"Mori," he said, "Bayrin has returned from Tiranor... and he brings news."
Bayrin is back! Mori's heart leaped with joy. Bayrin—the boy who would tug her pigtails in childhood, who had grown into a man who would kiss her lips, hold her in his strong arms, and protect her. Bayrin—her guard, her guiding star, and the sky in her wings. She wanted to run to him, to kiss him, to hold him forever... but something in Elethor's eyes held her back. Her brother's gaze was somber and his voice low; Mori froze and stared at him.
The news is bad.
Cold, skeletal claws seemed to clutch her heart. She could barely breathe and her eyes stung. She grabbed Elethor's hands and squeezed them.
"El," she whispered, "is... is the war here again?"
Think of the leaves. Think of the wind in the birches. Think of stars at night. Don't let the nightmares rise.
He looked around him, then lowered his head and spoke softly. "Mori, do not speak of this to anyone. Not yet. I don't want the people alarmed. We think the invasion is near. We think we know where the enemy will fly." He stared at her steadily. "I need you to be strong. I need you to be brave."
Mori had expected to shiver, whimper, and see the world spin. Strangely no fear filled her, only a metallic resolve. She nodded.
"I will be brave," she whispered. "Elethor... I will be strong. I will fight."
She embraced her brother, laid her head against his pauldron, and held him tight. His armor was cold and hard against her. He kissed her head.
"Our forces are strong," he said, his arms around her. "We've trained them well. This time Solina won't catch us by surprise. This time we'll cast her back into the sea."
Mori closed her eyes. A vision flashed through her head—Elethor lying in the temple with the wounded, his limbs gone, his face burnt like Orin's face back at Castellum Luna. She held her brother tight.
"I know, El. I know we're strong. I love you."
He mussed her hair. "I love you too, Mors." He held her at arm's length. "I fly east now, beyond the mountains, to summon the farmlords. We will hold a council of Requiem's highborn—like the great councils Father would hold. It's two days to Oldnale Manor and two days back. Sit upon the throne while I'm away, Mori. You rule in Nova Vita in my absence."
A tear streamed down her cheek. Elethor turned, shifted into a dragon, and flew across the city. Mori stood upon the temple steps, hand raised, and watched until he disappeared into the east.
BAYRIN
Sea salt, sweat, and dirt covered him. He desperately needed a good, solid soak, but Bayrin remained in the throne room, waiting for Mori.
"If she loves me when I stink, it's true love," he said to a marble bust of an old king—he thought it was King Benedictus, the great hero from the legends—who stood upon a plinth. The bust merely glowered.
Old Benedictus must smell the stink too, Bayrin thought.
He rocked on his heels, anxious to see the princess. The night they had parted, she cried and held him tight; he had barely extricated himself. He had kissed her, promised to return to her, promised to always love her. That had been three moons ago, and now Bayrin thought he could burst—he wanted nothing more than to pull her back into his arms and kiss her again.
At the same time, a sliver of ice pulsed beneath those feelings. Worry for Lyana gnawed at him. His little sister—dancing for General Mahrdor himself! Like everyone who'd spent more than an afternoon in Tiranor, Bayrin had heard the rumors about Mahrdor. They said the man skinned humans to make scrolls, books, even upholstery. They said he collected shrunken heads, pickled hands, and bronzed fetuses he cut from living women's wombs. The thought of Lyana in his villa festered inside Bayrin so sourly that he barely noticed the palace doors open.
"Bayrin!" cried Mori. She ran across the hall toward him.
Stars, she's beautiful. Thoughts of Mahrdor's collection instantly left him. Whenever he returned from Tiranor, he realized what a beautiful woman Mori had grown into. The girl from a year ago, meek and skinny, was gone. Instead he saw a young woman, almost twenty years old, with billowing chestnut hair, wide gray eyes, and lips that smiled like all the sweetness of a fruit harvest. Despite this war and despite his worry for Lyana, he felt his heart melt, and he reached out his arms. She crashed into his embrace, and they shared a long kiss—a kiss that lasted the lifespan of oaks, the age of mountains, and the rise and fall of stars, and yet when the kiss ended, he felt it too short, like a harp's note that fades too soon.
