Unleash the Inferno (Heart of a Dragon Book 3)

by Tamara Shoemaker

  “A victory dance?” Ashleen said. The cynicism in her tone pulled Cedric's gaze back to her. “The she-Dragon's in heat. That's more of a mating dance.”

  “In the winter?” Cedric's eyebrows arched. He watched as the she-Dragon pulled farther away from Ember, but instead of the defensive crouch, she'd raised herself to stand, keeping her neck exposed to Ember rather than protected, showing him her vulnerable side.

  “Aye. It's post-season, but I've seen it before this late into winter and even further.”

  Cedric cast his mind toward Ember's, sensing the Dragon's emotions.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Cedric asked, blushing. Ember's hormone-riddled instincts were plastered all over his thoughts, and for the first time since achieving psuche with the creature, Cedric was a little sorry he could read Ember's mind.

  “Was I right?” A smile tugged at the corners of Ashleen's lips.

  Cedric didn't answer. He rechecked her arm and pulled her sleeve back down over it. “When we find firewort, let's crush some and put it on that.”

  Ember stalked closer to the she-Dragon, nosing her throat, pulling back with a sharp burst of flame when she released a growl, but he didn't stay back. Slowly, he turned his shoulder to her and stalked around her, circling her long, flaming tail and approaching her from the other side. She watched him carefully.

  Cedric leaned against the cart, observing the progress. He'd seen Dragons in heat several times in Sebastian's training fields in The Crossings, although mostly after he'd arrived from the Rockmonster Dwellings as Dragons typically mated in the fall. The she-Dragon had already lowered her guard. It wouldn't be much longer now.

  “I'm going to go find firewort. Would you like to come?” he asked. “Ember won't go with us until he's won her over, so we may as well make use of the time we've got.”

  “The sceptermarks?” Ashleen asked.

  “Nobody's going to touch them with two Dragons breathing on them.” He glanced around the remote, tree-covered hills. “I see a clearing up there; let's try that first.”

  As they wended through the trees and up the steep hill toward the grass-strewn meadow, both searching carefully for the bright yellow flower that marked the presence of firewort, Ashleen sighed. “She seems to be a healthy size. Not much smaller than Ember, for certain.”

  “Who?” Cedric's mind had wandered to firewort pastes and keeping infection at bay.

  “The she-Dragon.”

  “Oh, aye. She seems full-grown.”

  “Do you think she's already in psuche?”

  Cedric knelt to inspect a white-blossomed plant peeping from between the roots of a tree. It was unusual to see in the winter, but the plant was hardy. He pocketed it. “Yarrow root,” he muttered. “Not as good as firewort, but we can make a poultice to bring any swelling down.”

  “Cedric.”

  “What?”

  “Psuche?”

  “Oh. I—don't know, Ashleen. If she were, it wouldn't have been with one of the soldiers by the cart, or she'd have died with them.”

  “And it would be fairly unusual for her to be so far from a psuche partner if she had one.”

  “Aye.”

  “Cedric?”

  “What?” Cedric brushed aside the dead leaf-mulch from a promising looking plant, disappointed to discover only a thistle.

  “There—there's something about the she-Dragon that tugs at me. Look at her shaking, like she's vulnerable.” There was a pause while Cedric brushed aside some low hanging branches to check around the roots of a tree. “Cedric?”

  “Mm?” He gathered some moss; that would come in handy.

  “I think—I feel like I could achieve psuche with her.”

  Cedric stopped abruptly, turning. “What?”

  “I want to achieve psuche with the she-Dragon.”

  Cedric looked back down the hill. He could barely see the Dragons now. The flicker from their scales danced through the trees, but their forms were mostly out of sight. “We don't have time, Ashleen. We're to take the payrolls from Sebastian's armies. This isn't the only payroll train. We have to disrupt the ones going to the Marshlands of Cayne, the borders of Ongalia, and the Marron Mountain as well. We've hardly made a dent in what we're supposed to do, and taking days out of our travels will cut into essential time we have for our mission.”

