by May Sage
“I’m not in control,” he said through clenched teeth.
He needed out of here, now.
Demelza stared at him in utter disbelief first, then she smiled. He tilted his head.
“Your eyes, Vincent,” said she.
So he turned towards the polished windows, catching his reflection.
He stared, and stared, and stared some more. This made no sense, none whatsoever.
Eventually it faded, but, impossible as it seemed, his amber eyes had been flashing red.
“No.”
“That is a fire gaze,” Demelza gasped. “You have a dragon in you.”
Vincent knew he used to have one. He’d seen it. So had his mother and father, although they’d witnessed the whole thing from a distance. They didn’t speak of it now, though. But he’d thought, he’d truly believed, that his beast had been forever sealed inside him.
And now, after all this time, it was shining through his eyes?
He knew who’d caused it. For centuries, there had been nothing, and now, a mere hour after meeting the Astria girl, the most powerful human he’d ever encountered, his dragon stirred? He didn’t believe in coincidence. The question wasn’t who had caused this; it was why. Was his dragon wary of her? Trying to warn him? The beast was silent, but now that he paid attention, Vincent could feel it here, watchful, right under the edge of his consciousness.
Vincent almost listened to his first instinct, walking out of there, running as far as he could. Something told him he should. Shifting back to the two ladies who watched him, intrigued, he forced a calming breath out and made himself smile. He could do this. His extreme unsteadiness, the incomparable amount of lust he felt towards her - he’d ignore it. He had to. She was spelling him some way, probably consciously. That was all. He just had to figure out how, and why.
Vincent Vasili was no coward; besides, if his instincts warned him against Talia, she needed to be observed. And how was he supposed to justify getting the Queen’s sister trailed? He had no other choice but to do it himself.
Yes. Trail her.
He almost froze in his tracks, shocked at the familiar voice he hadn’t heard in far, far too long.
His dragon. His dragon was really here again. Because of her.
If she called to the beast, the monster, Talia was a threat, and he needed to watch out before it was too late.
10
The Dragon
Three hundred and seven years ago.
Vincent ran along the beach, laughing so hard he couldn’t reach full speed; Clarya was getting further and further away from him in the distance, the cheat. She was a cougar shifter - a breed rare in their lands, where lived so many bears and dragons. Her family had come from the West the previous season, after their land had been attacked by orcs in the Sands.
Never had Vincent been given cause to thank orcs before. Now he did, for their actions had permitted him to meet the girl he was going to marry.
Clarya was older than him, and she could already shift. It mattered not. They might be sixteen and nineteen years old now, but in a few decades, when they were all grown, she wouldn’t care; what did it matter, at fifty, that your man was forty-seven?
He knew he wished to wed her because she wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d come across at all, yet, when he saw her, everyone else faded into oblivion. He loved her laugh and her smiles. He loved the way she wore her hair - a horizontal braid on one side, and the rest, down. But above all, he wished to marry her, because his beast responded to her, just like his parents’ beasts cared for each other.
Vincent couldn’t shift yet. He didn’t even know whether he’d be a bear or a dragon; what he knew was that when the girl was close, his animal pushed to the surface and wanted him to keep her at his side. Take care of her.
She’d said she’d accept his proposal, and wed him immediately when he was of age, as long as he could catch her, so he ran. Even after she’d shifted and dashed at full speed, he ran.
“You’ll never marry her, you know,” one of his father’s guests had said the previous evening.
Vincent had glanced at the mage and just rolled his eyes. What did the old man know?
“I looked into her eyes and I saw death. She won’t live to see another winter.”
That showed what the mage knew: Clarya was in great health, as she proved now, by taking an impossibly long jump, and beautifully landing on her feet like the magnificent creature she was.
He was still laughing when he saw them, coming out from the shadow of a cave. Orcs. Dozens of them.
“Clarya, run!”
But they were too close and he, too far to do anything about it. He’d never felt as helpless, as useless, as when he saw the horde come down on his woman that day.
But he wasn’t helpless. He wasn’t weak. Those orcs were nothing compared to him. Compared to them.
He’d been told what to expect on his first shift, but no speech could have prepared him for the excruciating, bone-breaking process as the beast crawled out of his skin. It was over quickly but it felt like it lasted an eternity. Then, it was finally over, and Vincent was locked inside the mind of a ruthless beast.
The dragon hadn’t been told how to fly - Vincent had heard that it could take time - yet he leaped into the air and extended his long, leathery wings, soaring through the skies.
He was on the orcs in an instant. To Vincent’s horror, he had to witness as his beast called fire to his breast and set the entire horde ablaze.
It took hours for the beast to deign to shift back to his human form. Hours of Vincent begging to let him go find Clarya, crying out, desperate for freedom. Finally the dragon relented, withdrawing back to the shadows.
They said that Clarya had been killed, pierced by an orc lance, long before he’d burned the horde, but it didn’t matter, not as he looked at what was left of her body: a black coal sculpture.
Vincent never told his dragon to leave. He didn’t need to. The beast had the sense to retreat of his own accord.
No one who knew ever talked of it. They didn’t need to. They knew Vincent lost his dragon. They also knew he didn’t want him to come back.
