"Solina, please," she whispered.
Solina laughed. "You are begging so soon?" She shook her head sadly. "I begged too as a child when you mocked me, when you called me a stranger. I begged the Sun God to free me from your prison. I begged too as a woman when your betrothed burned me and left me scarred. And I begged Elethor. I begged him to be mine, to rule with me in Tiranor... but he chose you instead." She broke the seal off her second vial. "From my childhood until today you hurt me, weredragon. You mocked me. You stole my love. And now you spy on my kingdom. And yes, you will beg now. You will beg all night and for every night hence."
She smiled and raised the second vial.
For an hour she worked—spilling the sap across Lyana, watching it burn her, hearing her scream. She forced it down her throat. She splashed it into her eyes. She smeared it across her until the weredragon shook and wept. When finally her vials were empty, she unlocked the chains that bound Lyana to the ceiling. She watched the wretched creature fall to her knees, trembling and smoking.
"Guards!" she cried.
She stood smiling, hands on hips, as her guards entered the room and lifted the weredragon. Solina began walking upstairs, out of shadow and into sunlight. As the guards dragged Lyana behind her, the chained wretch barely struggled. Her feet dragged and blood trickled down her chin. Even if chains were not still binding her, Solina doubted the girl could muster enough strength to become a dragon now.
They dragged Lyana out of the palace, through a garden of fig trees, and into a courtyard. A snowy mare waited there—White Flame, Solina's favorite mount, the finest beast from her stables. The horse nickered and tossed her head, chinking the golden rings that filled her mane. Lyana slumped, the guards holding her up. She coughed weakly and spat blood.
"Chain her," Solina said.
The guards pulled Lyana's arms forward, manacled her wrists, and ran a chain between them to White Flame's saddle. Solina mounted her mare, stroked her mane, and kneed her.
White Flame began to walk. Solina smiled upon the saddle. Lyana shuffled behind, coughing and struggling for breath.
"Weredragons think themselves a noble race!" Solina said. Her guards marched at her sides, spears thudding against the cobblestones. "Look at this one. Look how she walks behind me, chained and bruised. How noble she is!"
They crossed the courtyard, rode through a vineyard, and entered the sun-drenched streets of Irys.
Thousands of men, women, and children roared—they crowded the streets, covered the roofs, and stared from their windows. They howled at the sight of Solina and the chained weredragon. As Solina rode and Lyana limped behind, the people shouted and jeered.
"Weredragon!" one cried.
"Murderer!"
"Monster!"
Somebody tossed a rock. It struck Lyana's shoulder and drew blood. Another tossed a soiled swaddling cloth. Soon hundreds were tossing refuse at the chained, limping weredragon. Solina smiled as she rode, keeping the chain tight; it was long enough that none of the trash could hit her. She kneed her horse to a faster clip. Lyana fell, was dragged several feet, and barely struggled back onto her feet. Blood trickled down her elbows.
She is no longer screaming, Solina thought in distaste. Her lip curled. She will scream more before this day is over. The entire city will hear it.
As she rode, she thought of Elethor—her pure, handsome prince, the love of her life, the fire of her youth. He had rejected her, swung his sword at her, cast her out... and chosen this Lyana, this filthy weredragon, instead. Solina growled. She was a great queen, a beautiful monarch clad in gold and splendor and sunlight. Behind her dragged a bloody, filthy wretch, half alive, a mere creature, not a woman to love.
"You will see, Elethor," she whispered. "I will bring this Lyana with me to Requiem, and you will see her filth, her monstrosity. She will be broken when you see her again, a crushed insect, and I will be glorious."
She rode all morning as the crowds jeered. Lyana coughed and struggled for breath, her feet bloody, her eyes rolling. When the sun hit its zenith and her lord's fire burned brightest, Solina rode across the Square of the Sun, heading back toward her palace. The Palace of Phoebus, her ancestral home, loomed above her—an ancient edifice of towers and battlements. A limestone staircase, fifty feet wide and glittering white, led from the courtyard toward the palace gates, where two faceless stone warriors stood, a hundred feet tall. At the foot of this staircase she halted White Flame and dismounted.
