A Day of Dragon Blood

LYANA



Lyana stood on the winehouse roof, watching the square below where thousands roared for death.

It seemed every soul in Irys, this lush oasis city, had come to see the execution. Men, women, and children crowded the roofs of their mudbrick homes, peering between rooftop gardens of herbs, fruit, and vegetables. Soldiers, clad in pale breastplates and armed with spears, lined cobbled streets that snaked between palm groves, silos, vineyards, and workshops. Even the River Pallan, which coiled between the city's columned temples and villas, overflowed with ships—from the simple cogs of fishermen, to the great sailed ships of traders whose holds overflowed with spices, silks, and jewels from distant desert lands.

Tiranor, Lyana thought, the sandy wind in her hair. Scourge of Requiem—gathered here in all her glory and might, as different from my home as sunlight from starlight. I stand in the lions' den.

It was the Day of Sun's Glory, the pinnacle of the moon's cycle; tonight that moon would be black in the sky, and tomorrow the sun would rise victorious. The people wore white and gold to worship their fiery god, and the scent of myrrh wafted through the city, thick and heady in Lyana's nostrils. She had always loved the smell, but today it smelled like corpses to her. It was a day for all great things in Tiranor, this land of sand and stone—for war, for worship... and for death.

The crowd's roars swelled when five wyverns emerged from the Temple of the Sun, a sandstone edifice whose columns and towers rose above the city, capped with platinum. The scaly beasts dragged themselves from the temple's bowels and onto the hot, sun-drenched streets. Even in the glare of Tiranor's blazing sun, their scales were midnight black, their eyes red pools like fire underground. Riders sat upon them, their helms shaped as cranes' beaks, their whips ringed with gold.

Lyana grimaced and clenched her fists. The first time she had seen the wyverns, she had thought them some strange, southern dragons—they were large, scaled, and winged like the dragons of the north. But unlike dragons, they had but two legs—muscled and wide as their tails, with claws like great swords, twice the size of dragonclaws. Their jaws thrust out like blades, lined with teeth. Worst of all was the weapon that spewed from those jaws; Lyana had seen their acid burn only once, eating a condemned thief into bones, and it still filled her nightmares.

Chains dragged behind the wyverns. When they stepped farther from the temple, the shackles tugged their captive out onto the street: a bloody, lacerated dragon.

"Silas," Lyana whispered. Tears stung her eyes.

The wyverns grunted and trundled down the streets, dragging the chained dragon behind them. Silas breathed raggedly. His one wing was missing, burnt to nothing but a charred bone. His scales were dented, his horns sawed off. As the wyverns dragged him along the road, his blood trailed behind him. All around the crowds roared, stamped their feet, and pelted Silas with refuse and stones.

Lyana's legs shook, she panted, and her head spun.

"Oh Silas," she whispered.

She had fought alongside him in Nova Vita, battling the phoenixes over the city of dragons. He had served her father, the Lord Deramon; in her childhood, Silas often guarded her chamber at night and taught her swordplay during the day. She had to save him. She had to discard her disguise, shift into a dragon, swoop and grab him and fly with him to safety. She had to—

You have to serve your kingdom, whispered a voice inside her. You have to stay at your post. You are a daughter of Requiem, and you serve all her people... even if you must let one die.

It was the voice of her father, her king, and her ancestors—the voice of her honor and memory. It was a voice she hated this day.

She adjusted the silk scarf around her eyes. The loomers of Confutatis, ancient city of the eastern realms, had woven this scarf, and they had imbued it with all their skill and magic. From one side, the cloth was translucent as summer mist; from the other, solid and thick as wool. Through the scarf, the world shone clear to Lyana; to any observer, the silk hid her green northern eyes. To this city she was but Tiana, the blind dancer of the River Spice. Her hair, once a pyre of fiery red curls, now hung smoothed and bleached a platinum blond—the hair of a Tiran. Her skin, once pale and strewn with freckles like starfields, now gleamed golden, rubbed with dyes that would tint her for moons. Once she had worn the armor of a bellator, a knight of Requiem; today she wore but strands of white silk that revealed more flesh than they hid.

