Wings of Frost

by J. D. Monroe

  “Didn’t seem like the time,” she replied. “Who are you?”

  A playful smile crept onto his handsome face. “This is my friend Rosak.” The other man scowled at the casual address. “Me? Properly, I’m Velatizenahros efana Shemahdi, but that’s a bitch to spell. Most call me Velati. Although, once upon a time, they called me the Cold Death.”

  Her face froze. The Cold Death was one of the legendary, demonic Arik’tazhan that had decimated the Chosen centuries ago. They were like bogeymen among the Chosen. “Never heard of you.”

  His smile broadened, showing a glint of white teeth. “Like I said, you can call me Velati. The Cold Death is a little heavy-handed.”

  “If people give you a nickname like that, maybe you should think about how you live your life,” she said.

  “Coming from someone who’s okay with draining innocent people of their blood until they’re dead, that’s pretty funny,” he said.

  “They’re not innocent.”

  “Right, they’re dragons. We’re all evil according to you, right?” Rosak said.

  “No,” she said. “Some dragons make the choice to be good. But the subjects were—”

  “You mean the people,” Velati interrupted. “They’re not subjects. They’re people with families and children and lives.”

  “They were criminals. They had abused their power to hurt humans or my people. You didn’t punish them, so we did.”

  The two men scowled, then looked at each other. “What are you talking about?” Rosak said. “Name one of them.”

  Her mouth went dry. How was she supposed to know that? Catrina and Arianna gave their assurances, and Marlena did her job, as far from the subterranean lab as possible. She simply pressed her lips together and stared at them.

  Velati gestured toward his partner. “Give us a minute, please.”

  Rosak frowned, but he knocked on the door, which slid open a few seconds later to let him out. The door closed once more, leaving her alone with Velati. Despite his calm demeanor, being alone with him made her heart race. She’d fought full-blood dragons in her training, some of them even in dragon form. None had ever given her a fight like he had, and that was when she had been unrestrained. There was no doubt that this man could easily kill her if he wished.

  She eased back on the stone ledge, instinctively looking for an exit. He pulled his chair closer, until his knees were almost touching hers. Cold clung to him, seeping into the air around her and raising goosebumps down her arms. “What are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You compelled me.”

  “Your kind do it,” she replied.

  “And we should be immune. Don’t deflect my question. What are you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m something different.” The Aesdar had been a well-kept secret of the Chosen for decades. When the Chosen tried to claim the mighty power of the dragons without the burden of their evil nature, they inadvertently created something more powerful than they could have ever dreamed possible.

  He sighed heavily. “This is not the time to play games.”

  “I don’t have much else to do,” she replied.

  Sinew shifted along his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Instinctively, she braced herself for an incoming blow or another searing blade of ice. But he didn’t move toward her. He let out a heavy sigh and said, “Drop the act. I’m guessing you had planned to blow the house, but it didn’t work. We got your hard drives, notes, everything.”

  “Then why not kill me?”

  “Because your corpse is useless,” he said. “But here’s the deal. I want the information you have, but I don’t need it. If you cooperate with us, there’s a chance you’ll survive all of this.”

  “I’m not helping you. Don’t waste your time.”

  His hand shot out and gripped her jaw, squeezing just enough to hurt. Cold radiated from his strong fingers, biting into her skin. Trying to twist away was a vain gesture. His crystalline blue eyes locked on hers as surely as if he’d compelled her. “Marlena, no one is coming to help you. They left you behind. Four of us against you. You’re strong, but not that strong. Your people don’t give a damn about you.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Hm,” he said. He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t. But I know you’re in this cell with a hole in your gut, and I’m walking out of here for a hot shower and breakfast.” The mere mention of breakfast made her stomach growl.

  She jumped in surprise when he patted her cheek lightly and stood, folding the chair. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” he said. “For now, at least. I’ll give you a little time to think before things escalate. Regardless of what the Chosen have crammed into your head, we’re not monsters. But we’re also not afraid of spilling blood. From here on out, you decide how this goes.”