He held her in his arms. She looked up at him, wrinkled her nose, and said, "Bay, you stink." She laid her head against his chest. "But I still love you."
I knew it, he thought.
"I think I got some of the stink on you too," he said. He held her hand and began leading her down the hall. "Come with me. I have an idea."
She looked over her shoulder at the throne, which was dwindling behind them. "Bay, Elethor flew to summon the Oldnales to a council. He said I must sit on the throne while he's away. I—"
"Did he say you can't sleep then, or eat, or bathe, or make love? Stars, I hope he didn't forbid that last bit." He guided her across the hall. "Come on, Mors, this throne has been here for hundreds of years. It will wait another hour for your lovely backside to warm it." He gave that backside a pat, nudging her outside the palace doors.
They stood on the palace stairway and gazed upon Nova Vita. Above the southern city wall rose Castra Draco, fortress of the Royal Army, in whose courtyard men and women dueled with swords and shields. The sounds of hammers on anvils rang; in the city's three smithies, blacksmiths were forging new breastplates, helmets, swords, and spears. For the first time, they forged armor for dragons too: great helmets the size of wheelbarrows, steel collars to shield necks from arrows, and massive breastplates to protect dragons' undersides where no scales grew. Above in the sky, Bayrin saw phalanxes of dragons swoop and blow fire, drilling great mock battles above.
War is coming, he thought. But that is tomorrow. Today is my day with Mori.
He shifted into a dragon and flew. With a snort of fire, Mori flew at his side, a slim golden dragon. They dived above the coiling streets. Soon they flew over King's Forest, wings bending the grass and saplings that grew from last war's ashes. They headed north toward the mountains of Dair Ranin where the Seven—great heroes of the olden days—had lived before founding Nova Vita.
They flew until the city disappeared behind, and the forests grew verdant and untouched by war. Oaks and birches spread for leagues below, their canopies an undulating green sea. The River Ranin rolled between the trees, spilling from distant misty mountains. In the old days before the wars, Bayrin would fly here with Elethor to hunt and fish and escape the court. He knew every boulder, meadow, and cave for leagues around.
"The air smells good here," Mori said, flying at his side. "Like trees and water, not... not like fear."
The two dragons, green and gold, flew around a stony mountainside and across a valley. Upon a cliff Bayrin saw the Stone Elder, a great, mossy statue of a dragon; it loomed twice his own size. They said the ancient, wild children of Requiem had carved this sentinel ten thousand years ago, long before the Vir Requis had forged iron, raised livestock, and plowed fields. The Ranin roared around the monolith and crashed down the cliff, a waterfall of mist and fury.
As Bayrin and Mori flew toward the waterfall, their wings rippled a reedy pond below, sending deer and cranes fleeing into a copse of birches. Bayrin dived and crashed into the pond, spraying a fountain.
"Come on, Mori!" he called into the sky. "It's not deep."
She circled above, looked down fearfully, then narrowed her eyes and dived into the water beside him. The pond swirled and the waterfall cascaded ahead, showering them. The Stone Elder glowered upon the cliff above. Bayrin could no longer see the forest around him, only mist and spray.
With a gulp of air, he shifted into human form. When he placed down his feet, the water rose to his chest. The waterfall seemed greater now, an angry liquid demon,
and the spray pounded his weaker human form with countless watery arrows. After a moment's hesitation, Mori shifted too; the lake rose to her neck, and the spray drenched her hair.
"I'm scared," she said, voice nearly lost under the waterfall's roar. "The water is rough. Won't we drown?"
Bayrin shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure we will." He pulled off his shirt, then his boots, and finally his pants; he let them float away. He took a step through the swirling pond, moving closer to the waterfall. The spray pummeled him, turning the world white and blue.
"Finally you won't be stinky," Mori said.
He nodded. "Finally maybe you'll kiss me properly."
He pulled her toward him and kissed her—quite properly—for long moments. When he pulled off her gown, she shivered and clung to him, and he kissed her again. She was so small against him; her head only just reached his shoulders. Their naked bodies clung together underwater, and he kissed her ear while whispering to her—endless whispers that made her laugh, and blush, and kiss him again.
