The Dragon's Curse

by Bethany Wiggins

  I open my eyes and am staring at Golmarr’s close face. My hand comes up and tightens in his hair, holding his kiss to my mouth as the images assaulting my mind flitter away, replaced by the caw of gulls and slap of waves, the feel of Golmarr’s breath on my face, and his soft lips against mine.

  I suck a breath of cold, clammy air through my nose and relax. Golmarr opens his eyes. “Better?” he asks against my lips, gently brushing his thumb over my cheekbone.

  I swallow. “Better. Thank you.”

  A roguish smile curls his lips. “My pleasure. What were you remembering?”

  I shudder and shake my hands in the air, hard, like I am flinging off water, when in reality I am thrusting the taint of memories from myself. “I was remembering every possible way to kill a person.”

  Beneath me, the wharf begins to vibrate, and then rumble. A moment later, the deep thunder of trotting horses rivals the constant rhythm of lapping water. “It sounds like my brothers have arrived,” Golmarr says, standing. I hop to my feet beside him and give Enzio a hand up. Everyone bustling around the docks stops what they are doing and stares in the direction of the sound.

  Four horses burst out from between two buildings and slow from a gallop to a trot. The merchants and sailors gasp and back away as the words barbarian horse lords are spoken from one person to another. Golmarr’s brothers are here.

  The people milling about on the dock move far away and stare as the riders pull their horses to a halt. Two riders have long black hair and vivid red cloaks, which do little to hide the chain mail and leather armor worn beneath. Behind Golmarr’s brothers are two other riders. One is a middle-aged man with a metal breastplate beneath his deep green Faodarian cloak, and a short sword in his hand. A small smile finds its way to my face at the sight of my father, looking fierce and travel-worn and lethal despite the gray hair at his temples. His face softens when he sees me, and he sheathes his sword.

  I cannot see the fourth rider because of the cloak hiding his face, but he is small and slightly hunched, though seems well at ease atop his black stallion.

  “Jessen! Yerengul!” Golmarr calls, waving his arm. They ride to us and dismount.

  Jessen’s dark eyes narrow when he sees Golmarr. He is the second-oldest of Golmarr’s brothers and rarely smiles. When I crossed into the grasslands for the first time, he threatened to kill me until he realized who I was. Jessen wraps his younger brother in a hug and quietly asks, “Where is your sword?”

  Golmarr pats his brother’s back hard. “It is on Sorrowlynn’s sword belt. How is Father since Ingvar’s death?”

  Jessen frowns. “He is taking Ingvar’s death hard. Father yearns for your safe return, especially since he learned you’ve been working with Treyose.”

  “As you can see, I am safe. I will come home as soon as I am able to.”

  Jessen steps away from Golmarr and bows to me, his attention momentarily flickering to the sword at my waist. “Princess Sorrowlynn, it is very good to see you again,” he says, and a rare smile lights his eyes.

  Yerengul frowns and slowly looks Golmarr up and down before wrapping him in a hug. “You’ve only been gone six months, and already you’re cinching your shirt up to your chin and wearing Trevonan tights,” he says, his voice accusing. His gaze lights on Golmarr’s staff. “And carrying a staff in place of a sword? Every warrior knows a staff is a defense weapon, not a killing weapon. Did Treyose turn you into a weakling?”

  “You wish,” Golmarr says. “I guarantee you I can beat you at every weapon except throwing knives, but that’s why we have Enzio with us.”

  “I still cannot get over the shock of Treyose giving me your hand signal,” Yerengul says quietly. “You should have at least warned me you were working with him. I could have gotten myself killed trying to save Sorrowlynn.”

  “Wait…are you admitting it is possible for a Trevonan to beat you?” Golmarr asks. Yerengul shoves his brother away with a laugh, and then hugs me, squeezing me tight against his chain mail.

  “Good to see you, Sorrow. It looks like your months of training paid off. You managed to not get killed.”

  “Unless you do the job right now,” I gasp out. He laughs and loosens his hug.

