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Instead of the gentle tones of my maids rousing me and the hiss of steaming hot water running into my marble tub, I’m greeted with a low, repetitive rumble and the distant whisper of the ocean somewhere far away.
Memory hits me like nausea, like a dagger in my brain.
Everything is gone. The war is over. Lost. My mother was defeated, probably imprisoned by now, or dead. The kingdom, ravaged. Everyone I ever knew, everyone I took for granted, gone. My maids, my bodyguards, the cooks and gardeners, the messengers and attendants, the clerks and physicians, the stable-master and his boys, and the farmers who would bring their carts to the palace and fill our larders with good things. I used to love to greet them and ask about their families. They were always delighted when I remembered details about their loved ones. Sometimes, if they brought their sons or daughters along, I would give the children small gifts just to watch their eyes light up.
One of the people I miss the most is the second cook’s adorable little son Taren, whose birth I witnessed two years ago. His mother, Huli, asked if I would be his guardian if anything ever happened to her, and I agreed. I adore babies, in general, but I love that tiny boy with all my heart—I’ve been his caretaker and playmate more times than I can count. And now I have no idea if he and his family are safe.
Gone. All of it.
Because of the fucking dragons. Because of my mother, because of Vohrain, because of a whole host of reasons, both foolish and rational, that lay behind this war. But right now, all my fury and resentment centers on the great black dragon sleeping on the stone floor. The jagged spikes along his back rise and fall with his slow breath.
They say everything looks better in the morning, but he’s just as hulking and terrifying as he was yesterday. His ebony scales glimmer in the light that pools in the mouth of the cave.
On any other day, I might love that tender morning light, and the bits of rosy cloud I can see outside. I might delight in the wheeling of sea birds against the sky, in their raucous cries, in the fresh breeze that buoys them up and pours into the cave, brushing softly against my cheeks. But my pain, fear, and uncertainty are too great to be relieved by a pretty morning.
Maybe it affects me a little, though. Lifts my spirits just enough so that I remember my strategy—to annoy the black dragon until he goes out of his mind. To make his life as wretched as I possibly can. To learn everything about him so I can hurt him with my words, even if I can’t damage him with weapons.
He’s intelligent and proud, that much is clear. That plays in my favor. Intelligent people are easier to irritate—the small, bothersome bits of life distress them more painfully. And anyone with true pride is exquisitely sensitive to being wrongfully perceived.
Those finer tortures will come later. For now, I’ll start with something absurdly simple. Something to test my captor’s endurance. It might end in me being thrown off a cliff, but I’ll take my chances.
First I pee quietly, on a different part of the nest. The dragon’s nostrils twitch, but his breathing doesn’t change, and his eyes remain closed.
The nest is gigantic, big enough to fit two dragons of his size with room to spare. Not far beyond it, a rivulet of water spurts out of the rock wall and trickles down, running through a groove in the floor before disappearing into the rocks again. I clamber out of the nest and sniff the water. It smells clean. When I taste it cautiously, it’s sweet and fresh, so I gulp it down until my tongue and throat are less parched.
With the immediate necessities taken care of, I walk along the nearest wall of the cave, my fingertips grazing the rows of decorative etchings. Beautiful, my heart says quietly, but I stifle the admiration and the line of lyrics that springs into my mind, a melodic homage to the presence of such exquisite art in such a brutal place.
Songs come to me like this, in unguarded moments. Usually a line or two will appear, fully formed, music and words in perfect sync, and then I mentally play with the concept until I flesh it out into something fuller, richer.
But I refuse to create a song about this place. My captor and his murderous clan don’t deserve it. So instead I select the most annoying tune I know and I begin to sing it. Loudly. Cheerfully.
“I once had a wife
Who took my life
And she buried me
Beneath the sea
A sailor caught me in his net
From a boat that he won in a drunken bet
I swallowed his soul
So I could be whole
Then I went to the tavern to barter for ale
And the barmaid begged, “Will you tell me a tale?”
So I said…
I once had a wife
Who took my life
And she buried me
