Tears of the Dragon

by Kaitlyn O'Connor

  Khalia checked when she saw no one stood in the portal, but Damien urged her on without even glancing at the door. Glancing back, she saw it swing closed behind them just as quickly and quietly. Frowning, she looked around the corridor they found themselves in. The walls were made of the same material as the exterior. The ceiling was one continuous arch from end to end. She saw neither gaslights nor electric bulbs, no candles, no torches in wall sconces, and yet a soft light enveloped them as they traversed the long corridor, appearing before them, disappearing behind them.

  They had walked for some time when Damien stopped before a set of arched double doors. Unlike the previous door, this one remained closed. Khalia looked at Damien questioningly.

  “General Damien Bloodragon and Princess Khalia, daughter of Princess Rheaia.”

  Khalia looked around to see whom he might be speaking to, but saw no one, nor even any sort of mechanical marvel such as those Edison had devised. Instead, a strange blue band of light appeared, traveled their length and up again.

  The doors swung inward silently. With little more than a faint flicker, the room illuminated. Releasing his hold on her arm at last, Damien strode inside. “These are the royal apartments. They have not been occupied since your grandfather’s time. The usurper was not inclined to visit the outlying provinces himself.” He looked around the room and frowned. “It is antiquated and cramped, but you should be comfortable enough here until … it is safe to travel.”

  Khalia realized as he turned to her that she was staring in awestruck wonder. Embarrassed at the thought of being caught gaping like a hayseed, she quickly assumed a look of polite interest. She’d heard very little of what he’d said, however, too stunned by the magnificence of the room to do anything but gawk at the rich tapestries, gilded furniture, jewel encrusted vases. Even the floor was covered with thick, beautiful carpets.

  Acutely aware of her state, she remained on the threshold, certain she could feel sand dropping from her with each breath she took.

  “You will want to freshen up.” He held out his hand. “If you will come this way, I will show you the facilities. Your pardon, princess. There are no servants to attend you, but I gladly offer my services … if you will allow.”

  Khalia merely stared at him, not entirely certain whether that was a question or not, or precisely what it was that he was offering. She’d been on the point of asking for water to bathe, but when he mentioned facilities it occurred to her that, in all probability, the fortress boasted indoor plumbing. That thought propelled her forward at last and she followed him to a smaller set of double doors. These swung open at their approach as the first door had, illuminating to reveal a bedchamber that rivaled the previous room in opulence. The bed alone was approximately the size of the bedroom in her tiny apartment in the city. Elevated on a platform, two tiered steps approached it. Sheer draperies were attached to a circular canopy above the center of the bed and fell in swags which were tied to each of the four corner posts.

  Beyond the bed, the room was surprisingly sparsely furnished. A long vanity with a mirror above it and a padded stool before it sat along one wall on one side and a pair of comfortable looking, overstuffed chairs faced a small, low table on the other side of the bed.

  Several moments passed before Khalia realized that Damien was standing patiently beside another pair of arched double doors, these only slightly wider than a single, wide door. Curious, she rounded the bed and moved to the threshold.

  It was white and gold. The walls and floor were tiled with square slabs of what appeared to be marble. Stepping inside, Khalia saw that the fortress indeed boasted indoor plumbing, but she had never seen the like of this. Instead of a tub, the main feature of the room was a small, round pool that looked to be about eight feet in diameter. A half moon tiled wall surrounded one side. Spouts, gold, or at least gilded, protruded from the walls in a half dozen places, making Khalia wonder if they were spouts at all or served some other purpose she couldn’t imagine. Peeking from a small alcove to one side was the rounded edge of what appeared to be the bowl of a porcelain throne. Along another short wall, a cabinet had been built to support a solid slab of marble nearly six feet long and about two feet wide. Centered in the slab was a washbasin filled by way of a golden faucet. There were no handles and Khalia wondered how the thing worked.

  At Damien’s touch, she jumped. He was frowning when she whipped her head around to look at him.

  “I do not see how this garment fastens.”

  Khalia blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I am not familiar with this type of garment. How does one remove it?”

  Khalia stared at him, dumbfounded, for several moments. Finally, dimly, it sank in. He’d offered to attend her--she was supposed to be royalty. “One doesn’t,” she said flatly. “One leaves while I attend myself.”

  His brows rose almost to his hairline but after a moment, he merely bowed and left. When the doors had closed behind him, Khalia removed what was left of her clothing. In truth, there wasn’t much. She’d shredded it when she’d shifted and the tattered remains had been slowly disintegrating since.

  She had no idea what she was going to wear when she finished bathing, but for the moment she was far more interested in getting clean. Sand showered down around her as she undressed and it occurred to her that there was so much dirt in her hair she was more likely to make mud than get clean unless she managed to get most of it sloughed from her skin and shaken from her hair before she got in. Removing the last of the pins that had held her hair coiled sedately on her head, she bent over at the waist and shook her hair out, combing as much sand from it as possible.

  She stood for some moments in front of the pool, her hands on her hips, her gaze wandering around the tub, the walls, the lip of the tub. There were no handles. None. No levers. How was she supposed to turn the thing on?

