To forget Nairi.
"Bloody whore arses, I said wine!" he shouted, pushing himself up in bed. He blinked, shook his head, and tried to bring the room into focus.
The Bad Cats was a gaudy, stinking mess. Pastel curtains hid the windows, cheap wool woven to look like silk. Murals covered the walls and ceilings, depicting amorous acts and their cost. Each wall showed the woman and man in different positions, the price scribbled below the painted figures. Upon the ceiling, two women—painted in peachy pastels—were pleasing their client together. Leresy had chosen the ceiling's offering; it was the most expensive, but his pockets were deep, and his pain was deeper.
"My lord!" said Dawn, the golden-haired woman to his right. She kissed his ear. "Give your attention to me, not your cups."
At his left, Dusk—an olive-skinned beauty of the east—stroked his hair. "Give me your love, my lord, not her."
Leresy did not know their true names. He did not care. They were nothing but cheap flesh. They were nothing but filthy, base, false mockery. Yet he snarled, tossed his mug aside, and took them again. He closed his eyes while he used them. He did not want to see their flushed faces, their eyes fluttering with the mock pleasure he paid them to feign. He did not want to see these murals around him, their colors so bright they hurt his eyes. He moved in the bed, and Dawn and Dusk moved with him, and behind his closed eyelids, Leresy saw her again.
Nairi.
"She killed her," he whispered and his eyes stung. "My twin did it. Kaelyn. She killed her. And now I'm dying too."
Dawn and Dusk were moaning so loudly—stars, they sounded like hogs in heat!—they did not hear. Leresy let them keep doing their work. He no longer knew where he lay. In the fog of wine, he was back in Castra Luna. He flew upon the wind, a red dragon roaring fire, and she flew at his side, an iron dragon with mocking green eyes. Below them spread his dominion—his first fort, a mighty outpost, a beacon of civilization in the wilderness.
"And they took it," he whispered and clenched his fists. His eyes stung. "The boy Rune and my sister Kaelyn. They took everything from me."
His fists trembled. He saw it again—the horde of the Resistance howling his way, and the bodies of legionaries raining around him, torn to pieces, entrails dangling and limbs severed.
Nairi was gone. His fort was gone. His hope for inheritance was gone. All that remained was wine and cheap whores.
"Enough!" he shouted and opened his eyes.
He rose from the bed, shoving Dawn and Dusk off. They fell to the floor, naked, and gazed up at him. Fear filled their eyes.
"My lord?" Dusk asked, her raven hair spilling across her shoulders.
"I said wine, damn it!" he shouted, stepped toward her, and slapped her. "I demanded wine, and you ignored me. Is there no more wine in this whorehouse?"
Dusk recoiled, clutching her struck cheek. Dawn rushed to her and embraced her.
Disgusting harlots, Leresy thought and spat. He grabbed his clothes from the chair, dressed himself, and fished through his pocket for coins. He tossed them a silver each.
"You're not even worth copper," he said and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Before him, the hallway swayed. Leresy had to hold the wall to walk. Everything spun around him. Other patrons moved from room to room, and women ran naked and giggling, but they were only streaks of color to Leresy, only ghosts of sound. He had to get out of here. This whole house was a nest of disease and filth. The walls were spinning and closing in around him; soon they would crush him.
I have to get out!
He staggered downstairs, falling the last three steps and banging his hip hard. A girl tried to help him up. He struck her, sending her sprawling, and pulled himself to his feet. Holding the wall, he made his way to the front doors and stumbled outside into the night.
The cold autumn air washed over him. His wound, an ugly stitched gash across his face, blazed with new agony. It was here, at this very doorstep, that his twin had slashed him. Whenever he stood here, the wound flared.
"I will cut you too, Kaelyn," he hissed into the shadows. "And I will cut you, Rune, and I will cut you, Shari, and I will cut this whole damn world until we all drown in blood."
Tears filled his eyes.
She scarred me and she killed you, Nairi, he thought, and a lump filled his throat. She burned your corpse and buried you in a mass grave, and now you're gone. Now I'm nothing.
He tried to remember every detail of Nairi—her short yellow hair that fell across her brow, her green eyes that were always so haughty and teasing, her pink lips and their crooked smile, her body clad in leather and steel, and mostly… mostly her power.