I was Lady Lyana, a defender of Requiem, a warrior who could shift into a dragon and roar to battle, save Silas, and burn my enemies. She squared her jaw, heart pounding. Now she must be only Tiana—only the blind dancer from the southern dunes, only a girl with a scarf over her eyes, a girl who could not even see this dance of blood before her. How I wish that I were truly blind today.

The five wyverns moved along the Palisade of Kings, a wide cobbled road lined with palms and obelisks capped with platinum sunbursts. Blood trailed behind the dragging Silas, and the multitudes roared. Cranes and ibises flew overhead, and soldiers on horseback rode behind the dragon, bearing the banners of Phoebus—a flaming sun upon a white field. The procession made its way down the palisade, under the great Queen's Archway whose stones were carved with sunbursts, and into the Square of the Sun where thousands roared and raised their hands to the heavens. The true sun blazed overhead, drenching the city, a god of light and heat and punishment.

Across the square lay the Palace of Phoebus, a towering edifice, greater even than the palace of Requiem where Lyana served her king. Its columns rose three hundred feet tall. Stone guardians, shaped as faceless warriors, flanked its great doors; each statue stood taller than three dragons. The wyverns began climbing the stairs to the palace gateway. Silas dragged behind them; the dragon thudded against each step, groaning, smoke leaving his nostrils.

Blow fire, Silas! Lyana thought. Blow your flame and kill what bastards you can!

Yet he was too weak; she saw that. He was barely strong enough to cling to his dragon form. She saw the marks of whips across him. They had tortured him, forcing him to remain a dragon, though surely it took every last drop of his strength.

Lyana clenched her fists. Queen Solina wants the mobs to see him as a broken, bloody beast, not a man.

The doors to the palace, wrought of gold and ivory, swung open. As if summoned by Lyana's thoughts, Queen Solina stepped out of shadows, stood above the stairs, and raised her arms.

The city bowed before her, a great wave of myriads. Jaw so tight her teeth ached, Lyana forced herself to bow too.

"Blessed be the Sun God!" cried Solina. She wore steel so pale it was nearly white. A golden sun glimmered upon her breastplate, and twin sabres hung from her belt. Her platinum hair swayed behind her like a banner, and a crown of jagged, golden spikes rose upon her head like claws.

You murdered my king, Lyana thought, a sandstorm of rage flaring within her. You murdered my betrothed. One day I will kill you, Solina.

"Rise, children of the sun!" Solina cried, arms raised. Across the oasis city of Irys, the people rose and cried her name. "A beast we found lurking along our borders. A demon of scale and claw!"

Upon the roofs and streets, the crowd roared. Lyana looked upon the people through the silk of her scarf. She had never seen such rage, such pure, storming hatred. It suffused the faces of the men and women of Tiranor, twisting them into cruel masks. It gushed from their throats in raw howls.

We are but demons to them, Lyana thought. We, the children of Requiem, are a noble and ancient race—a nation that lives for music, for meditation, for peace. And we are nothing but monsters here.

"The dragons burned your fathers and mothers!" Solina cried. "Thirty years ago, when they invaded our glorious land of sunlight, they toppled our towers and drank the blood of children." Her voice nearly drowned under the roaring crowd. "But we've rebuilt! Our palace stands anew and our people are strong!" She tossed back her head and howled her words to the sun. "We will never fall!"

The roars swelled so loudly that Lyana felt them thud in her ears, pound in her chest, and shake the River Spice Winehouse below her feet.

"We will never fall!" cried the people. "We will never fall! Hail the Sun God!"

Lyana lowered her eyes. The first Tiran War had raged before her birth. Solina herself had been only a babe. Its wounds had long washed away from this city; all the fallen buildings stood again, and once more trees filled this oasis with life.

