Blood of the Dragon

by Sarina Langer

  A heavy door fell shut nearby, and she forced herself to calm down. She could appear fearless, at least, even if she’d never felt further from it.

  Over the past few days, she had listened and learned as much as she could; the Mothers had taken her weapons, but they hadn’t taken her mind. Not yet. So, she swallowed the lump in her throat, blinked her burning tears away, and listened.

  Another door, closer this time, scraped and screeched over hard stone floor.

  The Mothers were coming.

  The cuts on her legs and back burnt. Kiana winced. She’d grown so used to the smell of her own blood she didn’t notice it anymore. She should have died by now—she couldn’t see how much blood they drew each time, but she knew how weak it made her feel and she dreaded it. Death was close. She sensed it lurking in the shadows.

  The door to her prison scraped against the floor, and two Mothers entered. She’d never get used to their ever-shifting shapes of Mist, the way they grew swords as sharp as any steel out of themselves, or how they disappeared and reappeared wherever they wanted, but she stared them down regardless. Kiana reminded herself that not every fight involved daggers; some battlefields were much smaller than duels or full-blown wars. She was bound, but she could fight back in other ways.

  “Your mistress can’t do it herself?” Kiana taunted them every time they came, but so far, she’d failed to get a reaction from them. For all she knew, the Mothers didn’t feel anything and didn’t realise they were being challenged, but Kiana had to try. If she coaxed Cephy out, if she got just one punch in… From what Rachael and Kaida had told her, she couldn’t kill Cephy, not unarmed, but maybe she could break the girl’s nose.

  The Mothers took their positions on each side of her, and her heart raced. Her eyes stung almost more than the cuts did. She wouldn’t cry. Not while they were here.

  The Mother to her right laced its misty tendrils out under her and caressed her back. The other embraced her arm and held her still with unnatural strength.

  They cut, and Kiana screamed.

  The pain blinded her, took away her light, and left her in a black void she couldn’t escape. All she felt was agony and warmth trickling down her skin.

  Their hold on her tightened. She vowed to make them pay.

  Their tendrils sliced faster, drank deeper. She vowed to reduce them to ashes, one by one, no matter the cost.

  Their unholy magic sealed the wounds, dragged her out of the dark lest she die and end their feast. She trembled.

  The Mothers left. Kiana cried and shook on her cold stone table.

  When the second door fell shut and she was sure she was alone, she screamed. She’d never felt so violated. She’d never felt so helpless. She’d never been more determined to kill her jailors and pay them in kind.

  But first she needed to get out, and for that to happen, too many impossible things needed to change. She needed to get her hands free. She needed to open the bonds that tied her ankles. She needed to find her daggers.

  Again, she screamed. None of that was going to happen unless someone helped her, but there was no one here to pity her. The demons were indifferent to everything, and Cephy hadn’t graced Kiana with her presence.

  “Cephy!” She knew it was pointless, but she had to do something. Screaming didn’t feel quite as helpless. “I know you’re here! Stop being a coward and face me!”

  Her threats had never been emptier, but maybe she could at least spit at Cephy before the girl killed her.

  Kiana froze—the heavy door fell shut for the second time that day. Had the Mothers come back for more? The second door scratched across the floor. Had Cephy heard her and decided to show herself?

  The door to her prison opened, and her breath hitched. She’d thought she didn’t hate anyone as much as Cephy and her demons, but the man standing before her made her reconsider.

  “Kiana. I gather you are unhappy with your arrangements?” She wanted to punch the victorious grin off Arnost Lis’s smug face. “Please, do tell. Of course”—his crooked grin made him look every bit as evil as the Mothers—“I can’t promise we’ll care.”

  She bit her tongue to save her energy for when she was out of these binds, but it was hard.

  He had poisoned Cale.

  He had abandoned Rachael in the middle of winter when she was a child.

  He had treated his wife like she was a thing to be possessed.

  He had killed every one of his children born with the gift.

