War Bride_A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy

by Ava Sinclair

  His words are more optimistic than they were in the throne room, and I’m sure this is because our ladies are in attendance and he would soothe their fears on what will likely be our last happy night before the war.

  I try to concentrate on this night as we head to the feast. This is our night, the night we finally achieve the Deepening. When we return to Castle Za’vol, we will be a bonded family ready to face an uncertain future together.

  The last feast before war. It is only fitting that this, too, should be at the king’s castle. Dragons are fabled for their appetites. Drakoryan appetites exceed those of humans in all things, be it food or sex. Our feast honors our love of good food, and a king’s table offers the finest.

  The feast hall is the largest room in the castle. Banners representing each Drakoryan house line one long wall. A single fireplace stretches the length of the other, huge logs blazing within.

  And then there are the tables. They stretch nearly as far as we can see. I look down at Isla, who stares wide-eyed at the array of food. Whole roasted steers, pigs, and lambs sit steaming on massive platters. In between are the fowl — roast geese filled with a stuffing made from berries and grains, peafowl ringed by a circle of orange-glazed quail, pheasants baked in sage honey.

  I laugh when Isla scowls at a tureen filled with stewed eels, and tell her there is something for all tastes, from the fish and mussel stew to venison pies to rabbit in gravy. Would she prefer trout? I ask this as we take our seats, eager to see her fed. She has been quiet since she appeared from her chamber. I want to attribute it to fatigue both from travel and Zyvis’ attention. Perhaps some chestnut soup? Turin offers this, and I look over to see if Zyvis is offering her anything. His attention is focused on his father, who sits farther down the table, frowning as we dote on our bride. A passing maid carries a jug of wine, and although Isla’s goblet is within reach, Zyvis holds out his own. Across the table, Lord Udra smirks in satisfaction. I think of his fatherly advice. I think of Isla’s expectations. I try not to be angry. The mating is done. The time for anger is past. Once we achieve the Deepening and bond, Zyvis will appreciate her more. He will see the error of his ways.

  “Chestnut soup.” Turin holds a spoon to our mate’s mouth. She sips the offering and smiles. A drop remains on her top lip. I pick up a napkin to blot it away and find myself putting my mouth to hers instead, tasting the soup, tasting her. Isla smiles at me, but there is something sad in her eyes.

  She is tired. She is still adjusting. All will be well.

  Try the pigeon pie. Try the oxtail soup. Try the honeyed figs. We ply her with food as we eat our own. Farther down the table, they are singing songs of war. The king’s voice booms above the rest. He is rallying us, stoking the Drakoryan brotherhood. Soon, we are singing, too—ancient songs from battles of old, of heroes who fought the men who saw us as abominations, driving some to the other side of the world and subjugating others to grow our food and mates. I reach for a prawn the size of my fist as a bard begins reciting a poem recounting our conquering of the mountain people who now serve in our households and armies. It reminds us of that humans can be loyal, and provides hope that the villagers will be loyal, too.

  Isla is nibbling on a candied fig as we ply her with more treats. We feast on a bit of everything, swallowing gulps of meat in between bites of brown bread flavored with olives. Our plates empty as hers piles higher with food we want her to try — fig tarts, marzipan, candied ginger, poached pears, cream puddings. She nibbles, but not enough to suit me.

  It will be different when we get home, I tell myself. Even if there is rationing, even if we have to go without, Isla will have the best we can give her. She will feel love every moment.

  I’m sure it seems impossible to her that every bite of the feast laid out on the king’s table is consumed within hours. But for me, what awaits is more satisfying, and when we are summoned to the castle oracle’s tower, I allow optimism to rise in me like the headiness of a rich wine.

  Ezador the Wise is the oldest being in the Empire. He has served every king from the beginning, his unnaturally long life granted to him by the witches who use him not only as their most powerful conduit, but also as the keeper of Drakoryan history. He is the author of the books on both Drakoryan and ShadowFell history that grace every castle library in the empire. In a room below his, castle scribes spend long days hunched over parchment, recording the oracle’s musings, formulas, and observations.

