Blood of the Dragon

by Jay D Pearson

  Suddenly, a single flare of aquamarine burst in a dazzling display beyond the flames, and he opened his own magic to it. The blue-green lights soared faster than arrows, piercing the wall of fire, then barreling into his hand and fingers. Each dart stung like ice pellets, but the agony of the dark red sorcery grew less as each barb sunk into his flesh, spreading in a flood until he could rise again to his feet.

  Cold power as he’d never experienced replaced the lava in his veins, allowing him to focus on the source of both magics. Each sprang from the pendant, and he recognized their power. The life force of two innocents, stolen with violence, imprisoned by dragon blood. The two magics intertwined now, a dance of scorpions, but his to lead.

  He knew the dance could not last long. It would likely fight him, but his wife’s words returned: You are the better faery. He choices made a mockery of what she had told him, but he had to be stronger than the magic and recalled Månefè’s arrogant, pompous visage, especially the violet eyes and perpetual smirk.

  I am the better faery, he thought firmly. The magics bowed in their dance, acknowledging his authority, then twirled around Månefè’s face, spinning faster and faster until the flames and ice blurred.

  The dance ended abruptly, both lights sucked into his vision of his rival, and he staggered. The room swam back into focus, Hagr sitting on the edge of his throne, its orange eyes still bulging.

  “Master?” it asked, pushing off the seat.

  He did not answer. Something was different, something foreign. A new sense, one that did not belong to him, crept along the outskirts of his mind, a rat trying to find its way to a new food source.

  “Do you feel him, master?” Hagr asked with greedy expectancy. “Is Lord Månefè there?”

  As recognition dawned, he nodded slowly. It was not the other faery’s thoughts or even feelings he could sense. It was not magic, either. It was as if a rat was bringing him food it had stolen.

  His eyes widened in sudden understanding. It was his rival’s life force. He stretched his arms out, flexing first his hands, then his biceps, and finally his wings. He was undeniably stronger. For several moments, he relished his new potency.

  Then he felt the taint. The food the rat brought was spoiled. There was a rancid price for his new power. His wife’s words returned again, but this time he understood what she had meant. He was merely Månefè’s peer now, no matter how strong he had become.

  Staring at the pendant, he felt dirty and foul. The stench of sulfur lingered. Before his marriage, he would have reveled in his success. Now he desperately wanted a bath.

  “Go!” he ordered Hagr harshly. He could not be rid of the reek of his treachery so long as his servant was near. “Find some duty to occupy yourself but stay out of my sight until I call you, and do not go anywhere near the mistress.”

  The goblin rose with a heavy sigh, picking up the pendant from the throne and snapping it shut, then shuffling towards the door.

  He knew full well the creature’s deceitfulness.

  “Hagr Twyllo,” he said forcefully, and his servant turned to face him. “I forbid you from this moment on to speak the names of either baby, Pwyll or Arawn, and I forbid you to leave my home until I give you leave.” He paused, knowing the spell was already complete, but recognizing that Hagr would find some way to defy him without proper motivation.

  “Obey me, and you will be rewarded.”

  “Another vial, my master?”

  He hesitated. The creature was greedy far beyond its station, but was he not the one responsible for its evil?

  “A single vial, Hagr. Observe your duties. I have work to do.”

  As soon as he was alone, Tigano collapsed onto his throne. For hours, he seesawed between basking and brooding. One moment, he wallowed in the sensation of new life coursing from his fingertips to his wingtips; the next, he castigated himself for betraying his wife. However, as the lunch hour came and went and Månefè’s life force merged more comfortably with his, he found it easier to simply bury his recreance and justify his successful next step on his path to immortality. Finally, his stomach rumbled loudly and he rose, knowing a bath could now wait.

  Chapter 12

  The Faery

  Routine settled into place over the next three months as he grew accustomed to the peculiar yet titillating elation of the dark sorcery. At times, he would simply flex his wings for an hour, reveling in his rival’s life force as it pumped alongside his blood. As time passed, however, the sensation soured. He did not know if it was the forbidden magic or Månefè’s life force that was tainted, but something was not right.

