Mistress of Dragons Page 26

  “Of course.”

  “Very well.” Grald grunted. “I’ll go after him.”

  “Not yet. We have more urgent matters.”

  “The human female, you mean. The one with the dragon magic. I saw his plan. I know where the humans are hiding. I’ll kill them first, then—”

  “Kill the male,” Maristara interrupted. “But not the female. I have a better idea. You have long been complaining that the dragon magic in the blood of the human males was growing tainted.”

  “I think that’s why we’re turning out raving madmen,” said Grald.

  “It has been a long time since we’ve had a fresh infusion of dragon blood,” Maristara admitted. “Not since the early days in the monastery, with those very first women. If you’re right about the blood becoming tainted—and I’m not saying you are, mind you. My women are stronger in magic than ever—you could try an experiment with this human. Draconas has done all the preparation for us. It would be a pity to let that go to waste.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Grald chuckled. “A good idea.”

  “Once you have done what is necessary, bring her back to me. I’ll keep her prisoner until the babe is born, then we’ll get rid of her.”

  “What about Draconas?” Grald asked. His human mind bore a grudge.

  “First things first,” said Maristara.

  Draconas kept submerged underwater, taking no chances. This proved difficult, for he could not use his left arm. He used his good right arm to propel himself along until he saw shafts of sunlight slicing down through the water and realized that he was out of the cavern. He was vaguely surprised to find the sun shining. It seemed to him that darkness must have consumed the whole world.

  He kicked his legs, propelled himself up to the surface, and looked about swiftly for Grald.

  No sign of him and that was not good.

  He struggled toward the shore. The current helped, and he washed up against the long, gnarled roots of a tree. Draconas dragged himself out of the river. He crawled a few feet, then collapsed onto the warm sand.

  Breathing was like inhaling fire. He had a broken rib, maybe several. His left arm was crushed and useless, the jagged edges of the bone sticking out through purple, inflamed skin. He retched, vomited river water, and sank back, weak and shivering from cold, from shock.

  The river rose, washed over his head, pulled him into the dark water. . . .

  Draconas woke with a shuddering gasp. He stared at the sky. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Some time, apparently, for the sunlight was fading. Either that or he was losing his eyesight. He shook so with the cold that his chattering teeth had bitten through his tongue. He tasted blood in his mouth.

  He could heal himself, but he had to remain conscious to work the magic. He had to be able to think of the spell, but pain stirred all the colors into a blob of black.

  Edward and Melisande. I revealed them to Grald. I told our plans to Grald. He knows where they are hiding.

  A clever trap. So very clever. I met Maristara’s cohort. I spoke to him, fought him, and I have no idea who he is. He never revealed his true form. I might sit next to him at the next session of Parliament and never have a clue.

  I have failed. I’ve failed Edward and Melisande. They are probably dead by now, or will be shortly. I can do nothing to save them. I got them into this, and I got them killed.

  Anger, bitter as bile, rose in him. Anger so hot and black that it came near to choking him. He was angry at them all, at Maristara, at Braun and Anora, at himself. What right had we to get involved? Any of us? Ever? Even those long-ago dragons who gently lifted the humans out of the mud of creation. They did not do that out of altruism, but only out of curiosity.

  “Let us conduct an experiment,” they said. “Let us see how this very clever species turns out.”

  The anger strengthened him, acted as a stick to clamp in his teeth as he sought out the magic he needed. He seized hold of it and sent it flowing through his shivering body. The magic flooded him with warmth, numbed the pain.

  He lurched to his feet, took stock of his situation. He was not thoroughly healed. The process required at least a day of uninterrupted sleep and he didn’t have time. His head ached, but it was only an ache, not brutal, skull-bashing pain. Breathing hurt him, for his ribs were being held together only by the baling wire of his magic. The same was true of his broken arm. He could move it and wiggle his fingers and that was about the best that could be said for it.

