by Lucia Ashta
“Come with me now, Mordecai,” she said over her shoulder. He raised an eyebrow to her in mute question, and when she reached the dragon, his eyebrow reared alarmingly, reaching for his hairline. I had no idea an eyebrow could arch that high.
With her back turned, she still saw his question. She laughed. “Quoi? You’d rather take ten times as long to remove yourself and your patients from peril?”
Like me, Mordecai took in the width of the dragon’s wings. Her argument was a valid one. That wingspan alone could outpace even a racehorse at a full gallop, several times over.
Grand-mère laughed again. “Don’t tell me you’ve never ridden a dragon before? A man who’s lived as long as you?” The dragon bent onto his knees, she gripped the base of his wing, and pulled herself up.
Mordecai took one step toward her and halted. Last time any of us had seen this dragon, he’d looked ready to eat us. Yet Grand-mère had somehow tamed the dragon and led him from the courtyard to where we were.
“Come on, old man. I thought we were in a hurry. My dragon friend can’t wait all day.” She found the motivating words. “And neither can your patients.”
Mordecai walked straight up to the dragon and climbed up too, much less gracefully than Grand-mère, but still not too bad for a man who was clearly nervous about being atop a beast of this size.
“Marcelo, be a dear and move your split and the firedrake to the dragon’s back.” Grand-mère supervised their positioning, pleased. “Now Mordecai, you can place a spell that will keep them from sliding off, oui?”
“Oui,” he said, and already he was muttering away.
“Au revoir, mes chéries. I’ll see you soon.” Grand-mère smiled again, and this time her smile convinced me that everything would be all right—somehow. I clutched Gertrude to my chest and scratched behind her ears, forgetting that she was my sister and not one of the pets at Norland Manor. Gertrude didn’t seem to mind; she arched up into the soothing of my fingers.
“Mathieu. Follow us please, my darling.”
I looked around. I saw a sullen Salazar and a shaken Sir Lancelot, but who was Mathieu?
Grand-mère bent to whisper in the dragon’s ear. He unfurled his wings, making me scurry to move out of the way, with Gertrude in my arms. Even the tips of those red-scaled wings were strong enough to knock me over. I didn’t know the cause, but my strength was returning, and with it the determination to protect my little sister.
“There we are. Good dragon,” Grand-mère cooed, and her tone reminded me very much of how Mordecai spoke to Sylvia. “Now. Fly.” Grand-mère’s directive was firm and laced with a seductiveness that anyone, even a dragon, would want dearly to obey. As the dragon pumped his wings fiercely to lift his massive frame from the ground, I saw Grand-mère for what she truly was.
She sat erect as a plank, with long red hair framing her face and her wildness. Her eyes stared straight ahead, looking into the distance, although I thought she might actually be looking into the future.
Mordecai’s arms encircled Grand-mère’s waist. His shoulders hunched against her, and he screwed his eyes shut during the takeoff.
Rising into the air was a shaky business. But the dragon wasn’t a king of beasts for no reason, and within a few beats of his gargantuan wings, he leveled out in smooth flight.
Mordecai’s eyes opened. He smiled.
A sound pulled my attention downward just in time to watch a firedrake—Mathieu, evidently—surface above the trees. He was as magnificent as Sylvia. The afternoon sunlight was beginning to trade its golden color for more varied hues, and the foreshadowing of an entire sunset sparkled across Mathieu’s scales before he rose next to the dragon.
Before they faded fully from sight, I watched Mordecai release his hands from Grand-mère’s waist and stretch them up to the sky. He tilted his face toward the sun, which would never be closer than it was now.
Mordecai’s child-like enthusiasm prevailed, even if the dragon carried both life and death upon his back, along with the uncertainty of which would prevail before the day was over. But he was right, the only way to find victory over death was fully to live life while it was still there to be lived.
We watched the dragon until he was no more than a speck in the skies, and Mathieu had all but disappeared beside his body.
“We must go too,” Marcelo said.
