost as ugly as that hairy thing on your face." He shuddered. "Do you remember our old nurse, the one who once slapped me for stealing her wooden teeth and stuffing them into Lyana's skirts? This creature reminds me of her." He gave Elethor his own sidelong glance. "Come to think of it, so does your beard; I recall she had a bit of one herself."

Elethor embraced his friend. "Welcome home, Bay. Tell me the news! What did you learn? How is..." He swallowed, sudden fear twisting his heart. "How is Lyana?"

Bayrin sighed and looked back at the hanging wyvern. "She's in better shape that our friend here. But I'm worried. El, the invasion is near, and she thinks she knows where Solina will attack."

For long moments, Bayrin spoke, telling of his time in Tiranor: of the ships mustering for war in the docks; of the wyverns that drilled above Irys in battle formations; of Silas executed in town square; and of Lyana dancing for General Mahrdor, learning of a journey on summer solstice, and seeing a map of wyverns invading Ralora Beach.

When he was done speaking, Elethor stared silently at the hanging wyvern.

If Lyana is right, thousands of these creatures will fly into Requiem this moon.
Memories of the Phoenix War pounded through him: burning homes, lacerated children, Solina's lips against his, and her dagger slicing his face. Her last words to him echoed.

I will kill them all, Elethor!
she had screamed, his blood on her face.
I will burn them all with my fire. You will watch! And then you will crawl to me and beg to be mine.

He left the wyvern and entered his throne room. He walked toward the Oak Throne, sat between its twisting roots, and gazed upon his hall. Bayrin came to stand before him, hair draggled and face smeared with mud.

"Am I a good king, Bayrin?" Elethor asked, voice low.

Bayrin raised his eyebrows. "You could give me a castle or two, command a few concubines to warm my bed, and I wouldn't mind a golden Bayrin statue in the city square... but otherwise you're doing fine."

Elethor sighed and looked upon the wide hall, the columns topped with dragon capitals, and the charred birches that creaked outside.

"I sent her into danger, Bay. They burned Silas in the town square. If... if they catch Lyana..."

Elethor's throat constricted. He had loved Solina for so many years, a love of fire, pain, and blinding passion. His love for Lyana was newer and had grown gradually, not a crashing flame, but warm embers that heated slowly. Would his first love kill his second?

Bayrin raised his chin and clenched his fists. "My sister outstubborns mules to pass the time. I'd drag her back in chains, if I had any." He sighed. "She will learn what more she can, and she will return. On the summer solstice our future will unfold: for Requiem, for Tiranor, for Lyana... for us. The war is coming, El. It flares again this moon."

War.
Elethor's jaw clenched and icy waves rose inside him. His fingertips trembled.
How many more graves will I stand over? How many more families will I watch mourn?

He nodded and rose to his feet. "I'll summon a council of the highborn. I'll fly to Oldnale Manor today. We will speak—the three great houses of our realm—of how to crush this threat."

Bayrin gaped at him, white showing all around his irises. "Fly to
Oldnale Manor
? Summon a council? Elethor! Solina is at our doorstep. Call the banners. Lead the Royal Army south—today, now, right after you shave your ridiculous beard. We meet Solina over the shore. We kick her lovely golden backside back into the desert."

"No, Bay." Elethor shook his head. "I will not lead Requiem to a rushed war—not without first discussing it with the highborn."

"What's to discuss?" Bayrin raised his hands to the heavens. "Stars above, Elethor, let's fly south now. We'll fly there together. You, me, and these three thousand toddlers you've trained into an army. It's war again and I'm not missing out on the fun."

Elethor laughed mirthlessly and traced the scar splitting his face, the scar Solina had drawn. "This is what the fun of war gave me." He sighed. "Bay, summer solstice is twelve days from today, isn't it? The flight south will take six days, seven if we're slow. That gives us some time." He bitterly twisted his jaw. "You know what Lord Yarin Oldnale thinks of me, what many of the people think too; that I'm but a youth, inexperienced and irrational. I will not fly to war on a whim." He raised his hand to silence Bayrin, who had begun to protest. "War is here, Bay, I know that. And we will fight this war. But we will meet first—House Aeternum, House Eleison, and House Oldnale from the eastern farms—like the great councils my father would hold." He clasped Bayrin's shoulder. "Stay here, Bay. Stay with Mori. I will summon the farmlords and be back here in four days."

