A Day of Dragon Blood

MORI



She stepped into the temple, harp in hand, and took a shuddering breath. Her head swam, her lungs constricted, and the columns swayed before her. She forced a deep breath.

"Be calm, Mori," she whispered. "Be calm. Breathe. You can do this."

She took a step deeper into the temple. She had always feared this place—there were so many priestesses here, so many people come to pray, so many sick and wounded come for healing. The voices all echoed in the halls, and their feet all pattered, and the movements of robes danced like ghosts. One time all the sounds and figures had frightened Mori so much, she had run outside, shifted into a dragon, and fled the city for two days.

"But today they need me," she whispered, lips trembling. "Today I will face my fear."

She took another step.

The hall stretched before her, marble tiles white and veined with blue. Two children ran across the hall, chasing each other with wooden swords. A young priest walked between columns, carrying towels, and smiled at her. Mori's heart leaped into flight. Suddenly the priest's fluttering robes were burning. Before her eyes, they became phoenix wings, showering fire and flying toward her. Suddenly the children no longer played with wooden swords but lay bloody, steel swords buried in their bellies. Their eyes gazed at her, begging, bleeding.

"Princess Mori," said the swooping phoenix.

Mori gulped and blinked. Again she saw only a priest before her, a young man who smiled at her. She took a shuddering breath, clutched her luck finger behind her back, and managed to smile.

Only two children and a priest, she thought. I'm safe here. I'm safe. There are no phoenixes anymore, no dead children, no war. Those days are gone.

She kept walking.

Before the war, Mori could always retreat into the library, a great shadowy chamber underground. Only the royal House Aeternum carried the keys to the library; she could find solitude there, solace from the voices, from the movements of too many swaying cloaks, from all those crowds that spun her head. She would curl up underground with a good book, and she would read for hours. Inside the world of books, she was never afraid; she could be brave as a knight or wise as a wizard. There were no voices that were too loud, no movements too jarring, no crowds that spun around her and stole her breath.

"But now the people here need me, the people in this temple," she whispered to herself. "They need me just as much as the books do. I will comfort them however I can."

She swallowed and took another step.

Step by step, heart racing, she crossed the hall and entered the Chamber of Healing.

The domed roof towered above her, painted with scenes of stars and wise dragons of old. Columns surrounded the room, their capitals shaped as birch canopies inlaid with silver. Three rows of beds stood upon the marble tiles, and in them lay the wounded. They raised their heads, smiled at Mori, and those who still had hands waved them.

Blood rained. Fire burned. Tiran soldiers stormed the hall, plunging blades into flesh, and Queen Solina flew as a phoenix, burning bodies into ash, and...

No. Mori closed her eyes and tried to remember what Mother Adia had taught her. She breathed in slowly, filling her lungs top to bottom, held her breath, and exhaled it. She breathed deeply three times, then opened her eyes and saw no more fire, no more blood. She nodded, tightened her lips, and walked toward the wounded.

"Princess Mori," said one man who lay abed. The war had taken his four limbs; he lay wrapped like a babe in swaddling clothes. He smiled at her. "We missed you, my princess."

She smiled back. "Hello, Rowyn. I missed you too." She pulled a scroll from her pack, unrolled it, and showed it to him. "I painted these flowers for you."

He whistled softly. "They're beautiful. You know how I love sunflowers. I used to grow them before the war."

She placed the scroll by him and walked on. She reached a bed where lay Alandia, the daughter of a farmer. She had been burned so badly her face was still bloated, and her arms ended with stumps.

"Princess Mori," she whispered.

Mori knew that Alandia still lived with daily pain, even today, a year after the war. Mori produced another scroll, this one painted with horses. She knew how Alandia loved horses; she had owned two before the war.

"Here, Alandia, more horses!" she said. "See? I drew Clipper and Starshine."

The two horses now lay buried, two more victims of the war. Mori had painted them from memory a hundred times for the burnt girl. She placed the scroll on the bed.

She kept moving between the beds, handing out gifts. One child had lost his eyes and ears; she gave him a box of scented oils. If he was blind and deaf, she would let him smell a hint of life. Another man, once a soldier, had lost his sanity; he lay bound to his bed, mumbling and weeping. Mori kissed his forehead and recited old poems to him, poems he had once loved. As she whispered, she saw his face calm, and she stroked his hair until he slept. A hundred wounded filled this temple, still lingering in pain, and Mori knew these ones would stay here forever. Their bodies or minds were destroyed, their families were gone, and their houses had fallen.

Elethor can fight for them, she thought. Bayrin can guard them. But I... I can soothe them. I can bring them some joy in their world of pain.

When she had distributed her gifts, she began to play her harp. Lady Lyana was a great warrior, Elethor a sculptor, Bayrin a trickster; she, the young Princess Mori, had always found her talent in music. She closed her eyes as she played her harp, and she sang her song. It was an old tune of Requiem, sung among the birches for thousands of years, even in the Golden Age before the great wars had toppled Requiem's glory. It was a song of birch leaves in wind, of wings on the sky, of marble columns rising into the night... but as Mori sang, it became too a song of warmth over fear, of whispers into a pool of loneliness, of broken souls mending under a sky of fire. It was the song of her life: of her tragedy in Castellum Luna where she had lost her brother and her innocence; of her war over Nova Vita where she had seen so many slain; and of her hope for healing, her hope for a new dawn in Requiem. It was a song of starlight.

