by Jasmine Walt
“And now Basilla may be forced to follow in the queen’s footsteps,” Dareena said. She pressed her lips together, frustration carving lines into her beautiful face. “If Mordan is truly as awful as the rumors say, can’t we fan discontent among the people, like they have been doing to us? Surely we can create enough internal problems to distract the warlocks.”
“That is a good idea,” Shadley said, “but unfortunately, the warlocks admire power and cunning far more than goodness or virtue. There are those who have personally run afoul of the royal family’s vices who hate them, but by and large the citizens of Shadowhaven have flexible morals and no particular objection to their king’s murderous policies. Besides, the war between Elvenhame and Dragonfell has been very good for the warlock economy—all the programs the government has put in place to develop new weapons and devices have created jobs for many people.”
“Surely not all citizens are so heartless?” Dareena protested. “The people may be ruled by an evil king, but that does not mean they are evil themselves.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that,” Shadley said hastily. “You are right, of course. Not all warlock citizens are stone-hearted. But under the current regime, the more virtuous ones are forced to keep their heads down.”
“What of Rumas, the warlock god?” Alistair asked, a thoughtful look on his face. “I didn’t think of this before, but surely he is not happy with Wulorian for killing off the previous king. Unless Shadowhaven’s patron deity is just as unscrupulous as his people?”
“That is an interesting question,” Shadley said. “As I understand it, the warlock god is not as fervently worshipped as he once was. Perhaps his power and influence over them has waned. As I understand it, the previous king was favored by Rumas, so it is possible that after he was killed, the god turned his back on his people. This may be a good thing, as it means Shadowhaven will have been weakened in some way. We may find that we do not meet as much resistance as anticipated when we attack them, if their god is no longer protecting them.”
“That is a big if,” Tariana pointed out. “And not one that I can bet my men against.”
“Perhaps we can ask the dragon god,” Alistair suggested. “He would know better than anyone else.”
Drystan nodded. “I may make the trip, time permitting,” he said. “In the meantime, we will have to wait for Lucyan’s results and suggestions before moving ahead.” He sent a silent prayer to the dragon god to look after his middle brother. He knew Lucyan would be careful, but then again, it was impossible to be too careful in the heart of enemy territory. He hoped his brother did not linger too long, or embroil himself in some scheme that could jeopardize his cover.
At least if he does get into trouble, it won’t be on account of a woman, Drystan said to himself as he looked across the table at Dareena. Once upon a time, that would have been a real worry for Drystan, but not anymore. No matter what temptations Lucyan would face, he would be eager to return home to their mate.
7
After making it safely across the border of Shadowhaven, Lucyan and Ryolas hiked to the nearest town to secure transportation to the capital. In Elvenhame or Dragonfell, they might have had to hire horses, but Shadowhaven had an excellent transport system—they went to a ticket office and paid for two seats on an omnibus, which, according to the salesman, would get them to Inkwall in a mere three hours.
“These paved roads are amazing,” Ryolas said as they sped toward Inkwall.
They sat on the upper level of the omnibus, which, unlike the lower, was fully open to the elements. Each level only seated six, so Lucyan had elected to sit upstairs—if he had to be squished elbow to elbow between the elf and some strange human, he at least wanted to have fresh air.
Ryolas continued, “I expected us to go flying by now, but there are hardly any bumps at all.”
“Yes, very impressive,” Lucyan said, looking out at the countryside as it raced by. Unlike Dragonfell and Elvenhame, it was easy to spot the cities off in the distance—one simply had to look to see where the plumes of smoke were rising. One thing Lucyan did not miss was the smog; the warlocks had magic to filter it out in the cities, but Lucyan’s sensitive nose had still picked up the tinge of charcoal in the air when he visited Inkwall. They claimed that the smoke dissipated harmlessly into the air, but Lucyan had a feeling they were lying. All of that black smoke couldn’t be good, no matter what their officials said.