Lyana collapsed onto the cobblestones. Thousands of people filled the square, howling in rage, tossing rotten fruit onto the weredragon.
"Stand her up," Solina said to her guards. "Take her up the steps to the Faceless Guardians where we burned the last one."
A smile on her face, Solina began walking up the steps of her palace, heading toward its gates. Behind her, her guards grabbed Lyana under her arms, hoisted up the bloody creature, and dragged her upstairs. As Solina climbed, her smile grew, and her lord's light filled her eyes. The glory of Tiranor and the Phoebus Dynasty rose above her, stone kissed with gold. Sunbeams flared around the Tower of Akartum, the tallest steeple in Tiranor, blessing her.
Finally they reached the Faceless Guardians, two statues of stone that protected her home; they had stood here for three thousand years, and even the dragons of Requiem had been unable to topple them. The guards chained Lyana between the two statues, one arm bound to each, so that she stood stretched between them. The weredragon's head hung low, and blood trickled down her chin.
Solina approached her captive, touched the blood on her cheek, and leaned close.
"This is where we killed your friend Silas," she whispered. "Are you frightened, Lyana?"
The weredragon looked up. Pain filled her eyes... but rage too. Deep, simmering rage, two forge fires. Blood and bruises covered her face, but Lyana managed to growl.
"You may kill me," the weredragon said, "but the wrath of Requiem will fly upon you, Solina. You will burn forever in the flames."
Solina laughed. "So much spirit still left to break; it is a wonder. You are making this day more enjoyable than I could have imagined." She whispered into Lyana's ear. "And your spirit will break, Lyana. It will break today. I was merciful to Silas; I let him die. You will receive no such mercy, not for many years." She turned toward her guards. "Beat her. Beat her so the city hears her screams."
She stepped back. The guards stepped forward, whips in hand. And they beat her. And she screamed. And the city heard.
The crowds howled. The whips lashed. Blood fell upon the stones of her palace.
When Lyana fell unconscious and her guards lowered their lashes, Solina glared at them.
"You will beat her until I tell you to stop."
The beating continued. The sunlight flared across them, a blaze of glory and justice.
ELETHOR
As sunset spilled over the field, the sounds of the camp rose like music: soldiers talking and coughing, spoons clattering in bowls, and ravens cawing as they circled overhead. Three thousand Vir Requis sat upon boulders and grass, eating and drinking, boasting of how many Tirans they'd kill, laughing at rude jokes, and remembering their homes. One man began to sing Old Requiem Woods, an ancient song; others soon joined him, and the song swept through the camp, and even the most dour and frightened hummed and smiled.
"Two days from Nova Vita," Elethor whispered. "Four days from the sea where I'll meet Solina again."
He stood upon a hillock, apart from the others. He was not much older than these soldiers—a young king of only twenty-six summers, his father fallen too soon. And yet he felt decades more ancient, an old man with the weight of an ancient race upon his shoulders. The wind tousled his hair and filled his nostrils with the scents of cooking meats, strong ale, sweat, and grass. He looked upon this camp and thought about Lyana, and the summer night felt cold.
"Fly back to us," he whispered. "Be safe."
A young woman detached from the camp and came walking uphill toward him. S
he wore a breastplate engraved with a stalk of wheat, and a sword hung from her hip. When she came closer, Elethor recognized her smooth black hair, olive skin, and dark eyes: the Lady Treale Oldnale, squire to Lyana. When she reached him, she held out two steaming bowls of stew.
"My king," she said and bowed her head. "I thought you might be hungry. Please, would you eat with me? I have some bread in my pack too and a full wineskin."
She looked up at him expectedly. A short and slim girl, Lady Treale was of an age with Mori—not yet twenty—and a friend to the princess. As Elethor watched her, he remembered fighting Tiran soldiers in the tunnels—towering men twice Treale's size, bloodlust in their eyes. How long would Treale last in battle against them, and if they let her live, would she beg them for death? An image flashed through his mind: young Treale trapped underground, sliced with swords, screaming as desert warriors mounted her. He clenched his jaw, banishing the thought.
He sat down and patted the grass beside him. "Come, Lady Treale. Sit beside me. Let us share a meal and wine."
