by Jasmine Walt
Lucyan had talked Taldren into glossing over most of the story of his rescue. He was meant to have escaped on his own, because if Alistair, Lucyan, and Drystan were known to have been involved, their father would hear of it. And he would have known they’d kept their meeting with the elven prince secret. Heads had rolled for less around here, and Alistair had no intention of being a casualty of their father’s madness.
Of course, their father wouldn’t kill his heirs. Not when they were the only dragons left alive aside from him who could sire dragonlings. But the king knew many other ways to make them pay for what he saw as disloyalty. He could very well punish their friends, servants, and even some of their family to make them pay for it. Taldren had agreed that this white lie had been for the best.
“Where’s Taldren?” he asked when he didn’t find his cousin in his quarters. “I thought he was supposed to be on bed rest?”
The guard shrugged. “You know Taldren. Never one to be idle. He’s donned his old uniform and taken up a post at the North Wall.”
Burying a sigh, Alistair went to the North Wall to search for him. He couldn’t blame Taldren for wanting to keep busy—Alistair himself often assisted the Guard, though officially he was a member of the Dragon Force. A trained officer and a medic, in fact. It chafed at him that his father wouldn’t let him fight on the front lines—all he’d been allowed to participate in so far were some skirmishes with border bandits near Shadowhaven. But apparently his family jewels were too valuable to be risked at the business end of an elf’s sword or arrow.
Alistair found Taldren standing at the eastern end of the North Wall, watching the forest with keen eyes. The same section of forest where he’d been turned over to them by Prince Ryolas.
“Alistair,” Taldren said, blinking in surprise. “What are you doing up here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Alistair said, clapping his cousin on the shoulder. “You’re looking remarkably well for someone who’s been held prisoner in enemy territory for an entire week.”
Taldren shrugged. “They kept me warm, gave me clean water. The only torture I experienced was that salad rubbish they call food. I could definitely use a roast.”
Alistair laughed. “I’ll have one sent up for you.”
“Much obliged.” Taldren grinned, but the expression quickly faded. “I know why you’ve come, by the way. I just expected it to be Lucyan, not you.”
Alistair sighed. In other circumstances, Lucyan would have been the one to question Taldren. But as brilliant as Lucyan was, he was blind when it came to their mother. Of the three of them, he’d taken her death the worst. Before her passing, he’d been a kinder man. Now, he saw plots and conspiracies everywhere, and he lived and breathed to come out on top of the game. That was what had led him to begin a career in espionage in the first place.
“What do you think?” Alistair asked Taldren. “Were the elves telling the truth?”
“They could have been,” Taldren admitted. “The murder was never solved, however, and they have every reason to want you to believe they could be innocent. In two decades, you may transform into full-fledged dragons. The king may stay behind, but the two of you who aren’t wearing the crown may be sent to war. And then, the elves have no hope of winning. Not against two flying fire-breathers with an impenetrable hide.”
“So,” Alistair said, “you think they lied.”
“I think they would have good reason,” Taldren corrected. “But it’s still worth looking into. Do you want me to start an investigation on the sly?”
“Please. I’ll also look into it, but I could use some help. This is hardly my area of expertise.” There was a great chance this would lead nowhere, but at least Alistair could sleep easier knowing he’d tried.
“I’ll get started. But I won’t be able to prove much without demanding to see some documents or other evidence I won’t have access to without authorization from the council.”
Alistair shook his head. “No need to think so far ahead. We’re not after all the answers yet. All we need is one little clue—just one—that could make us think the elves didn’t do this.”
“One clue won’t hold much weight in the eyes of the king.”
“My father isn’t our concern,” Alistair said, though he knew Taldren was right. “Find me something to go on, and we’ll throw the bone at a rabid dog who never fails to dig up what he wants to know.”
“Ah.” Taldren nodded in understanding. “You just want enough to get Lucyan onboard. Good call.”