  With that, he picked up the chair and left. Once the door slid closed behind him, she slumped against the wall and let out the breath she’d been holding. Even once he was gone, she still felt like she was teetering on a knife’s edge. What the hell was she going to do?

  They might come for her. Vystus himself had chosen her. She was important to the cause.

  Wasn’t she?

  Velati hesitated outside of Marlena’s cell. If their old friend Dyadra was here, she probably would have probably flayed the prisoner alive until she begged to talk.

  Maybe he should have turned around and given her a taste of what awaited. Man up. He wasn’t afraid to bloody his hands, but he abhorred cruelty for its own sake. Marlena was afraid of him, but there was also the tiniest flicker in her eyes when they’d mentioned the prisoners. He wasn’t sure if it was surprise or recognition, but it was a tiny crack that he could wedge himself into.

  Rosak waited for him at the end of the narrow hallway. As they ascended the spiraling stone staircase from the dungeon toward the warmth of the ground floor, Rosak held out a hand to stop him. His position on the stairs and his height forced Velati to look up at him, which he was certain was no accident. “Is such gentleness the way of the Arik’tazhan? I grew up on tales of your swift and terrible judgment.”

  He bristled at the thinly veiled accusation. Rosak could not comprehend swift and terrible judgment. “She’s been impaled and manacled,” Velati said dryly. “I was hardly gentle.”

  “I mean just now. She gave us nothing.”

  “She gave us plenty, if you were paying attention,” Velati replied, continuing past Rosak to climb the stairs.

  When they got to the top and released the security door to reenter the central corridor of the palace, Rosak sighed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you see the tattoos on her?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re like mine. It’s kor-dalak. It’s an ancient art form from Ascavar, practiced by only a handful of hybrid artists in Theszand. I don’t know how the Raspolin, or the Chosen, or whatever they call themselves now, got a hold of an artist, but I’d know that work anywhere.” Long before the war broke out, Velati himself had been in training to become an apprentice. It had been a source of great shame to his noble mother that her son would leave his ancestral lands and bow before a hybrid as a humble apprentice, but he’d always had an artist’s eye. Then war swept through his life, leaving only a pile of rubble and ash where his home had once been. That was the end of a dream and the beginning of a harsher new life. “These marks are excruciatingly painful.”

  “I have tattoos. They’re not that bad.”

  Velati rolled his eyes. “Kor-dalak aren’t just tattoos. The scribe fuses pure al-hatari into your skin. The most apt comparison I can give is being burned alive for hours. Most people have to get blackout drunk to even tolerate it, and it takes easily ten times as long as normal tattoos.”

  “So?”

  “She’s covered in them,” Velati said. “I put a blade right through her guts and she barely flinched. If you think torturing her is going to scare her into talking, you’re an
idiot.” Rosak’s gray eyes narrowed. Careful, he told himself. It would do him no good to let his sharp tongue to upset the balance before he even managed to unpack his things.

  Rosak stopped in the middle of an airy chamber at the corner of the palace. Tinted glass with cutouts cast a pattern of bright flowers and flourishes over the marble floors. Their modern clothing was so out of place against the traditional stone of a dragon dwelling. The clash made him miss home, where things had been so much simpler. “Then what’s your answer?”

  “Did you see her face when you challenged her about the captives being criminals? She’s under their spell, but there’s doubt in there. I think we can turn her,” Velati said. “And if we can’t, we dangle her in front of them as bait. They’ll want her back, or they’ll want her dead. Either way, they show their faces and we win.”

  “You really think you can turn her?”

  Velati shrugged. “We’ll see. I need your people to do some research for me. I want backgrounds, family connections, anything you can find on the people we brought out of that basement. I want a picture of who they are and why they ended up down there.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out Marlena’s driver’s license, which he’d grabbed from the duffel bag in the house. The Texas license bore the name Melissa James. Many of their kind, both full-blooded dragons and hybrids, took false names to blend in better. He wouldn’t be surprised if the license was a fake. He took a picture of both sides with his phone, then handed the card to Rosak. “Check on this too. Please.”

