Coris was occupied with dragon training. The maids had already come to collect her laundry. Meya didn't expect to be disturbed for the next couple of hours at the least. Still, one couldn't be entirely at ease without a bolted door between one's privacy and the outside world.
Meya studied the pink gum wand in its box and lace bag, cast in the shadow of her pillow, then turned to eye the tent flaps.
How long would she need? A quarter-hour? A half-hour? An hour? Shouldn't take that long for a lass to relieve herself, should it?
Meya mulled over her circumstances, and felt heat rising to her cheeks once more. Since the Hadrian brothers left, she'd been trying to think up a solution to her feeding problem—but it happened to be the time of night when she would be having fun with Coris, back when they were a happily married couple. And her naughty side wouldn't let her work in peace until she indulged it.
Meya drew in a deep breath, then heaved a sigh of defeat. She unwrapped The Substitute and slipped it under her linens, rousing herself with timid, clumsy movements. She turned away and closed her eyes in shame when she felt her body awaken and respond with enthusiasm, both to the reminiscent touch and the infused aphrodisiac. The potency of Rose Crystal seemed to have increased tenfold when in its powdered form, and desire soon overwhelmed all inhibitions.
The smooth resin was cold and yielding on her heated, sensitive skin—like Coris's fingers. She threw out her chest and braced against the tide, as the vivid memory sent waves of pleasure surging through her body. With her free hand, she tore apart the buttons on her tunic, one after another, then traced his oft-traveled path—down her neck, round her breasts, to her legs and back up, this time savoring bare skin. She pulled him in and sheathed him in her protection, seething against the pain as they soared together towards the Heights.
They crested the peak—then plummeted to the cold hard ground of reality. Meya collapsed panting onto her mattress, breathing in the scent of sunbathed hay wafting through the thin cotton covers. Damp fabric latched onto her naked legs—she'd made a mess of the sheets. Now that she had exhausted her sinful urge, however, she was too sleepy and content to move.
—You lazy bum! You can't just nod off! What if Coris came back before you woke up?
Agh, that donghead's seen worse. What's the fuss?
—Where's your dignity, lass? Get up! Or you'd never hear the end of this!
Grunting and whining at her conscience (which sounded very much like Mum) in what might have passed as dog talk, Meya strained against the sheet's embrace and swayed upright. Her chemise dangled off her shoulders in two halves and pooled in enormous folds atop her waist. She buttoned it back up with one hand, as she mucked about in the crumpled blanket for The Substitute with the other. Having polished the plaything to a shine with her nightdress, she was on the verge of slotting it away in its case when she froze, dumbstruck, at the evident change—
Had she imagined it? Or had it gone paler?
Meya held Coris's thoughtful gift up to the lamplight for a thorough inspection.
No, she hadn't imagined it. The Substitute—once pink like petals of evening primrose—now sported colorless blotches, and its overall color had faded like sun-aged paint. Had she absorbed that much Rose Crystal in one use?
Absorbed?
Meya sat petrified as the spark of inspiration streaked across her inner world, illuminating obvious connections she had somehow overlooked.
She couldn't bear to feed with her feet in open terrain, because she couldn't predict how far-reaching and drastic the drought would be—but what if she fed off a piece of concentrated ore clutched in her hands, or earth collected in a cordoned space, the way Polus and Caecil had fed the baby dragon? She should be able to circumvent the triggers of her trauma.
Every last vestige of drowsiness blown into oblivion, Meya scrambled over to her chest of clothes and snatched the belt with her money-pouch sitting on the lid. She unhooked the bag then emptied it onto her mattress. Coins—mostly bronze, with a few coppers and silver, and even a lone gold—lay gleaming on the white cloth, flashing like pebbles lining the bed of rapids.
Meya picked up a bronze one-latt coin and folded her fingers over it. The metal seared against her palm, having absorbed the cold of the desert night, but soon warmed to match her temperature, allowing her to examine its aura without distraction. The glowing, mellow warmth of copper was marred by the sour tang and bitter bite of lesser metals. It wasn't entirely pleasant, but Meya knew from instinct that it would make for a stronger protective armor than copper alone.
