Mori gasped and whimpered. She reached into her pocket and clutched Pip so tightly the mouse bit her.
The two figures stood in the hall, smoke still rising from them. Both wore armor of pale steel, gilded helmets, and curved swords upon their waists. Their hair was platinum blond, so pale it was almost white. They have ghost hair. Mori trembled to see it.
The man stood facing her, staring at the dungeon door. He was tall and broad, with a face like beaten leather. His eyes were small, blue, and mean. A golden sun was embedded into his breastplate. Mori recognized the emblem—the Golden Sun of Tiranor.
Tirans! she thought. She had heard many tales of them; they were a cruel, warlike people from southern deserts beyond mountain, lake, and swamp.
The woman stood with her back toward the door. She was tall and slender, and her hair was long and smooth. Two sabres hung from her belt, shaped like the beaks of cranes, their pommels golden. Slowly, the woman turned toward the door. Her eyes were blue, her face golden and strewn with bright freckles like stars in sunset. A scar, as from an old fire, ran across her face from head to chin, then snaked down her neck into her breastplate.
Mori gasped.
She knew this woman.
"Solina," she whispered.
Some of her fear left her. Solina was her friend! A princess of Tiranor, her parents slain, she had grown up in Requiem. Mori remembered many nights of sitting in Solina's lap, listening to her tell stories of Tiranor—its white towers rising from the desert, capped with gold; its oases of lush palms, warm pools, and birds of paradise; its proud people of golden skin, bright hair that shone, and blue eyes that saw far.
Solina won't hurt me, Mori thought, breathing shakily. Solina will realize this was a mistake, once she sees me, once she realizes it's me, Mori. I was like a sister to her.
And yet… Mori hesitated. She stayed frozen. That scar that ran down Solina's face… could it be from that night? The night Solina had attacked Father with a blade, and Orin burned her? Mori shuddered. No, it can't be! But she knew it was true; that was the scar of dragonfire.
She remembered, Mori realized, and tears filled her eyes. And now she's here to burn us too.
The tall, stately woman took a step toward the door, and those blue eyes stared right at the keyhole, right at Mori. Solina's lips curled into a smile.
She saw me! Mori leaped back from the door, heart pounding. She heard footfalls move toward her, and Mori scrambled downstairs. She knelt in the shadows by Orin. He was moaning, body hot, burnt, stinking with death. She clutched his hand.
"Don't be scared, Orin," she whispered as the door above shook. "I'll protect you."
Splinters flew. The door shattered, and firelight bathed the dungeon.
Mori wanted to shift into a dragon. She wanted to let scales cover her, let flame blow from her maw. Yet she dared not. The dungeon was so small, a mere ten feet wide. If she shifted, her girth would fill the chamber, would crush Orin dead. Instead she clutched the hilt of her brother's sword, steeled herself, and drew the blade. It hissed and caught the light.
Solina walked downstairs, hands on her own swords' hilts. Her breastplate sported a golden sun. Around her neck, her crystal of fire crackled, painting her face orange and red. The burly man walked behind her, eyes blazing and teeth bared.
"Stand back!" Mori said, holding her brother's sword before her. Her voice trembled, and the sword wavered. She added her left hand to the hilt, the hand with six fingers, her luck hand. Bring me luck today, she prayed to it.
Solina approached her. The scar that halved her face tweaked her lips; she was either smirking, or her scar locked her lips in eternal mockery. She seemed inhuman to Mori—her skin made of gold, her hair of platinum, her eyes of sapphire. She was more statue than flesh and blood.
"Why, if it isn't little Mori!" she said, and this time Mori knew that she was smiling. Those scarred lips parted, revealing dazzling white teeth. "Last time I saw you, you were but a girl, a slight thing with no breasts and skinned knees. You've become a woman!"
Mori stood, holding her sword in trembling hands, her brother groaning behind her.
"Stand back, devil!" Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Stand back, or my father the king will hear of this, and he will kill you!"
Solina's face softened—the face of a woman who saw a cute, angry puppy that melted her heart. The man at her side, however, seemed not to share her amusement. He stared at Mori hungrily; she felt his small, mean eyes undress her.