  I tell Isla about him as we rise through the upper level of the castle in a special iron lift operated by dozens of male servants turning a circular crank below.

  “He must be very stooped and aged by now,” she says, and for the first time, Zyvis speaks up.

  “You’ll be surprised. Ezador may be wise, but he’s also vain. He uses a glamour.”

  “A glamour?” It’s clear she’s never heard the term, but there’s no time for an explanation. The lift stops at an arched wooden doorway with ornate iron hinges. When Jayx raps on it, a quiet voice orders us to enter.

  Chapter 23

  ISLA

  This is no wizened old man. An ethereally youthful face stares out at us from beneath the hood of a purple robe marked with glowing symbols that change and move in the dim light of a room that is part library, part apothecary, part collection of oddities. While my mates have assured me that Ezador’s study is typical of oracles, the man himself is anything but what I imagined.

  He is so radiantly beautiful that it’s difficult to discern his gender. His features are soft and gentle, his skin flawlessly smooth, his eyes an enchanting silver gray. I understand now; a glamour is some kind of magic used to alter his appearance.

  The oracle’s eyes are fixed on me. He walks over and stops to study me. He reaches out a hand, brushing it lightly over my hair. I feel as if I’m being read like a book. Even his voice is beautiful—soft and silky smooth, but with an air of quiet authority.

  “Oh, if only I preferred the company of females over males. You would almost do.” He grins and winks at my mates. “Even if I did, you have three dragon lords to protect your favors.”

  His tone is teasing. I stare at him. I’ve never met anyone like this oracle, who turns away and walks to the center of the room. There is a strange circle drawn on the floor. Around it are symbols similar to the ones on his robe. In the center of the circle is a chair.

  “Are you ready for the final step in your journey? Are you ready to leave Isla of Branlock in your past and become Lady Isla of Za’vol?”

  “Good sir,” I say. “I will always be Isla of Branlock.”

  He smiles serenely. “Ah, so you will. You are a War Bride. You have a War Bride’s fighting spirit.” He pauses. “You are not the first, you know, but you are the first war bride of this age. It is a rare thing.” He gestures for me to approach, and when I do, he orders me to hold out my hands. When I obey, he places his palm down on mine.

  “These hands…” His eyes meet mine. “They long to hold a sword. To strike and kill. You seek a reckoning.”

  “A dragon slaughtered my village. It took my sister.”

  He closes his eyes. When he opens them, the pupils are gone, replaced by a silver haze and the voice that comes from his mouth is female.

  “Two dragons threaten your future. One you will help defeat, the other you will defeat alone.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, but the oracle does not answer.

  “He likely does not know.” Turin’s voice behind me is quiet. He and his brothers still stand outside the circle. “This message comes from the Mystic Mountain, from the Witches of the Wyrd.”

  Ezador’s eyes clear and he gestures again, with flourish, to the chair. When I take a seat, he motions for the Lords of Za’vol to approach. They lay hands on me as he retrieves a book bound in dragon scale.

  Ezador stands before us. “Close your eyes, pretty child,” he says. I do, and hear his voice chanting in a strange, guttural tongue. It is words, but not words. I know this is the langua
ge of dragons. I feel as if I’m sinking into softness, and my eyes open. But not my eyes. I’m looking through someone else’s eyes and feel a pressure on my toes that makes me giggle from deep in my belly. I look down. It’s Lady Klea, younger, and smiling. She’s playing with my toes.

  “Such tiny feet, Lord Jayx,” she says. “You’d better be careful, or mama will gobble them up!” She pretends to eat my toes and I raise my tiny fists towards her, reaching for her unbound hair. I feel such love, such safety where I lay in the comfort of my cradle, under my mother’s loving gaze.

  She moves from my line of sight and I begin to wail as I turn my head to look for her, but I only see the window and the light from it grows brighter as I dissolve and am pulled towards it. I am spinning through the glare, and when I land, I am looking down at legs.

  Dragon legs.

