In The Lair of the Draca (Book 2)

In the Lair of the Draca (Book 2) Chapter 63: Fortress

Dragura paused at the entry-way to the attic and listened:

Nothing.

She fought a growing pinch of unease. Where was the snuffling, the snorting, the familiar jostle-and-flutter of wings that her 'pets' had engaged in every night for decades? Where was the clink of chains, the intimate clank as restless youngsters pulled at their braces, yowling with impatience as each fought to free herself from her fetters? This was not the normal behavior of Draca as Dragura knew it, and she had been listening at the attic with smug satisfaction for more years than she could count. They had to eat sometime, and with her full pasture of sheep roaming the meager hillside in front of the Fortress, the Draca never went hungry.

But where were the growls of warning as each animal fought for scraps? What had happened to the snapping, the low hisses, the growls and grunts of uncivilized creatures which struggled to keep each haunch or leg-bone to herself?

It had been this way ever since Wainrak and Franek had begun tending to the Draca using their special 'training' program-- and try as Dragura might have, she had not been able to get the girl to crack the details, even over a generous meal of prawn-and-blood soup. Now, Wainrak was gone-- a fitting end for one as ragged and filthy as she-- likely to wind up as a pile of bones on the shore of the river that poured from the mouth between the Ice-Capped Mountains...but there was still Franek, and the stupid girl-- what was her new nick-name?

Azee. That was it.

Troubled and highly suspicious, Dragura stole away from the attic and descended until she reached her lavish bedchambers, slamming the double-doors shut behind her. Franek and Azee knew something. They were not only privy to some sort of information which Dragura did not have, but they were changing how her very own offspring behaved. She was sure of it.

Dragura stalked to her queen-sized bed, the pointed stilettos of her heels clicking loudly against the polished floor, and flounced onto the mattress with an angry flourish. Leaning back onto a generous set of cashmere-covered pillows, Dragura rested one arm on the polished oak night-stand and tapped an angry nail against the surface: tic-tic-tic.

The polished glass in front of her at her vanity revealed the reflection of a woman far more beautiful than she should have been at her fifty years: this evening she wore a sheer gown of lavender silk that covered her ankles like a pool of dark liquid. The collar, hem, and sleeves were embroidered with double-stitching and every-other-rows of prawn-colored creek pearls; her custom-made shoes were transparent and interspersed with bits of gold dredged from the mines. Only Dragura's hair-- her most prized feature-- hung loose and uncombed, void even of the scented wash which she was so careful to apply in the mornings and at night. She had been too pre-occupied with the idea-- nay, the very real possibility-- that she was losing control of her own carefully crafted empire.

How else could one explain the changes?

Dragura knew everything. She knew how many maidens she had taken under her wing (so to speak). They numbered twenty in all, and she knew their names, ages, and what villages they'd come from. She remembered each of their offspring: which had died, which had lived, which were trouble-makers, and which pined away until they refused to eat, starving themselves in the end.

She knew where the girls slept: each in a small room all to herself in the main corridor, devoid of any furniture but for a cot, a simple night-stand, a single candle, and one activity to their liking, such as embroidery or dress-making. Out of the goodness of her heart, she permitted them fresh air for one hour each day, and knew which girls did which chores. Dragura knew who swept, who dusted, who made beds, and who shook out the carpeting in the mornings. She knew which girls whispered with whom, and in most cases, she knew exactly what was said.