A Day of Dragon Blood

by Daniel Arenson

  As if summoned by her thoughts, the door opened, and General Mahrdor entered the winehouse.

  He walked alone this night; no Gilded Guardians stood at his sides, steel birds of prey. He wore a white robe over his armor, and his head was hooded. He smiled at her thinly, but his eyes were blue shards, cold and scrutinizing. Again she felt like he could see through her silks, through her dyed skin, into her very soul.

  "Tiana!" he said. "I apologize for the lateness of my visit and delight to find you still awake. I myself could not sleep. When I closed my eyes, I saw visions of you dancing; I knew I must see you dance in the flesh before your phantom twin abandoned me. Will you come to my villa, Tiana? Will you dance in the dawn?"

  We all wear masks, echoed the words in her mind. May my mask shield my pain. May the horror crash around me like a river around a boulder.

  She nodded. "I will dance for you, my lord."

  The Draco constellation shone overhead as they sailed a boat down the Pallan. A crescent moon grinned. Mahrdor held a lamp before him, and the light danced upon the water like jewels.

  Only eleven days until summer solstice, Lyana thought. Eleven days until the hosts of sunfire spread to my home. Eleven days until I must kill or flee this man.

  He took her to his villa on the hill and into a hall lined with columns. Between the pillars, Lyana saw palms and rushes slope toward the Pallan, and the lights of distant homes glimmered. A hot wind blew over the water, ruffled her hair, and filled her nostrils with the scents of river and grass.

  Mahrdor sat on a giltwood divan, placed his sandaled feet on a footstool, and leaned back.

  "Dance for me," he said.

  Again she danced for him with no music. Again her body swayed to a whispered song, the music of stars above, wind in palms, the flow of water in darkness. Her body flowed for him, and her bare feet tapped upon limestone tiles, and her eyes closed. She danced until wisps of purple dawn spread across the sky, and then Mahrdor stood and approached her, and held her, and stroked her cheek.

  He leaned her against a porphyry column, kissed her neck, and made love to her there in the light of the dawn, as the River Pallan slowly awoke below them. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and thought of her home as he filled her. She thought of the dragons that flew above King's Forest, so high she could barely see their colors. She thought of the marble columns of Requiem's palace where she lived with Elethor, the smell of her morning bread, the calls of chickadees that always seemed to mock her. She gasped as Mahrdor loved her, and she knew she was yet another land for him to conquer, yet another trophy for him to claim, and a tear streamed down her cheek.

  When he was done, he kissed her tear, stroked her hair, and whispered to her.

  "You are more beautiful than this dawn, Tiana, and you are more precious than our short lives under the sun. You are like the River Pallan, a gift from the desert, and your lips are oasis fruit." He took her hand. "Come with me, Tiana. I have a gift for you, a gift as rare and beautiful as you are."

  He held her hand. He took her across the hall and into a towering, domed solarium. The dawn shone through the narrow windows; they were made from true glass, a priceless rarity in Tiranor. Ferns filled the room, and a hundred cages hung between them, holding hundreds of birds: finches, macaws, conures, lovebirds, and many others Lyana could not name. They all squawked and fluttered in their cages.

  In the center of the solarium stood a great, golden birdcage. It rose six feet tall, maybe taller, and its bars curved to form dragons aflight. It was empty, its door open.

  "I am, as you know, a collector," Mahrdor said. He swept his arm around him. "Smell the air, Tiana! You will smell a thousand plants from all the lands of the world; I collect them. Listen to the song of birds! You will hear a hundred different species; I collect them." He turned to face her. "And you, Tiana... you are the rarest, most beautiful of birds."

  Suddenly his face changed.

  Rage overflowed his eyes.

  He raised his fist to strike her.

  She flinched and raised her hand in defense.

  As her heart hammered and her mind spun, Mahrdor nodded and slowly lowered his fist.

  "I thought so," he whispered.

  Terror shattered inside her.

  Lyana summoned her magic and began to shift into a dragon.

  He clutched her throat and squeezed, and she gasped for breath, and his fist now did strike, and pain exploded. White light flooded her. Her magic fled her. His fingers dug into her neck, and he dragged her and threw her into the cage.