With his wife fallen, her father was beyond his reach. Lord Herin Blackrose, lord of the Axehand Order, would no longer serve him.
His love. His fort. His power. His face.
"You took them all from me, twin sister," he whispered and tasted his tears. "You will hurt so much when I find you. You will scream so loudly."
He stumbled through the city streets, holding alley walls for support. The smell of frying onions rose from one brick house, invading his nostrils like poison. Leresy fell to his knees, crawled toward a ditch, and retched. He had eaten only scraps all day; he now lost them.
He righted himself, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and kept walking. His father would be furious to see him, a prince of the realm, stumbling alone through the darkness. Princes should march ahead of brigades, soldiers and might surrounding them. Leresy smirked and tightened his cloak around him.
Anything that upsets you, old man, is good.
Finally he saw his new fortress in the distance, a shard of black rising from a dark square. A thousand legionaries served in Castellum Tal, a milanx of battle-hardened men. Leresy snorted.
Men! Who wanted to serve with a thousand sweaty, hairy, disgusting men? Back at Castra Luna in the south, Leresy had commanded thousands of youths, half of them soft females only eighteen years old and frightened. So many beauties had served him—Tilla Roper with her pale cheeks, that scrawny friend of hers with the short brown hair, and so many others to conquer.
Leresy stood in the night, staring up at his new home, at this pathetic little tower with its wretched milanx hidden inside. This was no place for him. This was no fortress for a prince. Yet his father, the bastard, had insisted.
"I demand another training fort!" Leresy had shouted at court, his eyes stinging. "I will break in recruits. I—"
The emperor had only snorted, glaring down from his throne.
"I'll not have my son whoring his way through the Legions," Frey Cadigus had said. "Do you want to train female youths or bed them?"
"Father!" Leresy had cried. "I will train them. I trained the last recruits and—"
"And we saw how that ended," Frey spat. "You commanded a fort for only three moons, and it crumbled. You had a chance to mold youths into soldiers, and you proved yourself weakest among them." He snorted. "My Legions are not your brothel, boy. You will no longer serve among women; they have softened you. You will serve among men now, hardened warriors who've slain enemies in battle. Maybe they'll teach you to be a man too."
Leresy walked across the courtyard, reeling from side to side. When he reached the tower, he banged upon the doors.
"Let me in, bastards!" he howled, pounding. "This is your prince. Let me in, sons of whores!"
The sound of laughter, howls, and song wafted from behind the doors. Leresy pounded with more vigor.
"Open these doors," he shouted, voice hoarse and slurred, "or I'll flay you all and make cloaks from your skin!"
Finally the guards pulled the doors open, and Leresy stumbled into his new tower.
The grand hall swam before him, a cavern of light and sound. Soldiers banged mugs upon tabletops, singing hoarsely. A few were so deep in their cups, they were dancing upon the tables, kicking off plates and mugs. Roasted boars and jugs of wine lay everywhere. Two stray dogs ran between legs, and three whores squealed, clu
tching silks to their naked bodies and fleeing pursuing men.
"Bring me wine!" Leresy demanded, marching deeper into the hall. His boots stumbled over discarded turkey bones, smashed mugs, and a drunken soldier who lay gurgling. "Wine, sons of dogs, and lots of it!"
When he had taken command of this fortress, it had been a dull, dreary place, its men automatons who knew only to march, drill, and shout "Yes, Commander!" like trained birds. Leresy would have gone mad.
A woman ran naked toward him, holding a jug of wine. He grabbed the jug, drank deeply, and slapped the woman's backside to send her scurrying off.
This, he thought, is more like a fort for a prince.
Soon he was lying across a tabletop, pouring wine from a jug, aiming for his mouth but mostly splattering his face. His scar blazed—it was only days old—but Leresy didn't care. Pain was good. Pain made him forget.
Wine poured. Men sang. Memory faded into numbness.
Leresy's eyelids fluttered and he smiled.
A shriek tore across the hall.
"What is the meaning of this!"
The singing died at once. Silence fell across the fort.
Lying upon the tabletop, Leresy pushed himself up onto his elbows. He squinted toward the hall doors. A figure stood there, blurred and shadowed. Leresy shook his head and blinked, struggling to bring it into focus.