"And yet the hatred we sowed then still blooms," Lyana whispered. "And it still burns our sons and daughters."

The wyverns flapped their wings and tugged the chained dragon to his feet. Soldiers climbed the towering statues that flanked the palace doors, attaching chains to hooks. Soon Silas hung shackled between the stone guardians, a bloody dragon with one wing, displayed in all his wretchedness to the city. Solina stood before him, her boots red with his blood.

"The dragons bring drought to our land!" the queen cried. "They drink the waters that should overflow the River Pallan! The dragons eat our grain, leaving our poor to hunger! The dragons mock our lord, the Sun God who gives us life, and worship the night!" With her every word, the crowd roared, and Solina spun toward the chained Silas. "Now Requiem will learn the price of its evil. Blessed be the Sun God! His fire shall extinguish all darkness. Soon we will burn all dragons and cast out their evil with light. We will never fall!"

Fly now! cried a voice in Lyana's head. Toss off this silk scarf, discard your disguise, and fly as a dragon to save him. You are a knight of Requiem, no blind Tiran dancer!

Her every breath was a struggle. Her head spun. Her fingernails dug into her palms. Oh, stars. Her king had sent her here as a spy—to dance, to listen, to learn. Stars, not to watch my friend killed before my eyes.

And yet she watched, trembling upon the roof.

Solina mounted a wyvern, the greatest among them, a behemoth of iron scales named Baal. The queen cracked her whip and her mount reared. The beast roared and spewed a stream of yellow, smoking acid onto the chained dragon.

Silas howled.

Lyana wept.

I'm sorry, Silas, I'm sorry. There was nothing she could do; she knew that. If she flew, she too would die. If she flew, all her work would burn with her bones. Yet still the pain and shame coursed within her.

The acid ate through the dragon's scales, blood boiled, and Silas turned back into a man. The body hung for a moment upon the chains, then fell and broke apart. Lyana turned away and closed her eyes, but she could still hear the screams.

The crowd's roar spun around her. Vaguely, she heard Solina cry of her glory, heard her scream of offering a burnt head to the crowd; all sounds were muffled. Struggling for breath, Lyana stumbled across the roof of her winehouse, fumbled to open the trapdoor, and stepped into the attic. Once inside, she all but fell against the wall, clutched her breast, and gasped for air.

Stars, oh stars.

She forced herself to take long, slow breaths, to count to ten, to calm the tremble of her limbs.

"You will not have died in vain, Silas," she whispered. "I vow to you. I will avenge you."

I will learn about the invasion of Requiem. I will report back to my king. And I will save Requiem from the wrath of this mad, murderous queen.

She leaned against the wall until her heartbeat began to calm. Soon her eyes regained focus, and she saw sacks of grain, jugs of ale, hanging strings of dried fish, and jars of fig preserves. In the corner lay her bed, a mere pile of straw topped with a canvas blanket. Once Lyana had lived in palaces, a great knight in the courts of Requiem. But those days lay long behind her; she had lived here in Tiranor as Tiana the dancer for a year now. Today, more than ever, she missed her home and knew the worth of her sacrifice.

Downstairs in the common room, she heard the doors slam open, boots rush in, and hoarse voices cry for ale and wine. Those were the voices of soldiers; she would have recognized the gruff calls anywhere. She had heard such voices a year ago when the Tirans had invaded her realm, burned her city, and killed thousands around her.

"Come, come, sit and drink!" rose the voice of Peras, the kindly old owner of the River Spice. "Sit here, I—"

The soldiers roared below. "The dancer! Bring us the dancer! Bring us wine, old man, and bring us the girl!"

Lyana ground her teeth. Death made such men thirsty for her wine and hungry for her flesh. She would serve them wine. And she would dance for them. And one day, she swore, she would burn them all.

For you, Orin, my fallen prince. For you, Silas, whom I could not save. For the thousands of Vir Requis these soldiers killed. I will avenge you, Requiem.

