Sea Dragon Heir

by Storm Constantine

  PEOPLE CAME FROM ALL the local villages and farms to help with the search. Caradore was busy again, as the castle staff provided hot soup for the volunteers. The entrance hall was full of people. Valraven went out again, with Khaster, who barely acknowledged Pharinet as he swept past her in the hall. Everna and Saska had to be restrained from going back to the beach themselves. They were inconsolable. The fog had come right in now, and swirled in damp tendrils about the castle. It made the search virtually impossible. Pharinet stayed in the hall, helping the servants dish out soup. She saw Dimara coming down the stairs and hoped the woman would not confront her. Dimara, however, strode straight to her. “What have you done?” she hissed. Pharinet looked up at her. “Nothing. Are you here to help?” Dimara looked so angry, Pharinet had to force herself not to wince away. She expected a blow at any moment. The servants nearest to her had gone quiet. She could feel their tension. “You are a liar,” Dimara said, in a low, vehement voice. “You can’t hide what you are from me.” “Ellony has been ill,” Pharinet said uncertainly. “I agree we were wrong to take her out there this morning, but it was nobody’s fault she reacted the way she did. We could not foresee that. We meant only to bless Valraven.” Dimara raised her hand and pointed at Pharinet with a rigid finger. “Your time will come,” she said. “Have no doubt of it. You’ll derive no happiness from this.” “Happiness?” Pharinet threw the ladle she held into the great cauldron before her. Soup splashed out over her gown. “How dare you!” The entire hall had gone quiet now. Servants stole away. Dimara held Pharinet’s gaze for a few moments longer, then spat at her and marched back upstairs.

  THE SEARCH CONTINUED ALL day. Fishermen dared the fog to sail around the coast, looking for signs. Nothing was found. Ellony and Thomist had disappeared without a trace. In the afternoon, Pharinet went to Bayard in his chamber, where he’d stayed all day. His face was sallow. He looked ill. “What happened?” Pharinet asked him. “Did you anticipate these events?” He shook his head, sipping from a goblet of warmed wine. “Of course not. The daughters came, and would have co-operated, if the sea wife had been stronger. I should have listened to you. You were right about her.” Pharinet expelled a snort of derision. “How can you say that? It’s not enough. Ellony and Thomist are probably dead. It’s our fault.” “She was marked,” Bayard said. “They took her. It was necessary. We did what we had to do.” Pharinet narrowed her eyes. “You knew.” “No. But I’ve thought about it.” He put down his wine and took Pharinet’s hands in his own. “They came to us. Didn’t you feel it? We succeeded.” She pulled away from him. “At what cost?” “Sacrifices are necessary.” “I would never have agreed to it if I’d known. You used me.” He laughed softly. “Oh, Pharinet, guilt ill becomes you. Don’t torture yourself. Do you really care about that girl?” “You’re disgusting,” Pharinet said. “Thomist was my brother-in-law. What did he do to deserve this? Ellony was an innocent, who only wanted to please. Their lives were not ours to play with.” “Too late for such sentiment,” Bayard said. “When Valraven returns to the castle, bring him here.” “What?” “We have an arrangement.” Pharinet shook her head and backed towards the door. “No,” she said. “Not any more.”

  PHARINET LAY ALONE in her wide, cold bed. Khaster had not come up to her. Her mind and body felt so tortured she did not know whether she wanted to cry hysterically or succumb to a mindless lethargy. She could not bear to think about what she’d done, yet her thoughts were filled with a constantly replaying image of her conversation with Ellony the previous night. She heard the words, “It’s like we’re girls again,” full of affection and trust. She saw Ellony’s radiant face, looking healthier than it had for a long time. Pharinet despised herself utterly. She thought about her brother too, how the events on the beach had invoked an earlier form of himself. He was less hard, bewildered, more vulnerable than ever. Was Bayard with him now? She wanted to protect Valraven, but shrank from going to find him. She was afraid. Something dark and without compassion had seeped into her that day. Its chill still coiled around her bones. Was she strong enough to expel it? She closed her eyes, willing a dreamless sleep to come, but there was a voice in the darkness telling her, “I am Jia, you are Jia. Rise up and find our sisters.” Pharinet turned restlessly in the bed, but opened her eyes to find herself standing at the entrance to her room, with one hand on the doorknob. Something twisted inside her, sighing and languorous. Lustful. Pharinet uttered one short grief-stricken cry and then the door was open, and her feet were padding along the cold floor to the guest wing. “Misk! Thrope!” She could not resist. She could feel the Dragon Daughters writhing in their beds of flesh, enjoying the sensation of it. Sometimes, we envy the living. Another cry reverberated through the castle, low, male and hoarse. It was Valraven. It was the cry of someone who’d looked in the abyss, someone who previously had not even known the abyss existed. It was the sound of a soul tearing.

