A Night of Dragon Wings

TREALE



"Pomegranates, fresh pomegranates, grab one to eat!" cried the boy.

He stood upon the banks of the River Pallan, a scrawny thing with deep golden skin, holding a basket laden with the red treasures.

"Grab a pomegranate, a copper a fruit!" he shouted.

Around the boy, a dozen other children stood upon the boardwalk, hawking their own wares from baskets. Behind them, longships rowed up and down the river, laden with more baskets and crates of goods.

"Carobs, dried carobs!"

"Fresh oysters, grab them while they're fresh!"

"Seashell bracelets for fertility! Wear them in bed for healthy babes!"

Treale stood upon the cobbled boardwalk, shaded under the awning of a chandlery. She wore her dark cloak draped around her and hid her midnight hair and eyes—foreign in this land of platinum hair and blue eyes—under her hood. The scents of the foods filled her nostrils. Her stomach growled and her mouth watered. She had not eaten in… how long had it been? She could barely remember; certainly she had eaten nothing since landing in Irys yesterday. Fingers trembling with hunger, she reached into her pocket, fished around, and produced a single copper coin. It was all the money she had in the world—not enough for a nice fish or crab, even if she had a place to cook them—but perhaps enough for a pomegranate.

She walked onto the boardwalk, leaped back as a peddler came trundling down upon his donkey-drawn cart, and kept moving. When she reached the boy hawking pomegranates, she held out her coin in her palm.

"I'll have one if you please," she spoke from the shadows of her hood.

The boy took the coin, squinted at it, and Treale felt faint. This was a coin from Requiem; she had smoothed its surface, effacing its image and lettering, but would the boy still recognize its origin? Would he sound the alarm and shout "Weredragon, weredragon!" for the city to hear?

"It's good copper," Treale said. "An old coin, but solid metal and pure. Feel its weight. That's worth two pomegranates. You have to sell me two."

Her legs trembled with hunger as the boy squinted at the coin. Treale had never felt so lowly. Only moons ago, she had been a lady of Requiem's courts, and now… now she trembled before a boy half her age, so weak with hunger she nearly wept.

Finally the boy nodded, pocketed the coin, and offered her the basket of fruit. Not a moment later, Treale crouched between a brothel and a shoemaker's shop, scooping seeds from a split pomegranate and eating so fast she nearly choked. When her meal was done, she stuffed the second pomegranate into her cloak's pocket. Though her stomach still rumbled with hunger, she would save the second fruit for later.

"It might be a while until you find more food, Treale Oldnale," she whispered to herself. "The days of feasting at the side of kings are over."

She rose to her feet, pulled her hood low, and began walking down the street. People crowded around her: loomers bearing baskets of fabrics, barefoot children scuffling with wooden swords, mothers nursing their babes, and bare-chested masons lugging packs full of bricks. Shops and stalls lined the roadsides. A child on a donkey knocked into a stall, spilling a thousand live crabs that scurried across the cobblestones. The crabmonger shouted and began a futile chase for his catch; Treale managed to grab one crab and stuff it into her pocket for later. The clang of hammers on anvils rose from smithies, laughter and grunts rose from brothels, and screams rose from surgeons' shops where tongs pulled teeth and needles stitched wounds. The sun pounded the city; the air felt like thick soup rank with the scents of fish, oil, tallow, and dried fruits.

Treale's head still spun to see so many people; they seemed to her like ants scurrying through tunnels. She missed the open spaces of Oldnale Farms: the rolling fields, the sunset over the forests, and the clear skies where she would fly with her brothers. And she missed Nova Vita, capital of Requiem where her friend Mori had lived: its wide streets, its marble columns that soared between birches, its music of harps that rose from silver temples.

That land is gone, she thought and her eyes stung. The farms have burned, and the city has fallen, but you still live, Mori. There is still some starlight in the world.

She made her way through the crowds, her black robes searing hot and swirling around her, until she reached the mouth of an alley, and before her spread the Square of the Sun.

The cobbled expanse stretched out like a sea of stone. Columns surrounded the square, and upon each capital, a wyvern perched and snarled. Soldiers marched here, their helms shaped like cranes and falcons and eagles, their breastplates glimmering with golden sunbursts. Their spears clanked against the cobblestones and their songs echoed inside their helms. Beyond the soldiers rose the monuments of Tiranor's glory: the great Queen's Archway, two hundred feet tall, its limestone engraved with sunburst reliefs; the Temple of the Sun, its columns capped with platinum; the great statue of Solina, fifty feet tall, from whose pedestal Treale had watched Mori beaten; and the Palace of Phoebus upon a great dais, its doors flanked with stone guardians, its glory tapering into the Tower of Akartum, the tallest steeple in Tiranor and perhaps the world.

Treale swallowed. This is the most dangerous place upon this world, she thought. This is the heart of Tiranor's wrath and might. This is where I must walk.