She grabbed her walking staff. She stepped downstairs, silks swaying across her body, baring all but her most private parts. Staff tapping, she entered the common room. Soldiers filled it, clad in steel and leather. At the sight of her, they roared and slammed fists against the tabletops. How many of those men had slaughtered women and children in Requiem? How many more would they slaughter once the second invasion began?

Peras, kindly old keeper of the winehouse, was hobbling between the men, serving wine, platters of dates, and steaming rolls of bread. One soldier shoved the old man aside.

"Dance!" he cried to Lyana. "Dance for us, Blind Beauty! We've seen blood and death, and now we will see grace."

When they looked upon her, she knew they saw a blind girl, a scarf hiding her green northern eyes in a land of blue-eyed desert warriors. Tiana's hair was smooth and bright as beaten platinum, her skin golden as dunes—a desert daughter clad in silks, a walking staff in hand, as different from Lady Lyana as sand from snow. When she looked upon them through her scarf, she saw steel and bloodlust, a death for her people.

"Dance as we drink!" one soldier called. "Summer solstice approaches, a day of dragon blood, a day when we kill and die. Let us drink today for life!"

Her heart pounded. Today was the new moon, a day of sunfire and wine. But summer solstice was the holiest day of the Tiran year, as holy as the Night of Seven to the children of Requiem. What did this soldier mean? Would the second invasion of Requiem begin on that holiest of days, a mere eighteen days away?

"Dance!" they cried.

She walked forward and tapped her staff, feigning her blindness and meekness, and they cheered. Peras began to play his lute, and the soldiers joined in, singing and drumming upon the tabletops. When she reached the center of the common room, tables of drinking men around her, Lyana laid her staff aside. And she danced.

A year ago, when she had been a knight in Requiem, Lyana had learned to dance with her betrothed Prince Orin; they would sway among the lords and ladies of the court, lovers caught in the song of harps and pipes. Here, in this southern land of sunlight and sand and steel, she danced not like a noblewoman, but like the wick of a flame, like desert wind, like a bird of many colors rising among palms. She closed her eyes until she truly became blind Tiana, and she surrendered herself to her dance. The men roared around her like desert storms.

As she danced, she was Tiana; she forgot her true name, her true parentage, her true soul. She became the Blind Beauty, the Desert Rose, the wonder of Irys. Her body swayed and her silks flowed. She spun, arms raised.

I am a daughter of dunes, whispered her soul. I have risen from the desert like a column of fire. I am kissed with sunlight and myrrh and pomegranate wine. I am a desert bird, flying, seeking the sky.

At these moments, when she danced, she could almost love her enemy, almost love Tiranor for the beauty of her song, the sweetness of her fruits and wines, and the glory of her ancient towers and gold. She was Tiran. She was Tiana. She was blind and a thing of wind and sound. If Lady Lyana, a knight of Requiem, still lived inside her, she was now a scourge of cruel northern snow.

The music died.

Lyana gasped and opened her eyes behind her scarf.

Through the silk, she saw the doors of the River Spice open, and a shadow entered the winehouse and her life.

First two armored men entered the room, bearing shields and spears. Gilded masks hid their faces, shaped as the heads of ibises, the curving beaks a foot long. They moved to flank the doorway, metal sentinels, and slammed down their spears. They were the Gilded Guardians, Lyana knew—warrior priests bred to protect the highborn of Tiranor. A third man followed, entering the shadowy common room with a wind scented of sand.

He was tall—the tallest man in the room. His head was shaved bald, and his face was lined, hard, and handsome. He wore armor of pale steel, unadorned but for a golden sun upon the breastplate. A sabre and dagger hung from his belt, their scabbards simple leather, their pommels shaped as sunbursts. If not for the suns upon his pauldrons, denoting him a general of Tiranor's army, Lyana would have thought him a simple soldier.

But no, she thought. It was more than just the rank upon his armor or the Gilded Guardians who flanked him. This man did not have the eyes of a common soldier. When he stared over the room at her, she saw no lust for blood, flesh, or wine. She saw nothing at all—only blue ice, calculating and heartless.

