She lowered her head and whispered. "Though my eyes peer into eternal night, the Sun God lights my heart."
He nodded sympathetically. "Well spoken, child. He is a merciful god to those who serve him. If your eyes are blind, your fingers will see for them. Let me guide you."
He guided her deeper into the chamber, then raised her hand above a shrunken head. When he began to lower her hand, Lyana's breath caught and her eyes winced beneath her scarf. The shrunken head seemed to stare at her, no larger than a pomegranate. When Mahrdor placed her hand upon it, she gasped softly. The skin was smooth, leathery, and cold. Mahrdor moved her hand across it—the lips that were sewn shut, the empty eyes, the wispy hair.
Lyana gritted her teeth. Think that you touch only old cloth, she told herself. Only an old, beaten tunic.
"Do you know what this is?" Mahrdor said.
"A... a doll's head," she whispered.
He laughed softly. "Yes, child, only a doll. A doll I made myself. I have taught myself the skill, you see—to cut the neck, remove the skull, and stuff the skin with herbs. It is an art, much like dance. I am an artist too, child."
He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her away from the head, and placed her hand against a deformed skeleton, its bones twisted and bloated.
"I found this poor soul begging on the streets of Irys," Mahrdor said. "He was a swollen freak, his back twisted and his face bloated like a hippopotamus." He sighed. "Killing him was a mercy, but... he was such a wonder, Tiana! Such a wonder that I kept his bones. Feel them. Run your fingers across them." He forced her hands along the twisted ribs, the withered hip bones, the coiled femurs. "Do you feel the bumps, the grooves?" He sucked in his breath, seeming almost like a man in ecstasy. "They are exquisite."
She nodded, bile in her throat. "They are... fine bones, my lord."
He pulled her away from the skeleton, spun her around, and placed her hand against a mancala board. Instead of seashells or seeds, its pieces were made from dried scarabs. He made her caress the beetles.
"These scarabs ate the flesh off my skeleton," he said. "They are ravenous little beasts! Once they had their fill, and died of overeating, it was a shame to merely toss them out. Dried like this, and still stuffed with human flesh, they make such wondrous little marvels. Can you feel their claws?"
She nodded. "They feel wondrous, my lord."
Next he placed her hand upon a wide, curling scroll that covered a tabletop. Lyana gasped. It was a map! A map of Requiem! Her heart trembled like a bird trapped behind her ribs. Wooden wyverns, each the size of a thimble, stood upon the map. The miniature army was arranged as if flying out of Tiranor, across the sea, and into Requiem through Ralora Beach upon its southern shores.
The invasion plans, Lyana thought. Stars, he's going to invade through Ralora Beach.
Her head spun. This beach was undefended, a mere rocky shore leagues from any outpost. King Elethor had to be told. Requiem's army had to move, to defend its beach, to—
Mahrdor placed her hand upon the map, interrupting her thoughts. He moved her fingers across it.
"I made this scroll myself," he said, "from the skin of a weredragon I slew." When she tried to pull her hand back, he held it firmly. He forced her fingers across it. "Feel it, child! Do not be afraid. Caress it. Luxuriate in it. Enjoy the texture. Do you feel how smooth it is?"
Stars, the skin of a Vir Requis? Is this scroll made from one that I knew? One that I commanded in battle?
She nodded and whispered. "It is most smooth."
"Only human skin feels so smooth," he said. "It is superior to the skin of any animal. Sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I walk into this chamber and just... caress. I like to wrap myself in it sometimes, to feel close to the woman who once wore this skin." He touched her cheek, and she flinched. "Your skin is smooth too, my child."
She swallowed, heart pounding. "I would make a poor scroll, my lord. My... my skin dries easily."
He laughed softly, still holding her hand. "No," he said. "You, as you are, are a greater wonder than any scroll." He sighed. "Do you see, Tiana? Do you see why I brought you here? You are a dancer. You live for the dance! You breathe beauty, wonder, grace, the awe of art. I too am an artist. A collector." He shook his head wistfully. "The men I lead... Soldiers. Fighters. Brutes. They think I command them because I love war, love bloodshed, love killing as they do." He barked a laugh. "Love blood and killing? No. Any brute can slay a man; what is there to love of that? No. I go to war, Tiana, to collect, to bring back these wonders. Bones! Skin!" He sucked in his breath, eyes lit with fire. "I admire these treasures, Tiana. And you... you are among the most lovely, wondrous treasures I have seen."