Vincent didn’t speak for days. Eventually, he became aware of the fact that everyone was looking at him with sorrow, and worry, so when his mother came that day, he opened his mouth.
“Would you show me how to braid hair?” he asked.
Clarya had had a thing for her silly hairstyle. One braid on the left side of her hair, the rest let down.
“Whose hair?” Mula asked, confused with good reason.
“Mine.” He bit his lip. “Is it too short?”
He had perhaps five inches of hair, styled fashionably for a young boy at the time.
“A little, but I’ll manage.”
She didn’t have any more questions. First, Mula braided his own hair just like Clarya’s, then she undid her sophisticated tresses and sat down right in front of her boy. “You’ll practice on me, first. Seeing what you’re doing will make things easier. Once you’re good, you can braid your own.”
He nodded, and listened carefully as she instructed him on how to move his fingers around her hair.
Clarya, a girl of nineteen, was dead, but she’d live forever in Vincent’s memory, and he would honor her by wearing his hair like she used to.
She’d shaped him into the man he was now. Suspicious. Hesitant to let anyone in. Ruthless to those who preyed on the innocent.
Dragonless.
11
The Friend
Talia could finally put whatever anxiety she’d felt at the thought of coming to the kingdom of dragons firmly behind her now. Their welcome, while not warm, didn’t leave much to be desired. Most attendees made a point of coming to greet them, respectfully bowing their heads in a show of respect. She was certainly regarded with suspicion by some, but they remained cordial all the same. Besides, how could she blame them? She’d made quite the entrance.
“Viktor Vasili, m
y wife, Mula,” said an elegant, handsome man, introducing himself, rather than letting a servant do so.
Viktor was tall, with a powerful build; he kept his light brown hair cut short, but had a long, trimmed beard. Talia noticed his eyes, which seemed strangely familiar; she couldn’t place them, though.
There was no suspicion from him, and no animosity, either; the man downright beamed, welcoming them with good humor. It seemed that her sister had really wed into a goodhearted family. How pleased she was for her.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bonnier face, dear,” he told Aleria, who couldn’t help but return his smile. His good humor was contagious. “What say you, Mula? You should draw the girl’s portrait.”
“And I would, too, if I had the skills to do her justice.” Then, the short, yet feminine, woman, who looked slightly older than her husband, but nonetheless handsome, turned to Talia. “You gave us quite the fright, young lady.”
She didn’t sound all that forbidding, but Talia apologized nonetheless. “Pardon me, Lady Mula, when I heard my sister could be held in captivity here-”
The woman didn’t let her finish. “Nonsense. We do love our women with spirit around here. It’s good you showed them all what you’re capable of. You wouldn’t have fit in, otherwise.”
Talia tilted her head. Fitting in was no concern of hers. Now she knew Xandrie was more than fine and had made a home for herself, she would be going soon. As an Enchantress, she had a duty to the realm, they’d said. If any Kingdom called for her aid, she’d be on her way. But this was a discussion she needed to have with Aleria and Xandrie before anyone else, so she just smiled, averting the woman’s piercing gaze.
Turning away from those she’d talked to, she saw him again. Pretty Man. The beautiful woman who’d stood next to her sister through the ceremony whispered low with Pretty Man; they seemed to argue.
“Ah,” said the Archduke, following her gaze. “You like what you see, do you? Most ladies do.”
“No, I…”
“Come over here, Vincent!” he called out before she could finish denying that she did, indeed, very much like what she saw. Good thing, too, as she didn’t like lying.
Pretty Man glared; at her, rather than the Archduke. There was some sort of a warning she didn’t quite comprehend, in the way he then redirected his attention to Viktor.
“My ladies, let me introduce you to my son.”
Ah. Well, that explained the eyes, now that she looked.
The two men were of the same height, and their hair was dark blond, although the father wore it short. They really did have a similar look, although Vincent’s features mirrored his mother’s, rather than his father’s - one of the reasons why he was so damn pretty.
Vincent seemed to be around the same age as his parents. Talia belatedly recalled what she’d read somewhere in her schooling: dragons could live hundreds, if not thousands of years, and remained in good form. She tried not to hate them too much for that.
Pretty Man - or Vincent - wordlessly bowed his head as little as he could while remaining somewhat civil. “Aleria, Talia, meet Demelza.” He held his hand up, until the woman he’d been in a conversation with joined them. She was even more stunning from up close.
Like Viktor, the woman seemed well disposed towards them. Her smile wasn’t forced. “I’m a particular friend of your sister,” said Demelza. “It would be my honor to guide you to your apartments and be of any help during your stay.”
Finally. There was a bath in her immediate future.
“Could we go? As in, right now?”
Her smile widened. “After you.”
Talia and Aleria practically tripped over themselves to get outdoors.
What was the man’s problem? He’d seemed suspicious of her when they’d first met, but, generally, people warmed up to her after a while. That dragon was the opposite; he seemed colder, his eyes narrowing and flashing with something dangerous.
Why had he bothered to accompany them at all? In most men’s cases, she would have thought the answer obvious: they wanted to spend time with Aleria. However, Pretty Man didn’t spare her sister a glance, though; his attention was entirely fixed on her. That wasn’t a compliment, given the fact that he had yet to stop glaring.