  He looked around to get his bearings, to try to locate landmarks, for he had no idea where he’d washed up. The river was silky gray with the coming of evening, smooth and tranquil, for no wind blew. It rolled along, singing softly to itself. He stared along its bank, up and down. He stared out over the water. He could not find anything that looked familiar and he was puzzled. He hadn’t drifted that far.

  He lifted his head, looked up at the sky, into the luminous sunset.

  The sun was setting behind him.

  Draconas swore a bitter oath and smashed the fist of his good hand into the trunk of a cottonwood tree.

  He was on the wrong side of the river.

  He was on the western shore. Edward and Melisande were on the east.

  And so was Grald.

  25

  EDWARD AND MELISANDE FOUND THE FALLEN OAK more by instinct and good fortune than because either of them was paying attention to the trail Draconas had so carefully marked. Their arms entwined, they walked in tandem, his strides matching hers.

  They did not speak of the future. The future did not exist here in the wilderness, out of sight of any signs of man or his handiwork. They were the only two in existence. The world had been created just for them. They had no past, for they were just this moment newly born. They had no future, for neither wanted to think of that. They had only to live and breathe and love.

  Edward did feel, for a moment, the odd sensation of standing apart from himself. Edward gazing at Edward in bleak dismay. He could see himself reaching out a hand to stop himself, to seize hold of himself and drag himself away. At the last moment, the hand fell to his side. He bade himself go on. This was what love was, what it was meant to be. He glanced back, but he could no longer see himself and he was glad, for he wanted to see only her, his beloved.

  Melisande had no such vision of herself. She was living moment to moment, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat. She was hiding from the past with its wrenching pain and its horror. Everyone she had ever loved had betrayed her, and so she ran away from them, ran until she could no longer hear their voices or see their faces. There was only his face and his hands and his love and reassurance that she was alive and breathing and beloved.

  Arriving at the fallen oak, they were both suddenly shy and hesitant. Anticipation quickened the pulse, set the blood burning, but they were strangers to each other and although they knew where it must naturally end and looked forward with aching desire to that ending, neither knew how to begin.

  “You must be thirsty,” said Edward, grasping at the only action he could take that seemed innocent of design. He removed the water skin, which he was carrying slung over his shoulder and, pulling out the stopper, he offered it to her.

  She put her lips over the opening and there was something so sensual in that movement that his heart lurched and his hand jerked. He sloshed water in her face, spilled it down the bodice of her gown.

  He was appalled, frantically apologetic. She laughed and looked into his eyes. Laughter died. Their lips touched, the first kiss searching and tentative and then passion swept them up and carried them down onto the soft leaves in the cool, sweet-smelling shadow of the fallen oak tree.

  They loved and they slept, wrapped in each other’s arms, and woke to love again, finding new and better joy every time as each body yielded to the other’s touch and each delighted in discovering new ways to bring pleasure to the other. The day had no end as it had no beginning. The sun seemed to revolve in a small tight circle above t
hem, going round and round. They did not hunger, but their thirst was insatiable and they soon drained the water skin.

  They languished in each other’s arms, not talking, as lovers usually do, for all they had to talk about was the past and that brought him only guilt and her only terror. Silence, uneasy and uncomfortable, replaced passion, and the sun sank all in an instant, plunging into the river, its fire drowned. He noticed suddenly that it was growing dark and she began to feel chill.

  He sat up, wiped his mouth. The water was sweet on the tongue, but it left a bitter aftertaste. He looked out into the shadows and wondered bleakly where they went from here.

  “I hear something,” she said. “Footsteps.”

  He heard it, too, sticks breaking and cracking beneath booted feet.

  “It must be Draconas,” said Edward. He glanced about for his forgotten clothes, found them strewn all over, beneath the log and out beyond. “Although he usually doesn’t make so much noise as that.”

  The thought came to him that Draconas knew what they were about and was giving them fair warning of his approach. Edward handed Melisande her gown to cover her nakedness. He did not look at her as he did so.

