by Ava Sinclair
And I let her feel the love I have for her, a feeling that dwarfs all the other emotions. I let her feel how she has healed me, and I know she will feel it from my brothers as well.
Chapter 23
Queen Zara
It is unlike anything I could have imagined. It is a journey through the lives of the men I love. But I am not a spectator. I am the men I love, slipping through their experiences like a fish slips through a stream.
I see their characters develop from childhood. Rargi is patient from the start and slow to anger. His mother calls him her Little Rock. I toddle on his wobbly legs as he takes his first steps. He speaks full sentences and learns to read earlier than his siblings. His father, a cheerful, handsome lord, ferries him through the castle astride his broad shoulders.
“Faster, faster!” he cries, holding only the collar. Later I am him on horseback, galloping through across the Drakoryan plains. I am Rargi in his late teen years, and when the disobedient horse throws me, I shift into a dragon as I land, take flight, and pick the horse back up. The terrified animal is deposited in the stable yard and afterwards never gives me any more trouble.
As Prince Rargi, I am the first to comfort Yrgi at the death of his natural father, and openly weep at the death of my own, the last prince to die. I feel King Vukuris’ hand on my shoulder, hear his voice telling me his brothers died proud because of their sons.
I feel dragon grief as — along with my brothers— I exhale fire that consumes the body of the king himself. The sense of loss is like a cold knife to my heart. I feel the fear Rargi cannot show, his fear for the future. I feel his arms around a woman—me. I feel my body against him, and feel the fear replaced by comfort and a new security. He is showing me my power to heal.
As Prince Yrgi, I feel invincible, strong. I am the fastest, the one with the most prowess. Women flock to me, and while his exploits are something most mates would not care to know about, let alone live, I understand that this is what makes him who he is. Yrgi is insatiable, visceral. I realize his letting me take the lead on our first night together was out of his character; it was a gift.
I feel his passion in other things. Through his dragon eyes I relive the battle with his brother for the onyx room, the fight that gave him the scar he still bears. In dragon form he flies for miles just to find a certain ledge where he can watch the moon rise over some distant mountain. I watch him draw star charts in his room, see him wing to distant and secret places to bring reform as a man and pluck flowers for some maiden he fancies, or for his mother.
I feel his outrage as the Mystic Mountain splits open from the inside. This is mixed with my own pain and a sudden burning awareness—the slip of a memory that’s not his, but mine. Then the perspective is all his again. I see King Vukuris’ body tumble into the ravine through Yrgi’s eyes. I hear and feel his scream in my throat.
And finally, I am Oneg, being told that there will be queen. I feel anger at the news, and see myself brooding in the empty throne room where I stare at the crown that used to sit on my father’s head. I am trueborn. There should be no battle. The crown should be mine, and I should choose my own maiden. I am angry to have conceded to the pressure to take a woman I consider tainted by her time with the ShadowFell.
I feel Oneg’s distrust for me, his disdain. I also feel the source of all his hurt and insecurities. I am him as a small boy. My mother has told me I am Vukuris’ trueborn son because I have asked, as boys eventually do. I am running through the castle, feeling proud. I round a corner to see King Vukuris with is arm around Bymir, praising his swordsmanship. “I could not be more proud of a son,” he is saying.
Rage forms like a ball in my stomach. I run the other way, and day by day, the ball grows. Every compliment the king pays my brothers feels like one stolen from me. I ask my father about the value of blood one day. He looks me up and down. He knows I am his trueborn, but he tells me that with Drakoryans, it is bond, not blood, that makes a son. He says my brothers and I are all equal to him.
He has denied the distinction, but I do not. I vow to be the biggest and strongest dragon. I vow to set myself apart. There are flashes of the king’s pride, his notice of me, each accompanied by a swell of happiness followed by a letdown when I realize with each attempt that the garnered pride is no greater than what is show to my brothers.
Through Oneg’s eyes, I watch the old king die. I feel a sense of loss so great as to be crippling. But it’s not the loss of a father that pains me so much as the loss of the opportunity to garner the trueborn distinction I have spent my life chasing.
Oneg lays bare his hurt; when I experience the burning of his father as a dragon, I feel myself direct fire at the body in a joint show of grief and rage. The chance to set myself apart has died along with the king.
I view myself through his eyes on the day we met. He sees me as small and waiflike and inferior. He does not trust me. He believes me unworthy of a trueborn son of Vukuris, having decided that even if the king did not recognize his greatness, he will hold fast to the pride that hardens his heart against me.
I hear the hurtful words come out of my mouth—his mouth—at the feast. I feel the weight of his brothers’ anger, his alienation. The Deepening is like a confession; Oneg shares his thoughts with me knowing his brother sees them, too. The thoughts are dark. He imagines himself becoming dragon to slay them in their beds, to slay me, before taking the castle by force. When he cannot bring himself to do it, he believes this is because of the weakness his father saw in him.
Then, through him, I feel my love. It is like a balm washing over him. I listen to his heart as he realizes that true strength lies in unity, and true happiness in love. We have both been captive to monsters, only his was inside him. The night we were together, we freed one another.