  2

  REBIRTH

  1

  THE BRIDE

  Six Years Later: Magrast

  ON THE EVE OF Varencienne’s wedding, there was red lightning in the sky, high up among the curdling clouds. “Madragore smiles upon you,” said Carmia, pointing out through the juddering curtains. Varencienne stared at the ominous forks, her body stiff. Surely Madragore rarely smiled, preoccupied as he was with war, but his presence was a good omen, wasn’t it? She still felt numb. Around her, her friends feasted on soft fruits imported from a warmer land. The imperial chambers were decked with the first of the spring flowers; heavy tulips of the royal purple and delicate narcissi with tight hearts. Girls sprawled on the floor and across the couches. A sickly scent of plundered fruit flesh filled the humid air. Wine had been drunk and spilled; goblets stood upon the table and lay upon the floor. Young faces were flushed with pleasure and a vicarious excitement. Gowns were rumpled and stained, slippers cast off. The fire burned loudly and fiercely. Wood cracked in the flames. There was little other light, for the candles had burned nearly all away. Varencienne felt removed from it all, as if she were just a spirit in the room observing the hot, frenzied antics of the living. She herself?dead and blue?could barely comprehend their movements, their chatter. Who am I? she thought. Mavenna, dressed in red, her hair a wanton, brazen mop falling from its net, came to sit beside her. “Ren, cheer up,” she said, squeezing her friend’s shoulders too tightly. “You’re bound to be nervous, but don’t worry. You are about to receive the greatest prize in all the empire.” Varencienne smiled as best she could, although she knew her friend was wrong. It was she who was the prize, delivered into the hands of the man who had won her. Her friends were envious simply because they were not she. It would not be they who’d walk the long, cold avenue of the cathedral to the faceless victor at the altar. She was not afraid; she felt nothing. On the day she’d heard the news, her mother, the Empress Tatrini, had summoned her daughter to her morning room, where she’d sat among her women working on the tapestry of the life of the emperor. Varencienne had come into the room, seen the winter sunlight falling in through the narrow windows to shine upon the ermine of her mother’s collar as her fingers worked slowly and carefully with the thread. There were baskets upon the floor, spilling an exuberance of colored yarns. The women spoke together quietly, content in their position as companions of the empress: a robust and handsome woman with thick dark gold hair. It seemed inconceivable that her firm, powerful body had born fourteen children for the emperor. Twelve of them still lived and Varencienne, at eighteen, was the only girl. “Ah, my daughter,” said the empress, looking up. Her voice, as always, was oddly formal. She did not know this young woman who stood before her. Although Varencienne had daily spent time in Tatrini’s company, she’d had no more impact than the various cats who lolled aloofly around the royal chambers. Varencienne thought that the empress had lost interest in her children after her third son, Clavelly, had died, aged six. She had continued to bear them, as was her duty, but probably cared for her tapestries more. Now, Varencienne knew t
hat her mother was probably thinking something like, “Just a few short years ago, she was crawling among my yarns on the carpet. Now look at her.” The empress smiled with her mouth, while her eyes remained faintly puzzled. Varencienne dropped a polite curtsey. “Mama.” “Good news,” said the empress. “You are to be married.” She was not a woman to temporize. Varencienne’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. If her mother divined her daughter’s shock, she did not show it. “You are a fortunate young woman. Your father has devised a contract with Valraven, Lord Palindrake. He is, as you are no doubt aware, the most favored of our generals and a distant cousin of yours.” Everyone had heard of Palindrake. Favored he was: yes. But feared too. “Why?” asked Varencienne. “Why now?” The empress seemed surprised by these squeaky questions, and a little put out. Surely the answer was obvious? “You are of an age, and it is our wish that the links between Palindrake and your father’s dynasty be made more formal.” Keep the fiercest of the beasts close to the hearth. No beast ravages its own hearth. No sane beast. The empress’s fingers stilled for a moment in their industry. “It is your duty, my daughter.” She had perhaps forgotten Varencienne’s name. Varencienne dropped another curtsey. “Yes, Mama.” “The wedding is arranged to take place at the cusp of spring. I will send my women to you to arrange about the dress. The fabric must be red, of course, but you may choose