by Jade Lee
"You think they talk while we are asleep?" she asked to verify his earlier statement.
He nodded, his gaze darting to the side where the Copper reclined, tail tucked around him like a kitten, neck chain nearly hidden behind his left front leg. Then the Emperor turned back to her. "You must get up earlier," he ordered. "And I will go to bed later. If we do not sleep at the same time, they cannot talk." He stared at Natiya. "They do not tell us everything, you know. They are children hiding dirty secrets. It is up to us to keep them in line."
She nodded, as she knew he expected. "I understand."
"Good. Now go to bed. The guards will wake you early." Then, before she could turn away, he reached out, once again stroking and holding her egg. "A few more days, Natiya. Then I will take you to my mountain, and she will hatch and everything will be as I have planned."
She took a deep breath, using the motion to pull away from him even as she looked uneasily at the mountain. "How far inside?" She did not want to be inside the mountain during the hatching. She needed room. She needed air.
"The Queen needs a place to fly," he said, voicing her thought. "Have no fear. There is a chamber inside, very large. It will serve perfectly." Then he raised his hands, stroking her cheek. "It is necessary until you are stronger. Until you are ready." Then he grinned. "Our mating will be done in the open air."
With that final promise, he turned and walked back to his Copper, deftly avoiding the creature's outstretched head by walking to its side and petting it in much the same way as he often touched Natiya. He stroked its flank and murmured to it, but he never allowed the creature's head anywhere near his own.
Natiya watched until she could not stand it any longer. She was not ready for any of this: the hatching, the mating or any of the other things Dag Racho told her would soon arrive. Queenship. Children. A dragon army.
She bit her lip, trying to sort fact from fiction, future from fantasy. It was impossible, since her own source of information came from the Emperor himself. She had no way of knowing if his words were truth or clever lies. She had to find a way to escape, to choose her own path outside of his influence. But how? As the guards led her back to her bedchamber, she began to despair in earnest.
Then her gaze fell upon a book of poetry. The castle librarian had sent it to her, suggesting she might enjoy reading it. She did, as it nightly helped lull her mind to sleep: Poem after poem in awkward meter and even worse rhymes, all written in honor and praise of their glorious Emperor. She didn't know if the words had been ordered by Dag Racho or were simply the work of sycophants trying to buy favor. Either way, despite the poetry being utterly wretched, it gave her the most wonderful idea.
Turning to her guard—the smelly one from that first night—she demanded he call the librarian to her. Now, if only her memory was correct, for it had been years since she last saw her dearest childhood friend. And years as well since he had proclaimed his poetical passion to her. He could have changed his mind in that time. Any number of things could have changed, and that would make her entire plan a complete waste of time. Still, she had no other ideas, and so decided to see this through and pray it worked.
While she waited for the elderly gentleman to arrive, she opened all her poetry books while simultaneously cudgeling her poor brain into remembering everything she could about the ancient art forms. It wasn't much, but then, that was the whole point.
The librarian arrived with obvious haste. Sweat gleamed along his bald pate as he struggled with an armful of tomes. The guards, of course, did not help him at all, but merely stood watching his every move as he scuttled forward.
"My lady," he said, bowing deeply before her. "What may I do to help you?"
She smiled sweetly, doing her best to put him at ease. She needed him to be malleable. "I need your help, kind sir."
"Of course, my lady. Here, allow me to show you what I have brought." He bowed again, carefully spreading texts before her. She allowed him to describe them all in detail—ad nauseam—doing her best to nod where appropriate. But in the end, she pursed her lips in a moue of dissatisfaction.
"Those are excellent choices, of course. But what I need is something a little different."
The poor man looked up, his eyes growing wide as he began to sweat. She had seen the same panic on more than one servant in the castle; they were desperately anxious to please her, as if their very lives depended upon her mood. The thought gave her acute discomfort. Exactly what would happen to these people when she got what she wanted? What would be their fate when she finally escaped?
