A Day of Dragon Blood (35 page)

"Mori," Treale whispered.

The wyverns vanished overhead, flying... Treale did not know which way. How could anyone tell north or south with these clouds and this rain? Gritting her teeth against the blazing pain, she clutched the tree and began to climb. Soot covered her hands. The tree was wet but still hot from the fire. She grimaced. Her wounds burned like ten thousand suns, shooting pain through her limbs, into her fingertips, even into her teeth. She groaned and kept climbing. When she reached the treetop, she straightened. So much mud and soot covered her, she imagined that she looked like yet another branch. Squinting, she stared after the retreating wyverns. The blue gown flapped in the leader's claws, and Treale thought she could hear a muffled cry—the cry of a young woman. The rain kept falling, and even the shrieks of the wyverns sounded dim.

It's her. It's Mori.

Treale trembled and nearly fell from the tree. She clutched its branches so tightly her fingers bled. Mori had been her dearest friend since childhood; the two had been born mere days apart. Treale had grown up yearning for every harvest, when she could travel to Nova Vita and spend several joyous days with Mori—reading books in the library, teasing the princes with giggles and secret words only she and Mori understood, and going to the warrens behind Castra Murus to feed the rabbits. Every winter, when the Aeternums visited Oldnale Manor for the Feast of Stars, Treale would let Mori sleep by her side in her great canopy bed; the two would stay up nearly all night, whispering of the knights they would marry someday, what new pups they would adopt, and all the other secrets of youth.

Lyana would often spend time with them too, but Lyana was two years older and so much wiser, so much stronger; the knight had always seemed closer to the adults, more like Prince Orin.
But Mori and I were always as sisters—two young girls of great families with great older brothers.

Now none of that remained. No more canopy bed or farms or... maybe not even any more Vir Requis.

"But you live, Mori," Treale whispered, eyes damp.

Shame burned inside her, as cold as her wounds were hot. She had defected from King Elethor's army. She had fled from Nova Vita at the sight of its ruin. Tears burned in Treale's eyes.
I am a coward. I wanted to be like Lady Lyana, a brave knight, but I fled from battle.

She growled low in her throat. She narrowed her eyes and watched the wyverns flee.

"I abandoned my king, my lady, and my kingdom," she whispered, a lump in her throat. "But I won't abandon you, Mori."

The wyverns were soon distant specks in the storm, and she could no longer hear their calls. Treale knew what fate awaited Mori if she could not save her: the princess would be imprisoned and tortured, and when her body was broken, she would be burned in the city of Irys among the dunes.

I won't let that happen.

In the treetop, Treale shifted and tested her wings. She rose into the storm, a black dragon with dented, charred scales. The wind and rain lashed her, and she could barely flap her wings, but she growled, she snorted fire, and she flew.

"I will find you, Mori." Smoke streamed between her teeth. "I will follow you to the desert itself if I must."

They had no home to return to. Requiem lay in ruins, her halls fallen like so many old stones. But so long as Mori lived, there was hope. Treale sniffed and realized that tears filled her eyes.

We will flee into the wilderness, Mori, you and I. We'll find a cave to live in, or a green forest that no fire has touched, and we'll whisper and laugh together again. If everyone else is fallen, we will still have each other.

The wyverns flew ahead, flecks on the horizon. Fire flickering in her mouth, her wings roiling the clouds, Treale Oldnale followed through the ash, rain, and ruin of the world.

 
 
SOLINA

She stood at a towering window in her chambers, its archway large enough for a wyvern to fly through. A wind from the desert blew, billowing her white silks and platinum hair. Her golden jewels chinked, and the coppery taste of sand flickered across her lips. She gripped the hilts of her twin sabres and gazed upon her home.

Cranes and ibises flew above her oasis, singing to the sun. Date and fig trees rustled. Men labored across the city of Irys, sweat glistening on their golden skin: tending to vineyards, hammering swords on anvils, and raising statues and columns for her glory. Ships sailed up the River Pallan, overflowing with spices and gems from Iysa, Jewel of the South and a twin to Irys. From the north, wyverns were flying over the delta and landing in Hog Corner. Upon their backs, they bore the trophies of Requiem: longswords of filigreed steel, statues of marble from Requiem's temples, sacks of golden coins, and chests full of books and scrolls and artifacts.