"Oh, dear dear, frightened sweetling," Solina said and clucked her tongue. "But we were such good friends once, were we not? We were as sisters. I remember holding you on my lap, mussing your hair, and reading to you stories of romance and adventure. I promise not to hurt you, my little sparrow… but please, do not stand between me and your brother, or Lord Acribus here will hurt you. And he will hurt you greatly, little sparrow. More than anyone ever has."
The tall man with the golden, leathery face licked his lips. His tongue was freakishly long—it nearly reached his eyes—and white as bone. It looked like a snake emerging from his mouth. His eyes dripped lust, both for flesh and blood.
An hour ago, if somebody had told Mori this would happen, she would have expected to faint, weep, even die of fright. Now she found herself snarling. Her love for Orin, and her fear for him, swelled over fear for herself. Teeth bared, she swung her sword before her, slicing the air.
"Stand back!" she said. "You will not touch him."
Solina sighed. "My sweetling." She ran a finger down her scar, from forehead, to chin, and down her neck. She kept tracing her fingers along her breastplate and finally down her thigh. "Do you see this scar, Mori? I call it my line of fire. It runs from my head to my toe. Your brother gave me this scar. He deformed me. Surely you of all people, with your freakish left hand, know about being deformed." She looked at the burnt, groaning Orin. "So I burned him too. But I am not done with him. He will feel so much more pain before I let him die. But you, Mori, need not feel the same pain. You were as a sister to me; I want to spare you this agony. Step aside… or I will give you to my pet. You will scream and beg me for death before he's done with you."
Mori was scared, so scared that she couldn't breathe, and cold sweat drenched her, and her heart seemed ready to crack. She thought of her brother Orin, so handsome and strong, now this ruin of a man. She thought of her other brother, the wise Elethor, who lived up north among the birches.
It's up to me now, Mori knew. Me, the younger sister, the slim girl who is always so fast to cry, so fast to hide. She took a shuddering breath. For years my older brothers protected me; now it's my turn to fight for them.
With a wordless cry, she swung her blade at Solina.
So fast Mori barely saw her move, Solina drew her left sword. The blade was curved, glimmering with white steel and gold. The two blades clashed, one a northern blade kissed with starlight, the other a desert shard of fire. Sparks flew, and before Mori realized what had happened, Solina's blade flew again, nicked her hand, and blood splashed.
Mori's sword fell and clanged against the floor.
Nearly as fast as Solina's blade, her companion, the snarling Lord Acribus, moved forward. He looked to Mori more beast than man, a wild dog of rabid fangs, cruel eyes, and an appetite for flesh. She screamed when he caught her arms, digging his fingers into her; she thought those fingers could break her bones.
"Solina!" she cried. "Solina, please! How could you do this? We… we raised you as family. You… my brother Elethor loved you, I…"
But her words failed her. Solina stared at her with those cold blue eyes. They were as chips of ice in a golden mask. There was no humanity to them, no compassion, nothing but cruelty.
"Lord Acribus," the woman said, "make her watch."
The lord's fingers dug so deep into Mori's arms, blood trickled to her elbows. "She will watch, my queen, if I must cut off her eyelids."
She shook in his grasp, a tiny mouse caught in a vulture's talons; she
was shorter than his shoulders. She watched, trembling, as Solina approached the wounded prince of Requiem.
"Please," Mori whispered, but Solina ignored her.
Orin groaned upon the floor, scorched and convulsing. Somehow he managed to rise to his elbows. Sweat and blood drenched him.
"Sol… Solina," he managed, so hoarse Mori could barely make out the word.
Solina stood above him, sabre drawn, eyes cold. If Orin was a wounded beast, a twisted creature, Solina was a queen of beauty, a statue of gold and steel and ice.
"Hello, Orin," she said softly. "So you remember me too. Perhaps you know me by the scar you gave me." She caressed it. "My line of fire. It is a strange thing, is it not? I used to fear fire. When I lived in Requiem, among you beasts of scales and wings, I feared it." She laughed mirthlessly. "Imagine it! A young, frightened girl from Tiranor, snatched from her home. You could all turn into dragons—noble, ancient children of Requiem, flaunting your magic of starlight. Yes, I feared this fire I could never wield. And I screamed, Orin. I screamed when you burned me."