"Shari?" he asked, squinting.
She came marching down the hall toward him, clutching her sword. Leresy rubbed his eyes, and finally she came into focus.
Shari was ten years older than him, and as a child, Leresy had always feared her. A sadistic youth, Shari had delighted in torturing him—cutting his flesh with her knives, burning his hands upon coals, and once even locking him in a coffin for a day. Today Leresy was a grown man, but Shari still frightened him. She was a tall woman, the tallest he'd ever known, and her body was as strong as any man's; Leresy could see that even through her black armor.
And today she was furious. Her dark, curly hair bounced, her eyes flashed, and her lips peeled back, revealing sharp teeth that had bitten him many times.
"Leresy!" she shouted. "What have you done to this place?"
Leresy shook his head to clear it. Still lying upon the tabletop, he managed a grin.
"Hello, sister!" he said and raised a random mug in salute. "Would you care for some wine, some food, or perhaps a lady of the night?"
She marched toward him. Her gloved hand reached out, grabbed his hair, and tugged. Leresy yowled. Snarling, Shari dragged him across the tabletop by the hair, then slammed him down onto the floor. His hip blazed with pain.
"Ow!" he said and struggled to rise. "Stars bloody dammit, Shari, you—"
She backhanded him. White light blazed. Pain flared across his cheek.
"You will not mention the old gods," Shari hissed and clutched his throat. "You are a son of Cadigus. You serve the red spiral. You—"
"Shari, why are you here?" He shook himself free. He leaned against the tabletop, feigning nonchalance; in truth he was hiding his wobbling knees. "Don't you have any prisoners to torture, puppies to eat, or Father's arse to kiss?"
She grabbed his collar, twisted it, and began dragging him across the hall.
"It's you who'll be begging to kiss it tonight," Shari said. "He demands to speak with you. I would be less comical, Leresy, and more afraid. Very afraid."
He stumbled behind her, his wobbly legs struggling to keep up. Mugs and bones clattered around his feet. She kept dragging him, marching toward the doors.
"Shari!" he said. "Let go, damn it."
He reached for his sword but found it missing. Stars damn it! He must have left it at the brothel again. He wanted to go back and fetch it. He wanted to lie in the bed upstairs again, to make love to Dawn and Dusk, to sleep, to drink, to forget. To do anything but see his sister and father.
I want to see you again, Nairi, he thought, and tears stung his eyes. I want to die and fly with you through the halls of afterlife.
But Shari would not release him. She dragged him outside into the night.
"Shari, let me go—"
"Be silent or I'll cut out your tongue, then feed it to you."
She tossed him back, growled, and shifted into a dragon.
Blue scales clattered across her. Her body ballooned, her claws scratched the cobblestones, and her tail flailed. Flames churned behind her fangs like a smelter, and her eyes blazed like molten steel. Her wings spread out in the night—one blue and veined, the other a contraption of leather stretched over wood.
"Twisted freak," Leresy said, staring at her.
The pup Relesar, a soft boy, had ripped off her left wing. Shari had built herself this prosthetic, this mockery of true dragon glory. The wood-and-leather apparatus creaked like a sail.
"You look like a fisherman's barge, Shari!" he screamed at her, voice hoarse, and laughed. "Look at you! A freak. A joke."
She flapped her wings and rose several feet in the air. Her claws reached out. Before Leresy could even stumble back, let alone become a dragon himself, she grabbed him like an owl grabs a mouse.
"Shari!" he screamed and struggled in her grip, but couldn't free himself. He tried to shift now, but her claws constricted him, keeping him in human form.
"Silence, brother," she said. "I'm taking you to him."
She flew. Her wings beat in unison, her true wing and her mechanical monstrosity. Leresy squirmed in her grip, screaming and cursing and spitting. The city rolled beneath him, a whirlpool of black buildings, streaming lights, and streets like veins in a rotted heart. Leresy gagged again, spewing wine into the sky. His head tilted back, he moaned, and he saw it there.
The ground lay above him, the sky below. The palace of Tarath Imperium hung like a stalactite, a thousand feet tall. It ended with a claw of black, jagged battlements. Torches flickered across it, and dragons circled the tower like flies around the hand of a corpse.
