Dragon's Fire

by Gwynn White

  The boy took the letter with a smile. The girl grinned, and the other brother relaxed his stance.

  But it was left to Zarot’s wife to break the remainder of the ice. “My name is Malika, Your Highness, and those are our sons, Sebastian and Dominic.” She grimaced at the room. “Forgive the clutter, but Stefan and I wanted to welcome you into our home, otherwise we would have put you in a guest suite. It would have been a lot tidier, but also a lot lonelier.”

  Meka smiled at her. “Home is good.”

  He couldn’t help adding to Tao. Yup. They want something from me.

  His father had ghosted to the window, where he sat on a bright red-and-green floral cushion in the window seat. “No doubt Axel has something to do with it. He always does.”

  Before Meka could say that he longed to meet the elusive Axel, Malika turned her attention to him. Meka had learned in Zakar with Vasily that it was impossible to hold two conversations, one with Tao and one with the living, without ending up looking like an idiot. He focused on Malika.

  “We usually eat dinner around now, Your Highness, or the children start raiding the pantry.”

  Meka’s stomach grumbled at the mention of dinner. “Malika, how about I cut you a deal? You stop calling me ‘Your Highness,’ and I slot into your family like a piece of the furniture?”

  “Sound like a plan to me.” Malika grinned at Stefan and then nudged her sons. “Show Meka to the dining room.”

  Grinning sheepishly, both boys, who looked remarkably like Zarot, fell in next to Meka. Sebastian, the older of the two, said, “We’re having a pan-fried fish with chipped potatoes. Followed by chocolate cake.”

  Dominic smacked his lips. “Our mother makes the best chocolate cake.”

  Meka’s mouth watered at the thought of fried fish. The simplicity of the meal touched him; at Vasily’s mansion, the menus had been clogged with over-spiced meats, rich sauces, and cloying desserts in abundance that even made meals at the palace in Cian seem stingy. Small wonder that Vasily and his wife were the size they were.

  Sebastian stood back to let Meka into the homely dining room first. Meka took a comfortable chair at a scuffed table between the two boys. Zarot sat at the head with his daughter next to him. Malika scurried about, dishing up plates of delicious-smelling fish. Meka knew he’d been accepted into the family when she handed Stefan his food first.

  Deep in thought on how to approach Zarot to set up a meeting with Axel, Meka let most of the dinner conversation drift over him, only contributing when asked a direct question. By the end of the meal he decided that he liked the Zarots, or at least the ones who didn’t include the Brick Wall.

  Even in the short time he’d been with them, he’d realized that theirs was a close-knit family. The kind of family he would have loved to belong to if life had been different and hadn’t included Lukan, Felix, and Vasily, and the cameras and listening devices they churned out in Zakar. Those same listening devices that made it impossible for Meka to come out openly to ask Zarot about Axel.

  He glanced around the room, looking in all the likely places Vasily had said Felix hid his cameras. The stucco cornices and oil-powered lights betrayed nothing of what could have been hidden in them.

  Once the last helping of chocolate cake had been wolfed down, Malika stood. “Boys and girls, plates to the kitchen, please.”

  Her three children groaned as they scrambled to obey. Not sure what to do, Meka grabbed his plate and glass and stood waiting for instructions.

  “There are limits.” Zarot took the crockery from him and passed it over to Dominic. “Sit, Prince Meka.”

  It annoyed Meka that Zarot still insisted on the formality, but he masked all signs of it. Maybe if he stopped thinking of the count as the Brick Wall or Zarot, the man would thaw.

  Meka snorted softly; he was nowhere near comfortable enough with Lukan’s Lord of the Conquest to get chummy. He and Zarot sat in uncomfortable silence while everyone else bustled about, cracking jokes as they cleared the table.

  Once they were alone, Meka leaned into Zarot and lowered his voice, “Count Zarot, I have just come from Zakar Province. Is there perhaps somewhere you and I could talk in peace?”

  Zarot regarded him for a few seconds and then stood. “I have just the place.”

  Meka didn’t bother hiding his astonishment when Zarot led him into a large bedchamber, from the pictures on the wall, possibly the count and Malika’s.