Her stomach twisted, but she didn't have the luxury of giving in to her compassion. Instead, she leaned forward, as if drawing the librarian into a conspiracy.
"I have a plan, but you must keep it secret."
Contrary to what she expected, the elderly gentleman widened his eyes in horror. Dag Racho had made her believe that secret plots lurked everywhere—even in men like this bookish old man. But the librarian's reaction was one of terror, not interest. Apparently, the wretch had no stomach for intrigue. Unless, of course, he was an excellent actor; in which case... She sighed. This paranoid conspiracy-seeking was beginning to give her a headache. Meanwhile, she patted the older man's hand to reassure him.
"I want to get the Emperor a present. For our... um..." What?
"A wedding present?" he offered.
"Exactly!" she exclaimed, though the very thought left a bad taste in her mouth. Pushing aside her fears, she settled onto the couch across from her guest. As she moved, she noted that the guard was listening with interest. No doubt Dag Racho would know of her "secret" within beats of her words. Which meant she had to be doubly careful with her performance. With that thought in mind, she picked up the book of poems that had so put her to sleep earlier.
"I wish to write a poem for the Emperor, glorifying all that he has done for Ragona."
The librarian nodded, his relief obvious. "Do you need help with your rhymes, my lady? I am accounted quite a good poet myself..."
She groaned internally. Just what she did not need: a self-styled librarian poet when she needed a specific poet. "Well, it is not so much the rhymes that have snagged me as the form. I want the work to be grand, like the Emperor himself. Long and overflowing, like his reign." She paused, waiting for the librarian to divine what she wanted. "Overpowering. Tempestuous." She was running out of adjectives. "Regal. Majestic." If only she could remember the exact name of the form. "Maybe even sublime"
"Epic?" he offered timidly.
"Yes! That is it exactly. But there is a specific form of the epic poem. One that is perfectly suited to my intention. What was the name of that..." And this was where she trod on thin ice. She thought she'd remember the exact form if the man said it, but she couldn't be sure.
"Well, my lady, do you mean the Traveling form? With love couplets?"
"No, that's not it." She bit her lip. At least, she didn't think that was right.
"How about the Romantic Quintet form, with alternating submissive and dominant cadences?"
"No, no, no!" Why would he not get off of the romantic forms?
"Ah, then, perhaps you mean the Strompatic form—"
"No—"
"Sometimes referred to as the Mythic form with alternating dragon tooth and claw couplets."
"That's it'" She was sure. That was the form her childhood friend adored, because of the dragon name. Now, if only she could be sure he had continued with his plan to become the only master of that ancient form.
The older man clapped his hands. "An excellent form! An excellent choice!" But then his expression saddened. "But my lady, that is quite a challenging format. And, um, you do not have much time." He glanced significantly down at her swollen belly. The egg had been growing like a stuffed pompet. Every day she was larger. "Perhaps I might suggest a simpler—"
"No, no!" she snapped. "It must be this. And it must be perfect!" She began working herself into a first-class temper. "The Emperor deserves nothing
less. I will be satisfied with nothing less!"
"But—"
"Nothing else matters to me!" She began to tear up in yet another of her embarrassingly ill-tempered moods. Who'd known she was this good at being a pain in the ass? "And I must do it now, now, now! And you must help me!"
"My lady—"
"I cannot abide another moment of this! I simply cannot!" She glanced at the man and didn't need her dragon senses to know that his heart was beating erratically in panic. Sweat patches already darkened his clothing. He was ready to promise her just about anything so long as he was not personally responsible for the plan's success.
"But I can't—"
"You must! I order it! Your Emperor demands it!" Sweet Amia, she was tired of screeching.
The man swallowed, his skin becoming so pasty she feared he might pass out. Instead, he released a frightened squeak. "Help? From me? In the Mythic form?" He shook his head. "My lady, it is an extremely challenging form. Perhaps you would prefer a shorter meter, one that doesn't even require rhymes. I am quite proficient at—"
"Then send me someone who can!" She hoped he would leap upon this idea, neatly escaping the need to perform a task he was clearly unsuited for. Unfortunately, he didn't. He released a pitiful moan that drew her up short.