I nodded. Of course we must. I put Gertrude down and went to Marcelo. We were still in danger, but I had something I had to do, and I didn’t care who saw me do it.
I pulled Marcelo down to me and pressed my lips against his. I startled him and, for a second, he didn’t respond. I almost pulled back. But then his hands slipped around my waist and he pulled my body more tightly against his.
He met my kiss with a passion I didn’t expect given that half of himself had just flown away on a dragon’s back, dying. I parted my lips. I was his, and for now, we’d both made it out alive.
I closed my eyes and gave myself to the twist of his tongue and the flashing heat that raced up my body, dispelling the shivers of before in such a way that I couldn’t imagine ever being cold again.
He pulled me more closely against him, when there was already no space between us. His kiss became more insistent and more ardent. I parted my mouth to him as I felt my heart carving out a path straight toward his.
It was only when a moan accidentally slipped from my mouth, escaping between tongues and lips and wetness and heat, that I felt eyes upon us. I stilled. Marcelo stilled. Then we looked to his nephew, my sister, and Sir Lancelot as if surprised to find them there.
But I knew better than to be embarrassed. This day had given me at least a hundred reasons why life was to be lived and why I was to live mine to its fullest. Whatever timidity and doubt about myself that had remained, I left up on that rooftop, where I shed it like an old skin as I ran toward flight.
I was alive. I was in love. And I had a feeling that my life was only just getting started.
Marcelo took my hand and looked me straight in the eyes. All I could see were his when he asked me, “Shall we begin?”
And I knew he didn’t mean our journey toward meeting Mordecai and my grandmother.
“Yes,” I said. I looked down at our linked fingers. The dragon of magic and the serpent of wisdom gleamed to life across the band of gold on my finger. Marcelo’s promise ring. It promised more than Marcelo’s loyalty and intention at a shared life with me.
Life as it spread out before me had never felt more promising. Now, if only everyone would survive the steps along this path that fate had dealt that day—after all, Mordecai was both a gifted healer and an extraordinary magician—we could walk toward a future, together, that promised both magic and wisdom.
For once, it seemed that time might be on our side. The moments drew out for us as we put distance between us and Washur, us and danger. And the in-between was a place safe from the reminders of how fragile life could be.
The path away from Washur and toward the next town—I didn’t even know which one it was—was as fertile as the path toward my future. And with each step, the grasses grew lusher and the blooming flowers less timid and more hopeful.
The Scarlet Dragon
Clara and Marcelo’s adventures continue in The Scarlet Dragon, Book 5 of The Witching World series.
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Chapter 1
Life had been so extraordinary lately that I no longer considered my companions unusual, and I was able to find good humor despite the probable death of a firedrake friend and half of the man I loved. The sun was setting, tingeing the sky with exquisite color that reminded me how much there was to appreciate in being alive.
Besides, the day had been exceedingly long already, too long for worry. We’d arrived at Washur at daybreak to rescue my sister and Marcelo’s nephew from the undead Count Washur’s tyrannical clutches. My sister and Marcelo’s nephew rode with us now, and in t
hat regard the expedition had been a success, at least as long as we weren’t overly punctilious about the details. After all, my sister was trapped in the body of a cat and Marcelo’s nephew was under one of Count Washur’s spells, which we had no idea when—or if—it’d wear off. Based on the young man’s face, which was disturbingly like Marcelo’s, he still wanted to murder Marcelo, and possibly me too.
Where the expedition had been an undeniable failure was in the rapidly declining health of both Marcelo’s split—half of his body and his spirit—and Sylvia, Mordecai’s dynastic firedrake. Both the split and the firedrake were limp and frighteningly lifeless-looking. Still, considering we’d faced a lord of darkness, who’d been alive for over five hundred and twenty-one years by stealing other people’s souls, we might be considered lucky. And in this orange-tinged twilight, I was inclined to see it that way. For now, we all still had our lives, and optimism was easier to clasp onto away from the ghastly sights of Sylvia and Marcelo’s split.
