A Day of Dragon Blood

SOLINA



He entered her tent clad in armor, clutching his throat and still wheezing. He took slow, confident paces and held his back straight and shoulders squared—a pathetic attempt to restore some pride. He had lost their catch; no steel armor nor strong stance could save his pride today.

Solina sat in her chair, feet upon a footstool. Around her draped the walls of her tent—thick red cloth embroidered with golden suns. Candles burned upon giltwood tables around them. Solina sipped wine, then placed her goblet down. She gave Mahrdor a long, silent look. He stared back steadily, blue eyes emotionless, but his fingers still clutched his throat, and his lip gave a twitch.

Solina sighed. "You let the bird fly."

When he spoke, his voice was but a hoarse whisper. "A dragon, my queen, not a bird; a dragon who nearly clawed my throat out." He pulled his hand back, revealing a neck scratched red and raw. Blood still dripped from it.

Solina laughed. "The Lady Lyana Eleison. I grew up with her, Mahrdor—a pampered girl born into splendor. I saw her cry once when a bee stung her in the gardens. And this rich, spoiled spawn of a lordling, born with a silver spoon up her backside, nearly clawed out the throat of mighty General Mahrdor, Lord of Tiranor's Hosts?"

As stiff as he stood, he managed to stiffen further. "My queen, the girl you knew has grown. She is a vicious beast now, a creature, a—"

"Was she a dragon in your tent?" Solina asked.

Mahrdor began to say something, then closed his mouth. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils. "My queen? I—"

"You claim she is no bird, but a creature, a... how did you call it? A vicious beast? Your tent still stands, does it not? Charred, yes, but still standing. I saw it from the hill. Surely a vicious dragon would have torn your tent to shreds."

Something cold and dangerous filled his eyes. She had never seen him stare at her like that. Quick as it kindled, the blue fire in his eyes died. He raised his chin. "She shifted into a dragon outside my tent."

"And yet..." Solina crossed her legs upon the footstool. "And yet you were found gasping and croaking inside your tent, clutching at your throat. You were dragged from the smoke nearly dead. Curious thing, is it not? One could almost think—it's a long stretch of imagination, to be sure, but hear me out—one could almost think that a chained, pampered, utterly defenseless girl choked you... not a dragon." She raised her palms, as if weighing one enemy in each. "Vicious dragon? Chained girl? Which was it, Mahrdor? Which of these horrible enemies did this to you?"

His lips pulled back in but the slightest snarl, and his hands formed fists at his sides. "A girl who can become a dragon, a—"

"A girl who became a dragon after choking you." She rose to her feet and approached him. "Mahrdor, you lead this army. You command the hosts of the Sun God himself. You are, supposedly, the greatest soldier in my kingdom. And this..." She touched his neck. "The work of a chained, pampered girl from a soft northern land."

He stared at her silently. She could see his emotions: rage, shame, and finally... finally the blank duty of a soldier. He lowered his head, jaw clenched.

"I failed you, my queen." Fists clenched at his sides, he knelt before her. "Forgive me, your highness."

She sighed again, stepped aside, and looked at the back of the tent. A clay jug sat there, a cloth atop it. When she sniffed the air, its scent tingled her nostrils. She turned back toward her general. He looked at the jug, paled, and returned his eyes to her.

"My queen. I..." He breathed sharply. "I beg you."

"Beg me?" she said and snorted a laugh. "I begged too, Mahrdor. I begged the weredragons to spare my parents' life. I begged them to release me from my northern captivity. I begged so many times." She touched her line of fire, the scar that ran down her face, neck, and chest. "But they scarred me, Mahrdor. They deformed me. It was Lyana's betrothed who gave me this scar, the lover of the woman you freed." She pointed at the jug. "Now you will carry scars too. Do it silently. Your left hand; the one you tried to conceal your neck with. Make not a sound. If you scream, your right hand will follow."

His lip curled. "And if I refuse?" he rasped.

She shrugged. "Refuse then. Storm out of my tent and try to escape; we will hunt you. Try to kill me. You could not defeat a chained girl; you will not defeat me."

He took a step toward her. His eyes blazed. "If I escape, you will hunt me, but you will not catch me."

"Perhaps." She sat back down and sipped her wine; it tasted of berries, oak, and a hint of spices. "You could perhaps evade us for a while. You could seek exile in some distant land, a sojourner. Instead of your villa upon the River Pallan, you could squat in alleys in Confutatis, or live feral in Hostias Forest, or become a hermit in some western mountain in Salvandos. You could forsake your servants and fine meals; you could eat squirrel dung if you like. It bothers me not; it would, in fact, amuse me. Then, a few years down the line, I will find you with a long beard and some ratty cloak—a pathetic disguise—and I will dip your head into my vase. Or..." She raised her left hand and flexed the fingers. "You can do this quickly, you can do it silently, and we can keep flying to Nova Vita."

He stared at her. Their eyes locked for what seemed the turn of seasons. She saw the madness there, that madness he kept hidden, that drove him, that would have him prove his loyalty today. She herself would have run, but he would be too stubborn, too proud.

He tore his eyes away, walked toward the jug, and thrust his fist into the acid.

His jaw clenched and his body shook, but he did not make a sound.