by Shana Abe
Faces watched from behind the castle windows. No one stirred.
The man glanced at the girl, who walked forward and draped a mantle over Lia’s shoulders, closing it at her chest. The girl’s eyes were bright and very clear.
“Beautiful ladies,” said Prince Imre, observing them with his hands in his coat pockets. “My ladies. We’ll go inside now.”
The mournful baying of the dogs followed them all the way in.
The worst aspect of a shoulder wound, Zane considered, was not the blood soaking his shirt and sleeve to clammy coldness, or even the pain that stabbed hot pokers through his veins. It was that, even with a tourniquet, it made his arm useless, and climbing extremely damned difficult.
Still, at least Imre hadn’t hit him in the leg. Climbing up mine shafts with a leg wound would have been impossible.
So Zane climbed. It took him hours to escape the mountain. Hours to find another way out of the tunnels besides the way Imre-and, he hoped, Imre’s henchmen-took.
After being shot he had, quite sensibly, rolled back into the lake. At least it had seemed sensible at the time; Imre still had his gun and surely the means to reload it. But the nearest bright light was a tunnel away, and unless the prince could see in the dark-Zane sincerely hoped he couldn’t-reloading would be tricky.
Let Imre think he was dead, or close to it. He had no problems sinking below the slick surface of the water, floating without noise. The cold had numbed his wound. He’d hardly felt anything at all.
Imre had rummaged around for a few minutes and then left. Zane floated a few minutes longer, listening hard, but there were no further sounds disturbing the cavern beyond his own breathing and the subtle lapping of water against stone.
It had taken far more effort to escape the lake again than it had to roll into it.
He thought of sea monsters lurking beneath waves. He thought of Lia, of metallic coils and open wings, and dragged himself out.
His coat was where he’d left it, the fox-lined hat too. He fished the candle and phosphorus matches one-handed from a pocket-thank God Imre hadn’t discovered the coat-and let the slight, wispy bend of the flame show him which way the air drew.
It also showed him that the diamond was gone. He found the smashed lantern, and that was all.
Bloody good aim, he’d thought hazily, and began to climb.
Hours. He imagined her wounded. He imagined her bleeding, as he was. He imagined her supine with Imre above her, his hands on her white skin, and he staggered along a little more quickly. Occasionally he worked without the candle to make it last; he had ten matches. Nine chances to get it relit. He tried to use them only at forks in the tunnels.
He didn’t know when he began to realize that the small glow of his flame wasn’t the only light source before him. The walls began to gain texture and shape. The air lost its deadened scent.
He heard a bird warbling. His tunnel ended in a chink of daylight, a pile of fallen rocks that showed an opening hardly larger than his face. He put his eye to the hole and looked out at a sun-dappled forest, at a tiny bright songbird, butter-yellow, perched on a pine bough dead ahead. The bird looked back at him, falling quiet. It hopped sideways a little on its branch, fluffing its feathers, then began singing again.
In a small, quiet corner of her heart, Lia observed what was happening to her. She felt the hands of the Others as they helped her dress. She heard their whispering voices, Romanian words she could not quite understand, but it hardly mattered because they were talking about her, not to her.
She felt the daylight on her shoulders as they bound her into her corset. She smelled the outside on their clothing, chemical roses from the rouge on their cheeks, coffee and dairy on their breath.
She lifted her arms as they fitted her with the deep-green bodice, the lace scratchy against her breasts. She gazed out the windows of the bedchamber and thought, Turn.
But she did not. She didn’t really even try. Prince Imre had handed her cordially to the human maidservants and commanded, “Let them attend you,” and that’s all she wanted to do.
The dreams had not offered her sight, but she had it now, and with Draumr a low, agreeable swirling in her head, everything about her appeared softer, mistier; a sheen of water separated her from the room and the women and everything harsh. She stood alone behind it, admiring the play of light, distracted and happy and at peace. She was back beneath the lake; she had never left the lake. She did not need to swim, because drowning turned out to be so sweet.
