by K.N. Lee
He didn’t know what to say.
“Well,” she said, frowning. “Do it somewhere else. Not on my blasted ship, you hear?”
He swallowed, and cleared his throat. Then, he leaned in. “You didn’t hear that?”
She shook her head, shrugging. “Heard what?”
“The light—it spoke to me.”
Siddhe’s face paled, and she took a step backward. “Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.”
Exasperated, she placed her hands on her curvaceous hips and stared at him for a moment, then, she looked back toward the glowing light and muttered a curse under her breath. “Of course it would speak to you. Why am I surprised?”
Gavin’s brows lifted. “What does it mean?”
“Well, nothing really,” she said, tilting her head as she met his gaze once more. “Just that you’re now cursed by the blasted thing.”
“Oh,” Gavin said, taking a step backward as he grasped the back of his neck. “Bloody brilliant, indeed.”
Then, in the palm of hand appeared a golden talisman with intricate writing all over the polished surface. It was in the shape of the sun, with vibrant bronze and gold intertwined. He held it upward, in between he and Siddhe, and her eyes widened.
“At least we got what we came for,” he said, shrugging his right shoulder.
Siddhe nodded, dumbfounded. “Yes,” she said, then shouted to the crew. “Back to Withrae we go!”
17
Felix had been up for three days.
Red-rimmed eyes scanned and re-scanned the ancient text on the scrolls, and widened when he finally deciphered the last entry written down from the very first order of wizards.
Though weak, he fought to keep his eyes open as he read the large dusty book on the wooden table before him. Whether it was day or night was a mystery to the young monk, but he studied and studied the words under the dim light of a burning candle.
Just a year prior, he’d been plucked from his village and sent to the monastery of Myrity to train under the great tutelage of the wizards. The great Sir Warwick Ludlow had trained there, and many powerful wizards before him.
Any young man would have been lucky to receive such an opportunity, but Felix wasn’t like the others.
His gift was a bit…different.
The pages of the book trembled beneath his gaze, and he had to blink and look away for a moment to refocus his power so that it wouldn’t destroy the sacred text.
He had read, reread, and analyzed the words over and over again, hoping that they’d change. However, they did not.
A true Seer had to hone their craft, lest it take over their entire life. That was why Felix spent his days studying, for the gift never slept.
Neither did he.
His candle burned low, the wax dripping onto the surface of the table, and sweat beaded up on his forehead.
“You need to get some sleep, the sun will be up again in a few hours,” the vault keeper Ocurus Eteri warned. His voice was sympathetic and soothing as placed a wrinkled hand on Felix’s narrow shoulder.
Ocurus Eteri gasped as Felix caught his hand in a firm grasp and turned to look up at him.
“You must get me an audience with Ocura Maga,” he told him anxiously, his voice firmer than his unhealthy appearance.
“What are you going on about? She would not see you, boy—especially at this hour. It’s morning, and she sleeps during the day.”
Felix cursed under his breath and came to his feet. He pushed past him and made for the doors.
If the Ocurus wouldn’t speak to Ocura Maga for him, he would have to do it himself. Even if it meant his punishment, he would risk it.
The knowledge he carried in his mind was too vital to be kept to himself. He traveled through the lower levels off the palace, where few ventured, until he reached the upper levels, where the main halls were empty, considering that everyone was asleep. He achieved a few suspicious glances from some of the servants, and the other monks, scribes, and scholars.
Once he reached the upper east level of the temple, the security was higher and although the look in his eye caused some caution in the guards they still stopped him in the middle of the corridor, which turned to Ocura Maga’s quarters.
“Stop right there, lad,” one of the tall, muscle-bound, guards asked holding a large hand out to stop him from going any further. “No visitors during daylight hours.”
Felix clenched his jaw, nearly delirious with anxiety. “I must see Ocura Maga-,” he began and the guard cut him off, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, no one comes to her during the day, as I’ve said. She is a Moon Elf. You have to know this,” the guard said with a scowl, and pushed him back.
“I must see here now!” His plea was frantic as one of the guards grabbed him, and began pulling him back the other way.
Felix then realized that he would get nowhere with words.
“Bloody brilliant,” he muttered to himself, knowing what he would have to do. While his eyes lost focus, they fluttered closed.
All went still.
All went dark.
The sound of crashing bodies reverberated within his ears as he outstretched his arms, and sent a pulse of energy from his core, that rippled and flew outward in a startling show of blue light and sparks.
When he opened his eyes, he slowly came to his feet, and straightened his cloak.
“Sorry about that,” he said, clearing his throat.
The guards were all pinned to the walls, unable to move, unable to speak.
Without anyone to stop him, he crossed the wide hallway and knocked on the door.
“Ocura Maga,” he yelled, hoping to awaken her—uncaring of the consequences.
Just when he was certain the Ocura wouldn’t awaken and hear his plea, the doors slowly opened.
Relief washed over him, and he exhaled.