Meya clasped her other hand over the coin, pressing it into the pit of her palm with the heel of her hand. She filled her lungs with air, then emptied it. Like a siphon, as air flowed out of her, a stream of white-hot metal rushed into her veins, spreading its heat across her hands. Her palms rubbed against each other, now skin on skin. She opened her eyes and parted her hands—the coin had disintegrated without trace.
The heat from the devoured coin rose to her eyes. As the sight of her bare hands shifted in and out of focus, Meya trembled in relief and elation. A scream swelled and obstructed her throat, as her limbs rattled with the stifled urge to attempt a few cartwheels around the too-tidy tent and kick up some chaos.
To deplete some of her pent-up energy, Meya darted to the tent wall and busied herself tugging up the carpet by its tasseled hem. She was greeted by a sliver of blue-gray soil, strewn with sharp, angled blue-black pebbles, ranging from the size of half a pinkie nail to a thumb joint. She swept an armful onto the carpet, then sunk her hands into the pile.
Echoes of a dozen voices called to her, and Meya let the nutrients flow into her unhindered. Once the stream had trickled to a stop, she scooped up fresh soil and started anew, again and again. The effect was immediate and addictive. She felt refreshed, alert, energized and strong like never before in her seventeen years. Deep-seated aches, borne of a decade of hard labor, seeped out through her pores. Blemishes, lines and warts melted into mellow skin, with a radiant glow not unlike the blessing of the morning after. Her hair, once brittle and frazzled, fell heavy and lush down her back.
It was as if an empty, insatiable well had opened up inside her. Meya would have gone on drinking the desert dry to fill the pit—if not for the muffled yells blowing in from afar, lambasting the tent walls. The voices were male and young—and familiar.
Coris? Zier?
Meya bolted up and hurtled through the tent flaps, only to pitch face-first onto the gravel—a gust of wind had swooped in from behind, batting the tent's skin against its wobbling skeleton. A solid lump collided soundly with her head then continued its upward trajectory. Meya threw her head back and followed the boot as it soared, attached to a swinging leg that was in turn attached to a young man wrapped in shackles of silvery claws. Above him was the distinctive silhouette of a reptilian creature with gigantic bat-like wings.
The boy kicked out. His foot connected with the dragon's naked belly with sickening speed and force. The dragon plummeted two feet in thin air—winded—then regained height with a single beat of its wings, narrowly missing a row of mounted torches. A torn strip dangling off the boy's cloak glowed blood red as it fluttered before the flames, then was snatched away. Strewn across the clearing were listless forms of guards, maids and servants, fast asleep amid scattered belongings.
"Zier!"
Coris's scream pierced the roaring silence of howling night gale. Meya heard faint scrabbling footsteps as he scaled the hill. He'd never catch up with Persephia. But she can.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Meya tore the ruby brooch out of her pocket—pulled the Lattis razor free from its sheath—and stabbed its ruined tip into the pit of her scar with all her might. She willed the pain to engulf her senses, straining with all her being to call forth the memory of that night—
Pain—blinding, paralyzing, burning—coursed up her injured arm. Muffled voices drowned out by her own scream. She felt herself rise high above the ground as her bones elongated and melded and twisted. Hot liquid oozed out of her gaping pores and coagulated into a coat hard as steel. Folds of excess flesh and bone, hidden and forgotten beneath the very skin of her back, burst out and became wings. In the ring of flames, the little boy lay cowering. The pain threatened to bring her under, so she held on to one last thought to stay afloat.
Save him.
She dashed forward, claws outstretched—and the present slammed into her. Masses of air roiled under her wings and heaved her into the sky as she bulled forth, chasing the receding black mass that was the villainous dragon and her prey...
----------------------------------------
Persephia may have had a head start and the element of surprise, but she was bogged down by Zier's kicking, struggling weight. As traditional noblewomen went, she shouldn't be that strong, either.
Meya had been confident in her endurance, honed from a life of physical labor, but as she streaked forth, flanked by blades of slicing wind, she felt ache accumulate in her muscles and drowsiness poison her focus. She slammed her wings against the packed air and shook her head to rouse herself.