Tarath Imperium. The greatest tower in the empire. The home of his father.
It was the very last place Leresy wanted to go.
"We would have ruled this place together, Nairi," he whispered, head dangling. "It could have been ours. It should have been ours. But she betrayed us." He growled and wept. "Kaelyn betrayed us. We will kill her, Nairi! We will kill her."
His eyes fluttered shut. He barely noticed Shari shrieking, descending, and carrying him to the palace doors. Next thing he knew, he was stumbling on his feet again, wobbling so madly he almost fell. Only Shari, who marched while gripping his collar, held him up. He blinked, trying to bring the world into focus, and saw his sister dragging him into the palace throne room.
He blinked madly. Shari was in human form again; he hadn't even noticed her shifting back. He shoved her off.
"Let go!" he said. "Unhand me. I'm not one of your dogs."
He reached for his sword, then cursed when—yet again—he realized it was gone.
Shari laughed, released his collar, and shoved him so powerfully he stumbled several paces back. He hit a column, managed to remain standing, and glared.
The throne room of Requiem was, quite handily, the largest chamber Leresy had ever seen. Dragons could fly here and find it roomy. A hundred columns stood in two palisades, rising taller than the greatest pines. The vaulted ceiling sported paintings of dragons flying among clouds. More dragons, these ones battling phoenixes, coiled across the floor in a mosaic. That floor stretched between the columns, leading to the distant throne of the emperor.
Leresy hissed at that throne. His father sat there, the man Leresy hated most.
"Father!" he cried, voice echoing in the hall. "You wanted to see me, Father. I am here! Your son is here."
He lurched down the hall, swaying from column to column for support. He cackled as he walked, spraying saliva. Finally—it seemed like he walked for hours—he stood before Frey Cadigus, Emperor of Requiem.
The old bastard sat in that ivory throne of his, looking like some stuffed vulture. Leresy imagi
ned him roosting on eggs and barked a laugh. Grooves framed the emperor's thin, frowning lips. His dark hair was slicked back. His shoulders were wider than Leresy's, and his pauldrons made them seem even wider. But his eyes, Leresy thought… his eyes were the hardest thing about him. Those eyes were black, narrow, and cruel. They could see better than eagles, he thought. They could see through him—through his stained tunic, through his skin, and into his very soul. Staring into them, Leresy found all his mirth dissipating. A chill ran through him, and he couldn't help but shiver.
"Father," he said, and suddenly his legs shook so badly that he fell to his knees. He knelt before the emperor, and tears burned in his eyes.
Frey stared down at him, looking like a man staring at a maggoty corpse. He placed a handkerchief to his nose.
"You stink of booze, vomit, and cheap whores," Frey said. "Stand up."
Leresy rose to his feet and swayed.
"You summoned me, Father," he said to the old vulture. Rage crackled inside him. Why was the old man just sitting there? "Why, Father? Tell me! Speak, damn it."
Frey rose to his feet and his face twisted, red with anger. His lips peeled back, revealing sharp teeth. When he stepped toward Leresy, fists clenched, he seemed more like a swooping vulture than ever. Leresy let out a yelp, stumbled a few paces backward, and fell down hard onto his backside.
"Father!" he cried, holding out his hands. "Father, please, don't strike me."
Shari laughed in the distance. Sweat drenched Leresy and fear churned his gut. Across his flesh, the old scars blazed—the scars Frey had given him throughout his childhood, beating him with belt, whip, and rod.
He's going to beat me again, Leresy realized and mewled. He scampered backward on his bottom.
"Please, Father!"
Frey leaned down, grabbed Leresy's collar, and yanked him to his feet.
"I said stand!" the emperor thundered. "Are you a prince or a dog to lick my heels? Stand!"
Leresy stood, trembling. Frey towered above him, so much taller, so much stronger.
"What do you want?" Leresy demanded, spraying spit. His voice cracked. "Why do you do this? Let me drink! Let me whore. Let me forget. Why do you bring me here? I don't want to be at court. I don't care about this place. Tell me what you want, and let me go sleep."
A Birthright of Blood (The Dragon War, Book 2) Page 3
