Diamond in the Rough: a Fantasy Romance (Daughter of Fortune Book 3)

by Vivienne Savage

  “Grandmother knows many things. She says it is because she’s lived so long, she’s seen everything,” the girl said mysteriously. She glanced at Xavier, looked him over from head to toe, and blew out a disappointed sigh. “I thought a dragon would be bigger.” Her face scrunched in consternation. “Maybe the stories are not literal.”

  Xavier’s brows shot so high they practically leapt off his face. He stared at her, too shocked to confess that he was a shapeshifting dragon.

  They knew we were coming, Rosalia thought. More than that, they knew she’d have a dragon with her. “Uh, what’s your name? I’m Rosalia and my…” Friend? Mate? Lover? “My mate is Xavier.”

  “Well met. You may call me Hyraj,” she said, leading them to a home overlooking the bank of the oasis. Pangs of homesickness resonated in Rosalia’s chest as she watched children playing in the water.

  She should have been gathering clams with her friends.

  She should have been drinking mulled wine around the bonfire to celebrate the approach of autumn and the end of a brutal summer.

  Such occasions had been rare, however, and that infrequency had made each moment even more precious. Hindsight led to regret—if only she’d spent more time with Hadrian and Frederico. If only she’d spent a few hours more at brunch with Mira.

  Hyraj shooed away a gang of nosy children with a practiced flick of her fingers. “This is our inn. Please make yourselves at home, and when the sun sets, I will guide you to one who can answer your questions. The bath is through that door, and food will be brought shortly.”

  Leaving no room for argument in the manner only a sassy teenager could manage, the young woman ushered them inside and scuttled out of sight to chase some of the children who dared to hang back and spy on them. Their joyful shrieks and laughs echoed in the canyon.

  The inside of the house matched the beautiful exterior, decorated with care and built with steady hands. The mudbrick was flawlessly smoothed, and painted bold orange, glowing cobalt, and vibrant yellow against the natural pewter hue of the dried clay. A light layer of dust and sand coated every surface save for the bed and the table where two fresh sets of bright clothes in linen and silk awaited them.

  They both started for the bathing room at once, then Xavier stopped and swept his arm in gentlemanly fashion. “You first.”

  “You’re just as dirty as I am.”

  “And I am willing to wait.”

  Not so humble or selfless as to try again, Rosalia beelined toward the bathroom. She could have wept with joy at the sight that awaited her. The bathroom spanned nearly half of the home’s humble floor on account of the tub’s enormous size, and someone had filled it in anticipation of their arrival with steaming water.

  Thrilled to find there was room for two, she called to Xavier and he joined her. They stripped their clothing in record time and submerged in the water. The sight of him would have turned her to putty in his hands on any other day, but in that particular moment Rosalia had little on her mind other than washing the sand out of her hair.

  When her bath concluded before his, she stumbled out into the bedroom wrapped in a soft towel and collapsed onto the cool sheets awaiting her. Eating could happen once she’d slept in a soft bed.

  Rosalia was out before her head hit the pillow.

  When the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat dragged Rosalia from a dead sleep, she experienced a brief moment of mind-numbing panic that shoved all logic aside. The sensations of an unfamiliar bed, no Xavier, and no clothing flooded her with enough dread to nearly leap from the bed and search desperately for her weapons.

  It took one long, agonizing minute to realize they were nowhere near her, and that the clothing once strewn over the floor had been washed and neatly folded, no longer stained with sweat.

  A few more seconds passed until her brain caught up with the current events.

  The brimstone and ash-kissed bay rum scent of Xavier’s skin still lingered on the pillow beside her. She breathed it in and centered herself, waited for her galloping pulse to level, and eventually she crawled from bed. One set of clothing remained, and it was the softest linen she’d ever touched in all her life, enveloping her like a cool hug from the heavens.