The next town over, which I learned was named Dillbasin, was at least an hour of travel away by horseback, but already we were searching for any sign of our friends. Mordecai had told us he’d stop as soon as they were a safe distance from Washur Castle, for Sylvia and Marcelo desperately needed what healing attention he could offer.
Exhaustion had settled into our bodies, and the aftermath of heightened stress left me like melted butter, poured across my saddle. But I could see that Marcelo was alert in his seat up ahead. As long as we were out in the open, he wouldn’t take our safety for granted.
Marcelo’s nephew, whom we were careful not to address by his given name as it appeared to be the link to Count Washur’s spell over him, rode in the lead. Marcelo wanted to monitor his every action.
I followed Marcelo’s horse, with a cat and a pygmy owl behind and in front of me in the saddle, and I pulled Mordecai and Grand-mère’s horses, tethered with rope. Even though Mordecai and Grand-mère’s horses were fine ones, the magicians had left Washur on a far more impressive mount than their purebred steeds. And that was the reason why we didn’t strain too much to discover our friends’ hiding place. There were only so many ways to conceal a dragon the size of the one on which Mordecai and Grand-mère rode in the direction of Dillbasin.
We’d already ridden for half an hour, and I could no longer see Washur Castle behind me. Mordecai might determine the distance safe enough at any moment.
The sound of footfalls clopping across the dirt road was all I wanted to hear. The repetitive rhythm soothed my frayed nerves and the anguish that I was adamantly squelching within, like swallowing acid when it rose up through your throat.
But speaking calmed Sir Lancelot’s nerves, even if I wasn’t ready to converse. I forced myself to listen to the little owl, who was visibly shaken, fidgeting nearly non-stop from his perch at the front of the saddle. He seemed to have developed a sort of nervous tick. Every few minutes, he extended his wings to a third of their span and then brought them back down, ruffled.
At first, Sir Lancelot spoke tentatively, as if he were rediscovering the strength of his voice. He paused in between sentences, he reflected before speaking.
But that ended soon, and then he wouldn’t stop. I realized he might not have been able to stop, even if he’d wanted, and I listened as best as I could, trying to pay attention.
“Never in my life did I imagine I’d live—and survive!—a day like this. I mean, how many pygmy owls do you know that have lived a day like this one? How many? Surviving the threats of an awful wizard like Count Washur? That man is poisoned, I tell you. His heart’s as hard and black as the volcanic rocks from the river beds of Galvanon.
“And then, that dragon! Oh my. He’s so large. I can’t believe that your grandmother is actually riding him.” Sir Lancelot’s voice squeaked in barely contained agitation. “That seems impossible. All day, staring at that monstrous dragon, I would have never thought a human being could ride him. Oh the day I’ve had. In that courtyard, all day, waiting for all of you. Wondering if you were dead or alive. Doing what I could not to make a sound to call attention to myself. I’d be no more than something to lodge between the teeth of that beast on the way down his throat. How I tried to conceal myself and remain silent.” A shiver ran through the brown feathers of his coat. Then he extended his wings partially and put them down again. Another nervous tick.
“There was nothing I could do to help you. I thought all the time of what I could do to aid any of you, but came up with nothing. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go, or if I should go anywhere at all. I feared not to be present to be of service if the opportunity presented itself. I just didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t a common situation for an owl like myself.”
“Sir Lancelot, there’s nothing common about you,” I said and smiled a small smile despite the gravity of the situation he described.
“That’s true, Lady Clara. I’m unique in my intelligence. Still, have you ever heard of a pygmy owl enduring a day like mine?” He huffed and drew enough breath to puff out his diminutive chest in preparation for continuing.
“The chances of any owl, pygmy or not, ever having experienced a day like that one are next to none. And, Sir Lancelot, you’re unique due to more than your intelligence. I’ve met no other Irish-Scottish owls that could read when they were mere owlets. And I’ve met no other owls trapped in a painting for all time.”
