Immortal Defiance

by Laura Maybrooke

  “Lady Dulcea.” He bowed to her. “Your guards let me in.”

  Dulcea frowned, displeased at this, but it was not the fault of him. She would talk to her guards later.

  “Lord Delbin.” She gave him a polite nod.

  She felt exhausted. The sun was setting, and the day had been a long one, but the weariness in her limbs was bone deep. Dulcea tested her forehead for a fever. The walk to the War Tent had seemed to take longer than usual, like she had walked in a dream, at a half a pace. Maybe she would ask Myoden for a remedy after the meeting.

  “Shall we sit down? I can see you are weary, my lady.” Delbin waved the guards to pour them wine. “I will not keep you any longer than I must.”

  “Thank you.” Dulcea set her Staff aside, took a seat, and accepted the wine without touching it yet.

  He remained standing. “I asked you here to discuss our mutual future.”

  Dulcea sighed. “You know the customs of our people, Lord Delbin. This is highly unusual.”

  “I have not a courting present for you, Lady Dulcea, for it is more than marriage I offer you,” Delbin said. “It has not escaped my attention these past two months how everyone with any kind of status has been asking for your hand in marriage. Yet, you have turned them all down.”

  “It is mere politics.” She shrugged. “I do not wish to offend anybody, but I stand to gain nothing from these marriage alliances.”

  “How true!” Delbin bared his teeth in a vicious smile. “The Houses who have offered are all far beneath your station. I admire you for not accepting their pitiful proposals.”

  Dulcea said nothing. She had never liked Delbin’s contemptuous attitude.

  He raised an eyebrow in challenge, flicking back his layered chin-length silver hair. “I expect you have been waiting for an offer you would gain from, my lady. You are an intelligent and ambitious woman, and you seek to rise in the world. The two of us have more in common than you know.”

  “I fear you misunderstand me, Lord Delbin,” she said, annoyed that he would make such an assumption out of nowhere.

  “You come from a good family. You are of the purest nobility, and you are a celebrated heroine. The Council means to award your House with the title of the Royal Adviser when this war is over. Yet, your station would be only what it is now. You have come this far, why not aim higher?”

  Dulcea narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean by higher?”

  “Why not become an empress?”

  She scoffed, the dead weight of unease settling in the pit of her stomach. “Empress of what? Emperor Greymex rules the Silverwoods, and his eldest daughter will rule after him.”

  “I believe we are all too much bound by customs, my lady,” Delbin said, sitting back in his chair and examining his wine goblet with a thoughtful expression. “Customs drag us down. They make us blind to alternatives. The time has come for the Silverwoods to change, and I will be the man to change it.”

  Dulcea could not help but wonder if he was drunk. The things he said made little sense to her.

  She put her goblet down with force. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “The emperor will not return to power,” Delbin said, fixing his gaze on her. “I believe we both know that in our hearts. This rebellion of yours will fail. The Saruseans will strike back with force and put us all back in our chains. The red dragons will scatter your golden ones to the four winds.”

  Dulcea paled. Cold sweat broke out on her brow. She felt chilled to the bone. Delbin knew about Grom. How was this possible?

  “Your secrets are no longer your own, Lady Dulcea.” Delbin’s tone was contemptuous and cold. “I have connections. I know who rules over the Saruseans, and by the law of the mightiest he is also the rightful ruler of Caeryn.”

  ---

  Sraeyn, Crown City Vyronh. Little Spring Moon (spring season 7090).

  The third year of the Rebellion.

  Dulcea looked up from her book. Tarim rested his hands on the table and leaned into her space.

  “Yes?” She raised her brows. “Did you find out something?”

  The teenaged king grinned. “Did I ever!”

  He went to take a seat, a thick stack of papers tucked under his arm.

  Myoden set his quill down. “You have confirmation?”

  Tarim nodded. “Yeah. It’s half a millennium ago, but the scholars are sure it was him. His troops wreaked havoc in ports, inland cities, and mountain retreats: slaughtering people left and right. Some claim he was looking for King Tarim’s remaining family; others say it was the golden dragonstone.”

