Mistress of Dragons Read online

  Grald was not alone. He carried Melisande in his arms. She was either dead or unconscious, for her head lolled, her arms hung limp.

  Why was Grald carrying off Melisande? Draconas could think of two reasons. Either she was dead, and he was disposing of the corpse, which seemed unlikely. Or she was alive and he was carrying her off for some purpose, some reason.

  Draconas knew then what had happened. Grald had seen the plan—to have Edward impregnate Melisande, so that she would bear a child in whose blood ran the dragon magic.

  He’s carrying her to Maristara, as I was supposed to carry her to Anora.

  Draconas wasn’t certain what to do. He could not attack Grald now, not without killing Melisande. But might that not be best? Wouldn’t death be preferable to what she faced in life? No matter which side in this terrible battle had hold of her, she would be a prisoner, forced to bear a child who would then be taken away from her, a child born for one reason only and that reason was destruction.

  If Melisande died here and now, her death would force Anora to take immediate action against Maristara, instead of spending twenty years having fun raising this human and debating endlessly what they were to do with him once he was raised. In his present dark mood, Draconas had just about decided that Melisande should die, that she would want to die, when he caught sight of a another person on that beach.

  She was not wearing her armor, but Draconas recognized her—Bellona, the female warrior who had been commander of the troops sent to slay Melisande. He knew her by the fluid play of muscle and sinew, knew her by the skill and stealth she was using to stalk her victim.

  But who was her victim? Grald or Melisande? Or both?

  Not that it mattered to Draconas. His plan was ruined. He could only wait and watch and perhaps salvage something out of the wreckage.

  “Humans,” he muttered, exasperated.

  Bellona had spent the morning traveling upriver. The muscles in her arms cramped and ached from the rowing. Her hands were blistered, palms rubbed raw. She kept on, searching along the river bank for some sign of the three she was hunting. She passed by the sunken cavern. All was still and quiet within, for it was late afternoon by the time she reached it and the battle between Draconas and Grald had ended. Draconas lay unconscious on the bank some distance downstream. Grald was on his way to find Melisande.

  Bellona looked closely at the cavern, her first thought that it would make an excellent hiding place for the fugitives. She did not like the feel of it, however, and she kept on going. Instinct told her Melisande was not there.

  Farther down the river, she let the boat drift slowly with the current, as her eyes swept the bank.

  Sunlight glinted off metal. Her heart beating fast, Bellona rowed nearer the shore.

  The gleam of light came from the hilt of a sword, lying in its scabbard near the charred remnants of a campfire. Drawn up on the bank was a boat identical to the other boats she’d found. Bellona scanned the shore, but saw no signs of them. They’d spent the night here. She could see crumpled blankets lying on the sand, another blanket draped over a tree branch. They had spent the night and they had not left yet.

  Her blood pulsed in her ears. Her heart beat so that it interfered with her breathing. It was a relief to jump into the cold water, let it cool her fevered skin. Wading through the water, she dragged the boat up onto the shore.

  Twilight’s shadows were thick among the trees, but the lambent light gilding the river illuminated the shore. A multitude of footprints in the sand confirmed the fact that people had walked this beach not long ago. She easily picked out Melisande’s footprints. Bellona cursed the waning light. She could not track them in the dark.

  But there was no need to track them, she realized. Wherever they had gone, they would return to camp by nightfall. She had only to wait for them. She headed for the tree line, planning to hide herself.

  A woman’s screams, heart-wrenching and agonized, came from the woods.

  Bellona froze, listening. She recognized that beloved voice and she jerked her head around, stared into the woods, into the direction of that terrible sound.

  The screams came again and again, and then suddenly ceased, as if choked off.

  Bellona started running in the direction of the screams, but her way was hampered by thick brush and darkness. She was forced to slow her pace, her heart beating, this time with fear.

  She could not find a way through the trees. Frustrated and desperate, she drew her sword, began to hack at the tangled branches. The sounds of movement in the woods caused her to halt. The sounds were drawing near her. Bellona had only to stay where she was and the person would come to her.

