2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

Tsaria stared at the dragon for another endless moment, took in the gorgeous eyes once more, then barely dared to breathe as the dragon lowered its head. He knew he should be cowering, begging for his life, but nothing in the beautiful gaze that met his own made him think of danger, even as he knew that with a lungful of fire or a snap of those huge jaws the huge beast could end his life. The dragon lowered his snout so far that Tsaria could almost reach out and touch it, and his fingers ached to do just that, even when he’d been terrified a moment ago. But this was the emir. So far above him in life and station, he might as well reach for the moon. The dragon huffed and a little smoke curled out of each nostril. Tsaria almost smiled. He would have had his body not been screaming to get closer, to touch. What was wrong with him? He should have run out with everyone else.

Some were still running. He could hear distant sounds, but it was as if none of them belonged here in this moment. The dragon extended his neck a little more, but Tsaria didn’t step back, and unable to resist, he lifted his arm, uncurling his fingers to touch. So close. Barely another hand span separated them. The dragon blinked his stunning amber eyes but kept them fixed on Tsaria, and it was that focus that gave him the courage. Without another thought, his fingers gently touched the dragon’s snout, and something changed in that moment. But rather than overwhelm him, a deep peace stole through his limbs, and he reached a little farther to press his palm against the hot leathery skin.

Just as Tsaria felt the dragon relax and push into his hand, the double doors slammed open, and the dragon instantly vanished. With what seemed like a whole army of guards streaming into the room, it took Tsaria far too long to notice the naked and shivering human form of the emir curled up on the floor.

The noise and screamed orders were suddenly too much. Cruel hands bit into his arm, and he was yanked away, unable to see the emir as guards surrounded him. He caught sight of a man in rich embroidered clothes striding through the double doors as he was dragged out of it, and foolishly looked him in the eye, but the blow to the back of his head took care of that.

Tsaria didn’t know where he was when his senses returned, but eventually bitter understanding settled in him. The pain in his shoulders and his inability to move told him he was not only chained but strung up. His head throbbed sickly where he’d been knocked out, and he struggled not to shiver as the damp, chilled air raked unseen nails over his skin.

He recognized the sounds of misery and knew he wasn’t alone. He struggled not to inhale the stench of human waste and knew it was only his empty belly that allowed him to suppress the gags. The whimpers, the clink of chains, and the scurrying of rodents sounding far too close made him risk opening his eyes.

It took him a moment because the few wall sconces didn’t light the space up, but when he confirmed he was in some sort of dungeon and that he was in just one of many occupied cells, he was glad he couldn’t make out all the details.

He knew he’d been sent here because he had dared look that noble in the eyes, and then everything hit him at once. Where he’d been, what he’d seen, and finally the human body of the emir curled up on the floor, before his guards surrounded him.

Tsaria hitched in a sharp breath. Was he dead? Is that what he had seen? The emir’s final living moment? Is that why he was in here? Were they blaming him?

But none of that made sense. Dragons weren’t real . They were legends no one believed. There had been some tall tales from a slaver that one had been seen in Cadmeera, but no one believed it to be true.

Except he’d seen it and hadn’t tasted any of the food or drink beforehand, so he hadn’t been drugged with poppy, or ishler, or goddess-forbid fever white. The vision of those amber eyes gazing at him, the emir’s eyes, would probably haunt him for what was likely to be a short and very miserable life. Tsaria had known he wouldn’t live past forty summers. No one who had scrabbled in the dirt for spoiled cabbage leaves left over from the traders ever did, and while the food was better in the pleasure house, he knew one day something would go wrong. A beating would go too far, or he would be sent to the market where he might stay alive for a time but wish every day he was dead.

Maybe if that day ever came, that was the day to take the fever white.

He closed his eyes for a time, but the pain in his shoulders made it impossible to even drift off. He could barely reach the floor, so his arms had to take all his weight.

After a time, when he was convinced that if he managed to get hold of any sort of blade he would use it against his own throat, shouts roused him and he opened his eyes as his barred cell opened and two huge soldiers walked in, followed by another carrying a torch. They ignored the pleas and begging of the other wretched prisoners and when his manacles were loosened, one held him up when the stabbing agony in his shoulders blackened his vision. Tsaria didn’t even open his eyes as he was dragged away and up some stairs, until he felt himself lowered onto a chair and the noxious smell of the cells was replaced by a pleasant lemon one. Maybe he had died?

Then a sharp smack against his cheek nearly sent him to the floor again, yanking him forcefully into the present, only to face the same nobleman he had seen before. He didn’t bother lowering his eyes this time. Maybe if he angered him, he would get a quicker death?

“Tsaria,” the man finally spoke. “I assume that is the name given to you by the whore house?”

It wasn’t, but he had no idea if the man expected an answer or not. In his experience, customers wanted you to use your mouth for one thing, and it wasn’t speaking.

He saw one of the guards raise his hand a second time, so he blurted out an answer. “No, sir. I was named for my mother.” Tsaria did his best not to cringe, expecting more pain, but it never came. Not that another answer, or the wrong one, couldn’t change that.

“And where do you come from?” He sounded almost bored, and Tsaria was confused. Why did he care? Tsaria knew he wasn’t asking about the pleasure house, as they had to be granted approval to be in the palace.

“Rajpur, sir. My mother died at my birth, and my father couldn’t feed three of us. I was sold to Ishmael at ten summers.”

Tsaria had always known about his mother. His father had told him so many times that Tsaria had killed her.

“I wish every moment you had died instead of her.” No wonder his father couldn’t wait to get rid of him. If it hadn’t been for his brother Alain sneaking him bits of left-over food, Tsaria would have been dead long before age ten. Looking at his life now, maybe his brother hadn’t done him a favor.