She sat beside him in the grass and wriggled until she was comfortable. They ate silently for long moments, watching the camp. The singing below died, soon replaced with gales of laughter over rude jokes.
"Not much like my father's army," Elethor said with a sigh. "Those were hard men; they ate with grim purpose, fuel for battle. I rarely heard them laugh."
Treale chewed a crust of bread. "These ones are nervous. I lead a phalanx of a hundred warriors; they are younger than me, and I'm not yet twenty. Most have only held plows until this year; others have only held quills. Several of my warriors are fifteen years old; some of the boys are too young to shave." She heaved a sigh. "Let them boast of the Tirans they will kill, my lord. Let them laugh at their jests and sing their songs. It drowns their terror." She looked at him, and he could see her own fear behind her eyes. "It is better than terror."
Elethor sighed too. He placed his spoon down in his empty bowl. "Your father thinks me a fool. He tells me to make peace with Solina, not lead these youths to war. When we meet Tiranor's army, we will not face the children of farmers. We will meet hard men from a cruel land, bred to kill for their Sun God; women too, brides to the blade, desert warriors who shave the sides of their heads, pierce their lips with rings, and lust for the blood of dragons." He looked at Treale. "They do not tell jokes around their campfires this night. They do not laugh nervously to hide their fear. They do not sing old folk songs. They sharpen spearheads and howl for blood. Each of these warriors will ride a wyvern, cruel beasts with scales harder than ours and acid crueler than our fire. They will fly in perfect formations. They will not scatter in battle. They will each fight to the death."
Treale paled and clutched her spoon as if it were a sword. She tightened her lips and raised her head.
"Do we stand a chance?" she whispered.
Elethor looked down at the camp. Two boys were chasing each other around a fire, swinging swords in mock battle. They laughed, the high laugh of youths; they were barely old enough to even be called youths.
"I don't know," he said softly. "Your parents think not. What do you think, Lady Treale? Your father calls for me to make peace; by that, he means me to surrender. And yet you are here, clad in armor, fighting for your king. Tell me your thoughts."
She placed down her empty bowl, uncorked her wineskin, and drank deeply. "I'm frightened," she finally said. "And I don't know if we can win this war. But..." She looked into the night, for a moment lost in thought. She looked back at him. "My lord, my brothers fought for King Olasar. They died over King's Forest. It broke my father's heart; mine too. It's been over a year, and I still weep for them most nights. They were raised to be farmlords, not warriors, yet they fought for their king." The firelight danced in her eyes. "I will fight for mine."
He reached out and clasped her hand around the wineskin. His eyes stung. "You are brave, Lady Treale. You are brave like the knight you squire for. I am honored to fight by your side."
She smiled and rolled her eyes. "Brave like Lady Lyana? That I am not. She is a great warrior and a true bellator! The last of her kind. My brothers were knights too, and they often spoke of her courage; they said she could best any man in swordplay. You walked with her through the Abyss itself! A land of horror." She shivered. "I can only wish to be as brave; my insides quiver now to think of it. You are most lucky to be her betrothed."
Elethor took the wineskin from her and drank. It was good, strong wine from the southern vineyards on the coast; dry and warm in his throat.
"Lyana is strong," he said, "and wise, and brave. She is our greatest warrior. My brother Orin was such a warrior; his men adored him. I did too, as did Lyana." He drank again.
Treale reached out, hesitant, and touched his arm. Her eyes were soft. "You are a good man for her, my king. You too are strong and brave; you will be a fine husband to Lady Lyana."
He raised his eyebrows and blew out his breath. "Oh, Lyana needs no good man, nor fine husband; not since Orin died. But the land has its laws; I am to care for her after Orin fell. Do you know why such laws exist, Treale?" When she shook his head, he continued. "In the old days, the women of Requiem had less power than today. They could not serve in the army, nor own land, nor possess wealth. They were dependant on their fathers and then their husbands. Widows could become destitute, and so living brothers took them as wives—to protect them. Lyana does not need my protection—she's always been strong—but the old laws remain. We both respect them. And I love Lyana; I can think of no better queen."
She kept her hand on his arm. "And yet... you once loved another," she whispered.