I feel tears of emotion course down my face at his honesty.
“We love you, brother,” I hear the others tell him. Oneg is weeping. His hands on my shoulders shake.
Then come the memories of the Drakoryan Empire. My mind is bombarded with knowledge. Flashes of script appear before my mind’s eye, and I can read the ancient dragon language. I hear it and understand. I see the first dragons made in the cave by the Lord and Lady. I watch their trials in this very castle. I see virgins taken from rocks to become loving ladies to Drakoryan lords. I see the subjugation of humans, both within and from beyond the mountains. I see war and fire.
It happens in an instant, this journey through time. My mind swells with the knowledge of the ages, the knowledge of what is now my people. I will tell the stories I now know by heart to my sons.
Then comes my turn to share. What do royals know of village childhood? I show them a stone cottage, and how it feels to dig one's feet into the cool dirt floor on a hot day. I show them the ache of hunger pangs when food is scarce, and the simple bliss of giggling under the blanket with my sister on a cold winter night as, across the room, our parents scolded us to hush and sleep.
I show them work. Through me, they feel the udder of a goat as milk squirts into a wooden pail. They feel the small cuts that develop on finger pads as I pick grains from heads of fall wheat. The see the longing looks of village boys as my sisters and I pass. They listen as our mother tells us not to fall in love, as we are forbidden until we are too old for the dragons to select us as mates.
I show them the fear every Drakoryan maiden feels that she will be the one led to her village’s Altar Rock. As I move through my life, letting them experience it through my senses, I edge ever closer to the memories I have suppressed. I want to stop, but something is pressing me onward.
Show them.
I draw a ragged breath and let the memories come. It is a cold night. I feel my sister Isla leave the bed. My last memory is of her telling me she is going to make water. I nestle into the warm spot she left and am just drifting back off when I hear the sound of rushing wind. There are screams. Am I dreaming? No. My parents are shaking me awake. I hear the sound of timbers cracking and breakin
g, of stones flying and hitting our cottage. Something is happening. Something terrible.
It sounds like the end of the world.
It looks like the end of the world.
Smoke stings my eyes, causing me to gasp as we flee from our crumbling cottage. Through the choking haze, I see a huge shape. It lashes with its long tail and a burning cottage flies apart. I stare helplessly as the monstrous creature grabs a person from the ruins and slings them apart. I look down and scream. Blood stains my gown.
“Isla!!!” I call for my beloved sister, then turn to my mother. But as I do, the ground shakes.
“It’s a dragon!” My father calls. Those are his last words. The beast shoots another stream of flame, igniting what was our cottage. He is lost in the smoke. I hear my mother’s screams join the others as she tells me to run.
I do, but I don’t get far. Something is tight around my waist. I am sure I am going to die. I look down. A hand, but not human. I am in a dragon’s clasp. It takes me through the haze to the edge of the village where an iron cage is filled with other dazed or screaming village girls. I am shoved inside. My head strikes one of the bars and everything grows dark. I sit up, forcing myself to recover. I look for my sister. She is not here.
I am helpless. Helplessly trapped as I scream with the others. Branlock is being destroyed by a huge black dragon. It is merciless, slaughtering men, women, and children. Every cottage is reduced to smoldering rubble.
Does it take hours or minutes? Time seems irrelevant. My throat burns from smoke. I am hoarse from yelling for Isla. She could not possibly have survived. I sink to the bottom of the cage, moaning as the cage goes airborne.
All fades from black to red. I open my eyes. I am in a narrow cave. There is a ledge, but it is far above, backlit by a reddish haze. There are cracks in the walls. Through them I hear the sound of weeping women.
I am in the lair of the black dragon, as are the others. We are being kept separate. From time to time, food is dropped to me. Dry bread. Salt fish. My grief is strong, but the hope that I may see Isla again is stronger. I eat. I drink water trickling from a rock.
How long am I here? I cannot tell day from night. I cannot escape. The wall beneath the ledge is too sheer, and even if I could climb it, the dragon lurks above. I can hear it breathing. I can feel the vibration of its heavy steps, hear the swish of its tail.
I sleep, and awake to hear pleadings and a low growl. I put my eye to the crack in the wall, keeping my hand over my mouth so I do not scream. I see a hooded figure. I see the dragon. I turn and sink to the ground. I sob into my arms, shaking.
Then it comes for me. At first I just see the head snaking over the ledge. Then the body follows, scaling the wall downward. It is not the same dragon as from the village. This one is larger. Its eyes glow red, the vertical pupil expanding and contracting as it stares at me. A dark wisp of smoke appears beside the dragon. A man steps out. He is wearing a black cloak. His face is ugly and twisted.
He looks at me. “Kneel,” he says, “for you are in the presence of the God of Deep Places.”
I do not kneel. “You are no god of mine.” I will not bend the knee before anyone who stands with what destroyed my village. The hooded figure smiles. It is a cold smile, and at that same moment I feel a stabbing pain, like a knife in my belly. I collapse to the floor, screaming and writhing from agony so intense that when it subsides, I am left drained.