Except for that one little corner.
The canopied bed had been made up since this morning. There was no indication anyone had ever slept there; even the pillows were smoothed. And but for the lingering caress of his scent, there was nothing left in this chamber of Zane. Only her belongings remained, her trunk and gowns and two pairs of buckled shoes.
The women placed rings on her fingers that were not her own. They touched perfume to her throat that she did not know. She admired the view and let them comb out her hair, and curl it, and sift French powder down to her scalp.
That unknown corner of her began to bleed, but her body remained passive. Despite her secret heart, she was content to sit until Imre called for her again.
Like the palace in Óbuda, there would be no stealing into Zaharen Yce. It was a fortress before anything else, with a single entrance that he knew of, and that a guarded gate and portcullis, as formidable as any Norman stronghold dotting the hills of the English countryside.
He approached it openly, keeping a hand pressed to his shoulder under the gray fur coat. He greeted the men who poured out to intercept him-bewigged footmen and a few fellows more serious than that, reminding him greatly of Hunyadi’s guard. Before they could touch him, he informed them he had news for their master, drákon news, managing to imply through his tone and the lifting of his bloodied palm that should any one of them feel the need to prevent him, it would be on their heads.
Zane was escorted inside.
The courtyard looked as if it had seen a tussle. There were deep furrows scoring the driveway, and at least one fountain and an urn toppled and broken.
He’d seen marks like that before. Five claws, four feet. A dragon had skidded to rest here since he’d ridden out this morning, and he had a damned clear idea of who it would be.
He knew from his prowling that Zaharen Yce had a ballroom. He hadn’t lingered there last night; empty ballrooms echoed uncomfortably and usually held little of interest. Yet today, for some reason, it was where the prince had decided to take his supper.
It was a tower chamber, huge and round, chilled from the slab marble walls that alternated from cream to smoky blue and the Roman pillars that touched a frescoed ceiling at least three stories high. The fresco was of planets and stars and silver-painted beasts. Gauzy curtains shot with gold draped the windows, framing treetops and mountains and that endless deep sky all around. The late-afternoon light slanted in, cool and drifting; the white sparkling floor was devoid of any rugs. Dancing here would be akin to dancing atop the clouds.
There was no hearth, no furniture at all save the table at the end, where the prince sat in a throne chair, platters of food and drink before him, a crystal vase of jasmine adding fragrance to the air. Flanking Imre on either side were the princess and Lia.
It wasn’t a ballroom. Zane realized that now. The floor, the stars, the vaulted ceiling: this was a place designed for the convergence of dragons.
One of the footmen hurried ahead, his heels striking hard at the stone. He approached the prince and bowed and muttered, but from the instant Zane had entered the chamber, Imre had not taken his eyes from his.
Zane offered a smile, insolent. He’d intended insult and hoped for surprise. He thought from the prince’s rigid expression he’d managed both.
The footman bowed again, and Imre dismissed him with a nod. Zane had not stopped walking, outstripping his reluctant escort. When he was near enough to make out the embroidery on Imre’s oyster-gray
lapels, he halted.
“You are dripping blood upon my floor,” observed the prince.
“My apologies. It is the unfortunate consequence of being shot.”
“Indeed.” The prince’s black brows lifted. “You might have done me the favor of expiring before reaching my halls.”
“No,” said Zane, and with an effort that cost him dots in his vision and a cold sweat down his back, he completed a sweeping, perfect bow. “I fear I’m never so couth as that.”
“So I see.”
As he raised from the bow, Zane risked a look directly at Lia: her pallid face, her slumberous eyes, her lips dabbed red and her hair ivory-white. She gazed back at him impassively, her hands folded in her lap.
“I’m going to make the diamond a pendant, I think,” said Imre conversationally, tapping light fingers against his vest pocket. “It’s too large for a stickpin and too heavy for a ring. Don’t you agree?”
“That’s how I plan to wear it, Your Grace. I must applaud your taste.”