  Razor sharp talons extend from the ends of huge, scaly feet. I feel clumsy, disoriented. It is my first time in dragon form, and the pain of shifting is seeping out of my body to be placed by wonder. I lean forward and instinctively catch myself with the joint of my wing, which functions as an extra limb to help me walk.

  “Good! Good!” My father, Lord Orys, is below me. I arch my neck, surprised to see him so small when I have always looked up to him. “Look at yourself, Jayx. Don’t be afraid! Go on!”

  There is a pool to my left. I catch my reflection. It is fearsome. My skin is nubby and thick. Horns rise from my head, and around it, thick and flexible dragon spines. My father shouts directions, telling me how to move. Ahead of me is a ridge.

  “Fly!” he tells me. “Fly! You were made for it, my son! Fly!”

  I begin to move, extending my wings to grasp the ground as I propel myself forward with my sturdy limbs. Then I straighten myself and extend my wings, taking two thunderous steps before rising through the air. It is natural, but it is terrifying. I have just leapt from one of the highest ledges in the kingdom. Wispy clouds float below me. I dive and spread my leathery wings for the first time, catching an air current and riding it upward. I turn my face towards the sun. A roar fills the sky. It is mine. I have found my dragon voice.

  Suddenly, I’m falling, and everything is dark. War. We are at war. I smell fire and blood. The soldiers had aimed the huge harpoon at my enemy, at the black dragon. I’d seen them do it, but something has gone terribly wrong. I emerge from a rising plume of smoke to see the spear coming towards me. Pain rips through my body, pain like nothing I’ve never known. I feel blood pouring from my chest as the wind rushes past me. I hit the ground with such force that all goes black.

  It is light again. My father and I stand on a balcony, looking out at the empire. The sun is rising. My father tells me peace is once again upon the land. He is proud of me. I have both served and led well as a Drakoryan knight in the king’s army. We can hope again, and his hope is for the sons of his house to have happiness. There is one more fleeting memory, of a face. My face. I am looking at myself through Jayx’s eyes. I am happier than I have ever been.

  All goes dark once more, then clears like the sky after a storm.

  Turin. I am Turin. I know because my mother is calling my name, telling me to be careful, to leave this task to someone else. I call back, telling her not to worry. There is no one else, and if I do not help, the lamb will die.

  We’d been walking together when we’d heard it bleating. I’d rushed to the edge of the grassy ridge we were traversing and had seen it—a lamb that had toppled from the edge to land on a little jut of rock. It was frozen in fear. Large eagles swooped nearby, waiting for it to take a step so they could snatch it away. I could hear its mother calling for it as I ignored my own mother’s warning and scurried downward, picking my way over the rocks. Below me, the river rolled. It had been a rainy spring and the water level was high. The sound of the rushing water roared in my head. I ignored it. I ignored my mother. I could not bear to think of the little creature, so frightened, so alone.

  I am strong, even for a lad of nine summers. I lay down flat on a sun-warmed stone and stretch. My arms are just long enough to grasp the lamb by the ear. It cries out in pain as I snatch it up, continuing to struggle as I right myself. It takes balance and control to throw it over my shoulders, but I do, grasping its fore and hind legs in front of me as I use my free hand and legs to scale the rocks. At the top of the ridge, I find my mother half mad from worry and fear. Then her face softens as she sees the reunion between the ewe and lamb.

  “That was not wise, Turin.” Her relieved face is level with mine. I am as tall as she is now.

  “No.” I hug her. “But it was the right thing to do.”

  “Turin the savior.” Lady Klea beams with pride as I look at her through the eyes of the man who will one day save me from the well. Then she recedes from view.

  I am a dragon. I am above the clouds, a puffy blanket of white with gaps like holes revealing the earth below one. The sun flashes off the orange of my wings. I revel in the wind on my face. I inhale the scents of the earth below. I am slowing, drifting to where the clouds are thinner. There is a village below. I rise back above the clouds, which are thinning. I peer through the mist, my dragon sight allowing me to see the village that cannot see me.