the design yourself. I have at least half a dozen for you to choose from.” The room swam before Varencienne’s eyes; thin winter sunlight on dark old wood and red plush. The window casement, where a queen would sit, pricking her fingers with a needle, watching blood fall on snow. She shook herself inwardly to dispel this strange image. Her life was about to change. Six short weeks away. She would leave her home, her friends, her pets. She was to be put away tidily in a different drawer. Panic welled up within her, but it quickly stagnated. Before she even left her mother’s room, the numbness came, and it had not left her since. She had met her future husband only once, in a cold cloister with one of her mother’s women as chaperone. It had been snowing, and the courtyard was covered with a white frosting. The black spires of the palace rose severely against the pearly sky. Bright winter sunlight failed to soften them or warm the air. Crows flung themselves from spire to spire, venting their spite in coarse cries. On the tallest tower, cages hung, filled with bones. No one had died there for five years. Executions took place further afield nowadays. Varencienne’s feet were rigid in her flimsy slippers. Later, they had ached. The woman led her out from a door for inspection and Varencienne saw him standing there, tall and dark, at the end of the walkway. She sensed his impatience immediately, also a faint embarrassment. This was an inconvenience to him. No doubt he trusted her father’s word that she would be comely, quiet and obedient. He did not need to view the merchandise himself. He had a hundred better things to do. She had been led up to him, and could not look him in the face. Even now, she was unsure of what he looked like. His garments were black and deep purple. Dark red jewels winked among the folds. She saw his hands, loose by his sides; long and dark-skinned and strong. “The princess,” announced her companion and she’d heard him make a noise of assent, a grunt. How long had he looked at her? Five seconds, perhaps, just to make sure she wasn’t ill-favored. Out of habit, she dropped a curtsey; a reflex action that always covered a silence. “I am greatly pleased by our betrothal, Your Highness,” he said, his voice like black silk ripping. And she, the girl, felt her numbness crack a little, and all manner of warmer, electric emotions crackle through. Just a moment of it. He took her hand in his cool-skinned palm, rubbed the back of it with his thumb, then lifted her fingers briefly to his dry mouth and imprinted upon them an arid kiss. Without further words, he walked away, across the courtyard. Varencienne was able to look up then and saw his cloak lift about him like wings, heard the crows above grow momentarily hysterical as if their king walked below them. His hair was loose, a cloak of dark feathers. She was afraid of him, and also hungry. She could not understand these feelings and, swiftly, buried them beneath the grey ice of her resolve. She knew her marriage to this man would not be happy, for he could not see her as a person. She would be a possession, like all his other things. Perhaps once a month, he would come to her bed and she would bear for him a series of children, some of whom might die. He would be away from home a lot, securing the empire for her father, and when he was at home, she would rarely see him, for he’d be busy about the estate. She would have women as companions, who would be married to Palindrake?s minions. They would bring their children up together in the stark castle among the star-flowered crags of distant Caradore, talking of their absent husbands as if they knew them well. In the cold air, she shuddered, and her mother’s woman fussed and cooed over her, drawing her back into the humid warmth of the overheated palace. Now, the six weeks had passed, and her crimson bridal robe hung in tissues of silk in her dressing room. Her friends had gathered about her to keep the vigil until midnight, when she would be led to her lonely bed for the last time by women of her mother’s who would, at this final hour, instruct her in the duties of a wife. The girls around her giggled about the marriage night, and flashed their eyes at her in envy. Varencienne did not care about it. She knew what would happen, and it did not disturb her detached calm. He would not kill her, and if she were quiet and well-behaved, any discomfort might only be brief. Varencienne had always been adept at facing pain. She dealt with things as quickly as she could and then moved on to the next experience. As a child, she had once almost lost a finger as she played. The walls of the palace were scythed with metal, its gardens clawed with traps, to injure intruders. The game had been boisterous and she had fallen into a bed of blue periwinkle. Blades, hidden