A Day of Dragon Blood

by Daniel Arenson

  "It was to be your nook," she whispered. "Your place to sculpt while I stood nude before you, watching you form me from stone." She touched her left blade to her lips where he would kiss her. "Oh, Elethor... this was a chamber for us."

  She would bring him here. But now she would bring him in chains. Now she would hurt him. Now her soul would forever remained split like her face where the scars of fire ran.

  "You could have sculpted me with hammers, but now these hammers will break your bones, Elethor. I will break your spine one segment at a time as you scream and beg me to kill you." She closed her eyes; they burned with tears. "Why did you refuse me, Elethor? Why did you drive me to this?"

  She turned away from the marble and tools, walked to a window, and stood with the sunlight upon her. The steeples of Irys rose before her, carved of polished sandstone capped with platinum. Far in the south, past leagues of sand, she could just make out a distant patch of green: the oasis of Iysa, a twin to Irys, where the small oranges she craved grew in winter. Her kingdom rolled beyond the horizon, yet what were treasure and glory worth if she had none to share them with?

  I could have shared them with...

  A deep, dark memory stirred inside her, clawing at the prison she had buried it in. She felt its cold breath in the core of her being.

  No.

  She clenched her fists.

  No.

  That memory was still too raw, still too real, a demon inside her that she dared not awake. She placed her hand on her belly. She trembled, closed her eyes, and bit down hard.

  That one will remain buried. That pain I dare not feel again.

  She spun toward her chamber doors, intricate works of art carved of olivewood and embossed with silver falcons.

  "Ziz!" she shouted.

  The doors opened and her slave stepped inside, a demure young woman. Her platinum hair fell in braids, and her blue eyes looked up with fear, then down at her toes. She wore a dress the color of sand, its hems lined with blue tassels. She was a desert child, the daughter of nomads—a good slave.

  "My queen," the girl said, eyes downcast.

  "Come here, Ziz. Stand beside me."

  The girl crossed the chamber and joined Solina by the window. The desert wind blew her hair. When Solina thrust her blade, Ziz gasped but did not scream. Red bloomed across her gown like a desert flower. She looked up, eyes huge blue pools, wondering, betrayed. Solina held her as she died, kissed her forehead, and laid her down at her feet. She had needed this, needed to kill, needed to feel the warmth of blood on her fingers, see the light of life extinguished from a pair of eyes. She pulled her blade free and licked the blood from it thoughtfully. Blood kills the memories. She gazed upon her kingdom.

  "Soon the palace will be empty of slaves," spoke a deep, smooth voice.

  Solina turned to see General Mahrdor at the doorway, clad in armor, his sword at his side. His face and bald head were tanned a deep gold, and his eyes glimmered as they stared at her. Solina realized that her gown was open too far, revealing more flesh than it hid.

  "You come to make love to me," she said.

  He raised his eyebrows, entered the chamber, and closed the door behind him. "I come to discuss our war. I come to report of our troops' morale. I come to ask for more armor and spears. Are you so vain that you think every man at your door comes to ravage you?"

  She couldn't help it. She gave him a crooked smile. "You are not every man; the others would die if they entered this chamber." She doffed her robe and stood naked before him. "Love me. I know why you're here. Do it. Roughly. Make it hurt."

  He stood staring in silence. Blood pooled at their feet. She raised her chin and stared into his eyes, refusing to blink first. Finally he stepped over the body and grabbed her. He pulled her to her bed, tossed her upon her blankets of silk and golden thread, and climbed atop her. He claimed her. He hurt her. He gave her sweet pain to shout with, and she drove her fingernails down his back, and she bit his shoulder until she tasted blood. When she tossed her head back and closed her eyes, she thought of Elethor and screamed.

  When he was done, she shoved him aside, rose to her feet, and grabbed her gown of white silk. She pulled it over her body; it kissed her skin with a thousand kisses.

  "Come," she said, "we will inspect the lines. Show me what you've done with my army."