"But he is not allowed in your presence!" he wailed.
Natiya had expected as much, but she was not deterred. Instead, she maintained her pregnant-woman temper, huffing and pacing angrily about the room. "Not on the list! Of all the ridiculous... It is for a gift! Surely I am not a prisoner here?" She rounded abruptly on the guard, nearly slamming him sideways with the size of her belly. D'greth, when did this egg get so huge? "Am I a prisoner here? Am I?"
"Er, no, my lady," he stammered in an obvious lie.
"Then let this poet come to me!" She spun around, glaring first at the librarian and then at the guard. "See that he arrives tomorrow morning, first thing! Or I shall hold you personally responsible!" Then, after their faces drained of all color, she abruptly smiled prettily—and stupidly—at them, dropping her voice to a loud whisper. "And don't tell the Emperor! It's a secret, you know, for our wedding."
Then, while they stared dumbly at her, she waved them away. "Go now. It is time for me to sleep." She dropped onto her bed and made as if to strip naked right there in front of them. She had to restrain her laughter when the two scrambled like bunnies to escape her presence.
She had no doubt of what was about to happen. Her "secret" would travel up the official lines until it reached Dag Racho himself. She prayed his ego would be flattered enough by her plan to approve her poet consultant. She counted it likely for two reasons, his ego being the first. The second—and likely more key—reason was that working so hard on a poem would occupy her time while the Emperor slept. He would think her safely employed while she was not directly under his supervision. Especially if she did manage to create lines in the execrable form. D'greth! She hated poetry!
The real risk, of course, was that her poet consultant would not be the man she wanted, the one man in all Ragona whom she had always trusted. Unfortunately, she had no way of finding out if her ploy worked. She simply had to wait and try to sleep. And pray she didn't dream.
* * *
It began as it always did: flying. Always flying. In the air above the clouds, through mist or brilliant sun or lightning storm. She didn't see herself flying; she felt it. The bitter cold, the clammy wet, even that stomach tickle that became a clench when a dip in the air became a dive and then a plummet.
She loved it all because she was insulated. A fire in her belly kept her warm and dry, and somehow she never vomited it up when the plummet took a last-beat shift, streaking her upward like an arrow shot from the Father's bow. She was a dragon in all its glory, and every breath, every movement, was pure joy. She was dancing with wings, and she laughed out loud, even though she knew she was sleeping.
But then the dream changed and evolved into something she'd never seen before. She was no longer flying, but sitting on a sandy floor in the corner of a shack. She shouldn't even call it a shack, for in truth it was simply driftwood stacked together, one piece atop another until it became a room: a fortress of driftwood, a place to hide in shadow despite the smell of dead fish and rancid seafung.
Except, it was no longer hidden. They had found him. Her older brothers. Or was she a he? By the name of Rashad. She did not know, and so she ignored it, settling into her hatred and pain like a frog on a toadstool.
Then she coughed. She did not intend to. In fact, she held it in as long as she could. But her clothes were wet where she sat on gritty sand, and her tears made her face slimy. Eventually she could not stop it; she coughed. That loud, rasping hack started in her stomach, making her sick. It built there, foul-tasting like bile, swelling within her until it had to escape, had to break free. And it did, violently, shaking her whole body as more coughs clawed through her throat, choking off her breath and making her spasm as she tried to contain them. In the end she lay shaking and gasping and even wetter and more miserable than before because she had fallen onto her side. Now her shirt clung to her tiny stick arms, giving her no warmth and no comfort.
And worse, they were coming. She heard them, just as they had heard her. They scrambled through the rocks and pushed into her fortress as if it were nothing more than driftwood stacked together among the craggy out-croppings that were once caves—which it was.