"General Mahrdor," whispered one soldier, rising to his feet. His face paled and he slammed his fist against his breastplate. "My lord!"

The other soldiers in the room, a good hundred or more, stood at attention. Their fists all slammed against their chests. All sounds died: the music, the raucous calls, even the men's breath. Lyana stared at the general and her heart thrashed. He was staring right at her: not at her body, like the other soldiers would stare, but directly through the scarf and into her eyes.

He knows! she thought. He knows I'm not blind. He stares through the scarf—into my eyes, into my soul.

She dared not move, not even shiver. She struggled to calm her pounding heart; she felt that General Mahrdor would hear its beat across the room.

No, he cannot know, she told herself. To others, the scarf is solid silk, white and covering my green northern eyes. He sees only Tiana. Only a blind dancer.

Finally he tore his eyes away from her; it felt like he'd pulled a dagger free from her gut. He began walking through the silent winehouse, the soldiers frozen around him. He made his way to a table before Lyana. When he stared at the men who had occupied it, they bowed and retreated into the shadows.

General Mahrdor sat, poured himself a mug of wine, and stared at Lyana. The candlelight danced against his armor. When he spoke, the room remained silent. His voice was smooth as the wine, his accent highborn and meticulous; it flowed through the silent room, too loud.

"You must be this... Blind Beauty I have heard of." He took a sip of wine, sloshed it, and swallowed. "They call you the Desert Rose and say you are a dancer of much grace and beauty. I have always greatly admired and sought grace and beauty—from good wine, to fine art, and yes... though my soldiers might snicker to hear it, even dance."

Though a glimmer of amusement tweaked his lips, his eyes remained hard. Lyana barely dared breathe. A lump filled her throat, but she dared not swallow. She had heard stories of this General Mahrdor and his love of beauty. They whispered that in his villa upon the River Pallan, he collected items he found beautiful—jeweled skulls of men he slew, scrolls of human skin, and stillborn babes dipped in bronze. Lyana had always thought those mere stories, rumors told to spread fear of the great general. Now, looking into those cold blue eyes, she believed all those tales.

"Well?" Mahrdor said, staring at her. He leaned back in his seat. "Let us see the Blind Beauty. Dance for us, child."

She closed her eyes and she danced.

Old Peras played his lute, but the soldiers—who had clapped and pounded the tabletops—were now silent. She could hear the patter of her bare feet and the flutter of her silks. Her body swayed. She felt his eyes on her skin, skin dyed gold to hide her northern paleness. She was as rushes in the wind, as smoke rising from the desert.

When her dance ended and the music died, she bowed her head. Deathly silence filled the winehouse. General Mahrdor stared at her—stared through her scarf, stared into her skin, stared into her deepest dreams and fears. His eyes were bottomless and clutching.

Without a word, he stood up and left the winehouse.

Lyana felt like an empty bellows. Her limbs began to tremble. Around her, the soldiers breathed out shakily, emptied their mugs, and cried for more wine. Soon cheer and song filled the winehouse again, but iciness lingered inside Lyana.

This is what I've danced a year here for, she thought. Stars, let him remember my dance! Let my painted body linger in his mind! Let him return. Let me learn what I can... if there is anything to be learned from icy, clutching eyes.

Night fell, wine flowed, and music swirled. Platters of roasted fowls, served on beds of leeks and mushrooms, filled the winehouse with their scents. Men cracked open pomegranates and greedily scooped out tiny jewels of seeds. A few men began playing mancala, the great game of the desert, dropping seashells into pits in a board, then howling after every round. Lyana was standing in the corner, singing soft desert tunes to an old soldier with one leg, when a Gilded Guardian returned to the winehouse and approached her.

"Dancer," he said, voice echoing inside his ibis helm. The beak swooped, long and sharp as a dagger. "The General Mahrdor, may the Sun God bless him, has invited you to his villa tonight. He requests a private dance. In return he will pay you a handsome reward. Will you accompany me through the dark streets to his home of light?"

Around them, soldiers smirked and hooted.

"A private dance for the general!" one called, a man who wouldn't have dared breathe around Mahrdor. "I'd say you've charmed the old man, girl."

Another brayed laughter. "He'd like a private dance in his bed, I'd wager."

Lyana barely heard the laughter. Her innards leaped and her breath stung in her nostrils. She would enter the villa of General Mahrdor himself, chief of Tiranor's armies! Her head spun. In a year of work, listening to these drunken soldiers chatter, she had not achieved half so much. Her fingers trembled. What dark secrets would she learn in his home? Memories rushed through her: rumors of bronzed fetuses, severed heads, and parchments of human skin. But she dreamed of other treasures: of maps, of battle plans, of secrets whispered in darkness when her flesh intoxicated him and loosened his tongue.

Tiranor planned a second invasion of her home; Lyana did not doubt that. If anyone could reveal its time and location, it was General Mahrdor.

"I accept," she whispered to the Gilded Guardian.

They left the winehouse and walked through the night. On the night of the new moon, when the sky was darkest, the Tirans lit fires across the city and praised the Sun God, the banisher of darkness. Great braziers crackled atop the Palace of Phoebus, which rose to her left across the square. Torches blazed upon the columns of the Sun Temple, which rose upon a hill to the east. People crowded the streets, holding candles and chanting prayers to banish the night. Smoke rose and sparks swirled like fireflies, filling the darkness. Light and fire ruled; shadows fled.

We are shadows to them, Lyana thought. We, the children of Requiem, who worship the stars and can fly as dragons—we are creatures of darkness for them to burn. She swallowed a lump in her throat. These people who marched the streets, holding candles before them, did not lust for blood or death; they lusted for light. They had never met a Vir Requis, Lyana knew. They knew only the stories Queen Solina fed them: stories of wretched beasts called weredragons, demonic shapeshifters of the north who could grow scales and wings, who had toppled their temples thirty years ago.

They think us beasts, mindless killers, monsters of darkness, she thought. They will burn us all if I cannot stop them.

She could not stop Solina from spreading lies. But she could discover her plans. She could warn her home. She could save her people from the endless fire of Solina's wrath.

The Gilded Guardian walked silently, staring ahead through the holes in his helm; he seemed to Lyana like an automaton of metal. He took her to a dock upon the River Pallan where rushes swayed and water flowed over mossy stones, reflecting the light of lanterns like a thousand jewels. Frogs trilled and children knelt above the water, sending candles floating upon wooden toy boats, gifts to banish the darkness of the northern seas. In the water swayed a full-sized boat too, ten feet long, shaped as an ibis. Silver filigrees lined its hull, forming coiling shapes of phoenixes. The Gilded Guardian stepped into the boat, reached out his hand, and helped Lyana in. His hand was gloved in leather, icy even in the warm summer night.

He rowed. They floated down the river, soon passing the Sun Temple whose priests moved between columns, blowing ram horns. The smell of frankincense, palm oil, and charcoal filled the air. Past the temple, the river ran between the narrow mudbrick homes of tradesmen: scribes, masons, blacksmiths, and healers. Around a bend, the river flowed through a copse of palm trees, then into the wealthy quarters of merchants and nobles. Villas rose here upon the riverbanks, their gardens lush, their doorways flanked with statues. The greatest villa lay ahead, rising from a verdant paradise of palms, fig trees, and terraces of flowers. A palisade of columns led to its gates, each topped with a status of a desert animal; Lyana saw falcons, foxes, snakes, and gazelles.

They docked the boat. Three slaves waited there, clad in crimson livery, their hooded heads bowed. They accompanied Lyana through the gardens toward the villa. The song of frogs, owls, and crickets rose around her, and the heady scent of jasmine filled the air. Lyana's heart thrashed as she walked, tapping her staff before her. For a year in Tiranor, she had lurked in shady alleys, danced in rundown winehouses, and sought whispers among the common soldiers of the city's dregs. Now she walked toward the greatest house in Irys; what knowledge would she find here?

