by Ava Sinclair
“For me? Truly?” The look of gratitude in her beautiful green eyes makes my heart lurch with love.
“Truly.” I pause. “Things are…” I struggle to find the words. “Things are not as I thought they would be for us. I do not know what will happen. I do not know…” I feel a lump in my throat. I have not shed a tear since I was a child, but I am close now. I clear my throat. “I never want you to forget what we had, should we have to part.”
Tears glitter in her eyes. She takes my gift and nods. “Thank you, my lord. I still keep faith. I’ve come this far.”
“Yes, you have.” I force a smile and then nod down at the sword. “In the days of men, knights of old named their swords, believing names gave them power. Will you name yours?”
Isla takes the sword and unsheathes it. The blade glimmers in the light. “I shall call it Fell Slayer, for it shall kill the dragon that burned my village.” The look in her eyes is fierce. I cannot help but marvel at her certainty.
“Fell Slayer.” I take the scabbard from her and fasten its strap about her waist, before stepping back. “Let us see you wield it. The balance is different than your wooden one.”
I draw my blade. Isla does the same. She extends Fell Slayer and smiles. “It feels good.”
“This one is lethal, lady. Be careful that I am not the first dragon you slay.”
She grins, but the fierceness is still in her eyes. It always is when we spar. She obeys my instructions. I tell her to follow the sword as much as she wields it, to think of it as the point of her finger as she jabs and slices. Drakorayns learn the art of wielding weapons of men, even though our mightiest strength is in our dragon nature. My brothers and I have trained both our fellow Drakoryan lords and human soldiers in combat. Isla is a natural, with instincts that surprise me. While she may lack the strength of a man, she compensates with a catlike quickness. Her movements tell me she spends her solitary hours practicing.
I end the lesson before she is ready. I always do. “I wish I could tarry longer, but I must away to the village.”
Isla sheathes her sword. “Take me with you?”
I hate to refuse her, but I must. “Isla, the village is no place for a lady.”
“You keep calling me that, yet I am not yet a lady.”
“Isla…”
“I’m not.” She sighs. “So much is fractured. My life. Your life. The bond between you and Jayx and Zyvis. I feel I am the cause of the latter.”
I tilt her chin up so that she’s looking into my eyes. “You are not the cause of this strife. Your arrival only illuminated what we have denied.” I shake my head. “Or what our family has denied, even my parents. Zyvis’ father…” My words trail off. I do not need to concern Isla with matters that are not of her concern.
“Lord Udra. Yes.” She nods, understanding. “He is unpleasant, and Zyvis is afraid of him.”
“How do you know this?”
“At the Deepening, the thoughts he shared were not real. He made them up. I am sure of it. He wanted me to see a son who was loved by his father. The last memory he shared was of something that did not happen. So they were all false.” A look of sadness clouds her pretty features. “Where is Zyvis? I thought he would come to me, to try and fix what is broken.”
I loathe to tell her the truth, but I cannot lie. “Awaiting the arrival of the last person he needs to see now. His father is coming.”
“Lord Udra? Why?”
“Because he will never stop trying to control Zyvis. And only the direct son of a lord can turn him away from his door. Zyvis is not strong enough.” I turn away. “I’m away to the village now.”
“Take me with you.” She’s not dropping this. Isla moves in front of me, blocking my path. “I am a village girl. What better person to convince the villagers that it is not the Drakoryans who should be feared? I have seen the enemy. I have felt his awful fire.” Isla takes my hand. “Please.”
Normally this is a decision requiring the consultation of my brothers. But Isla is right. She is not yet our lady, not with the Deepening having failed.
“Very well,” I say. “But I want you to stick close to me, understand?”
She arches a brow. “Of course. I have you for protection.” Her hand drops to the hilt of Fell Slayer. “And my sword.”
Chapter 25
JAYX
Releg of Darly has not forgotten the slight he suffered. He has not forgotten the Drakoryan lord who loomed over him in dragon form.