  Bellona crouched down in the shadows. She had a good vantage point of the woods and the beach. The sounds were off to her right. The footfalls had purpose in them, a destination. One man, the lover. Whatever he had done to Melisande, he would pay for it.

  She forced herself to wait quietly, patiently, as she had taught her warriors to wait in ambush.

  The man passed quite close to her. Bellona stared at him in wonder. This man was not the lover nor yet his partner. This man was huge as a bear, clumsy and lumbering. Whoever he was, it was Melisande he held in his arms. Bellona could not see her clearly, for the shadows of the night, but she recognized the golden hair. Melisande’s body hung limp and lifeless in the brute’s arms.

  Bellona had no idea what had happened or who this man was or how he came to be here or what had become of the other two men. She had no care for any of that. Slowly, stealthily, she raised herself up on the balls of her feet. She already held her sword in her hand.

  The man lumbered onto the beach. He paused a moment to take stock of the situation. Spotting her boat, which she had not bothered to hide, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and began to walk toward it.

  Sword in hand, Bellona crept out from under the cover of the trees. Running lightly, she crossed the beach, coming up behind him.

  He did not hear her. He kept walking, his attention fixed on the boat. Stealthily, trying to still even the beating of her heart, Bellona raised her sword and ran for her victim.

  She aimed a blow at his skull, intending to cleave through it. She could not worry about making noise now. She hoped to strike swiftly, before he could react. Her boots crunched in the sand and he heard her. The muscles in his broad back stiffened. His head started to turn. It didn’t matter now. He could do nothing, hampered as he was by the burden in his arms.

  Bellona raised her voice in a battle cry and with all her strength struck a killing blow at his head.

  The sword burst asunder, driving splinters of metal into her hands and arms, as the blast hurled her flat on her back in the sand. Bleeding and dazed, uncertain what had happened, Bellona looked up to see the gigantic man standing over her.

  Casually, as though tossing down a bit of refuse he dropped Melisande onto the ground. She landed in a heap, crumpled, broken, making no sound.

  Bellona knew then that Melisande was dead. Tears burned in her throat, stung her eyes.

  The man drew a dagger he had thrust into his boot. She watched, uncaring. Let him end this pain, she thought. She averted her head.

  A screech sounded high above. The screech was loud, ear-splitting, and though it was bestial, it held in it a note of warning that even Bellona could understand.

  The man halted his stroke, stared upward. His mouth twisted in a snarl. The screech wakened Melisande, who stirred and moaned.

  New life surged through Bellona. Seeing the man preoccupied, she grasped his hand that held the dagger, sank her teeth into his flesh. His blood flowed in her mouth. Her tears fell on his skin.

  Bellona heard the roar and it had a human sound, though it came from the throat of a dragon. The human wrung his injured hand and snarled his fury. The dragon, gleaming blue-black in the starlight, glared balefully into the heavens and snarled his rage. In her horrified sight, human and dragon were one and the same, yet they were detached, as a man and his s
hadow.

  Appalled, Bellona could not move. The screech sounded again, piercing and ominous. A shudder went through Bellona and she looked up into the heavens.

  Circling above her, wings brushing the stars, was another dragon, his scales red as flame. His neck outstretched, his claws lowered, the red dragon came swooping down on the blue dragon like a hawk stooping on his prey.

  The man flung the dagger into the sand and began to run toward the river. He reached it seconds before the dragon struck. He plunged into the dark water and disappeared.

  The dragon swept over Bellona with a rush of air that swept up the sand in a blinding whirlwind. Bellona flung her arm over her face. Sand whipped around her, stinging her eyes, blasting her flesh. She lay stunned long moments, then lifted her head, blinking away the sand.

  The stars shone, cold and sharp, silvering the scudding clouds.

  The dragon—both dragons—were gone.

  Bellona crawled on her hands and knees to Melisande. She sank down wearily beside her, as at journey’s end. If death was to come, it would find them together.