  When Yerengul steps away, my father takes his place, his brown eyebrows drawn tight as he studies me. “Hello, Sorrowlynn,” he says. He bows to me, the formal greeting of a Faodarian soldier to his superior.

  I press against his shoulders with both my hands. “Please don’t bow,” I say, and am overwhelmed with the awkwardness of standing in front of the man who is my father, but hardly knowing a thing about him.

  “As you wish.” He smiles. “It is good to see you again.”

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  “He is your father,” Golmarr says, gently elbowing my ribs. “Give him a hug!”

  I step up to my father and quickly wrap my arms around his neck. “How is your arrow wound?” I ask.

  “Getting better, thanks to Yerengul.” He smells like cinnamon and pipe smoke, and has the solid feel of a soldier. “I brought you something.” He rifles through a saddlebag and pulls out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. I take it and open it. Inside are candied pecans—my favorite treat.

  I smile up at him. “You remembered that I loved these.”

  “Of course. I remember everything about you. It is a pleasure to be here with you, daughter.” He gently pats my back, and memories of this man overwhelm me. Every year on my birthday, he would give me a small packet of candied pecans and one colored ribbon for my hair, and a matching ribbon for my doll. If I ever got sick, Nona would give me a sachet of eucalyptus leaves to help with my stuffy nose—delivered to her by Ornald. He paid close enough attention to me that he knew every time I got sick. And more often than not, he was the guard who requested to stand watch outside of my bedroom door. Whenever I saw him, he would do magic tricks for me until I smiled. For the first time in my life, I realize what a father’s love feels like. I’ve had it all along and didn’t know it.

  Jessen guides the last horse to us and assists the rider down. A gnarled hand comes out of the oversized brown cloak, and I take a small step back. I know who the final rider is without even seeing her face. She moves the hood of her cloak aside enough for me to meet her blind yet ever-seeing eyes. “Hello, Sorrowlynn,” Nayadi croaks.

  Golmarr steps between the witch and me and tugs the hood back up, hiding her face in shadow once more. He glares at Yerengul. “I asked you to bring four warriors, and instead you brought three warriors and Nayadi?”

  Yerengul turns his palms up. “She insisted on coming.” He leans closer to Golmarr and whispers, “She said if we didn’t let her come, she would curse us with baldness and hairless chests.”

  “And you believed her?” Golmarr asks, his eyes flashing with anger. “She can barely heal a scratch!”

  Nayadi cackles and pats Golmarr on the stomach. “Always so confident,” she mumbles. “So, why are we meeting on a smelly Trevon dock, hmm?”

  “We need to secure a boat as quickly as possible.” Golmarr turns north and glances at the sky. “A two-headed dragon is following us.”

  “Two from a grave of ice,” Nayadi whispers. “Then I was right. And they are only…” She closes her eyes and sniffs the air. “They will be here very soon.”

  “We need to set sail before it finds us and wreaks havoc on this city,” Golmarr says. “One swipe of its tail could topple an entire block of these dilapidated buildings.”

  “Have you already secured our passage?” Jessen asks.

  Golmarr points at the Ilaadi ship. “We are sailing on that one, there. With the lowered turquoise sails.”

  Nayadi makes a small noise. “So that is how the Ilaadi figure into this,” she muses. “You are going to try and win them over, then?”

  “If we are lucky, yes.”

 
“Lucky?” Jessen asks, and Golmarr flinches. “They’re Ilaadi, brother. We will be lucky if they don’t kill us before we have a chance to talk to them.”

  Golmarr nods. “I realize there is a strong possibility we will have to fight them for possession of their ship.”

  “Well, I for one would like to try my skill against an Ilaadi,” Yerengul says. “What are we waiting for?”

  * * *

  We pay a man double what is fair to row us out to the Ilaadi ship, and even so, the rowboat’s owner—an old sailor with greasy yellow hair and massive hands—acts like every dip of the oars pains him. Before we pass between the Trevonan war ships blocking the Ilaadi vessel, one of the ships lowers a small boat and intercepts us. Five men wearing purple livery are on the boat, and the man in front is standing. His curious eyes quickly scan Golmarr, me, and then Enzio, all dressed in traditional Trevonan clothing. When his scrutiny turns to Yerengul and Jessen, the man’s eyes narrow and he draws his sword.