Because if the elves weren’t responsible, they would need to dive into a case that had been closed for years and pull a very, very small needle out of a haystack. And there was no way they could succeed without Lucyan’s help.
Returning to his apartments after the exchange, Alistair called Ruver, his footman, and asked him to bring the news records from the months preceding his mother’s death.
In truth, he didn’t know very much about the details of his mother’s death. Alistair and his brothers had been hunting in a remote region on the opposite end of Dragonfell. It had taken close to a week before they received word, and another for them to return. By the time they came back, the investigation had already been concluded, and they had been too steeped in grief and pain to question their father’s findings.
But perhaps they should have. Perhaps this entire war was a lie, and the real enemy lay elsewhere. What if the killer was a member of their own kingdom? The idea of any of their own turning on the Dragon’s Gift was unthinkable, but then again, there were rumors of a heathen cult cropping up around Dragonfell that disavowed the gods and the divinity of the dragon line. It was entirely possible one of them had done something.
The news was recorded in weekly gossip scrolls he rarely bothered with. Gathering them took a while, and reading them, longer yet. After a short and unrestful sleep that night, he was back to it the next day, yawning his way through tedious announcements. The warlocks of Shadowhaven had come to pay their respects as they did each year, and the elves had arrived the next day. His mother had apparently worn red to greet the warlocks and green to meet the elves.
Seriously? They wrote about her clothing rather than whatever political issues had been discussed? What a waste of perfectly good paper. The writer may as well have used it to wipe his ass.
Frustrated, Alistair nearly tore the scroll in two. Almost. But as his fingers hovered over a sketch of his mother, with her long hair braided and thrown over one shoulder, he thought better of it. Perhaps the newspaper had its use, after all.
“Your Highness?”
Alistair lifted his head, surprised to see it was almost sundown now. There was a cup of cold tea and an untouched plate of ham and bread next to him. Time had evaded him.
“You may want to look out the window,” Ruver said.
Alistair rolled his eyes. The man always was so expressionless, it was hard to tell whether he’d see the city on fire or a parade of naked women running down the street.
But as it turned out, reality was closer to the second guess than the first. Alistair grinned as he looked out the window—from his position, he could clearly see the group of women standing on the steps of the Keep, being addressed by the steward. There were only nine of them, but with their colorful dresses and long red and flaxen hair, Alistair had no doubt as to who they were.
Three of his sisters had returned with their Chosen.
By the dragon, was it only a few days ago that he’d been fretting over the succession? After everything that had happened with Taldren and the elves, he’d all but forgotten about the Chosen.
But here they were. Looking fresh and lovely as roses, and eager to serve.
Ignoring Ruver’s protest, Alistair climbed out the window and walked to the edge of the roof to get a better look at the girls. As expected, they were all attractive. More would be coming soon—there would be thirty in total, all living in the Keep walls for the next few days as they prepared for the feast and the Select
ion Ritual.
But one stood out amongst the group of red and gold. A raven-haired beauty with curves that went on for miles. At first, he’d thought she was a servant, as she wore a simple muslin dress, but that was impossible—Chosens didn’t bring help to the Keep. No, she had to be one of them…and yet she looked nothing like the women she stood with. Nothing like his mother, or any of the other Dragon’s Gifts ever painted or portrayed in the halls of the Keep.
As Alistair studied her, his loins stirred with lust. The woman might have been wearing a plain dress, but her posture was regal, and she was every bit as beautiful as the others. Her skin was like fresh peaches and cream, and Alistair imagined how it might look if he slowly peeled that dress off her, baring each and every delightful curve hidden beneath. She was a lush beauty, that much was certain, and his mouth watered at the very idea of taking her.
Absolutely nothing like the others, he thought as he eyed her. She wasn’t a potential Dragon’s Gift, that was for certain. But she would make someone a very fine wife. It was no secret that the king wanted his sons to start breeding with human women and have dragon born grandchildren soon. The very idea had seemed like a burden at the time, but Alistair smiled now. He knew that, of his brothers, he was the least likely to become king, but if he could have a woman like that to warm his bed for the rest of his days, he would die a happy man.
