The Dragon's Curse (A Transference Novel)

by Bethany Wiggins

  Nayadi is sitting on my small bed with her knees drawn up against her chest, wearing my dark gray blanket over her head like the hood of a cloak. Her face is in shadow, making her pale, blank eyes look like black hollows above her protruding cheekbones. Beside her sits an old, white-haired man I have never seen before. He has broad shoulders and sits with his spine as straight as a sword. Beside the bed stands Ingvar, heir to the Antharian throne. His black hair, which is turning silver at his temples, is tightly braided. “Good morning, Princess Sorrowlynn,” he says.

  “Good morning, Prince Ingvar.” As I walk across the room, I feel the old man scrutinizing my every move.

  I stop in front of Nayadi and stare down at her. Enzio steps up beside me, his black knife already in his hand. Yerengul takes his place on my other side. Nayadi’s lips are moving, but no sound comes from her mouth. When she doesn’t so much as acknowledge me, I crouch on my haunches in front of her and peer beneath the blanket. She stares at the wall behind me, and a small smile makes deep creases form in her cheeks.

  “Two bound as one. The blood of three kingdoms will be on your head,” she whispers. “Two bound as one. The blood of three kingdoms will be on your head.” She says it again and again: Two bound as one. The blood of three kingdoms will be on your head. And each time she says it, her smile grows broader.

  I look to Ingvar for an explanation, but he shakes his head and frowns, so I look at the ancient man sitting on my bed, but his attention is focused on Nayadi.

  Nayadi inhales a breath that rattles in her chest, and I can’t help but jump. Her blind eyes lock onto mine, and when she speaks her voice is no longer hushed. “From a grave of ice they will rise and color the sky like a glorious sunset blackened by smoke.”

  Grave of ice? Unbidden, an image opens inside my mind.

  * * *

  The ice moans and creaks overhead and I shiver, pulling the ermine-lined cloak tighter around my shoulders and then patting my numb, beard-covered cheeks. “Where are you hiding?” I ask, my voice that of a man’s. I stop before a wall of sleek ice and stare at my blurred reflection: shoulder-length brown hair, fur-lined boots that go halfway up my legs, square shoulders beneath a calf-length cloak. Something in my reflection moves, though I have not so much as blinked my eyes. A darkness rises up, overpowering my reflection. When I step aside, my reflection moves, but the dark mass does not move with me. “There you are,” I whisper, but it is not my voice I hear. It is the deep, patient voice of Melchior the wizard—the man who predicted that I would die by my own hand. Even though it is Melchior’s voice, and Melchior’s memory, it feels just like my own.

  * * *

  “From a grave of ice they will rise and color the sky like a glorious sunset blackened by smoke,” Nayadi wails, drawing my attention back to the present. Warm air stings my frigid cheeks, and the biting smell of snow is replaced with the smell of warmth and food. “That is all.” She yawns and pulls the blanket tighter under her chin, and then lies down with her greasy head on my pillow. “Now I need to sleep. I rode all night to get here, you know, and my bones are old and brittle.”

  “That is all? The vision has ended?” King Marrkul asks.

  Nayadi wiggles deeper into my goose-down mattress. “Yes.”

  “But what did you see?” he asks. “You always tell us of precise events about to occur.”

  Nayadi closes her eyes and yawns. “It was different this time.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I say. Still crouching in front of her, I lean closer to the tiny woman. “What does ‘two bound as one’ mean?” Nayadi sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and starts breathing deeply, as if she’s already asleep. “What is rising from a grave of ice?” I ask loudly. “Is it a dragon? Is it going to destroy three separate kingdoms in its search for me?”

  One of her eyes pops open. “No, it is not a dragon. I have no more to say about what I have seen.” She turns her face into my pillow.

  I clench my teeth and stand, yanking my blanket off Nayadi. The old stranger sitting beside her startles and stands, looking at me as if I am an ill-behaved child. “What does your vision mean? You have got to tell me so I know what to do to make things right,” I say, my voice so loud I might be yelling.

  Nayadi wails and covers her head with her arms. She pulls her knees to her chest and whimpers.

