The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(72)
The dragon’s thoughts shift as it grows aware of me, and I realize this dragon is female. With that knowledge comes a name: Corritha. Something sharp clamps down on my mind and wraps around it, stifling it, smothering my ability to think. Everything is stripped from my brain until all that is left is a dull gray void, and then something darker than the gray is forced into my head. Corritha’s treasure. The thing she craves above everything else. The weapon she has hoarded for a more than a millennium—hatred: the weapon that gives her the ability to kill and hate and terrorize without remorse. Her hatred is so intense, I want to take my own life—because her abhorrence feels like my own self-loathing. Her treasure of hatred once focused on a jewel prized above all others: the fire dragon. And since I killed him, all of that hatred has been transferred onto me. I am the new jewel.
I lash out at the glass dragon’s blackness with thoughts of my own, thoughts in opposition to the creature’s all-consuming hatred: I summon up every good memory I have, every single kindness I can recall, every type of love that exists in my hundreds of memories, and shove it at the black space devouring my conscience.
The glass dragon recoils, and I can feel the blackness dissipating from my brain like hissing steam. But my victory is only temporary.
Corritha spreads her wings, and I feel her wicked anticipation, for tomorrow she will eat me.
I sit up, throw the covers from me, and press my fingertips against my eyes, trying to remove the horrible things I have seen. I force my eyes open and stare at a square of light on the bedroom floor, from the moon shining in through the window, and then I get up. More than mercenaries and renegades are coming tomorrow, and King Marrkul needs to know. I glance at my nightgown and consider changing clothes, but what I have to say is too important to delay.
The hallway outside is dark, the wood floor cold on my bare feet. Beside my door is a black lump. I crouch and put my hands on it and discover something warm and firm and snoring, so I give it a gentle shake.
“Sorrowlynn?” I recognize Enzio’s voice. “Is everything all right?” He sits up, and I can barely make out his face.
“Why are you sleeping on the floor? Do you not know that there are twelve bedrooms in this house?” I ask.
“I could not sleep, knowing that witch was in the same house as you,” he says, his voice cold. “I was afraid, after the way she looked at you like she was going to eat you…”
Warmth fills my breast despite the chill left from the battles I witnessed in my dreams. “You are protecting me.”
“I was thinking tonight might be the night I repay the debt I owe you.”
“Thank you, Enzio,” I whisper. I reach out and clasp his hand, wrapping my frigid fingers around it. “If you want, sleep in the bed I was in. I won’t be sleeping anymore tonight. And Nayadi won’t be able to sneak up on me now that I’m awake.”
“Do you know how to throw a knife?”
When he asks, I can feel in my fingers and wrist the precise muscles and technique used to throw a knife. “Yes.”
Enzio stands. “If she comes anywhere near you, aim for her heart. Do not let her get close enough to touch you.”
“All right. Do you know where Golmarr is sleeping?”
He scratches his head. “His father insisted he sleep somewhere you were not, to protect your honor, but I do not know where,” he explains, and stumbles into Golmarr’s room.
The low rumble of deep voices penetrates the quiet house. I press my hand to the wall and wander down the dark hall, toward the stairs and the voices. The stairwell flickers and glimmers with orange light.
At the bottom of the stairs is a big room with a giant hearth at one end, surrounded by three sofas, which make three sides of a square. A small fire is burning in the hearth, giving off just enough light to illuminate King Marrkul, Jessen, Ingvar, and a horse lord I do not know sitting on two of the sofas, their stocking feet propped up on a table, their backs to me.
“So you think we should wait and let them come to us, Olenn?” Marrkul asks, his voice so deep it almost sounds more like a growl.
“Yes,” his son—Olenn—replies. “Let them wear themselves out with travel before they fight us. It will give us the advantage. What do you think, Ingvar?”
Ingvar nods. “We can arm ourselves and wait just north of the city. Golmarr will lead the foot soldiers, and I will lead the mounted troops. They won’t know we’re there until our archers have taken down a third of their soldiers.” His strategy is sound, but…“And then we will pounce on them and give them the choice to continue the fight or turn back.” All four men nod and make deep grunts of approval. Olenn yawns and scratches the back of his head, his fingers tangling in his long black hair.
King Marrkul leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “All right. At first light, we will finalize the preparations to draw the mercenaries to us and end this battle before sundown.”
“No, you can’t,” I blurt. All four men whip around and look at me.
“Good evening, Princess Sorrowlynn.” King Marrkul stands and walks over to me. His shirt is wrinkled and untucked, his eyes weary. Smiling, he takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips. His bushy beard tickles my skin.
“Good evening, sir.” I dip a respectful curtsy even though I am wearing a nightgown.