The Dragon's Curse

by Bethany Wiggins

  “Hopefully the castle won’t burn down tonight,” he says, his voice a cold, hard warning.

  I incline my head. “I will not burn your castle down tonight.” A small smile quirks my lips. I sounded just like my regal mother.

  The massive stone doors swing silently open and I step inside the room. Sounds echo from the sleek walls, every fall of Treyose’s and Enzio’s boots amplified. At the far end of the room, centered before cream-colored velvet curtains that stretch all the way to the high ceiling, is a purple velvet throne. Stone benches line the outer edges of the room. “There is a chamber pot behind the curtains,” Treyose says.

  “In the throne room?” I scoff.

  “My grandfather is an old man. He needs a chamber pot close when he is in here.” Treyose removes his cloak and spreads it out on a bench. “Your bed for the night. You can use the cloak you are wearing as a blanket.”

  I walk to the bench and press on the cloak. It offers almost no padding at all.

  “No royal complaints about your sleeping arrangements?” Treyose asks.

  “I will admit a pillow would have been nice, but you probably know I slept in a dragon’s cave without a blanket or pillow, for days. This is better than that. And…” I slowly peruse Treyose’s formidable body and pucker my lips in distaste. “I don’t have to sleep with you. I’d pick a dragon’s cave and no blankets for the rest of my life over your bed.”

  His face hardens. “I, also, would rather spend the night in a dragon’s cave than have you in my bed.” Without another word, he turns on his heel and clasps Enzio’s elbow. “You can sleep on the cold stone floor outside the doors,” he says, and stomps out of the room with Enzio in tow, slamming the heavy doors so hard a gust of air ripples across the room and stirs the velvet curtains. A moment later, I hear the loud grate of a metal bar being slid in place in front of the door.

  When the air has settled, I pick up Treyose’s discarded cloak and carry it to the purple-lined throne. The throne has been built for an old, frail man who obviously likes his chair thick with padding. It will make a much more comfortable bed than a stone bench.

  I wad the cloak up for a pillow, cover my body with the purple cloak, and curl up like a cat. The ocean and black sand beaches fill my dreams.

  * * *

  It is midday before the stone door swings open, and dreams of black sand beaches, a two-headed dragon, and a woman’s voice calling above the crash of waves still fill my mind. I miss the ocean like I have lived on its shores my entire life. But I have not.

  I am sitting sideways on the gaudy purple throne with my legs dangling over the armrest, my feet swinging back and forth. Treyose steps inside the room with a bundle under one arm and a washbasin balanced on his other. When he sees me, he freezes for a moment and then slams the door shut behind him, sliding a thick metal bar across it.

  “Get off,” he whispers, his face burning with rage.

  I stop kicking my feet, stretch, and then slowly rise, smoothing the wrinkles out of my travel-stained skirt. “It was more comfortable than the bench,” I say.

  He sets the basin down on the bench, spilling half the water, and then stomps to me, his boots echoing through the room. Thrusting his face close to mine, he grabs my arm, and says, “Were King Vaunn to find you on his throne, he would have had you beheaded!”

  He is squeezing my arm too hard, and I have to fight the instinct to slap his hand away. “My being beheaded would probably void the peace treaty you fashioned with Lord Damar!” I snap. “Oh, wait, you threw a metal star into his neck and nearly killed him. It was probably already voided. Oh, wait, you lied about why you married me in the first place! I think that probably voided it.” His grip grows tighter and I can’t stop the yelp that escapes my lips.

  He flinches and drastically loosens his grasp on my arm. “He was holding a poison-filled needle against your head. What was I supposed to do? Let him murder you while I stood by and did nothing?” Though his words are fueled by anger, his voice is soft. “I might be Trevonan, but I will not stand by and watch an innocent woman be murdered, especially if I am partially to blame.” He uncurls his fingers from my arm and I yank it away, rubbing the ache his grip left. He holds the bundle out to me, and when I take it, he turns his back. He starts taking off his finely made tunic, and I take a giant step away.

