Vow of Superstition: Dragon’s Blood by Skhye Moncrief
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. Vow of Superstition: Dragon’s Blood COPYRIGHT © 2008 by Skhye Moncrief All rights reserved. This is an "unedited" as is title. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Contact Information:
[email protected] Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press The Wild Rose Press PO Box 706 Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706 Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com Publishing History First Faery Rose Edition, 2008 Free Read Published in the United States of America
“There was a time when lovers believed in magic here in Trimund, m’lady.” The stout seamstress, Anya, shook out my wedding gown’s heavy opalescent skirt where we worked to prepare for the evening ceremony in my enormous bedchamber. Anya met my gaze and arched her silvered brows. “Those days are long since past. You will marry Lord Bordock and forget his squire.” If the motherly Anya thought she would admonish me, she was wrong. “Servants know what they are permitted to know. Perhaps you assume you may speak freely.” Anya rolled her brown eyes and turned back to the wedding gown’s traditional pearl-encrusted silk. “Lainy, I know you are angry. I know you long for the heart you cannot have. Take the Dragon’s Blood tonight. Let your heart soar with the lord. You do your father’s kingdom a great favor in this joining.” Dragon’s Blood forged alliances in the heat of passion. Wove a spell claimed to unite kingdoms for all time. No war. No hunger. More like no romance. A myth. A vow of superstition. What was life without love? Starvation. The heavy gown tethered me to the box I stood upon. I was the model statuary for a noble’s court, my servants at my hem. If only Anya would speak of my heart to Father. Desperate times called for extreme tactics. Now to test the water for an outlet. “Lord Bordock will be displeased when he takes his prize.” Anya slowly unfolded to stare conspiratorially into my eyes, her silver hair wound into a braided knot upon her head. The seamstress so looked like Mother before the plague took her. Perhaps Anya would intervene for my sanity. “Your suspicions are true. I am no virgin.” Anya swayed, stepping sideways, catching herself against the iridescent green wall with a plump pink hand. She kneaded her brow without losing her admonishing stare. “The squire?” Dearest Trawn couldn’t suffer for the lie. “No.” “Lainy,” Anya gasped. “To lie at this moment is dangerous.” A door thumped. 1
Skhye Moncrief Anya whirled to the empty bedchamber’s silver bedstead draped in pinks, the hearth’s dancing flames, a black dressing table, and silver sheers fluttering in the blustery winds. “Sacred Gods and all that is good, right, and gracious, please let the wind blow doors shut this day.” “Oh for the wind to blow strong enough to blow me away.” Hours passed with the wind gusting to a howl as if lamenting over my being forced to wed. Yet, it failed to mute the festivity’s music and dragon’s groan on the castle grounds below. Blessed nature summoned me down from my view of the molten sunset to the castle’s mercurial pool. I could go. I could hurl myself into the glistening green water and let the pearls pull me down to meet my end. Would that not equate to a coward’s demise? Lainy, daughter of Lord Wahldrow, he who was second to no other than the High King of all Purganthia, was no coward. A door creaked across the room. Time to meet my future. I turned. Father waved me toward the hallway. “You would keep the peasants waiting to gaze upon the beauty of your gown, Lainy?” More like to gaze upon the slitting of the dragon’s throat. My skirt whispered as I strode to take Father’s elbow. His red jacket studded with green embroidery foretold of the ceremony to come. The creature would die in a ridiculous ritual of unwanted marriage. All things led to a singular moment, the dismal sip of Dragon’s Blood. The instant I knew truth when nothing burned in my veins. No passion. No lust. No love. The tap of Father’s black boots drummed a deadly march. He led me down the torchlit passages lined with paintings of smiling relatives toward where a brilliance at the top of the stairs shifted with dancing shadows. More than firelight warned I could not turn back. The ghosts of the people and their loud music spoke of happiness among the country folk downstairs. Father paused at the uppermost step and turned me to survey the reeling crowd at the base of the curving 2
