Shana Abe - Queen of Dragons

Darkfrith was a machine that slowly lumbered into gear for war, and Kimber still stood at its helm. The protections that had been in place before were strengthened, layered throughout the land from house to house and soul to soul. No one traveled alone here, not any longer. Not even Maricara. She'd told the earl and then his council of Rhys, and of Zane, and of Lia and the diamond. She'd even gone back to the place of her capture by carriage—she could not yet fly—but just as Zane had said, Rhys was gone. Neither she nor any of the drakon men with her had been able to unearth a hint of him.

And she had tried, more than once, to tell Kimber something else. Mari would sit opposite him in his bedchamber, the two of them dining by candlelight or daylight, or by the grace of the moon. Her head would lower; her lips would begin the words that had come so easily to her in that London dream of red sky and stars: I love you. But something always managed at the last second to strangle her short. She gave herself a thousand excuses, that he looked too weary, or too distracted, or that too many people interrupted them at all hours, family, physicians, council members.

And every time, it was as if he knew. She'd summon her nerve and lift her head and open her mouth and every time, no matter what he was doing, he'd pause and look back at her, fixing her with a gaze of light, fervent green—and her voice died in her throat.

She did not like to consider herself a coward; she'd said and done things far bolder than this, certainly. Yet the Earl of Chasen kept so beautiful, so somber and apart. Even as they shared a bed and their bodies, she felt the distance yawning between them, a chasm she could not manage to bridge, at least not with words.

There were occasions when she'd glimpse him in some ordinary moment—pulling on his coat; sharpening a quill with a penknife, tiny shavings curling paper-thin around his fingers—and feel as if she'd surely suffocate if she couldn't speak what was in her heart.

But she didn't. He never seemed to mind at all.

It took her nearly a week to regain the Gift of dragon and smoke. A week of being forced to travel only on human feet, to witness the mansion and the village and the woods from always this same human level. Mari walked whenever she could, burning off the restive energy that seemed stored up in her legs, swinging her arms hard with every step, letting the sun gradually heal the faint red lines that encircled her wrists.

It frightened her more than she would ever admit to think she would linger forever in this state. Whenever she attempted what had nearly always come so easily to her—vapor, animal—what happened instead is that the faint, sultry notes of Draumr resurrected around her, sent those tendrils of music to sink into her once again, binding through her until her very cells froze solid.

Zane was gone. Draumr was gone, both consumed by flames or the anonymous London night; none of the drakon sent to the city afterward had been able to discover a trace of them, either. But it seemed that neither man nor stone would let her forget that instant in the brothel, four languorous words spoken nearly under his breath: You will not Turn.

It was somewhat ironical that now that the dragons of Darkfrith soared with less secrecy than ever in their history, Maricara was kept fettered by her own body to the ground.

Damned Zane, and damned diamond. In fact, damn the whole world. All she'd ever wanted was to be free. And now, with Kimber secluded and her talents no longer so wondrous and rare, she found that her freedom became more of a burden than imprisonment ever was. Even the sky seemed both leaden and beyond her, clogged with gauzy bleached clouds that arched high above, only to bend with the weight of the horizon to smother the far-flung hills.

On the sixth day of her incarceration in her human shape, she took quill and ink and a sheaf of papers out to the pavilion of seasons. She sat on the swept marble floor and attempted to compose a letter to her brother, her skirts massed about her in a bubble of silk and lace, the beds of her nails slowly staining India black.

The broken pillar had yet to be repaired. Whenever her gaze drifted to it, it seemed to grant a sideways grin back at her, as if a giant had come and taken from it a single bite.

Once, only once, she heard the thrush again. Her head lifted; she brought up a hand to ease the sudden crimp in her neck and her eyes now fell upon the manor, the line of glazed windows that led to the earl's balcony. The feathered gargoyle, sneering his limestone sneer.

Kimber was standing there on the balcony gazing back at her, his forearms braced against the railing, his weight on one leg. Ivory and tousled gold, a shirt that ruffled in an upsweep of breeze. He stood unmoving, watching her.

Like the little girl from the woods Mari had espied that bright afternoon not so long ago, she lifted a hand to him. But the earl only straightened and walked away.

Mari sighed and glanced around her at the crumpled balls of paper she'd made from her seven botched attempts to explain to Sandu all that had happened. But she could not explain it; she hardly understood herself all the undercurrents tearing at her life, and the leader in her was loath to put too much into writing anyway.

There were a few things she did have a firm grasp upon, however.

One thing, at the very least.

She gathered her papers and quill once more. She went back inside the manor house.

She found him not in his chamber but hers, slouched in the chair someone had brought in to replace the broken Chippendale. This one was smaller, upholstered in blue and green and even more spindly delicate than the last. She doubted if one of its legs would even nick the door.

"Comfortable?" she asked him, as she leaned against the iron frame.

