Dragonborn (The Jade Lee Romantic Fantasies, Book 1)

by Jade Lee

  They were successful. They fought and murdered and ate as they defeated one dragonlord after another. No one had seen it done this way before: two dragons cooperating, two dragonlords working in concert. And bit by bit, the land fell to their control.

  But there was price for this cherished and holy merging between man and dragon. One that Rashad never expected. After a time—Natiya couldn't tell how long—the Copper began to assert himself. Enough, it said. Finish it. Rashad hadn't understood, but the Copper began to insist. It became willful and angry. The emperor's dreams became haunted by those words: Finish it. Finish it now. Their bond became a war fought during sleep and in those rare moments when they touched forehead to forehead.

  What price? Natiya demanded of her dream. What does that mean? Then she woke to a scream: a long agonizing wail that was unending. And that was not her own.

  She shot to her feet, poised to run even before she came fully awake. But where? The scream abated only to be replaced by another sound, more wretched and horrific than the first: sobbing. Deep, heart-wrenching, terrible sobs, interspersed with words that she could not understand.

  A guard stumbled into her room, his eyes wide with fear, his breath stuttering with frightened pants. His gaze slipped through the bathing chamber to Dag Racho's bedroom, somewhere on the other side of a secret passageway. Natiya moved past the pool, looking for the door, dimly aware that she wore only her thin sleeping gown. Then she stumbled to a stop, not seeing the passage while the Emperor's keening cries continued on the other side of the wall.

  She turned to the guard, completely at a loss. She saw him hesitate before making his decision. Apparently, it was to help her, because in two quick steps he was beside the wall, pressing one hand into a decoration that seemed to be more than simple art. She noted his hand position and memorized his movements, even as most of her thoughts remained on the man on the other side of the wall.

  As she watched, a narrow hallway appeared behind a tall natsting fern. She moved as quickly as her bulk allowed, pushing through the short, dark hall before abruptly arriving in the Emperor's bedroom. He lay on his couch, apparently having fallen asleep despite the piles of documents that littered the floor beside him. He writhed on the couch, half sobbing and half screaming in pain, and she could not tell if he was awake or still caught within the memories their dragons shared.

  That was what her mind finally grasped, now that the last of her "dream" had faded: What she had experienced, what she had "dreamed" was in fact Dag Racho's memories—or rather young Rashad's memories—of his childhood before his Copper dragon matured, before he became Emperor of all he surveyed. He had been a sickly child, tormented by his siblings. And somehow, some way, he had abused his dragon bond.

  Natiya was not sure what to do. It had been many years since she had allowed anyone to act motherly toward her. Longer still since she had even pretended to such compassion within herself. But the man was in pain, his sobs softer now but no less devastating.

  While she stood in indecision beside him, he abruptly turned, looking at her with eyes haunted by memories too heinous to speak out loud. "It's not true," he gasped, reaching out and grabbing her leg. "They lie. All lies," he whispered. Then he closed his eyes, curling in on himself as if trying to stifle the life that had once lived inside him.

  Responding instinctively, Natiya dropped to her knees before him, pushing aside the documents that blocked her way. She reached out, stroking the hair off his sweat-soaked brow, wondering what to do now. It was all true, she knew; he was the one who lied.

  "What does the Copper want? What have we promised our dragons?"

  He didn't answer except to appear more wretched. "No, no, no," he repeated in an unending litany, and she heard an echo of the sad little boy he had once been. A child struggling from a disability, caught in a family starved for true nurturing in a time defined by brutal and selfish dragonlords. Rashad had earned her pity, and it was he that she stroked.

  "Come to bed, my lord," she coaxed, trying to lift him off his couch. He was too heavy, of course. Nevertheless, he moved himself as he shook his head.

  "I can't. The dreams. I can't."

  "The dreams are ended for tonight," she said, sending a stern order to her own dragon egg to that very effect. "They will not talk more tonight."

