Janine Cross - Touched By Venom: Book One of the Dragon Temple Saga

REVENGE IS BORN

They led a yearling over, man height and twice as long, wings a-tremble and scales contracted, its claws fully intact: one of the warrior-lord's own dragons. They cracked bullwhips against the yearling's hide to drive it into a frenzy. It attacked the bound man. Between drawing one breath and another, the man was disemboweled.

Let this be a lesson to you, roared the blue-eyed, blond- haired aristocrat as blood from a woman's mouth dried upon his boot heels. Let this be a lesson none of you forget!

I can assure you, blue-eyed, blond-haired one, no one forgot. Not the pottery clan men, who ever after were the most brutally devout upon Clutch Re. Not the women, who suffered blows for misdemeanors imagined and real. And certainly not the potters' children, who witnessed the horror of that day. They, most of all, lived lives haunted by the only two screams the bound man had time to utter, a man who'd been a master potter, a claimer, and a father.

My father.

The woman with the broken jaw, my mother.

No, I can assure you, blue-eyed, blond-haired one, that was a lesson no one forgot. Least of all I, Zarq Kavarria Darquel. That lesson made me all that I am today.

BOOK ONE OF THE DRAGON TEMPLE SAGA

Janine Cross

ROC

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First Roc Mass Market Printing, August 2006

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright Janine Cross, 2005

Excerpt from Shadowed by Wings Copyright Janine Cross, 2006 All rights reserved

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To Zach and Faren (even if I won't let you read this till you're older)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Huge thanks to Linda Demeulemeester, a brilliant writer and amazing friend whose insights and humor not only shaped this book but have supported me through some intensely interesting times.

Many heartfelt thanks also to Michel Nadeau, whose decades of friendship gave me the time and resources to realize a great deal, this book not the least.

Thanks also to my agent, Caitlin Blasdell, and editor, Liz Scheier, for their patience and hard work, and Therese, so new and wondrous in my life, whose support has been monumental.

PROLOGUE

They came into the yard on a cloud of red dust, four young aristocrats burning with indignation and wine, and they went into the potters' work shed and hauled the woman out by her hair. They dragged her along the floor, through shards of shattered statues, out into the yard, where the smoke from the kilns was only just beginning to turn the air chalky. One man broke her jaw beneath his boot heel, then stood her against the wall of a mud-brick hut. Her knees sagged, so he dropped her. They began searching for her man.

They mistook Twisted Foot Ryn for the one they wanted, and it wasn't until Ryn's flock of children, all shrieks and small, balled fists, threw themselves upon the four that the aristocrats realized they'd erred. Weeping, Ryn's woman told them where to find the man they wanted.

He was in the men's ceramic studio. Blue powder covered the hairs on his brawny arms and filled the mortar on the table before him. He said nothing. Slowly, he placed his pestle down in the mortar. Just so.

They dragged him into the courtyard even though they needn't have, for he put up no resistance. With the leather laces from his own sandals, they bound his hands and ankles, then gagged him with a clot of clay and chaff, but one of the four said, No, take it out. She needs to hear him scream.

When they were ready, they led a yearling over, man height and twice as long, wings a-tremble and scales contracted, its claws fully intact: one of the warrior-lord's own dragons. They lashed the man upright against a water-filled barrel, then stacked an empty one atop it and ordered it filled with stones to prevent it from tipping. They cracked bullwhips against the yearling's hide and hurled platters at its head to drive it into a frenzy. It attacked the bound man.

Between drawing one breath and another, the man was disemboweled. But the aristocrats had difficulty bringing the yearling under control, and by the time they managed to subdue the beast with muzzle poles and blow darts, the ribbons of white sinew and meat strewn across the courtyard came not just from the once-bound man, but from a potter's child and one of the aristocrats.

Let this be a lesson to you, roared the blue-eyed, blond- haired aristocrat, as blood from a woman's mouth dried upon his boot heels. Let this be a lesson none of you forget!

I can assure you, blue-eyed, blond-haired one, no one forgot. Not the pottery clan men, who ever after were the most brutally devout upon Clutch Re. Not the women, who suffered blows for misdemeanors imagined and real. And certainly not the potters' children, who witnessed the horror of that day. They, most of all, lived lives haunted by the only two screams the bound man had time to utter, a man who'd been a master potter, a claimer, and a father.

My father.

The woman with the broken jaw, my mother.

No, I can assure you, blue-eyed, blond-haired one, that was a lesson no one ever forgot. Least of all I, Zarq Kavarria Darquel. That lesson made me all that I am today.

I write this so the people of my new landthese gruff, impulsive foreignerswill understand and learn without ever witnessing such as I and the rest of the potters' children did, so many mountains, so many scars, and so many years ago.