  Ingvar steps forward and places his broad hand on Nayadi’s shoulder. “Let me help you to your room. I will bring you breakfast.” She jerks her shoulder away.

  Taking a calming breath, I look at Ingvar. “You’re not going to make her tell us what her vision means?”

  Ingvar spreads his hands. “I cannot make her do anything. I am sorry, Princess.”

  I look at King Marrkul, but he shakes his head. “I am king, yes, but Nayadi is not one of my subjects. She has never followed anyone’s desires or rules but her own. It is by her own choosing that she aids my family.”

  “But—”

  A warm hand closes around my arm. “Come. The breakfast bell rang. Let us go and break our fast,” Yerengul says. “We can discuss her vision while we eat.”

  Something tugs on the blanket still clasped in my hands. Nayadi is pulling on it, draping it on her bare feet. The fabric slides from my fingers, and the woman covers herself, tucking the wool beneath her chin and closing her eyes.

  “She’s going to take a nap in my bed now?” I ask, wondering if I will ever be able to sleep in that bed again. I put my hands on my hips. “Nayadi, get out of my bed.”

  Without opening her eyes, Nayadi shakes her head. “I like it here,” she says. “I feel him.”

  “Him?” King Marrkul asks. “Who is ‘him’?”

  “The bed is mine—it has been mine for almost six months, and no man has slept in it—no him,” I say.

  Nayadi’s glossy eyes slowly open and travel up the length of me. “I feel Zhun,” she says.

  I take a small step back and shudder. “The fire dragon is dead.”

  Nayadi shakes her head. “Not all of him. He is right…” She lifts her scrawny hand from my blanket and points at my forehead. “There, waiting to take over your mind.”

  Something ancient and dark, and slick like moss touches my thoughts. I try to lift my arm to shove Nayadi’s hand away, but am unable to move. I open my mouth to speak, to cry out for help, but no sound leaves my parted lips. Without a thought, I use the only weapon I possess that does not require physical movement, and swing a blade of something through the air between us: magic. Her touch is removed, and though I see nothing, I feel the sharpness of what I have wielded and it scares me.

  Nayadi shrieks and pulls the blanket around her head, and I stagger backward as my ability to move returns. With a flick of my wrist, I pull the black stone blade from my sleeve and point it at the witch. Enzio’s knife is still in his right hand, and has been joined by a short sword in his left.

  “Sorrowlynn?” Enzio asks, quivering with energy. “Give the word and I will kill her right now.”

  King Marrkul steps in front of Enzio and me, shielding Nayadi. In a booming voice he says, “There is no need for weapons! She is a harmless old woman!”

  Yerengul gently moves his father aside and glares. “Will you two please put your knives away?” he says through gritted teeth. “I already told you Nayadi is harmless.”

  I shudder. “Harmless? She touched my mind with magic, Yerengul.”

  Nayadi throws the blanket off herself and sits up. Two trails of blood have trickled out of her nostrils and frame her lips. “It was a tiny touch! You don’t have to be so rough. You need to learn how to control Zhun’s magic.”

  My entire body begins to tremble, and I blink back tears of frustration. “I am doing my best.” Sheathing my knife, I turn and stride out of the room.

  “Wait!” Nayadi wails, and then she laughs. Her peal of laughter stops me dead in my tr
acks as a tremor of ice creeps up my spine. I peer through the doorway, waiting. Nayadi tilts her head to the side, as if listening to something, and swipes her hand across the blood dripping from her nose, smearing a streak of red across one cheek and into her hair. “Your…husband…is on his way here, Sorrowlynn. He will arrive before sunset. That is why I insisted we travel through the night.”

  “My what?” I ask.

  Nayadi giggles and claps her hands. “He brings two armies on his heels. The blood of three kingdoms will be on your head if you do not play this right.” She falls back into my bed.

  My boots pound the floor as I hurry from the chamber, and her laughter follows me all the way down the stairs. “I am leaving to find Golmarr in the morning. If you would like to come with me, we need to make preparations for a journey,” I announce to whomever has followed. “But first, breakfast.”