  Ashleen lowered fine black brows over equally fine black eyes that gained a snap as she spoke. “I didn't say it would be easy. Ideally, yes, it would be great to allow some time to pass, make the she-Dragon comfortable in the woods here. But if she's Ember's mate, she'll accompany him wherever we go, right? I don't have to achieve psuche today, but as she comes with Ember, I can slowly start to work on her.”

  Cedric was already shaking his head. “She's—unpredictable, Ashleen. Since we can't read her thoughts yet, then there's no telling what she'll do. There's no way to control her—”

  “There is a way—” Ashleen began slyly, but Cedric exploded.

  “No!” He ran his hand through his hair, approaching Ashleen until he stood only an orlach away, speaking directly into her face. “I will never use Dragon-speak again. Do you know how it feels, Ashleen, to live in prison? After seventeen years, I came to The Crossings and was forced by Sebastian into the role of Dragon-Master, after which I was thrown into his dungeons. When I escaped from that, Lianna held me in her chains. Dragons freed me; Ember freed me. How could I repay him—them—with more servitude?”

  During his speech, Ashleen's eyes had moved from a dangerous snap to outright blazing anger. “Do I know how it feels to live in prison? Do I know how it feels to live in prison, Cedric? Do I know how it feels to have been dragged before the King—your father—as a mere child and told I was never to leave his service again? Do I know how it feels to have had a taibe tracking spell placed on me as a young girl so that I could never move anywhere without prior permission or knowledge of those in power over me? Aye, I'm sorry that I mentioned Dragon-speak. I should not have done—it was spoken in jest—but how dare you assume I know nothing of the horrors of imprisonment?”

  They stared at one another, and as suddenly as the anger had erupted inside Cedric, searing his soul beneath the weight of the Amulet, it faded, leaving him dry and dull and weary.

  “Aye,” he said, his voice tired. “We share a past, you and I. Separate from one another, but together in our pain. All of it caused by my father and my uncle. I am sorry.”

  Ashleen's gaze immediately softened. “You're a good man, Cedric, and you will make a good king. I'll be proud to serve you.” Slowly, she raised her uninjured arm, touching his cheek gently with her fingers.

  Cedric backstepped away from her touch, turning his burning gaze to the ground. A raw, gaping pit opened inside him, and tears spiked his eyes. “It is that position—the perch on the throne—that fills me with dread. It destroyed my father. It destroyed my uncle. It will destroy me, as well.”

  “You are not your father, Cedric.” Her soft voice washed over him, but couldn't soothe the bitterness inside.

  Cedric turned away, and the Amulet whispered the opposite words in his heart. You are an Andrachen, the heir of Dragons. You will never be free from your fate.

  Chapter Eight

  Sebastian

  The orange-haired Pixie looked thinner, gaunter, than the last time Sebastian had visited the dungeons. The gag over his mouth cut deeply into his sallow cheeks. His orange-flecked hazel eyes stared dully at a pile of dirty straw in the corner, and his arms hung limply behind his back, bound with dirty twine. Two guards with heavily bandaged ears, security against Pixie-charm, stood at attention on either side of the iron-barred door.

  At Sebastian's signal, the guards removed their ear bindings and bowed.

  “Has he shown signs of change?”

  “None, Your Grace,” the guard on the left answered.

  “He hasn't tried to speak to you?”

  “No, Your Grace. Not even when his gag is removed at f
eeding times.”

  “Perhaps he realizes the futility.” Sebastian moved closer to the iron bars. “Pixie,” he called, but Lincoln didn't move from his spot. Sebastian plowed on, not bothering to wait for a response. “You will leave your prison cell today and travel with me to West Ashwynd.”

  In the ringing silence following Sebastian's announcement, Lincoln finally turned, his bitter eyes staring holes through Sebastian.

  Sebastian dismissed the guards and unlocked the door himself. He untied Lincoln's gag and freed the Pixie's tongue, pleased at how fragile and frail the Pixie seemed beneath Sebastian's icy fingers.

  It took Lincoln a full minute to regain his voice. He coughed, a hacking, wheezing cough that reeked of illness. “West Ashwynd?” He flicked a glance down the darkened corridor. “And my daughter?”

  “Will remain here.”

  Lincoln turned his back. “Then I'll stay here.”