  Except for Rachael, and while Kiana wasn’t his child, he hadn’t killed her, either. He’d regret everything he’d done, just as soon as she was free.

  Arnost Lis laughed when all she could do was glare. It wasn’t anywhere near what she wanted to do, but she put all her hatred for him into her eyes and hoped it intimidated him at least a little—if not now, then later once she was coming for him.

  “That’s right.” His face was so close his disgusting breath warmed her face. “You’re in no position to demand anything. But I have actually come with a gift—information.”

  She braced herself. Whatever he had to say, she doubted it’d be anything good.

  “The witch queen is right here, in our care.” He grinned. “Cephy wants her alive, but not for much longer. It’s a shame you’re so close and can’t tell her you’re sorry you failed her. She’ll die while you’re—”

  Kiana spat, and he staggered back. “You’re lying.” He had to be. If Rachael was here and Kiana couldn’t help her… No. He was lying to get into her head. Kiana was ashamed she’d wavered this long. Men like him—filthy, disgusting cowards—didn’t fight fair. Mind games were all he was good at, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of falling for them.

  Although, she didn’t regret spitting at him.

  “Bezcye.”

  It was her turn to laugh. Whether he was lying or not, he’d given her another reason to free herself. And then she’d kill him, Cephy, and every demon on this island until she either stood victorious or someone ended her.

  Chapter Four

  Arnost Lis slammed the door to his small room on Kaethe shut and grabbed the first piece of fabric he found. It was an old cloth, Maker knew how ancient, but it would do. The insolence! How dare the filthy street brat spit in his face? That she was Tramuran as well as a Sparrow added insult to injury. If he had his way, she’d already be dead, but the Dark One wanted her as bait. Or maybe Cephy did. Sometimes, it was hard to tell where her mind ended and His swallowed hers.

  He flung the cloth across the room and swore. They were wasting so much time. If he were in charge, or a real Tramuran general, they’d have killed Rachael by now. But instead, a child had put herself in charge, and he had to pretend he supported this Dark One.

  Cephy wanted to torture Rachael, perhaps mentally more than physically. Arnost Lis didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Cephy wanted to release the Dark One and spread the gift to every human.

  He spat and glared at the stone where his saliva fell. The very idea was preposterous, but they’d kill him if he didn’t play along.

  If Arnost Lis lived, he wouldn’t allow her to succeed. The brat was his best chance to get to Rachael, but he wouldn’t play her silly game a second after the witch queen had taken her last breath.

  And the worst thing—oh, the sheer gall!—was that the child he should have killed years ago was only a few doors away from him. A plot to taunt him, no doubt. Cephy loved her little games. Anything to feel superior and in control. He couldn’t wait to see reality settle on her features when he drove his sword through her gut.

  But everything in its due course. He could be patient; although, it wasn’t his strong point, and Cephy made it difficult.

  He’d considered killing Rachael now, while she was weak and unguarded. Cephy didn’t always watch her, but it would be suicide regardless. The Mothers weren’t smart enough to do something they hadn’t been commanded—Cephy would know it wasn’t an accident or neglect on their part. The Dark One wanted the
witch queen dead, but He needed her blood first or else they wouldn’t be in this situation.

  Of course, the ideal solution would be to kill Cephy, but the Dark One watched His host’s back like a cat watched a mouse. Forever patient, forever protective. Because, if something happened to poor Cephy, He’d no longer have a host. So, Arnost Lis couldn’t kill Cephy because of the Dark One. He’d never get near her. And then she’d kill him—he had no delusions regarding the pain she’d inflict on him first—and he’d have met a pointless end.

  No. He needed to wait. This war lacked a good general, and while he wasn’t that, he was Tramuran, and Tramurans knew war. They knew deceit. They knew the smell of blood. He had no army, but he had his mind, and he would use it against her childish drives. The Dark One was nothing but a passive observer until Rachael’s blood restored Him or until He recovered enough on His own. Cephy had to rely on her own cunning, and when it came down to it, she was no more than an angry brat.