Before him stood a beautiful Moon Elf, a being from other worlds, from ancient times. Her long hair hung past her hips, and she was dressed in all black that was stark against her skin that held the tinge of lavender.
She took one look on his face and raised a curious eyebrow as she glanced around the corner. Her brows rose as she peered at the scene of her guards struggling to free themselves. Another look at the scrawny boy before her, and she turned to go back inside the room.
Felix was sure that she was going to go back in her room and slam the door in his face, leaving him outside with her angry guards, when she surprised him.
“Follow me, Seer,” she ordered him and he sighed deeply, with relief, closing his eyes to thank the good spirits. “And, release my guards from your lovely paralyze spell. I surmise you have something to tell me—something about the half-blood dragon queen.”
18
As Rowen stood at the rail of a balcony that overlooked the grand ballroom of Withrae Palace, her heart thumped in her chest and her brows furrowed.
Rickard had told her that a celebration of their unborn child would unite the people of Withrae. She wasn’t so convinced.
“Are you all right, Rowen?” Noemie asked, touching her cheek with the back of her hand. “Do you feel unwell? You’re quite hot.”
She glanced at her, and nodded despite the feverish sensation that rose up her throat. She hadn’t been all right since she’d learned that her sister was now being sent off to a life of danger and uncertainty with the one and only Captain Blackthorn. Memories of her encounter with him made her stomach churn, and her anxiety rise to a dangerous level.
What could she do from so far away?
“I’m fine,” Rowen said, picking up her glass of water and downing it.
She found herself covering her bosom with crossed arms, and lowering her eyes whenever one of the men glanced her way.
Rickard walked the room, chatting with various lords and ladies. She couldn’t help but keep her eyes glued to Lord Davien, watching his every move.
There was something about him—a darkness that she was certain no one else noticed but her
. The very air around him felt dark, heavy. When he approached, she could feel his presence before he even stood before her, and that made her clutch the railing and lean forward, as if desperate for air.
Closing her eyes, she willed herself to keep her composure, to not let that man unnerve her. That was when the nausea hit her, full force, nearly doubling her over.
“Rowen, are you certain you’re all right?” Noemie asked lowering herself into the chair beside her.
She nodded and forced a smile. “Yes. I’m just a bit tired from the events of the day.”
“Queen Rowen,” Lord Davien of House Astley said, and a overwhelming sensation of dread washed over her. There was no running or hiding now.
She turned to him, forcing a smile.
“Lord Davien,” she said, as he bowed before her. She watched him rise, noting the way his eyes lingered on her bosom. “Delighted to see you’ve decided to come.”
His crooked grin was off-putting when she was certain some women found it charming.
“Ah,” he said. “Yes. I wanted to congratulate you and King Rickard on the little heir.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned back on his heels. “It is such a fragile situation though, isn’t it? I mean, children die before birth every day. The mom’s too,” he said, giving her a pointed stare. He shook his head, feigning a look of sorrow that made his heavy brows rise above his dark eyes. “I’d much hate to see such a fate befall you and the child. Withrae needs stability. Especially in times such as these.”
Her cheeks burned hot with rising rage. She began to speak, to challenge him for his foolhardy words, when he bowed once again.
“But, of course that would never happen. You are a divine being, after all,” he said, and his grin widened. “Luck seems to be your greatest gift. I mean—look at you. You went from essentially being no one, from an obscure fishing town, to the esteemed queen of the dragons. Remarkable.”
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Harrow was hardly just a fishing town. He made it seem as thought she’d been plucked from the gutters of Rock Bottom.
“My family has never been so lucky,” he added, tilting his head. “True, we are descendants of the original king of Withrae, with many lands and wealth, but you—you have something special.”
She could smell the threat in his words, as they dripped from his lips in the guise of compliments.
“I bid you farewell,” he said. “And, good luck. I must return to my household. Seems I have some foreign visitors arriving any minute now.”
With that, he walked away, a snicker fading into the chatter all around as he did so.
Rowen and Noemie exchanged looks.
“I want him followed,” Rowen said. “I want to know everything that happens in the Astly household, and every business associate and dealing Lord Davien has.”
Noemie nodded. “I’ll see to it,” she said. “I have a few spies who’d be up for the task.”
“Good,” Rowen said, turning her suspicious gaze back on the lord who made her skin crawl. “Because, I do not trust that Dragon. Not one bit.”
Noemie left her then, entering the crowd and speaking to two gentlemen who waited in the shadows, off to the side where the servants stood and watched the gathering.
Rowen stood there, at the balcony, and relief came to her once Rickard’s arms wrapped around her from behind. She leaned into him, and relished his calming energy.
“I’ve missed you,” she said.
He kissed the top of her hair. “I’ve only been away for a few moments.”
A smile came to her face. “A few moments is an eternity without you.”
He chuckled.
“Champagne, your highness,” a pall bearer said.
Rickard took the glass, and lifted Rowen’s glass of water to her.