General Mahrdor waited at the villa's doors. At first Lyana did not recognize him. Instead of armor, he wore a white tunic fringed in gold, an iron circlet in the manner of Tiran nobles, and sandals. He smiled thinly, but his eyes remained cold. Again it seemed to Lyana that he could see through the scarf around her eyes, just as she could. Again a chill ran through her, but she sucked in a breath and forced herself to keep walking toward him.

For Requiem, she thought. For my family, for my king, and for my home.

"Tiana!" he called to her, arms outstretched. "That is your name, is it not? Come, my Blind Beauty. Welcome to my home."

He dismissed his guards and slaves, and soon Lyana found herself tapping down a grand hall, its floor a mosaic of suns and stone vultures with jet eyes. She and Mahrdor walked alone. Great statues lined the hall, shaped as nude women with the heads of animals, their fangs bared and tongues rolling. Lyana had to struggle not to shiver, not to stare at them.

You are only Tiana, she told herself. You are only a blind dancer; you cannot see this place.

He reached out to her. She forced herself not to flinch, to feign surprise when he took her hand. His flesh was cold like a corpse's hand.

"Come, let me help you," he said. She stared forward but felt his eyes beside her, boring into her.

Past the main hall, they climbed a stairway and entered a wide, shadowy chamber. Lyana's jaw tightened, and it took all her will to stifle her gasp.

The stories were true. Sundry items filled this place, overflowing shelves, tabletops, and alcoves. Shrunken heads, their skulls removed, hung on strings from the ceiling. Pickled hands floated in jars. A chair stood in the corner, formed from human femurs. Old torture devices, their iron rusted and dulled, hung on one wall between paintings of bloodied, broken men.

Mahrdor stood still, holding her hand. "It is such a terrible malady, blindness," he said. "I have brought you to my chamber of wonders, the place of my most prized possessions. And yet... yet to you, the world is still a pool of darkness."

She lowered her head and whispered. "Though my eyes peer into eternal night, the Sun God lights my heart."

He nodded sympathetically. "Well spoken, child. He is a merciful god to those who serve him. If your eyes are blind, your fingers will see for them. Let me guide you."

He guided her deeper into the chamber, then raised her hand above a shrunken head. When he began to lower her hand, Lyana's breath caught and her eyes winced beneath her scarf. The shrunken head seemed to stare at her, no larger than a pomegranate. When Mahrdor placed her hand upon it, she gasped softly. The skin was smooth, leathery, and cold. Mahrdor moved her hand across it—the lips that were sewn shut, the empty eyes, the wispy hair.

Lyana gritted her teeth. Think that you touch only old cloth, she told herself. Only an old, beaten tunic.

"Do you know what this is?" Mahrdor said.

"A... a doll's head," she whispered.

He laughed softly. "Yes, child, only a doll. A doll I made myself. I have taught myself the skill, you see—to cut the neck, remove the skull, and stuff the skin with herbs. It is an art, much like dance. I am an artist too, child."

He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her away from the head, and placed her hand against a deformed skeleton, its bones twisted and bloated.

"I found this poor soul begging on the streets of Irys," Mahrdor said. "He was a swollen freak, his back twisted and his face bloated like a hippopotamus." He sighed. "Killing him was a mercy, but... he was such a wonder, Tiana! Such a wonder that I kept his bones. Feel them. Run your fingers across them." He forced her hands along the twisted ribs, the withered hip bones, the coiled femurs. "Do you feel the bumps, the grooves?" He sucked in his breath, seeming almost like a man in ecstasy. "They are exquisite."

She nodded, bile in her throat. "They are... fine bones, my lord."

He pulled her away from the skeleton, spun her around, and placed her hand against a mancala board. Instead of seashells or seeds, its pieces were made from dried scarabs. He made her caress the beetles.