  Zarot bypassed the enormous wrought-iron bedstead, covered in a pristine white quilt, and headed toward a wall of blue and green mosaic. He paused to look at Meka. “I believe Vasily gave you an informa.”

  Meka pulled the “stone” from his pocket. “It was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.” Knowing he was taking a risk—Zarot could easily find him untrustworthy—he added, “I know I am not to speak of them outside the High Council room or the laboratories in Zakar, but I was hoping you’d teach me to use it.”

  Zarot’s eyebrow quirked. Purposefully betrayed surprise? “Sebastian is the best person to help you with that. Although I think he will be somewhat envious that you carry the very latest model. He has my hand-me-downs.”

  Meka weighed up his love for his informa against his need to meet Axel and to find out about Nicholas. With a heavy heart, he said, “I will happily trade mine for an older model if it secures me what I want.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. It seems you are quite the negotiator, Prince Meka.” Before Meka could reply, Zarot fiddled with the mosaics.

  To Meka’s utter astonishment, the wall slid back, opening into a torch-lit passageway. In the distance, water sloshed. An underground river?

  “The stones are slippery and the stairs narrow, so if you don’t mind, I will go ahead.”

  “I’m in your hands.” Meka followed Zarot, and the door slid closed behind them.

  Zarot pulled the torch out of the sconce and walked. He wasn’t a short man, but he had enough headroom to stand up straight, leading Meka to surmise that the passage predated the invasion. But as tall as the Trevenites obviously were, they were also clearly of slight build, because both his and Zarot’s shoulders brushed the mold-covered walls.

  “Strange to have a torch burning there,” Meka said, desperate to know if Zarot had anticipated his request for a private meeting.

  “The world is a strange place, Meka. I’m sure you’ve already figured that.”

  “Not just strange. Screwed up, actually. It’s getting humid. Where are we going?”

  “You said you wanted to speak in peace. There is nowhere more peaceful than here.”

  The passageway spilled them out into a small chamber, devoted almost entirely to a rock pool. The surrounding walls had been carved out to form benches. Meka saw Malika’s touch in the bright cushions decking each one.

  Zarot put the torch into a holder and flicked on a switch, bathing the room in the soft glow from small electric lights wired to the roof. He faced Meka. “I will admit to finding myself in a quandary. You are not what I expected.”

  So Tao had been correct about Zarot’s confusion. Meka braced himself. “If it is in my power to help you understand me, I will.”

  “For a price?”

  Meka shrugged. “You think me mercenary?”

  “I think you skilled in court politics.”

  Meka couldn’t help laughing. “You learn that fishing.”

  Zarot actually smiled. “I have always considered fishing a worthwhile diversion. There is much to be learned in stalking fish.” His face hardened. “The question is, have you turned those skills to stalking people?”

  “If you’re asking if I can be trusted, then let me say this: I will do anything to protect the people I love. Given the circumstances of my life, the list of those is painfully short. My brother. Your niece, Natalia, and”—he took a deep breath—“my cousin Nicholas, although I admit that I have yet to meet him.”

  Meka heard something shuffle behind him. He spun, cursing his stupidity that he had allo
wed Zarot to trick him into talking without first ensuring they were alone.

  Three people stepped through an archway into the chamber.

  One he recognized instantly—Axel, older and more hardened, but still reminiscent of the ruby-wearing boy in the picture. Meka shook his head in surprise that Axel, the man who’d fascinated him for weeks, paled into insignificance next to his two companions.

  Down to his worn leather clothes, and feathers and braids in his blond hair, the man with Axel looked like an old version of Tao. Meka reconsidered; the stranger’s clear blue eyes were more piercing, and his face far more commanding than gentle Tao’s would ever be.

  The woman, tall and rangy, standing at the stranger’s shoulder, shared his coloring, braids and feathers. Unlike his rough leathers, she wore a crisp military uniform, similar to Axel’s. Meka recognized the stars embroidered on the black fabric: Nicholas the Light-Bearer.

  Excitement trilled through him; she and Axel had to be alliance soldiers. And if so, by the crap of every Dragon in Maegkin, what was Count Zarot, Lord of the Conquest, doing fraternizing with them in a secret hideout right under his bedchamber?

