by Jasmine Walt
Dareena fed Gilma her porridge, then cleaned up the kitchen and did a bit of tidying. “I’ve got to get back to the inn now,” she told her. “Mr. Harrin will be needing my help with all these guests.”
“Yes, I expect he will,” Gilma said. “Before you go…I’d like you to do something for me.”
“What is it?” Dareena asked, curious at the change in her tone.
“Go to the bedroom and fetch the dress all the way at the bottom of my clothing chest. You’ll know the one—it’s wrapped in a muslin cloth.”
Frowning, Dareena did as Gilma asked. As she carefully rummaged through the clothing chest located at the foot of the bed, she wondered why Gilma wanted the dress. Did the old woman want to change into something more festive in honor of the Dragon’s Hunt, even though she couldn’t participate?
I suppose I can’t blame her, she thought. Even I want to dress up, and I barely have anything suitable.
“Aha,” Dareena said aloud as she pulled the muslin-wrapped package from the chest. She carefully put the rest of the clothes back, then went back into the other room.
“I found it,” she said. “Do you want me to help you put it on?”
Gilma huffed. “Don’t be silly, child. I could never wear something like this. Haven’t you opened it yet?”
“I…” Flustered, Dareena put the package on the stool, then delicately unwrapped it. She gasped as she held up the dress—a gorgeous deep red linen with long sleeves and a high waistline. The scoop neckline and waist were embroidered in shimmering gold thread, and the skirt hung to the floor.
“My daughter wore that dress on her wedding day,” Gilma said, smiling sadly. “I’ve held onto it all these years as a keepsake, but it’s time to put it to good use again.”
“Oh, no.” Dareena held out the dress to Gilma before she remembered she couldn’t see it. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“Wear it to the festival tomorrow, and make me proud, Dareena,” Gilma said before Dareena could protest further. “If any dress will help you catch the eye of the huntress, it’s this one.”
Tears sprang to Dareena’s eyes, and she swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat. “I will,” she promised, gathering the dress to her chest. There was no chance of Dareena being chosen as the Dragon’s Gift, but this dress was fit for a noble lady—something Lyria herself might wear.
For just one day, Dareena could forget that she was lowborn, and about Mr. Harris’s marriage proposal. She could put on that dress and glide through the festival with her head held high while pretending she was a lady, not the daughter of a no-name farmer. It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and she damn well wasn’t going to squander it.
2
“Alistair,” Drystan said, trying not to be too annoyed as his brother paced restlessly on the red and gold carpet in his office. “Would you mind telling me exactly why you’re wearing a hole in my carpet?”
“It’s not technically your office,” Alistair pointed out, though he did stop pacing. “And I didn’t realize you cared more about furniture than you did your favorite brother.”
Drystan frowned. Though this office wasn’t officially assigned to anyone, Drystan considered it his—he came here when he needed to concentrate, mainly because it was far enough from their father’s apartments that he wouldn’t usually be disturbed. No such luck today, though. His brother had hunted him down, determined to enunciate everything already weighing heavily on his mind.
“That may all be true,” Drystan said, “but you’re still bothering me. Would you just tell me what’s on your mind, so I can tell you everything will be all right and then kick you out of here so I can concentrate?”
Alistair laughed. “The same thing that’s on all of our minds, brother. The Hunt.”
Drystan let out a long sigh. Today marked the beginning of the Dragon’s Hunt—the first one of the year. Drystan and his brothers were all too aware of how unlikely they were to be successful in their quest the first time around. Some generations had to live through half a dozen Hunts before they found their Dragon’s Gift.
But that wasn’t why the brothers had been tense since the moment the huntresses had been dispatched to all ten provinces of Dragonfell to pick out the most beautiful women in the land. No, they were tense because they faced a problem no dragon prince had since the War of the Three Kingdoms had ended and the dragons had been stricken by Shalia’s Curse.
The problem of succession.