  Noting that he kept his eyes averted, Melisande was embarrassed and ashamed. She fumbled with her gown, sliding it over her head, then realizing she had put it on inside out. Sighing, shivering, she drew it off, to put it right.

  “You stay here. I’ll go get rid of him,” Edward said, lacing up his pants.

  He was eager to leave her and he hated himself for it, for everything. The memory of their bliss came back to him and he was filled with remorse.

  “Melisande—”

  She turned her head away. “Please go,” she said. “I don’t want to see Draconas. I don’t want to see anyone. Not for a little while. Please, just go.”

  He did as she asked. Stepping out from under the fallen oak, he saw that night was coming, its shadows passed along from tree limb to tree limb, like damp sheets taken out from the river, to be wrung out and flung over him, draping him in a smothering future.

  He was heartsick, overwhelmed, and confused. He had a wife, he had children, he had a kingdom. He had his God, who had proclaimed what he had done a mortal sin.

  Edward picked up his shirt, stood plucking at a frayed sleeve cuff. The crashing footfalls were drawing nearer and he was suddenly angry at Draconas, for making it so very obvious that he had known all along that Edward would fall to temptation. Throwing the shirt onto the ground, Edward stalked out of the clearing. He would take Draconas by the arm and lead him back to camp and there they would have it out. He would bloody that supercilious smirk the man sometimes wore, as if he were the only person in the world who knew the truth.

  A man emerged from the shadows. He was taller than he should be, taller than Draconas, and more massive. The lambent light of the setting sun touched upon the brutal face of Grald.

  The man’s eyes, shadowed beneath an overhanging forehead, sought out the fallen oak. His mouth leered. Edward understood nothing and everything, all in an instant. He reached for his sword, but it did not hang at his side. He’d left it behind, on the beach.

  Edward lunged, hoping to catch the man by surprise, knock the breath from his body, and carry him to the ground.

  Grald watched with some amusement. He jerked his leg up and his bent knee struck Edward in the face.

  The jarring blow snapped his head back, broke his nose, and smashed in teeth. Pain burst inside him, pain and fear for Melisande. Bleeding from the mouth and nose, his head ringing, he tried to rise.

  Grald’s booted foot struck him in the ribs. Edward doubled over in agony and Grald slammed his foot into his face.

  White light burst in Edward’s head, light white and pure and accusing as the face of God.

  Then God’s face turned away.

  Melisande heard Edward’s cry and she shrank back into the darkness, her dress clasped against her bosom. She heard another cry, then Edward’s voice, moaning, and then horrible sounds, as of something hard thudding repeatedly against unresisting flesh.

  The moaning stopped, horribly.

  Sounds of footsteps, coming in her direction.

  She tried to scream, but terror swelled her throat.

  The footsteps stopped. She was dimly aware of a huge, hulking presence that dropped down to all fours and peered into the bower at her.

  A man’s face, twisted into a bestial expression of lechery, peered at her.

  She shrank farther back into the darkness, as though it could save her. A hand—huge and wet and covered in thick black hair—reached into the darkness and seized hold of her by the foot, dragged her, kicking and struggling, out from beneath the tree.

  She fought and kicked and bent and twisted her body, trying to escape. The man pinned her to the ground, laughed at her. He dropped down on top of her, seemed to enjoy feeling her squirm beneath him.

  The dragon who ruled the human body of Grald knew no lust. This was business and he wanted it done. But the human body he had taken over enjoyed his victim’s futile struggles. They were necessary to him, aroused him, and so the dragon permitted the man to take his pleasure.

  The man shoved Melisande’s legs apart with his knees, thrashed around until he positioned himself, then drove inside her.

  She cried out in pain. Tears burned in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. He put one hand over her mouth, stopping her screams. Her tears splashed on his flesh.