  Rosak tilted his head and accepted the wallet. “Sure. The Skywatch can work on that. Right up their alley.”

  “Should I, or…”

  “I’ll pass the word on,” Rosak said. There was an awkward stiffness in his posture, and a tension that only got worse as the prolonged silence stretched out. Finally, Rosak checked his phone. “The queen wants to see you at noon. Throne room. Do you know—”

  “I know where it is,” Velati said brusquely.

  Cool air buffeted him, the tiniest hint of Rosak’s anger. “Then I’ll be in touch.” He walked past Velati without another word.

  Of course he knew where the damned throne room was. He’d been here to see the palace rise from the forest floor, back when he’d been fiery and passionate about protecting his people. Even after seeing Sohan and Dyadra fall victim to the Raspolin, he’d believed that this was the Skymother’s wish for him. He had a divine calling.

  And then he had fallen from the queen’s grace. He had only been trying to protect his people, and she cast him out. Did anyone here still recognize him, and if they did, what trailed after his name? Was it Velati, the Disgraced? Velati, the Treacherous? Who knew what the queen would have said about him in his absence? He hadn’t asked Sohan about it in years and didn’t particularly want to know anymore.

  The memory of his fall was a jagged pit in his stomach, but there was nothing more he could do about the past. Valella would likely be spiteful, because that was who she was. He had to do the right thing for his people. And he would try very hard not to snarl I told you so as soon as he saw her face.

  With a resigned sigh, he headed toward the throne room. Despite the nervous anticipation, it was good to be back. After leaving here in disgrace, he’d moved all over the world for decades. Portland, Oregon had been home for nearly eight years, and while it was cozy and familiar, he still didn’t feel rooted there. Even when he kept his secrets, his history and reputation weighed heavily on him.

  Nestled in the mountains of North Carolina, Skyward Rest still felt like home, even if he was no longer welcome. Daylight poured through open windows, filling the palace with warm light and a pleasant balmy breeze. The air was suffused with the smoky smell of his people, who filled the spacious stone halls with the chatter of conversation in Kadirai. A pang of longing ached in his chest, entwined with anger at Valella’s harsh judgment. She had denied him a place to truly be at home, which he had more than earned.

  With a deep breath and headed for the throne room. How appropriate that she chose to welcome him there, where she could stare down at him from her seat of power. It was eleven fifty-four when he reached the double doors that led into the throne room. Two of the uniformed Palace Guard stood in front of the doors, ornamental spears posted at their sides. One of them gave him a skeptical look. “You are?”

  “Expected. Velati Rimewing.”

  The guard didn’t blink at his name. “The queen will see you at noon.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Noon,” the guard replied. He glanced at the smart watch peeking out from the cuff of his formal uniform. “You can wait.”

  She always was petty.

  He sighed and tried to look casual as he stared at the imposing stone doors. Over a century ago, Valella’s mother, Kaitora, insisted on great doors like the ones in Adamantine Rise, the mighty stone fortress of the Stoneflight dragons. In a rare break from hunting the Raspolin, Velati had taken a contingent of dragons back to Ascavar to sketch the doors, hire artisans, and collect materials from home.

  Sketching on huge sheets of parchment was a bittersweet taste of the artist’s life he’d given up. Even with the sour memories of what had transpired beyond the doors, it was pleasant to see the ornate carvings that had been brought to life from his designs. Slabs of dark stone had been carved from the Azure Peaks that ran along the northern border of his homeland. Streaks of darker gray and thin veins of varastrin gleamed among the carvings. He’d hidden his own touches in the design, with stylized runes representing his parents, long dead, along with the dozens of fellow warriors he’d lost over the years. There was still a piece of him here, one Valella could never strip away from him.

  Stone scraped stone as the two guards stepped aside and pushed the doors open to the throne room. “The queen will receive you now.”