She took a deep breath, wrapped her cloak tight around her, and entered the square.

After only three steps, she held her breath and looked around, ready to scurry back into the alley. Yet the soldiers kept marching, and the wyverns kept their vigil upon the columns, and crows circled above and cawed as ever. Treale swallowed again, reached under her cloak, and grabbed the amulet she wore—a golden sheaf of wheat, the sigil of her house. That house had fallen, but Treale was still an Oldnale, and the touch of the gold soothed her. She kept walking.

She moved along the outskirts of the square, staying near the columns that ringed it. She tried to keep staring ahead toward the palace, but couldn't help it; as she passed near a column, she peeked up at the wyvern that perched upon its capital. The beast glared down, and a glob of its drool fell to burn a hole into the ground. Its tail flapped, but its wings remained still.

Sweat dripped down Treale's back. She remembered those wyverns swarming across Nova Vita, felling dragons from the sky. She wanted to shift into a dragon, to burn them, to kill as many as she could before they took her down.

Requiem will have its revenge, she swore. She clutched her amulet so hard it nearly pierced her palm. That I swear to you, Solina. I will not forget your crimes. But not now. Not this day. Today is for Mori.

She was halfway to the palace when the guards spotted her. Falcon helms turned toward her, creaking together. Spear shafts slammed against cobblestones. Perhaps sensing the men's unease, the wyverns atop the columns shifted and ruffled their wings. Treale froze, hood pulled low. Her heart thrashed and she clutched her amulet tighter.

Be brave, Treale, she thought. Her throat constricted and she could barely breathe. Be brave like King Elethor. You fled the last danger; today you will be strong.

A guard detached from his phalanx and came marching toward her. He bore a round shield, and a red cape fluttered behind him. Treale fought down the urge to flee, though her knees shook and she had to force her breath through clenched teeth.

"What do you seek here?" the guard called.

Treale curtsied in the manner of Osanna. "I seek the weredragon, my lord." She spoke with her best Osannan accent, knowing she would never pass for a Tiran. "I come to see the beast."

When the guard reached her, he tugged her hood back. He cursed, and behind his falcon visor, his eyes narrowed. Her black hair, olive skin, and dark eyes were as foreign in this land as hippopotamuses—beasts that filled the Pallan—would be in Requiem.

"Osannan dog," the guard said. "You scum have been washing up on our shores and swarming our streets."

Treale let out a shaky breath. Thank the stars. Her accent had fooled him; he thought her a daughter of Osanna, that war-torn land of eastern men, and not a child of Requiem. Tirans perhaps hated the former, but they slaughtered the latter.

"My lord." She gave another quick curtsy. "I might be scum from the sea, but even scum hates the wretchedness of weredragons." She forced a snarl. "The weredragons burned my village in Osanna. They killed my father. He was a jailor in our land. Now I seek to be a jailor too—not in the ruins of my Osannan town, but here in this land of southern glory. You keep a weredragon imprisoned beneath the palace; I saw it chained and whipped yesterday. If you'll have me, I will join your rank. I will help you guard the beast, shackle it, and whip it too." She clenched her fists. "I would enjoy beating it bloody."

The guard widened his eyes, silent for a moment, then burst out laughing. Treale stood, barely daring to breathe. It was a long moment before the guard could speak again.

"You!" he finally said. "You—a dog from Osanna, a land of flea-ridden woolmongers—want to serve in the Palace of Phoebus?" He raised his spear. "Find yourself a brothel to spread your legs in. That is all your kind is good for, whore. Be thankful we even let you do that much; I say we should butcher your kind like weredragons." He raised his visor, revealing a leathery face, and spat at her feet. "Kneel and clean the cobblestones of my spit; that's what you Osannan scum are worth."

Treale stood frozen, rage flaring within her. She was a daughter of a great lord. She had flown by the King of Requiem in battle. She was a warrior, a woman of starlight, a—

You are alone, a voice whispered inside her. Your home is gone; your father is dead and probably your king. Whatever nobility you once claimed is lost.

She bit down on her anger. If saving Mori meant giving up some pride, well… she had enough of that pride to give.

She knelt. She cleaned the cobblestones with the hem of her cloak. She clenched her jaw and tried to ignore the burning in her eyes.

When she rose to her feet, she bowed her head and spoke softly.

"I will clean for you in the dungeon, if you let me. If I cannot stand there as a guard, let me serve you as a maid. I can clean. I can cook for jailors. But one thing I insist upon." She raised her eyes and met his gaze. "I want to work near the weredragon's cell. Her people burned my village. I will watch her suffer and I will hear her scream."

The guard looked over his shoulder at his phalanx, then back to Treale. He reached into her cloak, cupped her breast, and squeezed hard. Treale sucked in her breath and froze, daring not move. She wanted to shift, she wanted to burn him, she wanted to run… yet she could only stand here frozen between her pride and Mori.