  “You're a fool, Pixie!” Sebastian growled as he hauled him to his feet. “Out there is light and air and freedom. Nothing waits for you inside my dungeons but death and decay.”

  “Freedom?” Lincoln croaked. “Since when is traveling with you to West Ashwynd equivalent to freedom?”

  “It is freedom from an existence behind iron bars, Pixie! It is freedom from darkness and filth and prison!”

  Lincoln stared at him. “I'll pass. Thanks.”

  “Then I'll move the date of your daughter's death up by a month.”

  Lincoln jerked as though Sebastian had struck him, but steel lit the Pixie's gaze. “Rot in the poisoned depths of eternal fire, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian yanked the Pixie's hand forward, closing his fist around Lincoln's left little finger. Ice erupted from Sebastian's palm, coating the finger in a thick crust. An unwilling scream wrenched from Lincoln's parted lips, and as Sebastian pulled his hand away, the finger blackened and cracked, landing with a brittle thud against the stone dungeon floor.

  The cold ice had already cauterized the open wound. A four-fingered Lincoln hugged his arm to his chest, gasps spurting through his open mouth.

  “That's just the beginning, Pixie.” Venom filled Sebastian's voice. “See what happens to the rest of you if you continue to resist me.”

  Swiftly rebinding the gag on the Pixie's mouth, he turned for the door, signaled the guards at the end of the corridor, and swept down the corridor in the opposite direction.

  “We are nearly there, Your Grace.” Jerrus paced the deck of the ship with his hands behind his back, tension in every line of his body.

  Sebastian glanced once more at the red and gold on West Ashwynd's flag that sailed atop their mast. It was wartime, and even though they had crossed the Channel of Lise at the mouth of the Northern Sea, even though Kinna and Cedric were running only a skeleton navy, he couldn't be too careful in enemy waters.

  “The captain has the instructions?”

  “Aye, Your Grace. He and the crew are to dock us offshore of the forests south of the Rockmonster Dwellings and return immediately to Lismaria.”

  Sebastian nodded. Thus far, they had met no obstacles, but such luck was bound to break soon.

  The dim line of a land mass moved onto the horizon, and slowly, the boat drew nearer to it. There was no lighthouse here; the nearest one was farther south on the borders of Dragon Hollow. While this afforded them more secrecy, it also meant danger as shoals and currents had more than once sunk ships off of this portion of the isle.

  When the captain dropped anchor and Sebastian boarded the dinghy with Jerrus and one other guard, he studied the dark trees on the bank as the two men rowed to shore. There was no light; clouds had covered even the stars, and the gentle slap of waves against the boat whispered an ominous rhythm.

  “Were they to meet us at the dock, Your Grace?” Jerrus asked. Tension still tightened his voice.

  “Aye,” Sebastian answered. “I expected a light.”

  “Perhaps we can put to shore a fieldspan farther north.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Nay, the shoals are too treacherous there. Set us on land near the dock, but have your weapons ready.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Both Jerrus and the soldier paused in their rowing as they unsheathed their swords and laid them across the floorboards of the boat.

  Silence, broken only by the slap of water against the dinghy, surrounded them again until the soldier in front of Sebastian turned and jumped overboard, landing in water up to his waist, as he dragged the heavy boat onto the rocky shore. The scrape of wood on stone sounded loud in the quiet night.

  Sebastian pulled his own sword from its sheath as he stepped from the boat, glancing into the dark woods that lined the shore.

  “Your Grace.”

  The words were spoken from behind them, and the three men whirled upon a slight creature who stood between them and the dark waters of the Channel.

  A Siren. Sebastian tensed. He'd experienced the powerful spell of a Siren's voice before when one spoke her native tongue, but this Siren hadn't done so yet.

  “Who are you?”

  “Brughale, Your Grace.” A sensuous smile curved her lips. “I am sent to meet you.”

  Sebastian's mouth tightened in distrust. “Who sent you?”

  “Your mole, Your Grace. I was to bring word that I am come in place of your servant.” She held out her hand, and Sebastian could see something gleaming in her palm.