The hooded figure moves his hand over me. “She is the one.” He looks to the dragon. “Inhale her essence. You can smell it. She has the inner magic we seek.”
The dragon rumbles low in his throat. He breathes in. I feel my tattered gown and hair pulled towards him. I cry out. He shows his teeth in a horrifying smile as he tilts his head towards the hooded figure, who addresses me once more.
“This is King Seadus, the dragon soon to be made flesh. With your help, he will access the deep magic of the Mystic Mountain. Only one who possesses magic can be a vessel for it. Once you have aided us, King Seadus will take you as his bride.”
“No.” I am shaking my head.
“You must. You must consent.”
“Never.”
“Say you will.” The menacing whisper of the God of Deep Places’ mixes with the dragon king’s rumble of a growl.
“No.”
“Then you will be punished.”
I show them the worst of it. I show them the spell that allows me to burn without dying, again and again. I pray for death that does not come, but I do not give in. I will never be his.
I am lying on a slab. I am dressed. I am in a white gown. The hooded figure stands over me. He tells the dragon he is preparing me to wander and waste away in the ancient wood. Hunger will draw the humans in to hunt. I will be found.
Through the eyes of twisted ShadowFell soldiers sent to attack the village, the evil god saw a lady there— a Drakoryan Bride. He knew then that a maiden of Branlock had survived. He knew she was of my blood. He will bring me close to death so that the only way to save me is witch magic. When I am inside the mountain, he will use the magic he puts inside me to open it to him and the ShadowFell.
It hurts. He forces the magic intome. It hurts. I scream and scream. It is worse than fire, this twisted, dark ugliness lodged inside my breast. I beg him to take it from me. I am ignored.
I am in the forest. I am cold. I am hungry. Just as fire could not consume me, neither can cold and hunger. I see water but cannot drink. I see berries but cannot raise a hand to put them to my mouth. My arms grow thin as twigs. My stomach hollows and my ribs jut from my body.
I hear cries. Someone speaks of a fey creature. They are afraid. Then a big man approaches, and another. They are warm, but the warmth cannot touch me. They ask me questions, and I open my mouth to tell them my name, to ask them for help, but I only respond with mad gibberish.
I am in a hut. Warm broth runs into my mouth and out again. I cannot eat. I cannot drink. I am wasting away. And then there she is. My sister. My lovely sister. My Isla. She touches my face, kisses me, sobs. She begs me to eat. I cannot.
Dragon wings. Flying. A pool. My sister weeps. Healing waters, they say, but I float helplessly like a dried leaf.
The witches. Isla begs. Someone must take me.
I want to say no. I want to tell them that I house something within me, something awful, that will bring about ruin if I am taken there. I try to push the voice out of my body, but it is trapped behind the writhing black mass deep in my chest.
We are flying again. No. No. No. No. No.
Women. Blacked-robed. Wise. But not wise enough to see what is inside of me. They take pity. They take me in. They lower me to a pool.
I feel strength. I feel heat. I feel….life. I find my voice. I open my mouth to warn them, and my body begins to jerk as something black and hazy flies from between my lips. Screams. A flash, the sound of running. There is a popping sound, then a crack. Hands grasp me. I am pulled through a doorway that wasn’t there.
I awaken in a quiet wood. There are birds. Light filters through the trees. It would be blissful but for the sadness I feel all around me. The witches are sitting in a circle. I can feel the weight of their worry. One comes to me. She is silver-haired and beautiful.
I begin to apologize. I am sobbing as I explain how I tried to tell her. She puts a finger to my lips. She tells me she is Arvika, and that I am not to be troubled. She says all that happens happens for a reason. She smiles.
“The ShadowFell King does not know what he has done,” she says. “He is being used as surely as you have been used. The one who aids him is no friend. She tells me war will consume the land for years, bringing great suffering and tragedy. She tells me to be strong, for my people.”
“My people are dead,” I say, thinking of Branlock.
“No. The Drakoryan people. You will be their queen. You must go back.”
I do not want to go back. I beg her to let me stay, but she tells me the Wheel of Fate cannot be stopped. There are score
s that must be settled, prophecies that must be fulfilled. My parents birthed a warrior and a queen, she says. Both Isla and I will find our destinies.
Then she leans over, and all goes black. I feel the connection with King Bymir and his brother has ended. I am alone with Queen Arvika.
“Lady Lyla of Fra’hir is part of the prophecy, too,” she says. “It was foretold, and now I would have you carry a message to her. Tell her the girl child she birthed tonight will bring peace to the Drakoryan Empire. Tell her to fear not. She will raise her daughter. Tell her to look and listen for signs from the Wyrd. We cannot return, but we will speak through dreams. Tell her the girl child has a name. Her name is Sabine.”
I am pulled back and back until I am sitting in my own body, in the present, with my mates. With the exception of the message meant for Lyla, they now know my story—a story that until the Deepening was even lost to me. They kneel and embrace me where I sit in my chair. They kiss my tear-stained face, and I return their kisses one by one.
