Dragon Unleashed

by Grace Draven

She regarded him for a long, terrifying moment. “And how is your child? The daughter born without arms. She must be hideous to behold.”

  Horrified, he lost the ability to speak for a moment. Dalvila didn’t care one whit for anyone but herself. This was a prelude to a warning. Some measure of his horror must have revealed itself in his face, because her chilly smile widened.

  Hers was a question layered in traps. Revealing any affection for someone would give her even more power over him. Manufacture false contempt for Estred’s physical shortcomings, and Dalvila would see it as mockery of her own disfigurement. She wouldn’t hesitate to punish him—and Estred—for the insult.

  “Some have expressed their discomfort when they see her, Your Greatness,” he said. “As her father, the lack doesn’t bother me. She’s a child with a child’s interest. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  A flicker of admiration for his noncommittal answer passed over Dalvila’s features, and Gharek exhaled the breath he held. “And your aid to me can only help her later.”

  “Yes, Your Greatness.” Serving this vile woman was simply a means to an end. They both knew it.

  Her lethal smile became a smirk, and she ran a slender finger down his arm. It took colossal effort for him not to recoil. “I approve,” she said in a purring voice. “There are those who’d find such a child unique. A delicacy. You would do well to find the draga as soon as possible and bring it to me.” She patted her bodice where the mother-bond nestled. “I’ll keep this safe until then. Don’t make me regret my patience, Gharek.”

  Her gown’s long hem, made filthy from the muck of the prison floors, hissed across the polished marble beneath her feet as she walked away. Gharek, bent low in a bow, swallowed back a hatred that nearly made him forget all reason and plant a knife in Dalvila’s back. Reason won over hatred. He’d be dead before he took the first step, shot full of arrows or stabbed by the watching guards who lined the corridor. And it would be Estred who paid the price for his treason. His guts twisted into knots at the thought. Her punishment would make what happened to the man in the cells below look like child’s play.

  The last time a courtier had forgotten his place and displeased the empress, she’d had him decapitated and his head mounted on a puppeteer’s stick. For the next week, she used the grotesque apparatus to address the court, maneuvering the hidden wires and hinges embedded in the head’s mouth and jaw so that it moved up and down by means of a lever she controlled with her hand. For Dalvila, it had been a source of great fun and entertainment. For a court numbed by years of witnessing her excesses and cruelties, it had been a horrifying reminder that their empress possessed a thirst for the sadistic that defied measure. Gharek had no intention of becoming a rotting mouthpiece perched on a stick.

  He returned home, shaken but resolved not only to complete his assigned task but to do so in a way that would change his daughter’s life.

  The courtyard hosted two occupants enjoying the sun and the flowers when he arrived. Or at least the servant set to watch the old woman sitting on a nearby bench was enjoying them. The crone didn’t notice. She didn’t notice anything, didn’t say anything, just sat silent wherever someone placed her and stared unseeing at whatever was in front of her. Gharek glanced at the housemaid. “Has she said anything?” He’d asked this same question several times over the past three days.

  The maid gave him the same answer as all the others. “No, master. Not a word.”

  He crouched in front of the old woman, staring into blank eyes whose gaze saw through him. “Where’s Estred?” he asked the maid.

  “With the beggar, master.”

  Gharek’s mouth lifted at one corner. His staff still hadn’t accepted Estred’s nurse into their fold, wondering why their employer would bring a lice-ridden beggar woman off Domora’s streets to care for his daughter. He owed them no explanation. “Fetch Siora,” he said. “And stay to keep Estred company until I send her back.”