"Not very." He didn't look up from his contemplation of his shoes. "I can't imagine for whom they construct these things. I've seen kindling sturdier than these arms, and the cushion's so slick I can hardly stay in place."

"Tiny human ladies," Mari said. "Who take tea in sunny parlors, and nibble celery and twigs, and drink lemon water for dinner. They never fear sliding upon anything."

"Ah, that explains it. Perhaps all I need is a bit more lemon water in my diet."

"You'll be very hungry as you watch me dine on bread and wine. And I won't share, no matter how nicely you plead."

The corners of his lips lifted a little; his gaze remained lowered. Three of the seven candles in the candelabra were lit; they cast a false warmth across his cheeks. "I appreciate the warning. Although, 'tis a pity, since I've lately been thinking on how to polish up my pleading."

Mari entered the cell. She placed her belongings on the desk behind him, coming so close her pannier brushed his sleeve. He did not move.

It was not yet time to sleep, and not yet time to dine, not even tea and celery. She eyed the bed and then his back. The bandage wrapped around his chest shone a paler white beneath his ironed shirt.

She'd often touched it in the night. She would stroke her fingers across the linen wrappings, using all her tricks and senses to gauge his injury beneath, searching for fever, or infection, or even pain. But his heart always beat calm and constant against her hand. Nothing slowed it, not even slumber.

She sat upon the edge of the bed. She began to remove her pumps.

The earl said, "Why haven't you left yet, Maricara?"

She angled a glance up at him from beneath her lashes. His smile had become much more dry.

"You were so eager to do so before. I've the feeling twenty thousand dragons could not stop you if you really wished it."

"They tried very hard," she said, after a moment. "Two of them nearly caught up."

"Two! What stalwart fellows. I'll have medals struck for them."

"You're very harsh."

"No," he said. "Merely tired. And more than a bit at the last of my reserves." He rubbed a finger along the line of his nose, then raised his gaze to hers. "Why haven't you left for home yet, Princess Maricara of the Zaharen?"

She removed her second shoe, holding it in her hands. It was high-heeled and pink and the buckle was silver filigree, and her ink-stained nails looked very common against it.

"I did discover something more in London," she said to the pump. "More than Zane, or the delis inimicus."

Kimber's voice sharpened. "What?"

"I discovered," she turned the pump slowly over and over in her hands, "that. ..I would surely die without you."

He paused. "How gratifying. I agree that I was somewhat useful in rescuing you, but I've no doubt you would have managed to determine a way out of it, Your Grace, had I not shown up."

"No." She looked up at him. "I mean, yes—probably. Eventually. But what I meant was, I love you. I discovered that I love you."

He stared at her, unreadable. He seemed very large and male in the satin-lined chair.

"You needn't gawk at me like that," she said, defensive. "It's true."

"Sorry. I find that I'm.. .I'm rather without words."

"Love," she enunciated, leaning forward from the bed. "I love you."

"Women in love typically don't flee the object of their affections. Not even drakon women."

Mari shrugged. "Well, I told you. It happened in London."

He began, softly, to laugh. He brought his hands to his face and drew his palms down his cheeks; she realized anew how pale he was, how handsome and haggard. His long hair captured the light in lion colors, gold and wheat and palest dun.

She set the pump aside and slid to her feet. She crossed to him and dropped to her knees, taking his hands in hers.

"I didn't want to be in love with you. I didn't want to believe in love at all. It's never happened to me before. And to be perfectly frank, I'm still not entirely happy about the whole thing. I think—it's going to be exhausting. You're domineering and devious and I've noticed that whenever we're not kissing, I wish we were." Her voice had grown nearly plaintive; she stopped and cleared her throat. "It's a damnable situation. I don't know what to do about it."

He eyed her from the chair. "I'm pigheaded, too. Pray don't forget that."

"Certainly not. It was the next thing I was going to mention."

"My sweet, your notion of love is unique, to say the least. I wonder that you haven't written me sonnets already. Something like 'Ode to the Blackguard.'"

"I don't know what a sonnet is. But I wouldn't use the word 'blackguard,' precisely."

"It's a poem. Nothing." He looked down at their hands, her fingers tight over his. His mouth took on a strange slant. "What word would you use, then?"

"To best describe you?"

"Yes."

"A single word. Let me think." She sat back on her heels, drawing her fingers slowly free; his feet were caught in her skirts, motionless between her knees. "I would say 'mine.' 'Ode to the One Who Is

Mine.'"

He shifted. His feet pulled back and he bent closer, his eyes taking on a new cast, burning and intent beneath their brown lashes. "Are you thinking of kissing me now?"

"Well—since you mentioned it."

Without taking his gaze from hers, he lifted her hand. His lips lowered, not touching her skin, just enough so she could feel the warmth of his breath across her knuckles.