  He would wait until they were off the island, until Cephy’s back was turned and the Dark One celebrated the illusion of victory, and then he would strike before the Dark One manifested. Cephy would be dead, the Dark One would be—well, whatever happened to the darkest of demons when they had no hosts to occupy—and Arnost Lis would be free to kill Rachael in peace and restore order.

  He smiled. Some things were worth faking patience for.

  Chapter Five

  Kleon wandered through a broken palace and observed everyone’s efforts to sweep away the rubble and make it look royal again. He wanted to help, but a larger part of him felt out of place. Everyone seemed to be giving a hand—stable hands, Sparrows, cleaners, even Commander Dryden of the White Guard. Others helped in smaller ways, like the palace cooks who were preparing a feast for the helpers. Where did he fit in? His father had come here to kill Rachael—the sister Kleon hadn’t known he had—and he’d brought Kleon along to spy on the Sparrows and gather intel. Kleon didn’t miss the uncertain glances people threw his way. He wanted to make things right, but was that even possible?

  The Mothers had left the palace in bad shape—the very same his father had invited here. Plaster was falling from the ceiling, the marble floor had split or shattered in many places, and blood had left brown-red splatters and larger smears all over the marble walls.

  Kleon had never fought a battle quite like this one. Back home, in Tramura, he commanded his own small squad of loyal men, but they’d rarely fought anything larger than small groups of bandits. They’d dealt with bigger groups twice, but neither compared to what had happened here.

  The Tramuran king had sent a message. He demanded to know what was going on, why Kleon’s father hadn’t sent news, and whether the rumours he’d heard of a dragon were true. Kleon didn’t know how to reply. The message was meant for his father, but he had fled the country. Kleon would have to answer it, but that would only make the king more suspicious. So, the messenger stood by while Kleon debated what to do next—return to Tramura and tell the truth like the good soldier his father had raised him to be, or stay and help his gifted sister?

  If he was honest with himself, the conflict had been there all his life. The king’s demand for an answer just made it more urgent.

  His mother had had the gift—or taint, as his father would say—but she had taught him and raised him with as much love as any mother would. She’d been no less a person than anyone else Kleon had met. She had shown him the beauty magic could create—the gentle healing of a scraped knee when he’d been a child, and the pain-easing treatment later in later years, when his injuries had been more serious. She had shown him the light in the darkness of her life—a darkness his father had created.

  But his father wasn’t entirely wrong either. He’d taught Kleon that magic was evil, that it tainted the world, and Kleon saw why. He had never seen it used like this in Tramura, but his father and their king led a tight regime over the gift. Kleon expected he’d never had the chance to see it used for evil—or for good, for that matter. If it hadn’t been for his mother, he’d never have seen much of it at all.

  A world without the gift would no doubt be more peaceful and more at ease. But would it be right? The gift could create marvels. It could also take them away again in the same breath and leave the world a darker place in the wake of its destruction. It was gentle mother and cruel devil all at once.

  Kleon had hoped that seeing Rachael and others with the gift would make up his mind once and for all, but instead it had fed the same thoughts he’d had since childhood.

  Give a man magic, and he will taint the world. Give him a sword, and he will defend himself and do good work. His father had taught him that—him, and half of Tramura. But was a sword that different? Kleon had wondered before, but this was the first time he had long enough to ponder the notion. His father had always kept him busy—a busy man was an honest man—but perhaps that had been part of his father’s plan.

  A sword did good if given to honest soldiers, who had vowed to protect their country. But Kleon had also fought bandits who hurt people, robbed innocents, and raped bystanders. They’d believed themselves to be no less righteous than Kleon thought himself. If something as simple as a sword could be used either way, depending on the person wielding it, then was magic—the ultimately more powerful weapon—not the same?