  The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread permeates the citadel, and though I have no appetite, I know I must eat. When we reach the great hall where the food is being served, an unfamiliar voice says, “You walk like a sword fighter.” I drag my attention from thoughts of Nayadi’s vison and turn around. Enzio and Yerengul stop, too. A wizened old man with broad shoulders and a straight spine is walking toward me—the man who was sitting on the bed beside Nayadi. Yerengul gasps and starts whispering furiously in my ear, but the old man speaks.

  “Sorrowlynn of Faodara,” he says, his voice steady despite his aged appearance. “I have heard much about you.” He dips a deep, respectful bow. “I am Leogard, the oldest living sword master in the world. Before I retired, I trained your betrothed, Golmarr, and his father, and his father’s father. Though I arrived this morning with Nayadi, I came for a different reason.”

  When he does not continue, I ask, “Why have you come?”

  “To see if your reputation with the sword is deserved or exaggerated. Yerengul speaks very highly of you.” He eyes the sword at my hip and quirks an eyebrow. “Would you be opposed to stepping outside and letting me watch you practice for a few minutes?”

  I look between Leogard and the food being set out on tables, and Yerengul jabs me in the ribs with his elbow. “That is Leogard! You can’t say no to him!” he whispers.

  I want to tell Yerengul I can say no to whomever I want, but instead choose to be respectful. “I am not opposed at all, sir,” I say, forcing a polite smile to my mouth.

  Leogard holds his arm out and I rest my hand on it, letting him escort me past the great hall and breakfast, and outside to the deserted courtyard, with Yerengul and Enzio trailing behind us. When we have reached the very spot where I was practicing earlier, Leogard stops. “To arms,” he says, his eyes scrutinizing.

  My hand is on my sword hilt, sliding the weapon free before I even have time to think.

  “Thrust,” Leogard orders. I position my feet and thrust. The deep creases around Leogard’s brown eyes deepen. “Your form is good for a Faodarian princess. Thrust and parry.”

  Again, I do as he asks, letting the memories I was given from the dragon—from the hundreds of warriors that he killed—take control of my mind and body as he calls out a dozen commands.

  Leogard’s white eyebrows crawl up his forehead and he rubs his chin. “Surprisingly good for a Faodarian. Will you humor an old sword master and let me study your form a little longer?”

  A smile lights my face. I nod, and Leogard starts calling out commands. Every time he does, my body knows exactly how to respond without thinking. Fighting for me has become as natural as walking and breathing.

  The commands keep coming, faster and faster, and I keep swinging, jumping, lunging, retreating until my body is damp with sweat and my muscles are heavy from executing the exercises.

  “One more,” Leogard says. “But without the sword.”

  “As you wish.” I hand my weapon to Enzio.

  Leogard’s dark eyes meet mine. “Vinctar,” he says.

  The single word connects with my body and I swing my sword arm through the air in a wide arc at the same time as I jump in a fast spin. Landing on one knee, I thrust my arms toward the ground, giving a death blow to the imaginary opponent whose legs I just cut out from under him. Letting my arms drop to my sides, I look at my companions. All three are staring at me with wide, surprised eyes.

  “Have you taught her the Vinti commands, Yerengul?” Leogard asks.

  “No, sir,” Yerengul says.

  “Who taught you to speak Vinti, Sorrowlynn of Faodara?” Leogard asks.

  I frown at the aged man and wipe away the sweat that has dripped into my eyes. “Vinti?”

  “Vinti is the ancient language of warriors and scholars, spoken long before my great-grandfather’s time. It is the language my family has passed down from generation to generation to train warriors. I did not know any other sword master still used that ancient language. Ind vi fante Vinti?” Leogard asks and holds out his hand. I clasp it and wobble up to my feet.

  I know that what he just asked me, Ind vi fante Vinti?, was in a different language, but his words are as familiar to my brain as sword-fighting is to my body. He asked: Do you speak Vinti fluently? At least one of the dead warriors whose knowledge I have absorbed spoke Vinti. “I don’t know if I am fluent, but I understood what you asked.”