  "Promise?" he asked, his voice small and childish. Indeed, he seemed the boy again, his legs wobbly and his eyes pleading for... what? Not the truth, for his screams told her he had already run from that. Not for female attention either, for there was nothing sexual in his touch.

  "Stay with me," he begged. "Don't leave me alone. Not alone." Then he buried his face in her chest and began to cry.

  "I will stay," she promised. And she did. She pulled him to his bed and laid him down. Then she settled in beside him, curling her arm around his shoulders. And for the first time since she had known him, he did not touch her belly or the egg there. Instead, he curled his arms against his chest, his hands against his mouth while his head rested beside her breast.

  "I hate being alone," he murmured. Then he fell fast asleep.

  Chapter 13

  Natiya woke to a murky gray morning and a guard shifting nervously from one foot to the other beside the bed. She frowned at him, trying to orient herself, wondering why her fingers felt numb. Then she remembered a long night of holding Dag Racho while trying to sort through fragments of his memories. He still lay curled on her shoulder, his strange perfume clouding the air. Kiril's scent had been clean and masculine, as straightforward to her as Racho's was twisted. As if everything in the Emperor's life was contradictory, pain inextricably linked with pleasure, failure seeded inside his success.

  She sighed, knowing that she made no sense this early in the morning.

  "What is it?" she finally asked, keeping her voice low and muted so as not to wake the Emperor.

  "Your poet," the guard mouthed. Then he jerked his head toward her bedroom, and Natiya understood. She nodded, waiting as the heavy man clumped out of the room through the secret passage back to her bedroom.

  When she was sure the Emperor still slept, Natiya carefully shifted his weight off her shoulder and onto his pillow. Then she slowly slipped away to stand beside the bed, looking down at the powerful man resting there. As she watched, he sighed in his sleep, clutching her pillow, then wrapping himself around it. He looked like a boy aching for his mother or like a man missing his lover—she wasn't sure which, and frankly, given what she'd seen, the parallels disturbed her. Worse, she knew if she stayed with him, she would become both to this enigmatic man: his mother, soothing his fears, and his lover, because he wanted to father an army. Could she do that? Could she give her heart and her body to this man, accept the power that came with him, shape the policies of a nation, remake the world as they chose?

  She bit her lip and turned away, knowing the image of her having any power to do good was simply that—an image, an illusion he spun for her sake. She sincerely doubted this man would ever release control to anyone. Looking about, for the first time she saw the clutter of his bedroom. It wasn't just the papers that lay about the floor, but the gems and artifacts scattered haphazardly on every surface. An ancient sword, rusted with disuse, hung next to a necklace of seashells such as a crippled boy might make. A diamond tiara was shoved into a corner, half buried by a badly folded tapestry of the finest silk, now moth-eaten and smelling of decay.

  Mementos, every one of them. How she knew, she wasn't sure. Probably because the information was shared from the Copper to her Queen and then to her, usually in scattered bits of barely remembered dreams. But no matter how she gained the knowledge, she understood its significance.

  What companions existed for a man who had lived over a hundred cycles? His contemporaries were all dead. All that was left to him were these moldy bits of fabric and strange artifacts—all disorganized, none truly cherished but none discarded. He kept them as he kept everything, because he needed to have them. Not to use them, just
to have them.

  As Dag Racho's Queen, she would be equally useless, equally owned. Indeed, her mind flashed on the heavy chains that bound Racho's Copper. Her own chains might be prettier, certainly less obvious, but they would lock her down as surely.

  No, she thought sadly, there was no place for her here. And so she would have to search for an escape. If only Kiril were here. He would know what to do.

  She thought briefly of killing the Emperor here and now. The rusty sword was at hand, and any number of other weapons, for that matter. But even if she managed to chop off Dag Racho's head right now, the Copper would go insane. The human mind that restrained it would be gone, and in its place would be an unreasoning deluge of pain. And an insane dragon was not what Ragona needed.

  She would have to wait until after her Queen had hatched. Until they were both ready to fight Dag Racho and the Copper. But first she needed to escape, and so she tiptoed to the secret passageway, sliding through the bathroom until she came into her own chamber.