  At the same time, the sensation did not grow any less intoxicating. Instead, the desire to not only use but consume the new power pressed against his will, testing for any weakness. He was well aware that before Àibell, he would have allowed the torrent free reign until he’d absorbed the darkness and taken another step towards immortality. She’d awoken something in him, a conscience of sorts that battled the taint and refused to allow it any welcome.

  Routine provided his new-born conscience strength. Each day, he would awaken to find his wife already curled up on the divan reading her daily missives and a mug of steaming aster nectar waiting for him. As he enjoyed his favorite morning drink, she would catch him up on any news she had gathered.

  Most of her news dealt with minor details of everyday life in Bruagh-na-Boyne. This family had angered that family, starting a new blood feud. A certain daughter had married the son of a rival clan, ending a decades-old quarrel. Sometimes it would be a bit more interesting, especially when one of Oberon’s spies was caught and disappeared into Finaarva’s dungeon. If not for Àibell’s contacts and burgeoning network, he would have assumed the spy had been executed rather than returned to Oberon in exchange for a pair of Sluagh Sidhe prisoners.

  Most intriguing was the sporadic news of Ao Shun training the young colored dragons. There was something that did not sit right with what the ancient dragon lord was doing, but few faeries were willing to risk getting near enough to gain reliable facts. No matter how much the two of them speculated, neither he nor his wife could comprehend Ao Shun’s ultimate goal, but both feared it did not bode well for the Sluagh Sidhe.

  By mid-morning, he would usually fly to meet with one or two of his changelings at their homes or, when required, at Finaarva’s court. That had to be done on occasion simply to remind the nobility whose magic protected them, despite the veiled snobbery and sneers the nobility hid behind their smiles or the condescending looks he could sense as soon as he turned his back. They were weak, butterflies to his wasp, but their marginalization of he and all the changelings stung, a judgment based solely on the changelings’ innate ability to alter their appearance.

  The dark magic would leap each time he stepped into the palace, sharply probing against the walls his new conscience had erected. Sometimes, his will remained strong, and he could reject the sorcery’s attempts to wield the magic against the nobles. Other times, however, he gave in, using his new power, such as the time he flattened Lady Cordelia against a wall, her wings and dress splayed in a grossly inelegant manner for all to see. The blatant demonstration had been most satisfying for the moment but had also transformed the annoying noble into an enemy. A very poor decision, as Àibell had angrily reminded him when he returned home.

  The greatest danger was coming face-to-face with Månefè. His tall rival had looked nearly as pale as him, with dark circles beneath his glowering eyes. In both council meetings, every one of Månefè’s comments was caustic, convincing Tigano that his rival suspected him as the source of his troubles, leaving him worried of what might happen should Månefè discover what he had done.

  Of the two babies that Hagr had switched, Pwyll and Arawn, there was no news, but their names haunted him, maggots eating away at his soul. He could deal with Finaarva and his court, Oberon and the Daoine Sidhe, and even Ao Shun and the dragons. His treacherous use of dark magic, however, soured his stomach every tim
e he glanced at his wife. His wings ached whenever he felt her sad, beautiful eyes watching him. Every night as she lay in his arms in their bed, he vowed to divulge his betrayal the next day. Every morning, he found his determination had dissipated: he had become too practiced at breaking his word.

  Following dinner, he would retire to his magic sanctuary. Àibell had visited it only once and had blanched at the sight of his bounty of sorcerous implements, leaving as swiftly as possible. He’d found her already asleep that night instead of waiting in the divan for him as was her usual wont. She never criticized him openly about his research, but he had no doubt how much she disapproved of his pursuit of immortality. He had reassured her the next morning that he no longer practiced any of his ‘abominations,’ and she did not question him, but he was certain their definitions of what constituted an abomination were very different.