"You…" He moaned and shivered. His peeling skin hung from him. "You attacked my father, you…"
Again her bitter laugh pierced the air. "I attacked King Olasar, yes. I attacked the man who murdered my parents. Who enslaved me. Who would banish me only because I dared to love Elethor, your brother, the dearest man I've known. Did I ever stand a chance, Orin? Could I ever dream of reaching him with my dagger, when you were there to burn me? The pain of your fire nearly drove me mad; you feel this pain now. So I left, Orin. And I tamed fire." She snarled like a wild beast, and her voice rose. "I wrestled it, and made it my own, until I could become a thing of flame itself. And I burned you. And I will watch you die in agony."
Her sword lashed.
Mori screamed.
Acribus laughed.
With a whistle, Solina's curved, glittering blade sliced Orin's belly and splattered blood across the wall. Mori shut her eyes, whimpering, but Acribus pulled her eyelids open with rough fingers. She tried to turn her head away, but he held it, forcing her to look, forcing her to see it. Stars, no… no, please, stars, no…. Her tears fell.
Orin screamed. He clutched his wound, trying to stop it, to stop the spilling of it, the glistening, bloody, pink horror of it. Half-burnt and cut open, he cried for Requiem. He cried for their mother. Mori wept.
"Please, Solina, please, please, please…," she whispered.
But Solina only stood frozen, staring down at the dying man, and still no emotion filled her eyes, not a glimmer of pity nor disgust nor even delight.
"You can make it end, Orin," she said softly. Blood sluiced around her boots. "Tell me of Olasar's forces. Tell me how many dragons in his brigades, where they are stationed, who leads them. Tell me everything… and I will plunge my sword into your heart, and I will end your pain. If you do not speak, well… I can stand here for hours. It will take you hours to die without my mercy, do not doubt it. Maybe even days." She smiled softly. "As long as it takes."
He screamed. And he spoke. And he told her everything as he writhed and begged for the pain to end.
Mori trembled, kicked, tried to look away, tried to break free, tried to do anything but see this ruin of her brother, hear his screams, see his blood and entrails spill upon the floor until finally, finally after ages and ages of it, Solina drove her blade into his chest. Finally some emotion filled the queen's eyes. Pleasure. Deep, horrible, hot pleasure. She twisted the blade, and Orin's breath caught, and his scream died… and his pain ended. It was over.
Thank the stars, it's over, Mori thought as she sobbed and shook.
But it was not over. Not for her.
"My queen?" Acribus asked, voice like gravel, breath hot and stinking against Mori.
She looked at him, eyebrow raised, and nodded. "Have your treat, dog."
Now Mori did try to shift into a dragon, even if her girth would slam against the walls, and the dungeon would crush her. She tried to clutch her magic, to grow scales, grow fangs, grow talons that could slash Acribus. But her pain was too great. When she thought she could grasp her magic, his fingers clutched her neck, and it was all she could do to even breathe.
He tore her gown. He shoved her across the table. She felt her mouse flutter against her breast, trapped in her pocket, throbbing like a heart. Shadow covered her world and her eyes rolled back. Pain and blood filled the dungeon, and Solina smiled.
Fire.
Floating stars.
Darkness underground.
Outside, the phoenixes shrieked. Myriads of flaming wings rose, showering heat and light and fire. The forests of Requiem burned, and smoke veiled the sky, red and black. A single fortress rose from the inferno, hiding its shame underground. Deer fled burning, trees toppled, and ash fell like burning tears. The land wept. Her soul tore.
When he was done with her, he shoved her aside. Mori slammed against the dungeon floor, bloodying her elbow. She wept and shook, stars before her eyes. Her mouse lay still in her pocket, a dead heart, crushed under her weight.
"Get up," Acribus told her in disgust. He spat onto her. "You're coming with us. You will be mine every night until we find and kill your father."
She lay on the bloodied floor, her face an inch from Orin's. His right eye stared at her, huge and pained in the dripping, red wound of his face. Mori gasped for breath. She could not rise. She could barely see. Pain dug through her like a cold iron bar. She closed her eyes, so ashamed, praying for death. Please, Solina, please kill me too, stab your sword into my heart and end this.
"Stand up, sweet little mouse," Solina spoke above, voice distant as from miles away. "Stand up now, or he will hurt you again."
