Page 23 of House of Ashes
Rhylan owed me blood before I would be satisfied.
But Kirana was right in one regard. I would also be damned before I let my sister take my throne.
Chapter
Five
The bedroom I’d been given had a large bathing room, with a wide, bowl-like black marble bathtub sunk into the ground.
I locked the door behind me, stripped off my clothes with delicate motions, nursing my aching hands, and started filling the tub with steaming water.
Every second of it should be an enjoyment. My baths on Mistward for the last four years had been performed infrequently, and always in private; being naked and vulnerable was a fraught time for any draga on that island.
My mother had stood watch during my rare baths for the first two years. After she died, bathing had been a rare occurrence, done only when I could no longer stand my own filth without wanting to scratch my own skin off with my claws.
And they had always been done in the icy waves of the shore. I’d found a small cove near my cave, where the rocks were high enough to hide me from a dragon overhead, and where the water was shallow enough that I didn’t need to fear a riptide carrying me away.
There was no soap, no relaxation, only a few minutes of shivering terror.
I examined a shelf full of amber-glass bottles of oil, reading through the labels until I found jasmine. The thick, sweet scent of home filled my nose when I uncorked it, relaxing the tension in my shoulders.
If I could make nice with Rhylan and Kirana, soon I’d be smelling the real flowers, the dense jasmine bushes that grew on the terraces of Varyamar.
I poured the oil into the water, and turned to look in the mirror. What I saw stopped me in my tracks, the scent of jasmine and promise of hot water forgotten.
I did not recognize the draga in the mirror.
She was too thin, her ribs showing in shadowed slats, clavicles standing out in jutting lines. Dry lips, hollow cheeks, dark shadows under the pale, silvery eyes that seemed to stare a thousand miles into nothing. Mottled bruising around her left eye extended up into her temple.
Even her scales were lifeless, not shimmering with the vibrant health they’d once had.
This draga was not Serafina. She was a scrap of her former self, a beaten-down, desperate creature molded by the cruelty of Mistward.
She was starved, broken, reduced to something hardly better than a wild animal.
I turned away from her, unable to stand looking at the pathetic, miserable creature that was my reflection any longer.
But the bath was forgiving. It cradled me, hiding my tears when I splashed my face, warmth seeping into my bones for the first time in years.
I hadn’t realized how truly cold I always felt inside until now.
As I washed, I considered Rhylan’s plan. He had chosen me only because I possessed the royal dragonblood that would give weight to my claim, but once the Jade Leaves laid eyes on the sorry thing I’d become, they would realize they had backed the wrong draga.
As my mother had once told me, there was no such thing as victory without a plan.
I needed to match Yura. I could not walk into the Houses as a filthy, scrawny beggar and ask them to give me their allegiance. Only the appearance of health and power, and the riches of Varyamar, would give me an edge.
Working oil into my hair, I leaned back in the bath and forced myself to close my eyes and relax my tight muscles.
You are in Jhazra Eyrie. This is not Mistward Isle. No one is going to attack you here.
My instincts had been sharply honed over the last four years: I was in peril every time I closed my eyes.
They wanted to flutter open and check for danger. I kept them closed.
No. You are not there. You are here, and Rhylan is right. You must eat and gain strength. You must be clean, because nobody will scent you and steal you.
I managed to keep my eyes closed for only another ten seconds, then they snapped open against my will. I froze in the bath, scanning the room, ears pricked for the slightest footstep outside the door.