The Dragon's Curse (A Transference Novel)

by Bethany Wiggins

  “Golmarr!” I laugh and throw my arms around his neck, savoring the feel of him. “Where have you been? I have missed you so much.” Leaning back, I place my hands on his warm cheeks and sigh with contentment.

  Golmarr furrows his brow. “What?” His voice is wrong, but everything else about him is perfect. My attention moves from his eyes to his mouth, and my heart starts to pound. I stand on my toes and kiss him. His lips are cool beneath mine, and completely unresponsive. Hands wrap around my wrists and he takes a step away. My joy is once again replaced with emptiness.

  “Do you hate me? Is that why you don’t want me to touch you?” I ask, and that is the moment the swarming bugs come in for a second attack. As they fill my eyes and pour into my nostrils and down my throat, I scream. Layer after layer, they cover my body until I cannot move. My arms and legs are pressed beneath such a massive weight, I cannot lift them. Even my ribs barely expand as I try to force air into them. Only my eyes work, darting from side to side, filled with so much black I barely see a thing.

  Something cracks against my jaw, and as my head is wrenched to the side, straining so hard against my neck it feels like it is going to snap off, the bugs devour me into a silent, cold blackness.

  The ocean is rising and falling, back and forth, up and down, and a woman keeps calling my name, her voice begging me to answer. Shores of shimmering black and dragon claws flit through my mind until I realize the front of my body is like ice, my dangling legs are stiff and numb, but my back is toasty warm. Time to roll over so the other side of me is facing the hearth, I think, but cannot move. My lips part and I taste blood on my tongue. A long, hoarse groan scratches out of my throat.

  “Drink this,” someone says, and I open my eyes. The world is tilting back and forth, and I am sitting astride a horse. A leather water skin is being held in front of me by a hand missing half of its pinkie finger. The sight of that disfigured finger sends a wave of concern through me, but I take the water skin and drink.

  My throat burns when I swallow. It is swollen and thick, covered with raw patches. When I bring the water skin down from my mouth, I see blood dried on my fingers and caked beneath my nails. The water sloshes in my stomach, and my body rejects it and tightens. I scramble in the saddle, yank an arm from around my waist, and fall from the horse, thudding onto my side on brittle, dry grass. My stomach clenches again. Oily slime and black pebbles the shape and size of my thumbnail shoot from my mouth and stain the ground. They look exactly like the rocks from the beach in my dream. Pushing onto my hands and knees, I vomit again; more slime filled with black pebbles. No, not pebbles. Bugs. They are still squirming, trying to crawl out of the vomit and toward me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the sight and moan. Bugs are wriggling in my belly and throat. I vomit a third time, a fourth, a fifth, until my stomach clenches but nothing comes out. When I open my eyes, I expect to see a mountain of bugs writhing on the ground, but the vomit has changed. Instead of slime filled with bugs, a puddle of yellow bile is seeping into the dirt. There is nothing black in it or around it.

  “What happened to the bugs?” I ask.

  Heavy leather boots thud down beside me. I wipe my mouth on my bare arm and squint up.

  “What bugs?” the owner of the boots asks. “It is the end of winter. All the bugs are dead.” He has short, pale hair, and his chest is as wide as a barrel of ale. Prince Treyose, I think. My so-called husband. He hands me an embroidered handkerchief, and I wipe my mouth with it, leaving traces of vomit on the expensive silk. The water skin plunks to the ground beside my vomit and I lift it to my mouth with trembling hands, swishing the water around and spitting it back out.

  I look at the vomit again—plain, frothy bile and not bugs—and a word whispers into my mind. Strickbane. Dragon poison. Strickbane is lethal to humans if it is so much as absorbed through the skin. Only a dragon can be dosed with Strickbane and survive. In tiny doses, it causes hallucinations before killing its victim. Anything more and it kills almost instantly. I press on my hairline and feel the scabbed spot where the poison was introduced into my blood. “How did Lord Damar get his hands on Strickbane poison, and how am I still alive?” I whisper, and totter back on my heels.