“Are the two of you foreigners, then?” the woman sitting next to them asked curiously. She was in her early twenties, dressed in common garb with a babe swaddled in her lap.
Lucyan smiled. “Yes, from Elvenhame. My brother and I have decided we are tired of living amongst the elves, and are journeying to Shadowhaven, where our cousin Illias lives. We are hoping we can find new jobs.”
The woman looked them over and chuckled. To her eyes, they were strapping young men dressed in rough traveling clothes, all of their worldly belongings in the packs draped over their laps as they sat on this coach, barreling toward adventure. “There will be plenty of work for the two of you,” she said, “provided you don’t mind working for the metalsmiths. The royal family has every smith in Inkwall working double time, casting pendants and rings and all sorts of other devices to be turned into amulets and charms. They say they’re merely stockpiling, but most people in the country know better. Our rulers are preparing for war.”
“That’s good news for us, then,” Ryolas said cheerfully, even though Lucyan had felt the elf tense beside him. The woman was wrong—her country’s rulers weren’t merely preparing for war. They were at war. They were the sole reason there was a war.
As promised, the coach pulled into Inkwall three hours later, depositing them in the heart of the bustling city. Ryolas’s eyes were wide as he took in the towering buildings, the sturdy bridges, the bustling roads so neatly planned. Merchants stood on nearly every street corner, hawking food and wares, and luckily the aromas covered up that nasty charcoal scent Lucyan could still smell.
“What are those?” Ryolas asked as he watched a woman at a cart hand over a fresh roll covered with white icing to a waiting child.
“Cinnamon buns.” Lucyan grabbed Ryolas’s arm and pulled him in the opposite direction. “Come, we can eat later. Let’s get some information first.”
They walked up the block and purchased a newspaper from a large stand at the corner. There was a café just on the other side of the street, so Lucyan indulged Ryolas and grabbed a table outside, where they ordered hot food and beer.
“Amazing,” Ryolas said as he and Lucyan flipped through the paper together. “This is such a brilliant way to disseminate news. We only send out public proclamations—there are no regularly printed papers in Elvenhame.”
“Nor in Dragonfell,” Lucyan said. “The newspaper was one of many innovations I tried to talk to Father about when I returned home from my visit to Shadowhaven, but he would not hear of it. Admittedly, we do not have the printing presses they use here, which are necessary to run such large quantities. But perhaps after the war, we can get the warlocks to teach us.”
Ryolas sighed. “I doubt Elvenhame will ever implement any such technology, not when so much metal is required to get anything done around here.” He glanced at a carriage that rolled by, whose frame and wheels were made of metal, then up at the sign above the café—also metal.
The two spent the next hour scouring the paper while they enjoyed a meal of meat pies and ale, looking for any mention of Basilla or a royal wedding. Unfortunately, all they found was more propaganda. The papers depicted both the dragon and elven royal families as unhinged, headed by weak or mad kings, overly aggressive, and unable to be reasoned with. It didn’t seem to matter that Lucyan’s father was no longer on the throne, either. Lucyan was glad that Drystan was not reading these—the top of his head would likely blow right off if he could see the things this rag said about their family.
“This is interesting,” Ryolas said as they perused the adverti
sement section. He pointed to a full-page advertisement on the right. “This looks like a recruitment advertisement.”
“Exciting new positions available for adventurous and smart young men and women who like to travel,” Lucyan read aloud. “Present yourself to the royal steward at Castle Inkwall tomorrow morning at six a.m. to be considered. Be prepared for various physical and mental tests, including combat. Limited openings available!” He paused, mulling it over. “It sounds like they are recruiting more spies.”
“Indeed.” Ryolas’s face darkened. “We can look forward to more Shadowhaven spies infesting our lands.”
“This is a good opportunity to gain more information about Shadowhaven’s plans,” Lucyan said, folding up the paper. “I believe I’ll go to the castle tomorrow and apply. I already have espionage training, so I should be able to beat out the competition.”