Drystan got along with his two brothers; he was fiercely protective of both and knew without a doubt that either would take an arrow through the heart to save him. He felt no animosity toward them, and it had never been their way to fight over anything, especially a woman.
But this was different. The Dragon’s Gift could only wed one man, and for the past thousand years, there had only been one prince for her to wed. This time, there were three—Drystan, Lucyan, and Alistair. And because they were triplets, it was not entirely clear who would be named their father’s heir.
From a young age, the brothers had been told that it would be down to King Dragomir, their father, to choose a son to succeed him. And the choice would come down to which brother was best suited to rule.
Drystan, of course, thought he was that man—aside from being the eldest, he was also the most responsible and had the most experience in leadership positions. Lucyan was just too mischievous, always scheming, and while that particular quality made him a powerful ally, kings weren’t supposed to be quite as devious. Alistair, on the other hand, was the soldier with the heart of gold—good on the battlefield, but when his armor was off, he was far too gentle and idealistic.
“I doubt Father will pick Lucyan,” Alistair reasoned. “I mean, who in their right mind would give a kingdom to Lucyan?”
“In their right mind,” Drystan emphasized, because therein lay a substantial issue. Their father wasn’t exactly sane. Once, Drystan had looked upon his father as a god—a man who could do no wrong, who ruled with a wise and steady hand. He had taught them how to ride, had play-wrestled with them in the fields, and had delighted them with his mastery of fire manipulation.
But as the brothers had grown into adults, they’d watched their father become more bloodthirsty, impulsive, and even cruel.
The change had been subtle at first—shortness of temper, less willing to listen to his council and his sons. But the affliction had rapidly escalated after their mother died five years ago. He had grown capricious, making impulsive decisions despite the clear advice from his council, and he was downright nasty to petitioners to the point that hardly anyone in the kingdom would dare approach him anymore, even his vassals.
No one would speak of it openly, but the whispers at court made it clear—everyone knew the king was being taken by madness.
Hence why, while they couldn’t count on it, everyone hoped that this Hunt would be successful. If they found the Dragon’s Gift this week, the king would name a successor and ensure that Dragonfell was still standing when the day of his demise came.
Of course, there was still the issue of figuring out how to prevent the king from bringing about the entire kingdom’s demise before he passed away. But Drystan knew better than to focus on more than one problem at a time—
“Right, right. But let’s presume that, for once, our father is led by reason. Lucyan is a no. He sees life itself as a game of kings and queens.”
Drystan nodded, although he didn’t quite agree. True, Lucyan was a master puppeteer, but what Alistair failed to acknowledge was that their middle brother excelled at it.
“Me,” Alistair pondered out loud. “I’m…”
“Gullible? Easy to manipulate? No, I know. Badly dressed.”
Alistair lifted a brow at that one. He was as casual as Drystan liked to be reserved, in leather pants and a loose shirt, while Drystan was in a well-cut formal gray tunic embellished only by a bit of silver thread. Either of them need only throw their reinforced armor on top to be ready for battle at a moment’s notice,
as was necessary in times of war, but their style couldn’t have been more different.
“And yet, all the ladies prefer me, don’t they?”
Drystan smirked. Let him believe that, if it pleased him. He wouldn’t crush his delusions.
“Not to mention,” Alistair continued, “that you desperately need to remove the broomstick that has been firmly lodged in your ass since puberty if you’re to win over the lady, whoever she might be.”
That made him laugh. “Right. I’m sure Father will take into consideration who amongst us has her favor.”
The very thought was ludicrous. Nothing mattered less to the king. He only cared about which of the brothers was most likely to sire the strongest dragons.
“Come on, then, hazard a guess. Who amongst us will our father choose?”
“He most probably won’t have to choose anyone, brother. At least not yet. The odds of the Dragon’s Gift being found our first time are slim.”
“But you must wonder.”
Drystan sighed. “Father isn’t by any means predictable. My guess is he’ll surprise us.”