  “I am Swain, captain of the warship Eventide, and I command you to halt in the name of King Vaunn and the Royal Trevonan Navy,” the man with the drawn sword says, his Trevonan accent thicker than any I have heard before. “What business do Antharian barbarians have with this Ilaadi ship?”

  “Row us closer,” Golmarr says to the boat’s owner. The man grumbles something but dips the oars into the water, easing our boat up to the side of the Trevonans’. The other four soldiers draw their swords. Golmarr reaches into his saddlebag and pulls out a gold chain. He lifts it toward the sailors, and a small gold pendant swings from side to side. Captain Swain reaches forward and Golmarr lets him finger the pendant. When he looks back to Golmarr, his eyes are blazing with curiosity.

  “Why do you have Prince Treyose’s royal seal?” Swain asks.

  “I am on official business of your new king…King Treyose,” Golmarr says.

  There is a collective gasp from the sailors. Captain Swain schools his face to mild concern and asks, “King Vaunn is dead?”

  “He is,” Golmarr confirms.

  The sailors look at each other. Two of them smile.

  Golmarr clears his throat. “King Treyose asked me to inform you, on his behalf, of his grandfather’s death. He will send a formal announcement, but he wants you to prepare to bring all warships ashore. He says, and I quote, ‘It is time for Trevonan soldiers to remember how to be fathers, brothers, and sons again. It is time for them to come home.’ ”

  Captain Swain glances at the necklace once more, as if he doesn’t quite believe Golmarr’s news, and then nods. “How did it happen? How did King Vaunn die?”

  My heart starts pounding.

  “He was killed by a woman who was forced to defend herself from him or die,” Golmarr says, voice grim.

  Captain Swain grunts and shakes his head. “Fitting, a woman taking his life after all the pain and suffering he has caused them. He deserved to die at a woman’s hands. And what is your business with the Ilaadi ship?”

  A slow smile forms on Golmarr’s mouth, and the malice that jumps into his eyes has all five armed sailors gripping their sword hilts a little more tightly. “We have come to remove their ship from your waters.”

  “And how do you plan to do that? They’ve been here three days trying to dock, but we’ve refused to let them through. They are requesting safe passage to Arkhavan and will not leave until they have been granted an audience with King Vaunn…er, King Treyose, I suppose.”

  Jessen holds up three bulging purses—the money acquired from both the sale of our horses and his brothers’ famed Antharian horses. “We will offer to pay them,” Jessen says. “If they do not take our offer, we will fight them for control of their ship.”

  The naval soldiers grin at this. “Then, by all means, proceed,” Captain Swain says, sheathing his sword. “Row aside, men.” With a few hard pulls on the oars, we glide past the massive Trevonan warships and then slowly ease into the shadow cast by the Ilaadi ship.

  Up close, the vessel is small but striking, with intricate designs carved into the dark wood railings, and turquoise sails that shine bright even in the foggy gloom of the afternoon. Two men are looking down at us, their hair and faces hidden behind thick white turbans, so only their eyes show.

  “What do you want?” one of the turbaned men calls, his accent different from any I have ever heard.

  Golmarr stands, and he is so steady on his feet, the boat doesn’t even rock. The railing of the Ilaadi ship is even with the top of Golmarr’s head. If he wanted to, he could grab the railing and pull himself aboard. “I am Golmarr, son of King Marrkul of Anthar. I request an audience with Princess Yassim.”

  The man who spoke nods and steps out of view. A moment later he returns with another turbaned person, whose head barely reaches the middle of his chest. The small person, the passenger we assumed was a child, loosens the bottom half of the turban, revealing the delicate face of a young woman with a smattering of freckles on her olive skin.

  Her dark eyes lock on Golmarr and start examining him, pausing at his shoulders, hands, and feet, as if she is reading everything about him simply based on the way he stands. “I am Princess Yassim, of the city Ilyaro, in Ilaad. Are you here to grant me safe passage to Arkhavan and an audience with King Vaunn?” she asks, her accented voice as smooth and rich as cream.