  She returned to the window and whistled—a long, loud sound like a bird of prey. The thud of wings sounded in the courtyard below. A growl rose into a screech. With a flash of scales, her wyvern ascended a hundred feet, from the cobblestones below to her window. The beast's wings pounded the air, bending palm trees below and billowing her curtains and hair. His scales clattered, thick plates like iron armor. His eyes blazed red, his teeth snapped, and smoke rose from his nostrils. His name was Baal, and he was the greatest of the wyverns, a forge of acid, a behemoth of wrath and muscle and bloodlust.

  Solina shuddered to see him, a shudder of awe and delight. For a thousand years, the eggs had lain in the desert sands, hard and polished like obsidian. For a thousand years, the priests of Tiranor, and the kings and queens of the Phoebus Dynasty, had prayed and chanted and cast their spells... and the eggs still slept.

  But I... I quickened them with the seed of flame, with the life of my lord the Sun God. Her lips pulled back in a grin, and she inhaled sharply, savoring the acrid stench of the creature. My prayers were answered; my glory flies across the desert. I am a mother of beasts. I am a goddess of wyverns.

  With her foot, she nudged her dead slave halfway out the window.

  "Eat," she said.

  Baal tilted his head, regarded the dead woman, then thrust forward like a striking asp. He took the body into his mouth, tossed back his head, and swallowed. His neck bulged and his scales clanked as the body moved down his throat.

  "Turn," Solina told him. "I will ride you."

  He turned sideways, still clinging to the palace wall. Solina climbed out her window and into his saddle. She grabbed the pole that was fastened there; it bore her banner, a golden sun upon a white field. With a crooked smile, she looked over her shoulder at Mahrdor, who still stood in her chamber.

  "Ride behind me," she said.

  Soon they flew upon Baal over the city. Solina gazed upon the glory of her home. From up here she could see all of Irys. The Pallan halved the city, a trail of silver-blue, a giver of life in the desert. Countless ships sailed down its waters, from the distant lands of the south, to the docks of Hog's Corner, and finally into delta and sea. Along the riverbanks rose the villas of the wealthy, their gardens lush and their columns tall. Beyond them coiled cobbled streets lined with houses and shops of mudbrick. Her palace glittered behind her, a glory of polished limestone and gold; only the great Temple of the Sun stood as tall. All around the city, her empire rolled into sand and haze and wonder.

  Beyond the oasis, upon the rock and sand of her desert, her army awaited. Thousands of chariots stood tethered to horses, their wheels spiked, their riders armed with whips and bows. Thousands of soldiers bustled between tents, armed with spears and arrows tipped with poison. Greatest of all, twenty thousand wyverns stood upon the sand that had hatched them, as large as dragons, as cruel as the desert sun; they would lead the charge into Requiem, crushing the Weredragon Kingdom and paving way for her ground troops.

  As she flew above, the army saw her banner, and they cried for her glory, a great cheer that rolled across the desert. Men raised spears and wyverns screamed.

  "Queen Solina!" they cried. "Golden daughter of Phoebus!"

  "Elethor has only five thousand soldiers," she said to Mahrdor as the wind whipped her hair. "Even if he summons every child and old woman in Requiem, small and feeble dragons in flight, he cannot stop us. We will crush them like the insects that they are."

  Behind her in the saddle, Mahrdor grunted in approval. "My collection will grow. After you kill the Boy King, may I have his bones?"

  She laughed. "You may have some before I kill him; I think that woul
d amuse me. Turn one bone into a flute, and I will play it for him." She raised her banner high; it caught the wind and thudded. She shouted to the army. "Soon you will feed upon weredragon flesh! Soon you will bring light and fire to the world!"

  They howled. Men clanged spears against shields. The wyverns screeched, shaking the desert. The sun shimmered, a beacon of her lord. Solina raised her head, closed her eyes, and let the light of the Sun God bathe her with glory.

  MORI

  She stepped into the temple, harp in hand, and took a shuddering breath. Her head swam, her lungs constricted, and the columns swayed before her. She forced a deep breath.

  "Be calm, Mori," she whispered. "Be calm. Breathe. You can do this."

  She took a step deeper into the temple. She had always feared this place—there were so many priestesses here, so many people come to pray, so many sick and wounded come for healing. The voices all echoed in the halls, and their feet all pattered, and the movements of robes danced like ghosts. One time all the sounds and figures had frightened Mori so much, she had run outside, shifted into a dragon, and fled the city for two days.