  She wasn’t about to call Damien in to show her. It was bad enough that she’d had to parade around in front of him, and a dozen other men, filthy and half naked. She hadn’t even seen a towel she could wrap up in. She supposed they must be kept in the cabinet beneath the lavatory, but she wasn’t any more comfortable about the idea of asking him in wrapped in a towel, particularly considering the fact that every male she’d met so far looked at her as if he was starving and she a particularly tasty looking piece of food. And Damien had warned her that his self-restraint had its limits. After a moment, she decided to step into the strange thing and see if one of the ‘spouts’ was actually some sort of lever or knob.

  She’d reached the center of the pool when she was abruptly deluged with water from every direction. Her shriek was instinctive and more from surprise than anything else.

  “Highness?”

  Khalia whirled so fast she slipped and sprawled in the tub, her legs splayed in front of her. She wasn’t certain whether the water cushioned her fall and kept her from driving her spine through the top of her skull when she landed, or if she was just too shocked to feel the pain. After a moment, she managed to blink the water out of her eyes and gape at Damien.

  He was staring at her like a starving man who’d just been offered a smorgasbord, his gaze riveted to the curling red thatch between her splayed thighs.

  Recovering from her shock, Khalia slapped her legs together, then drew them up to her chest. Pointing a shaking finger toward the door, she said in a trembling voice, “OUT!”

  The order seemed to break the spell, either that, or the fact that she’d managed to cover most of herself with her bent legs. He blinked at her, like a sleepwalker awakening. Finally, with great dignity, he bowed, turned on his heel and once again left her.

  Khalia glared at the door as it closed behind him.

  “You screamed, your highness. It is my duty to protect you from all threat.”

  Khalia’s eyes narrowed. “There’s not a single damned window in this bath!” she yelled in a very unladylike manner. “Exactly what did you think was threatening me?”

  He was
silent for several moments. Finally, with a hint of amusement tingeing his voice, he responded, “I am only a soldier, your highness. I am paid to act, not think.”

  General Damien Bloodragon, the King’s Champion--not paid to think? Obviously, he thought he was dealing with an empty headed female. “If he pops through that door again, I’m going to find something and beat him severely about the head and shoulders,” she muttered.

  “Would you care to dine before you retire, your highness?”

  Khalia climbed gingerly to her feet, rubbing her abused posterior. Instantly, the water, which had ceased to flow the moment she settled on the bottom of the tub, pelted her from every direction again. She clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling another yelp. When she was more certain of her footing, she slung the wet hair from her eyes.

  She was tempted to just tell him to go to hell, but the truth was she hadn’t had her dinner and she was starving. “Yes … thank you,” she said finally.

  She was fairly certain she didn’t really care to be pelted with water from every direction, but she couldn’t figure out any way to turn it off anymore than she’d been able to figure out how to turn it on to begin with. Once she’d found soap to lather her hair and body with, she revised her opinion. The spraying water quickly and efficiently removed the soap, a feat far more difficult when bathing in a tub. Strangely enough, the heated, pelting water also soothed her aching muscles.

  She wasn’t certain how long she stood mindlessly beneath the water, almost drowsing as it pummeled her aching body, but after a time it occurred to her that Damien had gone to prepare a meal for her.

  She was alone.

  She could escape.

  She almost leapt from the shower as that thought occurred to her. Moving to the rim, she sat down long enough to wring the water from her hair and then climbed out and moved as quickly as she dared to the lavatory. It was then that she discovered it wasn’t a cabinet beneath it as she’d supposed--not that she could tell at any rate. After feeling along it frantically for several moments, she finally decided it wasn’t really that important. It would have been nice, but she would certainly dry, with or without a towel.

  Clothes was the problem. Her own were beyond filthy and nothing but tatters anyway. Not that she would’ve minded a little dirt if it meant the difference between escaping and staying in this strange world, but she was really reluctant to run around naked. She didn’t believe for one moment that Damien, or any of the dragon men, for that matter, could tell that she was nearing the end of her reproductive cycle, but they hardly needed that sort of incentive to attack her if she was flaunting herself.

  Deciding finally that a sheet or coverlet was just going to have suffice, she headed for the door. She simply stared at the panels for several moments, wondering how she was supposed to make it open. There was no handle and no knob. As she moved toward it with the intention of pushing against it, however, the doors swung open, this time into the bedroom. Wasting no more time, Khalia snatched the coverlet from the bed, flung it around her shoulders and dashed into the sitting room.

  There, she skidded to a halt.

  Damien was standing near a table in one corner having just, apparently, set a tray down. She gaped at him.

  His eyes narrowed. His gaze flickered over the bedspread she had draped around her like a roman toga.

  She pasted a smile on her lips. “I couldn’t find a towel.”

  One dark brow rose in a skeptical arch. He took a step toward her. Khalia’s mind screamed ‘run’, but her feet remained firmly glued to the floor.

