She ran through the forest, across the meadow, and into their camp. She ran until Shedah—wizened, cackling, covered in moles—grabbed her. She screamed in the crone’s grasp as the hunters returned with their catch. Mother was now in human form, beaten and bloodied, tied with ropes. She was trying to shift into a dragon again; scales appeared and disappeared upon her body, but whenever she began to grow, the ropes dug into her flesh, shoving her back into human form. Men tossed Mother onto the ground, kicking, striking with sticks, and Laira wanted to run to her, she wanted to shift into a dragon and save her, but she only raced into her tent, and she only trembled.
For five days she cowered as Shedah guarded the tent, sealing Laira in the shadows.
And now she stood here, staring, all her tears spent, watching her mother upon the pyre, watching Zerra lift a torch and bring it toward the pile of wood and kindling.
“Please,” Laira whispered, and finally her eyes dampened. “Please, Zerra, please don’t kill her. Please.”
The chieftain slowly turned toward her. He stared, the ruined half of his face dripping pus and blood. Slowly a smile spread across his face, displaying crooked teeth.
“One day, little worm . . .” he said, voice like wooden chips rubbing together. “One day I will find the curse in you too, and you will scream like this.”
With that, Zerra spun back toward the pyre and tossed his torch into the kindling.
Oil soaked the straw, twigs, and dried leaves. They burst into flame with the speed and ferocity of dragonfire.
Mother screamed.
The fire spread across her, blazing skyward, licking skin off muscle, flesh off bones. And still Mother screamed, writhing in her bonds, begging, wailing.
And Laira screamed too.
She tried to close her eyes, but Shedah grabbed her eyelids with rough fingers and held them open. She tried to break free, to run to her mother, to flee into the forest, but the crone held her fast.
“Mother!” she cried. “Mother, please!”
Please, she prayed silently. Please die. Please stop screaming.
Yet she would not. The screaming and writhing continued within the inferno, the fire eating Mother’s flesh as if slowly savoring a meal. The smell of cooking meat filled the camp, as savory as spiced game. The flames tore through the ropes, and Mother fell from the stake to land in the blazing kindling. She managed to roll off the pyre, to run several steps through the camp, a living torch. She soon collapsed, rolling and whimpering. Zerra stood above the charred mockery of life and laughed.
“Yes, reptile.” The chieftain smiled thinly and the firelight blazed against his own wound. “You burned me. Now you will forever burn in the depths of the Abyss.”
When finally Mother was silent and still, Shedah spat a green glob, huffed, and released Laira.
She stood for a moment, staring at the corpse of her mother. It still burned, crumbling away into charred ashes. Laira wanted to embrace the corpse. She wanted to save her, to beg the shaman to heal her. But she knew: Mother was dead.
Men tossed rugs over the corpse, stamped out the flame, and bound the remains with ropes. They hung the charred, blackened thing from the tribe totem, a sacrifice to Ka’altei. Mother swung in the wind, banging against the carved pole, shedding ash. She barely looked human, just burnt meat upon bones. The rocs beneath the totem rose, reached up their talons, and snapped their beaks, but they dared not yet eat. The great vultures looked back at Zerra, their master, begging.
“Eat, my friends.” Zerra nodded. “Eat, hunters of the sky. She is nice and crunchy.”
With shrieks and flying feathers, the birds leaped up, grabbed the hanging corpse, and tore it apart. The beasts tossed back their beaks, guzzling down legs, arms, the head, then fought one another for the torso and its dangling, smoking entrails.
Laira turned and fled.
She ran between the tents, tears in her eyes.
She wanted to keep running—to flee the camp, to head across the open fields, to enter the forest and never emerge. Other weredragons lived in the world; she knew that they must. But Mother’s words returned to her.
There are no others. The world is cold and large and empty. The lone wolf perishes. The pack survives.
She ran back into her tent, raced toward her pile of fur blankets, and grabbed her doll. She clutched the wooden girl to her chest, and her tears flowed.
“We must never shift again,” she whispered, rocking the toy. “I promise you, Mustardseed. I promise. We’ll never become dragons again.”