  “Better?” Treyose asks.

  “Not really. How did you find me?”

  “I knew you headed south, so I followed. When I couldn’t find you, your screams of terror led me right to your side.”

  “I wasn’t screaming,” I say. “I couldn’t even talk.”

  “You were screaming so loudly, I thought someone was murdering you.” As he talks, I glance at him from the corner of my eye and quickly lift my skirt, exposing my leg to my knee. An empty knife belt is strapped to my calf. “Are you looking for this?” he asks, holding my black stone knife in his hand, testing its balance. He thrusts it into the back of his waistband and then wraps his hands around my arms and lifts me to my feet like I weigh nothing. My entire body begins quivering, and I hug my arms around myself.

  “Cold,” I say through chattering teeth, and my breath comes out as white mist. My mouth tastes terrible.

  “I have no cloak or I would let you wear it.” He smirks. “And I have no tunic, because you set fire to it.” I look at his shirt—a plain, thin long-sleeve undershirt made to wear beneath a heavier garment. “When we reach my army we will get provisions.”

  My back goes rigid and some of the trembling leaves my body. “No,” I say, my voice weak. “I am not going with you. Where is my horse?”

  His lips press into a hard line, and his hand darts out, cinching around my wrist. Without a word, he drags me to his horse and mounts. “Do you want to climb up, or do you want me to drag you into the saddle?” he asks, eyes cold as stone.

  Twisting my wrist toward his thumb, I break the hold. Before I have moved out of reach, his other hand tangles in my hair, dragging me so my chest is pressed against his leg. Once again my scalp burns from the strain put on it, and I silently swear I am going to cut my hair as short as a Trevonan man’s the first chance I get.

  Treyose digs his fingers into my armpits and hauls me onto the horse so I am lying across the animal. My poison-ravished body is too weak to fight him, so I lie there trying to catch my breath.

  “I heard you were a tenacious woman, but I never would have believed it of a Faodarian-raised princess, had I not seen it with my own eyes,” he growls. He hauls on my shoulders and together the two of us work to get me astride the animal. As soon as I am sitting, Treyose’s arm cinches around my waist and pulls me tight against his chest. “As your husband, I command you to stay on this horse.” I grunt in response, and swallow against the lump forming in my throat. He puts his mouth against my ear. “If you try to jump off, I will tie you to me with a rope.”

  Despite the tears trying to fill my eyes, I muster up every ounce of dignity I still possess and I lift my chin. They fall anyway—the tears—trickling down my cheeks and raining from my chin, splattering Treyose’s hand. Leaning to the side, he studies my profile. With a groan of frustration, he digs his boot heels into the horse’s flanks, and we start forward at a fast trot.

  As the sun rises at our backs and the Trevonan army comes into view, I lift my skirt and use it to dry my cheeks. Instead of riding to the army, Treyose pulls the horse to a stop and waits as five riders approach.

  To our left and ahead a little way is a small hollow in the grass, and I know immediately an archer is stationed there, probably lying on his belly, arrow nocked and pointed at us. “Would your own archer truly shoot you?” My voice is sour with derision.

  “The sun is in his eyes. I would rather not find out if he can tell it is me,” Treyose says, looking toward the concealed man. “And it is you his arrow would hit.”

  As the five riders near, Treyose raises his hand and signals them to come close. They slow their horses and stop in front of us. All five men have the close-
cropped hair worn by Trevonan nobility, and all carry well-made swords, not the mass-produced, standard army issue. These men are noblemen, probably Treyose’s top ranked. They study me, eyes curious, but not one of them asks who I am. It must not be unusual for Trevonan men to bring unwilling women home, I think. Even an unwilling bride.

  “Rally the army. There will be no fighting with Faodara or Anthar today,” Treyose says.

  “Then why are we here? Why have you been in Faodara these past weeks?” one man asks. He is middle-aged and lean—the kind of lean that begets speed and strength in a fight.