  “You feel it, don’t you, master?” croaked Hagr Twyllo as it handed him a vial. He had allowed it back into his presence after only two days.

  Àibell clearly no longer approved of his preferred goblin servant since its return the week before, Hagr being the only servant who willingly entered his sanctuary. However, he too no longer approved. The spell had changed Hagr in some undefinable manner, and he had to keep the creature close, certain it would betray him if he didn’t. He could not kill it, not without losing the knowledge gained through its experiments, knowledge that had helped him immeasurably in his quest.

  “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly, “I do feel it.”

  “The ancient magic still works!” The goblin was bouncing on its toes. “Do you feel the life?”

  He nodded, wondering if it was what plants felt like when they grew new shoots.

  “Do you think the babies feel it?”

  He did not answer. He dared not answer. Every thought of the two innocents was a reminder of his broken promise to Àibell, and a reminder of the cost of his gain. He sometimes wondered if the spell had been painful for them, and then chided himself.

  What do they matter? Why do I care?

  In the past, he would never have entertained those thoughts. He considered them now. They hurt enough to question his pursuit of immortality. The only end to the anguish would be to reverse the spell, but now that he could feel the sorcery working, how could he possibly try to get Hagr to switch the babies back? Would he be weaker than before? How would Månefè—or Hagr—respond?

  There was a sudden banging of the iron lattice gate outside his sanctuary. He rose immediately from his throne and to open it. Àibell stood there, an anxious look on her face.

  “What is it, my lady?”

  “Finaarva has summoned you, my lord. You are to appear tomorrow.”

  He frowned. Such a late summons by the king was never good, but why now? What had the king learned?

  “Tigano,” she said softly. “I have more. I know what Ao Shun is up to.”

  He stared at her. “Yes?”

  “The colors have ascended. He could give Oberon the army he needs to defeat the Sluagh Sidhe. No, not defeat. Destroy.”

  “The colors? So soon?” Such a thing was unheard of. From what he knew of the dragons, the Great Ones had allowed only a few ascensions per century and Ao Shun usually spent a decade training his rainbows. Then he realized what else she had said. An army of ascended dragons?

  “How many?” he asked, unable to disguise the nervousness in his voice.

  “Several score. My source says he has tripled the number of hongs. Maybe more.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Does Finaarva know? Is that why he’s summoned me?”

  She winced and tried to remove his hand. He realized how hard he was squeezing her and let go, and she shook her head as she rubbed where he’d gripped her.”

  “I don’t think so. Tigano, with that many dragons, they may have enough strength to destroy the dome. My family has no protection from dragon fire. They won’t survive the first attack…”

  He thought quickly. His home was deep, but to add a hundred faeries and their servants would be more than cramped. But how can I not? How can I deny them after my treachery?

  “Call them all. Don’t wait. We will find some way to make room.”

  “Thank you, husband. I will make every effort to make their arrival as circumspect as possible.” She stood on her toes, kissing his cheek, then turned and left.

  As she walked away, he was once more struck by the pain of his betrayal. The babies! he realized suddenly. Pwyll will be here in a day or two and Arawn might be at the palace. I could start the spell reversal if I can find Arawn, and then complete it as soon as Pwyll arrives. Yes, that would do it. I’ll begin preparations now, before I leave.

  Now if he could only find a way for Hagr to return Arawn to his rightful family and safely bring Pwyll back.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  His wife had already started making arrangements for her entire family to move into their home by the time Tigano left for Finaarva’s palace early the next morning just as the first faint glow of the coming sun lit the skyline. The first step of the spell reversal had stung badly, and the sorcery had wrestled him with a bear’s ferocity, but he had not relented until he had conquered. He flew slowly over the tree tops, recouping his strength, and surprised he felt no regret. Månefè’s lifeforce was still potent within him and would remain so until the spell was complete, but already he felt the millstone lifted from his heart.