  27

  MELISANDE LAY ON HER BACK, WHERE THE MAN HAD dropped her, her body half-twisted in her fall. Her face was bruised and battered. Her lips split and bleeding. She was half-dressed, as though she had been in the act of dressing when she was attacked. Her skirts were wet and Bellona knew that the wetness was Melisande’s blood.

  A tremor of pity and rage shook Bellona. She put her hand on Melisande’s wrist, felt for a pulse, and found it. The heart beat weakly, but it beat.

  At the touch, Melisande’s eyes flared open. Her lips parted in a scream, her body tensed.

  “Hush, Melisande, no, you are safe,” said Bellona softly, stroking back the blood-crusted hair from Melisande’s face.

  Melisande stared at Bellona wildly at first, then she recognized her.

  “Where is ... is he?” She shook with terror.

  “He’s gone, Melisande,” said Bellona, though she didn’t say how or where.

  Melisande didn’t understand. The shadows of pain and horror hovered around her, too thick and close for her to see beyond them. All she saw was the face of her beloved.

  “Bellona,” she mumbled through lips so swollen she could barely be understood. “I know I must die. I accept that.” Her eyes closed. Tears slid beneath the lids, mingled with the blood on her face. “I welcome it. . .”

  “No, Melis,” Bellona said, not knowing what she was saying, her heart speaking for her. She grasped her lover’s hand, held it to her lips. “You won’t die. I won’t let you. Don’t talk. Just rest. I’ll bring you some water.”

  “Don’t leave me!” Melisande cried. She clutched at her hand.

  “I won’t, I won’t,” said Bellona soothingly, and Melisande relaxed. Her eyes closed, then opened again. She looked around.

  “Edward! I heard him cry out, but it was too late.” Melisande shuddered. “I saw him lying on the ground. His head . . . I think he killed him.”

  Bellona’s lips tightened. “Edward? Your lover?”

  Melisande gazed up at her steadily. “I betrayed you. No”— she paused—”I betrayed us. Our love. I’m sorry. So sorry. I never meant...”

  She drew in a breath, let it out in a sigh. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I can’t forgive myself. It will be a relief to me to die. Believe that and do not feel guilty for what you must do. I’m glad it’s you, Bellona. Not any of the others.”

  “Melisande, don’t talk about that now. Don’t talk about anything. You must rest—”

  “My rest will come soon enough,” said Melisande with a sad smile. “I need to talk now. I have to talk, Bellona. I have to tell you the truth about the Mistress. You must find a way to warn our people, put an end to the monster who holds them in thrall.”

  Melisande began to tell the tale of that terrible night, starting with the rain falling and the voice that drove her from Bellona’s bed, the call to come to the Mistress’s chamber.

  Bellona listened, at first skeptical, then amazed, then horrified. As Melisande went on, telling about Edward and how he had saved her from the dragon, Bellona saw again the vision that Lucretta had shown in the Eye—Melisande’s face and the face of the man, and suddenly she saw them clearly, not through a cloud of jealous rage. Their expressions were not of joy, as of lovers meeting, but fear, as of two terrified people coming together to flee certain death.

  She saw again the image of the dragon, hovering about Grald, and from that moment, Bellona began to believe. Her belief strengthened as Melisande told her what she had learned about the male babies, stolen away, sent into slavery. Bellona remembered the wagon and the bit of cloth she’d found in it, swaddling cloth. She remembered Lucretta, the change in the woman, the unaccountable change . . .

  Melisande finished her story. She did not speak of Edward or their day of rapture. She did not speak of the twilight of pain and blood. Night deepened around her and around Bellona. No wind blew to rustle the trees. No animal stirred. The river flowed quietly past them, seemed to have forgotten how to sing. Or perhaps it was eavesdropping, as was Draconas, gliding unseen among the clouds, high above.

  “You must think I’m mad,” said Melisande at last.

  “I did, at first, when you started telling about the dragon,” Bellona admitted. “But I don’t think that now.”