Vow of Superstition: Dragon’s Blood staircase. The enormous castle doors were propped open, allowing a long view of the courtyard lit with countless bonfires. Everyone spun to gape up at me, even the dragon where he was chained to the courtyard. But to trade my blood for the beast’s freedom. “You do us the greatest honor tonight, daughter. I have found you the perfect match. For you, Lainy, I gift you Lord Bordock. A long life. The love of a noble.” Father’s soft words were only meant for my ears. So caring. Doting. Yet, he had erred in his choice. How could a loyal daughter refuse the request of a superstitious father? He nudged me forward. “Let the marriage begin,” he yelled. The guests bustled once again. The few summer days spent at Bordock’s castle haunted me as I descended toward Lord Bordock in full wedding costume. He was no Trawn. Trawn had befriended me with tales of honor while Father and Bordock hunted. Friendship always glinted in Trawn’s green eyes. A gentleman he had been, carefully taking my hand when the walk through the high mountain meadows grew bumpy with stones. And when Father was out of sight, Trawn allowed me to run his mount through the meadows. Not even Bordock permitted my mare to trot. A squire to love? Yes. A noble’s servant. The lord’s growing form mushroomed beside the manacled beast. Bordock wore the angular hunter’s mask of Morsnith, slightly altered with long shimmering green feathers. But the tradition of choosing plumage from the groom’s kingdom didn’t detract from the ceremony. Nobles were being wed, which required a hunter’s leather outfit, a sword, dragon, and mask. And a lady in the most expensive gown a father could afford. A lord was forced to carry his own in the hunt and combat. To prove he deserved his rank. Bordock’s muscles straining against the leather over his arms and legs heralded his power. The dragon he captured to kill at his wedding proved his prowess. Wind fingered the feathers in Bordock’s mask. The war drum pounded out the first thump of the wedding. 3
Skhye Moncrief Father’s presence shrank away from my arm. To turn back would insult Father and Bordock. That would be a monumental mistake. I stepped toward the groom and dragon. My heart lurched with an ominous rhythm as I walked a line to a sacrificial slab perfumed with sulfurous dragon’s odor that escaped from the holes in the animal’s iron muzzle. The beast’s orange eye focused on my approach. Fearlessly, it hunched down upon the stone courtyard, waiting, possibly studying the scene for a means of escape. I claimed a foothold next to the creature’s calculating gaze. This was the bride’s position. A place of honor next to olive scales. The drumbeat quickened. Poor dragon. He knew nothing of his future. At least he was spared my agony. The world fell into silence. Or, I no longer listened. What would become of my life? The crowd seemed to disappear. Firelight flashed against Bordock’s familial sword. The beast shrieked. Blood-red rain showered my wedding gown. The priest shoved a basin into my view to catch the blood. Dragon’s Blood. A new beginning? Or my end? Did old wives’ tales hold any truth? Would the aphrodisiac supply a fabled passionate future? The dragon’s iron muzzle clanged as the animal’s head struck the ground. Its blood purled across the courtyard. Would the inky fluid bring prosperity in another mythical promise—a blessing for the next decade’s crops? The priest’s pale hand extended me a garnetencrusted golden cup filled with dark liquid. Dragon’s Blood. I gazed into the portentous well. Where were the scenes of my future so many soothsayers swore to view in such places? “It’s time, m’lady.” Bordock’s muffled words sounded odd. Was all of this a nightmare? I rolled my gaze up from passion’s poison to his blood-spattered chest, then to his green stare. Eyes as green as Trawn’s. Bordock’s people 4
Vow of Superstition: Dragon’s Blood were renowned for having eyes the color of his mask’s feathers. Better to appear compliant than contrary. I pushed the cold cup’s rim to my lips and tilted the vessel. Metallic-tasting liquid ran across my tongue. Not a terrible flavor. I swallowed. A tingle began to dance upon my tongue, growing, burning down my throat. I dared not look the weak pampered woman, stared at the dragon’s scales, and shoved the cup toward Bordock. A fire lit inside my belly. Had my father killed me? Would I even recall my life before Dragon’s Blood? To cough. To spit out poison. I dared not risk angering Father or Bordock. I gulped at air. The world went black. “To the chamber,” a man called. The world seemed to