It wasn’t an answer, because how was he supposed to say, I believe he’ll choose me?
Alistair was about to argue again, determined to heckle Drystan as much as possible, when an arrow flew through the open window. Both princes lunged into action, swords drawn, their chests filling with fire as they looked out the window.
The city didn’t seem disrupted, and no guard had been alerted. Drystan’s gaze went beyond their walls, to the dark and dangerous forest where no one went unaccompanied. No one could have shot through such a small opening at that distance.
No one but an elf.
“Shit.” Alistair dislodged the arrow from the wall while Drystan’s attention stayed fixed on the trees. Rage burned hot in his chest, and he wrestled with his temper for several long seconds. Finally, he managed to speak.
“Call the Guard.”
“That may not be wise, brother.”
He turned to Alistair, incredulous. His brother held a long, curved piece of parchment. So, they’d sent a threat, had they? He’d respond in kind.
“You’ll want to read this.”
“They’ll say nothing I wish to hear.”
The war between the elves of Elvenhame and the dragons of Dragonfell had started when the long-eared scum had murdered their mother, their father’s mate and Dragon’s Gift. They hadn’t gone after the powerful king, or even after them—no, they’d killed a defenseless woman with no more skill than humans aside from her ability to birth dragons. No crime was more hideous and cowardly. The only thing he wanted of elves was to hear their screams as he burned them to ashes.
“Calm yourself, Drystan. This is about Taldren.”
That got his attention.
Taldren was family—their cousin, to be exact. While only the children of the king and his Dragon’s Gift were born as dragons, they had distant relatives who were descended from the dragons that had existed before Shalia’s Curse had been inflicted upon them. While the female dragons of that time had been unable to bear children, the males had not been rendered infertile. To ensure their lines didn’t die out completely, they bedded human women, creating a hybrid race known as the dragon born. The dragon born of old had been able to breathe fire and were immortal, though they could not shift themselves. The ones today were a watered-down version—fire-resistant, fast healers, and though they lived longer than humans, it was only by a few decades.
Even so, all dragon born were considered descendants of the royal family, and Taldren in particular was descended from one of King Rakan’s nephews. He might be their cousin ten times removed, but Taldren was still family, and they’d grown up sparring and playing together.
“Blast it,” Alistair growled. “He should have never been sent to the front.”
“They’ll want to use him as leverage,” Drystan guessed. Quite devious of the elves, using their friend to get to them, but they wouldn’t fall for it. They couldn’t afford to. Taldren understood the rules of war, and he’d die knowing he’d be avenged. That was all they could offer him.
“I can almost read you, brother. You’re thinking about doing right by the kingdom and letting your oldest friend rot.”
“And you’re thinking about carelessly risking yourself and jumping to the rescue.”
Hence why Drystan would be king.
“Actually, no,” Alistair replied, rolling the parchment and putting it in his pocket. “I’m thinking we should pay a visit to the most conniving one of us.”
LUCYAN LIVED close to the king’s apartment, where he heard every rumor before anyone else. He preferred making people come to him, rather than the other way around, which Drystan couldn’t blame him for. Holding conversations or negotiations on your turf nearly always gave you the upper hand.
Anyone else might have knocked, but Drystan bypassed the formality. He shouldered his brother’s door wide open, preparing to storm inside and deliver the dire news.
And regretted it immediately.
Despite the fact that it was just after noon, and although he hadn’t seen it necessary to lock his door, their brother was, for lack of a better term, fucking a lady’s mouth. A married lady, too, if he recognized the long blonde hair, the perky nose, and the beauty spot just below her eye.
“Really?” Alistair asked, peering over Drystan’s shoulder. “Laureline Destrange?” The poor gal hadn’t had a ring on her finger for more than a month, and already he’d managed to add her name to the long list of mistresses who’d serviced him.
Lucyan turned toward them with a sigh. “We’re going to have to finish this early, love. It appears that my dearest brothers have gotten themselves into another mess.”