He grabbed her waist with both hands and she gasped. He stared down at her, those blue eyes blazing. Through the silk scarf, he met her eyes.
No! she thought, trembling in his grasp. No, it's impossible, my scarf looks solid from the outside, only I can see through it, he can't be looking into my eyes, can't be...
Her limbs shook.
She had to leave this place.
She had to send word to King Elethor, to tell him of the map, to...
His fingers grabbed her silks, tugged gently, and unwrapped them like a gift. The fabric fluttered down, and she stood nude and trembling before him. She kept her chin raised, refusing to lower her head, refusing to cover her nakedness. She was only Tiana here, a dancer from the dunes, but she still had her pride.
He caressed her cheek. "So smooth..."
He led her toward a divan at the back of the room, pulled her down, and kissed her neck. His hands were confident but gentle. He knew what he wanted from her; he would take it, not with violence, not as a warrior... but as a collector. He acted, Lyana thought, as if claiming her—owning her—was his right, as if she would give herself to him as naturally as the night gives itself to dawn.
She had never lain with any man but Prince Orin, her betrothed whom Solina had slain. Her throat tightened and her tears burned to think of him. She closed her eyes as Mahrdor lay atop her, as his eyes closed, as he collected her. His breath was rough against her face, and she clenched her jaw.
For my home, she thought. For Requiem.
ELETHOR
Elethor, King of Requiem, stood upon Lacrimosa Hill before the leaders he had summoned to his council: A true dragon of the west, a griffin of the east, and a prince in armor upon his horse.
Around them, grass rustled and trilliums bloomed white. Burnt birches spread for miles, but new saplings grew between them. A flock of small, white clouds herded across the sky and distant geese honked. It was a beautiful day, but darkness lay upon Elethor's heart as he regarded his guests.
He stroked his beard as if he could draw strength from it. He had not shaved in a moon's turn, and the beard still felt foreign, too scratchy and hot and altogether not him. His father had worn a beard; so had his grandfather. Elethor joked that he was too busy to shave, but in truth, he had grown the beard to feel more like a king. On days like today, meeting these foreign leaders, it wasn't helping; he still felt too young, a mere sculptor, not a ruler of Requiem. He looked at his sister who stood beside him, a princess clad in a gown of green and silver, and drew comfort from her eyes.
If the beard doesn't help, at least I have Mori, he thought. The others might see him as too young, too callow, too weak—Elethor the sculptor, the young prince who had never wanted the throne, who had always shunned the court, and kingly beard be damned. But to Mori he was King of Requiem, as noble as their father; he could see that in her eyes, and that soothed him. He turned back to his guests.
"Friends," he said. "I have asked you to meet me here—a council of the great northern kingdoms. Thank you for taking the journey to my home in such a dark hour."
The true dragon, a salvana from the western realms, batted long white eyelashes. No wings grew from his back, yet he floated above the hill like a serpent upon water. A hundred feet long he was, with scales like disks of beaten gold. His bea
rd was white and flowing, his moustache long, and his eyes like crystal orbs. Like all true dragons, he had no human form; the salvanae lived feral in the west, building no homes and forging no metal, but praying and singing in the wild. This salvana was the greatest among them: Nehushtan, a priest and leader of Salvandos.
"It has been three hundred years," the true dragon said, "since I flew above this place, child of stars. The seasons have turned, and once more Requiem calls for aid." When he blinked, his white lashes fanned the grass.
Elethor nodded to him, then turned to his right. A prince of griffins stood there, large as a dragon. His breast, head, and talons were those of a great eagle, noble and white as a winter sky before snowfall. His lower half was that of a great lion, larger than any true lion of the wild, and golden as bales of hay on a fall's sunset. His name was Velathar, son of King Vale, descended from the great Volucris himself, the griffin who had led his kin from captivity in Osanna back home to Leonis Isles. The griffin prince bowed his head to Elethor and gave a low caw.