Unsure what to make of him, Talia did her best to ignore him. Thankfully, there was much to pay attention to. Talia had travelled enough over the last few months to have seen much, yet nothing compared to the castle of Telenar. It had grand halls, elegantly carved marble sculptures, and great rooms, but it was the light fixtures, the foreign piece of technology on the walls and carried by people around her that Talia couldn’t stop looking at. Telenar was decades, if not centuries in the future; more advanced than anything she’d seen before.
Catching her interest, Demelza explained, “Before the Rift, at the beginning of this era, people used technology every day, all around the globe - even in the poorest parts of the world. It took a while to understand their devices and set up energy sources strong enough to run them. But thanks to dragonfire, and the best scientists of the last millennium, we’ve managed.”
“We travelled through three kingdoms to get here and I don’t think we’ve seen anything like this anywhere,” she commented, without meaning much by it.
Pretty Man chose to take offense. “So, you’ll have us share our technology with Kingdoms who’d love nothing more than to see dragons annihilated? Men who paint us as the monsters who come at night to eat their children?”
She’d never suggested that but rather than pointing it out, she completely ignored him, stepping closer to the woman. “You said you were a friend of my sister’s?” she prompted.
Demelza smiled. “Yes, I’m bound to Xandrie. You’ll hear the story from her, I’d wager, but we met back in your land, north. I sent Rhey after her when she was in trouble.”
“Then,” said Aleria, gravely, “we’re in your debt.”
She left it at that, but Talia frowned, seeing her expression. She recognized it, as she felt it, too: there was plenty of guilt in her gaze. Guilt that she hadn’t been able to protect her sister as she ought to have. Seeing that Xandrie had done so well now should have alleviated that guilt, but it hadn’t.
Aleria had confessed her intention to concoct a sleeping spell and incapacitate the guard back then, as well as her failure to do so. Talia had tried to tell her she’d done her best, that everything had worked out fine in the end, but the shadow never left Aleria’s gaze, regardless.
She understood it. Truth was, they owed Xandrie, and not just for what had happened over the last few months. What of the last decade? Their parents had treated her horribly and neither of them had done much against it. In their little cocoon at home, it had been easy to pretend that it was just their version of normal; that they hadn’t had any choice. But over the course of the last weeks, they’d both realized how wrong they’d been.
They’d had a choice. A twenty-three, twenty-five and twenty-eight, they were all adults of skills and means. They could have just left. Taken Xandrie and established their own practice somewhere. Just threatening to do so might have been enough to convince their parents to act with more compassion.
So much guilt. Talia could hardly blame Aleria, when she wasn’t able to get over her own failure, either.
“I’m leading you to your sister’s old rooms.” Demelza’s melodious voice pulled her from her dreary thoughts. “They’re close to mine, in the family wing. You may come to me should you wish anything else.”
“The family wing?” If she had a room in the King’s family wing, the woman was a royal, then.
Talia wasn’t surprised; she held herself like a princess ought to, and her mere presence commandeered so much attention.
“Yes, although I can’t say I have the strongest claim to stay there. Vincent is my kin - my mother was his father’s half-sister. Vincent, however, is the King’s first cousin.”
Ah, so Pretty Man was a prince. This, somehow, surprised her
more. Despite the nickname she’d given him, he had an edge that really didn’t seem all that civilized. She would have pegged him as a military commander, not a noble. But that was, perhaps, because the last set of nobles she’d seen had been graying, with protuberant bellies and wearing more rouge than most women. The royalty of the Var certainly hadn’t looked like these dragons.
“Everyone’s related, hm?” Talia chuckled. “So that’s why your King has sought a bride from as far away as possible.”
“Oh, Rhey may have sought her out, but she won him fair and square. Your sister will, no doubt, share her tales. In the meantime, my office is to find you something to wear for the ball tonight. On such short notice, my dresses will have to do - they should fit, I’m sure.”
Talia’s gaze took in Demelza’s slender features, as well as her generous bust and her womanly hips. They weren’t different in weight or height, but their shapes had little in common. Besides, the gown the woman wore now sported a neckline plunging right down to her navel. On her, it looked glamorous and radiant. No doubt Aleria could pull it off, but Talia would look like a child who’d played dress up.
She sighed. “I have a dress,” said she. Laya’s gown was perhaps a little common for the occasion, but at least she wouldn’t look ridiculous in it. She hadn’t bothered to unpack and repack before leaving Malek, which meant the belongings she’d brought astride her horse were those she’d brought back from Lyres. She’d had little cause for wearing her pretty dress on the road; instead, she’d stuck to her riding habits, which were, as Sir Vincent had been so kind as to point out, a little fragrant now.
“Nonsense,” Demelza waved dismissively. “You’ll find plenty to your liking in my collection, let me assure you.”
“Really, my dress is alright. I’m not much for fashion, in any case.”
Again, the rude Pretty Man snorted. And she should, perhaps, have stuck to her first resolve and ignored him altogether, but this time, she turned on her heels, narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips.