Warrick springs into action then, throwing himself at the dragon and aiming a blow for the base of his skull. Some part of my brain remembers being taught—probably by Master Gormon—that dragons have a weak point there, where their scales offer less protection. Warrick looks like some figure out of legend, his powerful body flying through air, his sword arm drawn back. Though a visor covers most of his face, I can see his mouth open in a furious roar.
Just at the last moment, the dragon spawn twists. One of his great, leathery wings strikes Warrick hard, knocking him from the air. He loses his shield, which spins off across the stones. Warrick himself hits the ground hard, stunned. Beside me, Philippa smothers a scream in both hands.
And through all this, the fair dragon remains kneeling, head bowed, hands folded. As though the chaos around him cannot reach him, cannot touch him.
The dark dragon whips his head around, a savage hiss steaming through his cage of teeth. He crawls toward Warrick, each movement strangely elegant and fluid, like a snake, despite the strange jointedness of his limbs. Warrick, still half-stunned, scrambles to his feet, but his bad leg gives out when he tries to put weight on it. He goes down, kneeling, and the dragon lashes out with his talons. A flash of steel, and Warrick deflects the blow, cutting off one of the dragon’s curved fingers in the process.
The dragon spawn utters a shriek that echoes off the stalactites overhead. More fiery blood pours from his wound. In my head, even through the thrum ofholabella, I can feel his pain, his rage, his fear. He rears back his head, jaw opening wide, aiminga blast of fire straight at Warrick where he kneels. The prince of Anfalen’s eyes widen.
Just at the last instant, Taigan leaps into the path of the flame, deflecting it with hismeoriseshield. He and Warrick crouch behind what feels like much too small a barrier, and once more all of us watching from the balcony flinch back from the awful heat, though we ourselves are far removed from it. How can they possibly endure it?
The dragon’s flame is spent, and he gasps for breath, chest heaving, head shaking. I can already feel the fire in him mounting again as he prepares for another devastating blast. As he raises himself up and opens his mouth wide, however, Taigan boldly lunges forward. He throws himself straight at that awful maw, thrusting out his right arm and plunging his sword straight into the dragon’s palate. A shining blade emerges through the top of the dragon’s skull—a third horn between the other two.
I stare. I cannot move, cannot react, not even when my brother’s death agony bursts inside my head, rippling through my senses and awareness, breaking through all drugged barriers. I feel it all for a terrible collection of heartbeats.
All around me, cheers erupt. The courtiers, the king, Philippa, even the guards. They throw up their hands, bellowing with triumphant glee, calling out Taigan’s name.
I hear them. But only with my ears.
In my head, much louder, much more terrible, is the silence. The silence where the dragon’s voice was but moments ago.
My brother.My brother.
He falls. His terrible body lashes and coils in death throes, and that barbed tail knocks Taigan flat. When the horrible contortions finally still, Taigan rises, standing proud above the body of his slain enemy. He stretches out a magnanimous hand,pulling Warrick up and helping him away from the flow of dragon’s blood, which glows like hot magma, melting stone beneath it. Together, the two princes survey the dead monster in all its hideous glory.
Through all this, the second dragon spawn remains kneeling. I can see his lips moving, and in the very depths of my head, I hear his prayer. I do not understand the words, but a single meaning comes to me:Mercy, mercy, mercy.
There can be no mercy for dragons in this world, however.
Leaving Warrick where he is, Taigan marches to the second dragon. “Come on!” he shouts, his voice rough and exultant with victory. “Come on, get up and fight! Show us your true self, demon, and let us fight as we are fated to!”
The dragon ignores him completely. And again, in my head, I hear the echo:Mercy, mercy, mercy.
“Very well,” Taigan declares, and tosses aside his helmet, revealing his fine handsome face. Sunlight from the upper world shines in his golden hair, and he looks like an angel come down into the darkest reaches of the world. “Then in the name of Eidolo and all the gods of this realm, who have seen fit in their wisdom to appoint me as their weapon in this world, I send you, demon, back to the hell from which you spawned.”
He draws back his sword arm.
I cannot look away. I cannot even close my eyes.
I watch as the blow falls. Single, sharp, and swift.
I feel the sudden cessation of that voice in my head—the silence where, but a moment ago, there were prayers.
Then I give in to theholabella’s numbness and sink into darkness.
32
Rosie
My limbs feel as though they’ve been hollowed out with a chisel.
I lie on my back, staring up at the ornate ceiling of my chamber, aching in every part of my body as theholabellaslowly fades from my system. At least the physical ache gives me something to focus on. Something other than the images of violence even now trying to play out in my head. Images of flashing swords, of severed heads, of…
I groan and try to roll onto my side. My body won’t obey me, and the best I can manage is to turn my head just before acid and bile pour from my lips onto the lacy pillow. Somewhere, distantly, I hear a gentle voice utter a little “Oh! Oh, dear.”
The next moment, Philippa is at my bedside, wiping my face with a soft cloth, removing the soiled pillow and blankets. Her touch is tender, her murmuring voice soothing. And I hate her. I hate her so much in that moment, with all the force I cansummon in my bleary, stomach-roiling, bone-aching state. I hate her for dosing me, for serving Alderin. For pretending to be my friend and ally. For playing her part in all these little games which led inevitably to the deaths of my two brothers.
Tears stream silently from the corners of my eyes. Nothing makes sense anymore; my mind is all tangles and snarls. Why should I weep over the death of dragons? I should hate them, not Philippa. It was dragons who burned my childhood home, dragon flame which devoured my mother and left me scarred. Who knows what atrocities those two young dragon men have committed at Mhoryga’s command? They were not innocent—I was in their heads enough to know that much. How many fiery deaths did they bring about in the name of their goddess-mother?