"Yesss," the guard said slowly, crushing her in his hand. "Yes, I think we might just find you some work underground. There are many cobblestones there for you to clean."

He released her, and Treale gasped with the pain, and her legs shook.

Think of King Elethor, she told herself. Think of how you lay by his side, kissed his cheek, and flew with him. Think of the courage he gave you.

"Th-thank you, my lord!" she said to the guard. "I… I will serve Tiranor as best I can."

He snorted. "Yes, we'll make sure that you do. Quite often and quite well."

He grabbed her arm, digging his fingers so deep Treale gasped and thought he'd tear her skin. He began dragging her across the square, moving closer to the palace. Treale struggled to match his wide strides; when once she fell, he dragged her until she could walk again.

Think of King Elethor. Think of how you kissed his cheek. Think of the stars of Requiem; they shine here too.

Soon the palace loomed above them. The staircase rose hundreds of steps, ending with towering doors of ivory flanked by faceless statues, each larger than a dragon. Above this gateway rose walls and towers of limestone; the steeples clawed the sky. Treale was expecting a long climb, but the guards dragged her past this staircase toward a pathway alongside the palace. They walked along walls lined with archers. Fig and carob trees rose to her left; to her right rose the stone of Tiranor's center of power.

Finally they reached a small archway filled with a wooden door; a back entrance. More guardsmen waited here, spears crossed. The leathery-faced guard dragged Treale through the doorway and into the palace.

They moved through chambers and halls. The tiles gleamed white, and golden filigrees covered granite columns. Treale was hoping to see more of the palace; if any in Requiem still lived and hoped to fight, they would need the layout of this place. The guard, however, soon dragged her onto a staircase that plunged underground.

They descended for what seemed like miles, coiling deeper and deeper into darkness. Candles lit the rough walls. The steps were so narrow and craggy Treale nearly fell. Outside the palace, the sun had pounded her, and the heat had coiled around her like serpents. Here, as they descended, the air grew so cold that Treale shivered. Stairs led to tunnels, then stairs again, then doorways and more tunnels. This place reminded her of the labyrinth beneath Nova Vita where she and Mori would read books; these halls were just as dark and twisting. But Requiem's tunnels had also been warm and dry and safe. This place reeked of mold and echoed with distant screams.

Finally, after what seemed an hour of plunging, they reached a hall lined with cells, and those distant screams exploded like demons of sound.

Solina's dungeon, Treale thought and shivered.

"Sharik!" shouted the guard who held her arm. "Sharik, damn you. Come, boy. I have a treat for you."

At first Treale was sure the guard was calling his dog. When a burly, bald man came trundling up the tunnel, Treale realized: This was Sharik, and she was the treat.

"Sharik here, Sharik want treat," rumbled the man. "Give to Sharik!"

He had but three teeth, and moles covered his pasty lump of a head. He was wide and fierce-looking as a bull; a golden ring even pierced his flat nose. He wore a tattered canvas tunic, and a ring of keys jangled on his belt. His flesh was lumpy and pale like old turnips; Treale doubted the man had seen sunlight in a year.

The guard shoved Treale toward him, and Sharik caught her. The brute dug yellow, cracked fingernails into her arm. His breath assailed her, scented of rot. His nose sniffed at her cheek, and his tongue thrust out. Treale pulled back an inch, narrowly dodging the wet appendage.

"Give this one a job, Sharik," said the guard and laughed. "Have her empty your chamber pot, mop the blood off the floors, or even warm your bed at night if you please. I'll come for her some nights; on those nights she's mine. Do you understand, Sharik?"

The bullish man drooled and huffed. "Sharik likes treats."

He reached into Treale's cloak and tried to grope her. She struggled in his grasp, and he shoved her, then backhanded her. Pain exploded. White light flashed. She hit a wall, and Sharik raised his fist again.

"Sharik, no!" said the guard. "I want her beautiful. Do not scar this one. She is my gift to you; keep her pretty."

Sharik snarled, but when the guard reached for his sword, the jailor lowered his gaze and grumbled under his breath. His fingers still dug into her arm, so strong she thought he might break her bone. When the guard turned to leave, Treale almost wanted to call after him. No, don't leave me here, don't leave me with this man, with these screams, with this smell of blood. Yet she remained silent. Mori was somewhere here in this nightmare; Treale would stay, and she would save her.

"Come," Sharik grumbled, his voice like cascading stones. "Follow Sharik. Work for you."

He pulled her down the hall, trundling like a bear. Treale dragged behind him, and as they passed along the cells, she nearly gagged. She bit down on a scream.

Stars, no… how could such terror exist? Stars, how could such evil lurk in this world?