  “Please stop!” I blurt, my cheeks flaring with heat, my belly twisting with fear. “Why are you getting undressed?”

  “I am not getting undressed. I am showing you something.” He pulls his dark purple tunic up until it is around his shoulders, and then stops. Without thinking, I take a step closer to him, and my eyes grow wide. I recognize the thick white scars crisscrossing his broad back. “This was my punishment for touching my grandfather’s throne. Even if the hem of my cloak so much as brushed it, he noticed, and I got whipped. Ten lashes each time, put there by my own father.” He yanks his tunic down. “When I saw you on the throne, it was fear for your life that made me act so roughly. For that, I apologize.”

  I swallow and nod, thinking of the whippings Lord Damar, who I thought was my father at the time, gave me for touching my mother. “I wish you’d killed him,” I whisper.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Who? My father, or my grandfather?”

  “Lord Damar.”

  “Any man who would kill a woman because she will not obey him deserves to die. There is no honor in hurting women.” He glances at my hands. “Unless she is a trained fighter. But even then, only in self-defense.” He walks to the other side of the room and stares at the wall, his hands clasped behind his back. “Get dressed,” he orders.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re holding clean clothes. Get dressed.”

  I shake out the bundle and discover it is a dark green Trevonan-style dress and a pale green underdress, finely made if slightly worn. I walk around to the far side of the throne, where I am shielded from Treyose’s eyes, and quickly remove my travel-stained clothing. My tunic smells faintly of vomit and strongly of sweat, and I am glad to have something clean to wear.

  I pull the pale green underdress on. It is loose and baggy around my body, with a full skirt that almost covers my feet, and fitted sleeves down to my wrists. Next, I slide my head and arms into the dark dress. It smells of cedar and dust, and I wonder where Treyose got it. It is sleeveless, with stays that crisscross up both sides of my ribs and tie beneath my armpits. It takes me a few minutes to properly fit the dress over the underdress and tie it. When I am done, I step out from behind the throne. “Whose dress is this?”

  Treyose turns. “It belonged to my first wife. She is dead.” There is no emotion in his words or his face. He strides to my side. Pulling a mother-of-pearl comb from a satchel attached to his sword belt, he hands it to me, careful not to let our fingers touch. “Brush your hair and wash your face. We are visiting the Royal Library.”

  My heart starts to pound against my ribs. I might be able to find Golmarr, if he is in fact at the library. I start running the comb through the ends of my tangled hair and force my voice to nonchalance. “Why are we visiting the Royal Library?”

  “So you no longer want to leave.”

  I clench my teeth. Prince Treyose obviously doesn’t know me at all if he thinks thousands of books will entice me to stay with him. Nothing could tempt me to stay with the heir of Trevon. “I would like my stone knife back,” I say.

  He looks me over, once, twice, and then shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  When I am brushed and washed, he picks up his cloak from where I dropped it to the floor and holds it out to me. “You need to wear this for now, hood up,” he says, and we step out into the hall.

  The library is a separate building attached to the granite castle by a series of torch-lit, winding passageways. Treyose and I pass several maids and one boy with soot-blackened hands as we wander the deserted halls. When th
ey see us coming, they all press their backs to the black stone wall and stare at the floor until we pass.

  “Where are all the nobles?” I ask.

  “Eating the midday meal,” Treyose says, his voice hushed.

  Even though I am relieved we are not joining the Trevonan nobility for the meal, I ask, “And why are you not bringing me there? I am your new wife, after all. And I am hungry.”

  Our eyes meet, but he says nothing. A moment later, he opens a pouch at his belt and removes a thick piece of jerky. He hands it to me, and I devour it.

  We stop before two massive stone doors with the Trevonan quill and sword carved into them, and Treyose pulls a gold chain from beneath his tunic. On it are several keys and the amulet given to him by his new wizard. Never before have I seen an amulet that is magic, and I wonder again where he found a wizard. He selects the biggest key and leans down, inserting it into a keyhole. The lock clicks and Treyose removes the key. Before opening the doors, he glances down the passage we just came through and then pushes. One door swings open on silent hinges, and the scents of paper, wood, and dust float out.