  “Do they describe him?” Pendralyssa asked, her voice paper thin.

  “It says this king was a giant warrior. His voice was like thunder.”

  “Nothing else?” The Mist Elf high priestess narrowed her eyes.

  Tarim swallowed, whispering something near inaudible.

  “What?” Dulcea’s heart skipped a beat. “Could you repeat that?”

  “I said…” Tarim gripped the paper with both hands, his knuckles white. “A red dragon…”

  “Red dragons. The Pyros Clan, thought extinct for millenniums.” Myoden said, running a hand through his hair. “And the text claims he rode one? As in, he was the Red Dragonlord?”

  Tarim slumped down in his chair. “Well, I tell you what. If he was, then we’re royally screwed. The stone will have passed onto his successors.” He rubbed his face with a trembling hand. “That is not all; we found another mention: a discussion overheard by a third party. The conversation revealed the name of S’Aruse’s king as Grom.”

  “Grom? I have heard that name before.” Dulcea glanced at Pendralyssa.

  The priestess shook her head. The empty look on her countenance terrified her.

  Tarim continued to read. “This is the same name that comes up in an old text from the fifty-seventh century. It mentions how a Sarusean king by the name of Grom attacked Lavea with a great army around that time. Maybe Grom is a name they favor for their kings? The text says the king met his end in a battle against a Black Dragonlord of the now extinct black Errai Clan. Whatever the truth, somehow Lavea escaped destruction, and the king drowned with the rest of his troops when their battle fleet sank.”

  “You are wrong,” Pendralyssa said. “He did not drown.”

  Dulcea, Myoden, and Tarim all stared at her. “What?”

  “I did not dare think it was true.” The indigo-haired high priestess leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “There are not any of us left from those days. You know the rumors, I suppose.”

  Tarim scratched his head. “Uh… say what?”

  “She means her people’s history, Tarim,” Myoden said. “Her kind originates from S’Aruse. We are neighbors only since the fifty-fifth century. Some histories, should such still exist, may refer to them as the Elves of Falnor. It was once the homeland of Lady Pendralyssa’s ancestors.”

  “Why did they leave?”

  “They left because of Grom’s tyranny,” Pendralyssa said, her face devoid of emotion.

  Dulcea turned her gaze from Tarim to Pendralyssa. “Is it true? Is this the same human king of whom you spoke? He who ruled the Kingdom of Endeia, there somewhere in S’Aruse.”

  The high priestess held her chin up high. “He was no longer human. He had become something else entirely: more than a mortal, if still less than a god.”

  “W-what are you saying?” Tarim’s face paled. “What do you mean he was no longer human?”

  “Obviously, young master Tarim, I mean to say there is only one Grom.”

  ---

  Usvameer, Camp West Ford. Blossoming Moon (spring season 7093).

  The sixth year of the Rebellion.

  Delbin flicked an imaginary fleck of dust away from the sleeve of his silk shirt.

  “You and I are both aware we have no hope.” His smile was condescending. “How could we ever hope to defeat what a thousand warlords have failed to do? You would like to conceal this from the rest o
f us, but it is only a matter of time before the truth comes out.”

  Dulcea swallowed, flexing her fingers. She could not find her voice.

  Delbin leered at her. “I wish to make you an offer, my lady. If we lay down our weapons and return to our homes, no severe punishment will fall upon us. The Saruseans will continue to rule over us as before. It will all be as if this rebellion never happened. I have spoken with a negotiator who speaks with the voice of Dragonlord Grom himself, so I know this to be a true deal.”

  “You have spoken with a Sarusean negotiator representing their king?” She blinked in disbelief. “Why would a negotiator speak with you over me or the generals?”

  “Because unlike you or the generals, my lady, I listen before I judge,” Delbin said. “I assure you this is no trick. It is my task to bring you these terms: cease all hostilities, return to your homes, and accept the Saruseans as the rightful rulers again. The alternative is the utter annihilation of the Caerynian rebel army and the return to slavery under much harsher conditions.”