Finally Elethor looked ahead. A man sat there upon a horse, his beard brown and flowing. A crown of gold sat upon his head, and he was clad in a brown robe embroidered with green trees. A sword hung upon his thigh, the scabbard filigreed with leaves. He was Prince Raelor of Osanna, son of King Aera, descended of the priest-king Silva who had raised Osanna from the ashes of its great wars.
"I have ridden hard for many days, King Elethor," said the prince. "I have answered your summons, though we in Osanna fight the darkness that grows in Fidelium. The dead rise from their tombs under the mountains, forge dark steel kissed with fire, and march across the plains. Already our northern forts have fallen. What urgent matter do you summon me here for in this time of war?"
Elethor rested his hand on his sword's pommel and raised his chin.
"It is a time of war for Requiem too. In the south, Tiranor musters a great army—twenty thousand wyverns fly for Queen Solina, mindless beasts that live for nothing but bloodshed. They are an ancient evil; for a thousand years, their eggs lay as stones in the sand, and now Solina has quickened them with the fiery seed of her lord. These beasts will fly over the sea, and they will invade Requiem, and they will burn this land with their acid. If Requiem falls, a hundred thousand Tiran troops, each armed with spear and crossbow, will follow the wyverns into this land. Solina's ambition goes beyond the destruction of Requiem; she will expand her empire here and build her forts upon your doorsteps. If Requiem should fall, no lands will be safe; not Salvandos to our west, nor Osanna to our east, or even the Griffin Isles across the sea."
Nehushtan blinked his glimmering orbs, fanning the grass with his lashes. His beard swayed and his floating body coiled behind him, golden scales chinking. He spoke in a voice like crumpling paper.
"Child of starlight, this seems to me a feud between Requiem and Tiranor alone. One might say this feud is between King Elethor and Queen Solina; a personal war. Why should we, the peaceful salvanae of the west, concern ourselves with conflicts not our own? We are a peaceful people; we true dragons live for meditation, for starlight, for prayer and wisdom. Not for bloodshed."
The prince of Osanna nodded upon his horse. "The wise salvana speaks truth. They say in my land that King Elethor and Queen Solina were once lovers, that the war between them has grown into a war between their hosts. You call us here for what—to ask for our aid? Why should Osanna fight your wars when our own borders are threatened?"
Elethor looked at his sister. Mori stared back silently. As always, her soft gray eyes could calm the storm in his soul. He took a deep breath, then turned back to his guests.
"This war is between Requiem and Tiranor, that is true," he said. "Solina does not yet threaten your lands. For years, Tiranor has remained in the southern deserts beyond sea and swamp, and she has grown strong. A great army now lurks there, greater than any in our northern realms. What if this army left the desert? Imagine this great host—so many men and beasts—here in the north, upon your very borders, with no desert or swamp between you and their wrath. Will Solina content herself with conquering Requiem alone? Perhaps. Or would she use this land as a base for further expansion? There aren't enough farms in Requiem to feed her troops; our land is rocky, mountainous, forested and wild. There are great plains of farmland in Osanna; Solina will crave them. There are great fallow fields in Salvandos; Solina will crave them too." He gripped the hilt of his sword. "We must band together to stop Tiranor from leaving her borders. This host threatens Requiem now; it will threaten you tomorrow. Let us join our armies. Let us keep Tiranor in the desert beyond sea and swamp."
He took a deep breath. At his side, Mori nodded, silently agreeing with his words. Elethor looked at his companions: a wise true dragon of the west, an eastern king, and a griffin from distant isles. They looked at one another, silent.
Prince Velathar the griffin broke that silence. He gave a series of caws and chatters, head tilted and wings ruffling. Elethor could not speak the language of griffins, but Prince Raelor of Osanna was descended from the great priest Silva, and he could speak the tongue of beasts. He listened, stroking his beard, and translated the griffin's caws.
"This is good and well for Salvandos and Osanna, says the Griffin Prince. But what of Leonis, the land of griffins? Its isles lie across many leagues of sea, and Tiranor is no threat to them, even should it conquer Requiem. Why should griffins fly to aid dragons?"