  Once inside the library, he shuts the stone door, tugs the hood of the cloak from my head, and then takes a small, unlit lamp from a hook on the wall.

  “Why do we need that?” I ask. The library has narrow glass windows on its exterior walls, which provide more than enough light to see the books. I know this because I remember the glaziers working for months to build and install the windows.

  “It is dark where we are going,” he says. He holds the lamp out toward me. “Will you light it?”

  I am so startled by his request I take a small step from him and the lamp. No one has ever asked me to use my fire magic before.

  His blue eyes grow smug, and I want to slap the look off his face. “You can’t even light a lamp?”

  Without taking my eyes from his, I step back to the door and crack it open. His mouth grows taut, but he doesn’t stop me. I hold my hand out and pull a tiny piece of fire from one of the torches. It floats down the hall and settles on the tip of my longest finger. Opening the small glass door of the lamp, I deposit the flame onto the wick. When it has caught fire, I smirk at Treyose.

  His face pales. “Follow me.”

  The library is utterly deserted, and step by step, the deeper we walk into the quiet structure, my hope that Golmarr is here is crushed. “Why was the library locked?” I ask.

  “So no one can get in,” Treyose answers.

  “You don’t allow your people inside the library?”

  He looks sideways at me. “King Vaunn does not—not without written permission. Does your mother let people in her library?”

  I think back on my childhood, to the tall, stately windows that let the sun drench the library, and the velvet-lined chairs pushed up by the library’s many hearths. The few times my tutors took me to the library, the chairs were always empty, the hearths always cold. “No, she does not.”

  He stops walking and frowns. “If you became queen, would you change that?”

  “If I became queen, as in, when your grandfather dies and you are the king?”

  He looks shocked by what I’ve said. “No, that’s not what I meant. If you became the queen of Faodara, would you open your library to everyone?”

  “I have never thought about what I would do if I were queen because I will never be queen,” I say.

  He turns and keeps walking past shelf after shelf of unused books, running his fingers across the leather spines. “I will change the rules when I am king of Trevon.”

  I follow Prince Treyose up three flights of stairs, and every time we reach another level of the library, the scent of dust and old leather grows stronger and the windows grow smaller. The fourth level of the library has no windows. The only light comes from Treyose’s oil lamp. Cobwebs stream from the ceiling and brush the tops of the bookshelves as our arrival stirs the still air.

  “This is where the oldest scrolls and texts are kept,” he whispers, as if afraid his voice will shatter the ancient silence permeating the fourth floor.

  He keeps walking. I stand still and watch his retreating back, wondering why he has brought me up here to this silent, dark, deserted room. I swallow hard and remind myself that even though I possess no weapons, fire can be a weapon—I used it to help Golmarr defeat the glass dragon—and I know how to fight with my bare hands. Reassured, I follow.

  The rows of shelves grow closer and closer together, until Treyose has to walk sideways to fit between them. Instead of books, the shelves hold either scrolls of paper rolled up into cylinders and capped on each end, or metal tablets pounded so thin they look like books made of brass and copper sheets. We pass the end of the last shelf and step into a wide black space with a lone table at the farthest end. A lamp is lit on the table, and the weak light is illuminating a man sitting in a high-backed chair.

  “Golmarr,” I say. My breath whispers through the air, making the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling flutter toward him. The mere sight of him makes my heart stop beating and then jump back to life again. His black hair has grown enough that it is tied in a very short tail at the nape of his neck, and his bangs fall forward, nearly hiding his eyes. He is studying a scroll and frowning. His eyes slip shut, and he tilts his head against the chair’s high back. Worry lines tighten his face. When he opens his eyes, they grow round with surprise and focus on Treyose’s lamp. He stands. “You’re finally back?” he asks, and the familiarity of his voice tugs at my heart. Treyose nods his head in my direction and Golmarr’s attention moves to me.