  The maid bowed and left to do his bidding. Alone in the courtyard with the old woman, Gharek reached into his tunic, pulling out the real mother-bond. Made of polished ivory, sharpened along one edge, and engraved in glowing sigils, it pulsed in his hand. It wasn’t quite the same as when he had found it on this woman’s person, made fractionally smaller by the splinters he’d shaved off its curve to have infused into the bone of a bear. The Maesor market wasn’t the only place that dealt in black market magical items; it was just the biggest. Gharek had no doubt Dalvila had turned the artifact he’d given her over to her sages, those men who practiced sorcery in the empress’s service and were therefore exempt from the punishments leveled against the general populace for practicing the same. Exempt at least until a morning when Dalvila awoke and arbitrarily decided it was a fine day to immolate a sage as part of her breakfast amusements. While they lived, they’d serve her not in the capacity of counselors like the sorcerers of the old courts, but as the equivalents of hounds or poison eaters. He’d wager they were inspecting the copycat bone he’d turned over to Dalvila, casting all sorts of spells on it to verify its nature. Gharek was thorough, with the financial means to enlist and reward a skilled counterfeiter. It was a shame he could only use the man’s services once, but the risk of future extortion was too great. He’d pocketed the fake and left the dead counterfeiter in the alley where they’d met.

  He waved the true mother-bond in front of the crone’s face. “Will you not speak, grandmother, and tell me who this belongs to?”

  She said nothing, moved not at all except for the involuntary blink of her eyes.

  Gharek studied her, his thoughts whirling. He’d crossed paths with this woman by happy accident, spotting her flitting through the narrow alleys that mapped a warren of mazes throughout Domora. Gharek had first doubted his own eyes. No one had that kind of luck, but that day he did. Despite what he’d told Koopman, he’d enlisted his own watchers to keep an eye out for the three people Koopman’s macabre trap shadow had revealed in its weave. So far they’d not found the older man or the young woman who looked like him. But Gharek had found the crone.

  Capturing her had been easy, holding her as she tried to shred the skin off his face and arms far more difficult. He’d cuffed her into unconscious submission, tied her hands with his tunic sash, and carried her back to his house. While he was loath to bring any of his business home, it was the place where he wielded the greatest control. He’d put her in one of the storage pantries off the outdoor kitchen at first and kept watch until she wakened.

  He used the time to search her person, looking for clues as to her identity and her relationship to the mother-bond he sought. His breath had wheezed out his nostrils when he discovered the very prize he was searching for tucked away in a hidden pocket sewn into the folds of her skirt, and in that moment Gharek changed course from cat’s-paw to traitor of the crown. At least it would be so in Dalvila’s eyes, should she ever discover his deception. Not all had moved in his favor. The crone had gained consciousness but not awareness, as if her abduction had so terrorized her, she’d retreated from the reality of the world. He was certain his strike had not caused this twilight existence, nor did he believe she pretended this state. It would be far too hard to keep up over an extended period without slipping, and she hadn’t slipped once. Hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved, and only responded to basic commands. But she’d carried a living mother-bond in her dress pocket, and somewhere behind that blank stare, she held the knowledge of whom it belonged to. Telling him wasn’t a necessity. He had the one thing guaranteed to bring a draga to his front door. That in itself was both a boon and a risk. Gharek played a dangerous game, one he couldn’t afford to lose.

  “You summoned me, master?”

  He glanced up, surprised to find Siora standing there. He wasn’t accustomed to people sneaking up on him, purposefully or otherwise, yet the quiet Siora had appeared before him on soundless feet, studying him with a gaze that never failed to
raise the hairs on his nape. Had she not once saved his wayward daughter from a stoning in the streets, he wouldn’t have brought her here. Were it not for Estred’s abiding affection for her, she wouldn’t have stayed.

  Gharek nodded toward the crone. “Has our guest said anything to you or Estred while I’ve been gone?” For all that he found Siora eerie, he also found her honest. He didn’t trust his longtime servants not to lie to him, but for reasons he couldn’t explain—call it instinct—he trusted Siora to tell him the truth.

  “Not a word,” she said. “Though her lips moved as if she tried to speak. I did my best to coax her to talk, but to no avail. She walks the Dream Road, I think.”

  Gharek agreed. Some who suffered through prolonged tortures escaped their agony within the sanctuary of their own minds. People called it walking the Dream Road. While he hadn’t tortured this woman other than to subject her to his cook’s meals, which weren’t actually that bad, his abduction must have triggered a long-forgotten horror to resurface. She had retreated to the Dream Road and was still there.