  She saw him immediately. Not the warrior she wished for, but a friend nonetheless. Tall, broad shoulders and dark hair like his father, though the skin was pale as befitted a man more used to libraries than outdoor markets. And when he turned, she saw the same smile, the same glorious love that she remembered from so many years ago. Pentold.

  She leaned forward, about to rush into his arms then froze. A guard was inside the room, one she hadn't met before. He watched everything with flat, assessing eyes. So she tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as if searching for a memory.

  The Pentold she remembered was smart when he applied himself, but more often he was caught dreaming, his hand on a book and his eyes focused vaguely on something leagues distant. Had he seen the flash of recognition in her eyes? Would he understand that she had to pretend to barely remember him for his own safety? Dag Racho would never allow him to visit if he believed Natiya held Pentold in more than just casual friendship.

  Natiya frowned, moving slowly as she looked her childhood companion over from head to toe. His fingers were ink-stained, just as she remembered. And his clothing always had that slightly disheveled look, no matter how fine the cut or fabric. It was his face that had changed. It was no longer round in youth, and the bones had lengthened, drawing his face downward in sharp angles, his forehead higher as his hair was obviously thinning.

  But what she noticed most was the way his eyes had changed. They had always been warm and open when they looked at her. At one time, she could read his every expression, almost his every thought as if it were her own. But not now. Now his eyes seemed hooded as they took in her swollen belly, her awkward gait. And then his gaze returned to her face, clearly searching her expression as carefully and thoroughly as she studied his.

  She swallowed, hating to lie to her once best friend, but it was for his own safety. "Do I know you?"

  He bowed deeply before her. "Pentold Marsters—poet, dreamer... and your one-time neighbor. How may I serve you, Lady Natiya?"

  "Pentold?" she said softly, her eyes widening as if she had just placed him. "D'greth, how you have changed! I haven't seen you in"—she shook her head—"ten cycles at least."

  "Eleven, my lady. And as for changes..." He glanced significantly at her large belly. "I am not the only one to have... grown."

  She grinned at his understated humor. "Well, large is what I am. And unwieldy as a fat gommet. But the hatching time approaches, and I need your help."

  Not by even a flicker of his eyes did he betray a sudden wariness, but she felt it nonetheless. The egg was growing better at that, she realized—knowing people's moods and emotions by changes in their scent. It was a useful skill to have, Natiya thought as she ducked behind a screen to change her attire. She wanted to be out of both Pentold's and the guard's sight when she said her next line. After last night's revelations, she doubted she could keep her expression appropriately ardent.

  "I want to give the Emperor a gift. For our wedding night."

  "My lady, I am sure that your presence shall be gift enough for any man, including our leader."

  "Spoken like a true poet," she said with a childish giggle, though, d'greth, she was tired of sounding like an idiot. As if in defiance of the very persona she was adopting, Natiya donned a flowing gown of deepest sapphire. Given her current size, it made her look rather like a large plumma fruit, but the color matched her eyes and the gown gave her room to move. "I wish to write a poem all about the glories our Emperor has bestowed upon Ragona. It must, of course, be an epic poem, with dragon meter and rhyme." She stepped out from behind the screen. "That is your specialty, isn't it?"

  "Just so, my lady," he said. She caught a flash of pride in his expression, and she knew that he had indeed become a master poet, just as he had sworn long ago.

  "I have made a start," she said, grabbing the parchment she'd scribbled on the night before. "But I'm afraid it is not very good."

  "But one does not judge a gift from the heart."

  She smiled. Pentold certainly had not lost his glib tongue. For all his daydreaming, he'd had the fastest excuses and the most amazingly twisted arguments whenever they were caught in mischief. She could have thought of no better ally.

  Unless, of course, he was completely devoted to the Emperor. In which case, she was doomed. She had to be honest with him about her intentions. But first she had to get rid of the guard. So she gestured to a table, indicating that Pentold should sit. And as she moved to settle beside him, she banged into the guard, pushing him backward.