“Fair enough,” Ryolas said. “I would volunteer myself, but I think my time is best spent continuing the search for Basilla.”
The two of them finished their lunch, then went to the Green Mermaid and booked separate rooms. The spy Shadley had sent to meet them was there, and Lucyan and Ryolas grabbed a drink at the bar with him.
“Your plan is not a bad one,” the spy said in a low voice after Lucyan explained his intentions to infiltrate the spy ring. “However, you are going to need to think through your disguise a bit more. The warlocks will recognize the disguise ring you are wearing—they will likely strip search everyone.”
“Of course they will,” Lucyan muttered. They would instantly recognize his dragon eyes if he resumed his natural form, even if they did not know his face by sight. “I will have to find a way to conceal the ring.”
“Have you heard any news of Basilla?” Ryolas asked, a little anxiously.
“There have been rumblings about an elven woman being sighted, but so far I’ve had no luck locating her,” the spy said. “Now that you are here, with your superior sight and your ability to sense her, I may have better luck. We’ll search for her together.”
The three of them finished their drinks and went their separate ways, promising to meet back there in two days, when the reinforcements were scheduled to arrive. Lucyan went up to his room, then pulled off his trousers and sat on the edge of the bed. There was only one way he could think of to hide the ring, and though it wasn’t pleasant, it was better than the alternative.
“You can do this,” Lucyan said, pulling the ring off his left hand. He placed it on the mattress, then unsheathed the knife that had been strapped to his belt and sliced a two-inch slit in his inner thigh. Blood dripped down his thigh and onto the wooden floor, and he hissed as he forced the ring in through the opening, wedging it beneath the skin.
“Come on,” he grunted as he placed his palm over the wound, applying pressure. Pain radiated through his leg as he pushed the ring in deeper, and he gritted his teeth. Eventually, the bleeding slowed, and when the pain finally faded, he lifted his hand.
Perfect. The wound had healed over. It was a bit disconcerting to see the outline of the ring pressing through his skin, but unless the warlocks decided to get very up close and personal with him, they would not detect the ring. He stood and took a few experimental steps. Moving resulted in a dull ache, and he could feel the ring sitting there, but it wasn’t unbearable, and he should still be able to fight.
Hopefully this won’t be necessary for long, he thought as he put his trousers back on. The sooner he and Ryolas got what they wanted, the sooner he could dig this infernal ring out of his skin and get back to his beloved.
8
Alistair and Drystan spent the next day in the throne room, taking petitions from nobles and commoners alike. They’d agreed to do this at least once per month, and though Drystan had been reluctant today when there was so much else that needed to be done, Alistair had dragged him off anyway. It was important they show the common people that they were not the tyrants their father was, and that they were willing to listen and show compassion for their troubles.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Drystan said as their latest petitioner left the throne room—the thirtieth one of the day, Alistair believed. The farmer had lost half his lands to a fire that his lord’s son had started and was having trouble getting recompense. Alistair had promised the man he would have words with the vassal in question—Lord Breigart was a stingy man, and was likely being even more close-fisted than usual due to the tax breaks. “Although it feels odd to sit up here without Lucyan.”
Alistair nodded, glancing to the empty throne on Drystan’s left side. It had been days since their brother had left the castle, and though it was too soon to expect any word from him, Alistair felt antsy. What if the warlocks discovered Lucyan’s true identity? In Elvenhame, he’d been relatively safe, but the warlocks were much wiser to magic tricks. They probably dealt with imposters on a regular basis.
“Your Highnesses,” the herald said as the doors swung open, “Lords Renflaw, Brimlow, and Delvin are here to see you.”
Alistair frowned as his brother’s jaw clenched, then he remembered. These three were the ones who had given Drystan such a hard time about the tax breaks in the first place. “Send them in,” he told the herald, steeling himself. He had a feeling the lords weren’t there about some petty grievance, nor to have tea and cookies and ask after their health.