  By the time she emerged in the gold-trimmed plum tunic and matching skirt, she found her dragon setting plates on a table heaped with meat and unfamiliar grains. The sun nearly touched the horizon, and a cool breeze swept in from the water, dancing through the open windows.

  Her mate could have been another person, the bath and nap sweeping away the remnants of his illness. The differences between his rested condition and previous one struck such a stark contrast she stared, taking in the color in his cheeks and the vanquished dark shadows beneath his eyes that had stood out against his fair skin like coal smudges.

  “What?”

  Rosalia stepped up to him. “You look better.”

  “I feel better,” he replied.

  She cupped his face between her hands and kissed him lightly, threading her fingers through the long hair cascading around his pointed ears. She kissed him for every moment she’d missed during their journey, and for every second ahead that fate would deny them the opportunity.

  Strong arms wrapped around her waist and his warm palm pressed against the small of her back. At the end, he peered down at her. “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that about?”

  The answer eluded her for some time. She could only gaze up at him in return, into pretty green eyes and see that same haunting image of him dying at her feet, gasping for each breath that could have been his last. “Seeing you well makes me happy.”

  “Mm. If that’s for feeling well, what do I get for feeling extraordinary?”

  Rosalia laughed until he nudged forward and the hard truth of the matter pressed against her lower abdomen. Her empty stomach issued one demand, her arousing needs another.

  Food, she told herself. They both needed food.

  “We should eat.”

  His exaggerated sigh brought another smile to her face. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  The table was small and stone-carved, a quaint design with desert creatures chiseled into the legs. He slid a plate in front of her.

  He didn’t name the mystery meat, but she could guess from the suspiciously reptilian shape of the seared portion on his plate. During their time on the road, rations of waybread and dried meats had sustained them, with the occasional roasted supper cooked by his breath whenever he caught one of the gamey buzzards always soaring overhead.

  Tender meat practically melted in her mouth, flavored with honeyed glaze and unfamiliar spices. Too starved to question it further, she shoveled the exotic meal into her mouth and savored every bite as if it were the last. For all they knew, it very well could be. They’d still yet to really meet their reclusive but kind hosts.

  A knock came at the door only moments after the sun had finally set and they stepped outside to greet Hyraj. The girl had pulled a dazzling shawl over her shoulders that held every warm color of the desert in its woven fibers, though her midriff was still exposed and her skirt now resembled the setting sun, purple and pink and beautifully dusky with silver speckles that shone more brightly with each passing second. Magic itself hummed from the garment, as it did the rest of the village.

  For the first time since their arrival, Rosalia began to understand why the tribe isolated itself from the rest of the kingdom. Their greedy ruler would have bled them dry for their secrets and magic.

  “You look much better,” she said, her placid smile leading Rosalia to wonder if the girl appeared younger than her true age.

  “We feel better. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “It is nothing.”

  Torches lined the pathways in the village, illuminating the community with a subtle golden glow, the soft light gentle on Rosalia’s eyes after days of harsh sunlight reflecting off sand in the desert. The activity had dwindled dramatically, and no young children played in the streets.
All was quiet save for the whistling of a flute and rhythmic drumbeats from the village square.

  “Follow me. I’ll lead you to our elder.”

  “Your grandmother, right?”

  Hyraj’s brown eyes twinkled when she replied to Rosalia, “She’s everyone’s grandmother.”

  The home they were brought to was smaller than most of the others, but it was also the most well-kept and decorated. It stood separate from the bulk of houses, breaking the perfectly placed spiral formation.

  “Grandmother, I have brought them.”

  Their host awaited them in the kitchen, slim of figure but nearly as tall as Xavier. Despite her age, she stood proud, her spine unbent by age despite the deep crevices and wrinkles on her brown face. Her eyes gleamed golden as the rings on her dark, weathered hands. She wore layer upon layer of silks fashioned into an elaborate dress of sea green, and a colorful shawl rested over her bony shoulders in shades of purple and orange.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you at last. I am Isabis, and I am the speaker of the Red Canyon Clan.”

