“Humans,” the dragon said, his voice thick with emotion, “cannot carry our seed. A dragon’s life essence is too powerful to be contained in a human vessel, too ravenous. It needs magic to feed on and in its absence, it drains its mother’s life.”
“It takes dragonblood to birth dragonblood,” Nia said, beginning to make sense of what he’d shown her. She could feel the effects of the drink. Her essence was brighter than before, and more volatile as well. Nia would never again be as she’d been before. Dragon’s blood was now a part of her.
Why hadn’t the dragon changed his beloved mate this way?
She already knew the answer. By the time he’d realized the danger, it had been too late. She would have risked her child, and had refused to do that. The dragon had been helpless to change her mind, forced to live out her remaining days with the constant knowledge that each hour was one closer to losing her. The mere thought that he could save her, but she wouldn’t allow it for the sake of their child had driven him mad time and again, and when his daughter was born, and he felt his mate slip away into eternal sleep, the little girl’s gentle presence had been the only thing preventing him from becoming a monster.
“But Saeran’s mother—”
“Was only half dragon,” he said. “She would have lived for a while, in agony, had she survived the birth. No one can live for long with only half their being.”
Nia’s arms crept around him. She wanted to offer some comfort, but there was nothing she could do or say that would take away the torment he carried. “What do you want me to do?” she said, knowing he hadn’t done this to her without good reason.
His hold on her tightened for an instant before he pulled away and resumed his seat. Now, when she looked into his silver eyes, she could see his love’s shadow dancing in their depths. His mate was always with him, if only in his mind. And he could never forget, never leave it all behind. “Look after my grandson,” he said at last. “He needs you more than he will ever admit, even to himself.”
Nia hesitated. “I will stand as his advisor,” she said. “I have sworn that much and will stand by my oath.”
The dragon cast her a look full of sympathy. “He needs far more than your counsel, Nia. And you do as well.”
“The kingdom must come first,” she insisted. The future of Saeran’s rule was only as stable as his people’s trust that the hand of their king was guided by one outside the hierarchy, who would judge fairly for not having anything to gain from another’s loss. If they betrayed that, if she ceased to be neutral to his reign, there would be war. It would take so little to incite a battle, merely the suspicion that Saeran was unfaithful to his Aegiran queen.
“Nia,” the dragon said, his voice echoed with another—Nico’s. Her heart fluttered in her chest at her mentor’s familiar rasp, even while she knew it was nothing but a dragon’s trick. “Saeran rules with his heart. If it breaks, his kingdom will as well.”
“Nia?” Lucca’s voice sounded from the tunnel, an unwelcome reminder that soon she would have to return and face her king again. The dragon held her gaze, refusing to release her, weighing her soul and judging her strength.
“Do not fear this,” he told her as the others began to rise. “He needs your strength to lean on, as you need his. You are well-matched, Nialei of the Streams. It is only your fear of love that hold you back. Let go. Leap and he will catch you.”
“He is wed,” Nia told him, her voice harder than she’d intended.
The look in the dragon’s eyes revealed what he would not voice.
Not for long.
CHAPTER 23
There were clouds in the sky again, as there have been most days since she’d arrived. The sun tried valiantly to reach out to all those beneath its bright majesty, but was thwarted time and again by those cursed clouds. The sometimes harsh winds snatched away any warmth that might descend upon the earth, and with each step she took, Mari’s entire body jarred at the impact with hard packed earth and stone. Travelling north from her homeland, she’d seen rivers so powerful their waters were forever white with foam and lakes so vast it would take a day to walk around them.
Everything in the north was green and wet, cold and hard; it was a wonder the people here managed to survive in such a bleak place.
This world simply did not feel right.
Mari gazed out the window, ensconced in an abandoned tower room from which she could see over the fields and forests to the mountains in the distance, their peaks brilliant white in a stray patch of sunlight. She told herself to ignore the draft and the ever present chill in her body, despite being cocooned in layers and layers of cloth. Lifting her unveiled face to the sky she strove to ignore the wind’s bite.
She missed her homeland. Her eyes longed for the glistening gold sea of sand that stretched far and wide. Her skin yearned for the loving touch of the searing desert sun, and her ears, so sorely abused these past weeks, wished for nothing more than the absolute silence of a clear, moonlit night.
But her heart, treacherous beast that it was, longed for something else.
Mari settled onto a hard bench, taking care not to lean against the cold stone wall at her back, and sighed softly, her gaze turning inward. Down a long, winding staircase, at the heart of this monstrous castle, the king slept fitfully in his grand bed. His brow glistened with sweat, though his skin was icy and his lips pale. He tossed and turned, crying out in fevered dreams, his mind as tormented as his body.
And he would not wake.
Mari had tried everything, every remedy she had ever learned from the women of her tribe, every foul smelling herb these northerners favored. But she knew nothing of his illnesses and could not help him, save to hold his hand.