  Sebastian approached warily, inspecting it. It was a jeweled sheath for a dagger, an exact match for the curved dagger with an emerald-crusted hilt that had hung from the belt of the mole among his niece's contacts—the mole who'd pledged to support him, pledged it on bended knee. “I shall deliver your niece and nephew to you, Your Grace,” the mole had promised in the hidden chambers of Sebastian's Council room in ClarenVale. “I swear it on the souls of my people, it will be done.”

  “What will you give me as surety, then?” Sebastian had asked.

  “A name—Mautach—and this.” The mole had produced the bejeweled knife, but kept the sheath.

  Sebastian had smiled at the name; it meant spy in the old language of Lismaria, but puzzlement had clouded his mind. “Why the knife?”

  “It is the knife of my people, and its value is beyond measure,” Mautach had said, a smile curving thin lips. “It is a sign of my pledge to keep my word in faith to you.”

  Sebastian eyed the sheath now before raising his gaze to Brughale who held it. “Where is Mautach? I've had no word.”

  “Mautach moves in secret, and sent regrets, but is currently unable to appear before you. My instructions were, however, to show you to a place near The Crossings where we have arranged safe lodging for you. From there, you can organize those you wish to infiltrate the twins' inner circle. We have several possibilities ready for you—creatures and humans both who have gained the trust of the rebels in the last month, but are still your subjects at heart.”

  Sebastian hid a smile. Fools that his brother's brats were, they trusted anyone who offered them assistance. He'd use their guilelessness to his advantage. They wouldn't know what had bitten them when they hung from the gallows in ClarenVale, one for each of them.

  “Lead on, then, Brughale.” He held out his hand for the knife.

  The woman placed it in his hand, her soft fingers lingering in clear invitation. She held his gaze for a long moment, and Sebastian felt a cold trickle of fascination mixed with hesitation curl through his mind.

  She was a creature, and he abhorred creature-human relations. Had he known either of his mistresses, Selena, and later, Lianna, were Seer Fey and Pixie, respectively, he would have sent them to the gallows instantly.

  As it was, he'd only learned after each of their deaths. By then, it was too late.

  As the Siren turned for the woods, he watched the gentle sway of her hips as she led the way into the darkness. The spark of attraction ignited, and Sebastian pushed it aside. He could not afford the risk. A Siren. A poisoned goblet of wine offered from another Siren's hand
s in another time and place darkened his memories.

  He nodded to Jerrus, and together, they stalked after Brughale. A glance back at the Channel showed Sebastian's boat disappearing into the inky darkness of the night.

  A dark cave was the “lodging” of which Brughale had spoken. Its craggy, moist opening was veiled with hanging moss and decaying bracken, and Sebastian's nose wrinkled as he stepped carefully down the steep embankment that led inside.

  It was at first pitch black, and Sebastian put his hand out, finding the wall and following it before glimmering torchlight reflected off the wet stones of the cave walls. He rounded a corner after Jerrus and the soldier into a massive opening.

  Inside, at least two hundred creatures were gathered—representing several Clans. Sebastian was surprised to see that no Dimn were present.

  “We are the outcasts, Your Grace,” Brughale said, seeming to read his mind. “Rejects from all across West Ashwynd—those who did not or would not achieve psuche, those who wished instead for freedom from the Dimn system.”

  Sebastian glanced around, nervousness shooting icy fingers to his skin, making it crawl clear to his shoulders. “Why serve me, then, as you claim? I'm the one who designed the Dimn system in West Ashwynd.”

  Brughale smiled. “Because of the end result, Your Grace. We wish for freedom, nothing more. Kinna and Cedric, while claiming to offer that freedom, also hold psuche with creatures. You do not. When you win, Your Grace, you will rid this land of Dimn and psuche—as you promised Mautach.”

  Sebastian hid a frown. He had made some such promise—a whimsical agreement to gain the mole's help. He'd worry about it later. At most, he'd simply have to crush the two hundred creatures in this “Clan.” With all the might of Lismaria at his back, such a task would be quite simple.

  Sebastian nodded to Jerrus and the accompanying soldier, who continued on with Brughale as she led the way through the dark, stony cave, introducing the various leaders and explaining parts of their backstory.