“Have you ever seen a Chosen like her, Ruver?” he asked the old man once he’d climbed back inside.
“Like who, Your Highness?”
He frowned at the servant, wondering if he was going blind. But then again, he hadn’t been standing on the roof.
“The brunette. There was a brunette standing right outside the Keep. With a group of Chosen.”
“Oh.” Ruver paused, before repeating a meaningful, “Oh.”
“She doesn’t fit the profile.”
“Indeed. But from what I know of the laws, the Dragon’s Gift may be any human girl. Don’t worry, Your Grace. Just because one Chosen was poorly picked doesn’t mean there’s no hope.”
Poorly picked. Alistair snorted. Many words came to mind when he thought of how to describe that gorgeous woman, but poorly was certainly not one of them.
8
It only took three days for Dareena to start breaking the rules.
The first day was a whirlwind of activity. Dareena was shown to her room and assigned a maid—a shy blonde with doe eyes named Rona—who immediately took her measurements for dresses, then drew her a bath. Soaking in that small silver tub while Rona lathered her hair had been the single most blissful experience of Dareena’s life—while she’d had baths before, they’d been in small wooden tubs barely able to fit her body, and the bathwater had never been this fragrant or soothing.
Afterward, the maid dressed her in a day gown of sky blue, with matching slippers, then brushed and plaited her hair. Rona informed her that while her gown for the Selection Ritual had yet to be made, there were a number of dresses hanging in her closet that would fit reasonably well and would serve for her lessons with the tutors. She’d then been sent down to supper, which turned out to be an impromptu lesson on table manners and the proper use of cutlery.
“That, Sora, is a butter knife,” Lady Maude, one of the noblewomen who’d been assigned to train the Chosen, said coldly as she stopped in front of one of the girls. “It is used to spread butter over your bread, not hack at your meat and spray juices all over your dress.”
“Oh,” Sora said, blinking in surprise. “No wonder it’s not working. I thought it was just dull.”
Some of the other girls snickered, but they were cut off when Mistress Maude’s icy stare cut toward them. “Anyone who makes such unladylike noises again will be sent to bed without finishing supper,” she said in a clipped voice. “You are here to learn how to behave like proper young ladies. I will not allow you to embarrass yourselves at the feast next week.”
“Why do you think they’re giving us all these lessons?” Dareena muttered to Cyra afterward as they headed back to their quarters. “It isn’t as if most of us will be living here. By the end of the week, we’ll be headed back home.”
Cyra shrugged. “I think the king doesn’t want to be bothered on the night of the ritual feast by any of us acting out or having bad manners,” she said. “He expects us to act like proper ladies even though many of us come from common stock.”
Dareena smiled, noting that she’d said “many of us,” not “many of you.” Cyra truly was the epitome of grace and kindness.
Over the next few days, Dareena watched as Cyra gently helped many of the other girls with their lessons, often reading history passages to the illiterate ones in a corner of the classroom. The ladies training the young women approved of her initiative, and Cyra was quickly assigned to give reading lessons to those who needed them. None of these girls would be literate by the time they left, but at the very least they might be able to read simple notes or directions, which was more than they would have gotten on their own. Dareena found herself hoping that Cyra was the Dragon’s Gift; she certainly deserved the honor far more than anyone else, as far as Dareena was concerned.
For the most part, Dareena kept her head down and did what she was told. Since she was perfectly literate from her time as Mr. Harrin’s assistant, she could read on her own, and picked up the etiquette lessons quickly enough. But soon she found herself bored, far ahead in her reading assignments than the others. With little to do on her own time but wander her wing of the Keep and chat with the other girls, she soon began to go stir-crazy.
“Please, Rona,” she begged one evening as the maid brushed out her hair. “Just this once.”