"These scarabs ate the flesh off my skeleton," he said. "They are ravenous little beasts! Once they had their fill, and died of overeating, it was a shame to merely toss them out. Dried like this, and still stuffed with human flesh, they make such wondrous little marvels. Can you feel their claws?"

She nodded. "They feel wondrous, my lord."

Next he placed her hand upon a wide, curling scroll that covered a tabletop. Lyana gasped. It was a map! A map of Requiem! Her heart trembled like a bird trapped behind her ribs. Wooden wyverns, each the size of a thimble, stood upon the map. The miniature army was arranged as if flying out of Tiranor, across the sea, and into Requiem through Ralora Beach upon its southern shores.

The invasion plans, Lyana thought. Stars, he's going to invade through Ralora Beach.

Her head spun. This beach was undefended, a mere rocky shore leagues from any outpost. King Elethor had to be told. Requiem's army had to move, to defend its beach, to—

Mahrdor placed her hand upon the map, interrupting her thoughts. He moved her fingers across it.

"I made this scroll myself," he said, "from the skin of a weredragon I slew." When she tried to pull her hand back, he held it firmly. He forced her fingers across it. "Feel it, child! Do not be afraid. Caress it. Luxuriate in it. Enjoy the texture. Do you feel how smooth it is?"

Stars, the skin of a Vir Requis? Is this scroll made from one that I knew? One that I commanded in battle?

She nodded and whispered. "It is most smooth."

"Only human skin feels so smooth," he said. "It is superior to the skin of any animal. Sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I walk into this chamber and just... caress. I like to wrap myself in it sometimes, to feel close to the woman who once wore this skin." He touched her cheek, and she flinched. "Your skin is smooth too, my child."

She swallowed, heart pounding. "I would make a poor scroll, my lord. My... my skin dries easily."

He laughed softly, still holding her hand. "No," he said. "You, as you are, are a greater wonder than any scroll." He sighed. "Do you see, Tiana? Do you see why I brought you here? You are a dancer. You live for the dance! You breathe beauty, wonder, grace, the awe of art. I too am an artist. A collector." He shook his head wistfully. "The men I lead... Soldiers. Fighters. Brutes. They think I command them because I love war, love bloodshed, love killing as they do." He barked a laugh. "Love blood and killing? No. Any brute can slay a man; what is there to love of that? No. I go to war, Tiana, to collect, to bring back these wonders. Bones! Skin!" He sucked in his breath, eyes lit with fire. "I admire these treasures, Tiana. And you... you are among the most lovely, wondrous treasures I have seen."

He grabbed her waist with both hands and she gasped. He stared down at her, those blue eyes blazing. Through the silk scarf, he met her eyes.

No! she thought, trembling in his grasp. No, it's impossible, my scarf looks solid from the outside, only I can see through it, he can't be looking into my eyes, can't be...

Her limbs shook.

She had to leave this place.

She had to send word to King Elethor, to tell him of the map, to...

His fingers grabbed her silks, tugged gently, and unwrapped them like a gift. The fabric fluttered down, and she stood nude and trembling before him. She kept her chin raised, refusing to lower her head, refusing to cover her nakedness. She was only Tiana here, a dancer from the dunes, but she still had her pride.

He caressed her cheek. "So smooth..."

He led her toward a divan at the back of the room, pulled her down, and kissed her neck. His hands were confident but gentle. He knew what he wanted from her; he would take it, not with violence, not as a warrior... but as a collector. He acted, Lyana thought, as if claiming her—owning her—was his right, as if she would give herself to him as naturally as the night gives itself to dawn.

She had never lain with any man but Prince Orin, her betrothed whom Solina had slain. Her throat tightened and her tears burned to think of him. She closed her eyes as Mahrdor lay atop her, as his eyes closed, as he collected her. His breath was rough against her face, and she clenched her jaw.

For my home, she thought. For Requiem.