  His father wanted the world to be simple. Kleon didn’t think it was. His mother was dead. His father had betrayed them. Rachael was his sister, but a dragon, of all things, had taken her away. The world was anything but simple. Tramura only kept it that way because it feared change.

  There was no place for him here in Rifarne. He could go back home, report to his king—

  Or he could stay here, if they accepted him after everything.

  Kleon had always wanted siblings, but he’d also known his father would kill them if they showed any sign of the gift. That he’d had a big sister all along, and he hadn’t known about her… One day, if they were still alive, he wanted to get to know her. He had no other family left.

  Kleon spotted Lon outside the Sparrows’ headquarters and hurried over. The young man seemed to be in charge in Cale’s absence.

  “How is morale?” Kleon asked.

  Lon looked back over the corridor-turned-rubble with his hands on his hips. “Better now those monsters are gone.”

  Once they’d realised Rachael was no longer here, the Mothers disappeared. Cale had said they were after Rachael, but Kleon hadn’t realised they’d be so single-minded. He’d never fought an enemy who gave up the moment their leader died or their target disappeared; if anything, that usually made them more determined, or at least angrier. Kleon hoped Rachael was safe, but he’d seen the dragon carry her off. It was impossible to guess at a dragon’s mind, but if the beast wanted her dead, it could have killed her here, even with the fighting going on around it. Its massive talons could have broken her body had it wanted to. Instead, it had taken her away; that had to be a good sign.

  Kleon couldn’t get over how all of this was his father’s fault. As the last Lis left in the White City, he felt responsible. “If I can help in some way…”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Kleon stepped into the corner by the door. The Sparrows’ training grounds were on the other side of the wall, and he was surprised to see some sparring. It was beyond him how they were still going. Most of them had gone to the healer or to rest, but that any at all were in the mood to spar amazed him.

  Lon followed his eyes and grinned. “What can I say? We’re a determined bunch. Take our queen and we’ll hunt you until you give her back.” Lon sighed, but his shoulders didn’t sag—he was tired, but he had enough fire left to keep going. Kleon respected that. “We wanted to thank you for warning us when you did. If you hadn’t sought us out, we would have died.” Lon grimaced. “Again.”

  His father had told him a possessed and power-hungry witch called Aeron had attempted to tear the city apart. Many Sparrows had died that nig
ht. While this wasn’t Kleon’s army, he understood the pain of losing his men.

  “I’m sorry you lost so many of your own.”

  “Let’s not dwell on it,” Lon said. “It’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Kleon guessed from the distant look in Lon’s eyes that he was dwelling on it. He understood that, too. He’d never forget the men he lost, but if he took the time to mourn them, he might lose more. The time to remember the dead was never now. It was always at some impossibly far-away point in the future.

  “You led us well,” Lon said.

  “I’ve been trained to lead armies.”

  “I know, that’s my point. We want Cale to lead us, but a dragon has swooped down, torn the roof off the palace, and kidnapped him and our queen. Kiana was—is—his second in command, but the Mothers took her, too. We don’t have many options.”

  Lon looked pained. Kleon had never been in a position where he’d lost both leaders—most of the time, he’d been one of them—but he could imagine how painful it would be. It was a tactic he had often employed himself and knew to be effective. Nothing incapacitated an enemy group as effectively as the loss of direction.

  Still, it struck him as an odd request. “You want me to lead your Sparrows?”

  “Until Cale gets back. Most of them are new recruits, and the others have only recently lost close friends and family. If we fall apart now, I fear we won’t get up again.”

  Lon was shorter than Cale and scrawny despite his muscles, but he had a good mind and a strong will. Kleon knew men like him—Lon cared for his people. Had it come to it, he would have died for them.

  “Why don’t you take charge?” Kleon asked.

  “I’m no leader. They’d break under me.”

  Kleon expected that wasn’t the full truth but left it at that. Over the years he’d found most men could be leaders if given no choice, but few wanted the responsibilities of command. Or the pain. Lon was one of them, and Kleon respected that too.