  "But today they need me," she whispered, lips trembling. "Today I will face my fear."

  She took another step.

  The hall stretched before her, marble tiles white and veined with blue. Two children ran across the hall, chasing each other with wooden swords. A young priest walked between columns, carrying towels, and smiled at her. Mori's heart leaped into flight. Suddenly the priest's fluttering robes were burning. Before her eyes, they became phoenix wings, showering fire and flying toward her. Suddenly the children no longer played with wooden swords but lay bloody, steel swords buried in their bellies. Their eyes gazed at her, begging, bleeding.

  "Princess Mori," said the swooping phoenix.

  Mori gulped and blinked. Again she saw only a priest before her, a young man who smiled at her. She took a shuddering breath, clutched her luck finger behind her back, and managed to smile.

  Only two children and a priest, she thought. I'm safe here. I'm safe. There are no phoenixes anymore, no dead children, no war. Those days are gone.

  She kept walking.

  Before the war, Mori could always retreat into the library, a great shadowy chamber underground. Only the royal House Aeternum carried the keys to the library; she could find solitude there, solace from the voices, from the movements of too many swaying cloaks, from all those crowds that spun her head. She would curl up underground with a good book, and she would read for hours. Inside the world of books, she was never afraid; she could be brave as a knight or wise as a wizard. There were no voices that were too loud, no movements too jarring, no crowds that spun around her and stole her breath.

  "But now the people here need me, the people in this temple," she whispered to herself. "They need me just as much as the books do. I will comfort them however I can."

  She swallowed and took another step.

  Step by step, heart racing, she crossed the hall and entered the Chamber of Healing.

  The domed roof towered above her, painted with scenes of stars and wise dragons of old. Columns surrounded the room, their capitals shaped as birch canopies inlaid with silver. Three rows of beds stood upon the marble tiles, and in them lay the wounded. They raised their heads, smiled at Mori, and those who still had hands waved them.

  Blood rained. Fire burned. Tiran soldiers stormed the hall, plunging blades into flesh, and Queen Solina flew as a phoenix, burning bodies into ash, and...

  No. Mori closed her eyes and tried to remember what Mother Adia had taught her. She breathed in slowly, filling her lungs top to bottom, held her breath, and exhaled it. She breathed deeply three times, then opened her eyes and saw no more fire, no more blood. She nodded, tightened her lips, and walked toward the wounded.

  "Princess Mori," said one man who lay abed. The war had taken his four limbs; he lay wrapped like a babe in swaddling clothes. He smiled at her. "We missed you, my princess."

  She smiled back. "Hello, Rowyn. I missed you too." She pulled a scroll from her pack, unrolled it, and showed it to him. "I painted these flowers for you."

  He whistled softly. "They're beautiful. You know how I love sunflowers. I used to grow them before the war."

  She placed the scroll by him and walked on. She reached a bed where lay Alandia, the daughter of a farmer. She had been burned so badly her face was still bloated, and her arms ended with stumps.

  "Princess Mori," she whispered.

  Mori knew that Alandia still lived with daily pain, even today, a year after the war. Mori produced another scroll, this one painted with horses. She knew how Alandia loved horses; she had owned two before the war.

  "Here, Alandia, more horses!" she said. "See? I drew Clipper and Starshine."

  The two horses now lay buried, two more victims of the war. Mori had painted them from memory a hundred times for the burnt girl. She placed the scroll on the bed.

  She kept moving between the beds, handing out gifts. One child had lost his eyes and ears; she gave him a box of scented oils. If he was blind and deaf, she would let him smell a hint of life. Another man, once a soldier, had lost his sanity; he lay bound to his bed, mumbling and weeping. Mori kissed his forehead and recited old poems to him, poems he had once loved. As she whispered, she saw his face calm, and she stroked his hair until he slept. A hundred wounded filled this temple, still lingering in pain, and Mori knew these ones would stay here forever. Their bodies or minds were destroyed, their families were gone, and their houses had fallen.

  Elethor can fight for them, she thought. Bayrin can guard them. But I... I can soothe them. I can bring them some joy in their world of pain.