Mori approached the griffin, raised her arm, and touched the beast's great white head. For the first time, the princess spoke. Her voice was meek at first, but gained strength with every word.
"Dear Prince Velathar," she said, "I grew up reading stories of your ancestor, the great King Volucris, perhaps the greatest griffin who has lived. When I was a girl, I loved nothing more than hearing tales of Volucris flying to Requiem's aid, sounding his cry, and fighting alongside our Queen Lacrimosa in the Battle of King's Forest. That queen fell here, where we now stand, upon this hill that bears her name. King Volucris fell here too, and we in Requiem still remember his great sacrifice." She looked from companion to companion. "Our ancestors forged great alliances. They fought together against the evil of Dies Irae: griffins, salvanae, men, and Vir Requis. Our kingdoms joined hands then to defeat the evil that roamed this land. It has been many years since those days; have we forgotten the value of friendship since?" Tears sparkled in her eyes. "If you will not fight for the sake of your own realms, fight for that old alliance: for friendship, for justice, and for memory."
She finished her speech with a shuddering breath and stood, looking from one to another. Elethor moved to stand by her and placed a hand on her shoulder. If not for the solemnity of the council, he would have embraced her.
I love you, sister, he thought. Our father would be proud of you today.
The guests looked at one another, and Nehushtan spoke first. His scales clinked like a chest of coins as his body undulated above the hill.
"You have spoken well, daughter of starlight, and with much passion. It is true; our four realms fought together once. I myself flew here three centuries ago and fought in the Battle of King's Forest, perhaps the greatest battle this realm has known. Queen Lacrimosa, your ancestor, was a brave and noble queen; for many seasons I mourned her passing." The old dragon sighed. "Yes, I fought alongside Requiem then. But those were different days, long ago. Only seven Vir Requis then flew, the Living Seven whose statues still stand in your city; the rest lay as charred bones upon the land. We of Salvandos could not let those last souls perish; we flew then with wrath, with lightning, with starlight. We were proud to fight at the side of Queen Lacrimosa and her daughters, the warriors Gloriae and Agnus Dei. But now, Princess Mori... now the descendants of Lacrimosa flourish. Thirty thousand dragons live in Requiem, a great host of fire and fang. We in Salvandos hate war more than anything under the stars; today you have the might to fight your war alone."
The priest tilted his head, blinked, and turned aside. He began floating down the h
ill, his serpentine body coiling behind him.
"Wait!" Mori cried. "Nehushtan, why do you leave us?"
He did not reply. Beard fluttering, the old salvanae rose into the sky like a plume of smoke. Soon he was but a golden thread in the distance, flying west to his ancient realm.
The Prince of Osanna spoke next. His horse sidestepped beneath him and nickered.
"The salvana speaks wisdom," he said. "Thirty thousand dragons fly here. Let them fight this war. Osanna is a great and ancient kingdom; our horses are swift, our steel is bright, and our hearts are brave. Yet when wyverns fly, let dragons fight them! We will fight our wars upon the ground." He shook his head sadly, and his voice softened. "Our kingdoms are allies; that is true. I grieve to see the blood that has spilled here... and the blood that will yet spill. Yet these are dark times, and we face our own threat in the north; we must fight our own enemies rather than yours. I am sorry, King Elethor of Requiem. We cannot help you."
With that, the prince kneed his horse, turned around, and galloped downhill. Soon he was but a speck in the distant fields, raising a cloud of dust as he rode into the east.
Elethor turned to the last of his guests, Prince Velathar. The griffin stared at him, tilted his head, and clawed the earth.
"Prince Velathar," Elethor said. He stared into the griffin's eyes. "My ancestors fought alongside yours. Will you fly with us again? Will you bring aid from your land, an army of griffins as fought here years ago? Let us join our great kingdoms again. Let us fight this evil from the south—for the sake of our old friendship."
Please, he added silently. Without you, we are alone.
The griffin lowered his head. He stared at the grass for a long time, perhaps thinking of his ancestors' bones that lay buried here alongside the bones of Queen Lacrimosa. The griffin raised his head and looked west at the distant golden thread—the retreating salvanae. He turned east and looked toward the horse that galloped there.
A Day of Dragon Blood (Dragonlore, Book 2) Page 3