A Day of Dragon Blood by Daniel Arenson Page B

into the sky. "It's not deep."
    She circled above, looked down fearfully, then narrowed her eyes and dived into the water beside him. The pond swirled and the waterfall cascaded ahead, showering them. The Stone Elder glowered upon the cliff above. Bayrin could no longer see the forest around him, only mist and spray.
    With a gulp of air, he shifted into human form. When he placed down his feet, the water rose to his chest. The waterfall seemed greater now, an angry liquid demon, and the spray pounded his weaker human form with countless watery arrows. After a moment's hesitation, Mori shifted too; the lake rose to her neck, and the spray drenched her hair.
    "I'm scared," she said, voice nearly lost under the waterfall's roar. "The water is rough. Won't we drown?"
    Bayrin shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure we will." He pulled off his shirt, then his boots, and finally his pants; he let them float away. He took a step through the swirling pond, moving closer to the waterfall. The spray pummeled him, turning the world white and blue.
    "Finally you won't be stinky," Mori said.
    He nodded. "Finally maybe you'll kiss me properly."
    He pulled her toward him and kissed her—quite properly—for long moments. When he pulled off her gown, she shivered and clung to him, and he kissed her again. She was so small against him; her head only just reached his shoulders. Their naked bodies clung together underwater, and he kissed her ear while whispering to her—endless whispers that made her laugh, and blush, and kiss him again.
    War is coming, he thought, but that is another day. Today I am happy.
    When their love was spent, they waded to the lakeside, lay upon the grass, and let the sun dry them. He held her, kissed her head, and wished he could stay here forever. The sun began to set and he closed his eyes.
    Twelve days, he thought. Twelve days until acid rains and blood washes us. He held Mori close, shut his eyes, and clenched his jaw with the pain of old wounds and memory.

 
 
LYANA

    The old man reached out and touched her bruised cheek. He clucked his tongue and shook his head sadly.
    "Savages!" he said and sighed. "Beasts in armor. To strike a blind woman..." He shook his bony fist at the ceiling. "If I were a younger man, I would have given them a bruise or two!"
    Lyana smiled softly. Over the past year, she had come to love old Peras, keeper of the River Spice. She lowered his hand and squeezed it.
    "It doesn't hurt, Father Peras," she said. She leaned forward and kissed his stubbly cheek. He smelled of flour and dried figs. "I'm fine, and I can take care of myself."
    "I saw!" he said and laughed, showing gums with only five teeth left. He shook his head in amazement. "I never would have thought a blind girl could kick so swift and hard. Now the soldier is missing a few teeth too."
    She smiled softly. But I am not a blind girl, she thought. I am a bellator, a knight of Requiem, a noble warrior of the north. And if I kick swiftly, and kick hard, I show a piece of Lyana, and that is more dangerous than any soldier's fist. She took a deep breath. I must be more careful. I will not let my cover slip and my people down.
    The crescent moon had crossed the sky outside. Dawn was near. The last of the soldiers had left the River Spice, stumbling down the street, singing the songs of their phalanxes. A dozen candles lit the winehouse, and moths danced around their flames. The orange light flickered over toppled mugs, a shattered clay plate, a half-eaten figcake, and stains of blood. Walking stick tapping, Lyana approached a broom in the corner, grabbed it, and began to sweep the floor. Peras moved around the room, collecting mugs and polishing tabletops.
    Lyana loved this time of night; they were her favorite times in Tiranor. The sounds of the crowd died outside, and she could hear the wind through the palm trees, the crickets, and the frogs that trilled. She glimpsed the stars shining outside; later tonight she would climb upon the roof and try