  When she had distributed her gifts, she began to play her harp. Lady Lyana was a great warrior, Elethor a sculptor, Bayrin a trickster; she, the young Princess Mori, had always found her talent in music. She closed her eyes as she played her harp, and she sang her song. It was an old tune of Requiem, sung among the birches for thousands of years, even in the Golden Age before the great wars had toppled Requiem's glory. It was a song of birch leaves in wind, of wings on the sky, of marble columns rising into the night... but as Mori sang, it became too a song of warmth over fear, of whispers into a pool of loneliness, of broken souls mending under a sky of fire. It was the song of her life: of her tragedy in Castellum Luna where she had lost her brother and her innocence; of her war over Nova Vita where she had seen so many slain; and of her hope for healing, her hope for a new dawn in Requiem. It was a song of starlight.

  She played the last note, a haunting whisper and the flutter of dragon wings fading into nightfall, and opened her eyes. She saw that across the hall, clad in white silk, stood Mother Adia. The High Priestess looked upon her with soft eyes and smiled sadly.

  "My princess," she said.

  Mori approached the older woman and embraced her. "Mother Adia! I practiced the breathing you taught me last night, and I thought of birches in the wind, like you said I should, and I had only one nightmare."

  A year ago, the wounds of war fresh, nightmares had twisted her nights. Until dawn, Mori would see Solina burn her brother, feel Lord Acribus grab and choke her, and see dead children strewn across Nova Vita. Slowly, moon after moon, she worked with Mother Adia to breathe, to think of birch leaves, to see stars and flowers in the night, not fire and blood.

  Mother Adia kissed her cheek. "I'm glad, Mori. It will still be a while, but I hope that soon you'll sleep the whole night with no nightmares at all."

  Mori nodded, feeling warm and safe in the embrace. To sleep the whole night through—without waking up breathless, trembling, and covered in cold sweat? She did not think it possible. Not now, with Bayrin and Lyana away in the south. Before Bayrin had left for Tiranor, she would sleep in his arms, and when nightmares woke her, she could huddle closer to him, kiss him, and feel safe. Now she slept alone, and she missed Bayrin so badly that her stomach ached.

  "I hope so," she whispered into Mother Adia's robe
s. They were soft like the birch leaves she thought of at night.

  Mother Adia took her from the Chamber of Healing and into halls and rooms throughout the temple. They spent an hour meeting healers in training, carpenters building new beds, and priests organizing chambers of supplies: bandages, vials of silkweed milk, needles and stitches, bone saws and scalpels, pots of healing herbs, and codices full of medical drawings that both scared and soothed Mori.

  War will flare again. Bayrin spoke of armies mustering in the south, and she knew the second invasion could begin any day now. Her knees trembled, and she clutched her luck finger behind her back, the sixth finger on her left hand.

  This time, when fire rains and steel bites, we'll be ready to heal the wounded. Adia will be ready with her herbs and bandages, and I'll be ready with my song and harp.

  She stepped outside onto the marble stairs of the temple. The wind pinched her cheeks and played with her hair. She looked upon the city of Nova Vita, and peacefulness settled upon her like golden dawn upon storming sea. The forest was still charred, but new saplings grew between the blackened stumps. Many houses still lay in ruin, but masons were busy as ants, building new homes. Many graves covered Lacrimosa Hill beyond the city walls, but many dragons still lived, gliding overhead.

  "Come back to us soon, Bayrin and Lyana," she whispered into the wind.

  The flap of wings ruffled her hair. A brass dragon came flying toward her, scales clinking and breath snorting. Mori shielded her eyes with her palm. It was her brother, King Elethor. Smoke streamed from his nostrils in two trails. His claws clattered against the temple's marble stairs, and he folded his wings. He tossed his head, snorted flickers of fire, and shifted.

  When he stood in human form, he looked old to Mori, older than she'd ever known him—not old like Lord Deramon perhaps, or like Father had been, but... he suddenly seemed closer to them in age, no longer a youth like her. Only last year, he had been merely her brother, the quiet Elethor who lived upon the hill. Today she saw a man clad in steel armor, a longsword strapped to his side, his face bearded and his brow showing the first hints of creasing. The thin, quiet prince she had known was gone; today she saw a king.