  Xavier bowed. “It’s an honor, Isabis. I am Xavier, and Rosalia is my mate.”

  Rosalia dipped courteously. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Please, be seated. We have much to talk about, you and I.”

  “Yes,” Rosalia agreed, lowering to a seat while the old woman poured them stone cups of steaming tea. “I hope you’ll excuse me if I begin by asking how you knew to expect us.”

  “I knew to expect you because this was foretold. I did not know the precise day of your arrival, but I knew you would come. I also know why you have come.”

  Her words stole Rosalia’s breath. “You know we need the Legacy?”

  “I do, and were I able to give it to you, I would.”

  “Please, Isabis. There are people—dangerous people—seeking it as well.”

  “I know. And if it were in my possession, I would give it to you. But we do not have the Heart of Moritan. What you seek is not here. We have never had it.”

  And any chance of saving the world flitted away like smoke on the breeze. If the Mori people didn’t have the treasure, then surely Lacherra soon would. At a loss for words, Rosalia cut her gaze to Xavier. Despite his remarkable restraint, she saw the stress in his features and sensed the anxiety rippling from him as surely as heat waves danced over the desert.

  All of their travel and days of wandering the desert had been in vain. If her tears could have served any purpose, Rosalia would have cried.

  9

  A Trial of Fire

  After wrestling for a moment with a bout of frustrated anger, Xavier found his patience. “I don’t understand.” He spoke slowly, barely clinging to the threads of his sanity as he considered the lost time and the days spent in dunes, wandering in search of people who could not help them. Wasted time. Those had been critical days they could have spent scouring elsewhere. “We were told more than once and by numerous sources that your people have the treasure. Were we misled?”

  “No, child. Not entirely. We do not safeguard the Heart of Moritan, for our father does that himself.”

  Beside him, stirrings of hope whispered over Rosalia’s distraught features. “Please explain, so that we can understand,” she pleaded.

  The village elder’s quiet smile creased her face, the wrinkles deeper than the canyons they had traversed to reach the tribe. Xavier tried to imagine how many generations she had raised and guided over the years and surmised she was far older than he, perhaps by decades. “The Heart of Moritan isn’t a figurative term, for the jewel rests in the heart of Mount Mori’onga. That is where it was first forged by fire and brought into this world.”

  His belly dropped to his feet. “It’s in the volcano?” Xavier and Rosalia both echoed at once. While he was capable of withstanding the greatest of heat and fire, even his tough draconic hide would burn if he bathed in lava. He was no fire dragon.

  A djinn, on the other hand, was born of fire.

  Yet he had doubts. Rosalia was no full-blooded djinn. Her mother’s magic was diluted in her blood by her human father. It was possible even she’d burn to ashes and cinder when confronted by magma burning hotter than her natural flame.

  “Yes. At the altar to our desert father lies the jewel you seek, placed there by your mother’s hands more than two decades ago. And now it is up to you to retrieve it.”

  It shouldn’t have surprised him that nothing could ever be easy. It would have been nice, for once, to merely walk into a temple and ask for what they sought, find it, then leave and move on to their next task. But nothing about their journey had been simple.

  “Who built an altar in a volcano?” Rosalia asked. “It sounds counterproductive to visiting and communing with your god.”

  Isabis chuckled. “My ancestors did. Long ago, our people dwelled in the caldera itself. We built our home on the ridges and steppes. We carved out the interior and mined magma, volcanic rock, and glass for our crafts. All could withstand the great heat with the gift of Moritan and his eternal love.”

  “And now you cannot?”

  Fleeting sadness touched ancient eyes. “Only the eldest among us can walk in the flames, and some of our young when truly focused. The magic is dying. It faded first from our lands, and with each new generation, we see less of it. Our gift has diminished in recent years.”

  Her brows furrowed. Then understanding dawned.

  Moritan had weakened. Like the ocean goddess, he could no longer sustain miracles and magical gifts. Xavier met Rosalia’s gaze and saw the same understanding in her eyes.