She shivered, the fire still burning in her eyes, the screams still echoing in her ears. She would remain. She would keep her disease secret. And she would grow strong.
“We’ll become hunters, Mustardseed.” She knuckled tears away from her eyes. “We’ll grow big and strong and become hunters like Zerra, and he’ll never be able to hurt us. Ever. I promise.”
Outside rose the laughter of men, and the smell of burnt meat wafted into the tent. Laira lay down, held her doll close, and shivered.
RAEM
PRINCE RAEM STOOD ABOVE THE prisoner, khopesh raised, prepared to swing down the sickle-shaped sword.
“Look at me,” Raem said softly. “Look me in the eyes.”
Bound and bruised, her neck upon the block, the prisoner shivered. When she raised her eyes, they shone with tears.
“Please,” the woman whispered. “Please, my lord, I beg you.”
“Do not look away from my eyes.” Raem’s voice was still soft.
He always insisted his victims looked him in the eyes as his blade descended. Many called him a noble ruler for it. They said that Prince Raem, Son of Nir-Ur, held life so sacred he used no executioner but only condemned those truly worthy of death—those he could look in the eyes as he swung the sword himself, their guilt clear beyond doubt.
Raem had always found those claims amusing. Truth was he simply enjoyed the work, and when they stared into his eyes during the act, it felt more intimate—the ultimate connection of souls. It was better than bedding a woman, better than creating life.
Taking life, he thought, is the most intimate connection you can make with another living soul.
“Please.” The woman trembled. “I will never shift again, I promise. I am cured. I can no longer become a dragon. I—“
Raem swung down his khopesh.
The curved, bronze blade drove through her neck with a single blow and thumped against the wooden block.
Raem nodded.
“Good!” He took a cloth from a nearby bench and wiped the blood off his blade. “Single blow again.”
Around him in the courtyard, the spectators—nobles, priests, and slaves—applauded politely. A wrinkly old scribe, clad in but a loincloth, scratched the departed’s name onto a clay tablet.
Raem was pleased. The last execution had not gone as well. The man’s neck had been too thick, and Raem had slammed his sword down five times before cleaving it; the man had lived through the first three blows. Every moon now, Raem found more of the diseased creatures infesting the city—men and women with reptilian blood, able to become great, winged beasts. Every moon now, blood coated his khopesh.
“The reptiles infest our city!” he told the crowd of onlookers. They stood upon the cobblestones, shaded by fig and palm trees. “Taal, Father of All Gods, teaches that the human body is sacred and pure. Followers of Taal do not pierce or tattoo their skin. We do not go fat or frail. We preserve the body.” Raem sneered. “The curse of weredragons is the greatest abomination unto our lord. To shift into a dragon—grow scales, horns, and claws, deforming the human form—is heretical.”
The people nodded in approval, their necklaces of faience beads chinking. A merchant in purple robes, his beard curled into many ringlets, even raised his fist and cried out in his passion; the man had turned in his own wife, a filthy weredragon, only last year.
“A plague has descended upon our kingdom,” Raem said, standing above the decapitated body. “Hundreds
in our city are sick with the dragon disease, able to morph at will. Hundreds more hide their curse. But I, Raem son of Nir-Ur, Heir to the Seran Dynasty, Prince of Eteer, will find them. And I will purify our kingdom.”
They cheered. They cried out Taal’s name. They raised bone, stone, and tin figurines of the god—a slender man with a lowered head and forward-facing palms. Staring at the crowd, Raem wondered how many more of his followers—from nobles to slaves—hid the diseased in their homes.
Raem clenched his fist to remember that night years ago, the night he had learned that his own wife and daughter were ill. He had caught them shifting into dragons deep in the city cisterns, hiding their shame in darkness.
I will find you someday, Anai, my dear wife, he thought, trembling with rage. I will bring you back to me, my daughter, my precious Laira. And you will suffer.
Raem slid his khopesh though his belt. He walked away from the decapitated corpse, leaving his servants to clean up the mess. His sandals whispered against the cobblestones, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of blood mingling with the aroma of fig trees, palms, and grapevines. As he moved through the courtyard, men and women bowed before him: nobles in garments of silk, silver disks, and gemstones, their feet clad in sandals; priests in flowing black robes hemmed in gold, their beards long and curled; and eunuch slaves in loincloths, metal collars around their necks. Only his soldiers did not bow; they stood between the columns that surrounded the courtyard, holding round shields and curved blades, and bronze helmets hid their faces.