"Here he is! Hey, Wormy! He's here! Whatcha doing, Wormy?"
"He's hiding in the dirt like all worms."
"Hey, look, his pants are wet!"
"Wormy, Wormy!"
The taunts continued relentlessly, echoing in her head and her weakened body. For these were from her brothers, no less, the very ones who were supposed to protect her. But that, of course, was why they hated her so much. Not quite the oldest, she was still older than these two younger brothers. But they were bigger and stronger. They had never had this fire in their lungs or the worms they said ate her from the inside out. While they wanted to run and play with ease among the caves, his illness dragged them down and made them wait. When they were younger, his older brother carried him in a special chair, hauling him with grunts and groans along the sandy beach. But then his younger brothers grew larger, and they all had to take turns, pushing him off on the loser of their games.
It felt strange, being this boy in her dream, for Natiya was part of two minds—both the boy in pain and another mind that was not her own. The dragon's? she wondered. Was she learning what the dragons shared with each other? She didn't know and had no time to understand. She was remembering things. She knew how the boy had hidden his brother's toys in his chair, stolen their treasures and kept them for his own. She knew, too, that all the taunts, all the ugliness, stemmed from boredom in this isolated stretch of sand and rock, and the constant struggle for attention from indifferent parents too absorbed in their work to care much about their progeny.
The dream could have ended here, rushing forward through cycles showing the way most siblings end their struggles. With maturity and time, most brothers cease pestering each other and spend more time hounding girls. Bit by bit, they find comfort in each other's struggles, strength in solidarity, and distraction in sex.
It should have ended this way, except for one thing: the treasure, the secret that brought him to his isolated fort to study, the means of his eventual revenge. A Copper dragon egg that he pressed deep into his belly and incubated there where no one outside of his family could see. That was the reason his brothers called him Wormy, that was the cause of the jealousy that now made them torment him. Because from the moment he pressed it deep into his belly, he'd known he would kill them all. He would have his revenge, and so he told them. He would make them pay for not playing with him, for not taking him places they went, for not loving and adoring him with the warmth they themselves all longed for.
Natiya wanted the dream to end there. She prayed for release from its grip, shaking
with impotent anger at the wet ground and the cruelty of children. She wanted it to end, but would have remained there reliving each moment of humiliation rather than experience what was coming: the moment the family died. Not just the brothers—each and every one of them—but the indifferent father and too-tired mother as well.
The dream continued, scrolling through her mind no matter how much she fought. The egg hatched and the dragon-beast controlled Rashad's thoughts in a chaotic riot of pain and sexuality and rejection and fury. The hatchling was hungry. It needed food immediately, and the hunger clawed through Rashad's mind like a living thing.
Then the Copper saw something—someone—to eat, and simply did it. Rashad watched in horror and some satisfaction as his older brother fought and died. It was right, he decided; his older brother had tormented him. His older brother deserved to die to feed his Copper dragon's belly—his own belly. It was all twisted in his mind and he could not think clearly; but he knew that the larger boy had been the leader, the taunter, the one who had failed to protect his younger, weaker, sicker brother.
Sick no longer. Weak no longer. Rashad had a full belly and a satisfied smirk.
The others—parents and younger brother—died in the ensuing fight. Running to the cave, they had been horrified by the dead body, the blood and food smeared over his mouth—his dragon's mouth—their mouths. And so they had run, offering themselves up as further meals. It was right, Rashad decided, right and honorable that they should die in this manner, giving their lives to strengthen the greatest among them—himself. And also for his sister, who had a hatchling of her own.
Besides, they would have died in the next fight anyway. The local dragonlord had felt the births: Dag Branth knew that two new dragons challenged his reign. So he arrived quickly on a black dragon bent with age and weakening. Sister and brother rose up together, easily defeating their enemy. And in the celebration afterwards, while parents and brothers still filled their bellies, there had been little left to do—nothing except grow, find strength in food and sex with one another while they prepared for the bloody war to come.