by Ava Sinclair
Chapter 11
THERA
The Drakoryans have deceived us. I am as sure of it as I am of the message Bran delivered in my dream. Beware the enemy who brought about my death, he’d said.
The appearance of the black dragons, small and easily felled by men, justifies my anger. What fools we have been to believe in our rulers! Yet despite being exposed as liars who’d exaggerated the threat, they persist in their deception.
Finally, though, the others understand. As I face the Drakoryans, I can feel the anger of the villagers behind me building like a wave. I am determined to goad the Drakoryans into showing themselves as the true enemy dragons. If we die by their fire, at least we will go down fighting. We will not be subjugated.
It works. Lord Erdorin, eldest of the village guardians, transforms into a huge white dragon. My heart thunders in my chest, but I do not move. Even as the other villagers fall away in terror, I hold my ground, ready to join my Bran if that is the gods’ will. Then I feel it—the rough grip of hands as I am lifted and thrown over a broad shoulder.
I can only see the ground as I am borne away and look back to see the other villagers fleeing.
“No! Stand your ground!” I cry, knowing my words are lost on the wind. Behind me, the villagers’ bravery evaporates under the hot glare of the dragon’s eye.
I scream my rage, beating my fists against the broad back of my captor. I can tell by his size he is a Drakoryan, and when I look to the side, I see one of the twin Drakoryans and know it is his brother who’s snatched me up. I listen for shouts of outrage, sounds of pursuit from village men coming to save me, but no one even seems to have noticed I’ve been taken.
I push my hands against my captor’s back, lifting myself just enough to see we’re on the path leading away from the village. I know where we are headed. The Drakoryans are taking me to their cottage.
“Put me down!” I rake my nails across my captor’s exposed back, and then scream in pained outrage when his huge hand impacts my bottom in a burning smack.
“Quiet, healer!” he commands, and I feel his temperature rise with his voice. His hand is still on my bottom. My face flushes with humiliation and I bite my tongue to keep from cursing him. I will have my say once the ground is again beneath my feet. He quickens his pace, running faster than any man.
The creak of a door, a bang as it shuts, the feel of packed dirt beneath me as I am unceremoniously dumped onto the floor. The Drakoryans’ cottage is dark save for some coals still glowing in the hearth. One of the Drakoryans builds a fire as another lights candles in wall sconces.
I look around and am surprised at the starkness of the interior. There are no beds, only rugs and furs strewn on the floor. The table and chairs are large, for these large men, but those are the only furnishings.
“You can’t keep me here.” I scramble to my feet, shaking with anger. However, I am not the only angry one in this cottage. The stern looks of my abductors make it clear that they are as impatient with me as I am with them.
“Did you hear me?” I ask. “The people out there…they need me!”
“You are not the only healer in this village.” The Drakoryan who lit the fire stands, and I notice that he has a birthmark on the right side of his chest. His brother has one just like it on the left, but I have little time to consider this as he grasps me to bind my hands with a leather strip. I stare in disbelief as his brother drives an iron spike into the dirt floor, and I am tethered to it like an animal. I pull against the restraint to no avail. It holds fast.
“The other healers are old,” I say through gritted teeth. “They don’t go out into the village. The people need someone who can go to them, especially now that some are hurt.”
“You are no healer if you do more harm than good,” one says. The pair is glaring down at me. They are rock-hard and broad-chested, sporting identical pointed beards and dark hair. They wear identical expressions of disdain.
A cold gust of air blows in, followed by several Drakoryan lords and the brides who were in the village. Erdorin is the last lord to enter. He carries a bundle in his arms. At first, I think it is an injured villager. I’m about to plead my captors to untie me so I can help when I realize what he carries is not human.
He lays the body of the dead dragon feet from where I sit. I am no longer straining at my rope. Instead, I move as far away from the creature as my tether will allow. Around me, the Drakoryans and their mates are staring, too.
The dragon is twisted, its features horrifically exaggerated compared to the Drakoryan dragons. The eyes, pale red in death, protrude slightly from the bulbous dome of its skull. The overlarge mouth lolls open, revealing a forked tongue and double rows of jagged, yellow teeth. The shoulders are hunched where the wings join them. It has no front legs and use the claws on wing joints like feet. The back feet are broad and flat with misshapen claws. The serpentine tail, as long as the body, is flat and tapered, like a snake.
There is a whoosh of wind outside and the whooshing sound of a Drakoryan shifting. A moment later, a hooded man enters, flanked on either side by two more serious-looking lords. The hooded man carries a staff with an orb affixed to the top. The lords part as he approaches the corpse of the creature. He is obviously someone of importance.
“That the brotherhood may see…” He speaks the words quietly as he waves his hand over the top of the staff. The orb begins to pulse with a soft white light. The oracle stares down at the small dragon.
“What is it, Olin?” Erdorin gestures down at the creature. He points to the scales. “See how the swords went through? The scales looked armored, yet they are not. And there’s something else.” He points to the eye. “It looked at me, but when it did the eye became blue, as if a veil had come over it. It became human.”