  It is Branlock. It is all here, from the village well to the cottages to the little stream where my sister and I washed our clothes. To Turin, this is but a simple memory of a routine patrol. Still, to me, it is a treasure, because I can revisit it whenever I want through his eyes. It will allow me to remember what it looked like before, allow me to remember that it existed. Thanks to Turin, I will never forget my home. My heart swells with gratitude and love. These memories are more than insights; they are gifts.

  And now it is time for the final memories, those of Zyvis. I am staring into a black mist. It clears, and I see Lord Udra. He is looking at a round target with a knife stuck in the center. He smiles. “Well done, my son. You have fine aim. I am proud.”

  Something is wrong, though. This doesn’t feel like the other memories. It is the difference between having an experience and looking at a picture. I feel nothing, and the image dims and fades like smoke. It is rapidly replaced with other images— all fleeting recollections that I cannot quite fathom or grasp before they disappear.

  What is happening? I try to ask but cannot speak. The three sets of hands are still on me, yet one pair is shaking and sweating, as if the owner is under great strain.

  Another image. I am in battle. I am a violet dragon filled with rage. I fight for the woman on the wall. I want to win her. I must. This, I finally feel. I strike my brothers with tooth and claw. I burn them with fire. They flee. I am victorious. Then the image shatters like glass— shatters because it is not real. I emerge from my trance to realize Zyvis was not giving me true memories, but ones he wished he could give me. Even after he removes his hands, I feel his shame clinging where his hands had been.

  I open my eyes. The room is quiet.

  “It failed. The bond was not made.” The oracle’s delivers the words with puzzled sympathy.

  I feel a lump rise in my throat. “We are not mates, then?”

  “It is all or none, child. One did not give what was needed for the true bond.”

  “Zyvis…” Jayx hisses. “Is this your revenge for not getting first rights? To deny us all…”

  “No.” I stand and face the two men I love in defense of the one I do not. I look to Zyvis, whose face has grown pale. “Don’t,” I tell my brothers. “I do not think he wanted this outcome any more than you did, than I did.”

  My eyes meet Zyvis’ and in them I see the shame I felt in his touch, the hurt. It is like a wall between us. I turn to the oracle.

  “Is that it then? Are we to be…” I can barely say the word. “Apart?”

  “You are a War Bride, child, remember? It depends on how hard you and those you love are willing to fight.”

  Chapter 24

  TURIN

  In a Drakoryan household, we try to lift one another up,
to complement and strengthen one another. It is hard now, and as we embark for home I cannot help but think of our own upbringing, of the discord in the household that raised us.

  My parents tried to hide it, and as youthful lads are wont to do, we were too distracted to allow ourselves to notice. But there was strife, and I wish now that my parents had been more open about how my father and Jayx’s handled Lord Udra.

  A failure for one is a failure for all.

  The trip home was especially somber. The one thing we’d hope to have — a secured mating— still eluded us. Time was against us. In addition to the worry of war, a single thought plagued us: If Zyvis could not achieve a Deepening with Isla, our own bond would be useless. She would have to leave the castle.

  “Spar with me.”

  I’ve come to visit her when she makes the request. It’s five days since we returned. Tension hangs over the empire like a haze, despite the Drakoryans’ haste to fill the villagers’ storehouse. None of us has touched Isla. Zyvis avoids her from the shame of having failed to bond. Jayx and I are mindful that we cannot treat her as a full mate now that the Deepening has failed. Still, I long to be near her, to please her. In the evenings, I come to teach her swordplay. And this time I have a surprise.

  “You can no longer spar with that.” I point at the little wooden sword I’d given her.

  “You think I’m not good enough with it?” Her umbrage makes me smile.

  “No. I think you’re too good. I think it’s time to move beyond a wooden sword.” I’ve had my hand behind my back and I move it now, to offer her a new gift — a sword forged especially for her.

  Isla is speechless. She lays the wooden sword gently on the table and approaches me, reaching out to run her fingers along the leather scabbard that holds her new weapon. Her touch is reverent.