  “Keep trying,” he said. He knew in his gut that if anyone had a chance of waking the crone from her state and coaxing her to talk, it was Siora. The eerie drawn to the oddity maybe. Whatever it was, Gharek needed it to work. If the crone wouldn’t or couldn’t talk, she was still bait to draw in the free trader man in hiding or the young woman who was obviously related to him. In turn, they’d share with Gharek, willingly or otherwise, what they knew of the draga that hunted the mother-bond.

  If he could get to the draga before the empress did, he could bargain for some of his valuable blood. Not much. Just a swallow. Nothing like the empress, who planned to bathe in it in the hope of regaining the arm she had lost and retaining her youthful beauty. Gharek wanted just enough to give Estred the arms she’d been born without and the life she was robbed of because of her disfigurement.

  He dismissed Siora and sat down on the bench beside the still crone. Her hands, weathered by the sun and gnarled from hard work, rested in her lap like fallen birds. Gharek lifted one and placed the mother-bond in her palm. Instantly, her fingers curled around it and her body twitched. He surged to his feet when a single word escaped her lips in a hoarse whisper.

  “Malachus.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Are you certain you want to travel with him to Domora, Halani? He’s revealed himself as a sorcerer. That makes his company as dangerous to keep in the Empire as yours.”

  Halani paused in stuffing her one satchel with basic supplies: clothes, shoes, a comb, and a small apothecary box. She left the book, ink, and quill Malachus had given her in the wagon. There’d be no reading lessons on this trip.

  She gave Kursak a smile meant to reassure him. “I’m sure. Except for his anger over our barrow raiding, he’s the same man he was before the lightning strike. I trust him. He’s had a soft spot for Mama since they first met. He might not have much use for me any longer, but he’ll walk through fire to help her.”

  The wagon master placed a hand on her arm. Regret turned down the corners of his mouth. “I owe you an apology, one long overdue. One your uncle owes you as well.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “We take your skills for granted because you’ve shared them with us all your life. I couldn’t give two shits if Malachus has his prick in a knot over us raiding that barrow, but he’s right about one thing. You don’t shove your loved ones into dangerous situations just for the sake of a trinket or a coin. If any of us barrow raid in the future, we won’t be telling you about it, so you won’t feel obligated. Besides, after this last confrontation with a fen hag, it’s lost its luster for me.”

  Halani hugged him. “I chose to go, though I’m glad you’ll exclude me in the future. I hope you abandon it too, but Uncle won’t be so easy to convince.”

  Kursak squeezed her until her ribs creaked. “You don’t worry about Hamod. With Asil missing, he has a lot to answer for and shaky ground to stand on. I’ll handle him when the time comes.”

  There had been many times over the years when Halani wished with all her heart that Kursak was their principal wagon master instead of Hamod. This was one of those times. “Tell Kadena and Yeris they’re welcome to use my wagon while I’m gone.”

  “They’ll appreciate that. Last time I was in their wagon, I thought I’d stumbled into a rabbit warren.”

  Malachus waited for her with Batraza near the caravan, his austere features revealing nothing of his thoughts. “Ready?”

  She nodded and handed him her satchel to secure to the saddle. Halani bid her farewells and promised to deliver messages of well-wishes to Asil when she and Malachus found her. No one said “if.” To even consider that outcome pressed the weight of an overloaded wagon on Halani’s chest, making it hard to breathe but oh so easy to weep.

  Malachus mounted first then offered his arm so she could swing onto Batraza’s back. Malachus coaxed the mare from a fast walk to a gallop, and they left the caravan behind.

  They reached the end of the road by late afternoon in stony silence, except for the beat of Batraza’s hooves as she kept a steady trot. Halani recognized the crossroads as one the caravan had traveled before when they traded farther south and east in Domora.

  “We’ll walk for a while,” Malachus told Halani. “Batraza can cool down, and I can give her water. I hear a stream nearby.” He pointed to a stand of trees just off the path.