  But that wasn’t the first question to spill from Meka’s lips. “Y-you’re Norin,” he breathed in wonder to the pair. “Same as me.”

  The Norin man spoke. “Not a Chenayan then, Meka?”

  Meka’s blond hair whipped his face as he shook his head. “Not bloody likely. Lukan murdered my father. He imprisoned me and my brother. He’s hidden my cousin who-knows-where.” He licked his lips. “But . . . but you know me, yet I don’t know you.”

  The man’s face softened. “You can call me Thorn.”

  Meka’s mind whirled. Wasn’t that the name of the Norin king?

  Thorn spoke. “Son, how fares your mother?”

  Meka frowned in confusion. Why would Thorn ask about Kestrel? He was about to say that he didn’t know or care, when a lightning bolt struck. He stumbled back. “You’re her father?”

  “And your grandfather.”

  “Dragon’s ass.” Meka sat heavily, and the air whooshed out of Malika’s cushion. “I—I didn’t think I had a living one of those.”

  Thorn—everyone—smiled at him.

  He bristled, then told himself to calm down. Surely if Tao was right, they were on his side? That meant they were laughing with him, not against him.

  He cleared his throat. “This might be an opportunity to grow the list of people I care about.”

  “We certainly hope so.” Thorn gestured to the woman. “My daughter, Lynx. She can tell you anything you want to know about your cousin Nicholas.”

  The smile Lynx gave him was embracing, filled with love, even though she was a stranger. She sat down next to him, and he didn’t resist when she took his hand.

  “First, Meka,” she said earnestly, “I must tell you how happy I am to have you here. Your father, Tao, was my best friend. He would be very proud of you now.”

  Meka looked past her at Tao floating in the air on the other side of the rock pool. His father beamed from ear to ear.

  Does she know I see you?

  “No, but she’s used to dead people. Dmitri visited with us many times.”

  Dmitri. That name again.

  Sweat beaded Meka’s palm, and he considered pulling his hand away from Lynx. She must have anticipated that, because she tightened her grip. His grandfather came to sit on the other side of him. At any other time, Meka would have wriggled away from the close proximity, but not today. Axel sat opposite him with Zarot—Stefan, Meka corrected.

  His grandfather bumped shoulders with him. “Ask your questions, son.”

  With nothing to lose, Meka blurted, “Why isn’t Nicholas crown prince? It’s killing my brother to wear a stolen crown.”

  “He is crown prince, but in exile,” Axel said. “A long time ago, a man named Dmitri decreed that Nicholas would overthrow his father and the Chenayan empire. We believe his cousins, you and Grigor, have an important role in helping him achieve that.”

  Meka gasped, almost choking on his own saliva. As he coughed, he realized it all made sense. Why else would Lukan have kept him and Grigor prisoner?

  Lynx, his aunt, shifted over and patted him on the back.

  Eyes watering, Meka held up his hands. “I’m okay. Just relieved. So much makes sense now.” He tried another breath. “Where is Nicholas, and how do we free him?”

  A flush of red infused Thorn’s face as he pulled out an informa and flicked it into life. Voice sharp with anger, he said, “Look what Lukan has inflicted on my third grandson.”

  Chapter 48

  Talon had never heard the word before, but Morass called it a straitjacket. That was a new one.

  Morass had gotten him while he slept. The bastard must have put something in the food, because his head felt woozy. Now his hands were locked behind his back, his ankles manacled, and his head covered in a sack.

  The sack stank.

  That was not the worst. From the gentle, muted sounds in the silence, noise now ricocheted around his brain. It made him wish he were dead. He couldn’t even hold his head and rock. The roar tormenting him sounded like the steam plow, and his body rocked from side to side as it had when he had driven the plow, only now he was moving much faster. They were taking him somewhere, but surviving the assault on his ears meant he had no energy to worry about the destination.

  The vehicle stopped. Talon’s tense body quivered. With the stilling of the engine, came calm. And hope.

  Would finally he get a chance to escape?

  That seemed impossible with his body trussed up, but now that the agonizing noise had stopped, he could think on other options.