among the fragile blooms, had cushioned her fall, and although her robe had been slashed, only one vulnerable white hand had taken the full cruel impact. While her friends had shrieked and fainted, she had repositioned her dangling bloody finger as best she could, held onto it tight, and walked deliberately to the chambers of her nurse, who had done what had to be done. Varencienne had not cried, and her shock had been invisible. The wound did not become infected, and had left only a muddled, white scar. She presumed all life’s accidents to have the same results. She looked at Mavenna and Carmia critically. They really were silly geese, incapable of reason, but they were kind and had grown up with her; she would miss them. Perhaps, after a year or two, she might send a message to her husband, and ask if he could arrange weddings for them also, with a couple of his squires, so that they could come to Caradore and be her friends once more. She knew these things happened. It was the kind of favor a husband could indulge for his wife. Her own mother had childhood friends about her and Varencienne’s own companions were the daughters of these women, kept neatly in their own female quarters of the palace. Earlier that day, her brother Bayard had visited her. He was her favorite; the rest of his tribe had scant interest in girls. She and Bayard had seen little of each other for some time, because he had been away with the army. Once they had been close, even though there were ten years between their births. Unlike his siblings, Bayard had always maintained a close relationship with his mother, and visited her chambers every day. He alone of Varencienne’s brothers had witnessed her childhood and growth to womanhood. As the years had passed, they’d inevitably been unable to spend as much time as they wanted in each other’s company, but their bond had been strong and had survived enforced separation. Now, Bayard was like a stranger, tall and somehow troubled, his sleek dark-gold hair plaited severely down his back, his clothes stiff and formal, a soldier’s garb. “Are you happy?” he’d asked her. Varencienne shrugged. “I’m not anything. I just have to do this. We both know that.” He had taken her hands in his then, his dark eyes looking down upon her. “If ever …” His voice was cold and fierce, but words seem to fail him. He shook his head, held her fingers tightly. “If ever what?” “Little Ren,” he’d murmured, and kissed the top of her head. “Try to be happy. He is rich and they say Caradore is a marvel.” “Y
ou will visit me, of course. It should be easier for us now.” He smiled bleakly. “Yes.” A pause. “Palindrake is a singular man, Ren. He is unique. Myths are made about him.” “Are they? Tell me some.” “In battle, he is savage and merciless, and his justice is cold. His men fear him but adore him too. He lives austerely on campaign, never takes ale or wine, nor enjoys the company of concubines. They say he has black days, when he hides away from light, and cuts himself with his own blade. This may not be true. I cannot imagine him as a husband to someone like you. I can’t imagine him being any woman’s husband. I hope he treats you well.” Bayard’s worry, the things he could not say, hung as a tension in the air. Varencienne stood on tiptoe to kiss her brother’s cheek. “Please don’t fret for me, Bay. You should know I can take care of myself quite adequately.” He nodded, but would not smile. “I will pray for you,” he said. Rumors and tales. Because Lord Palindrake was so self-contained and disciplined, and let no one know his inner self, it was only natural the stories would arise. Varencienne thought she knew entirely what kind of man he was. She listened to the women talk. She knew about the commerce of men and women. He was like all the others in her father?s court and army, only more so, bigger than them, more adept, and therefore more visible. She had no fear that he would ill-treat her. Bayard would be sharp-tongued about whomever it was decided she must marry. He would happily have wed her himself, but there would have been no political advantage for her father in that and sometimes the union of siblings produced monsters as children. She must be sent outside, to secure alliances and strengthen them. That night she dreamed about her father’s empire. She saw the world looking like a flat map that was spread out on a table. The land belonging to her family was colored dark blue, like storm clouds. At the edges, it lightened to a strange pinky-purple. These were the weak areas, the places where men like Palindrake led their armies. In the dream, she heard cries and smelled smoke and burning flesh. Red lightning flashed across the boiling sky. And in the wreckage below, amid the rubble of fallen buildings, something white moved feebly like a child’s hand.