  "Oh, please," she groused, "can you not move aside?" Then she wrinkled her nose, waving him outside into the hall. "Do you men never wash your uniforms? I swear I can smell horse dung and..." She hesitated. What was that smell? A bawdy house without the perfume? But that meant men alone or together... "Ugh! Go away! Outside!"

  The guard had backed up as far as he could, but when she motioned for him to leave the room, he simply shook his head. "I cannot, my lady. For your own protection, I must remain here with you."

  She groaned in true frustration. Dropping her fists on her now ample hips, she glared at him. "He is a poet, for Amia's sake!" As if Pentold were not large, strong and extremely dexterous with a knife. "And more than that, the Emperor is right on the other side of that wall." She pointed specifically for Pentold's benefit. "I assure you," she said with absolute truth, "that he can hear even the slightest noise from this chamber. I need only cry out and both he and you will come rushing to my aid."

  The guard bowed most respectfully at her, and for a moment she hoped she had won the day. Then he shook his head. "The Emperor would also know that I had betrayed my charge to protect you with my life."

  "But—"

  "I shall not leave, my lady. Perhaps you should return to your gift."

  Natiya bit her lip, seeing indeed that she would not hold sway with this guard. Damn, damn, damn! She had intended to be very careful in any event, but it made things much more awkward with a loyal guard in the room.

  "Very well," she said, with little grace as she settled her bulk into the chair beside Pentold.

  "You have done very well," her poet remarked as she gave him her attention. "But perhaps these adjustments would fit the meter better."

  She glanced down at the parchment where he had written:

  Are you truly well, Natiya? How can I help?

  She looked up, grinning in thanks. "My, but that is just the thing! You are an excellent poet indeed." Then, before she could speak, she heard a noise from Dag Racho's chamber. Likely it was nothing more than the man snoring in his sleep, but she could not take that chance. Her time was quickly running out. So, looking directly at her once dearest friend, she decided to risk everything on the chance that he had not changed. That he would still brave anything and everything for her.

  "I have just the idea!" she said, and she quickly wrote:

  I cannot hatch here. I must escape. Soon.

  "Oh," she moaned. "But then I need a rhyme for 'beneficen
ce.'"

  He nodded, his expression serious as he twisted the parchment to write on it. "That is a difficult task, my lady. But perhaps I could be of assistance."

  She brightened. "Truly?" And then she looked down at what he had written.

  Will you marry me?

  Her heart sank to her toes. How had she forgotten her uncle's proposal so long ago in Talned's inn? He had wanted her to marry Pentold and had been quite eloquent on the matter, claiming that his son was still in love with her. She looked at her friend's expression and saw that Uncle Rened had not exaggerated; Pentold's eyes shone with a love that melted her heart.

  She looked away, startled by the tears that blurred her vision. "No," she said softly, "that will not serve." Then she wrote:

  It is much too dangerous.

  "My lady..." Pentold began, and she could tell that he was about to waste time arguing. So she gave him the only argument that would hold sway for a man like him. And it was all the worse because it was true.

  I do not love you. Then honesty forced her to add, And you do not know how much I have changed.

  You love the Emperor? he wrote.

  "No!" She gasped aloud.

  Another?

  She flashed on an image of Kiril standing naked, surrounded by enemies, and yet looking at her with his heart in his eyes. A sob caught in her throat. Had she killed the man she loved?

  Beside her, Pentold bowed his head, and she saw resignation in the movement. It hurt her to see him so defeated, and it grew even more painful when she realized he would not help her escape now. In fact, she had just made a huge blunder. In her experience, spurned lovers did everything they could to harm the one they loved.

  With a sudden anger, she grabbed the parchment and hurled it into the fire, watching the evidence of her request turn to ashes. "No, no, no! It is all wrong!" she cried. Then she felt his hand upon her shoulder, his long fingers gentle as they urged her to face him. She went slowly, dreading to see anger in his eyes. She was startled to see love still burning in his expression, only mixed with melancholy.