Dragon Kin
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Table of Contents
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About Dragon Kin
Praise for Dragon Kin
Title Page
Maps
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
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The next book in the Once and Future Hearts series.
About the Author
Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey
Copyright Information
About Dragon Kin
Will she become the cursed king’s fifth dead wife?
In Lesser Britain, drought grips the land, forcing Arawn, King of Brocéliande, to take a fifth wife, hoping she will be the mother of his firstborn, whom the prophecy says will break the curse and save his people.
Ilsa, daughter of a wood cutter, is brought to Lorient to wed the cold, distant Arawn, terrified she will become the king’s next dead wife. There she learns about the true High King of Britain, Ambrosius, and his brother Uther, who build an army to take back Britain from the Saxons and Vortigern the Usurper.
Can Arawn find a way to save his people and the land that supports the future Pendragon? Will Ilsa break the curse?
This novel is part of the ancient historical romance series, Once and Future Hearts, set in Britain during the time of King Arthur.
1.0 Born of No Man
2.0 Dragon Kin
3.0 Pendragon Rises
4.0 War Duke of Britain
5.0 High King of Britain
6.0 Battle of Mount Badon
7.0 Abduction of Guenivere
8.0 Downfall of Cornwall
9.0 Vengeance of Arthur
10.0 Grace of Lancelot
11.0 The Grail and Glory
12.0 Camlann
Readers have described Tracy Cooper-Posey as “a superb story teller” and her ancient historical romances as “written art”. Get your copy of Dragon Kin today!
Praise for Dragon Kin
I've read so many books about King Arthur, from Morte d'Arthur to scholarly theses on the true origin of King Arthur. This series is without a doubt the BEST!!!
Every book I read by Tracy Cooper-Posey is like an intricate puzzle piece. It’s beautiful and unique on its own, but when you study it from different angles you find out it’s just a piece of the bigger picture and this author gets the pieces to click into place in the most interesting and unpredictable ways.
I love that I learn new things from reading one of Cooper-Posey’s books while at the same time experience action, adventure and romance...and not that stupid love-at-first-sight-everything-works-out-the-way-we-want romance, either. She writes earthy, emotionally charged, realistic love stories.
ABSOLUTELY beautiful story! The characters are so well written, you feel like you are in the middle of their world, interacting with them on a personal level!
OMG. I love this story, it's a grand classic of historical romance. Oh how I'd love to see this as a movie.
Tracy just nailed it once again.
I loved this one so much! I spent the entire book telling myself to slow down and savor the tale and also not being able to put the book down.
What a great book! It’s not a short book, but reads like one. The dialogue moves the plot, the action moves the plot, even the narrative does not waste a single word. I read the book twice because I liked it so much.
This is a wonderful book! OMG, I didn’t want this one to end (3000 pages might’ve been enough). I haven’t stopped thinking about this book since i finished it last week-wondering what else might have gone on in their lives.
Any time my husband was trying to get my attention while reading this novel I told him, "I can't help it. I'm over a 1,000 years away falling in love with a king and making friends with the Lady of the Lake!"
This series puts Tracy Cooper Posey up there with the great Arthurian writers like Stewart and Bradley. Her vivid descriptions and historical snippets add so much to an already great story that I could not put it down.
Maps
Also available at
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Chapter One
Brocéliande, Lesser Britain (Brittany), 453 CE
If he was a less thoughtful man, Arawn might have assigned blame for the unwelcome outcome upon the day’s misadventures. Only, he did prefer to properly consider things. He could trace the makings of the disaster back more than twelve years. This day had been fated since he took his first wife—the gods bless Bethan’s resting soul.
He had married Bethan with good intentions and a pure heart. Everything he had done since then had been with the purpose of serving his people. Yet between intention and result, the gods had twisted things, over and over again. Perhaps his people were right. Perhaps he was, in truth, the cursed king they called him.
The day had started simply enough. Ambrosius had asked Arawn to take his younger brother, Uther, off his hands for a few days. Uther was a brilliant soldier although young and easily bored, especially with the life the poor kingdoms of Lesser Britain offered. Ambrosius and Uther lived within King Budic’s lands, which marched beside Arawn’s kingdom.
Arawn could offer no better quality distraction than Budic. All the kingdoms of Brittany were staggering through the third year of drought and facing the same deprivations. However, Brocéliande had the forest, which Budic’s coastal lands did not.
Ambrosius’ request coincided with Arawn’s expedition into the heart of the forest. As a favor to his closest friend, Arawn invited Uther to join him on his search for the mystical spring which might break the curse upon him.
