Mistress of Dragons (35 page)

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 them, 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.

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 these 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.

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.