"All your glory is mine, Elethor," Solina whispered into the desert. "All that you had is gone from you."

She winced in sudden pain. It had been a moon's turn since she had fallen over Nova Vita, since her wyverns had caught her tumbling and burning. Her chest still hurt sometimes, though her healers insisted her cracked ribs had healed. Her hair had burned; she had shaved it off that day, and it was still short under the wig she wore.

"And soon I will bring you here too."

Ten thousand wyverns still flew over Requiem, burning what forests remained, slaughtering whatever dragon they found cowering in the wastelands.

"All but you, Elethor," she whispered. "They will not slaughter you, no." She drew Raem, her blade of dawn, and held it aloft. "They will bring you here alive, and it will be this blade that you scream for, this blade that I will hold above you, as you weep and beg me to stab your heart." She snarled. "But I will not, Elethor; I will not show you any more mercy. You turned down my mercy. Now you will
live
."

She shut her eyes and winced.

I spoke to him of my secret. I spoke of our child.

She clenched her jaw so hard she felt her teeth could crack.

No. No. That will remain buried.
She clutched her swords so tightly, her fists trembled.
I will never remember that pain again.

She turned from her window. Trophies of her conquests filled her chamber. The sword of Lord Deramon, its blade engraved with the Draco constellation, hung upon her wall. The brooch of Mother Adia, a silver birch leaf, shone upon a plaque carved from the Weredragon Temple's marble. Below these spoils stood the Oak Throne of Requiem, the soot sanded off the twisting roots that formed it. Around the throne, covering the tiles of her floor, lay jugs of weredragon gold and jewels, helms of fallen knights, and blades of northern steel.

"I will sit upon this throne as I watch you scream," Solina whispered. "I will place my feet upon the helms of your warriors, and I will laugh as my vultures feed upon you."

Still clutching her swords, she left her chamber. Her sandals thumped against the stairs leading down her tower. She walked across corridors with tiles so polished her reflection walked beneath her, clad in white silks and gold. She crossed her grand hall where a hundred guards stood armored in platinum, their visors shaped like the heads of falcons, and her throne rose glittering, a monolith of ivory and jewels. She descended dark stairs into the underground, where the air was cold and damp even as the sun pounded the desert above. She walked down tunnels, sloping ever deeper, until all scent and sound and memory of the world faded into darkness.

She grabbed a torch that burned upon a craggy wall. Dust carpeted the floor. Cobwebs, old blood, and chained skeletons covered the walls. Still she walked, going deeper, until the tunnel narrowed to a mere burrow, and the air was so cold even the Sun God could not warm it.

She approached the chamber that lay ahead. Her torchlight flickered. She stepped through the doorway and snarled a grin.

The creature hung there from the ceiling, wrists chained. The pathetic, beaten thing did not even look up. Blood trickled from its wrists, and cobwebs filled its dangling hair. It was a wretched being, emaciated, its skin lashed and raw. When Solina approached and the torchlight blazed against the beast, it gave a low mewl and swung on its chains; it was too weak to do anything else.

Solina caressed the creature's cheek. It shivered under her palm. She stroked its hair and kissed its forehead.

"Hush now," Solina whispered. "Soon he will be with you, my sweet Mori. Soon your brother will be with you again."

 
 
ELETHOR

He stood inside the cave and stared out upon the forest. The trees rolled into misty horizons, their leaves golden and red. A cold wind blew, ruffling his hair, and ravens circled under the veil of clouds. A drizzle fell, deepening the colors of the world until all became a smudged painting of brown, orange, and silver. Elethor held Ferus's hilt. He could barely see Requiem from here, only a distant haze of smoke. The burnt lands of his fathers lay beyond the leagues, ravaged and swarming with wyverns.