“We must consult the king’s oracle. He is schooled in every manner of fell creature.” The hooded man closes his eyes. “Ezador, what do you see?”
The orb on the top of his staff begins to glow, and when he opens his eyes, he speaks with a different voice.
“It is a ShadowFell, not long hatched, but it did not become a true ShadowFell. Dark magic twisted it so it remained stunted and weaker than the dragon it would have become. What you saw of the eye is a spell. Its maker also used magic to see through its eye.” He looks at the lords. “This creature was sent to spy, to wreak havoc, and then to die.”
“To die? Why?” a lord asks.
“To show the Drakoryans as liars, of course. To deceive the villagers into thinking the threat was exaggerated.”
He turns, looking directly at me. “Ah, you have taken the healer. Good!”
“Do I know you?” I find my voice under the scrutiny of this man who speaks with another’s voice.
“No. But I know you.” He points at me with a gnarled finger. “I saw you in a vision. Your misguided anger served as the doorway to this deception. Your people now expect an enemy they can defeat alone. When the true enemy comes, they will regret not allying themselves with their protectors.”
“The true enemy?” I rise to my feet, although my hands are still bound. “What do you know of the true enemy?” I wheel around, tears spilling down my face. “What do any of you know?” My voice is shaking now. “On Darly’s harvest day two years ago, a man from my village withheld some grapes, keeping them for trade instead of putting them in the baskets for our Drakoryan rulers to claim. The Drakoryans punished us all for the actions of one, burning one of our storehouses as retribution. That winter, my people suffered great hunger, and need sent my husband and father into the dark wood to hunt. They never came home. Were it not for the Drakoryans, my mother would not have been left widowed to die of grief the following spring, and I would not have to endure the daily pain of widowhood!” I glance from one face to the other. “Do not tell me I have not seen the enemy,” I say. “I am looking at it, dragon men. Were it not for you, my family would still be alive.
The hooded figure approaches me. “And there it is, the rage
that feeds dark magic, that draws it.” His eyes cloud over and close. When he speaks, it is with the voice of a woman. “You are not to blame, Thera the Healer.”
I feel a chill run through me. The shape of the face under the hood has changed, the visage smooth and feminine. Something has taken over this strange man.
“Arvika!” There are whispers all around. “Arvika. She speaks!”
“She has suffered a great wrong,” the voice says. “Only when the healer is healed will the village unite. She can only be healed through knowing, and through sight.”
“Through sight?” Erdorin looks at his brothers. “Your majesty…the only way to achieve that…”
“Yes, yes…” The woman nods. “I speak of the Deepening. The unmated lords of Kri’byl, guardians of the villagers, hear me: What has been stolen from Thera will be returned fivefold by you. You will take this woman as yours.”
I am too stunned to speak. I can tell they are, too.
“No,” I finally stammer. “I can’t. I’m no maiden. Even if I were…”
“The decision has been made.” The face under the hood is beautiful, but fierce. “Trust me, healer. Your truth awaits, along with the healing you were born to provide.”
The hooded figure looks down. When he looks back up, the female face has been replaced by the wizened one once more.
The room is quiet. The five lords of Kri’byl are staring at me, and I know despite their power, there is a larger authority at play. I know they will obey the voice of the one called Arvika. I know they will take me as theirs.
“And what of this?” A lord is looking down at the carcass of the dragon.
“Burn it. Burn it to ash.” The oracle lifts his eyes to ours. “Then ready yourselves. When next these creatures come, they will not be alone.”
Chapter 12
YRKO
The Drakoryan Empire is under attack. It matters not that this attack came from the ShadowFell’s small, twisted soldiers. We are at war.
War.
The word resonates through my head. But another rings louder.
Mate.
I sense my brothers’ surprise, along with the agitation I’ve noted every time the healer comes up in conversation. For centuries, the witches, who know our hearts and needs, have paired Drakoryan brothers with the ideal maiden to suit their needs. Do they sense the attraction that we have been trying to deny?
Even if they have, how can this be? The healer hates us.
Hours later, she still glares at us in anger. Intended mate or not, we have kept her tied until we can restore order among villagers whose panic became fresh distrust when we reminded them of our dragon might. Now, behind every locked door, every shuttered window, are men who feel angry, impotent, and betrayed as they look at their hungry wives and children and think of the lives they left behind.
They do not yet realize we took the village healer. Beside me, I can feel my brothers’ doubt mingled with growing desire for the bound woman. We know Thera is right. The people need her. Since we’ve come here, we’ve all seen her walking from sunup to sundown, moving from cottage to cottage to deliver babies and care for the sick.
Our cottage is warm now. Thera has cast off her cloak and sits staring into the fire. Her hair cascades in chestnut waves down her back. I walk over and kneel down beside her. Tyri joins me.
“Who is Arvika?” she asks. “When the man’s face changed, someone said ‘Arvika speaks.’”
“Arvika is the Queen of the Witches who live in the Mystic Mountain,” I reply. “The witches safeguard the magic the God and Goddess of the Wyld used to change the first men into Drakoryans. They are our protectors, and the ones who name our mates.”