War is coming, he thought, but that is another day. Today I am happy.
When their love was spent, they waded to the lakeside, lay upon the grass, and let the sun dry them. He held her, kissed her head, and wished he could stay here forever. The sun began to set and he closed his eyes.
Twelve days, he thought. Twelve days until acid rains and blood washes us. He held Mori close, shut his eyes, and clenched his jaw with the pain of old wounds and memory.
LYANA
The old man reached out and touched her bruised cheek. He clucked his tongue and shook his head sadly.
"Savages!" he said and sighed. "Beasts in armor. To strike a blind woman..." He shook his bony fist at the ceiling. "If I were a younger man, I would have given them a bruise or two!"
Lyana smiled softly. Over the past year, she had come to love old Peras, keeper of the River Spice. She lowered his hand and squeezed it.
"It doesn't hurt, Father Peras," she said. She leaned forward and kissed his stubbly cheek. He smelled of flour and dried figs. "I'm fine, and I can take care of myself."
"I saw!" he said and laughed, showing gums with only five teeth left. He shook his head in amazement. "I never would have thought a blind girl could kick so swift and hard. Now the soldier is missing a few teeth too."
She smiled softly. But I am not a blind girl, she thought. I am a bellator, a knight of Requiem, a noble warrior of the north. And if I kick swiftly, and kick hard, I show a piece of Lyana, and that is more dangerous than any soldier's fist. She took a deep breath. I must be more careful. I will not let my cover slip and my people down.
The crescent moon had crossed the sky outside. Dawn was near. The last of the soldiers had left the River Spice, stumbling down the street, singing the songs of their phalanxes. A dozen candles lit the winehouse, and moths danced around their flames. The orange light flickered over toppled mugs, a shattered clay plate, a half-eaten figcake, and stains of blood. Walking stick tapping, Lyana approached a broom in the corner, grabbed it, and began to sweep the floor. Peras moved around the room, collecting mugs and polishing tabletops.
Lyana loved this time of night; they were her favorite times in Tiranor. The sounds of the crowd died outside, and she could hear the wind through the palm trees, the crickets, and the frogs that trilled. She glimpsed the stars shining outside; later tonight she would climb upon the roof and try to count them all.
The Draco constellation shines here too, she thought, even in hot, cruel Tiranor. The stars of my fathers bless me even so far from home.
"You have fought men before, I think," said Peras, examining a crack in a mug.
Lyana smiled, broom in hand. "I am a winehouse dancer. Of course I've fought men."
I have killed men, Father Peras, she thought. I killed them in tunnels, and in the sky, and I will kill ten thousand more if I can before this war ends. She continued sweeping and said no more.
Peras shook his head and blew out his breath. "Men can be cruel creatures, Daughter Tiana. I have seen too much cruelty in my years... too much blood, too much hate. But not all men are cruel." He righted a fallen chair. "You should find a good man, not a soldier, not a drunkard... find yourself an honest trader or craftsman. You don't want to spend your life dancing here, do you?"
She smiled softly, sweeping shards of clay into the corner. "Dear Father Peras! I would be happy if I could forever dance in this place... though beauty does fade, and no man wants to see an old crone dance." She laughed. "I have a good man, neither a soldier nor drunkard." Her voice softened. "Back in my home far away."
Rubbing a tabletop with a rag, he looked up at her, his eyes sad. "You must miss him."
She sighed. "I was betrothed to his brother at first, a great desert warrior, the strongest man in our tribe. My betrothed was son of our chief. He owned many goats and sheep and three horses—horses that could rival those from Queen Solina's stables." She laughed softly. "It does not sound like much here in Irys, this light of the north, but in the southern dunes, a herd of livestock is worth more than gold and jewels."
She lowered her head, remembering her Orin, Prince of Requiem, a tall and handsome hero, the love of her life... a love she had buried. She took a deep breath and continued, broom still in her hand.
"One day black horses emerged above the dunes," she said. "Brigands in black rode them, sabres bright. My betrothed fought them. I did too, but they were too many. My betrothed fell and the sand ate his blood. I remember only a flash of a blade, blood on my face, and when I woke, I found that I had lost my love... and lost my eyes."