I’m sitting by a newly dug well with the five Lords of Kri’byl. We have laid nearly all the rock about the well’s mouth, and now village men are erecting the wooden frame that will hold the rope and bucket for drawing water. Releg is one of those men, and despite having faced a dragon, defiance remains in his eyes.
The lords of Kri’byl are unmated. Perhaps this is why the king has them making a home among the villagers. Still, it is not an easy assignment. The five have had to leave the comforts of their castle in the southern portion of the valley to live rough in the settlement. I know the goal is to build loyalty, but it is not a coveted task for any Drakoryan.
As we share a cup of water, a woman is approaching. We exchange surprised looks when she calls to us.
“Dragon lords!” We stand as she approaches. She wears the simple dress of a villager – dark brown overdress over a white chemise. And while the other women wears brown cloaks, hers is the green cloak of a healer. “I am in need of herbs and roots—milk thistle, nettle, burdock, and others.”
“Do you need a guide to take you gathering?” Tyri, the eldest son of Kri’byl is first to address the woman.
“I need no guide,” she snaps. “I know the places where these herbs should grow. I find none, not even beyond the marsh.”
Tyri’s twin, Yrko speaks up now. “The villagers have been ordered to stay within the boundaries. Permission is required to go to the marsh.”
“I have never sought permission to acquire what I need to heal.” She glares from beneath her cloak. “I will not seek it now.”
A muscle twitches in Yrko’s cheek. “I am not scolding you…”
“I don’t care if you are.” This woman only comes up to our chests, but she is challenging us all as she looks from one face to the other. “I have a mother who is about to give birth, and others soon to deliver after her. I do not have the herbs I need. Unless I miss my guess, you all have castle apothecaries. You will bring me what I need.”
“You are commanding for one so small.” Erdorin, another brother, speaks up. “And disrespectful.”
“Will you turn into a dragon to frighten me, big man?” She smirks. “Before you do, you should know I won’t cower like my uncle.”
So, she is kin to Releg. This explains much.
Her words drip with scorn and defiance as she continues. “If it will help sway you, the woman who needs my help has already birthed three daughters, each more beautiful than the last. I’m sure this babe will be a daughter, too. Would you risk her losing the child if it means one less future maiden for your kind to steal away?”
I look to the Lords of Kri’byl; this healer is clearly trying their patience. When Erdorin steps towards her, she holds her ground.
“What is your name?” he demands to know.
“Thera, not that my name matters.”
Erdorin regards her in silence before turning to me. “Lord Jayx, would you arrange to have Thera the Healer supplied with what she needs?”
I nod. “I will ask our oracle. If we do not have all she requires, the oracle who serves Castle Jo’lyn dabbles in all manner of herbs. No doubt we can stock her shelves.”
Thera inclines her head towards the left. “My cottage is not yet built. There are others more in need, so I am making do in a tent on the outskirts of the village. Healers live apart from others. I will need the herbs brought there.” She turns on her heel without another word and walks away.
“A sharp tongue wags in that pretty mouth,” Jareo says. The youngest lord
of Kri’byl is scowling in the direction of the healer as she disappears from view. He looks to the rest of us. “In the past, her entire village would have paid for her rudeness. We’d have burned their land.”
“We are no longer in the past,” Gryvrig, the second-born says. “Any land we burn now is our own.”
“There should be consequences, just the same,” Jareo insists.
“She’s a woman.” Erdorin waves his hand dismissively. “It will avail us nothing to dignify her impertinence. Her defiance is as significant as an ant’s.”
“Don’t be so sure.” I weigh in now. As small as the healer is, her eyes burn with a fire I’ve seen before. She reminds me of Isla. “It is unwise to discount the determination and strength of female will. They have a power of their own.”
“Only when we take them as mates,” Gryvrig counters. “We rely on them for our bloodline. But a healer? She will not be given leave to speak to us like that again.”
