Dragon's Fire

by Gwynn White

  “May the Winds be with my poor grandson to have those deaths on his conscience.” Her father’s prayer was the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

  Not even the image relayed from the square squeaked. Lukan stood still as any of those effigies. Perhaps he wasn’t registering Meka’s accusation and incrimination.

  Felix shuffled up. “You cannot be serious, Prince Meka? Why do you make such outlandish accusations about one of the emperor’s most loyal councilmen?”

  As distraught as Meka appeared, when he moved toward Felix, he still reminded Lynx of one of the great cats. “He’s been feeding Axel secrets for years.”

  “Then why would you implicate him if you seem to bear the same allegiance?” Felix demanded.

  Meka threw both hands out toward the dead men. “Because Axel made me a murderer, that’s why. Lukan would have, too, when he told me to hit that switch. But Axel left these people here, knowing they would die.”

  Axel sucked in a breath.

  Lynx gripped his hand on her shoulder. “He doesn’t mean it. He’s just saying it for . . . effect. Part of the charade.” But when she saw the fury, despair, and loathing on Meka’s face, she wasn’t so sure. Were her fears regarding Meka’s loyalty to be realized? Was he already turning against them? Would he choose to renege on their agreement?

  Lukan shook himself from his stupor. “What does any of this matter?” he yelled at Felix. “You made me a deal. Now act on it.”

  “It will be my pleasure, sire.”

  Meka’s eyes widened to the size of two full moons when Felix pulled a handgun out from under this olive-green cloak. He lined the sights up and shot Meka in the heart.

  Meka dropped like a stone onto the cobbles. The people around Lynx gasped. Meka’s body twitched once, twice, and then stilled in a quickly gathering puddle of blood.

  Lynx knew immediately that Felix had betrayed them. She slumped back against Axel, too shocked to even breathe.

  Axel’s arm slipped around her and squeezed her stomach. He whispered in her ear, “Look. My informa.”

  She glanced down to see his informa hidden between his blistered hand and her stomach. One red light pulsed above it. Meka’s ice crystal. If he were dead, the ice crystal would have failed with him. She heaved a breath as Axel slipped the device back into his pocket.

  Felix stuck the gun away and stepped directly into Lukan’s personal space. “I have done as you commanded, sire. If you wish, I will ensure Vasily is dealt with, too.”

  Lynx couldn’t help sighing with relief when a guardsman broke away from the circle and scooped up Meka’s unconscious body. He strode away from the group to the closest airship.

  But what did the tracker in Meka’s neck matter if he no longer supported the alliance? Once awake, he could tell Felix about the ice crystal. Never in a million lifetimes would Felix put Meka with Nicholas if he thought he carried a tracker.

  Axel whispered in her ear, “I trust Farith, and Farith trusts Meka. If the boy had been born in Norin, they would have called him Chameleon. He shifts for his audience. But that doesn’t mean his heart isn’t true.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Axel squeezed her shoulders. “Me, too. Or all this is for nothing.”

  Lukan’s yelling pulled her away from her and Axel’s private conversation. Spittle flew from his mouth. “Find them. All of them. Not one guardsman leaves here until Jerawin and his people are found.” The camera tracked Lukan as he strode back to his airship. He shook his fist at air. “They will be made to pay for humiliating me today.”

  A groan rose from the monarchs.

  “Wonderful,” Xipal muttered. “Avanov, I suppose you intend to have us watch while Lukan’s thugs break this place down stone by stone. It will certainly fit the rest of the entertainment you lined up for us during this conclave.”

  “I have a better idea,” Hi Lai hissed. “We’ll send you out to greet them. When they’re done with you, I’ll even volunteer to parcel your remains up for your mistress.”

  Xipal laughed. “At least I have a bed-warmer, which is more than I hear said about you.”