Bronze, Raem thought, admiring the gleam of sunlight upon the metal. The humble, seaside tribe of Eteer had discovered the precious metal only a hundred years ago. Within a generation, their primitive tools—made of flint and wood—had vanished. Now Eteer was a great city-state, its sphere of power spreading across farmlands, the coast, and deep into the sea—the greatest civilization in the world, a light in the darkness, law in chaos, might rising in a weak world.
And soon I will rule this kingdom.
He stepped between two columns, leaving the courtyard, and craned back his neck. He stared up at his home.
The Palace of Eteer rose several stories tall. Blue bricks formed the bottom tier’s walls, inlaid with golden reliefs of winged bulls, rearing lions, and proud soldiers in chariots. Columns lined the upper floors, carved of indigo stone, their capitals gilded. Balconies thrust out, holding lush gardens of palm trees, blooming flowers, and vines that cascaded like green waterfalls. Upon the palace roof grew a forest lush with trees and birds. This palace was the greatest building in the world, a monument of life and power.
And all it would take, Raem thought, is a single dragon to burn it. And so no single dragon must live.
He approached a towering stone archway, its keystone engraved with the winged bull—the god Kur-Paz, protector of the city, a deity of plenty. Cedar doors banded with bronze stood open within the archway, their knockers shaped as phalli, symbols of fertility and fortune. Leaving the courtyard, Raem stepped through the archway and into a towering hall. A mosaic spread across the floor, depicting sea serpents wrapping around ships. Columns supported a domed ceiling painted with scenes of cranes and falcons. As Raem walked, his footfalls echoed.
When he passed by a limestone statue, he paused, turned toward it, and admired the work. He had ordered this statue—a likeness of himself—carved only last year. The stone prince was an accurate depiction—tall and broad, clad in ring armor, the face stern. The jaw was as wide as the forehead, and small eyes stared from under a great shelf of a brow. The head was bald, the chin protruding. Raem was a towering man, and this statue—life-sized—towered over most who walked by it. The shoulders were wide, the arms thick—a body built for the battlefield, a body the god Taal would approve of. Though fifty years of age, Raem kept himself strong, training with his blade every day. He had seen nobles go soft in their palaces, far from battles and fields, pampered with endless feasts, plays, and other luxuries of wealth. Raem refused such decadence. He would keep himself as strong as the gruffest soldier in his kingdom’s army.
He reached a staircase and climbed through the palace, passing by many halls and chambers. Finally, five stories up, he emerged onto the roof.
He stood upon the edge and inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with the scent of the gardens around him, the city below, and the sea beyond. Eteer, center of the Eteerian civilization, spread along the northern coast. Home to two hundred thousand souls, here was a hive of limestone houses topped with white domes, gardens leafy with palm and fig trees, and cobbled streets lined with cypresses. Walls surrounded the city and ran along the shore, topped with battlements.
The greatest wonder of Eteer, however, was not its massive size, its fabled gardens, or its towering walls, but the city’s port. A canal drove into Eteer, ending with a ring of water large enough to surround a town. Other cities built ports that stretched into the sea; Eteer brought the sea into the city. Dozens of ships navigated this man-made canal, their sails high and bright. In hulls and upon decks they carried the treasures of distant lands: spices, copper and tin ore, exotic pets, collared slaves, and tales from across the world.
Eteer was a stronghold of might, a city none could conquer—not the southern city-states with their own bronze blades, not the rising desert tribes in the western desert of Tiranor, and certainly not the fur-clad barbarians of the north.
Nobody could harm this place, Raem knew . . . nobody but dragons.
“And so they will die,” he said, gazing upon the countless roofs and streets below.
“Do not be so quick to deal death, my son.” The voice rose behind him. “Only Taal, Father of All Gods, may doom us mere mortals to our eternal rest or damnation.”
Raem frowned, anger filling his throat like bad wine, and turned away from the view.