Starlight glanced off the scales of Persephia's tail as it waved to her, its tip a body's length away from Meya's gritted teeth. The pitch-black mountain range at the horizon hadn't grown an inch in size even as they hurtled across countless hills of sand. Just how far did this desert reach?
Meya had long lost track of direction. Persephia had pulled several sharp turns to throw her off. With Zier dangling so precariously at such height, she couldn't blast Lady Graye off the sky with a ball of fire, or latch onto her back and start a mid-air tussle. She needed a strategy and pinpoint precision. She must stall for time until he arrived.
Meya lined her limbs with her torso, arms outstretched. With a flap as fast and forceful as lightning, she propelled herself forward with the loudest, shrillest screech—signaling her position to her comrades—cut short when she clamped her jaws over Persephia's tail.
Persephia picked up her abandoned cry in pain. She thrashed and bucked as she soldiered on, cocooning Zier with all four limbs. Meya squeezed her jaws tighter around the wiggling tail, metallic teeth struggling to find purchase on the similarly metallic plating. Scales on her rump wore away as Persephia raked her dead weight over sharp gravel. Fireballs shot past her head. The armor on her sides buckled and rattled from sheer force and heat. She'd barely had time to feed—her scales were too thin. She dug her claws into the loose terrain. Bile bubbled up and choked her.
Oh, for Freda's sake!
Meya jerked her head to the side, annoyed. Persephia tumbled—then righted herself with a screech and another fireball down her back.
Come on, Coris! Where are you?
Ducking to avoid the inferno, Meya keened in desperation through the mingled blood, metal and bile in her mouth. Without sunlight and feeding, her well was drying fast. Her grip was slacking. Her consciousness was fading—
Coris—
Persephia's tail whipped out of her mouth, and she was left snapping air. Meya struggled to lift off after her, but her joints would not respond.
A gust of wind blasted past her. She opened her eyes and saw two dragons on all fours, scampering towards the fleeing Persephia. Perched on the smaller dragon's back was a familiar, reed-thin silhouette. His cloak billowed behind him as he bent low over his mount, whispering commands. The dragon moved into position under Persephia, usurping her faint shadow.
Coris straightened up and barked orders to the two men on the nearby dragon. One of them—the burly one—raised a crossbow, hesitated, then lowered it and shouted back at Coris.
It was too risky. The target was moving too fast.
Having recharged some stamina, Meya heaved her belly free of the icy sand and waddled forth on unsteady legs. Coris threw his head back and hollered at the Heights. The goddess answered his call with a scream of air which rented a path from sky to earth. Like a midnight sun, a ball of fire flashed in mid-air then slammed into Persephia's head.
Persephia banked and swayed, concussed. Another fireball lambasted her wing joint. Then another. Persephia slowed, still being bombarded by the invisible dragon. Christopher aimed his readied crossbow and fired a glinting bolt. Persephia screeched in pain, her incapacitated right arm falling limp. Zier wriggled his arm free and reached for his brother's straining hand, their fingertips fumbling by inches.
I take that back. Noblewomen are strong when driven mad by desperation.
Meya summoned her last ounce of strength and threw herself forward, teeth latching onto the old grooves on Persephia's tail. Persephia dipped down with the added weight. Zier finally caught Coris's hand. Simon pranced over from the other dragon and joined the tug of war. Christopher fired another bolt, taking out Persephia's right leg.
Zier popped free amid his captor's howl of agony. He flipped in mid-air, landing on his belly across his brother and cousin's laps. Poor lad would probably be winded, but at least his spine would remain intact.
"Right! Go!" Coris yelled to his mount, who streaked to the right at full tilt. Meya pulled with all her might as Persephia yearned after her prey. The unseen dragon shot down a vicious blow which exploded the ground before her, blinding her with a shower of sand. There was no pause of mercy as his opponent reared back, clawing at her eyes with her one intact paw—one last cannonball collided with her head—a killing blow.
Battered, bruised, confused, Persephia fell. Meya let go of her tail and slid forward. The impact of equal weight compounded by gravity drove air out of her flattened lungs. At least her unarmored belly was soft on her spine.
It's over.