  A few of the kings chuckled, but it sounded strained. Lynx’s heart went out to Anna, who had to marry this man. She glanced over at Chad. A thousand emotions—none of them comforting—warred across his face. How hard must it be for him to hand his daughter over to bolster such an uncertain alliance? Especially as there was no guarantee young Anna would have any influence over her husband.

  “Enough! Everyone relax,” Axel called out, but from the tension in his body pressed against her back, Lynx knew her warlord was anything but relaxed. “I have it on good authority that once Lukan leaves, the guardsmen won’t be staying. You can all return to your bed-warmers tomorrow.”

  “More covert allies, Warlord?” Xipal demanded. “I hope they do a better of job keeping you informed this time. We’d hate to find you’re hours late, again. Or was it too early? I haven’t quite decided.”

  Axel ignored him.

  “And the prince? Is he also part of your plan?” Beric sounded more like his obsequious self than before the meeting had started.

  Axel looked pointedly at Xipal. “Perhaps when it is just allies around a table, I will tell you everything.” He called to Simtal. “Cut the link.”

  Lynx guessed he didn’t want Xipal seeing who that covert ally was when Stefan commanded his guardsmen to return to Maegkin.

  “Allies around a table? I have a Trevenite betrothed, yet you doubt my loyalty.” Xipal snorted. “I will yet see you on the battlefield, Avanov.”

  Despite the ambiguity in his comment, Lynx’s hand slipped toward her dagger. Every person in the room straightened like bloodhounds on a scent.

  “These are problems for another day.” Jerawin waved his tattooed arms. “Let us give thanks to the stars—the gods—that we have survived.” He forced a laugh. “Over lunch, Axel will be taking applications for places in our army to defeat Lukan. See him soon before all the good spots are taken.”

  It was a lame joke, but a few of the monarchs still laughed.

  “I seem to have lost my appetite.” Xipal bowed to Jerawin. “I won’t be partaking.” He walked to the door, which a guard swung open.

  Before leaving, Xipal bowed to the crowd. And then he was gone.

  “The world will never be the same again,” Axel murmured.

  Lynx closed her eyes, not wanting to envision what the new desert king’s defection meant for the alliance, for Nicholas, for any of them as they sought to destroy the Dragon.

  Chapter 62

  The sun rose in Talon’s prison. A new day. If the changing of the sky above him could be trusted.

  He uncurled, stretched, and listened.

  The woman was quiet. Maybe she hadn’t woken yet.

  It didn’t matter. She could scream as much as she liked because the sound no longer lacerated his brain. Much. He had worked hard over the last week to blot out the sound.

  At first, it had been impossible. But he remembered how focusing on Dmitri during that first visit in this prison had helped. Now, whenever the screaming threatened to level him, he stared at—dreamed about—his fiddle.

  It wasn’t his yet. But it soon would be. And then he’d break out of here and be gone long before Morass even thought to look for him. Lukan hadn’t been back in his head so he hoped the bastard and his monsters weren’t watching him. It was a chance he was willing to take.

  Eyes shuttered against the sunlight, he studied the domed roof. It was a glass bubble recessed in the very middle of an expanse of nothingness. Reaching it would be difficult. Scary.

  Not difficult. Thinking that is failure. Focus on winning. And the only scary thing is staying here.

  And anyway, he had a plan, one that had come to him as he worked to blot out the noise.

  But before he implemented it, he had to wait until Morass brought him his breakfast. After that, Morass wouldn’t be back until nightfall. That gave him all the ti
me he needed, to do everything he wanted.

  Humming, he skipped to the faucet and turned it on. If he was going to leave here today, the least he wanted was to be clean. Or as clean as he could get without soap. He had rinsed his clothing yesterday. He felt the ragged leather. Hard and unyielding, it had probably shrunk as it dried, but as he was a fragment of what he had once been, that didn’t matter. At least he wouldn’t smell when he got out.

  He grimaced.

  Out was still a vague concept because he had no idea where he was.