Gardens covered the palace roof, lush and flowering, the greatest in a city fabled for its greenery. Olive trees grew from wide clay pots, twisting and ancient, their leaves deep green and their fruit aromatic. Vines hung from terraces, their grapes deep purple. Flowers of every kind bloomed, and finches fluttered among leafy branches. Cobbled paths ran through the gardens, lined with statues, and a stream ended with a waterfall that cascaded down the palace wall to a pool below.
Nearly invisible among the plants, clad in a simple green robe, stood Raem’s father, King Nir-Ur of House Seran.
At seventy years of age, Nir-Ur still stood straight and tall, though deep creases filled his face, and his beard was long and white as milk. His eyes, glittering under bushy brows, were as blue as the sea. A headdress of golden ivy and lapis lazuli crowned his head of snowy hair. In gnarled hands, he held a small clay tablet engraved with cuneiform prayers.
Raem was a child of war, a soldier who had commanded armies in battle, a man of bronze and blood. His father was a weaker sort of ruler, a man who valued his gardens, his jewels, and the music he played upon his lyre.
A weak king, Raem thought, staring at the man. A weak father.
“The cursed ones are a threat,” Raem said, clutching the hilt of his khopesh. “A threat I will not let grow. Not in this kingdom that I love. I will not cower upon rooftop gardens while the disease spreads through our mighty city, an abomination unto Taal.” He sneered at the clay tablet the king held. “You are a man of words. I am a man of blades.”
The old king sighed. “Walk with me through the gardens, my son.”
Not waiting for a reply, the old man turned and began to head deeper into the rooftop gardens, moving down the pebbled path.
“Let us walk through the city!” Raem reached out and grabbed his father’s shoulder. “I care not for strolls through a garden. March with me house by house, door by door. We will break bones. We will cut off fingers. We will interrogate the people until we find every last cursed, diseased creature. I will behead them myself.”
The king turned back toward him. The old man’s eyes dampened. The display of weakness disgusted Raem.
&nb
sp; Nir-Ur spoke in a soft voice. “A curse? A disease? Raem . . . why do you name it thus? Perhaps it is a gift from the stars; the dragons rose in our kingdom once the dragon constellation began to shine. Your own wife. Your own daughter, the innocent Laira. They could have stayed with you, Raem, if only you had accepted their magic, their—“
Raem struck his father.
He struck so hard the old man fell to the ground. A family of cardinals fled. The clay tablet shattered.
“A gift!” Raem shouted, standing above his fallen father. “How dare you speak thus. My wife is impure, an abomination. So is Laira. When I discovered their filth—when I saw them shifting into reptiles in the shadows—they fled me like cowards. Accept them? When I find them in the northern, barbaric hinterlands, I will drag them back in chains, and I will lock them in Aerhein Tower, and I will watch them wither. They will beg for death before the end. Still the people of this city mock me. I hear them speak behind my back, talking of the prince who married a reptile, who fathered a reptile.”
Blood trickled down the king’s chin. Lying on the path, he stared up with watery eyes. “A reptile? Laira is your daughter, she—“
Raem spat. “I have only two children. Sena is strong and pure, a proud heir to the throne. Issari is a beautiful, chaste young woman, a princess for the people to worship. Both are pure of body and spirit. They inherited my blood. But Laira? She inherited my wife’s disease. She is a creature. When I find her, she will suffer.”
The old king struggled to rise, arms shaking. When he coughed, blood dripped onto the path. He managed to raise his head, and finally some anger filled his eyes.
“You are a fool,” Nir-Ur said, no longer the kindly old man walking through his gardens but a twisted wretch.
“The only foolishness, Father, is letting our kingdom weaken.” Raem raised his sword. “I have led armies and vanquished the desert tribes of Tiranor, the southern city-states who would rival our kingdom if left to grow, and the northern barbarians across the sea. I strengthened these walls, and I placed a bronze khopesh in the hand of every soldier in our kingdom. I did this for Eteer’s glory—not to see the reptiles rise, to see this dawn of dragons undo my work. They would be the death of us all if they bred.” He trembled with rage. “I will eradicate the curse.”
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