  Dulcea stared at her kinsman in horror. She tried to draw breath, but her chest hurt from the exertion. The panic in her mind made her feel like she was suffocating. Dulcea pressed a hand to her chest. Was this when it all ended? The things he was saying… There was no way her guards had not heard his words. Dulcea could not look at their faces, contorted with fear and terror as she imagined them to be.

  “That is not all, however.” He leaned closer, touching her face in a way that made her want to recoil. “If we surrender, the Dragonlord Grom will spare the Silverwoods from slavery. We will become an autonomous empire next to the Great Sarusean Empire. I will become the emperor of the Silverwoods, and you, my lady, will be the empress by my side.”

  Dulcea’s face reddened with fury. Treason out of sheer greed! She sprang up from her chair.

  “Never have I heard such utter madness!” She fisted her hands, her nostrils flaring. “Lord Delbin Surinquel, I name you a traitor. Guards, arrest him!”

  Delbin remained seated, his expression calm. He raised his wine goblet at her, his lips curling into a sneer. Her guards approached, drawing their weapons on her instead of Delbin. Dulcea cried out in disbelief and anger. They held her by the arms, and one of them clamped a hand over her mouth. Dulcea tried to bite, kick, and scratch, but she ceased her struggling the moment they put a knife on her throat. She stilled, scouring her mind for a swift conjuration, but something was blocking her powers. She could not put together the simplest of illusions.

  Her stomach dropped. This had been a trap all along, and she had walked straight into it.

  Delbin stood up. “If you will not cooperate, I will hand you over to the Saruseans. Without you as its leader, your army will soon disintegrate. The dragons will have a new master. The Saruseans will win this war, and for my services I will still get my crown.”

  Dulcea could not believe what was happening. The steel blade felt cold as ice against her skin. Her breath came out in labored gasps. Her own kind, turned a traitor! Why were her guards bowing to this vile creature? The answer was so obvious it occurred to her right away: they were not her guards, and this was not the War Tent. She was under an illusion.

  The spell broke, releasing her, and Dulcea could see her true surroundings. They stood in a forest clearing somewhere well outside of camp. There was no tent: only a table and a few chairs set up to support the illusion. The men posing as her guards were complete strangers, most likely servants of House Surinquel.

  “Your eyes tell me you have broken the spell,” Delbin said. “Surprised? And you call yourself an enchantress…”

  Dulcea gave him a hard stare, her mouth a thin line.

  Delbin grabbed her face. “I will ask you one more time. This is your last chance, my lady. Will you rule the Silverwoods with me, or shall I give you over to the Saruseans to do with you as they please?”

  She was helpless; Dulcea had no illusions about that. Delbin needed only to snap his fingers to have her killed, and she would be powerless to stop him. If she wanted to live to fight another day, she had to swallow her pride and beg him for mercy. She should agree to his plans and declare him the emperor of the Silverwoods and her future husband. That way at least she could stab him in the back when he had learned to trust her again. Dulcea knew this with absolute clarity, but she could not swallow her pride. It went against everything she was, everything she believed in.

  Delbin signaled the guards to let her speak. Dulcea raised her chin.

  “Hand me over to the Saruseans. I would rather die than have anything to do with your treachery!”

  Delbin looked like he had trouble suppressing his rage. He nodded at the guards, and they pulled a coarse brown sack over Dulcea’s head.

  “So be it.” He gritted his teeth. “Farewell, Dulcea Lightbringer.”

  ---

  Dulcea woke up with a cry, spending a few frantic moments flailing in her bed, before realizing she had been dreaming. She was in a castle called Gwyndoorn, and Delbin was no threat to her here. Dulcea hugged herself with shaking hands. She was alone, and the room was unchanged. A fire was still burning in the hearth, and outside the sun still shined. Dulcea sighed. The cold terror of the nightmare melted away, and she lay down again. It was not yet afternoon, and she ought to get more sleep. The Saruseans could not hurt her here.