Meya sighed and closed her eyes as exhaustion and pain caught up to her. Persephia's heat receded and contracted into a human-shaped lump on her back. Her skin was slick with a warm liquid. Her faint breaths glanced off her scales as her pulse strummed. Meya sank deeper into the prickly sand in relief. This was one tough lass. She'd live.
A horse's neigh pierced the silence, accompanied by a scream.
"Persie!"
Meya opened her eyes and turned to the voice. Her face paper-white in the halo of her lamp, Agnes parked her spooked horse at Meya's side. She reached out for her sister, and Meya obligingly leaned towards her.
Her hands trembling with sobs, Agnes peeled Persephia's limp arms from Meya's back and half-heaved, half-dragged her onto the saddle. Coris, Zier, Christopher and Simon had arrived on the two dragons but hung back—Persephia was naked. They waited until Agnes had bundled her up with her cloak before dismounting and approaching.
Christopher and Simon received Persephia from Agnes, then rested her on the sand. The Meriton heir folded back the robe—just enough to reveal the arrows sticking out of her right arm and leg. Agnes swooped down with her lamp to join them, cushioning her sister's head on her lap. As Simon tore strips from his tunic to staunch the bleeding, Christopher bowed and whispered apologies to the Lady Graye.
Meya eyed Persephia's heaving chest, then cast about for the Hadrian brothers. Coris had his back to her as he talked with Tissa and old Lors, who stood where the two dragon mounts used to be, wrapped sparsely in cloaks.
Zier loitered awkwardly at the fringes for a moment, then stepped around Persephia's bare feet and made his way up to Meya's face. She closed her eyes as he cupped her snout in his hands then rested his forehead against hers.
"Thanks, big girl." He whispered, his shaky grin blowing puffs of warm air onto her elongated nose. "That was some wild ride."
Meya chuckled, a low rumble that rattled the scales on her neck. Their reverie was interrupted by a grating, skidding thump. Meya looked up to find a newcomer dragon who was much smaller than her. His snout was still smoking from his fiery barrage as he ambled over and slumped down beside Agnes. A flash of blinding light—then an unabashedly naked Frenix was sitting in its place, watching over his downed foe.
Coris walked over and dropped a spare cloak around little Lord Pearlwater's shoulders. He looked up—and his eyes met Meya's for the first time.
Coris lingered, but Meya turned away, spreading her wings over her scaled, snakelike body in shame. Zier gave her comforting claps on the side of her neck, then departed.
Coris toddled up to her, stumbling once on the treacherous terrain. Yet, he refused to tear his eyes away from her monstrous form. He stood before her, his gray eyes wavering, his handsome face a canvas dabbed with gratitude and guilt, elation and longing, awe and shame.
He knelt down and threw out his hands. His trembling smile lit up his pale features, and Meya's fears evaporated. As she urged herself forth to take his embrace, her wings and tail receded and tucked themselves away under her skin. Her scales melted and flowed back into her pores. Her hair, singed away by the heat, regrew and fell down her bare back. Coris's cold hand traveled its length as she fell into his arms. Her heart raced against his as her breasts pressed up against his chest.
"Sure took your sweet Hadrian time, milord." She snickered through the inexplicable blockage in her throat. Coris tightened his hold and burrowed his nose into her shoulder.
"Seven years." He breathed, his voice choked with tears. "I finally found you."
Meya blinked in surprise. She stared ahead into the rolling purple-black sand plains, and saw a meadow in broad daylight, carpeted with virgin snow. She cowered in the shadow of the canopy, one hand clutching the lapels of his Hadrian Red cloak over her heart, the other clinging to the rough bark of an oak tree—watching, praying.
At the heart of the snowfield, plump little Lord Hadrian halted and turned around for one last look, sheaves of his brown hair fluttering in the wind, his silvery eyes quivering, then spun away and disappeared behind the dip of the hill, making his way towards Truncale Castle in the distance.
The night gale chased away the memory. Coris had wrapped his Hadrian Red cloak around them both, needlessly shielding her from the chill. Meya closed her eyes with a sigh as she wormed her arms out and wound them around his shoulders.
"And you finally returned."