by Renee Wildes
“There are many non-human peoples in this world—elves, trolls, dwarves, goblins…and dragons. Only men would be so arrogant as to think otherwise. Please do not make the same mistake.” He paused. “Who knows but all this came together for you to learn the truth of your being? Would you go through life not fitting in but never knowing why?”
She flinched. Could the Hand be that manipulative? Had Mag died for naught other than a lesson? She recalled the old tree sprite, the woman in the prison. Dragon’s blood, that let her see Jalad for what he truly was.
“Would you hide and deny forever who and what you are?” Loren continued relentlessly. “Trust your own good sense. You know what I say is true.”
Dara swallowed hard, took a deep shuddering breath. His words made sense in a horrible sort of way. Her temper. Her love of combat. Her disaffinity for other animals. Her need to protect others and her intolerance of bullies. Now she had a reason why she didn’t fit in with the rest of the villagers.
But if she wasn’t human, then she was in the same danger of persecution as the elves. Would she spend the rest of her days hiding behind barriers too?
“Nay. It is not a dragon’s nature to hide.” Loren’s voice was sad. “It should not be the elves’, either.”
Curse empathy. It must be a heavy burden to feel everyone around. “Can you turn it off?”
He shrugged. “Shields help, but nay. It is more help than hindrance, though, and I am used to it.” He smiled. “There you go, worrying about others again. We were discussing you, not me.”
She didn’t want to hear any more and leaned forward to brush his lips with hers. Anything to make him stop talking. She slid her hands through his hair, holding him to her so she could tease his tongue with hers. For a moment Loren’s hold tightened, and he returned her kiss with a desperation that almost matched her own. Then he groaned and sat back, untangling her fingers from his hair and setting her from him.
“Nay,” he said. “We have not finished this discussion.”
Dara growled. He didn’t even blink. Fine. “Your Granna Lorelei mentioned a torque…”
Loren went very still. “Aye. The blood torque. It has belonged to at least six draconian queens of which we know. You would be the seventh generation. It can guide its wearer with information and the past memories of the others, but it is also a focus stone for magical power, and that makes it something of which to be cautious.”
So her being a dragon didn’t scare him, but a mere necklace did? Strange man. “Why do they call it the blood torque?”
“It was created by your family ages ago; dragons are very long-lived. It has been kept in and keyed to your family. It shall work for no other. But if you do not accept it, your descendants would be unable to use it. The line would be broken.”
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “I have so little from my real family, and I know even less. I must confess I’m…curious. Where is it kept?”
“Warded in Granna’s treasury tower. Being a dragon piece, water magic is an effective block.”
“I would like to see it, afore I lose my nerve.” She glared at him. “I’m making no promises beyond that.”
He nodded and rose, held out a hand to her. “Come.”
Her mind and soul were in such turmoil she barely noticed the route, only that they climbed up and up and up a winding stone staircase for what seemed like forever. Too soon they arrived at the top of the tower, and stood afore a solid wooden door barred by a bronze bolt as long as her forearm.
Dara took a deep breath of dry dusty air and drew back the latch. The door pivoted open on well-oiled hinges. She glanced at Loren.
His eyes glowed in lamplight. “Whenever you are ready.”
She stepped through the doorway, and something cold and wet passed over her as she entered the room. It was a horrible clammy sensation, suffocating, in its own way worse than the iron- poisoning, and she shuddered. “What was that?”
“Water wards.”
Everywhere jewels shone in the flickering lamplight. Deep red rubies reminded her of drops of fresh blood. The clear bottomless blue of sapphires reflected the ocean at the edge of the world. Pieces of the moon had fallen to earth as gleaming pearls. The clarity of emeralds and the smoky, mysterious haze of jade hinted at every shade of forest and glen. Diamond shards of glacial ice took their color from whatever they lay closest to.