The healers had come and gone. So had the priests. They spoke amongst each other quietly, as though they didn’t mean for her to hear. In that way they were far worse than the men of her tribe who, in the absence of her royal father, treated her as though she didn’t exist. As brazen and heedless as Aegiran men were with their words, so these pale-skinned northerners were secretive. They would not speak to her, lest their gaze was lowered as hers had used to be all the time, and Mari knew that they did this to spare her. For the truth was that they knew no more about King Saeran’s illness than she, and they could no more advise her but to tell her to “cleave to him.” Mari surmised it meant she should keep him company, hold his hand.
As a dutiful wife, she had sat by his side for days and days, at first in silence and then speaking to him, secretly relieved when he seemed to quiet at the sound of her voice. But then the illness had taken a turn for the worse, racking his body with horrible shaking fits which had sent many a maid fleeing.
And he had called out. Not for Mari. No, not for his wife who’d sat by his side and tended him, fed him broth, even held council with his advisors there in the sick room. Not for the woman who’d never before known anything but obedience yet was now expected to rule a kingdom until he recovered—if he recovered.
No, the fever stricken king had called for Nia, his voice tormented, as if his soul needed hers to be whole. At first Mari had understood, having heard of the great wizard who served as the king’s advisor. A female advisor. The news had been so wondrous upon hearing that Mari could scarcely believe it. From what the others have told her, the wizard was so powerful she could appear out of thin air, from miles away, if the right person were but to call her name. She could heal almost any illness or injury, in people, animals, or the earth itself. Mari could almost believe this woman to be myth. How could any person, leastwise a woman, hold so much power?
She reminded herself to breathe as she once again pondered the amazing tales she’d heard. It was no wonder King Saeran called out to her; he had to know, even in this state, that Nia would be able to heal him. But, of course, that was not why he called for her. Mari had not seen the wizard with her own eyes, but she knew her to be a beauty, one who walked tall, certain of her place among these people as their elder, despite
being very young still. She knew, though people have tried to keep it from her, that there was a powerful bond between the advisor and her king. Only a fool would fail to see how each of the king’s cries for her now echoed with soul rending grief—one that Mari recognized to be the result of cursed love.
It was why she cowered here, unable to stand hearing it any longer. Each time he called Nia’s name, Mari cursed it, aching in her heart, her treacherous heart, to hear him call for her instead. It was not her place to want, she knew, but how could she not, when at every turn the king showed her kindness; strove time and again to convince her she was among a different people here. She was their queen now and ought not look down in front of anyone. He wanted her to speak her mind and seemed to truly wish to hear her thoughts, as if they were important to him.
He wanted her friendship, but no more. For in his heart he longed for his Nia the same way she longed for him. It was precisely why she kept silent, for it was futile to try for something Mari could never have. She would only gain his pity in the end, and, indeed, they were both to be pitied.
Mari’s hand settled on her stomach and she sighed again, feeling a new life stirring within her. It seemed her midwife’s fertility charm had worked its magic. Part of her rejoiced at the thought of cradling her child in her arms. But the other part of her died slowly to remember that its father would love it far more than her. King Saeran would welcome the babe, an heir to the throne and his own flesh and blood, but there would forever be only one woman queen to his heart, and Mari was not her. It was this cursed land that made her feel this way. In the desert she would have thought nothing of being one of a man’s many wives. Why, then, did it pain her to be the only wife of a good man, a lofty station by anyone’s standards, without his love?
The door creaked loudly in the cavernous room, and Mari jumped to her feet, fumbling with her veil to cover her face once more. Her heart raced with dread, and she prayed that it wasn’t one of the healers come to bring her news of her husband’s death. But it was Jasper’s face that appeared when the door opened, his smile stretching across his stone face, a grotesque imitation of true happiness. “My queen,” he said in greeting, though he did not bow, holding her gaze, expecting her to submit to him.
His presence, in the past so eerie and daunting, now angered her, and she straightened her shoulders to meet his empty gaze with confidence. His brows rose in surprise, though his smile never faltered. “I have come searching for you,” he said, his voice at once smooth and sticky, like a camel’s spit. “They told me his Majesty is not improving. I thought I would try to bring cheer with a trick or two.” He spoke her language, as well as a native, but on his tongue the beautiful words sounded sullied.
Mari was in no mood to tolerate his presence. When he reached into his pocket for one of his “tricks,” she stifled the urge to scream and brushed past him as grandly as she had seen King Saeran do so often. “I was just on my way to my husband’s side,” she told him, evading his touch as he reached out to stop her. “Find someone else to entertain with your play.”
She felt a cold shiver run up her spine and knew he was watching her leave. Why had he stayed behind? The entire caravan, save her personal guard and hand maidens, had departed the very day after her wedding, yet Jasper refused to follow them. Mari supposed it was King Saeran’s unfailing hospitality that made Jasper think he could stay as long as he wished. She would give him the moon’s cycle to leave on his own. If he did not, she would have him removed. It was, like as not, his very presence that prevented the king from healing as he should.
A sharp pain stabbed through her belly and up to her chest. She had to stop and brace herself against the wall to stay on her feet. Cold sweat broke out on her brow and fear shivered through her, for her child as well as herself. But within moments the pain was gone and she could once more stand unaided. Casting an apprehensive look behind her, she was glad that Jasper was nowhere in sight, but not willing to take the chance she hurried down the stairwell and to her king’s bed chamber. There, at least, she felt safer.