  His hand freed her throat. She sucked in breath and tried to shift. He slammed the cage door shut, trapping her inside. Scales flowed across her, and her body ballooned, becoming the dragon. She slammed against the cage bars and howled in pain. Her magic fizzled. She roared and clutched at it and tried to shift again, to break the cage bars, to blow fire. She felt wings sprout. Fangs lengthened in her mouth. Her body grew, hit the bars, and again her magic vanished.

  She fell onto her knees, panting, a caged woman. She snarled, tore her scarf off, and glared at Mahrdor.

  He stood before her, arms crossed, smiling sadly.

  "Oh, Tiana," he said. "Did you truly think I did not know? Did you truly think you could fool me like you fooled the common soldiers at your winehouse?"

  "My name is not Tiana," she hissed and bared her teeth as if she were a dragon. She slammed against the cage bars. They were thick and strong; gilded iron, she thought.

  He shrugged. "Your name matters not. You are my pet, my trophy, the crown of my collection; that is what matters to me." He looked over his shoulder. "Come, Yarish! See her without her scarf."

  Out from the shadows stepped a tall, gaunt man with white hair. Lyana growled, heart hammering. She knew this man; he was the deaf innkeeper of Old Mill in Hog Corner, the fishhouse where she would meet with Bayrin. Today the man wore no rags but donned the armor of a soldier. He gave her a blank stare; he seemed almost bored.

  "Are all weredragons as stupid as this one?" he asked Mahrdor. "If so, we should have no particular problem facing them in battle."

  Weredragon. Lyana growled and slammed against the bars. She hated that word—a dirty, foul word of hatred, of blood, of scorn.

  "I am a Vir Requis," she said, "a daughter of ancient Requiem blessed with starlight. You will find us very problematic to kill." She snapped her teeth as if she were a dragon who could tear into their flesh; she craved to taste that flesh. "When you attack our land, you will find us ready to fell you from the sky."

  The two Tiran officers looked at each other and laughed. Mahrdor shook his head. He patted the cage bars, then pulled his hand back when she tried to bite it.

  "Oh, precious weredragon pet," he said. "Do you refer to the army of your King Elethor, which heads to Ralora Beach? Yes, weredragon. I know you saw the map in my chambers; I placed it there for you. I know you spoke of it to your brother, that he flew over the sea to sing the news." He gave a sad, theatrical sigh. "I think... when your King Elethor and his army arrive at Ralora, they will find only seagulls and crabs to fight."

  Lyana stared, her insides trembling. Her eyes burned and she felt tears gather. She could barely breathe and her head spun. It was a ruse, had been a ruse all along. How could she have been so stupid? How could she think this disguise could fool them?

  Please, stars, do not let this be... do not let my kingdom fall.

  With a growl, Lyana reached out of the cage, trying to grab his arm, to pull it toward her, to bite it off. He took a step back, stared at her sadly, and shook his head.

  "I will kill you," she whispered, eyes narrowed and glaring.

  He smiled thinly and hunger filled his eyes, the hunger of a wolf for its prey. He licked his pale, thin lips.

  "No," he said softly. "No, you will not kill me, Lyana. Nor will I kill you." He fingered a dagger that hung on his belt, its pommel shaped as a sunburst. "No matter how much you beg me to."

  His grin widened.
<
br />   Lyana roared and slammed against the bars.

  ADIA

  Without her children, her house seemed empty as a barren womb, a hall of ghosts. Most days since the Phoenix War, Adia spent her time in the temple, healing and praying; or in the tunnels stocking bandages, herbs, and supplies for siege; or in the streets of Nova Vita, visiting and comforting grieving families. But today, for the first time since the phoenixes had burned this city, Adia had taken a day for her own home.

  She knelt now in her garden, stubbornly fighting a losing war against dandelions which had invaded her rows of herbs. Even the plants fight their wars, she thought wryly. She kept tugging at the weeds until her fingers were raw and her robes covered with soil. When she surveyed her work, she saw that she had put but a small dent into the yellow invasion.