“Well, yes, of course you’re right. No wonder today was so unsettling for my nerves. There was a time when I almost missed that dreadful painting you speak of, and I almost wouldn’t have minded accompanying that dreadful witch in the painting.”
“Don’t tell me that you are longing for that prison of a painting we found you in, Sir Lancelot?” Marcelo called over his shoulder.
“No, no, no, Count Bundry. I’m not. If you recall, I did say ‘almost’ and that’s precisely what I meant. There’s something undeniably exhilarating about danger, even with the fear that accompanies it. I saw my life flash before my eyes.”
“And how long is that life?” I asked. As much as Sir Lancelot talked, I hadn’t yet heard the full story of his life before his captivity in the painting.
“Oh, it’s been long, though much of it’s been suspended in that painting with that awful woman. I’m not certain that the time I was frozen still in the painting, nearly lifeless, would count toward my life.” Sir Lancelot debated, and I had no good answer. This was one of those things without precedent; I’d encountered many of them since my initial arrival in Irele.
“If we count the time my animation was suspended while in the painting in the Castle of Irele’s dining room—although the painting wasn’t always in the dining room. It was moved around a few times before settling there. I think many of Countess Girane’s descendants weren’t fond of their great-great-great-aunt, however many times removed, studying their eating habits.”
“Do you remember what year you were born?” I asked.
“Oh, but of course I do. I’ve told you before, I remember everything I’ve ever learned or experienced.”
“Absolutely everything?”
“Yes.” For once, Sir Lancelot didn’t elaborate. It left me to wonder if such a gift were truly as much of a curse as a blessing. And where was all that knowledge stored? Sir Lancelot’s head was barely the size of my fist, and much of that size was plumage.
“So, when were you were born then?”
“It was the Lord’s year 1103.”
“1103?” I said, flabbergasted. Would I ever reach the point where my friends’ histories wouldn’t surprise me?
“Yes, Lady Clara. I was born a very long time ago.”
“You’re even older than Count Washur then. And certainly older than Mordecai.”
“Yes, I am. All my family is long dead.”
I softened at Sir Lancelot’s tone. “Does any of your blood survive?” I knew the world to be a cruel place where bloodlines came to their end often. Disease and violence plagued
the rich as well as the poor, and I imagined it to be no different for an owl.
He shook his small head. “My family died out not long after I was forced into that painting. It was difficult at first to make inquiries, limited as I was to that canvas. But I managed. Mother lived out her life in relative good health, never having more children, although I found out that my disappearance was devastating for her. And father, that Scottish rogue, disappeared almost immediately after leaving mother with the burden of child, with no sense of responsibility toward her. A scoundrel.
“As I spent my life previous to my imprisonment in the service of different magicians, I never had a family of my own. And then once that awful Countess Girane stuffed me into that painting, well, after that there was no chance of it.”
“I’m so sorry, Sir Lancelot.”
“Thank you, Lady Clara. There are those who’ve had worse lots in life than mine,” Sir Lancelot said with dignity. He puffed his chest out in bravery, and it struck me how much more courage this little owl had than so many men I knew. “It was difficult at first, but an owl must accept what life gives him for we don’t always get a choice.”
I looked toward Marcelo up ahead. Was it my impression or had his back stiffened? Marcelo hadn’t been given much of a choice in so many of the things that mattered to him, and would have mattered to most people. A sister murdered by an evil man. A mother who died from a broken heart. A father killed by his own hand, but who had lost his humanity long before. A nephew stolen from him and the world. A mentor killed in the courtyard of his home. And those were only some of the things I knew about.
“You’re right, Sir Lancelot,” I said so gently that Marcelo might not have heard. “We are not always given a choice. Yet we must find the way to accept what has already come to pass.”
I reached around to find Gertrude behind me, her claws dug into the saddle to prevent sliding. I brought her to my chest, light as she was. What had she endured before I could find the way to rescue her? How was it that she’d even ended up with Count Washur in the first place?