  “Can anyone guide us to the volcano to retrieve it?” Rosalia asked.

  “Certainly. At least, we can lead you a portion of the way. No one has walked the Trial of Fire in quite some time. Not since our gifts first began to flicker out.”

  “Trial of Fire?”

  “The base of the mountain is quite unstable. Too unstable for anyone except the strongest and most determined of my people to cross. And even then…” Isabis’s sad smile told the story. “It is now forbidden to make the pilgrimage.”

  “Then it seems to me that we need do nothing,” Xavier said. “There is no safer place for the stone than in the arms of Moritan. The king can never acquire it. All the mages and wizards in the world couldn’t safely retrieve the Legacy without perishing in the attempt. It’s safe there for all eternity.”

  Rosalia shook her head. “No. It’s safe from mortals for all eternity. They have a fire wraith at their disposal.”

  “We haven’t seen it yet. It’s wholly possible the spymaster only created the ice wraith.”

  “Do you really think that? That he’d miss a golden opportunity like that?”

  A moment of silence passed, followed by the whoosh of his exhaling breath. “No. He wouldn’t. I wouldn’t if I were him.”

  “My mother and Lacherra were as close as sisters. We have to assume she knows the general location of the Heart of Moritan and that one of those creatures is en route right this very moment. We can’t afford to wait and leave it up to chance. There’s no other way forward. We have to walk the Trial of Fire if we want the stone. If we don’t, it’s as good as in the spymaster and king’s hands.”

  “Then I’ll do it alongside you. Together.”

  “You are both very brave,” Isabis said in a grave tone, rising from her seat at the table. “It will not be easy for you, but we will outfit you as one of our people, in the raiment of our ancestors.”

  “We can fly to the top,” Xavier protested. “I’m a weredragon. My wings will carry us with greater speed than we could ever travel by land.”

  “No,” Isabis said. “I am afraid you cannot fly. The way will only open for those who submit to Moritan’s judgment. For all others, the mountain will be obscured and you will never find the Traveler’s Path.”

  A team of three guides led Rosalia and Xavier from the tribe’s village under the safety of night, otherwise she imagined the journey would have bee
n intolerable with the sun bearing down on them.

  Xavier’s prediction proved true when it came to her djinn heritage. It didn’t protect her entirely from the unforgiving heat.

  Gradually, the scent of ash filled the air. The clouds above the approaching mountain range rolled with thunder and occasional flashes of lightning. Desert oasis bled away to a rocky landscape speckled by intermittent trees and patches of fertile ground. Where the fires had burned out, lush foliage grew, only to be scorched once more as lava burst to the surface in a never-ending cycle of consumption and growth.

  In a way, it was almost pretty, and Rosalia thought it symbolic of all things as new life rose from the ashes.

  “These fields once protected my people from outsiders and those who would do us harm,” Hyraj explained as they forged past a bubbling orange pit created by a river of magma.

  “I don’t get it,” Rosalia muttered as she picked her way carefully across solid stone. Hyraj and her siblings were the last to make the treacherous journey, Isabis had explained, making them the ideal guides to navigate and safely lead them through the lava fields.

  Ahrak and Simi, the woman’s two large brothers, had been their silent shadows throughout, both men armed with swords. Rosalia had begun to wonder if they simply didn’t speak the language until Hyraj explained their distrust of outsiders.

  Slowly they came around, however, and had occasionally answered her questions.

  “Get what?” asked her brother Ahrak.

  “With so much to protect the Legacy, why did it ever—how did it ever leave the volcano at all?”

  At her question, his features darkened. “We were betrayed.”

  “Oh.”

  When he offered nothing further, Rosalia assumed it was a tender subject, even if it had occurred decades, if not centuries ago. She’d learned only through context that the Mori aged differently than normal humans and had been blessed with a longer lifespan—though that was also failing them in recent years.