  Once children had run across this lawn, she thought. Once Lyana and Bayrin had fought here with wooden swords, their feet tearing up whatever she had planted and dragging mud into the house. Once the stray dogs Bayrin would adopt—Adia had never understood where he found so many—would dig through her flowerbeds and eat her herbs. Once laughter and light had filled these gardens. Today this was all that remained: weeds and silence.

  Abandoning her floral war for another day, Adia left the garden. Sunflowers and lilac grew around her door, wild and untamed, their leaves perforated with insect bites. They too needed care she could not give them. Her door was painted green and silver—some in Requiem thought them blessed colors—and when Adia stepped through this doorway, more silence greeted her.

  She walked through her house and began to aimlessly work—sweeping a corner here, polishing a mug there. As she wandered the halls, she found the silence unbearable; it engulfed her like a white demon. There were too many rooms in this house upon the hill, too many halls, too many corners where memories whispered.

  Three children had once filled this house with light, she thought. But Bayrin now lived in the palace, guarding his princess; Lyana now spied in the south, in such danger that Adia lay awake most nights, struggling for breath; and her sweet youngest child, Noela, still slept under her grave upon Lacrimosa Hill. No more laughter. No more clacking of wooden swords. No more muddy footprints, or scraped knees, or nights of stargazing with cider and roasted walnuts. Only this: empty rooms and silence.

  Why had she come to this place? She had work to do in the tunnels: jars of preserves needed to be labeled, and swords needed to be hung on racks, and scrolls needed to be placed on shelves. She had healers to train at her temple, young and frightened girls who had never stitched a wound, sawed through a crushed leg, or comforted a dying man. She had stars to pray to: the constellation Draco, stars of her fathers, guardians of Requiem.

  And yet today she had chosen this place, this home she had shared with her husband for... how long had it been? Adia shook her head in amazement when she counted the years. Twenty-nine summers had gone by since she had married Deramon and moved into this house on the hill. She had been only a youth then, not yet twenty, and the world had seemed so bright to her, Deramon so strong, her house so full of warmth and wonder.

  Empty rooms and silence; it was all that remained.

  But no, she thought. Memories remained, moving through these halls like ghosts: Bayrin as a young boy, wild and impossible to tame, scratching his name into every wall; Noela first laughing, a mere moon before she had laughed no more; Lyana squealing as she tugged her brother's hair and fled when he pretended to be a griffin. Adia could still see Bayrin's name upon the walls, though it had been twenty years, and she could still hear the echoes of her daughters laughing and crying and calling for her.

  She entered her bedroom, a sparse chamber of unadorned walls, a simple bed topped with white sheets, and no ornaments but for a basket of dried flowers upon a table. Adia walked to a window and looked outside at the burnt forests. She smiled softly. Those memories were kind, yet they too were fragile. Should Queen Solina fly to this hill, she would topple these empty halls and silent rooms, and then those memories too would die. Nothing would remain of this place but bricks and ash, and all the dandelions that plagued her would lie as charred dust.

  She looked at the city outside; from here, she could see half of Nova Vita roll across hills to the walls and forests. She was High Priestess, the Mother of Requiem, and all those souls below were as children to her. All those memories would perish, and all those lights would fade.

  "It is madness," she whispered. "Five thousand Vir Requis soldiers, most of them mere farmers, bakers, and shepherds... against myriads of wyverns and a hundred thousand desert warriors."

  And yet what else could they do? Stock their supplies. Train their warriors. Pray.

  "And walk through our homes," she said softly. "Relive the memories. Savor the light of life for one last day."

  She heard the door open across the house, the clink of armor, and the heavy footsteps of her husband. Soon Deramon stepped into the bedroom. When Adia looked at him, she marveled at how more white now filled his beard; only last year, that beard had been bright red, and only a few white strands had invaded it. Now for every red hair, a white one grew.

  Adia touched his cheek. "Deramon," she said softly and kissed him.

