A Day of Dragon Blood (15 page)

"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?"

She smiled softly. "Oh stars, no. I never held a sword until a year ago. Not what you want to hear on the eve of battle, I'm sure, but it's the truth. I always wanted to be... oh, it's terribly silly." She blushed and stared at him pleadingly. "Promise you won't laugh if I tell you. Will you promise? All right. I always wanted to be... a puppeteer." She made a soft squealing sound and covered her face. "Horrible, isn't it? But..." She peeked between her fingers. "I've always loved puppets. I used to watch them as a child at the farm fairs—the puppet shows with Kyrie and Agnus Dei, who would always fight and bicker, but loved each other dearly. My mother used to tell me I looked like Agnus Dei—the real one from the stories, not the puppet. Do you know? Our family is descended from her and Kyrie, that's what Father says."

Elethor nodded and sighed. "Oh, I had to spend many painful hours studying lineage in my youth, tracing the lines of the families from the Living Seven. My teachers used to bore me half to death with tales of Agnus Dei's grandson moving east, settling the plains, and founding your house. Dreadfully dull lessons."

She snorted a laugh. "They are less dull when puppets perform them at farmers' fairs. I still remember the taste of blackberries, and the sound of the flutists, and how my brothers would insist we go see the cattle. But I always wanted to watch the puppets. I was only eight years old when I sewed my own Kyrie and Agnus Dei dolls—I made them from my old dresses and pillows—and my parents roared with pleasure when I put on a show. I knew then that I wanted to do nothing else. I wanted to make puppets—rooms of them,
castles
full of them—enough for countless fairs." She sighed and her eyes saddened. "But then... then the war broke out. The phoenixes invaded, and my brothers fell in battle, and... well, it seemed wrong to sew puppets when war raged. So I took my oldest brother's sword and shield, flew to the capital, and well... here I am today." She played with a blade of grass. "It's not much of a story, my lord, not as impressive as yours or Lyana's. I did not walk through the Abyss nor fight in the tunnels. I switched a needle for a sword, farmlands for barracks; that is my tale."

The sun had disappeared beyond the horizon while they spoke; only a dim glow now painted the west. The stars winked between clouds; Elethor could see only the tail of the dragon, the last few stars of the Draco constellation.

Below in the field, the soldiers were unrolling their blankets and lying down to sleep under the stars. The night's first guards shifted into dragons, took flight, and began circling over the camp. Weariness crept over Elethor; they had flown hard for hours and his body ached.

"This hill is a good place for sleep," he said. "The grass is soft, the air fresh, and guards patrol above us." He yawned and stretched. "If you've not found a place to lie down, share the hill."

Treale yawned magnificently, a yawn that flowed across her body from toes to outstretched fingertips. She unbuckled her breastplate, unclasped her sword, and kicked off her boots. She hesitated for a moment, looked down and up again, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Her lips were soft and warm. Then, blushing, she lay down at his side, placed her cheek upon her hands, and was soon asleep.

Elethor watched her for a moment, smiling softly. He remembered a day long ago when Treale and Mori—mere children then—had placed a toad on his dinner plate, then fled the hall giggling and shrieking.

Mori would always delight in the Oldnales visiting Nova Vita,
he remembered.
She would speak for days of her friend Treale coming to see her and would cry whenever Treale flew home.

It did not seem so long ago; the years had gone by in a daze, and now Mori sat upon the throne, and Treale flew to battle at his side. Elethor lay down beside the young noblewoman, looked up at the stars, and found that his weariness had left him. How could he sleep with all these souls—his sister, his soldiers, and his people at home—depending on him? How could he lead them to war like his father had?

He rolled over so that he faced Treale. He drew comfort from the peacefulness of her slumber—the smoothness of her face, the rise and fall of her breast, and the breeze in her dark hair. He closed his eyes and finally sleep found him too, and he dreamed of hot desert winds, thrusting spears, and sandstone towers rising from dunes.

 
 
MORI

Whenever Lord Deramon entered the palace hall, Mori felt faint. Today he stormed in with all his usual bluster, bowed curtly, and stomped toward her. Sitting on her brother's throne, Mori cowered and wished the chair's twisting oak roots could swallow her. Her heart thrashed and she felt a trickle of cold sweat trail down her back.

"My princess!" Deramon called, a great bear of a man, his beard a red flame, his axe and sword clanking against his armor.

Mori's head spun as he approached. It was not that Deramon was a bad man—and after all, he was father to Bayrin and Lyana, two of the people she loved most. It was just that...