“Right,” he said, and addressed the crowd below. “I invite you to join me in a toast.”
Rowen looked over the crowd of lords, ladies, foreign royalty, and scores of individuals whom she had no clue what their names were.
They looked back at her, and she could see it in their eyes.
Like Lord Davien hinted at, she would never be accepted.
Not until she produced an heir.
Her hand went to touch the mound of her lower belly.
Everyone raised their chalices, glasses, and mugs.
Rickard laced his arm around her waist. “To my wife,” he said. “And, to our child. To the heir of Withrae.”
“To the heir of Withrae,” everyone chanted in unison.
While they drank wine and champagne, Rowen drank her water, and forced a smile.
Now, perhaps she could escape from the crowd and gather her thoughts. There was too much to consider—too much to contemplate. Ophelia was gone. Lord Davien had spoken his threats. And, Elian was still an uncertain factor in it all.
Most of all, the Dragons still couldn’t shift into their dragon form.
She turned to Rickard, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.
“I’m off to bed—“ Rowen began to speak, and her voice caught in her throat when she saw something horrifying on Rickard’s mouth.
Blood.
19
Rickard coughed, and droplets of crimson blood splattered on her face. When he went to wipe his mouth, alarm filled his eyes, and left her in utter shock. He stumbled backward, and tried to speak as more blood gushed forth, and out of his mouth.
Rowen’s eyes widened. Her pulse raced. For a moment, she couldn’t move.
This was a dream.
It had to be a dream.
Maybe none of this had happened. Maybe this was all some cruel trick from Priscilla, devised to make Rowen lose her mind. The concept terrified her, even as the gasps and shouts of the crowd around her sounded so real.
Her mind couldn’t wrap around what was happening. Rickard fell forward, and into her arms. His weight was too much for her to handle, and her back pressed into the balcony as he clung to her dress, and looked up at her with pleading eyes.
“Dear gods, no,” Rowen cried. “Someone help him!”
Rowen’s breaths quickened and her hands shook as she held her choking husband from falling to the ground.
Tears burned her eyes, and she shot frantic glances all around the room which now spun.
A wave of silence rung in her ears, and as she looked down at Rickard—who’d gone limp—she knew that her greatest fear had been realized.
A guttural cry of utter grief erupted from her mouth, and rang through the entire palace—through the entire kingdom.
King Rickard, the man she loved, was dead.
The silence was unnerving, and only her cries filled it, as she fell to her knees with his body and stroked his face.
“Rickard,” she called. “Please wake up. Please, my love.”
Her hands shook, and more cries of absolute sorrow ripped from her chest. She was broken. She was lost.
“I need you,” she shouted. “We need you!”
His eyes stared up at her, lifeless, empty.
Void.
And, she kissed his forehead, squeezing her eyes shut.
For a moment, she was numb—too numb to sob—too numb to breathe.
“She bloody killed him,” Lord Umbridge shouted, breaking her from her nightmarish silence. “Just like she killed Lawson!”
Those words sent a fear through her that left her frozen. A rush of cold washed over her body.
“The half-blood is a murdering whore,” Lord Rabat said, and Rowen’s eyes popped open.
How dare they—how dare they accuse her of killing the man she loved—the man she depended on for safety and security in this horrid place?
She began to stand, collecting energy from the torches, and struggling to control the untamed temper that began to rise from the very soles of her feet, to the cold, broken heart in the center of her chest.
Flames rose from her hands, bright flames w
ith sparkling golden lights and red tendrils of magic.
It was then that footsteps sounded behind her, and she paused—just as she prepared to unleash absolute chaos on the entire room of accusing faces.
“Now,” Elian said from behind her, startling her. “This is where lesson two comes.”
Rowen’s heart thumped in her chest. Panic and sorrow fought for supremacy. Rage seemed to be winning. “And, what is that?”
Tears dripped from her chin.
“When you’re outnumbered,” he said. “You run.”
Dizzy and heartbroken, Rowen lowered her hands, and did as he said.
She did what she was best at—what she thought she was done doing.
She ran.
THE END
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Wrath of the Dragons will be released February 2020
Check out my epic fantasy novel, The Wizard’s Daughter here.
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A Look at The Wizard’s Daughter
Elle woke in a panic, the pearl necklace around her throat pressing into her tender flesh.
It burned.
Sweat drenched her fire-red hair as she sat up in bed and glanced around the darkness of the room. The air was thick, too hot, stale, pulsing with magic.
The scent of burning embers wafted into her nostrils as she set the fire hearth ablaze. A flick of her wrist was all it took.
She stood from her bed, the cold stone floor a shock to her pale, white skin.
The Crystal Keep was asleep. The other wards of the castle monastery curled up under their blankets, safe, and warm, while poor, less fortunate humans and shifters were left to suffer as a curse plagued the Enchanted Kingdom.
Looking out to the night sky, she whispered a quiet prayer.
“Please,” she began. “Take me from this place.”