  He removed his breastplate, then hung sword and axe upon the wall. She helped him unclasp the rest of his armor: vambraces upon his arms, greaves upon his legs, pauldrons like shoulders of steel, and a coat of chain mail. When finally he stood in nothing but a woolen shirt and pants, he looked so small to her, his arms scarred. Once she had thought him a bear of a man, a mountain of muscle and grit.

  The years had softened him; they had done the same to her. For a few years now, Adia had allowed no mirrors in her home. She did not want to see the lines that grew under her eyes, the white that invaded her own black hair, and the new weight that coated her bones. When she first moved into this home—twenty-nine years, stars!—many called her the fairest woman in Requiem, a tall and willowy beauty with midnight hair and eyes like magic. Today her hips were wider, her legs blue with veins, her mouth less likely to smile.

  Does he think me ugly? she wondered as she looked at Deramon. She knew that some lords, when they crossed their fiftieth year, took concubines—young, pretty things for secret nights. On days like these, when death loomed, would he seek out last comforts?

  "It has been nearly thirty summers since we moved into our home," she said to him. "The years have kissed my hair with white, softened my flesh upon my bones, and drawn lines of memory upon my face. But today I will love you like we used to love—with all the fire we would kindle in our youth. I will take you once more into my bed, like the first time, for this may be the last time."

  She doffed her robes, stood naked before him, and saw his face soften.

  "The years did not mar your beauty," he said, "but deepened it. When we wed, I called you the fairest flower in Requiem; that you are still." He cupped her cheek with his large, rough hand and kissed her lips. "Now and always."

  She took him into her bed. She made love to him—with the fire and passion of their youth, and with the slow burn of what they had grown for so many years. She cried out to him. Today was a last day; she savored every breath, every touch, every whisper. When their love was spent, she lay against him and kissed him.

  "I love you, Deramon," she whispered. "After Noela died, I know that I forgot that. I know that my love fled you then; all love fled from me. But I love you deeply, fully; I am yours always, and I will be yours in the starlit halls. I am yours in our life and death."

  The sun began to set and she slept in his arms. Tomorrow fire would burn; tonight she lived twenty-nine years of laughter and starlight.

  LYANA

  She slammed against the cage bars and howled.

  "Mahrdor!" she shouted. Her voice filled the solarium. "Mahrdor, free me! Open this cage or the fire of Requiem will rain upon you!"

  The birds that filled the aviary shrieked and fluttered. Finches bustled in their hanging cages
, beeping. A macaw squawked and bit at the bars of its own prison. A horde of green conures flew from perch to perch, their cages swinging. All had smaller, humbler cages than her own. All hung upon walls or between plants in corners. Lyana's own cage stood in the center of the chamber, the golden centerpiece of Mahrdor's collection. She was his prize pet.

  "Mahrdor!" she shouted.

  No one but the birds answered. Lyana kept slamming against the bars, but they would not dent. When she scratched at them, the gold peeled back to reveal iron. She tried to shift into a dragon again, but as soon as scales began to cover her and her body grew, the bars shoved her back into human form.

  Finally, when her body was bruised from banging against the bars, she fell to her knees. She lowered her head, letting her hair cover her eyes, and gritted her teeth. A deep terror festered inside her. Mahrdor had known—he had known all along—and now Elethor would be flying to Ralora Beach... flying to nothing but waves and sand.

  He will leave only the City Guard in Nova Vita, she knew. Only my father. My brother. A few green youths they had trained. They will die.

  The fear rose in her like flames would rise in her dragon's maw. She snarled and glared through the bars at the glass panes above. The sun was beginning to set. How long until Solina's army flew?

  "I have to escape," she whispered. "I have to warn Elethor. I will not be the one who lets Requiem fall."

  She slammed against the bars again. They bruised her skin. She howled in frustration and fell back down. Her eyes burned and she clenched her fists to stop them from trembling.

  "I have to escape," she whispered again. "I won't let Solina murder my family. I won't let Mahrdor imprison Princess Mori like he imprisoned me." She growled. "I will escape!"

  She kept slamming against the bars until the sun sank, darkness filled the solarium, and she saw nothing but a faint glimmer of moon through the glass ceiling. With a wordless shout, Lyana sat down, pulled her knees to her chest, and lowered her head.