Uther had laughed at the idea. “Magic and myth! Searching for a lake that has not dried out would be a more effective use of your time.”
“That is a search we make daily,” Arawn replied. “Just as Budic does and Guannes does. My people want to believe I am doing everything I can to help them. The spring might well be a myth, though I will not ignore the chance that splashing water from the spring upon the surrounding stones will bring rain. Come, or do not, Uther. Your company is welcome. I go in search of the spring, regardless.”
“Oh, I will come,” Uther said, his smile lingering. “I would see your enchanted forest for myself, at least.”
The party of twenty soldiers, officers, hunters and Arawn and Uther had set
out shortly before dawn. Their breath blew foggy and the bits and harnesses of the horses jingling with crisp clinks in the still air. The horses pranced restlessly in the cold, for winter was on its way. Despite the departure of summer there had still been no rain and the ground beneath the horses’ hooves was a baked, hard clay that rang with each step. No weeds or sweet grasses muffled the horses’ steps. All verdure had dried and blown away, weeks ago.
At the same time the big group set out, other carts and mules began their daily expedition for water. Each cart carried empty barrels and flat, dry water skins, ever hopeful of returning with a full and heavy load.
The metal-banded oak town gates shut behind them with a decisive thud. Arawn refused to consider the heavy boom a portent.
By sunrise they were among the shadows of oaks and firs, beeches and willows, pushing along the worn and dusty road to Paimpont. The riders stayed muffled beneath their cloaks and hoods for the chill had not yet lifted.
The hunter, Winoc, who had come to Arawn with the scrap of rumor about the location of the spring, led them off the road and along a winding north-east wood cutters’ track. Heavy vines and undergrowth thrust up higher than the shoulders of the horses and leaned in upon the track.
Then even the track petered from view and they pushed through unmarked forest. Heavy tree trunks reached up to the sky, each wearing thick green coats of moss, which clung to life despite the lack of rain. The dense canopies of the trees tangled and hid the sun from the riders. Leaves had not yet fallen, although they were changing color. In a week, perhaps less, there would be little but bare branches.
For now, though, the riders moved through deep shade, their horses making little sound on the soft soil. Usually ferns and grasses were a blanket across the earth. Now only leaf litter and twigs showed between spare tufts of hardy heather.
The day grew warmer as the still-strong sun rose, unseen by anyone. Men emerged from their cloaks and traded quips and wine skins, the last of the summer fruit and butter biscuits. Overhead, thrushes marked their passing with warbles and the occasional woodpecker knocked acknowledgment.
Uther urged his horse up beside Arawn’s. He nodded at Winoc’s back, for the hunter was ten paces ahead, leading them. “He has been heading directly north-east without deviation. Any man who knows where he is going takes the easiest path, not the direct route, even if it winds around obstructions.” His handsome face was marred by a suspicious scowl.
It didn’t surprise Arawn that Uther had been tracking their direction and was puzzled by it. Uther was only twenty-six, yet he already had the sizeable reputation that an older man accumulated over a lifetime. He was a brilliant soldier—one whom no one wanted to face on the battlefield. Warriors across Gaul traveled to Brittany to learn his ways with weapons. As a leader, Uther was surpassed only by his older brother Ambrosius in strategic thinking. Uther’s handling of men was deft. He could read a man’s weaknesses and strengths and judge within a hair’s breadth a man’s true nature, the instant he laid eyes upon him.
Arawn smiled at the man. “Not even Winoc knows where he is truly going. No one knows where the spring is. He heard a rumor, that is all.”
Uther’s blue eyes, so different from his brother’s Celtic black, narrowed. “Then we are upon a fool’s errand?” The blue of his eyes was pure summer sky, above high, hawk-like cheekbones and cheeks that often looked gaunt, or taut with anger. The jaw was made stronger by the outline of close-cropped red beard. He had a red-head’s temper, which fit with his general temperament. He was full of quicksilver energy and fiery passion—which rumors said he put to good use every night, no matter where he found himself.
His temper was stirring now. Arawn could appreciate why. He didn’t like having his time wasted, either. He lifted his spare hand. “Patience, Uther. We are still upon land I know. When we reach the parts of the forest no one will enter, our quest will begin.”
“The enchanted heart of Brocéliande I’ve heard so much about?” Uther did not quite roll his eyes, for he was smart enough to not disparage his host’s country.
“You are a follower of Mithras, yes?” Arawn dropped his voice, for gods and religion was a private matter.
“The soldier’s god is mine,” Uther replied. “Why?”
“Is there not magic about the story of Mithras and the Bull?”
Uther’s gaze slid toward him and away. “It is sacrilege to even speak of it.”