Bayrin's face changed like the sea in sunrise. "Mori," he whispered. "Damn it, El, I missed her." He ran a hand through his hair, sniffed at his clothes, and cleared his throat. "How do I look?"

"Slightly worse than the dead wyvern."

"Good enough!" He turned to leave, then looked back and sighed. "If I weren't eager to see your sister, I'd drag you south right now. You got lucky. Fly fast, El. Stars, you better be back here on time. Twelve days, my friend. Twelve days until twenty thousand of these buggers knock on our doors."

The two embraced—a long, wordless, crushing hug. Then Elethor stepped outside, shifted into a dragon, and kicked off the palace stairway. His wings billowed with air, and he soared over the city.

"The wait is over, Solina," he whispered as the wind whistled around him. He remembered the softness of her lips, the warmth of her body, and the bite of her blade. "You were my love. You were my life. You will die in my fire."

 
 
SOLINA

She stood in her chambers, twin blades in hands, clad in a robe of golden weave embroidered with tiny pomegranates. She stared into her tall bronze mirror and saw a queen, a scarred woman, a holy daughter of the Sun God, and a spurned soul lost in endless desert.

Around her glittered the glory of her dynasty: platinum chalices inlaid with ruby ibises, tapestries of jackals and falcons, jewelled sabres with pommels shaped as suns, and chests of gems and spices. Blankets woven of gold and silver adorned her bed of ivory. Outside her arched windows, her oasis spread to rolling dunes kissed with sunlight. By the brightest window stood the tools she had brought here for him: chisels, hammers, and three great blocks of marble.

"It was to be your nook," she whispered. "Your place to sculpt while I stood nude before you, watching you form me from stone." She touched her left blade to her lips where he would kiss her. "Oh, Elethor... this was a chamber for us."

She would bring him here. But now she would bring him in chains. Now she would hurt him. Now her soul would forever remained split like her face where the scars of fire ran.

"You could have sculpted me with hammers, but now these hammers will break your bones, Elethor. I will break your spine one segment at a time as you scream and beg me to kill you." She closed her eyes; they burned with tears. "Why did you refuse me, Elethor? Why did you drive me to this?"

She turned away from the marble and tools, walked to a window, and stood with the sunlight upon her. The steeples of Irys rose before her, carved of polished sandstone capped with platinum. Far in the south, past leagues of sand, she could just make out a distant patch of green: the oasis of Iysa, a twin to Irys, where the small oranges she craved grew in winter. Her kingdom rolled beyond the horizon, yet what were treasure and glory worth if she had none to share them with?

I could have shared them with...

A deep, dark memory stirred inside her, clawing at the prison she had buried it in. She felt its cold breath in the core of her being.

No.

She clenched her fists.

No.

That memory was still too raw, still too real, a demon inside her that she dared not awake. She placed her hand on her belly. She trembled, closed her eyes, and bit down hard.

That one will remain buried. That pain I dare not feel again.

She spun toward her chamber doors, intricate works of art carved of olivewood and embossed with silver falcons.

"Ziz!" she shouted.

The doors opened and her slave stepped inside, a demure young woman. Her platinum hair fell in braids, and her blue eyes looked up with fear, then down at her toes. She wore a dress the color of sand, its hems lined with blue tassels. She was a desert child, the daughter of nomads—a good slave.

"My queen," the girl said, eyes downcast.

"Come here, Ziz. Stand beside me."

The girl crossed the chamber and joined Solina by the window. The desert wind blew her hair. When Solina thrust her blade, Ziz gasped but did not scream. Red bloomed across her gown like a desert flower. She looked up, eyes huge blue pools, wondering, betrayed. Solina held her as she died, kissed her forehead, and laid her down at her feet. She had needed this, needed to kill, needed to feel the warmth of blood on her fingers, see the light of life extinguished from a pair of eyes. She pulled her blade free and licked the blood from it thoughtfully.
Blood kills the memories.
She gazed upon her kingdom.

"Soon the palace will be empty of slaves," spoke a deep, smooth voice.

Solina turned to see General Mahrdor at the doorway, clad in armor, his sword at his side. His face and bald head were tanned a deep gold, and his eyes glimmered as they stared at her. Solina realized that her gown was open too far, revealing more flesh than it hid.