Elethor lowered his gaze to the camp below the mountain. Men and women moved between the trees, clad in leaf and fur and mud. A few men were skinning a deer, and two children ran around a tree, banging wooden swords they had carved. A mother nursed her babe, and an old man sat upon a boulder, reading from a scroll of prayers. Four Vir Requis stood in dragon forms, guarding each corner of the camp; mud covered their scales to dull their shimmer.

Ninety-seven souls,
Elethor thought.
Fewer than a hundred survivors from a realm of fifty thousand.

As he stood in the cave upon the mountainside, looking down at this ragged camp, he thought of Mori.

"Do you too hide in some distant camp beyond our borders?" he whispered. "Do you have someone with you, someone to protect you?"

He looked over the forest, as if she could emerge any moment from the distance, a golden dragon—haggard but smiling,
alive
. Every day he waited here in this cave, watching the horizon for wyverns, watching for Mori. They had lived here for two moons now, and still she did not arrive.

Elethor lowered his head.
Maybe you lie among the ruins of Nova Vita, resting by the bones of Orin and Father. Maybe you now sing with them in the starlit halls. I love you, sister. I miss you.

A blue glimmer flew upon the horizon. Elethor stood watching, the wind in his hair, until the sapphire dragon emerged from the distant mist and flew toward the cave. Lyana landed on the mountainside and looked up at him. Smoke rose in curtains from between her teeth.

"Lyana," he said. He approached as she shifted into human form. She stood before him with somber eyes, still clad in the silvery armor of the bellators.

"I'm sorry, Elethor," she whispered. She removed her helm, embraced him, and laid her head upon his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, my king. I searched Fidelium in the north, and the plains of Sequestra, and sought her among the cities of Osanna. None have seen the princess."

He held her. Her hair had grown an inch, and the fiery curls brushed against his face. He cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead. Her eyes were deep green pools.

"Maybe Bayrin found her," he said softly, but heard no hope in his voice and saw none in Lyana's eyes.

They stood upon the mountainside, watching the forest until emerald scales shimmered in the north, and Bayrin flew toward them. The green dragon landed outside the cave, panting and cursing. He spat a flicker of fire.

"Bloody stars!" Bayrin said. "The north is swarming with those wyvern bastards." He raised his tail; an ugly welt rose across it. "One gave me this before I roasted him." He whipped his head from side to side, then lowered his eyes. "I... I was hoping Lyana had found her. Oh, stars."

He shifted into human form. Red rimmed his eyes and ash filled his hair. His gangly frame was thinner than ever, stubble was thickening into a beard across his face, and soot covered his breastplate and scabbard. He looked down, tightened his jaw, and clenched his fists. Elethor saw a tear on his chin.

He approached his friend and held his shoulder. "We'll find her, Bay. We won't rest until we do. For as long as it takes, I will send out dragons to every corner of the world, and we will find her."

Yet in the cold pit of his stomach, Elethor knew there was only one more place they could search, one more hope to save her... to save everyone who still lived here among the trees.

He turned to look south. The forests rolled for countless leagues, finally fading into a yellow haze and blue mountains against a silver sky. Standing to his right, Lyana clasped his hand and held it tight. At his left side, Bayrin placed a hand on his shoulder and stared with him, solemn and silent. The wind blew their hair, cold and wet with rain, but Elethor thought he could scent the distant sands.

"What do we do now?" Bayrin said. "Do we stay here, hidden in the wilderness, and continue our search from this camp? Do we fly to Salvandos and seek sanctuary among the true dragons of the golden mountain? Do we fly east to Osanna and live among the men of the white halls?"

Elethor shook his head, watching the forest rustle and the rain sway in sheets.

"No, Bayrin," he said softly. "We will not flee. Not yet." He turned to look at his friend. "We collect what dragons we can still find among the ruins of Requiem. We fly to Tiranor. We rain fire upon them. If Mori is captive there, we will save her."

Bayrin nodded, lips tight. Elethor turned to look at Lyana; she stared back with green eyes that spoke of her loyalty, her love, and her fire that would forever light his darkness.

He squeezed her hand and whispered. "And we kill Solina."

They stood upon the mountain, holding one another, and gazed upon the southern horizon of forest, mist, mountain... and beyond them the cruel, endless desert.