  His grimace morphed into smile. For once, his ears would be of value because he’d hear threats long before he saw them. And they him. Whatever happened, he was not going to be captured and brought back here. Maybe the seer had been right about his stupid ears being an advantage.

  Time to wash his matted hair. First thing he would do when he got out would be to find a weapon, hopefully a blade he could use to cut his hair. The idea thrilled him. He stuck his head under the icy water when the woman screamed.

  Caught off guard, Talon cringed, hitting his head against the metal faucet. He braced himself and focused.

  Escape. Escape. Escape. Fiddle. Escape.

  His taut muscles relaxed enough for him to move. Keeping the thought of escape central in his mind, he sloshed water on his hair, his face, and then the rest of his body. A groan of pleasure escaped his lips. Why had he taken so long to do this?

  Oh, right. The screams.

  He scowled. Never again would he let another person control his emotions the way that heartbroken, crazy woman had. Not when he had focus on his side.

  The sound of footsteps.

  He knew exactly who it was, so he didn’t even look up from his washing. His breakfast—more mush—dropped through a slit in the door, much like the one in his other cell. He ignored the food. He would eat it before he started his escape only because he didn’t know when he’d find food again.

  And then I’m never eating cabbage or potatoes again for as long as I live.

  He listened as Morass retreated and then pulled on his clothes, wriggling against the stiff, uncomfortable leather. Securing new clothes was also an important item on his escape list. His clothes were so ragged, he would stand out wherever he went. He had never stolen anything in his life, but today, if all went well, that would change.

  With no more cleaning to do, he stooped and eased his finger under the lip of the metal grate over the drain. It squealed against the stone as it lifted. Holding it in one hand, he loped over to the door and stuffed the pile of disgusting food into his mouth. He would need the limited energy it gave him.

  And then he strode to the wall and started chipping away at the plaster. After removing cement and blocks from the wall with his bare hands, hacking hand-and footholds out of the smooth plaster with the metal grate was a breeze. Simultaneously climbing and hacking was just as easy. That was a boon from his last cell. The biggest challenge was blocking out the noise. But with single-minded purpose, he kept the goal in mind and the noise at bay, and chiseled his way to freedom.

  The sun’s shadows had barely moved across the floor when he reached the point where the dome rose from the wall. It would have been so simple to use his grate to beat the glass above his head until it broke. But that wouldn’t give him a fiddle. And he wasn’t leaving here without that instrument. Not when taking it would probably frighten and infuriate Lukan almost as much as Talon’s escape had.

  How else could he tell his monster father and all his monster followers that Talon was no weakling? Even if he was. Compared to them.

  He bit his lip as he contemplated the fiddle. It must have been a good three to four yards away from him. A huge jump when all he had was a tiny chink in the wall to hang from. Lukan’s words about falling and breaking his leg or his neck rushed back at him.

  His expression firmed. Even if he died trying, it was better than staying here alive.

  Metal grate clenched in his teeth, he kicked off against the wall.

  And then he was flying. Just like Bird had done when swooping after her prey.

  Through gritted teeth, he allowed a yell of joy and then reached out with both arms for the hook in the center of the dome, where the fiddle hung. His body hit the unforgiving metal and the fiddle with a thunk. He scrambled to grab a hand-hold but found only the fiddle.

  It would never hold his weight. That couldn’t be helped.

  Sweat prickled his skin as his hands clawed at the fiddle. The tail end of the rope tying it to the hook brushed his arm. He grabbed it, hanging onto it with one hand like the lifeline it was. He spat the grate out of his mouth into his other hand. Breathing hard against his pounding heart and sheer exhaustion from the effort, he hung for a few moments.

  And then the noise of the screaming broke through.

  It was time to go. Now. Before that hateful woman and her demented screaming defeated him. He lunged at the glass dome with his grate, striking it with all the force he could muster. The sound of metal on glass squealed through his brain, almost making him weep.

  He ignored it and struck the glass again, and again, and again, gaining momentum with each growing crack. A few more swipes, and he’d be free.