  “I had business with Faodara, and it is now concluded. I asked you to meet me on our border as a simple precaution to make sure I made it back without an army on my heels. I was not sure how things would turn out with Lord Damar,” Treyose answers. Though his men’s eyes shine with curiosity, none of them question Treyose further. “Anslow.”

  A young man with pale red hair rides forward. “Yes, my lord?”

  Treyose holds a creased and rather worn-looking sealed letter out to him. “Send a man out with this. I was supposed to give it to the King of Anthar before leaving his kingdom, but I was forced to flee before I had the chance.” He looks accusingly at me. “It needs to be delivered to King Marrkul of Anthar, right into his hand. He is at their mountain fortress.”

  “Yes, sir. I will get provisions and then leave immediately.” Anslow bows and turns his horse, trotting into the ranks of the army.

  “And what is our destination, Prince Treyose?” the middle-aged man asks.

  “We ride for home, Reyler.” Treyose guides his horse closer to his men and adds, “Warn everyone if they linger here, they risk being killed by the Antharian army and the Faodarian army. I need a fresh horse. You are dismissed.” The men nod and turn to leave, but Treyose calls, “Wait!” The four riders turn to him. “My companion needs food. Reyler, stay.” The men’s eyes flicker to me with renewed interest, and then all but one man ride away.

  The lean man’s eyes linger on my long, loose hair for a moment, and I wonder what I must look like. He quickly takes in my rumpled clothing and Treyose’s arm cinched around my waist. “She is wearing Antharian clothing, but she does not have their black hair and darker skin. Who is she?”

  “She is…” He studies the side of my face. “A Satari woman from the Glass Forest.”

  Reyler looks at me again. “You’ve taken a Satari woman hostage?” he asks, and his eyes move to my bloodstained hands.

  Treyose nods. “Yes, Reyler, I have taken a Satari woman hostage,” he says so loudly my ears ring. Every man within hearing distance stops what he is doing to study me. “I like the look of her,” he adds. I open my mouth to protest, but he claps his hand over it. Leaning close to Reyler, he quietly says, “In truth, this is Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara, and she is my wife. But that information is not to go beyond you. Do you understand?”

  Reyler’s gray eyes light up and he grins. “Of course, my lord. It is about time you were wed.” The grin falters. “She does not look happy.”

  “No, happy is definitely not a word I would use to describe our union. Be sure to give her the utmost respect, and protection if she ever needs it.” There is a hard edge to Treyose’s voice.

  Reyler, his eyes still taking in every detail about me, whispers, “Is she why you have been in Faodara these past weeks? You have fallen in love with her, and married her against her will?”

  “I have been in Faodara for many reasons, but my grandfather is not to know I brought a woman home with me. I do not want him to find out,” Treyose explains. Reyler’s eyes grow dark, and he nods. “I will explain more later, when we have privacy. Come with me.” He kicks his mount and we ride forward, though the horse’s hooves stumble with exhaustion.

  “Where, exactly, are you taking me?” I ask.

  “Prince Treyose,” he says, his voice cold.

  “You are Prince Treyose, so you cannot be taking me to him.”

  With his mouth against my ear he quietly says, “When you speak to me, you address me with respect. You can either call me ‘my lord’ or ‘Prince Treyose.’ ”

  My lips pucker. “Then I will not speak to you.”

  He shrugs, and I feel it against my back, so I lean as far from him as I can. “I prefer silence from most women,” he says.

  Every muscle in my body grows taut as a bowstring. I grit my teeth and ram my elbow into Treyose’s ribs as hard as I can, and then brace for the recoil of his anger. He laughs under his breath, and then chuckles out loud. “I don’t know why any man would want to be wed to you,” he says. I ram my elbow back a second time, but he catches it before it hits his ribs.

  “Then have it annulled,” I say. He doesn’t respond.

  At a simple, linen tent, he dismounts. “Reyler,” he says, not taking his eyes from mine. “I would like you to nock an arrow and keep it trained on this Satari woman’s thigh. If she dismounts, wait until she is far enough from my steed so you can shoot her in the leg without hitting the animal. But shoot first, and ask questions later.” Eyes still boring into mine, he adds, “And I can guarantee you she will run.”