  Another vivid dream snatched her as soon as Dulcea fell asleep again. This time it was the vampire Krath. He held out his hand for her. Don’t take it, Dulcea told herself, knowing what would follow. Don’t do it! She hesitated, backing away, but he kept approaching. She turned to run, but Krath snared her wrist and pulled her into his arms.

  But the Netherworld did not appear. Dulcea struggled against his grip, but he held her tight and buried his face against her neck. I drink the blood of mortals, said his deep dark voice inside her head, and then she felt his fangs on her throat.

  She woke up with a start. It was later in the day now, although it was still light outside. It was almost Strawberry Moon: the sixth month of the year was but a few days short of dawning, and the days were long in the north. She tried to calm her rapid heartbeat. Dulcea sunk back down on the bed, staring at the canopy above her head. The memory of Krath’s hard body against hers was so profound, she could almost still feel it. It made her cheeks flush with indignation. He had treated her with courteous dignity afterward, but the manner in which he had embraced her to bring her to Gwyndoorn had not been in good taste.

  After a while, Dulcea rose to summon the servants, and Mey and Lucindra came to her at the ring of the bell. She told them she wanted to refresh herself, and they brought her a water basin and some towels.

  She washed her hands and face. “How long must I remain here?”

  Mey directed her to the vanity and helped her into the voluminous dress she had brought with her. Lucindra took a comb to her silver tresses. Dulcea was not accustomed to being attended to in this way, but she allowed it, knowing it to be a common practice among human ladies.

  “You must remain here until Lord Krath orders otherwise, milady,” Mey said.

  “I mean, how long must I remain in this room? When will he want to talk to me again?”

  Mey shook her head. “I do not know, milady.”

  “Does he sleep during the day?” Dulcea asked.

  “No, milady. Lord Krath never sleeps.”

  “Never?” Dulcea frowned. “Has he no bedchamber in this castle?”

  “There are many bedchambers in Gwyndoorn, but we have never known Lord Krath to sleep in any of the beds here.”

  “Perhaps…” Dulcea hesitated, remembering the lore she had heard from Haden’s friend Meriman. “Perhaps Lord Krath sleeps somewhere else. In a coffin, for example?”

  “I do not know, milady,” the maid said, sounding calm and undisturbed. “I am not aware of such.”

  Dulcea pursed her lips. “I suppose there are dungeons in this castle? Does your lord go there often?”

  “Som
etimes, yes.”

  Her palms perspired at the thought. “Are there any prisoners down there?”

  “No, milady, there are seldom prisoners in Gwyndoorn.”

  “So why would he go down to the dungeons if there is nothing to see there?”

  “We do not know. Lord Krath does not have to explain himself to us.”

  “Is he down there right now?”

  “No, milady. Lord Krath is not in Gwyndoorn at all right now.”

  Dulcea blinked. The news surprised her.

  “Where is he then?” Something unpleasant swelled in the pit of her stomach.

  “We do not know, milady. He left an hour before noon and is yet to return.”

  She tilted her head, placing her fingers on her chin. “Does he treat you well?”

  Krath had told her she was free to talk to his servants, and Dulcea wanted to see if she could find any crack in their placid countenances.

  “Yes, milady.” Mey gave her a serene nod.

  “Does he ever hurt you?” she asked, trying to be more direct.

  “No, milady,” Mey said while Lucindra just shook her head.

  “What does he do to you, then?”

  “He commands; we obey,” both maids said in one voice, startling her.

  Like he said. Dulcea pressed a hand to her chest. They have no will of their own.

  She gulped. “Have you ever seen him drink blood?”

  “Yes, milady,” Mey said.

  “Tell me what you saw!” Her heart thumped to a dizzying rhythm in her breast.

  “I watched Lord Krath kill three men. There were ten bandits in total. Two he killed with a sword. The third one he killed by ripping out his throat with his fangs and draining his blood. When the rest of the bandits saw that they ran away screaming.”

  Dulcea bit her lip. “The bandits… were they the ones who killed your father?”