She played the last note, a haunting whisper and the flutter of dragon wings fading into nightfall, and opened her eyes. She saw that across the hall, clad in white silk, stood Mother Adia. The High Priestess looked upon her with soft eyes and smiled sadly.

"My princess," she said.

Mori approached the older woman and embraced her. "Mother Adia! I practiced the breathing you taught me last night, and I thought of birches in the wind, like you said I should, and I had only one nightmare."

A year ago, the wounds of war fresh, nightmares had twisted her nights. Until dawn, Mori would see Solina burn her brother, feel Lord Acribus grab and choke her, and see dead children strewn across Nova Vita. Slowly, moon after moon, she worked with Mother Adia to breathe, to think of birch leaves, to see stars and flowers in the night, not fire and blood.

Mother Adia kissed her cheek. "I'm glad, Mori. It will still be a while, but I hope that soon you'll sleep the whole night with no nightmares at all."

Mori nodded, feeling warm and safe in the embrace. To sleep the whole night through—without waking up breathless, trembling, and covered in cold sweat? She did not think it possible. Not now, with Bayrin and Lyana away in the south. Before Bayrin had left for Tiranor, she would sleep in his arms, and when nightmares woke her, she could huddle closer to him, kiss him, and feel safe. Now she slept alone, and she missed Bayrin so badly that her stomach ached.

"I hope so," she whispered into Mother Adia's robes. They were soft like the birch leaves she thought of at night.

Mother Adia took her from the Chamber of Healing and into halls and rooms throughout the temple. They spent an hour meeting healers in training, carpenters building new beds, and priests organizing chambers of supplies: bandages, vials of silkweed milk, needles and stitches, bone saws and scalpels, pots of healing herbs, and codices full of medical drawings that both scared and soothed Mori.

War will flare again. Bayrin spoke of armies mustering in the south, and she knew the second invasion could begin any day now. Her knees trembled, and she clutched her luck finger behind her back, the sixth finger on her left hand.

This time, when fire rains and steel bites, we'll be ready to heal the wounded. Adia will be ready with her herbs and bandages, and I'll be ready with my song and harp.

She stepped outside onto the marble stairs of the temple. The wind pinched her cheeks and played with her hair. She looked upon the city of Nova Vita, and peacefulness settled upon her like golden dawn upon storming sea. The forest was still charred, but new saplings grew between the blackened stumps. Many houses still lay in ruin, but masons were busy as ants, building new homes. Many graves covered Lacrimosa Hill beyond the city walls, but many dragons still lived, gliding overhead.

"Come back to us soon, Bayrin and Lyana," she whispered into the wind.

The flap of wings ruffled her hair. A brass dragon came flying toward her, scales clinking and breath snorting. Mori shielded her eyes with her palm. It was her brother, King Elethor. Smoke streamed from his nostrils in two trails. His claws clattered against the temple's marble stairs, and he folded his wings. He tossed his head, snorted flickers of fire, and shifted.

When he stood in human form, he looked old to Mori, older than she'd ever known him—not old like Lord Deramon perhaps, or like Father had been, but... he suddenly seemed closer to them in age, no longer a youth like her. Only last year, he had been merely her brother, the quiet Elethor who lived upon the hill. Today she saw a man clad in steel armor, a longsword strapped to his side, his face bearded and his brow showing the first hints of creasing. The thin, quiet prince she had known was gone; today she saw a king.

"Mori," he said, "Bayrin has returned from Tiranor... and he brings news."

Bayrin is back! Mori's heart leaped with joy. Bayrin—the boy who would tug her pigtails in childhood, who had grown into a man who would kiss her lips, hold her in his strong arms, and protect her. Bayrin—her guard, her guiding star, and the sky in her wings. She wanted to run to him, to kiss him, to hold him forever... but something in Elethor's eyes held her back. Her brother's gaze was somber and his voice low; Mori froze and stared at him.

The news is bad.

Cold, skeletal claws seemed to clutch her heart. She could barely breathe and her eyes stung. She grabbed Elethor's hands and squeezed them.

"El," she whispered, "is... is the war here again?"

Think of the leaves. Think of the wind in the birches. Think of stars at night. Don't let the nightmares rise.

He looked around him, then lowered his head and spoke softly. "Mori, do not speak of this to anyone. Not yet. I don't want the people alarmed. We think the invasion is near. We think we know where the enemy will fly." He stared at her steadily. "I need you to be strong. I need you to be brave."

Mori had expected to shiver, whimper, and see the world spin. Strangely no fear filled her, only a metallic resolve. She nodded.

"I will be brave," she whispered. "Elethor... I will be strong. I will fight."

She embraced her brother, laid her head against his pauldron, and held him tight. His armor was cold and hard against her. He kissed her head.

"Our forces are strong," he said, his arms around her. "We've trained them well. This time Solina won't catch us by surprise. This time we'll cast her back into the sea."

Mori closed her eyes. A vision flashed through her head—Elethor lying in the temple with the wounded, his limbs gone, his face burnt like Orin's face back at Castellum Luna. She held her brother tight.

"I know, El. I know we're strong. I love you."

He mussed her hair. "I love you too, Mors." He held her at arm's length. "I fly east now, beyond the mountains, to summon the farmlords. We will hold a council of Requiem's highborn—like the great councils Father would hold. It's two days to Oldnale Manor and two days back. Sit upon the throne while I'm away, Mori. You rule in Nova Vita in my absence."

A tear streamed down her cheek. Elethor turned, shifted into a dragon, and flew across the city. Mori stood upon the temple steps, hand raised, and watched until he disappeared into the east.