Prisoners filled the cells, broken and shackled and turned into wrecks of humanity. One man hung from chains, his legs cut off and the stumps still dripping. In another cell, children hung upon the walls, their skin burned off, their eyes pleading and their mouths gagged. In a third cell, a jailor was busy stretching a man on the rack; the prisoner howled, his arms dislocated. Treale wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to weep. She wanted to fall and curl up and never look at these horrors again. Yet she forced herself to look. Somewhere, in one of these cells, Mori languished.

Stars, Mori, I'm so sorry. Now Treale could not help it; tears streamed down her cheeks. I'm so sorry you are here.

Yet where was the princess? Before Treale could find her, Sharik pulled her into a cell. This one was empty. Chains hung from the ceiling and fresh blood and hair covered the floor. For a moment, Treale was sure the jailor would imprison her here, and she made to flee, but he grabbed her and grunted.

"Clean!" he said. "Clean cell. Clean floor."

He stepped back into the hall, grabbed a bucket and rags, and shoved them at her.

"Clean! Clean and you eat later. Clean floor."

When Treale hesitated, Sharik grabbed a whip from the wall. Before Treale could react, he landed a blow across her shoulder. She yelped. The whip lashed through her cloak and tore her skin.

"Clean!" Sharik said. "Clean floor. Make clean for next prisoner."

Her welt blazing, her eyes still damp, Treale knelt. She grabbed a rag and dipped it into the bucket of water. She began to scrub.

"Faster!" Sharik said and his whip landed again. Treale yelped, her back blazing, and cleaned faster.

"When I'm done cleaning," she said and dared to look up, "I want to see the weredragon. I—"

The whip landed a third time, blazing against her from shoulder to tailbone. Treale arched her back and yowled with the pain. Sharik grumbled and clenched his fists.

"Speak again and Sharik take your teeth. Clean. Faster."

Treale cleaned. She did not speak again.

When the cell's floor was clean and the rags bloody, Sharik grabbed her by the hair. He yanked her up and dragged her out into the hallway. Treale yelped, her hair tearing in his paws, but he only tugged harder. He dragged her into a second chamber, closed the oak door, and locked it behind them.

This must have been his home, though it was barely better than the prisoners' cells. The chamber was rough and bare. It contained only a straw bed, a table laden with candles and dirty dishes, a chamber pot, and a chest of old rags.

"You sleep on floor," Sharik said. "Sleep!"

He raised his whip. Treale clenched her fists behind her back. She was a slight woman, thin and short and not very strong, and he was thrice her size. But she was young, she was fast, and she could fight him. There was no room to shift here, but she could grab his whip and strangle him, or gouge out his eyes, or….

No, she told herself. Even if you can defeat him, Treale Oldnale, he'd holler and guards will swarm here. Save Mori. Even if you must give up some pride. You might sleep on a floor this night, but Mori sleeps in chains.

She lay down on the floor like an obedient pup, hugged her knees, and looked up at Sharik. He stared down at her, his feet by her head, their nails cracked and moldy. Finally he grunted in approval, lolloped toward his bed, and climbed in. Soon the man was snoring like a saw, his drool seeping.

Treale rose to her feet. Her heart raced. The candles still burned upon the table, casting soft light. She tiptoed toward the bed and stared down at Sharik.

His keys.

They still dangled from his belt, each one longer than her hand. If Mori languished in this prison, one of these keys would open her cell. Holding her breath, Treale reached toward the ring of them.

Sharik snorted and rolled over, burying the keys under his girth.

Treale cursed this dungeon, cursed the gods, cursed every grain of sand in this desert and every brick in this dungeon. She reached around the brute, but he would not stir. She tried to roll him over; he would not wake or move. He kept drooling, and his snores kept rising, and the keys remained trapped.

Finally Treale fell to the floor, closed her eyes, and trembled. She was so weak, so tired; she could barely summon the will to breathe. Her belly ached with hunger. Sharik had never fed her as promised, and she felt too weak to crack open her second pomegranate. Her wounds blazed. Worst of all, the images of the prisoners would not leave her: their anguished eyes, their broken flesh, their seeping blood. Again and again, she saw Mori outside the palace gates, frail and screaming as they beat her.

"I will find you, Mori," she whispered into the darkness. "If not tonight, then tomorrow, or the day after, but I swear to you, I will find you, and I will free you."

She looked up at Sharik again; he had not budged, and his snores rose louder than ever. Treale wanted to try to move him again; with all her strength, perhaps she could roll him onto the floor, but what if he woke and beat her? He would soon roll over on his own, Treale told herself. After all, how comfortable could it be, sleeping on his keys? She had to wait but a moment longer. Maybe two moments. Maybe…

Her eyes closed. Blackness tugged at her. She lay, curled up and shivering, and slumber pulled her into a deep, dark nightmare of mangled bodies and shrieking falcons of steel.