Queen of Dragons d-3

by Shana Abe

  Kim began to shrug out of his coat. He was glad to do it, glad to have an excuse to walk toward her, to put himself between her and the tables of other drakon men. With his back to the council he held out the coat, lapels open. Maricara gave him another long, assessing look with her mirror eyes—he felt exposed with it, like she was plucking the thoughts from his head—he hoped to God not—and Turned to smoke.

  Damn.

  Silently he willed all the men to calm; he still didn't dare to shift his gaze to warn them. He'd seen her do it before and yet again the sensation lit through him, as blatantly alluring as that bare leg had been or the image of her body beneath velvet. She could Turn. There was scarcely anything more desirable in a female. But she had gotten in twice; she had escaped twice. How difficult could it be for her to manage it a third time—

  Yet all that happened was someone's chair tapped against the table, and the blue drapery sighed back into place.

  The princess became a pillar of smoke before him, rising, filling the shell of his coral brocade coat all the way to the sleeves. Then she was woman, scent and power, just like last night, the back of her head nearly bumping his nose.

  He released the heavy coat as if it burned. It fell to her shoulders, pinning her hair. She bent her neck and reached up to run a wrist beneath the trapped strands—in the daylight he could see the color wasn't black but the deepest brown he could imagine—before taking a step away.

  He was taller than she, much larger. He'd never thought to be glad the council held to court dress, but the coat was old-fashioned, long-skirted. It reached almost to her knees.

  "My thanks," Maricara said.

  "My pleasure," he answered, and put another step between them. "Do join us." He motioned to his empty chair.

  She traversed the chamber on silent feet. The skirted coat rose to her thighs when she sat down. Kim looked away, drew in a slow, silent breath, letting it burn before he released it.

  Beneath the scattered prisms of the chandelier, Rhys was staring at her, his eyes masked and brooding. Everyone was staring at her, but Rhys.

  Something cold began to uncoil through Kimber's gut. Something painful and unpleasant.

  "I thought you'd wish to know the manner in which your men died," said Maricara, crossing her ankles beneath the chair. "I realized only this afternoon that we didn't discuss it."

  "No. We didn't."

  "They were ambushed. That's what I believe. Others found them and took out their hearts." No one gasped; no one stirred. Only Kimber said, "Pardon?" "Others. Human men. They stole their hearts."

  He'd informed the council of what she'd told him the night before. He'd shown them the rings and let the speculation unwind. There was no proof of anything—until she'd shown up hours later, flying through the dark, there was no proof even that she had ever come—except for those rings. And the fact that three good men had dropped from the face of the earth.

  "Don't you have hunters in this land?" the princess asked.

  Rhys leaned forward again, intent. "What do you mean?"

  "At home we call them sanf inimicus. I don't know a term for them in French. Hunters. Humans who hunt the drakon. "

  "No," Kim said. "Not for generations."

  "We do," she said simply.

  He stared at her blankly, for the first time seeing not her beauty or her potential, but only a woman in a chair, calmly informing him of the unthinkable.

  "If your men confessed before they died," continued Maricara in her attractive, melodic voice, "if they traveled with papers that mentioned you, or carried any hint of this place, the sanf now know of you too."

  It wasn't possible. It should not be possible. These were not the Dark Ages. This was today, and England, and it had taken them centuries to get here, to embed themselves in Darkfrith's safety. No one would truly dare breach it.

  They were normal here. They fit. This was their home.

  Others come.

  Kimber thought of the sprawling village unprotected, of the women who could not fly, and the dragon-children who played openly in the fields and dells. He thought of the thick woods and the manor house and all the careful, careful lies that had been created to sustain their lives in this idyllic place.

  He thought of Hayden, and Jeffrey, and Luke. Of Zoe Lane's stark, pinched face. A great, static rage began within him, a storm of blinding white.

  Maricara uncrossed her ankles and stood, forcing all the council to hastily scrape back their chairs. She smoothed a hand down the front of Kimber's coat. "By the by, is there anything to eat? I'm famished."