  Golmarr shakes his head. “I am not. I am here to offer you an audience with the future king of Anthar.”

  Princess Yassim’s eyes narrow. “I am not interested in an audience with your future king, unless he wishes to join his army to mine and overthrow Trevon once and for all.”

  I startle at the bluntness of the desert princess’s statement, but Golmarr doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. In a voice calm and placating, he asks, “Why are you declaring war on Trevon, Princess Yassim?”

  Her cheeks flush with anger. “King Vaunn has woken the sandworm, and it is destroying what is left of my kingdom! The worm is digging out the ground beneath Ilyaro and making the city cave in.”

  Golmarr turns, and his eyes meet mine. An unspoken understanding passes between us. The Ilaadi princess is declaring war on Trevon for something I inadvertently did—waking the dragon that lives in the desert. He turns back to the princess. “Why do you believe King Vaunn woke this dragon?”

  She stares at him for a quiet moment before answering. “Who, besides King Vaunn, would have a reason to wake the beast and have it destroy my kingdom? For his entire reign, since long before I was born, he has been forcing the borders of his land northward into mine. No other kingdom covets our land so desperately. Already, both of my brothers have died trying to defeat the worm.” She snaps her mouth shut and her entire body trembles in an effort to control her emotions. “I demand a meeting with King Vaunn.”

  “The worm will not stop destroying her kingdom until the one who woke it is dead…or it is killed,” Nayadi says.

  Yassim recoils at the sight of Nayadi. Looking back at Golmarr, she says, “I demand to speak with King Vaunn!”

  Golmarr lifts his hands, palms to the sky, and asks, “What if King Vaunn is dead?”

  Princess Yassim laughs, but it holds no humor. “We have been trying to assassinate him for two decades. The man is impossible to kill.”

  I shake my head and, without thinking, say, “Not impossible.”

  This makes her look at me—a dismissive yet irritated look. “You are obviously not an Antharian barbarian. Who are you?”

  I slowly stand, trying to remain perfectly balanced so I do not rock the boat. It shifts beneath my feet. By her suddenly pursed lips, Yassim has noticed my imperfect balance. “I am Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara,” I say, putting on the mantle of regal importance I was made to practice as a child: shoulders squared, chin up, proud indifference burning from my eyes while on the inside, I am trembling. “I killed King Vaunn, and I am the one who woke th
e dragon—the sandworm.”

  Yassim reaches beneath her turban at the exact moment Golmarr gasps and takes a lurching step backward that sends the boat bobbing from side to side. Before I have time to throw my arms out to reclaim my balance, Golmarr turns and wraps his arm around my waist. My feet leave the ground and we are flying through the air as Yassim lifts a long, narrow cylinder to her lips. A tiny dart flies past my neck a split second before the ocean slaps against my back, molding my heavy winter clothing around my body and pouring into my open mouth.

  For a moment all we do is sink, and then Golmarr gives me a firm shake. Beneath the water’s murky surface our eyes meet. I hear his unspoken question: Can you get back to the surface? I nod. He releases me, and I fling my arms and legs out, pushing myself toward the dark oval of the rowboat’s belly.

  Muted by the water are the yells and screams of fighting, and just when I am about to reach the water’s surface, a man draped in white clothing and a turban splashes into the ocean above me. I kick against the water to move out of his way. A halo of red spreads around him, and as he sinks past me, I see one of the horse clan’s arrows protruding from his neck. And then everywhere I look, everything I see, is through a cloud of red.

  With one more wrenching pull against the water, I surface and grasp the side of the rowboat with fingers made stiff by the icy water. Golmarr surfaces beside me and pulls himself into the boat. He grabs his staff and jumps onto the railing of the Ilaadi ship, swinging himself up onto the deck. Both of his brothers are already aboard, and Ornald is hefting Enzio onto the ship. I slither gracelessly into the rowboat and my eyes grow round at the sight of Nayadi holding a knife to the boat owner’s throat.