But there, instead of fear, sorrow weighed on her ever more until she could do nothing other than what the healers had advised. Sit by him and hold his hand.
* * *
By the time the knights joined them the painful effects of the dragon’s blood had passed and Nia shoved off the rest of the animal furs in deference to the heat burning within her. Her cheeks warmed and her limbs strengthened until she felt sure she could run for miles without rest. The feeling of power was at once intoxicating and frightening. One little slip and she could do a lot of damage. It was as if she was nine again, just awakening her power and all that came with it. Only this time, she had no mentor to teach her how to control it.
“It is the wine,” the dragon told her, ignoring the knights completely. “With my blood it weakened your guards. It will pass.”
Nia believed him.
“What happened?” Lucca asked, the only one of his company not staring all around them. He reached out to her, but the dragon caught his hand, his eyes glowing with menace. “Do not touch her,” he warned.
Nia was grateful for the intervention. Her skin felt unbearably sensitive, and she had a feeling that if she were to touch someone, she would not be able to stop the flood of knowledge from overwhelming her. Even at a distance she could feel the knights’ confusion, their worry and anxiety. When Lucca spoke, his voice echoed in her mind as if she was hearing it twice. Nia had no doubt that with his touch he would unwittingly share every thought, sight, emotion and sensation.
“Nia,” the knight said. “Are you well?”
She nodded. “Much better,” she replied, glancing at the dragon. I know your name now, she thought in surprise. He’d gifted her with his memories as well as his strength. And in the process left himself vulnerable to her.
His mouth quirked the slightest bit. So you do. There wasn’t even a hint of worry in his mind-voice. But do you know how to use it?
“Can you travel?” Lucca questioned, still looking as if he wanted to reach out to her, but the dragon’s closeness kept him wary.
“Yes, I can,” Nia said, confident in her physical ability to ride, but unsure if she was ready to return to Saeran’s side. To step into shadow once more and watch him smile at his queen the way she’d seen him do before, to become a spectre over their reign as she was bound to do—no, she wasn’t keen on riding back to Frastmir with all haste. But for her king, she would.
“Then we should be on our way at once.”
The dragon eyed him curiously. “You will not claim your treasure?”
Sir Frederick’s gaze snared on the dragon, and Nia heard his breath catch. “So you do have it, then,” he said in awe.
The dragon nodded and produced the cup he’d given Nia to drink from. When she would have expected their faces to fall in disappointment, their eyes grew wide with wonder. They knelt before dragon and cup, whispering a prayer and bowing their heads. She could see Lucca’s jaw clench, and his eyes shimmer with unshed tears. He knelt with the others, bowing his head, but did not speak the prayer.
Behold, the dragon said inside her mind, the power of a lone god’s dominion. Willing or not they bow to him, not even knowing what he is.
Can you help him? Nia asked on Lucca’s behalf. His grief was so strong she was suffocating with it. How could he live each day with such a burden?
The dragon eyed her a moment, then transferred his sharp gaze to the knight in question. When he handed the cup to Sir Frederick and the knights huddled around it, each wanting to touch the sacred object, Lucca stayed behind, watching them. He was angry with them for their devotion to what he considered a cruel monster, yet at the same time envious of their unshakable faith. The dragon laid a scaly hand on his shoulder and coaxed the man to meet his gaze.
Nia didn’t know what transpired in those silent moments when the two simply stared at each other, but after a while, Lucca’s shoulders collapsed and he broke into wretched
sobs.
Grief shared is grief lessened, the dragon said, his voice strange. Of all of them, he understood the best what Lucca had lost. And while he couldn’t return those lives to him, he could at least help him heal. A lesson you have yet to learn, child.
Long after he’d composed himself as best he could, Lucca and the dragon remained removed from the rest of the company, deep in conversation. Nia didn’t intrude. Instead, she kept the others engaged, asking questions of their god and telling stories she’d heard since childhood. A full night and day passed unnoticed in the dragon’s den until, once more exhausted, the knights fell asleep.
While they slept, Nia pondered the strength of their faith. It baffled her. They spoke reverently of a god all good and noble, one who was everywhere, knew everything, and loved everything. He could work miracles, he was the creator of all, yet he didn’t scorn those who turned their backs on him. Sins could be forgiven, enemies could be destroyed, and kingdoms could be saved with his power and his power alone.
They held fast to such silly beliefs, even while they had no proof. Save the cup. She held it again, now that it was empty, and felt none of the power that had thrummed into her hand while it was filled with wine and no more than three drops of the dragon’s blood.
When she asked the dragon if their lone god could truly exist, he’d not given her an answer. Her people lived every day with the reminder of the gods who ruled them. Kind gods, fickle gods, gods who reveled in toying with people’s lives. Gods who feasted on war, drenching the earth in blood.
Gods who could bring a man back from the dead, grant him immortality and divine strength. Though one had never ventured into Wilderheim, stories of berserkers traveled to them from far and wide on the wings of messenger birds; on the wind itself. Beautiful maidens in shining armor walked the battlefields, choosing from among the fallen only the strongest, bravest, to take their place of honor in Valhalla.
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