Drystan wanted to argue that they could have visited him for any reason, but he didn’t bother. Lucyan had a point—they never came to his place unless they had to, precisely because scenes like this were all too common. Call him mad, but Drystan didn’t quite feel like talking while his brother’s trousers were around his ankles.
Drystan couldn’t decide which one of his brothers was the most hopeless in matters of the fairer sex: Alistair, who'd ended up with so many gold diggers, or Lucyan, who had a new mistress every half day. But then again, the last two women Drystan had taken to his bed hadn’t been gems either. It was fortunate that their father had every intention of picking their breeders when the time came. Better to let a madman choose than to leave them to their own devices, at least in this matter.
“Come on,” he growled to Alistair, turning around and nudging his brother back into the hall. “Let’s give Lucyan time to pull his britches up.”
Luckily, Lucyan didn’t keep them waiting too long. Five minutes later, Mrs. Destrange sailed out of the room looking oddly satisfied for a woman who hadn’t even climaxed. She gave a smile and a wink to Lucyan, who grinned back as he waved his brothers in.
"Oh, quit looking at me like that," Lucyan said as he closed the door behind them. “Her husband is quite aware of this arrangement. He owed me a favor and chose to pay it that way. Who am I to say nay?”
“Who indeed?” Alistair smirked. “You’ve never been able to say no to pussy in your life, Lucyan. I imagine that if an elven princess showed up outside your door buck naked, you’d gladly fuck her before chaining her up in the dungeons.”
“Or perhaps while chaining her up in the dungeons.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Drystan buried a sigh. Lucyan was always trying to get a rise out of him. “Anyway, enough of the small talk. Tell me what Alistair has done this time.”
Alistair scowled. “How do you know I did anything?”
“Because nine times out of ten, you’re the one in hot water.”
“Actually,” Drystan said, interrupting his brothers before things could devolve further, “it has nothing to do with Alistair. We’ve received a missive from Elvenhame.”
Lucyan shed his pleasant humor, his face becoming a cold mask. “Show me the letter,
” he commanded.
Drystan wordlessly handed over the scroll. Lucyan scanned it twice, his amber eyes hard, then turned it around and checked the seal before sniffing the paper. Finally, he rolled it up and tucked it into his vest.
“You’re not to speak of this to anyone else,” Lucyan said firmly when Drystan opened his mouth to protest. “I’ll alert the right guards and make them ambush these lowlifes at the rendezvous point they’ve set.”
“They clearly state that we should come, and come alone, if we’re to see Taldren alive again.”
“Taldren is probably already dead,” Lucyan growled. “They just want a chance at one, if not three, of the heirs of Dragonfell, and we won’t give them one.” He was usually the most controlled amongst them, yet his eyes blazed red rather than their regular amber. Alistair started to speak, but Drystan shook his head. He knew this look. He knew exactly what their brother was up to. Arguing right now was pointless.
“You came to me because you knew I’d know best. Will you leave this matter in my hands?” Lucyan asked, his voice quiet.
“Very well,” Drystan said.
“Alistair?” Lucyan looked pointedly at their youngest brother.
Alistair grumbled, but relented. “Fine. But Taldren had better come out of this alive. I don’t care what you say—he’s not dead yet.”
He stalked out of the room, and Drystan followed. As soon as they were out of earshot, Alistair rounded on him, incredulous. “Just leave it up to the guards? I didn’t expect that from Lucyan. Not at all.”
“Of course not. Our brother isn’t one to abandon the fate of a friend to strangers. And he won’t.”
Alistair paused. “He plans to go by himself?”
Drystan smiled. This was what most people completely missed when they thought of cruel, unfeeling Lucyan. Yes, he saw no issue sacrificing a pawn to get what he wanted. But given the right motivation, he would use the most relevant piece in his elaborate game: himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d selflessly put himself forward rather than endangering one of his brothers.