  Reaching into her belt, she fished out the piece of cloth she had put there. “I found this in the wagon. I saved it. I don’t know why. I think I meant to ask Lucretta—” She broke off, shook her head. “Poor Lucretta. I never liked her. But she didn’t deserve that.”

  “You have to go back,” said Melisande, her grip on Bellona’s hand tightening. “Promise me you will find a way to free Lucretta from the living death she is forced to endure. Promise me you will free our people from the dragon.”

  “We will go back to Seth together, Melis. We will destroy this monster together.”

  Melisande closed her eyes, shook her head.

  Bellona was frightened. It was not like Melisande to give up.

  “This is my fault, Melisande,” said Bellona, faltering. “If I had loved you as I should have loved you, I would have had faith in you. I would have realized that even if you had found another lover, you would have never abandoned your responsibilities. When Lucretta showed me the two of you together, I knew there was something wrong, but I didn’t question it. I saw what I wanted to see. If anyone pleads for forgiveness, it should be me.”

  She bent down, kissed Melisande tenderly.

  “Forgive me for my lack of faith.” Bellona hesitated, then steeled herself. “Do you want me to go look for the king or that Draconas?”

  “No,” said Melisande. “They are both dead. I am certain of it. They died trying to save me, Bellona. I heard Edward cry out and then . . . then ...”

  Melisande slid her arms around Bellona’s neck and clung to her. She wanted to tell Bellona about the rape, about the agonizing pain, and the horrifying image of the dragon, squatting over her. She couldn’t. Speaking of it would make it all the more real.

  “Do you know where his kingdom is?” Bellona asked gently.

  Melisande nodded. “South of here. Down the river somewhere.”

  “We will travel there and tell his people where to find the bodies.”

  “I love you, Bellona,” Melisande whispered. “I will always love you. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “If you forgive me, our sins will cancel each other out,” said Bellona. “And now let us leave this place of sorrow.”

  Lifting Melisande in her arms, Bellona carried her to the boat. She wrapped her in a blanket, gave her cool water to drink, bathed her maltreated face and hands, and waited patiently beside her until she sank at last into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  Though weary herself, Bellona pushed the boat out into the river, climbed inside, and, guided by the moonlight, glided down the silver-tipped river.

  Draconas should have stopped them. He shoul
d have swooped down, frightened the wits out of the female warrior, seized Melisande, and carried her away to Anora, as he’d been ordered to do.

  He disobeyed. He allowed the boat to sail away. He did not follow it, nor did he watch to see where it went. He let it glide into the darkness and disappear.

  He would be in trouble over this. He’d bungled it, he admitted that. What was the worst Anora could do? Take his “humanity” away from him? Draconas growled deep in his throat. She could have it.

  Draconas sought to find any hint that Grald was still lurking about. He detected nothing of him. Grald had not made away with the prize, but he’d done what he set out to do. Draconas was sure of that.

  Which left only Edward. Draconas floated down through the darkness. He did not doubt that Edward was dead. He would retrieve the body, take it back to Ermintrude. He’d have to concoct some story, of course, but that would be easy. He would tell the tale of how Edward had fought the dragon that had plagued his kingdom, how he’d gone up against the beast and how, though mortally wounded, he’d slain it.

  Ermintrude would grieve, but she would be proud. Her sons would grow up idolizing their father. Edward would probably be canonized a saint, like that other supposed dragon-slayer. Not the best outcome, but not the worst, either.

  Draconas landed on the beach. He let go of the dragon form with a sigh, felt it drift out of him as the soul drifts out of the body upon death, leaving only heavy, lifeless flesh and bone. It would take him time to once more adjust to his human body, to get used to feeling cramped, confined, and earth-bound. He took a few tottering steps and nearly fell over Edward.

  The king lay facedown on the beach, his hand over the hilt of his sword as if he’d made a desperate effort to retrieve it. Draconas couldn’t understand how he could have missed seeing him, except that he’d been preoccupied with watching Bellona and Melisande.

  “It only goes to show what happens when you let yourself get involved,” he muttered.