  Halani used the opportunity to answer nature’s call, stretch her legs, and wash her hands and face in the cool stream that ran where Malachus indicated. She sat on its banks, trying to clear her mind of worry and fear for Asil. She had to stay clearheaded so she could plan the best and fastest way to find her mother. Hamod’s welfare troubled her only briefly. He wasn’t her first concern. Asil was everything.

  She watched Malachus lead Batraza and stand beside the mare as she drank. He avoided Halani’s gaze. She could apologize to him until she was blue in the face. It would still be a waste of breath.

  He spoke only after Batraza finished drinking and only with a single word. “Ready?”

  Halani rose to follow him, and soon they were on the road once more, riding for the nearby village of Icsom’s Retreat.

  It was her turn to speak as they approached the village’s outskirts. The sky had taken on the lavender hue of twilight, and in the west the sun blazed a fiery line across the horizon. “Icsom’s Retreat isn’t much more than a way station for drovers, despite its nearness to Domora. There’s an inn with rooms to let, though I’ve heard for the luxury of a roof over your head, you’ll sleep on sheets of questionable cleanliness and battle legions of fleas. But you can get a hot meal. There’s also a stable, but it won’t be much good to us with Batraza.”

  Malachus’s reply was flat. “The stream runs not far from the village. There are cleaner, less vermin-ridden places on the forest floor to sleep if you don’t mind going without the roof. We can leave for Domora once dawn breaks.”

  “I don’t mind.” She bit back a sigh of relief. She’d take a night sleeping under the stars any day over a skin-crawling stay in a filthy inn.

  He found a pleasant spot in the shadow of a willow tree not far from the stream’s edge. Halani scoured the surrounding area for sticks and branches to use as firewood while Malachus untied the satchels and unsaddled Batraza. He removed her bridle, leaving on the harness and lead rope before sending her off to graze on the thick grass growing under the trees. He and Halani worked in tandem in utter silence, sharing and switching tasks when necessary with the smooth transition of a couple with long practice in such work. She found it an odd thing and a natural one too. If they worked this well together while in the midst of hostilities, she could only imagine how well they might do together were they friends again, or lovers. The last made her close her eyes, and she forced down the sharp regret for what was lost.

  Their supper consisted of road rations
warmed over the fire—simple, filling, forgettable. Halani passed Malachus a cup of tea she’d brewed. The scent of mint and verbena drifted on the air, and he gave the cup an appreciative sniff and her a short “Thank you,” before focusing his attention on the cup’s contents.

  After a full day of it, the tension frayed her nerves and tested her patience. Halani wasn’t naturally a chatty person, and she appreciated a comfortable quiet the same way she appreciated a good cup of tea. And while her current cup of tea was good, this quiet was anything but comfortable. “At some point, Malachus, we’ll have to talk to each other so we can plan how we’ll find my mother in Domora.”

  “I already have a plan.” He drained his tea and set the cup aside. “The lightning showed me Asil sitting in a walled garden. It’s a good starting point for searching the city.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “That’s very little to go by. Just how many walled gardens are in Domora?”

  “Not as many as you might think. Those kinds of courtyards are luxuries reserved for the wealthy, especially in a city where space is precious and therefore costly. This rules out all the public spaces and most of the living quarters in any city. I doubt Domora is any different. The garden I saw her in was manicured but of modest size, so that excludes the grand estates of the Empire’s more powerful nobility and the palace itself. Homes with gardens like these won’t line the royal avenue but be nearby.”

  Halani paused with her teacup partway to her lips, astonished. “How often have you hunted for lost people?”

  The possibility of a smile brushed his mouth before fading. “Often enough to know how to start a productive search.”

  His explanation eased some of her anxiousness. “That’s good to know. And the girl without arms? I’d never wish that hardship on a child, but will it help your search? Surely people would remember her if you asked them?”

  Malachus nodded. “They would, and if she belonged to a family with connections, they’d waste no time in telling the family that a stranger was asking about such a child. Whoever has Asil would be quick to move her elsewhere.”