The people of the cavern roared as in one rage-filled voice. “Burn him!” some cried. “Tear him! Bleed him! Enemy of our father!”
The dragon girl gripped the stones of the ledge so hard that blood trickled from her fingers. Her dragon kin writhed in fury below the tunnel mouth, and more flames rose in the darkness until the whole cavern glowed. The yellow-eyed boy laughed again and pushed the Prince to the ground, eliciting approving shouts from his comrades. The two big men who had dragged Aethelbald in grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. He shook one of them off, but three more reached in and seized him so that he could not move. The yellow-eyed boy stepped forward and took Aethelbald by the throat, grinning cruelly, fire dancing in the corners of his mouth.
“Wait.”
The Bane of Corrilond’s voice filled the cavern, and her kin quieted before her. She hauled the yellow-eyed boy back from the Prince. He bared his teeth at her, but she ignored him, gazing instead into Aethelbald’s stern face. “Wait,” she repeated. “We must save him. How often do we come across such fair and fresh meat? What more worthy gift could we offer our Father?”
The dragon folk murmured in agreement, but the yellow-eyed boy licked back flames. “He’s no good,” he spat. “He’ll not take the fire and would taste bitter to our Father.”
“We shall see,” the Bane of Corrilond said. “In the meantime no one harms him. Throw him in the cage.”
The dragon girl watched as the dragon folk pulled Prince Aethelbald down into the cavern, the crowd jeering and jabbing him, threatening him with fire. They dragged him underneath her ledge, and he raised his eyes and saw her.
“Una.”
She saw his mouth form the word. Her name.
Covering her face with her gnarled and scale-covered hands, she turned to the wall. The din of dragon voices filled her ears and did not let up for hours.
31
The curtains were drawn, admitting no outside light. But the long drapes caught the glow of the brands in the fireplace and reflected it back until the room was all red and shadows. Lionheart, having retired from his father’s court for the day, sat quietly in those shadows. He’d given orders to his attendants to admit no one, not since his brief interview with Captain Catspaw and his men.
“Cowards!” Lionheart had shouted at them as they clustered before him.
“Forgive us, Your Highness,” Catspaw had said, cringing away. “We did our best, but we could not – ”
“Could not? Would not, you mean. Has the honor of Southlands no claim on your hearts? I promised Prince Aethelbald the help of twelve loyal men, and this is how you serve me?”
“Please, Your Highness – ”
“Out of my sight!” the prince had snarled, and the captain and his men had crept from the room, slinking like frightened cats. When they had gone, Lionheart had ordered his attendants from the room as well and, muttering curses under his breath, had drawn all the curtains and pulled his chair up close to the fire.
There he had sat – how many hours now, he could not guess. But the fire was almost dead, leaving behind only the popping embers. The room grew colder, but Lionheart did not move to put a log in the grate, nor did he summon his man to do it for him.
“Cowards,” he growled again.
Shameful, those men. You should punish them. Rid yourself of those who will not serve you as they should.
“I should rid myself of those weasels,” Lionheart muttered. His fingers tensed, relaxed, then tensed again.
You cannot afford to keep them in your service, my prince. They will only hinder your work.
“I cannot afford to keep men like those in my service.”
Rid yourself of them as soon as possible. Just as you did the girl.
Lionheart covered his face with both hands. He drew in a sharp breath, like a sob. “Get out of my head!”
Oh, my sweet prince –
“GET OUT!” he roared and leapt to his feet. Hardly knowing what he did, he reached into the fire, took up a handful of the scalding embers, and flung them into the darkest corners of his room. “Get out! Go away from me!”
Silence crept in around him. Deep and black and dark.
Then suddenly his mind’s eye filled with a vision, a memory of two red eyes, ovens of fire. He had crouched, a quivering wretch, in the shadow of that Beast, and a fiery voice hissed in his head:
“Give me her heart, Prince Lionheart, and I will let you live.”
“No!” he whispered, closing his eyes. But still the memory played before him, as vividly as though he were caught forever in that one moment in time. He groveled before a great, black king. “No!”
“Your life for her heart. It is an easy enough exchange. Then you may return to Southlands, reclaim your crown, rule your people. But give me the heart of this princess, your love.”
“Leave me in peace!” Lionheart pulled at his hair with his burned hands, desperate to free himself of the memory.
“It is the only way, Prince Lionheart. What other choice do you have?”