  The throne room was a dizzying expanse of silvery-white stone. The high ceiling and towering sculptures on the back wall gave the impression it was even bigger, practically cavernous. A midnight blue carpet stretched from the stone doors all the way to the pair of silver thrones at the far end. Sunlight poured in through the high windows, casting stripes of light over the stone floor.

  His annoyance at Valella’s petty micromanagement of the schedule evaporated into dread. The queen and her husband sat on their thrones, with two attendants in gray uniforms standing below them. His heart pounded with each step he took toward the thrones.

  At least he was alone with them. When he’d last been here and Valella threw him out of the home he’d built for her, there had been hundreds of his kin watching his humiliation.

  “Velati Rimewing, su’ud redahn,” one of the attendants said.

  The queen gave a tiny nod. Her stony expression betrayed no emotion, but her husband was less subtle. Eberand’s eyes narrowed as he inspected Velati.

  Both of them stared without speaking. He didn’t want to yield to either of them, but he’d promised Sohan to help. Angering the queen within two hours of arriving wouldn’t help anyone. Though his ego protested, he sank to one knee.

  “Rise,” Valella said. He rose, waiting a few seconds to meet her eyes. Her face was more relaxed now, like she’d been holding her breath waiting to see what he would do. Her flaming red hair was styled into a simple bun, with only a small golden ornament that hinted at a crown. He was surprised she hadn’t worn her finest jewels to remind him of her position.

  “Su’ud redahn,” he said flatly. The words of respect were like spitting nails. He had once knelt before the High Empress Rezharani. Valella was hardly fit to scrub the floors she had walked on.

  Her thin eyebrow arched. “I’m told Sohan and Rosak have apprised you of our current situation. Sohan insisted quite vehemently that you be permitted to return, as your expertise would prove valuable.”

  “My expertise regarding the Raspolin is no different than it was the last time I stood before you,” he said pointedly. Eberand shifted uncomfortably, sucking a sharp breath through his no
se.

  “Now is not the time for old grudges,” Valella said.

  “Grudges? You threw me out of this place.”

  “You not only endangered our relations with the other clans, but nearly got my people killed in the name of your own ego,” Valella said.

  The accusation seared into him. “A necessary risk,” he retorted. “Not that you know anything about that.”

  “Mind your tongue,” Eberand seethed.

  “I do not need—” Valella protested.

  “I told your mother the same thing I told you. There was no way to be certain they were gone. We had to be vigilant. You chose to ignore it and now look at the situation you’re in.” So much for not throwing out an I told you so.

  “Silence!” Valella shouted as she flicked one hand toward him. A circle of flame surged around him.

  It was hard to keep a straight face with the dancing tongues of flame licking at him, but Velati didn’t flinch. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I am reminding you that you are a guest, here at my whim,” she spat. “I have a kingdom to protect. If you wish to aid me in that cause, then I suggest you curb your ego. If you are only here to rehash old quarrels, then leave.”

  He raised one hand, letting the kor-dalak runes ignite with bluish light. The two guards moved toward him, both reaching for the long blades at their hips. With a twirling gesture, a glacial gust burst outward from him, pushing the flames away. Pain arced between his temples as his power clashed with the queen’s. Cold air radiated from him and consumed the flames. He relished the hint of fear in her wide amber eyes but kept his expression neutral. “I will help.”

  “And you will show respect,” Eberand added.

  “I will respect the throne,” Velati said. “The Arik’tazhan have always served the people. I will honor my vow. As I always have.”

  The queen nodded, then slowly settled back into her seat. “I will entrust Sohan and Rosak to direct you wherever you will be most useful. Our most urgent priority is to find the Chosen leadership and put an end to their plans. You may take up residence in the Obsidian Wing if you wish, and I will provide a stipend to cover your lost income at your shop.” He raised an eyebrow, and she smiled. It was the smug expression of someone who thought she’d won. “I am no fool. I have not lost sight of you.”