  Chapter Four

  Khalia’s gaze, chained to Damien’s by her awareness of guilt and fear of reprisal, tilted as he approached and towered over her. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were dark and tumultuous with comprehension, desire, irritation. She was left with no doubt at all that he’d immediately, and correctly, assessed the situation and he wasn’t at all pleased about it.

  Beyond the anger, however, heated desire, held barely in check, roiled inside of him. It was almost as fascinating and alluring as it was frightening.

  Maybe it was more fascinating and alluring than it was frightening.

  She wasn’t accustomed to having men look at her as if they wanted to consume her. There was no getting around the fact that it was definitely unnerving. On the other hand, his simmering, barely controlled desire was enough to jump start her own with no more than a look.

  She jumped when he grasped her shoulders, hoping--fearing--that she had unleashed the beast he was working so hard to tame. Her mouth went dry with anticipation. Warmth saturated her with liquid heat.

  Abruptly, he spun her on her heels and nudged her toward the bedroom. Stunned, she didn’t even think to protest as he guided her into the bedroom and to the small bench set before the vanity. When he’d pushed her down onto the seat, he took a comb from the table before her, lifted the hair that fell to her hips and, starting at the ends, began to carefully work the tangles from it. Khalia stared wide eyed at his reflection in the mirror, hardly daring to breathe.

  “When you assume the throne … when you arrive in Caracaren, the principle seat of your domain, you will be given handmaidens to attend you, your highness. This is considered an honor and you may choose any of the maidens of the noble houses to wait upon you.”

  The deep, resonant timber of his voice was almost as soothing as his hands. He was a conundrum. As pleasing as he was to the eye, one had only to look at him to know that he was a fierce warrior and would be a deadly adversary on any field. She had seen it for herself, watched him dispatch three beast men within a very short space of time and leave the field without so much as a scratch. It was far easier to picture him with a sword in his hand than a comb, and yet he was surprisingly adept and gentle for someone who made his living by the sword. His dark hair was long, falling well past his shoulders, so perhaps that was why he knew that one had to start at the ends and work upwards rather than vice versa to untangle long hair, but it was just as easy to believe he had learned it in the boudoirs of many women.

  The possibility disturbed her. It indicated an intimacy that went beyond slaking raw animal need.

  She didn’t want to think about the likelihood of a wife and children somewhere and she didn’t want to consider why that bothered her.

  She cleared her throat with an effort. “You are so certain they will welcome me?”

  He paused in his task and his gaze met hers in the mirror. “You are the image of your mother. Even without the Tear no one would question your hereditary right to the throne of Atar.”

  Khalia’s heart skipped a beat and her gaze moved from his to study the face that had been her mother’s. For so many years she had wondered what her mother had looked like and now she found she had looked at her mother’s face each time she looked into the mirror. “Truly?”

  He paused in his task. Moving closer, so close she could feel the heat of his body, feel the light brush of his skin against her back, he reached around her and skimmed an index finger over the hollow in one cheek beneath her high cheek bone. “Her face was rounder here.” He circled her rounded chin. “Her chin not quite so stubborn.” His finger shook slightly as he traced the curve of her lips. Swallowing convulsively, he removed his hand. “Your mouth is … not the same, nor your hair.”

  After a moment, he ran the comb through her hair again, then lifted a thick lock, sifting it through his fingers. “Your hair is like … flame. I have never seen the like of it, nor anyone in all of Atar. This is your father’s gift to you.”

  Oddly enough, she hadn’t spent nearly as much time wondering about her father as she had her mother. She supposed that was because, in the back of her mind, she had wanted to blame someone besides her mother for abandoning her to the life of an orphan. She forced a faint smile. “I’d always wondered who to blame for it,” she said in an attempt at lightness.

  He frowned. “You did not know him?”

  She shrugged off-handedly, as if
it didn’t matter. The truth was, it did. “I expect he was some mad Scotsman, or perhaps an Irish ruffian.”

  “But you carry the name of your sire?”

  Khalia shivered slightly, despite the fact that the temperature of the air was perfectly comfortable, and pulled the bedspread more snugly around her shoulders. “I haven’t a clue. The orphanage gave me my name, I expect. What was my mother’s maiden name?”

  “Emberhorn.” Damien moved away from her to a paneled wall--or what appeared to be one until he reached it and the panel slid back into a recess, exposing a wall filled to overflowing with brightly colored fabrics. Khalia turned on the bench to watch him as he rifled through them, searching, she supposed, for garments. He’d said this was the royal apartments, but he’d also said the royals had not been here since her grandfather’s time--whenever that was. Surely, even if he did find women’s garments, they would be too aged to wear, out dated even if they fit--which seemed extremely doubtful.

  After a moment, he pulled a long piece of … tissue from the armoire and held it up, examining it with a thoughtful frown. She could see him clearly through it. She felt certain she could’ve read a newspaper through it.

  “You will wish to retire once you have eaten. Is this satisfactory?”

  Khalia gave him a look. “I’m not certain. What is it for?”

  He glanced up at that. “It is a sleeping garment.”

  She stared at him speechlessly. “You think I’m going to stroll around this--suite wearing nothing but that?”