  Chapter 63

  Meka’s head ached, and his throat cracked, but no matter how much water he drank for the jug on the table next to his bed, it made no difference to his raging thirst. He had no idea who had left the water, but it had to be Felix. He also didn’t know where he was. His shirt crunched against his skin as he moved to scan the room. Four walls, no windows, a steel door and the bed and table.

  And what was the matter with his shirt? It was stiff and brown with dried blood.

  His heart raced. He didn’t feel any pain, but Felix had shot him. His hand trailed up under the fabric to his heart. Apart from a small, painful lump in the skin above his heart, there was no injury to account for all the blood. The puncture mark did explain the woozy feeling in his head.

  A dart. Felix must have drugged me.

  It beat being shot with a real bullet. He stroked his tattoo. It no longer burned, making him wonder how long he’d been unconscious. Was Farith missing him? And, probably more importantly, was Axel on the way to fetch him? If so, when would Felix put him with Nicholas, as agreed? He absentmindedly scratched his wrist. The remains of something sticky clung to his skin. Whatever it had been, it covered what must have been a sizable hole in his flesh, if the red mark was anything to judge by.

  Something rattled outside the door. A key?

  Meka swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. His head whirled, and he almost flopped back down. Fighting to steady himself, he waited for the world to settle into some kind of nausea-suppressing equilibrium.

  It didn’t.

  He resigned himself to facing his visitor at less than his normal peak.

  The door opened, and Felix’s cane swung into the room, soon followed by the man himself. Felix had a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

  “Ah, you are awake,” Felix said, somewhat redundantly seeing Meka sat looking at him. “I assume you are feeling more yourself than you were on the airship?”

  He’d woken on the airship?

  Felix must have seen his surprise. “I’ve kept you drugged for almost a week. I suppose you’re hungry. The pipe in your wrist kept you alive, but it didn’t put meat on your bones.” When Meka didn’t reply, Felix tsked impatiently. “Another small triumph of mine that will forever go unheralded.”

  “What? Putting pipes in people?”

  “The whole business of keeping you alive so this ruse can play out to its logical end,” Felix said acerbically.

  “And what is that end? I made a deal with Axel that you’d let me meet Nicholas.”

  Felix leaned against the wall opposite Meka. “Your deal was with Axel and not with me.”

  Meka felt himself pale. “I—we trusted you.”

  He glanced at the door. Where did it lead? And could he take the old man down in hi
s current state of drugged disrepair? Or would Felix pull a gun with real bullets on him before he crossed the room?

  “As I trusted you. Now answer a question for me, Meka.”

  Meka shrugged. “Depends on what it is.”

  “Oh, this is well within your power to deliver. Back in Oldfort, while giving your stellar theatrical performance for Lukan and for Axel’s cameras, you mentioned that you blamed my son for turning you into a murderer. Is that how you truly feel, or were you going for an encore?”

  The memory of the three dead men flashed before his mind’s eye. It was the dead guardsmen all over again, except this time he had most definitely wielded the axe. But did that make him a murderer? It had taken the best part of last autumn to sort through his feelings about Lukan’s slaughter of the guardsmen. He didn’t have the luxury of time now.

  If he looked at it logically, the alliance leadership he’d met would never have sent men to die unnecessarily. If those three had been volunteers, King Jerawin would not have needed to chain them up. That meant they were . . . less desirable. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, Axel, his grandfather, Lynx, Chad, and Jerawin had left them there to die. He had to trust that they had their reasons. It didn’t make what he’d done right, but he certainly couldn’t blame Axel for it, either.

  But he saw no reason to tell Felix that.

  “What difference does it make to you?”

  “It will help me plan your future.”

  That sounded ominous. “Do I have a say in my future?”

  “Answering my questions would be a good start.”

  Meka hesitated. What would Felix do with his answer? But because the count held all the tiles, Meka said, “I will always support the alliance. Lukan will never have my allegiance.”