sway. Not enough to snuff the flames inside my body. Would this madness ever end? Or was I doomed to feel the sensation for the rest of my days? “Beside the fire,” the same voice said. Heat bore down upon me from outside my body as well. Had these men no mercy? The door thumped. Alone? Unlikely. Rather, in the bedchamber. Bordock was certainly near. I had to rise. I had to find some means to consummate the marriage. There was no way to stave off a man like my husband. I shoved my elbows into the wooden floor. The hearth’s heat held me down. Blessed life. I ground my elbows into the floor again. Pain shot up my arms. I managed to lift my heavy head off the floor and popped my eyes open. A golden and burgundy room spun in the smearing firelight of hundreds of candles. Golden. Everything twinkled with teasing value. Bordock’s body rested upon a stretcher far from the fire. Men! They spare other men a roasting. But why was I awake? I crawled to the burgundy bed beside Bordock and gripped the thick bedpost to rise. 5
Skhye Moncrief My searing internal pain faded. But left an emptiness. A yearning. What of this sensation? A need. To satiate the hunger. I did not! Could not! Legend spoke of truth. I wanted to rip off my clothes and pounce upon Bordock. But why? He wasn’t Trawn. Dragon’s Blood. Magic. Legend. I shook my head and stared at my husband. The mask of Morsnith grinned back at me. Except the eyes. Bordock apparently couldn’t open his eyes. How could anyone consummate a marriage staring at that leering mask? I gripped the silk bedspread, grabbed the edge of the mask, and yanked. But Bordock didn’t lie upon the stretcher. Trawn did. The gorgeous gentleman. What trickery unfolded? Trawn’s eyes opened, and he locked his gaze upon mine. My heart raced. Here lay the man I wanted. Oh for a rope to tie myself to the bedstead’s post. To shackle myself from straddling the man. What happened to Bordock? I would never suffer a blow to my reputation by lying with a man other than my husband. Trawn would confess. “Where is Lord Bordock?” Trawn’s brow furrowed. What tied his tongue? Passion’s poison. “Answer me.” Need jolted me with a disconcerting shiver. Trawn sprang to his feet two steps from me. How could a man, even a hunter, move so? “Answer me.” He took one step and eyed me hungrily. Dragon’s Blood. Passion’s promise never looked so tempting. “Stand away. I will have my answer.” He pinned me to the bed, the tip of his nose touching mine, his intent stare making my heart thrash madly until I found the sense to shove the hot leather covering his heaving chest. The man didn’t budge. What was this Dragon’s Blood? “Answer me.” He exhaled quickly. “I am Lord Lethan Chantry Trawn Bordock, your husband.” “This can’t be true—” He wagged his head once. “I asked your father for the 6
Vow of Superstition: Dragon’s Blood favor to hide my identity. He agreed.” What? “Father is involved in this charade?” He inhaled sharply, his chest pressing into my palms, leaning down to rub his warm cheek against mine. Gooseflesh tickled down my arms. “A favor,” he whispered into my ear with warm breath. “To allow me the chance to get to know you. The real you. To learn who you were without all the pretense—” “All lies!” I shoved against his iron body. “Get off me.” “Stop this, Lainy.” He met my gaze. Those green eyes softened. I saw the Trawn from the meadow. He thrust a yellow vial before my eyes. “Fourteen centuries ago, our forefathers forged the first alliance with nobles bonding in wedlock using Dragon’s Blood. Peasants dare not take the drink. But you and I, we risk a dismal future if we don’t consummate our vows, for we two share the dragon’s blood of one beast. We will be drawn to each other until we die. To refuse the desire is to endanger our kingdoms. But this vial contains the antidote. If I can’t have a wife who loves me, I release you from your obligation. Take the vial if you must.” Trawn loved me? Father spoke of gifts. Was this possible? I would marry the man I chose? The pinch in Trawn’s brow insisted I believe him. My heart drummed that I believe. Oh but to have what one hoped for. “Cast the draught aside. I shall hurl this gown upon the bonfire tomorrow myself for all the people and the Gods to see my happiness with the match.” His head cocked sideways, his eyes glinting with promise. “I would wish to marry no other.” Was he just going to watch me? Dragon’s Blood obviously burned in his veins. “Rip off this gown or I’ll lose my last wit, husband.” Blessed Dragon’s Blood.
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