“And I your bravado, though no doubt it grows tedious over time. Lady Amalia informs me you’re no earl. In fact, you’re not even a lordling. Best of all-you’re not wed to her.”
“Not yet. We’ll be remedying that very soon.”
Imre sat back in his chair and began to laugh. “You are bold, peasant-or else simply a madman. Why in God’s name would you return here? Was a bullet in your body not message enough?”
“I’ve come for Amalia, and for Draumr,” Zane replied peaceably. “I won’t be leaving without them.”
“Pity I don’t have my pistol on me. Ah, well! Lady Amalia, how are you feeling? Are you quite rested, my dear?”
“Quite,” she said, her face turning to his.
“Excellent. Then listen to me, please. I want you now to Turn into a dragon and slay this man before me. Try not to damage the walls.”
Lia glanced back at Zane. She was his and not his, changed since the last instant he had seen her-not from scales to flesh, but from something soft and real and earthly to something else: jewels and gold, rice powder and cool sparkling eyes. She was more gravely beautiful than ever. Her head tipped as she gazed at him, as if he puzzled her, only slightly, a small conundrum that warranted merely the pucker of her lips and a downward sweep of chocolate lashes.
He loved her. The thought that she was going to be his kept him standing upright even as the blood slipped from his fingers.
“Still you smile!” exclaimed the prince. “A madman, just as I thought.”
“No.” Zane curled his fingers into his palm. “It’s just that I know what you don’t.”
“Oh? Have you some magical spell tucked up your sleeve? Some wizard’s potion to stop a dragon in her tracks? I’m all agog. Pray, do tell.”
“No spells, no potions. Nothing so dramatic. What I know…is the future. And you’re not in it.”
Imre’s expression hardened. He took the diamond from his pocket and clamped it in his fist. “Amalia. Kill him.”
She rose to her feet. She stood behind the table, a perfect gentlewoman with smooth powdered curls and ebony lace rucked at her sleeves.
“Lia,” Zane said. “My heart. I don’t want to fight you.”
“I rather think you don’t,” agreed the prince. “She’s about to have a significant advantage. Lady Amalia. Obey me, if you please. Now.”
Her eyes closed, opened again. Her cheeks were bloodless, her breathing slowed. The moment spun out, shining, delicate, and Zane thought, She won’t do it, she won’t-
“Zane.” It was a whisper. And then, with a cheerful tinkle of falling rings, she Turned, smoke, sinuous shape rising to the air and coalescing down again, and he was looking at the other side of her, a creature so bright and gorgeous it nearly hurt to see, shimmer and color and very long claws.
Behind the table, Imre picked up his wineglass. The princess never moved.
A lovely woman, a lovely dragon; he’d seen them like this, the drákon of Darkfrith. He knew their ripples and turns, their long lashes and grinning fangs. He knew their lethal grace, but this was Lia, his Lia-heart, and when she turned her head and fixed him with eyes of molten gold, he did not flinch. When she swept her tail toward him, a blur of gilt and violet-purple, he skipped back a single step, and it was enough to save him.
She’s not serious. She’s not truly serious.
Her head whipped about, iridescent blue scales, a silky ruff framing her face. She lunged at him, snapping her teeth, and missed him by a hairbreadth. He leapt once more, truly leapt, a shade too slow, a pitch too awkward, and like lightning she struck again, this time whirling to connect the thick of her tail with his left leg.
He heard the bone snap. It didn’t hurt; there was no time for that. He fell to the floor and tucked his body into a tight tumble, instinct taking over, moving him away to swift safety. He reeled back to his feet amid dizziness and more blood and couldn’t seem to find a certain balance again.
There was a scarlet handprint on the floor from where he fell. His shoulder was afire. He hobbled and turned his back to the blood and thought of all the sly weapons he still possessed: Knives. Picks. Wire-thin blades meant to carve up a heart beneath rib bones, or slice out an eye.
He wouldn’t use any of them. She wasn’t going to kill him. Despite his leg and his shoulder, there was no force on earth that would make him act against her.
