A Day of Dragon Blood

BAYRIN



Sea salt, sweat, and dirt covered him. He desperately needed a good, solid soak, but Bayrin remained in the throne room, waiting for Mori.

"If she loves me when I stink, it's true love," he said to a marble bust of an old king—he thought it was King Benedictus, the great hero from the legends—who stood upon a plinth. The bust merely glowered.

Old Benedictus must smell the stink too, Bayrin thought.

He rocked on his heels, anxious to see the princess. The night they had parted, she cried and held him tight; he had barely extricated himself. He had kissed her, promised to return to her, promised to always love her. That had been three moons ago, and now Bayrin thought he could burst—he wanted nothing more than to pull her back into his arms and kiss her again.

At the same time, a sliver of ice pulsed beneath those feelings. Worry for Lyana gnawed at him. His little sister—dancing for General Mahrdor himself! Like everyone who'd spent more than an afternoon in Tiranor, Bayrin had heard the rumors about Mahrdor. They said the man skinned humans to make scrolls, books, even upholstery. They said he collected shrunken heads, pickled hands, and bronzed fetuses he cut from living women's wombs. The thought of Lyana in his villa festered inside Bayrin so sourly that he barely noticed the palace doors open.

"Bayrin!" cried Mori. She ran across the hall toward him.

Stars, she's beautiful. Thoughts of Mahrdor's collection instantly left him. Whenever he returned from Tiranor, he realized what a beautiful woman Mori had grown into. The girl from a year ago, meek and skinny, was gone. Instead he saw a young woman, almost twenty years old, with billowing chestnut hair, wide gray eyes, and lips that smiled like all the sweetness of a fruit harvest. Despite this war and despite his worry for Lyana, he felt his heart melt, and he reached out his arms. She crashed into his embrace, and they shared a long kiss—a kiss that lasted the lifespan of oaks, the age of mountains, and the rise and fall of stars, and yet when the kiss ended, he felt it too short, like a harp's note that fades too soon.

He held her in his arms. She looked up at him, wrinkled her nose, and said, "Bay, you stink." She laid her head against his chest. "But I still love you."

I knew it, he thought.

"I think I got some of the stink on you too," he said. He held her hand and began leading her down the hall. "Come with me. I have an idea."

She looked over her shoulder at the throne, which was dwindling behind them. "Bay, Elethor flew to summon the Oldnales to a council. He said I must sit on the throne while he's away. I—"

"Did he say you can't sleep then, or eat, or bathe, or make love? Stars, I hope he didn't forbid that last bit." He guided her across the hall. "Come on, Mors, this throne has been here for hundreds of years. It will wait another hour for your lovely backside to warm it." He gave that backside a pat, nudging her outside the palace doors.

They stood on the palace stairway and gazed upon Nova Vita. Above the southern city wall rose Castra Draco, fortress of the Royal Army, in whose courtyard men and women dueled with swords and shields. The sounds of hammers on anvils rang; in the city's three smithies, blacksmiths were forging new breastplates, helmets, swords, and spears. For the first time, they forged armor for dragons too: great helmets the size of wheelbarrows, steel collars to shield necks from arrows, and massive breastplates to protect dragons' undersides where no scales grew. Above in the sky, Bayrin saw phalanxes of dragons swoop and blow fire, drilling great mock battles above.

War is coming, he thought. But that is tomorrow. Today is my day with Mori.

He shifted into a dragon and flew. With a snort of fire, Mori flew at his side, a slim golden dragon. They dived above the coiling streets. Soon they flew over King's Forest, wings bending the grass and saplings that grew from last war's ashes. They headed north toward the mountains of Dair Ranin where the Seven—great heroes of the olden days—had lived before founding Nova Vita.

They flew until the city disappeared behind, and the forests grew verdant and untouched by war. Oaks and birches spread for leagues below, their canopies an undulating green sea. The River Ranin rolled between the trees, spilling from distant misty mountains. In the old days before the wars, Bayrin would fly here with Elethor to hunt and fish and escape the court. He knew every boulder, meadow, and cave for leagues around.

"The air smells good here," Mori said, flying at his side. "Like trees and water, not... not like fear."

The two dragons, green and gold, flew around a stony mountainside and across a valley. Upon a cliff Bayrin saw the Stone Elder, a great, mossy statue of a dragon; it loomed twice his own size. They said the ancient, wild children of Requiem had carved this sentinel ten thousand years ago, long before the Vir Requis had forged iron, raised livestock, and plowed fields. The Ranin roared around the monolith and crashed down the cliff, a waterfall of mist and fury.

As Bayrin and Mori flew toward the waterfall, their wings rippled a reedy pond below, sending deer and cranes fleeing into a copse of birches. Bayrin dived and crashed into the pond, spraying a fountain.

"Come on, Mori!" he called into the sky. "It's not deep."

She circled above, looked down fearfully, then narrowed her eyes and dived into the water beside him. The pond swirled and the waterfall cascaded ahead, showering them. The Stone Elder glowered upon the cliff above. Bayrin could no longer see the forest around him, only mist and spray.

With a gulp of air, he shifted into human form. When he placed down his feet, the water rose to his chest. The waterfall seemed greater now, an angry liquid demon, and the spray pounded his weaker human form with countless watery arrows. After a moment's hesitation, Mori shifted too; the lake rose to her neck, and the spray drenched her hair.

"I'm scared," she said, voice nearly lost under the waterfall's roar. "The water is rough. Won't we drown?"

Bayrin shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure we will." He pulled off his shirt, then his boots, and finally his pants; he let them float away. He took a step through the swirling pond, moving closer to the waterfall. The spray pummeled him, turning the world white and blue.

"Finally you won't be stinky," Mori said.

He nodded. "Finally maybe you'll kiss me properly."

He pulled her toward him and kissed her—quite properly—for long moments. When he pulled off her gown, she shivered and clung to him, and he kissed her again. She was so small against him; her head only just reached his shoulders. Their naked bodies clung together underwater, and he kissed her ear while whispering to her—endless whispers that made her laugh, and blush, and kiss him again.

War is coming, he thought, but that is another day. Today I am happy.

When their love was spent, they waded to the lakeside, lay upon the grass, and let the sun dry them. He held her, kissed her head, and wished he could stay here forever. The sun began to set and he closed his eyes.

Twelve days, he thought. Twelve days until acid rains and blood washes us. He held Mori close, shut his eyes, and clenched his jaw with the pain of old wounds and memory.