The sheer vastness of the wealth made Dara’s head swim. One stone would feed her village for a year. To the royals they were pretty trinkets. Except for…
She picked up a small jewel-encrusted dagger. It was slim and perfectly balanced. Something pulled at the edge of her consciousness; a not-quite-audible hum sent a pulse of energy skittering along under her skin. She flinched. She was getting all too used to what that particular sensation meant. Magic. The tang of metal made her mouth water, and she sneezed from the dust. The sense of age was a tangible weight on her soul.
In a trance, listening to something not-quite-music, she stretched out a hand and stepped over to an imposing side-buffet. She reached toward the small box of stamped copper, which was the sole occupant of the surface. Dara cocked her head to one side, humming under her breath as she flipped the lid up.
She caught her breath. Nestled in a bed of black silk was a gold torque, antique in style and finish, with the dulled patina of great age and a surprising neglect. A great stone glowered up at her, the dark, sullen red of drying blood.
“Feared…forgotten…so alone…” Dara no longer sensed Loren’s presence behind her. Something called, blocking him. Blocking all else. Of its own volition, the dragon within reached toward the jeweled torque. The human was unable to resist the compulsion.
“Come to usss.” Half a dozen voices echoed like a chorus in her mind. They swallowed her whole world. “For unssspeakable agesss have we awaited thee, She Kahn Androclesss. Pick usss up. Hold usss. Tell usss thy name and thy most sssecret desiresss. Join with usss. We are come from afore, the power which wasss, isss and shalt be. We are thy mother’sss, thine, thy daughter’sss. Thou art oursss. Ssso it hassst ever been. Ssso it shalt alwaysss be.”
Dara again began humming in an eerie minor key. She drew the blade across her palm and picked up the torque with the injured hand. Her blood flowed across the sleeping stone, swirling around it…and abruptly within. “I am Dara Kahn Androcles shena Sheena Kahn Androcles shena Lena Kahn Androcles.”
The stone glowed red with the infusion of fresh draconian blood, a willing sacrifice and offering to power. With the true-name a new queen was made and bound. Still entranced, Dara drew up the torque. Of its own volition, the gold wound itself around her neck and fused solid and seamless. The stone flared with the beat of Dara’s heart and then stilled, its eerie glow fading.
The voices hit her all at once, a chorus of chaos and madness. Images of times long gone, of countries once visited, of faces of those long dead. Gold eyes, red hair and flames. They were her. She was them. A never-ending circle. An unbroken chain. “Hear usss, know usss.” Too much, too sudden, it ripped Dara from the here-and-now, and she spun away in a maelstrom not of her own making. She struggled to breathe, to focus, to remember who she was…
A sharp white light glowed in the back of her mind. “Dara, hear me.” The male voice was calm, but Dara sensed the urgency beneath his tone, the effort it took for him—Loren—to reach her through the voices. “I am here. Focus on me. Take my hand. Here.” A glowing white hand appeared. Desperate, she reached out to grasp it with her mind.
The voices faded, enough to regain her grip on herself. “Loren?”
His physical hands tightened around hers. “Hang on, Dara. Stay with me. Focus on my voice, my hands. You are stronger than they are, warrior. Focus. Send them back into the stone.”
Dara focused her will into erecting a barrier betwixt herself and the voices. They twisted, protesting, resisting. As they faded away, her strength grew. Anger blazed bright and brittle. “You have no control over me.
Back down. Sleep.”
Surprise. Silence. Grudging respect. Peace.
Dara swayed and blinked, like a sleepwalker awakening. She opened her hand, the injured one.
There was no cut, not even a scar.
“Dara?” Loren broke in. “Are you all right?”
She focused on his worried eyes. Those beautiful green eyes, like the first new leaves of spring. “It’s awaited me.” The heat swirled around the edges of her consciousness, just out of reach. Like a vivid dream after waking, fading and elusive in the details.
Footsteps sounded behind them. Dara turned to face Cedric, Pari and Lorelei. Lorelei spoke first. “I felt the breaking of the wards. Thou hast been accepted by the blood torque into the royal draconian house. Thou art now bound to the purpose of the stone, as its power is now bound to thee.”
Dara trembled, leaning into Loren as he wrapped his arms around her. “It chose me.”