  Footsteps on gravel. The wrench of the back door. Hands grabbed him, pulling him out. He wriggled like a fish on a hook.

  “By the Dragon, don’t you ever give up?” Morass’s dead-sounding voice, followed by a sharp jab in Talon’s kidneys.

  Caught off guard, Talon couldn’t stop the yelp of pain.

  A grunt of satisfaction from Morass. Then they were moving. Morass carrying him like a baby. He wished he knew where he was going.

  New sounds. People talking. People babbling. Someone crying. A squeaky wheel moving on a stone floor. Talon cringed as the sound beat upon his eardrums.

  Then a scream. Ear shattering.

  It was followed by a second scream. This one went on and on. Complete agony.

  “Shut up!” Another stab in the kidneys.

  The screaming stopped. It had been his own voice screaming? It had to be.

  No screaming—ever.

  The sound of a door opening. Still carrying Talon, Morass lurched forward, his footsteps loud on the hard floor. From the echo, it was a big room, bigger than Talon’s other cell, with a high ceiling. But not so cold as the other cell. With no thought to the pain he might inflict, Morass dropped him onto the ground. Before he could stop himself, Talon cried out as his skeleton hit what could only have been a stone floor.

  A tug, and the sack was gone.

  Talon’s eyelids snapped closed against the light. It was too bright. Almost like Dmitri.

  More footsteps, and Morass was gone. A door closed and then locked. A pause of quiet, and then Talon discerned a clicking sound from outside the door.

  And then it hit him—waves of sound, like ravening wolves baying at him as they tore him apart from the inside out. In his straitjacket, he spasmed, desperate to hold back his own screams at the wailing noises. He bit his lip so hard blood rushed into his mouth.

  The sound will pass. Must pass. The light is worse. Dark is peace. Dark is safety. Focus on the dark.

  His mouth stopped bleeding before the sounds stopped. In the blessed silence, he allowed his knotted body to relax in the reprieve. Like bees’ wings, warmth brushed his face. It seemed to creep across his skin like long-forgotten sunlight crossing the dusty yard in front of the cottage.

  Sun? Impossible.

  Talon cracked open his eyes. Sunligh
t glimmered and sparkled against his eyelashes. He gasped in a breath, unable to believe that such beauty, such warmth still existed. Slowly, he opened his eyes wide and looked up at a beveled glass-and-iron dome. Set in a vaulted ceiling, the dome was as tall as any pine tree. Beyond the brilliant sparkles firing off the glass, he could just make out white clouds floating in what he recognized as the gray of a blue sky.

  ESCAPE?

  Quickly, he examined the walls. He snarled at the circle of paintings resembling the trees in the forest, hiding the texture of the walls from him. His head flicked to face the wall closest to him. Through the painted bark of a sturdy oak, he saw the walls were smoother than skin.

  Without a stone to nick out handholds, he would never manage to scale to the dome. And even if he managed to break out of his straitjacket and clamber up the walls, how would he break the glass? He scanned the room. Devoid of all furnishings, the room’s circular walls mocked him. He caught sight of a grate in the floor below a water faucet.

  Groaning with the effort, he rolled toward it. The grate was no bigger than the hole in the other cell. Not even he was thin enough to escape through that.

  Despair settled like a giant hand on his chest, crushing all hope. Just as he was about to sink into misery, he caught the clip of familiar footsteps outside the door. He wriggled upright.

  Him. Lukan. Unmistakable.

  The door opened, and he walked into the room.

  Talon froze.

  Control. No emotion.

  Chapter 49

  The smell pulsing off the filthy, matted bundle on the floor stopped Lukan in his tracks. If he’d thought his heirs’ apartment had stank, he’d been sorely mistaken. Nothing on the planet could be worse than Nicholas’s putrid reek. At least this cell came with a sluice and a faucet for dealing with excrement, which is more than the other cell had.

  He glanced around the room. The circular conservatory Felix had constructed at the asylum was beautiful. If it had not been a prison, the intricate metal work in the dome, the beveled crystal glass, and the magnificent murals of the forest and its wildlife on the towering walls would have been an awe-inspiring work of art. Lukan hoped it turned out to be nothing more than a tomb for his son.