A Day of Dragon Blood

SOLINA



She stood at a towering window in her chambers, its archway large enough for a wyvern to fly through. A wind from the desert blew, billowing her white silks and platinum hair. Her golden jewels chinked, and the coppery taste of sand flickered across her lips. She gripped the hilts of her twin sabres and gazed upon her home.

Cranes and ibises flew above her oasis, singing to the sun. Date and fig trees rustled. Men labored across the city of Irys, sweat glistening on their golden skin: tending to vineyards, hammering swords on anvils, and raising statues and columns for her glory. Ships sailed up the River Pallan, overflowing with spices and gems from Iysa, Jewel of the South and a twin to Irys. From the north, wyverns were flying over the delta and landing in Hog Corner. Upon their backs, they bore the trophies of Requiem: longswords of filigreed steel, statues of marble from Requiem's temples, sacks of golden coins, and chests full of books and scrolls and artifacts.

"All your glory is mine, Elethor," Solina whispered into the desert. "All that you had is gone from you."

She winced in sudden pain. It had been a moon's turn since she had fallen over Nova Vita, since her wyverns had caught her tumbling and burning. Her chest still hurt sometimes, though her healers insisted her cracked ribs had healed. Her hair had burned; she had shaved it off that day, and it was still short under the wig she wore.

"And soon I will bring you here too."

Ten thousand wyverns still flew over Requiem, burning what forests remained, slaughtering whatever dragon they found cowering in the wastelands.

"All but you, Elethor," she whispered. "They will not slaughter you, no." She drew Raem, her blade of dawn, and held it aloft. "They will bring you here alive, and it will be this blade that you scream for, this blade that I will hold above you, as you weep and beg me to stab your heart." She snarled. "But I will not, Elethor; I will not show you any more mercy. You turned down my mercy. Now you will live."

She shut her eyes and winced.

I spoke to him of my secret. I spoke of our child.

She clenched her jaw so hard she felt her teeth could crack.

No. No. That will remain buried. She clutched her swords so tightly, her fists trembled. I will never remember that pain again.

She turned from her window. Trophies of her conquests filled her chamber. The sword of Lord Deramon, its blade engraved with the Draco constellation, hung upon her wall. The brooch of Mother Adia, a silver birch leaf, shone upon a plaque carved from the Weredragon Temple's marble. Below these spoils stood the Oak Throne of Requiem, the soot sanded off the twisting roots that formed it. Around the throne, covering the tiles of her floor, lay jugs of weredragon gold and jewels, helms of fallen knights, and blades of northern steel.

"I will sit upon this throne as I watch you scream," Solina whispered. "I will place my feet upon the helms of your warriors, and I will laugh as my vultures feed upon you."

Still clutching her swords, she left her chamber. Her sandals thumped against the stairs leading down her tower. She walked across corridors with tiles so polished her reflection walked beneath her, clad in white silks and gold. She crossed her grand hall where a hundred guards stood armored in platinum, their visors shaped like the heads of falcons, and her throne rose glittering, a monolith of ivory and jewels. She descended dark stairs into the underground, where the air was cold and damp even as the sun pounded the desert above. She walked down tunnels, sloping ever deeper, until all scent and sound and memory of the world faded into darkness.

She grabbed a torch that burned upon a craggy wall. Dust carpeted the floor. Cobwebs, old blood, and chained skeletons covered the walls. Still she walked, going deeper, until the tunnel narrowed to a mere burrow, and the air was so cold even the Sun God could not warm it.

She approached the chamber that lay ahead. Her torchlight flickered. She stepped through the doorway and snarled a grin.

The creature hung there from the ceiling, wrists chained. The pathetic, beaten thing did not even look up. Blood trickled from its wrists, and cobwebs filled its dangling hair. It was a wretched being, emaciated, its skin lashed and raw. When Solina approached and the torchlight blazed against the beast, it gave a low mewl and swung on its chains; it was too weak to do anything else.

Solina caressed the creature's cheek. It shivered under her palm. She stroked its hair and kissed its forehead.

"Hush now," Solina whispered. "Soon he will be with you, my sweet Mori. Soon your brother will be with you again."