Mistress of Dragons (36 page)

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 shadow.

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.

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 should 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.