  “The last ten commands I spoke were in Vinti. And you executed them…perfectly, though with an antiquity I have not seen since I was a boy.” His awe-filled eyes scrutinize me. “Anta vi vesco atala en gredi?” he asks quietly, almost reverently, and again I understand him. Who has taught you the sword? “Who has your queen mother hired to turn her people into warriors? More important, why is she turning your people into warriors? Why is she turning her daughters into warriors?”

  “I did not learn to fight in Faodara,” I admit, taking my sword from Enzio and sheathing it. “My mother abhors fighting and weapons. I learned…” Uncertain what to say, I uncurl my left hand and study the calluses on it.

  “Did I hear you correctly?” Yerengul asks, studying me with a frown on his face. “You didn’t learn to fight in Faodara?”

  I clear my throat, but don’t look away from my palm. “That is correct.”

  “If you didn’t learn to fight in Faodara, then where did you learn to move like that?” Yerengul asks. “You fight as well as Golmarr, who has been trained from the moment he was strong enough to hold a sword. I was under the impression that you grew up in your mother’s castle, learning to fight.”

  I swallow and look up.

  Leogard is studying my body, Yerengul is frowning, and Enzio is staring at me with curious, expectant eyes.

  Do I dare tell them that everything I know about fighting was learned in less than a heartbeat? Learned in the moment the fire dragon died and forced his thousand years’ worth of treasure—men’s and women’s memories—into my brain?

  An arrow zips through the air, piercing the ground five paces from Yerengul’s feet. He jumps back and shades his eyes, peering up at the top of the wall. Sentries are up there, communicating with the Antharians’ hand signals. Strangers approaching, two men, mounted, armed, their hands say, their movements sharp and frantic. Yerengul sprints to the entrance of the tunnel that leads under the wall and pulls a metal lever. Chains clang and groan as a giant portcullis is dropped in front of the tunnel, making the ground shudder beneath my feet. A moment later, the sound of galloping horses reaches us, and then the hooves are clopping and echoing through the tunnel beneath the wall.

  Yerengul positions himself in front of the lowered portcullis, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. “Who are you, and what business do you have in my kingdom that has brought you to our threshold armed and frantic?” he demands.

  “I have come to warn you that an army approaches. They will arrive within a day,” a familiar voice states.

  My heart lurches to a painful stop and then starts pounding against
my ribs. I stride forward until I see the riders on the other side of the portcullis. There are two of them, but my eyes settle on the closer man. Even hidden beneath the shadow of the stone tunnel, and with my view limited by the metal bars of the portcullis, I recognize him. The man’s gaze flickers to me and holds. Though I can’t tell from here, I know his eyes are green.

  “What army?” Yerengul asks.

  “The Faodarian army. They are being led by Lord Damar and are coming to collect their princess.”

  My stomach seems to double in weight and drop. Lord Damar is my mother’s husband, and since my mother is the queen, Lord Damar holds nearly as much power as if he were the king. He is the man I called my father until I learned my father was actually a palace guard named Ornald. Lord Damar is the man who whipped my legs when I displeased him and insisted I spend my days secluded in my bedchamber. Yerengul looks at me, his dark brows drawn together. When he turns back to the newcomers, he asks, “Who are you?”

  “I am Ornald, a former Faodarian palace guard. I am—”

  “He is my father,” I blurt, walking to the portcullis and wrapping my fingers around the cold metal separating us. Ornald dismounts and smiles, and for the first time in my life I look into his eyes to see if they are the same color as mine.

  “Ingvar! Your presence is needed at the tunnel! Bring reinforcements,” Yerengul yells toward the citadel.

  Within minutes, the courtyard is filled with somber, silent warriors, with Ingvar at their front and King Marrkul watching from the citadel. At a hand signal from Ingvar, the portcullis is raised just high enough for Ornald and his companion to dismount and enter, and a young man carrying a message to exit.

  My father steps beneath the gate and stops before me. I look up at him, searching for my likeness in his square chin, his arched eyebrows, and the slant of his tired green eyes—which are nearly the same color as mine. Hands grab my arms from behind, and I am yanked off balance as three swords are thrust between me and my father, mere inches from his chest.