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When the fiery breath fades, the only light left is the faint shimmer of the dragon’s two yellow eyes—not bright enough to illuminate anything, but enough to let me know he’s looking at me.
“I will be gone for most of the night,” he says. “As a prince of Ouroskelle, I must visit the bereaved and accept bone-tribute from the dead. After that, I will bring you food, and we will speak more of your purpose here. Until then, sleep. Do not leave the nest.”
With a rush of wings and incandescent breath, he soars out of the cave.
My bones ache, and I’m sore in every place his claws touched. I’ll be covered with bruises in the morning. But the pain isn’t what keeps me awake. It’s what he said to me, right after he grabbed me.
From now on, your only title is ‘captive,’ and your only place is within my nest. Your will, your future, and your body are mine.
Once, when I was far too young to be hearing such things, I heard a story about a male dragon, mind-sick and exiled from his clan, who would kidnap human women and rape them until they died of their injuries. I knew, even then, that he was an exception to the rest, not a monster by which to judge the entire race. In fact, until the dragons allied with Vohrain and began killing my people, I had no reason to hate them. They rather fascinated me.
But through the war, I’ve seen their true nature. Their cruelty. And now I can imagine them enacting vengeance in all sorts of wicked ways.
Which is why, as the dragon was carrying me, I decided on a strategy. I will be the most annoying prisoner that any dragon has ever had. I will pester my captor night and day. I will criticize, demand, whine, and complain until desire for me is the very last thought in his head. I will drive him mad until he releases me or kills me.
That way, I’ll avoid the anguish of being raped to death by his enormous, serrated dragon-cock.
To be fair, I haven’t seen any dragon genitals. The males keep their equipment tucked away and only extrude it for pissing or procreation. But I’ve heard that dragon cocks are thorny, spiky, toothed monstrosities that come in all shapes and sizes. Female dragons are probably tough inside, designed to handle such rough breeding—but human vaginas would be torn apart instantly.
I’m determined that won’t happen to me. But what about all the other women who were taken? I saw them distantly as we flew; I even thought I recognized a couple of them. In saving my own life, I must also think of theirs. After all, their captivity is my mother’s fault—my goddamn mother and her Supreme Sorcerer.
I’m not going to be able to sleep at all. Not with these bruises, not with this dress, not with my stomach growling and my thoughts racing and the grass rustling every time I move the tiniest bit. But I may as well try to make myself more comfortable.
I remove my slippers and stockings first. Next I unfasten the stiff crinoline and the bustled overskirt. This was a ridiculous outfit to wear to the hospital wards, but my mother had the maids lay it out for me, and I’m not in the habit of defying her over small things. I’ve learned that if I want to say “no” to her, I must build up credit first—earn the single “no” with a thousand small instances of “yes.”
I’m far more comfortable without the crinoline. I spread my silky overskirt across my resting place, hoping it will make the grass less noisy.
My eyes have barely adjusted to the darkness at all, so I don’t dare climb out of the nest and look for an escape route. I suspect there isn’t one, anyway—just a sheer cliff dropping straight down from the mouth of the cave.
Once I settle back down, I realize that I have to pee. There’s no privy, of course, but that’s not a deterrent for me. My plan is to make myself unpleasant to the dragon, so unpleasant I shall be. Since I don’t care to lie in my own urine for hours, I crawl to the far side of the nest and pee on the grass. He’s a beast with a sensitive nose, no doubt. He’s bound to smell it.
I return to my resting place and settle in, thinking of all the ways I can infuriate him. I’ll pitch my voice higher than usual, I’ll whine incessantly, I’ll sing the most repetitive songs I know. And I’ll never stop trying to escape. Never.
No matter how firmly I center my thoughts on the plan, they keep creeping back to the fate of my kingdom, my people. My bodyguards, so familiar they seem like brothers. My maids, who tell me the juiciest gossip and whisper things my mother doesn’t want me to know. The palace cooks, launderers, repair staff, and groundskeepers who shared their skills and knowledge with me whenever I asked, and seemed so pleased that I noticed and cared about their work. The jolly dukes and handsome lords who never failed to make me laugh on feast days.
It has been so long since we had a feast day. The last one took place on my twenty-third birthday. I discovered later that my mother confiscated an entire village’s sugar ration to create the towering cake we enjoyed that night. I didn’t know. Didn’t realize how dire things had become. After I found out, I felt sick and guilty for eating two slices of that cake. I tried to speak to my mother about it, but she wouldn’t see me. Too busy, her steward said.
Twenty-three years, and the queen still treats me like a foundling child instead of her daughter. But I’m hers, no doubt of it. I’ve been told the story countless times, how she went into labor while she was holding court. She sent the citizens out of the throne room, gave birth to me right there, in front of her servants and guards, and sent me off with a nurse while she rearranged her skirts and resumed hearing cases. “All true,” said the court physician when I asked him about the story. “A woman of steel and ice, that one.” Then he glanced around nervously, as if he thought his words might have been overheard.
A woman of steel and ice. The phrase clung to my mind after that, and it’s how I always think of her. Tall and regal, with thin lips and prominent cheekbones. Eyes that glint like daggers. Black hair shot through with steel-gray streaks. I look like my father, not her. She would never tell me who he was. Probably some peasant or guard she fucked on a whim, without taking precautions. I suppose I’m lucky she decided not to end the pregnancy through magical or herbal means.
I used to wonder if my father ever tried to find me—if she had him killed or imprisoned just to keep him away. I wouldn’t put it past her.
Wherever my mother is right now, I doubt she is thinking of me. So I put her out of my mind, resolutely. The tears that slip from my eyes aren’t for her, but for the people of the palace, the ones who raised me and loved me when she couldn’t be bothered.
5
Grief is the absence of rest.
Grief gives no reprieve, no space for a moment’s relief. It gnaws at the heart, a steady ache with the occasional sting of teeth.
It is the deepest hour of the night. I have visited many bereaved families already, and the cord around my neck is heavy with bone-tribute. When I reach my cave, I will remove the cord and place it in some dry place until I can carve a hook from which to hang it.
Each bone comes from one of the dragons we lost. Some families gave me a tooth, others a claw, a piece of spine, or a toe bone. The Dragonish symbols for the lost one’s name are carved into every tribute. The families choose a few bones to keep for themselves, as well. Some will wear the relics, while others will display them in their caves.
Varex flies at my side as we head toward the next cave. As a prince of equal standing, he could also request bone-tribute, but he has allowed me that honor.
Over the next several weeks, my clan will arrange the remaining bones of the dead upon the plains of the island, creating paths and spirals, designs we can see from the sky. With time, the bones will sink into the earth, and the grass will cover them, and we will heal.