The five move back towards the well, their time for rest over. I turn my attention to calling Turin, using my mental connection to tell him herbs are needed. I know he is coming to the village. I want to make sure the healer is satisfied. Regardless of what the Lords of Kry’bril say, I sense Thera of Darly is not to be underestimated.
Chapter 26
ISLA
We’d been about to leave the castle when Turin had gotten a message from Jayx about the healer’s needs. The oracle of Castle Za’vol is as different from the king’s oracle as night is from day. Plump and taciturn, Ovir the Wise is slovenly by comparison, the hem of his brown robes tattered from dragging on the flagstones. He grumbles as he fills a basket with the herbs the healer requested, then grumbles again when I request more. I ignore him. I want to bring more than has been requested, so I add things the women in Branlock used— crampbark and chamomile and mint.
“She’s not the only healer,” I tell Turin as we leave. “Each village had one. We will need to make sure they are all supplied, at least until we can grow or gather more herbs.”
“Worry not,” he tells me as he puts me up on a horse. It’s my first time riding since I left Branlock. My gray mare fidgets as he climbs on his larger horse.
“I want to take the herbs to the healer.” I shift in my saddle, feeling the sheathed sword at my waist move against my leg.
“As you wish.” Turin clicks his tongue and his horse moves off. Mine follows, picking up a bouncy trot. In the distance, I can see the Mountain of Kings and beside it the Mystic Mountain, dragons wheeling around or perched on its peak. King Vukurcis has increased the protection of the sacred home of the witches, and Turin tells me that five Drakoryan lords also stay in the village, ready and able to transform and protect should the need arise.
The horses cover the ground at a speedy trot as clouds gather overhead. By the time we arrive on the outskirts of the settlement, something wet and cold falls on my face. Snow, light and persistent. The growing village teems with activity, even though it is bitter cold and late in the day. The rate of expansion is impressive, a testament to the village will that I remember all too well.
My horse follows Turin’s towards a tent apart from the construction. It is round and covered with skins tied to pegs in the ground. Smoke rises from the top, and as we approach, my mare startles at the sound of a blood-curdling scream.
I am nearly unseated by my spooking horse, which would have bolted had Turin not grabbed the reins.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I say, shaking slightly. I climb down from my mount, happy to be off as I take the basket. From the tent, another scream can be heard. Even if my horse is startled, I am not. I recognize the sounds of a woman giving birth.
I tell Turin I should go alone. When I tell him why, he agrees. Men want no part of birthing. It scares them, even men who are half dragon. He tells me to stay put, that he will come back for me. As he leads my horse away, I turn and walk into the tent.
Although I know the sounds of birth, I have never witnessed one. When I enter the tent, I see a woman lying by the fire. She is older than both me and the woman who kneels between her legs. The healer’s sharp-featured face is rapt in concentration as she presses down on what looks like a blood-covered, hairy ball emerging from between the laboring mother’s legs.
“Breathe, Ela. You can do this. Breathe the babe out.”
The healer glances up at me, then looks away, deferring her curiosity as she returns her focus on the baby she’s delivering.
“Aaaaaaaggggghhhhh!” The laboring mother’s renewed wail fills the tent.
“Ela!” The healer calls her name in a commanding voice. “Breathe it out. You’ve done this before. You will do it again.”
The mother lays her head down and shuts her eyes. She emits a guttural, breathy groan and pushes. The baby’s head emerges between her legs, its features compressed into a scowl.
“Good. Good!” The healer cradles the head, swooping her finger into the infant’s mouth. The babe, its body still inside its mother, emits a tiny cough.
“Once more,” the healer demands, and the laboring woman complies, her huge egg of a belly deflating as the infant slips from her amid a rush of clear fluid. The healer catches the infant, which spreads its arms and legs wide. The infant is still scowling, its eyes scrunched tight in its pink face. I watch, fascinated, as the healer flips the infant over and unwraps a thick purple cord looped around its body. When she turns the baby back up, a lusty scream resounds through the tent. The smile on the exhausted mother’s face is both relieved and sad. I know what she must be thinking. Months ago, she’d expected her baby to be born in her own village, in a cottage that would see it warm and well-fed through the winter, not here, not into this uncertainty.