All light dimmed when you died, Orin, she thought. All starlight faded from my nights.
With a shake of her head, she kept sweeping. "After that, well... by the laws of our tribe, I became betrothed to his younger brother. It's an old law passed down through generations; without it, widows would be cast aside, left destitute in the desert. So as I mourned, I found myself promised to a young man named Rael." It was a common name in the deserts south of Irys, Lyana knew. She smiled softly. "Rael is nothing like his fallen brother; he is not a warrior, but a stargazer, not a hero, but a scribe of scrolls. At first I mourned, and scorned him, and wanted to flee him, but as time went by, he showed me great love—not fiery, passionate love like his older brother and I had shared, but a quiet caring, a deep respect, an ember that grows to flame. And I miss him, Father Peras."
He placed down his rag, approached her, and patted her arm. "How did you end up here, Tiana? In Irys, this city so far from your home?"
She closed her eyes behind her scarf. Your people burned my city, killed nearly half my people, and plan to kill the rest. You are kind, Old Peras, but your queen is cruel, and her soldiers lust for blood and death.
"A storm from the desert," she whispered. "Sand that buried our tents. A drought that killed our livestock. Brigades that murdered half our tribe. Pain, death, starvation... and so I am here. To dance. To fill my purse with bronze and copper and what silver I can earn. To return some day with life. Here in Irys, I am the Blind Beauty, a dancer from the dunes. At home, I am a shepherdess and a leader of my tribe."
Peras looked outside the window into the night. The street was silent and dark. The old man's voice was soft. "We all wear masks. I was a soldier once, did I tell you? Fifteen years I fought for Tiranor; I was an archer in the Steelmark Phalanx. Back then we used good, honest bows, not these clumsy crossbow contraptions the soldiers use today. I fought thirty years ago when the dragons of Requiem flew over our land, toppled our towers, and killed my king and queen. I shot poisoned arrows at them, watched the fire burn my brothers, and saw my home fall." He shook his head and closed his eyes. "The wounds I saw, Tiana... They told us war is glorious, that our light would drive out darkness with the song of the Sun God. I saw no glory. I saw blood, I saw women aflame, and I saw children burned into charred corpses. After the war ended, my family was gone. My phalanx was gone. My home was a pile of rubble. They gave me some medal of gold." He snorted.
"I sold it and bought this place, named it The River Spice, and now instead of being a soldier, I serve soldiers wine and figcake." He held her arm. "We all wear masks, and we all flee our past, child. Sometimes it's all we can do to survive."
An owl hooted outside, and Peras moved his arm so that a mug slipped off a table. Instinctively, Lyana reached out and caught it.
Her heart nearly stopped.
Her breath caught.
She stood, mug in hand, eyes wide behind her scarf. She stared at Peras. He stared back, the kindly old winehouse keeper gone from his eyes. She saw the soldier there again.
He knows. Stars, he knows.
"Please," she whispered.
Never breaking his stare, he took the mug from her, placed it back on the table, and nodded.
"We all wear masks," he repeated. "Sometimes we wear scarves." He stared at her silently for a moment that seemed to last an age. Then he laughed and swept his arms around him. "Look at this place! Clean as new, and it's not yet dawn. Let's find some sleep, Tiana. Soon it will be a new night, and there will be more soldiers to intoxicate."
He left the common room and climbed upstairs, humming an old desert song.
Lyana stood alone, heart still hammering. Suddenly she felt exposed, nearly naked in her silks. She missed her armor of Requiem, missed her sword and dagger. Clad in steel, she felt so strong, so brave, a great warrior. Who was she here? A girl. Fragile. A flower to be trampled.
I want to fly home, she thought. I want to become a dragon in the night, fly over the sea, fly back to my armor, to my city, to Elethor and Mori and everyone else. Yet she only tightened her lips and stood in place. She had a duty here. She would remain Tiana a while longer. She had served her home with steel and flame; now she would serve Requiem with silk and skin.
A Day of Dragon Blood (Dragonlore, Book 2) Page 7