“They have named me wrong.” She continues to stare into the fire.
Our brothers approach to settle around her. This is the first time we have all been alone with the woman who has been the center of so much conversation, the problem we’ve been puzzling how to solve. Now we face a solution we never imagined.
A tear slides down her cheek, and she hastily wipes it away with a slim hand. Her face flushes slightly; she is embarrassed to show such weakness.
“I cannot give myself to you.” Her voice quavers as she speaks. “I cannot give myself to those who killed my husband.”
“No Drakoryan has ever killed a villager,” I say.
“Not directly. A winter not unlike this one drove him out to hunt after your kind punished our whole village for the actions of one. A wolf killed the man who would have been safe at home had we not been without food.”
“It is no wonder that you hate us.” Gyrvig sighs. “But Arvika is wise when she says we should give you back what you lost.”
The hurt on her face turns to anger. “Give back? Bran was a good man. A caring man. A gentle man. Ten dragon lords could not compare to him.” She glares at us one by one. “I will die before I lie with any of you.”
We all look to Erdorin. He is the eldest. Silent thoughts pass between us.
She has no choice.
We do not force our females.
She hates us. How can it be?
This is no trembling virgin. We must strike a bargain. We must offer her something she wants.
There is only one thing she wants.
“Healer,” Erdorin says, “by rights, we can keep you here until you submit. We could deny the people your care until you have lain with us. Each day of stubbornness would see your villagers deprived of what they need.” He pauses. “Or we could strike a bargain.”
“What kind of bargain?” She shoots him a wary look.
“This man you lost. He was honorable?”
She swallows. Her eyes glitter with tears. “He was.”
“An honorable man would only give himself to an honorable woman. You may continue to care for those of your village. In exchange, you must promise to spend your nights here, with us, and become our mate.”
She does not immediately answer. “No threats?” she asks. “No promise to lock me away in the castle if I disobey?”
“Your honor will be your bond,” Erdordin tells her. “The honor of a good woman who would never forsake her mate’s legacy by sullying his honor.”
“Please…” she begins. She raises her hands over her face. Her shoulders shake with sobs, and my twin and I feel a strong urge to hold her. Our arms ache to wrap around her slender form, to cradle her between us. I read and share the thought he has, wondering how it would feel to comfort her. We both know now is not the time. She must give her vow to all of us.
Thera drops her hands and stares down at the binding on her slim wrists
“I will not tell my people to fight for you, dragon men. I still do not believe you.”
Erdorin nods. “We will not encourage you to ask them to fight. But neither will we brook your sowing discord. It is forbidden, healer.”
She gets to her feet. “You do not have to take me as a mate.” She’s talking rapidly now, hoping to convince us. “If you let me return to my cottage, I promise to say no more. I do not have to lie with you...”
“No.” Erdorin’s tone is firm and measured. “It is out of our hands. When a mate is named, it is decided.”
He puts his hand to her wrists. “Will you keep your word, healer?”
She looks down at us. The cottage is quiet. The only sound is the crackle of the fire. Yet the heat filling the room does not come from the blaze. We are allowed now to acknowledge the unspoken effect this woman has on us. My desire is magnified by my brother’s. My cock is hard as a rock underneath the leather skirt I wear. I know our other brothers are hard, too. She is not a maid. The healer has known a man’s touch, but the loss of it has made her broken.
Now she will be ours. Can we heal her?
Chapter 13
THERA
The Drakoryans finally unbound my hands, although they forbade me to leave the cottage for some time. There was still too much unrest, they said. I remained supervised through the night, sometimes by on
e, sometimes by two, while the others left to patrol in dragon form.
I had learned through eavesdropping that the strange hooded man was an oracle, a magical being capable of channeling the voice of others. The stone atop his staff allowed other castle oracles to see the dead dragon.
That night, I lay awake on a fur and listened to the Drakoryans discuss all that had happened. They spoke gravely of the ShadowFell, of the huge black dragons. Could I be wrong? The worry etched on the handsome faces of the dragon men was not for their people alone. Even after they thought I’d fallen asleep, I continued to eavesdrop as they’d fretted over the villagers, over their false sense of security. They would need to stay more vigilant than ever, they said. The villagers did not know what was coming. They did not know how large and terrible the enemy dragons could be.
At first light, villagers emerge slowly to continue and repair damage from the night before. Healing is needed, and I am allowed to walk free, but with a warning that should I start trouble, I will answer to my lords.
My lords.
The village bustles with activity. The collective mood is one of tension and fear. There are more Drakoryan lords here now. It has been decided that five is not enough. They want to be in the thick of us should the ShadowFell attack again. More of the serving class are here, too. They have come from their villages at the mountains’ edge to help repair the damage. The trudge up the path in the gray light, their backs bent from the weight of bundled straw harvested to repair the roofs. Others set up tents on the periphery of our settlements—soldiers who the Drakoryans will now enlist to fight for villagers who have refused to take up arms.
I have caused this. Not directly; the mistrust was there already. I encouraged Ceril, who encouraged others. I clutch my cloak tightly around myself as I head towards the cottage of a woman soon due to have a baby.