Mori looked at her brother's body. She forced herself to look. He was no longer Orin, she realized, the hero she had loved, the prince of Requiem. He was nothing but flesh now, a charred and emptied shell. Your soul now dines in the starlit halls of our fathers, she thought. You rest now among the Draco stars, and I know you watch over me.
The dragonclaw pommel of a dagger rose from Orin's boot. Mori had always feared this dagger, thinking its pommel a true dragon's claw, but today was all about shattering fears. Acribus grabbed her hair, twisted, and pulled. Mori had always been the fastest dragon in Requiem. Fast as she could, she drew her brother's dagger, leaped up, and thrust the blade.
The dagger gleamed in her hand, her luck hand. Mori screamed. The dagger scraped against Acribus's breastplate and drove under his arm. He wore only chainmail there, thinner than his breastplate of steel; it was no match to the starlit dagger of a Requiem prince. The blade tore through the mail, blood showered Mori, and Acribus howled.
I'm sorry, Orin, she thought as she ran, tears on her cheeks, blood on her thighs. I'm so sorry.
She left him there, racing upstairs. Solina shouted and tried to grab her, but Mori was too fast. Blood pounded in her ears. Every step shot pain through her; it felt like demon spawn had invaded her womb and clawed inside her. And yet she ran, burst out of the dungeon, and raced across the hall. She had always been so fast. You always said how fast I was, Orin, whenever we'd race through the pure, blue skies over King's Forest.
Now the sky was red, full of smoke and fire. Mori burst into the courtyard, shifted into a dragon, and soared into the flame. Ten thousand phoenixes roared above her, an inferno; it looked like the sun had engulfed the world. Mori screamed, a hoarse cry that consumed her—for her pain, her rage, the death of her brother. She sounded her howl, a dragon's howl, the howl of a frightened girl who will never more feel joy under this sky. She soared through fire, wings roiling smoke and heat, and shot into the north.
She flew, a thin golden dragon, wings beating, eyes narrowed and wet. The wind roared around her. Behind her, ten thousand phoenixes screeched.
When Mori looked over her shoulder, she saw them following, an army of sunfire. Did Solina fly among them, the woman who had killed her brother? Did Acribus fly there, the man who had… Mori gritted her
teeth, shame burning across her. He had done something to her, broken something inside her, taken something she could never retrieve. She ached for it. She wanted to die, to never more feel this impurity, but still she flew.
She still had a second brother in Requiem. She still had a father. I have to warn them. I have to survive. Whatever more happens, however more they hurt me, I must live.
She flew north with tears and ice, the fury and heat of Tiranor on her tail.
ELETHOR
He stood in his workshop, white columns rising around him, and stared at the statue. The woman was carved of marble, skin smoothed, body nude and flowing. Elethor had spent hours gently chiseling her full lips, her straight nose, her hair that cascaded like silk. And yet, for all his effort, he thought the statue fell from the true grace of Solina.
If only you were still here, Elethor thought, hammer and chisel in his hands. If only I could see your true beauty again, not content myself with this cold marble. If only I could caress your soft skin, and kiss your lips, and hold you one last time.
He sighed, laid his tools on the table, and sat on a bench. Around his workshop, six more statues of Solina stood, some nude, others clad in flowing gowns of stone, all beautiful and all painful for him to see. And yet he kept carving her, laboring for months on each effigy.
I will create one every year until I see you again, he thought. Seven statues. Seven years. Seven lost hopes of seeing his love again.
The sun was setting, he noticed; he had been working all day without sensing the time pass. He rose, lit an oil lamp, then stood between the columns of his workshop. The house rose upon a hill, commanding a view of Nova Vita. Elethor often stood here, between these columns, gazing upon the leagues of birches, the houses of white marble, and the herds of dragons that flew above. The city was still beautiful to him, even if sadness had dwelled here since Solina departed.
Soon the sun dipped below the horizon, and the stars emerged. The Draco constellation glittered before him, the stars of his forefathers, the light of his people. He was a prince of Requiem. Those stars blessed him, and the people of this city served him, yet Elethor would forfeit both for the touch of a hand, a breath on his neck, a whisper of her voice.
A Dawn of Dragonfire (Dragonlore, Book 1) Page 2