  At the moment of climax, his thrust nearly tore her apart. Opening her eyes, writhing in agony, she saw black wings spread over her. A dragon’s head leered down at her. Saliva dripped from its jaws, as its clawed feet dug into her flesh and its hot seed shot into her body.

  26

  TRAPPED ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE RIVER, DRAconas sucked on the bruised and bloody knuckles of his hand where he’d smashed it into the tree trunk and mulled over what to do. He had to face the bitter fact that he could not save Melisande and Edward. Too much time had passed. The sun was setting, the river had gone pearl gray in the dying half-light.

  Grald was not one to let grass grow under his hulkish feet. He knew precisely where to find them and he would have gone to kill them at once. They were dead by now. And, after all, what did it matter? They were only humans.

  Draconas stared in frustration at the river. He could plunge into that chill water, expend what was left of his energy trying to swim against the current, only to end up miles farther downstream. Always assuming he didn’t drown first.

  Or he could change into his dragon form, take wing, and fly over the water. He had the ability to do that, but he would be breaking the law.

  By a decree of the Parliament of Dragons, made centuries ago, a dragon who becomes a “walker” is barred from returning to his dragon form without asking for and receiving permission from Parliament. He is permitted to forego this permission only if his own life is at stake and then only if he can manage the transformation without humans being present.

  As to the dragon shifting into his true form to save a human’s life, that was absolutely prohibited. The dragons cared about humans and were interested in their welfare, but humans were so numerous that the loss of a few here and there could hardly make a difference. Weigh that against the possibility that humans might discover that dragons walked among them and there was no contest.

  Draconas stood on the edge of the river, watching the darkness deepen around him. His recently mended arm pained him. He could barely move his hand. His head throbbed.

  He gave the law a moment’s thought, gave his probable punishment another moment’s thought.

  “Screw it,” he said.

  His dragon’s form was always present, always in attendance. It spread its wings over him as humans fondly believe guardian angels hover over them. Though he could not see it, he was ever conscious of it.

  He closed his eyes and lifted his head, raised his arms to the unseen wings and the glittering scaled body. He was never certain in t
hese moments if the human body flowed into the dragon or the dragon’s body flowed into the human.

  It didn’t matter. Flesh and spirit became one. His human pains eased and disappeared. He was once again the creature of his dreams. His earthbound bonds cut loose, Draconas inhaled the night air, drew it deep into massive lungs. He felt the fire burn in his belly. He felt muscle and tendon respond to his commands, felt scales ripple. He spread his wings and took flight over the river.

  From his vantage point high above the treetops, Draconas gazed down upon the beach where they had made camp. He found the boat, right where they had left it. He saw, glinting in the starlight, Edward’s sword, forgotten.

  Draconas started to veer off in the direction of the fallen oak, when he noted that instead of one boat drawn up along the shore, there were two.

  Grald, he thought, and fierce joy filled his heart. This time we will meet dragon-to-dragon.

  Draconas plotted his attack, a magical attack, one that would severely damage the human form in which Grald was hiding. Only by changing form, by reverting back into a dragon, could Grald escape him. And when he became a dragon, Draconas would know his identity.

  If it is the last thing I do, Draconas vowed, if it’s my last dying thought, I will send to Braun the name of the enemy.

  Circling above, Draconas watched and waited for his foe. Grald soon appeared, as if summoned by vengeful thoughts, walking out of the forest onto the beach.

  Draconas glided down, taking his time, making no sudden movement or sound that might startle the brutish human into lifting his head, looking into the sky, where he would see a red-orange dragon, scales glimmering like embers in the starlight.

  Draconas readied the magic in his mind. A net as fine as cobweb, spun of energy. Crackling and sparking, the net would cover Grald in silken strands of jolting thunderbolts. He would have only an instant to change his form or his human body would die and then he would have no choice. He’d be caught in transition, like Maristara had been. He’d be weak and vulnerable.

  Spiraling lower, the magic tasting sweet on his tongue, Draconas was about to release the net. He flew closer and instantly arrested the magic, halted the spell.