“Absolutely not,” Rona said firmly. “If anyone caught you, I’d be punished!”
“Just for tonight.” Dareena caught Rona’s hand and gave the maid her best puppy-dog look. “I’m not going to get into any trouble, I promise. I just want to sit in the garden for a little while.”
“Oh, all right,” Rona relented. “But if you get caught, you’d better not tell them I helped you.”
Rona left the room, then came back a little while later with a spare uniform. It was a bit tight in the chest and loose in the waist, but it covered all the important bits, and that was good enough for Dareena. She waited until after Lady Maude did her evening round to ensure all the girls were in bed, then quickly donned the maid’s uniform and slipped into the hall.
Dareena’s years of growing up on a farm, sneaking up on chickens and rabbits before they could run off, had taught her to be stealthy. She moved quietly in the shadowed halls, her sturdy maid’s shoes barely making a sound. There was a guard stationed at the end of the wing the Chosen had been assigned, but with her hair bound up beneath her cap and the darkness to hide her features, she looked like every other maid, and was disregarded. Heart pounding, she hurried down the stairs, then down a corridor she was pretty certain led to the gardens.
After two wrong turns, she finally found the right door and slipped through with barely a squeak of the hinges. Stars twinkled brightly overhead, and she inhaled the rich fragrance of roses and white lilies wafting from the bushes. The antsy feeling that had been growing inside her the last few days dissipated completely, and she felt lighter than air.
For a few hours, at least, she was free.
Smiling, she followed one of the many garden paths, walking lightly even though a part of her longed to run and skip. The moon shone bright overhead, nearly full, illuminating beds of tulips and pansies and the flowering vines that climbed up the garden walls. Straight ahead was an arched arbor of red-twigged lime, and beyond it were rows of cherry blossom trees in full bloom.
“Oh,” Dareena sighed in pleasure as she slowly walked beneath the trees. Fragrant blossoms lined the path, and she reached out to catch one as several fell into her hair. The moon turned it a silvery pink, and she pressed it against her cheek, savoring its softness.
“And just what are you doing out here at this time of
night?”
Dareena whirled at the sound of the voice, deep and dark and smooth as sin. She nearly toppled over at the sight before her—a man with raven hair like her own, dressed in a formal suit. He was at least a head and a half taller than she, with straight, broad shoulders. The lines of his muscular body were evident even through his elegant evening wear. His face looked like it had been sculpted by the gods themselves, with angular cheekbones, a strong, straight nose, and a hard, square jaw covered with a neatly trimmed beard. His thick black brows were drawn into a frown, and his full lips, which looked all too kissable, were pressed together in displeasure.
But none of this shocked Dareena. No, it was his eyes, a brilliant shade of amber identical to Tariana’s irises, that stopped her heart and turned her blood to ice.
Oh gods.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, my prince,” Dareena said, dipping into a low curtsy and praying her knees would hold steady. It took everything she had to keep her voice steady, but she fell back on the speaking lessons from the noblewomen, who had taught them how to modulate their voices so that they would not offend the dragon king or his sons with speech that grated on the ear. “I just wanted to enjoy the garden.”
“No one is allowed unchaperoned on the grounds, especially after dark,” the prince said sternly. “Come, I’ll take you back to your quarters.”
“N-no,” Dareena stammered, straightening hastily. As she did, her cap came off, and her long hair tumbled free from the loose knot she’d tied it in before stuffing it beneath the white muslin.
The prince froze, his nostrils flaring. Those amber eyes of his darkened, and Dareena’s heart, already hammering in her chest, erupted into a frenzy as he stepped toward her.
“I don’t recognize your scent,” he murmured, slipping a hand beneath her chin. Terror froze Dareena’s throat, and she could barely draw a breath. “I admit to not knowing all the maids by sight, but your scent is new…and the fragrance I smell on you is not the common soap that the servants use.”