“Take your daughter.” The healer puts the newborn on her mother’s chest. The cord that connected them pulses more slowly with each passing second. As mother coos at her babe, it turns its ruddy face to the sound of her voice, its expression curious and alert. The healer stands, glances at me, and walks to a basin, where she washes her hands before returning to cover the new mother with a blanket.
“I’ve come with herbs,” I tell her. “One of the Drakoryan sent me.”
“A woman with a sword and a fine dress.” She walks over and takes the basket, ignoring me as she begins to inspect the contents. “What village are you from that they dress so?”
“Branlock,” I say.
She looks up at me curiously. “Branlock? Branlock was burnt. The maidens all taken.”
“All but me. I alone survived. In a well.” I pause. “I am Isla.”
“I am Thera, Healer of Darly.” She takes the basket to the fire, where she begins to mix one of the herbs with water in a little cauldron hanging above the flame. As the contents start to cook, she peers at me through the steam. “What village has taken you in now that Branlock is no more?”
“None.” Outside the wind howls and I wait for it to settle before continuing. “Three Drakoryans saved me and took me for a mate. A war bride, they call me.”
She smirks. “Well, that explains the fine dress. Tell me, Isla of Branlock. Will you sleep well in your castle, knowing that the rest of us are trapped in a war between dragons?”
The harshness of her question takes me aback.
“I did not choose my fate any more than a maiden snatched from a rock.” My voice is shaking with anger. “Who are you to judge?”
Thera the healer doesn’t immediately reply. Instead, she ladles tea into a wooden cup, which she blows across to cool. “Drink, Ela,” she says, pressing the cup to the woman’s lips. “It will help you expel the afterbirth. I’ve mixed in something to ease the pain.”
Only after Ela has downed the tea does the healer return to where I stand.
“I don’t judge you. I do judge what men who become dragons make us become—docile brides, beaten men, broken parents, grieving widows. Not every village has found favor with your lords over the years. Not all of us can forge
t what they are.”
I meet her gaze with one just as hard. “You think I defend them entirely? I do not. They are imperfect as men and terrible as dragons. I loathed them when I arrived.”
“And let me guess…now you love them.” She turns away. “You’re right. I should not judge. A pretty dress and a warm castle? Not one living husband but three? I cannot blame you for looking past the brutality of the Drakoryans to preserve your own life.”
“There are more brutal beings in this world,” I say. “Like the ShadowFell. I saw one. I saw what it did to my village. The Drakoryans have never slaughtered humans like that.”
She turns back. “No. They did not slaughter. But do not think for a moment that your precious lords do not bring death. Five years ago, my village displeased your Drakoryans. They punished us by burning half the land we farmed. Come the harvest, they still took their due, although it left less for us going into a hard winter.” She cocks her head. “You’re a girl of the villages. You know most men work hard to provide for their families. I was newly married, to a good man who wanted nothing more than to provide. Because there was less food, he and my father went out one night to hunt. They never came home. A pack of Wolven killed them.”
Thera the Healer walks back to the mother, picking up a wooden bowl along the way. She kneels and pulls back the blanket from the woman now sleeping with the baby latched to her breast. Ela has expelled the afterbirth in her sleep. Thera picks it up and puts it in the bowl.
“The Drakoryans laid down fire in our village to protect us from the Wolven,” I tell her, but I know I offer a hollow defense and so does she.
“There was no fire to drive away the Wolven that killed my father and husband, Isla. And they would not have gone so far from the village to hunt were it not for the coldness of your dragon men.”
I stand silent as she removes the soiled bedding from beneath the woman and places a folded cloth between her legs. Thera the Healer puts the soiled linen aside, covers the woman back up with the blanket, and looks up at me.