The lords entered the room, coming to stand before the dais. “Your Highnesses,” Lord Renflaw said, the three bowing as one. “I hope you are well.”
“We are, thank you,” Alistair said as they rose. “To what do we owe this visit?”
Lord Delvin’s lips twitched. “Always straight and to the point,” he said, inclining his head. “We have come to ask your brother when the wedding and coronation will take place, now that you have the Dragon’s Gift in your possession once more.”
“As soon as possible,” Drystan said, “but we can’t very well go forward with either ceremony until Lucyan returns.” He gestured to the empty seat next to him.
Lord Brimlow frowned. “So you are still intent on going through with this outlandish notion? All three of you marrying the Dragon’s Gift and ruling together?”
“I am not one to dictate how any man or woman behaves in the bedroom,” Lord Renflaw added, “but surely you can see how unorthodox this is. Why would you not simply have one of you crowned king? Is it really necessary for you to upset the public merely for the sake of satisfying this whim?”
“Whim?” Drystan growled, his eyes flashing. His grip tightened on the throne’s arms, and Alistair sent him a warning look. “This is no whim. It is the will of our god.”
“The will of our god?” Lord Brimlow asked, sounding incredulous. “How can we be sure of that, now that we know the oracle was an imposter? For that matter, how do we know that Dareena is truly the Dragon’s Gift?”
“My lords,” Alistair cut in before Drystan said something he would regret, “I would remind you that we were all present when Dareena’s status was confirmed. The oracle may have lied about many things, but we all saw Dareena drink from the goblet. She is the gift.”
“Fair enough,” Lord Renflaw said. “But both ceremonies have traditionally been presided over by the oracle. How are we to move forward without one?”
“We will find a way,” Drystan said, in control of his temper once more. “I plan on paying a visit to the dragon god very soon so I may consult with him.”
“You can contact the dragon god?” Lord Renflaw asked, surprised. “Every time I asked King Dragomir to petition him, he refused, so I always assumed it was impossible.”
“Lucyan has done it before,” Drystan confirmed. “That is how we know that Dareena truly is the gift, and also that the three of us are meant to marry her and rule jointly. This is the dragon god’s will, and to deny it is only courting disaster. Besides, this way, if one of us dies, there will still be two to carry on, and we will not have to waste any time quarreling about succession.”
The lords g
rumbled a bit at this but eventually admitted it was for the best. “You’ll ask the dragon god about a new oracle, then?” Lord Delvin asked. “Surely he will have chosen a successor.”
“That is what we hope,” Drystan said. “If he hasn’t already chosen one, he will soon.”
“Speaking of Dragomir,” Lord Renflaw said, “how does your father fare? Is he still holed up in that countryside estate?”
“He is,” Alistair said. “Tariana and I stopped to visit him on our way back from Glastar. He is recovering physically but has no memory at all of his former life. I believe he hit his head very hard when he fell and has damaged his brain. The housekeeper tells me he does not breathe fire, and as far as she can tell, does not even remember that he is a dragon. We are sending the best healers in the country to look at him, but I have a feeling he may be beyond their help.”
“That is unfortunate,” Lord Brimlow said gravely, “but perhaps for the best. The people have lost all faith in Dragomir—he may have been a good king once, but he cannot be allowed to rule again.”
The other lords agreed with this, and all seemed relieved that Dragomir did not look to be regaining his wits anytime soon. Drystan sent them along their way with warnings to be on guard against warlock plots and spells. The lords were alarmed at the idea that the warlocks could be spying on them, and agreed to never speak about any confidential or sensitive matters while they were aboveground. Alistair only hoped that their paranoia would stick; he knew all too well how easy it was to let one’s guard down, and these men were not used to dealing with the constant threat of assassins or spies.
“Perhaps when you visit the dragon god tomorrow,” Alistair said quietly, “you can see if anything can be done about Father.”
Drystan shook his head. “I’m not certain that is a good idea,” he said. “While I would love to have our father back as he once was, I think having the king here again will only make things more confusing.”