A Day of Dragon Blood (14 page)

Good,
Solina thought, smiling as she walked by cell after cell.
They suffer for their disobedience, and Lyana the weredragon will suffer most among them.

A child screamed from one cell; he hung from the wall, body blackened.

"Please, my queen," he begged. "Please."

She nodded to him as she walked by. "I will give you mercy, child. I will let you die once your body can bear no more."

The child was a fellow Tiran. Even if his father was a traitor, his blood was pure, and he deserved eventual death. But Lyana... Solina snarled and dug her fingernails into her palms. Lyana was a weredragon, a filthy shapeshifter. She deserved no such mercy. She would live to a ripe, miserable old age.

Finally she reached the weredragon's cell, the smallest and darkest cell in this dungeon. Solina opened the heavy, blood-stained door and stepped inside. Her snarl turned into a smile.

A single torch flickered upon the wall, casting orange light against the beast. Lyana hung from the ceiling on chains, head lowered, her hair dangling. More chains wrapped around her torso and legs, keeping her in human form. She stood on her toes; her shackles would not let her heels touch the floor. Tatters of a silk garment covered her, barely concealing her bruised flesh.

"Lyana," Solina said softly.

The weredragon raised her head and stared. A bruise spread across her cheek, and her lip was swollen, and yet she glared with blazing hatred.

Solina's smile widened. "You still have your spirit," she said and drew a razor from her belt. "That's good... that's good. I will enjoy breaking it."

Solina inhaled deeply, savoring Lyana's scent of fear. The memories swirled in the darkness like ghosts.
Can't you fly, Solina? Can't you fly?
The little girl with red curls laughed and danced around her.
Look, I can become a dragon! Can't you fly too?

Solina clenched her jaw and raised her razor. The torchlight blazed against it, and a flicker of fear filled Lyana's eyes.

Good,
Solina thought.
Good.

"Your hair," she said. "You have straightened your curls. You have dyed them platinum. You try to appear as a Tiran, but we smelled your dirty blood. You mock our pure, noble race with your treachery." She took a step forward, razor raised. "I will strip you of this mockery."

She grabbed Lyana's hair, pulled it, and began shearing. She gritted her teeth as she worked, tearing nearly as much hair as she cut. She moved the razor roughly against Lyana's head, scraping her scalp; blood beaded upon it. Lyana glared and snarled, but said nothing. Rage simmered in her eyes, amusing Solina; she smirked when she examined her work. Lyana stood bald before her, head bloodied.

"Much better," she said, nodding. "The world will see you for what you are: a filthy creature. I've stripped you of the hair that mocks us. I will now remove that glare from your eyes."

Solina reached into the pouch on her belt. She withdrew a glass vial. The liquid inside swirled, milky white tinged with green tendrils. She broke the wax seal with her thumb, and a scent like vinegar and apples filled her nostrils, sour but not unpleasant. Lyana, however, winced and bit down hard, and her fists clenched.

"Do you know what this is, Lyana?" Solina asked, holding the vial out. When it neared the chained Lyana, the weredragon hissed and turned her head aside. "It is a rare herb, one that grows in Osanna across the sea. Laceleaf, they call it there; they use it in their cooking. The weredragons have a different name for it, don't they?
Ilbane
you call it, I am told. A poison to your wretched kind. They say just the touch of its leaf can burn you; here I carry its pure latex."

Lyana snarled and looked aside, eyes reddening. "Ilbane has not grown in the world for hundreds of years."

"Then this should not harm you in the slightest."

She splashed the vial onto Lyana's face.

The weredragon clenched her jaw and growled. Her fists shook and her body writhed. Her skin reddened where the liquid touched her. She hissed, sucked her breath, then finally tossed back her head and howled. Solina watched, smiling softly.

"It burns, does it not?" She shook her head sadly. "I would use acid on you, child, were not my Lord Mahrdor so smitten with your pretty face." She caressed Lyana's cheek. "For now I will leave your face pretty... but I will hurt you. I will hurt you badly. You will scream for me like nobody has screamed before."

She pulled another vial from her pouch. A dozen more clinked inside. Lyana saw the collection, paled, and closed her eyes. A tear flowed to her lips.

"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. She 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.