Cedric nodded. “The blood of thy ancestresses. Blood magic in its purest, and one of its more benign, forms. Mystria, Vanna, Rala, Ilya, Lena, Sheena, and now thee—bound in an unbroken bloodline to the stone. Each is able to draw on the power of the stone and the memories of the others because of the blood. The stone can bond with all through the line of blood because each of thee is a part of the same whole.”
“To what point and purpose, my lord? It is alive. It senses. It feels. It thinks.” Dara frowned, troubled, as her fingers caressed the stone. “It knows me.”
“Thou canst summon them by name,” Lorelei assured her. “They possess vast knowledge and great power, and canst help thee. Thou hast the strength and discipline to make them do thy bidding. Thou shalt not lose control again.”
Pari spoke up. “If thou hast any doubts as to thy heritage, come with me.” He led her to a mirror. “Be not afraid. See what thou art.”
Dara gasped and started to tremble. Her eyes were their normal gold, but more slanted and glowing. It was the change in her pupils she noticed most. They were no longer round, no longer human. Slit, but not vertically like a cat’s or an elf’s. Horizontally, like a dragon’s. Her golden skin gleamed in the lamplight, but she saw the faint patterns of not-quite-scales. She gulped, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m a monster.”
The voices protested with savage indignation. “Thou art beautiful and unique. The bessst of both.”
Loren put an arm about her waist and met her gaze in the mirror. “You are special, Dara. We are one, remember? I know you—your strength, your compassion. I am here for you. I shall help you through this. They are your family. Do not fear them, and they shall respect you.”
“What was that of memories?” Dara asked. “Can I learn of my father from my mother’s memories?”
“Just those memories made prior to binding with the stone,” Cedric said. “Sheena bound to the stone afore she left for mortal lands. I am sorry.”
Her shoulders slumped, then she regrouped. “Well, half is better than naught.” ’Twas more than she’d had afore she entered this room. “I think I’ll return to my rooms.”
“Thou wished to learn of thy mother’s family,” Pari said. “Now is thy chance. Get to know them.”
“Are you certain you do not want company?” Loren asked.
Dara shook her head and stared at the bloody knife in her hand. She didn’t want to be alone, and yet she was. For all Loren’s support, she was alone. The last of her kind. “For this, I want to be alone.”
Her head and heart ached. There was no denying the visible proof. She was not human. How did she begin to come to grips with the fact her whole life was one big lie? What kind of future could they have, she and Loren, when everything about them was a continuous circle of omissions, half-truths and outright falsehoods? Relationships needed trust for a solid foundation to grow upon.
If only it were a dream. All she’d have to do was wake up.
Chapter Eleven
It had been a long, sleepless night with the voices and visions in her head. She missed Loren. If only she’d said aye. To be alone was exhausting. Why couldn’t they have been two ordinary people? Prince and peasant, elf and dragon, immortal and mortal—what did they have in common asides a demon and a mission? Bleary-eyed, Dara looked around Justice Hall and sighed, tucking her knees under her chin. She’d fished a verdant green tunic of twice-combed wool and hose of finely spun undyed wool from the back of her wardrobe. Almost familiar, yet softer, finer. Too perfect. Verdeen had somehow missed them among all the dresses. Dara’s head ached. How had she sunk so low, so fast, hiding from her maid?
She shuddered. Royalty. How could anyone live like this? No privacy? All the demands, the conflicts? Having to always put the interests of others afore your own? Not unlike what Loren had described as a guardian-mentality. Maybe they did have something in common, after all. Not enough, but something. What did Cedric do for fun? Why in the Lady’s name would anyone want the job? She knew why Loren spent so little time here. She’d no idea why Deane found it appealing.
“Power. Look at Jalad. Face the darknesss of Loren’sss truth and learn from it. Tegan chose darknesss.”
She still wasn’t used to their presence. “Nay—”
“Thou knowsss thisss to be true.”
“Get out of my mind.” She was so tired, but she couldn’t sleep. Dara sat in one of the wingchairs under a giant portrait of king somebody-or-other. She couldn’t keep them all straight. The chairs were straight-backed and armless and should have been uncomfortable. But the cushions were covered in a velvety purple and seemed to mold themselves to the sitter so they oozed comfort. Like the clothing she wore, like everything else in the elven realm, too perfect to be real.
