Eona: The Last Dragoneye

and forefinger and forced my head back.

“Your Majesty.” Yuso stood to one side, hands clenched. “I have delivered Lady Eona and the folio. I have done as you wished.”

Sethon waved him away. “Later, Yuso.”

How had I not seen Yuso’s treachery? My mind raced over the last few weeks, looking for missed signs.

“You raised the alarm at the palace, didn’t you?” I said. “And the army at Sokaya. Did you shoot Ido, and kill Jun, too?”

Yuso angled his face away from me.

“Bastard!” I pushed all of my rage into the word.

“Your Majesty,” he said through his teeth. “Please. You promised me my son as soon as I brought the girl and the book to you.”

Sethon leaned closer to me, as if sharing a confidence. The smell of him — acrid and metallic — caught in my throat, an echo of the folio. “Unlike you, Lady Eona, Yuso’s son does not have much fortitude,” he said. “When I broke his fingers, he passed out. I’m sure a flogging brought on by his father’s insolence would kill him.”

A vein pulsed in Yuso’s forehead.

Sethon nodded toward the wall of the tent. “Wait over there, captain. I still have work for you.”

He watched as Yuso forced his fury into a bow and retreated.

“Love is such an exploitable weakness.” Sethon turned his cold scrutiny back to me. “Yuso tells me that both my nephew and Lord Ido will come running to your aid.” He dragged his thumb across my lips. “What do you have that brings two powerful men running to their annihilation? Is it just the dragon, or something else?”

“They will not come,” I croaked.

He tapped my cheek lightly. “We both know they will come before the day is out. You are the perfect lure.”

I clenched my teeth; he was right.

He leaned over to a small table set beside the chair. Around me, there was no lush carpet, just dirt floor. He picked up a long, thin knife. The shapes of blades, hooks, and a mallet flared at the corner of my eye. I had seen such implements before: in Ido’s cell. The memory fired through my body, urging me to run. To fight. But I could not move.

“My nephew will come for you,” Sethon said, “and in doing so, he will deliver the Imperial Pearl to me, safe under that strong, young pulse in his throat.” He lifted the blade and examined the honed edge. “I would have preferred for Yuso to kill him and bring me the pearl, but all the lore says it must be transferred from one living host to the next in the space of twelve breaths.” He shrugged. “One never knows if these stories are true or not.”

He yanked at the edges of my tunic, exposing the skin above my breasts. In my mind, I punched and kicked, but my body stayed motionless under his hands.

“Ido truly believes you are the key to the String of Pearls,” Sethon said. “He took a lot of damage before he gave up his secrets, but in the end, he was … very forthcoming about you and the black folio.” He paused, his forefinger tracing my collarbone. “A leash made of your own dragons’ Hua. The last thing he gave up before I lost him in the shadow world.”

“What?”

Sethon eyed me. “Ido didn’t tell you?” His body rocked with a silent laugh. “Still playing his games.” He patted my cheek. “The black folio is made from the essence of all twelve dragons. Created by the first Dragoneyes. You are caught by your own kind.”

“No!”

Yet the truth of his words crashed through me. From the first time I had touched the black folio, I’d felt its power reach for both of us — the Mirror Dragon and me. But why would the first Dragoneyes make such a thing?

I wondered what else Ido had not told me.

Then Sethon pressed the knife lightly into the base of my throat, and my whole world became that thin length of blade and the hand that held it.

“I understand from Yuso that you can heal yourself, Lady Eona. Over and over again.” The hand arched and leaned into the blade, the edge just sinking into my skin. Blood rose around it, the pain leaping through my nerves a moment later. “Let us explore the extent of this leash.”

I had been cut before — felt the quick shock of the battle slash — but this was another kind of hurt. Slow and deliberate, a careful carving of flesh that dragged me behind its trail of blood into a crescendo of agony. I screamed, my head straining back, my body locked under the hand and knife, unable to run or fight or even press myself away from the malice slicing into my chest.

With a smile, Sethon lifted the blade and ground his other hand across the raw edges of the jagged, open wound. A different kind of agony. “Heal yourself with your dragon.” He stroked my cheek again, his finger wet, the tang of metal on his skin this time the smell of my own blood.

All of my fury and pain and terror converged into one thought: Kill him.

I drew a deep breath and lunged for the energy world. The room twisted into streaming colors, the energy body of Sethon before me rushing with dark-edged excitement.

The red dragon writhed above me, her golden power locked into the crimson pulse of her huge body. Nearby, the blue beast roared its fury. Could Ido feel what was happening?

“Holy gods,” Sethon whispered. “They are beautiful.”

He could see them through the folio’s power.

Sethon’s energy body leaned down, the heat of his breath against my ear. The words he whispered were bitter and strong — an ancient command that closed around my Hua like a strangling hand. I clawed at it, my desperation useless against the implacable strength.

“Heal your wounds,” Sethon ordered.

It was as if the hand opened for one precious moment, allowing a breath of the red dragon’s golden power and a rush of healing ease. I opened my mouth to call her—Turn the healing on him, take his will, kill him! — but the hand clamped tight again, stifling my voice, blocking me from her glorious power. The energy planes of Sethon’s face solidified into flesh and bone again, the streaming colors around me buckling back into the stillness of the tent.

I gasped, drawing in the sudden absence of pain. The carved mess of my chest was smooth again under the clotting blood, and the swollen ruin of my finger had knitted straight.

Sethon’s head was thrown back as if at the end of an ecstasy. “So that is the energy world,” he whispered. “Such power. No wonder Ido wanted it all.” He broke into a rough laugh. “And when he comes for you, I will have his dragon, too. An army with two Dragoneyes. I will be unconquerable.”

“No!”

He wiped his hand across my chest, smearing the blood. “You have no choice, Lady Eona. Your will is mine.” He raised the knife again. “And, before long, your spirit will be, too.”

Again, he lifted my chin, the shape of him blurred by blood and tears. He was never going to stop. Cutting me over and over again.

Hours must have passed — I could see the brightening of daylight at the base of the tent wall.

At the corner of my eye, I saw him pick up the mallet. He wanted my spirit, and he would have it soon; I could feel the loosening of hope, the ebb of strength and resolve.

I had to find a way beyond his reach. Before it was too late.

Ido had taken refuge in his dragon. But how? With pain, he’d said. Slowly, I found the memory in my clouded mind — we were training, the smell of jasmine, his thumbs pressed into the soft centers of my palms. Our first touch. He had told me that pain was an energy. I could use it to find the dragon. Not a true union. A last resort — and dangerous to the dragon and the Dragoneye.

But Ido had not been held by the bonds of royal blood and the black folio.

Sethon bent down, wrenched off my sandal, and pressed my foot onto the dirt; a solid backing for his mallet. Under my bare sole, I felt rough earth, the wetness of my blood. And something else: a tiny shiver through my foot’s gateway of energy.

I stilled, focusing past the roar of pain in my body. It was earth energy; the oldest power. And my blood —