  “Sorrowlynn.” His lips form my name, and the cobwebs sway from his breath. He looks down at himself, at the cream-colored tunic laced to his throat and the brown Trevonan leggings that hug the curves of his long legs. He slides a knife from his sleeve and lays it on the table beside the scroll. Next, he slowly draws his sword. The reforged metal gleams bright in the dim lamplight. His eyes meet mine and then focus on my left shoulder. Carefully, almost reverently, he lays the sword across the parchment.

  With deliberate slowness, he clasps his hands behind his back and steps out from the table. Exhaling a deep breath that sends the cobwebs into a waving frenzy, he walks toward me. Not once do his eyes leave mine, not even when he walks so close to Treyose that his sleeve brushes against the glass casing of the lamp. Every step he takes seems to wind my body tighter with swirling emotions, until I can barely force my feet to stay planted on the library floor when all they want to do is run to him.

  He stops in front of me and peers down into my eyes, searching them. “Sorrowlynn,” he whispers. He is beautiful, with his tired hazel eyes and hair that looks as if it has been pushed from his forehead dozens of times. When the familiar smell of him—cedar and soap and Golmarr—reaches my nose, my feet refuse to follow sense. They push up from the ground, flinging me through the air so my arms can wrap around Golmarr.

  I bury my face against the warmth of his neck and hold on as if he is a cliff face and I am about to fall. I hold on like I am in the boughs of a tall tree and the wind is trying to throw me to the ground. His body is firm where it meets mine, his heart beating hard against my ribs. Right here, right now, this dark forgotten library feels more like home than anywhere has in my life. And yet his arms are dangling at his sides, his body held taut and still. “I know you still hate me,” I whisper, and open my eyes.

  Finally, he lifts his arms, and I think he is going to embrace me, but he gently pushes me away. His eyes are filled with a palpable agony that makes my pounding heart slow. My feet meet the hard, cold floor and Golmarr takes a step back. “Yes, I still hate you. If I let my guard down, or if I’m exhausted, the hatred creeps in. It hits me in spurts.” He looks at his discarded weapons. “I think I hate myself more than anything. I am so sorry about your shoulder.” He grimaces and presses on his shoulder as if he can feel the pain of the wou
nd he gave me.

  I watch his lips as he talks and remember exactly how they felt on mine, and how the simplest touch of them would make me forget the world around me. Folding my arms across my chest, I fight the longing to grab his face and kiss him until we both forget everything that happened in the past, and ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “I am trying to figure out how to remove the glass dragon’s treasure, because being away from you is the best revenge the dragons could have taken on me. I left my heart with you, Sorrowlynn, and I have been miserable. You consume my thoughts and fill my dreams and drive me to distraction. Even though I have inherited the glass dragon’s hatred for you, I have never stopped loving you.” I whimper and reach for him, but he steps away. “Please don’t touch me.”

  With a nod, I let my hand fall to my side.

  “I need to find the Infinite Vessel.” He pushes the hair from his forehead and excitement fills his eyes. “Do you know where it is?”

  I know what he is asking: Are there any memories from other people stored in your mind that know the location of the Infinite Vessel? I shake my head. “I know nothing of an Infinite Vessel.”

  The anticipation in his eyes is replaced with disappointment and a flicker of hatred. He motions to the dark room with his hand. “This is the oldest library in the world, with scrolls and tablets so ancient, no one knows how to read them anymore. I was hoping the Infinite Vessel was here, but I am losing hope.” He reaches out and clasps a strand of my hair, his knuckles brushing my collarbone. That tiny touch seems to awaken my skin and make my heart pound like I have just obliterated a pell. Golmarr twines the curl twice around his index finger before letting his hand fall back to his side. “I have missed you,” he says. I laugh, and a small smile lights his face. His smile feels like home. Finally, I have come to a place where I fit in and am accepted for who I am. Only the place isn’t a place. It is a person. And he hates me.