  I glare at Reyler. “Not when I see with a glance your man knows how to use his weapon.”

  Reyler grins, and Treyose laughs as he enters the tent. A moment later he exits and tosses a fur-lined Trevonan-purple cloak to me. Desperate for its warmth, I swing it around my shoulders and hook the golden clasp at my throat—a quill crossed with a sword, the royal seal of Trevon.

  After a few minutes of metal clanking and ringing from inside the tent, Treyose steps out, armed with a sword at his hip and a bow slung over his back. He’s wearing sleek Trevonan armor that makes his barrel of a chest look even bigger than before. Instead of chain mail and leather, his armor is made up of small metal scales that overlap each other. He looks like a dragon. I eye his sword and wonder how to get it away from him.

  “I do not like how you are studying my weapon,” he says. He runs his fingers down the front of his armor. “Now your elbows will do no damage.” He turns and bellows, “Where is my fresh horse? We need to ride.”

  As if on cue, a young man guides a well-groomed, saddled bay mare to us. He hands the reins to Treyose and bows. Squinting against the sun, Treyose looks up. “Are you going to trade horses like a good girl, or am I going to have to drag you into the saddle again?”

  I clench my jaw and stick my nose in the air.

  “My men would love to see me force you into the saddle,” he says quietly. Stepping close, he rests his hand on my knee and adds, “I would prefer not to.”

  Feeling like I am giving up my freedom, I slide from the saddle of the weary horse and gracefully swing up onto the bay.

  Treyose nods his satisfaction. “At least you can see sense.”

  The army is like a slow-moving beast, skulking across the land and flattening everything in its way. Every few minutes, I peer back around Treyose’s broad, armored shoulder, expecting to see another army darkening the horizon we have recently trodden. The horizon never changes. When the sun has crawled halfway across the sky, and I peer to the east yet again, Treyose grunts and says, “No one is coming for you, so you might as well stop looking.”

  His words muddy the hope I have been clinging to—the hope I have used to anchor my emotions since the day Golmarr tried to kill me. Hope. It is getting harder and harder to hold on to it. “I am betrothed to Prince Golmarr, son of King Marrkul. That makes me Antharian,” I say through a tight jaw. “They will come for me.”

  He pulls me tight against his chest and puts his mouth beside my ear. “My arrangement to wed you was agreed upon by your mother and father, and was put into motion by one of the Antharian princes. King Marrkul was informed of it this morning—that is what was written in the letter I gave to Anslow. King Marrkul will not send an army for you because the letter was fro
m his own son. This arrangement is part of a bigger plan.”

  My stomach clenches and then sours. “One of the Antharian princes agreed to this? As in one of Golmarr’s brothers?”

  “Yes, one of King Marrkul’s sons agreed to this, but I am not at liberty to say who it was.”

  I think of Golmarr’s eight brothers and wonder who betrayed me. “I do not believe you,” I say after a long silence. “Golmarr’s brothers pledged to protect me.”

  He laughs under his breath. “The horse lords are fighters and warriors. They will pledge to protect you one minute, and then change their minds when they find a worthier cause to fight for. Unfortunately for you, one of them has found a worthier cause.”

  “What cause?” My voice is barely louder than a whisper.

  “Something they have sought for hundreds of years: peace with Trevon.”

  I shake my head as a swell of dizziness hits me and tilts me sideways. “No!” The word comes out as a breath. “They wouldn’t trade me for peace.” Would they?

  “You have to understand how they think,” he says, firming his arm around me and pulling me back upright. “Your life is but one life. Giving you to me in exchange for peace will spare thousands upon thousands of lives, Princess Sorrowlynn. It will be the key to preserving fathers and mothers, the means to having children grow up in whole families, not as orphans who are instantly recruited to one of the Antharian’s citadels to train to be a warrior in place of being a son or daughter. It will change the way they live for the better, and all because of you.”

  What he says makes sense. My hope takes wings and flutters just out of reach. I swallow past a growing lump in my throat and ask, “Am I truly wed to you?”