This land, this palace swallowed her soul until she didn’t know who she was anymore. She had to get away. She had to go home.
Footsteps sounded on the marble tile. Dara looked up to see Alani striding toward her. Well, make that almost everything perfect. “What do you want?”
Alani stopped in front of her. “You. Gone.”
“Thou asssked.” Their ire rose at the presence of a rival.
“I’m not a rival.” Dara flushed and bristled. She wasn’t up to dealing with would-be princesses right now. “Now’s not a good time.”
Alani’s chin rose and she stared down her long, aristocratic nose. “Fact outdoes rumor. You are a filthy half-breed, mortal.”
Dara’s blood boiled at the slur. Fanny’s distant childhood warning, “’Tis but words, ignore them” was drowned out by a newfound fury, swifter and stronger than any she’d ever known. “I am the daughter of queens. Tell me, what are you?”
“Loren was pledged to me in childhood by our fathers.”
Dara bared her teeth. Alani didn’t deserve Loren. “Mistakes happen. That was afore Loren met me,” she said. “Loren bound himself to me by life’s blood and Lady’s vows.” Her skin heated with a rage not entirely her own. “You’re too late. Where I come from, we don’t share.”
“You think to hold him with your whorish stench, mortal? Sensuri?” Alani edged closer. “We shall be producing heirs for this kingdom long after your rotting corpse returns to the dust of your pathetic and savage world.”
She was sick and tired of being called a whore, in any language. “That’s Paulette’s job. Deane is the heir, not Loren.” Sadness for Loren mixed with anger. Alani had grown up with him, but she didn’t know him at all. How could Alani think he would ever be happy with her? “If all you want is to marry a king, then you waste your time. That’s the last thing Loren wants.”
“What do you know of what he wants?” Alani swung her hand. “He does not even know what he wants.”
Quicker than thought, Dara blocked the blow. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” She leaped from the chair and shoved past her attacker to give herself some room. “I know more of him after a week than you’ve learned in a lifetime. Loren’s already given himself to me, and I keep what’s mine.”
No sooner had she spoken than
she knew how Alani was bound to interpret that. No surprise then Alani screeched and launched herself at Dara. But she tripped on her own skirts and all she got was a handful of red hair.
“A little overdressed for a brawl, aren’t we?” A red haze threatened to obscure Dara’s vision and she fought it down. ‘Never attack in anger,’ Rufus’ spirit—or whatever—counseled. Too late. Although, to be honest, she hadn’t attacked. Alani had started it.
“Man’s clothes, man’s body.”
“You wish.”
“Ahem.” A familiar male voice made both women freeze. “A bit early in the day for a taproom brawl, ladies.” Cedric’s eyes were leagues beyond frosty. “Alani, I shalt speak to Raun on this matter. Fighting with an honored guest?”
Alani’s face fell. Her body drooped as she slunk off.
“As for thee…” He turned the full weight of his gaze on Dara.
Her chin rose. The fire in her blood burned away his censure. “That colorless cow started it. You’re a fool to tie Loren to that—”
“Enough.” Cedric’s glare froze the very thought from her mind. “Now. Thou saved the hide of my overadventurous second son. For this, thou hast my gratitude.”
“You’re welcome,” Dara gritted out through clenched teeth. The voices roared in her mind. She tried to force her body to move, but remained frozen in place. Her mortal human blood was no match for his ancient elven will.
“I welcome thee as a daughter into my home and this is how thou repayest my hospitality?” Cedric raised a hand, and her voice failed. Her true helplessness afore the high king of the elves penetrated the green cloud of jealousy. All protest died at the ice in his eyes.
Cedric lowered his hand and raised an eyebrow. “What to do with thee?” He sighed.
“I’m not a child.”
“Thou acts afore thinking. That is the nature of a youngling.”
His too-reasonable tone rankled. The voices howled their indignation.