The man didn’t reply immediately, and he was torn between staying silent and wondering what else the nobleman needed to know.

“And what did you see earlier today?”

The question was smooth but slid from poisoned lips. Tsaria’s skin pebbled in fear. This was a trap. He wanted to know if he’d seen the dragon.

“I am ashamed to admit I took too much poppy this morning,” he stammered, knowing he didn’t have to say why. They knew why whores needed it. “I’m sorry,” he burst out. “It wasn’t my intention to displease, but if you give me another chance, I am skilled—”

“Silence,” the nobleman snapped. “You lie. Ishmael said you refuse to touch it.”

“No, my lord.” He shook his head and ignored the pain. “I don’t take fever white. The poppy relaxes my muscles and makes—”

Tsaria snapped his lips shut when the imperious hand rose again, realizing from the distaste on the man’s face that he understood why Tsaria needed to relax his muscles and he didn’t need it spelled out. He barely dared breathe and lowered his gaze obediently as the nobleman stared at him. “So, you had hallucinations? Fever dreams?”

Tsaria trembled with genuine fear but tried to sound penitent. “Please, I took too much. I don’t remember anything past entering the palace.” His heart pounded in his ears. If they believed he didn’t see the emir turn into a dragon, they might let him go. Although that made no sense either. The room had been full. Why single him out?

“Do you want me to see if I can jog his memory, my lord?”

Tsaria’s stomach dropped to the floor. This was the soldier who had smacked him earlier, and Tsaria doubted he needed an excuse to do so again.

“Not yet, but it may come to that.”

“The fever white would loosen his tongue, my lord,” and Tsaria turned to see yet another man. This man wasn’t in uniform, but he could guess at his role, seeing the small, coiled whip at his belt. He had an ornate blue embroidered jacket, split at each side to show black breeches, but he wore a powdered wig signaling he was some sort of clerk. Wigs were a step up, a sign of revered employment, but still just that. It meant they weren’t of the noble class, but usually held a trusted position in some noble’s house.

Hair was usually an indication of position. Chamber-slaves, those that were supposed to remain invisible, generally had shorn hair, and wore skull caps marking the house they belonged to. Other positions like gardeners, cooks, and the housemaids wore short, neat locks that could be pinned back. Positions of power within the slave circles, those that had some sort of supervisory position, wore wigs. The aristocracy—males and females— had long hair to show that they could afford the body slaves needed to dress their hair every morning.

The only exception was the pleasure slaves and while they had to dress their hair themselves, they were allowed elaborate styles to further entice customers. Tsaria had begun to grow his out the day he entered the pleasure house, and it was now a vanity for which he was probably going to get punished as well.

The shopkeepers and those employed outside the circle of the rich had fewer restrictions, but short hair was more manageable.

Tsaria had no idea why his mind was rambling with such inane thoughts. No, no, he knew. It was the threat of the drug his mind had shied away from. The one thing that terrorized him above all else.

“Not yet,” the nobleman mused. “I require his mind clear.”

“My lord,” the servant bowed.

“Wait,” the nobleman had turned to leave but paused and looked at Tsaria’s jailors. “He is to be chained by the ankle only and given the basics.” He glanced at Tsaria. “We will talk a second time tonight to give you a chance to regain your wits. If you fail to do so, I will make you wish you could forget every single day of what I will ensure is a very long and very miserable life.”

Tsaria was taken back into the same cell and a manacle was fastened around his ankle. They gave him a dry, hard crust of bread and a larger bowl of some watered-down beer, then through the bars, he saw them pass out smaller bowls of what looked like slop the pigs would turn their noses up at to the other prisoners. It was disgusting, but it was food, and there had been many times as a child he’d had worse, or none at all.

All the prisoners turned away from him as if they were worried the guards’ attention would fall on them, and Tsaria didn’t look either. Then the sconces were snuffed out, and the room plunged into darkness. To his left he caught a quick inhale and a whimper, and then a shushing noise, but one attempting comfort, not a reprimand.

“M-Ma,” a whisper came, and his heart clenched. It was a child?

“Drink this,” he heard the barely there reply, and then another sniffle.

“But I had yours yesterday,” the little voice mumbled, and he knew that the mother was giving her share to the child. The first bite of bread turned to ash in his mouth, and he shuffled over to the side he could hear the voices coming from.

“I can’t see you,” Tsaria whispered, “but I have hard bread and some ale. Take it for your little one so you can eat the other.”

The astonished silence was telling, and he caught movement now that his eyes were adjusting. He felt rather than saw fingers snatch the bread as he pushed it through the bars. He tried and failed to push the bowl of ale through the small gap. If he tipped it, it would spill. “It’s too wide,” Tsaria hissed in annoyance.

More shuffling and he could tell there were two shadows near the bars. “Son, put your face to the bars and open wide.” He caught on straight away and little by little tipped the liquid into the child’s open mouth, giving him a chance to swallow and eat the bread in between.

The child fell asleep almost immediately afterwards and after being offered the female’s gruel and turning it down, she thanked him profusely and shuffled back to the corner, holding her child.

It didn’t seem too long after that the door suddenly banged open. The same two guards headed straight for Tsaria and because of the torches they carried he could see the cruel gleam in the eyes of the one that had asked to make him talk before. Tsaria wasn’t given a chance to speak, merely dragged to his feet, and the guard leaned forward so close, he smelled the stale beer and old food that probably festered in between his black teeth. “His lordship has decided to give you another chance,” he said, “but I really hope you turn down his offer because he says if you don’t behave we can have you for as long as we manage to keep you alive.”

Tsaria turned his face away, not just because his breath was rancid, but so the disgusting excuse for a human didn’t see the fear he was sure would be stark in his eyes.

Not for the first time since he had woken up, he wondered what was going to happen to him now.