  He did not land until the sun’s rim had burst over the horizon and was met at the toadstool-like palace by two of his changeling lieutenants—blonde, lean Dyfed and broad Morvyn with his long red locks—neither of whom had any inkling why they’d been called there on such short notice.

  Together, the three entered the immense main foyer, cloaks swirling out behind like a third wing, and marching through the gate hall towards the moon-shaped doors at the far end. Other than guards, there were no faeries here at this early hour, only a dozen or so goblin servants who scurried about, wiping fairy dust off the furnishings and polishing the last bit of the marble floor that did not yet gleam.

  They did not pause to enter one of the hidden servants’ passages once they stepped through the moon-shaped doors, but instead continued to stride along the rich red carpeted private hallways. Members of the king’s extended family shuffled towards the dining hall, many wearing little more than the simple shifts they had slept in. Most turned aside, avoiding him and his lieutenants, but a few crossed their arms and glared, spreading their butterfly wings as if that would make them appear more menacing.

  He ignored them, marching past as if they did not exist, resisting the impulse to let his dragonfly wings flare out. He would not let them goad him like they had in his youth. Soon enough, the dragons would come and the fools would all be screaming for his magic to protect them. He chuckled quietly to himself.

  How will I respond when that day comes?

  He almost paused. If that day came, he would be defending his wife’s family, if the dragons could find his home. He might even be begging for peace.

  I must convince Finaarva to end this war!

  That thought did make him stutter-step.

  “My lord?” asked Morvyn.

  He waved them off, continuing his march. The entrance to Finaarva’s meeting chamber lay just ahead, a guard standing at attention on either side of the double doors. How could he convince the king?

  At their approach, each guard pulled open a door and the scent of hot honey cakes and warm aster nectar greeted them. The room buzzed with chatter, a dozen armored faeries already present, and he realized the entire war council would be attending rather than some private meeting.

  Two steps in and he stopped suddenly. A large, polished oak table shaped from a trunk of great girth dominated the room, but that was not what caught his attention. Lord Månefè stood opposite him, a sycophant on either side, and he held a baby in his arms. His rival grinned maliciously at him and he felt suddenly cold. The tiny child was so out of place at a war co
uncil. There could be only one possible answer.

  “Ah, Lord Changeling!” exclaimed Månefè in his effeminate voice, his violet eyes sparkling. Dark circles still remained, but they were notably fainter than before. “You’ve finally arrived.”

  “I’d greet you more properly, but, as a proud grandfather, I wanted to introduce my newest grandson to you. Tigano, meet Arawn.” The tall, black-haired man tilted the baby up to better show it off.

  It was all he could do to not turn and run. Månefè not only knew this was not his true grandson, he knew exactly where the baby came from and the magic that had placed Pwyll in his daughter’s arms.

  Suddenly, the dark sorcery lunged within him at his own magic, a wild beast wounded and cornered. Månefè’s lifeforce wanted loose and he realized that beginning the spell reversal before coming to this meeting had been a mistake.

  “Are you well, Lord Changeling?” Månefè asked, his voice saccharine. Tigano realized he was half bent over as if sucker punched, and forced himself back to his full height, willing the bars his own magic provided to reform their cell around the dark sorcery.

  Before he could respond, Finaarva marched in, his broad chest oiled so that his chiseled muscles stood out like an ancient Celt warrior. His breechcloth was a rich grey fur, a flouting of his magical prowess that he would dare put on an animal skin, and his beautiful black-tipped orange wings rose high above his flowing blond mane, giving the impression that he towered above them all.

  Striding immediately to Månefè’s side, the king took the baby into his arms.

  “Such a beautiful boy! Do you not agree, Lord Changeling?”

  Tigano’s heart stopped. Finaarva knew as well.

  His heart started beating again and he bowed his head slightly. “I am certain the child is as beautiful as his mother, Lord Månefè,” he acquiesced, carefully masking his bitterness. Whatever the king and his rival had planned for this meeting, his support had just been bought in exchange for their silence. He wondered how great the cost would be, and what chance he could now have at continuing the spell reversal.