“Then do not speak of it. Instead, tell me you believe the story. They call it faith, do they not?”
Uther cleared his throat. “You believe the stories about the forest, then?”
“My people do. I cannot ignore their beliefs, or their trust in me will wither. It is already stretched taut.”
“They call you the cursed king,” Uther said and held out the wine flask he had been carrying in his left hand.
“Among other things.” Arawn took the flask and drank.
“Budic is not labeled such. Nor is Bors. Their kingdoms also struggle for lack of water. It has beset all of Lesser Britain. Why, then are you the cause of everyone’s misfortune?” Uther’s tone was merely curious.
It was the mildness of his enquiry that allowed Arawn to answer with uncharacteristic frankness. “The drought is just the last affliction of many, one which all neighboring kingdoms must share if mine is to properly suffer.” His mouth turned down. “I know you have heard the stories.”
“Frequently,” Uther replied. “More often of late, as wells dry and rivers thin.”
“Pestilence, plague and drought.” Tension squeezed Arawn’s chest and made his gut roil. “Two harvests mown to the ground by hoppers, then three years of plague which killed most of the people that empty bellies had not. Now this—a third year of inadequate rain. Budic and Bors have seen little of the tribulation I have and it all began the year I first married.”
Uther’s frown deepened. “Curses are always accompanied by prescribed cures.”
“The cure was prophesied by Rhonwen the Great, Lady of the Lake, before she passed. The mother of my first born child will save Brocéliande.”
“I have heard of this prophecy,” Uther admitted. “I did not know it was intended to break a curse.”
“Neither did I,” Arawn said. He took another deep swallow of the wine and handed the flask back. “When Rhonwen spoke the prophecy, I was not aware Brocéliande was in need of saving. As she gave it at my first wedding, I presumed it was a blessing upon my marriage.”
Uther’s eyes widened. “You have married twice since,” he pointed out.
“Three times,” Arawn admittedly heavily.
Uther sat back in his saddle, his eyes gleaming. “Then you must marry again, no?”
Arawn understood the glimmer of interest in Uther’s eyes. Women were a sport for him, one at which he excelled. His appetites were large enough that he would take any amenable companion to bed. Although, if there was a single camp follower or unattached woman, or even a married but willing woman, anywhere near the army, Uther would win her over for the night. It was a small wonder he had not left a trail of bastards across Brittany.
“You do not understand,” Arawn replied. “It is not simply a matter of getting an heir. Kings are reluctant to offer me their daughters, for all my wives have died while bearing their first child.”
Uther’s smile was knowing. “Then don’t marry a princess. The prophecy does not insist upon it.”
Arawn thought of Mair, the last of his wives. It had only been two years and already he had trouble recalling her young face. “I tried that, too,” he admitted.
“Yet here we are looking for a magic spring to break the curse, instead,” Uther said. “You would risk bringing the power of Brocéliande down upon you, yet you will not take a fifth wife, when one of the greatest Ladies of all history has told you that is what you must do to save your kingdom.”
Arawn shifted in his saddle, his chest clamping even harder. “You are young, Uther. You do not understand the
challenges of a ruler.” His tone was sharper than he intended. Uther was brazen and his questions impertinent. Ambrosius had thrust Uther at Arawn, to smooth out his brother’s rougher edges. The man would not learn subtlety living in the middle of an army camp as he did in Carnac.
Uther stared at his horse’s ears and said nothing. He was sensitive enough to know he had overstepped his bounds.
Arawn relented. “Hunting for a spring does not bring death upon an innocent woman.”
“Perhaps the next wife you take will be the one to break the curse,” Uther said. “You cannot know until you marry her.”
“Therein lies my quandary,” Arawn said, with a gusty sigh. “If she is not the one…”
Uther grinned, showing white, even teeth. “We are hunting the wrong prey today.”
“I assure you, where we are going there are no suitable wives.”
“Suitable?” Uther repeated. “A cursed king cannot demand his next wife meet any standards.” His smile made his eyes dance.
Arawn laughed, drawn into Uther’s mischievous mood. “Very well, then. Any woman at all…only, she must be healthy and young enough to bear children.”
“And unmarried,” Uther said gravely. “As you are a king, you must wed the girl to bed her. I, of course, do not have that limitation.”
“I will not be inviting you to the wedding, then,” Arawn replied.
Uther’s laughter sent a raven flapping into the air, cawing his objection. The other men were far behind them, now, busy with their own conversations. Winoc was far ahead. It was just the two of them, which let Arawn relax a little more.
“It would be nice if she was of passing prettiness,” Arawn added, warming to the subject.
“And with all her teeth, too,” Uther said.