Her eyes were soft, her lips parted. Elethor knew then that she too had once loved and lost; perhaps a young man fallen in the war.
"Yes," he said softly. "I once loved another."
I loved Solina like wine, like sunrise after darkness, like fire in the cold. For years she lit my life; for years after she left Requiem, the pain of losing her hollowed me.
Yet he could not tell these things to Treale, just as she would not speak of the lost love that filled her own eyes. She gazed at him softly, then shook her head wildly and rose to her feet. She brushed crumbs off her as if trying to brush off memories.
"I'm betrothed in an arranged marriage too," she said, "to some horrible, pompous farmlord." She thrust out her chest, swung her arms, and walked in an exaggerated swagger. Then she sighed and her arms drooped. "And he's nearly twice my age! Oh, my stars; sometimes I wish I were a commoner, not the daughter of a highborn father." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Don't you ever wish the same, my lord? To... to marry whoever you truly loved, not whoever the laws of the land require you to love?"
He thought of Solina: the flame of his youth, the light he had carried for so many years. She had been passion and sweet unending pain. She had been forbidden and banished. Lady Lyana... did he feel the same toward her?
It had been a year since he'd seen Lyana, and he missed her, and he loved her—he knew that he did—and yet... he could not stop the doubts from whispering. As Requiem's ancient laws decreed, men inherited the wives of fallen brothers—to protect and provide for them. Yet Lyana needed no protection from him; she was wiser than him, stronger in battle, and just as wealthy. How could he defend her, be a strong man she could depend on? He respected Requiem's laws, and he would marry his dead brother's betrothed, and Lyana told him that she loved him, but... did she truly? Before Orin's death, Lyana had glanced his way only to lecture him; was her love for him now true, or forged by ancient creed?
As these thoughts filled him, he couldn't help but notice Treale's beauty; her lips were full, her skin smooth, her hair a cascade of midnight. Her armor fit snugly against her body, hinting at the curves beneath. She looked at him with huge, admiring eyes, a young woman in the presence of her king. What would it be like, Elethor wondered, to choose a bride himself—a bride like Treale, a pretty young maiden who looked up to him? Could he have been happy with her?
Treale saw him as a great king, a leader, a strong man, not the younger brother of a fallen prince, not some... consolation prize.
He thought of Bayrin, his closest friend. Bayrin had such a love—he had Mori, a woman who adored him, a soft and loving woman to protect. With somebody like Treale, could Elethor have that too? With Lyana, he always struggled to appear strong enough, wise enough, noble enough... and he always felt like he failed, like no matter what he did, he fell short of Orin, fell short of the hero Lyana deserved. As Treale looked at him with her large eyes, he understood how Bayrin felt with Mori; he felt strong, a powerful man with a woman to defend.
And she wants me, Elethor thought, staring into Treale's eyes; she stared back, lips parted, chest rising and falling. I can see it in her eyes. If I want her, she is mine.
He lowered his head, tearing his gaze away. Guilt flooded him. Lyana was spying in Tiranor, risking her life for him; how could he think such thoughts? And yet he thought them, and he could not speak of them—not to Treale, and perhaps not to anyone.
He looked back at the young squire. "I love the Lady Lyana. She is strong. She is wise. She will be a fine queen."
Treale bit her lip and nodded. She sat back down and lowered her eyes. "Yes, she is all those things. I love her too! Truly I do. It's an honor to squire for her." She looked back up at him. "I'm sure she will be a fine queen for you and that your love will grow. You both deserve it, my lord; I know how much you suffered."
He leaned back and let his fingers play with the grass. He watched the campfires below, hundreds of flickering stars.
"I never wanted to be king, you know," he said. He laughed softly. "Shocking, I'm sure; the whole kingdom knows it, I reckon. I wanted to be a sculptor. I was a sculptor. But Lyana... this is what she was born for. I've known her all her life; from the time she could talk, she spoke of being a knight, and a heroine, and a queen someday. She is those first two things already; she will be the latter soon enough." He turned his head and looked at Treale. The firelight painted her face and danced in her eyes. "What of you, Lady Treale Oldnale? Did you always dream of being a knight?"
A Day of Dragon Blood (Dragonlore, Book 2) Page 11