Lia spun about, striking the table with one impressive white wing, tipping it over in a great mess of shattered china and jasmine and spilled wine. The prince jumped back. The princess still did not rise, not even when the broken vase ruptured flowers and water at her feet.
Lia narrowed her eyes at him, every inch of her bristling. She drew one curved golden claw slowly across the floor in front of her, leaving a scratch mark an inch deep.
Zane began to rethink his strategy.
Someone beyond the lake was controlling her muscles. Someone beyond the lake sang a chant in her ear, Obey me, obey me, obey. She was the song, she was the melody and the harmony, the clever death that swept up and down through the score, sideways, bending, a chanson that lifted wings and air and forced the human man battling her to duck small and fling himself hard away.
He had no sword. He had no gun. It hardly seemed fair to kill him, but the hot scent of his blood filled her nostrils, and that was exciting. She’d already wounded him, and that was good.
He spoke her human name.
Lia!
Something cold stirred in her heart. A worm; a doubt. Something as deep as sinew and marrow protested, rusting her in place. It forced her to pause, to examine the man limping before her, returning to her despite the fact that she was about to take his life.
He lifted his eyes to hers, his lips pulled taut, his hair spilling over his shoulders and down his coat. He held up a bloodied hand to her, keeping his weight on one leg.
And then…she remembered him. The sight of his hair, long hair-too long for a man-the glint of honey and of sable, blond and richly brown. She knew that color. She knew his face. His set jaw. His yellow eyes.
Yes. She’d known him all her life.
She had a sapphire because of him. She had a dream, many dreams, and a family and a home-because of him.
Lia saw him in a different place, a land of green hills and gentle streams. A land with ponds, and children, and fishing poles that struck circles into flat water.
She shook her head. She glanced wildly around the foreign room and felt herself begin to shrink inside.
“Snapdragon.” The man was not so hardy as he appeared; he listed sideways and dropped to one knee, his skin beaded and pale. Blood had splashed a circle of red raindrops around him. He looked very ill.
She Turned to smoke. She Turned to woman. Beyond the placid lake someone thundered her name, and she put her hands to her ears, crouching down, rocking in place, not listening.
No, no, no-she’d rather drown, she’d rather die-
A hand met her shoulder. The m
an drew her to him with one arm, this mortal man, smelling of sweat and fox and fresh blood, clasping her to him with a faint, faint noise in his chest.
All the water smothering her fell away in a silent rush. She flung her arms around his neck. She pressed her face into his hair and felt Zane’s rough inhalation.
“I’m sorry,” she was gasping, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t me, oh, God, what happened? I’m so sorry-”
“Hush,” the thief murmured, his arm very tight. “Sweet girl, I’ve got you. Hush now.”
The drákon prince lifted his voice in time with Draumr’s dark tune.
“Lady Amalia. For every second you disobey me, there is a knife stabbing you in the heart.”
She took a long, shuddering breath-and felt the blade sink into her.
“It hurts you like fire. It scorches your skin. You’re burning, Amalia. You must kill him to stop the pain.”
Her throat closed. Her eyes teared. Her fingers clenched and her head fell back and she could not breathe.
“Fire, Amalia. All you have to do-”
Zane said urgently, “Lia. Don’t listen.”
She was blistering. She was smoking. She twisted against the hard floor and felt her flesh begin to melt. Zane’s hand at her shoulder was a smoking iron, crisping down to her bones.
“Lia! It’s not real!”
“But it is, my lady. End it. Turn to dragon. He is nothing to you. You’ll be whole again.”
So here was the other side of the lake: a sheet of fire. Here was an aspect of Draumr she’d never even imagined, that it could be used to set her nerve endings alight, that it could whisper, Burn to ashes and embers, and she would.
“Destroy him, Amalia, and the pain will cease.”
Zane was trying to stand. “Damn you! Stop hurting her!”
She ripped at her hair; she couldn’t scream. She could only shake her head, over and over, not even managing a moan.
From a very great distance, she heard the prince sigh.