  CHAPTER SIX

  I should not have to speak to you of your own history. No doubt you know it far better than I, who was merely able to glean chunks and tidbits from terrible conversations under the worst of circumstances.

  For nearly as long as there have been dragons, there have been humans come to hunt them. You are lesser and jealous and brimming with false conceit: Centuries ago, when we first realized you were more than a few misguided knights or villagers—that you were organized, that you were brutal—we devised a name for you. Sanf inimicus, the enemy of soft skin. And you snatched it from our lips and wore it like a badge, with all apparent pride.

  You have your own traditions, I know that. You have your secret order, nearly as secret as ours, with a leader of not inconsiderable skills. We are born to our magnificence, family after family; you recruit from the lowest of your own kind and of ours to fill your ranks. I imagine it's not entirely effortless to persuade any human of reasonable intelligence that they ought to begin hunting dragons. Yet you do persevere.

  I understand your rage, your envy, your blood-cold fear of us. I even understand your desire to do us harm. I will admit that once, a very long time past, there were those among us who enjoyed the taste of your flesh—although frankly I myself can scarcely stand the stench of you. Devouring you would be repulsive at best.

  But it took me a very long while to understand why, after you killed us, you desired to tear out our hearts. Was it to prove the illusion of your strength? To extend your short, hollow victory over a creature greater than yourselves?

  This is what I believe, and really, it could hardly be a surprise: You wish you were us. In the black sticky chambers of what you call a soul, you think to compensate for your weakness by consuming our cores. Our hearts, the throbbing muscle of our power.

  Well, eat away. You're still going to lose.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was a vast and mysterious place. Chasen Manor held all the entrapments of an opulent palace, with rock crystal and precious metals lavished about, and oil paintings of villas and masted ships and unsmiling people. There were busts carved from jasper and alabaster and shiny black onyx. There were statues of goddesses with arrows in their hands, and a pair of bronze lions prowling around the corner of the main staircase.

  And there were drakon everywhere.

  In Zaharen Yce dragon blood flowed through the veins of nearly every person who walked the halls, freeman or noble or serf. There were a few like her, with the Gifts readily apparent, but time had diminished the population of the keep. Most of those left were more human than not. They lived there and they served there, and the echo of a shared, glorious past kept them all bound to the land and the principality. Yet every single being Maricara sensed here—in the corridors; in the elaborate, elegant rooms; above and even below, far below, in what felt like the basements—every one of them gave off the distinct, sparkling sensation of drakon.

  They were not serfs. When she glanced at them they stared boldly back at her, men and women both. They wore their hair powdered into curls, or wigs of human hair, not horse. They twinkled with stickpins and necklaces and earbobs that chimed with melodies, louder and softer as she came closer and then moved away.

  There were no diamonds hidden in the walls here. She supposed there didn't need to be; Mari had never been around so many people who dripped with gemstones. Even the earl's tailored coat had bands of see
d pearls stitched along the lapels and cuffs. She'd kept her fingers cupped to touch them, to feel their small, pleasant humming as she walked the halls.

  Her night had been oblivion. She'd returned to the woods without being followed—it appeared the earl hadn't even bothered to try, actually—and found again her secret tree, her valise. Mari had slept in all manner of accommodations en route to this place, from dank caves to empty attics, and once an amazing bedchamber of silver looking glasses and ormolu wood, with a feather mattress that sank beneath her weight like a cloud. The sunset that evening had struck the glasses and suffused the room with blinding, amber-pink radiance, picking out the pattern of crossed lavender stems painted up and down the wallpaper.

  That had been in Beaumont-sur-Vesle. France had been littered with deserted estates.

  Last night she'd slept on leaves, burrowed up against the ancient gnarled roots of the yew. She'd awoken hours later right where she was supposed to be, even still wrapped in the blanket she'd packed. No one seemed to have discovered her. Nothing seemed to have happened, except she'd gained a bruise on her hip from an inconvenient shard of granite embedded in the ground.

  But she'd flown. The earl had said it and Maricara believed it. Even here, even so wrenched with exhaustion she hadn't minded the grit of dirt beneath her cheek, as long as she could lie down and close her eyes.she had flown.

  Little wonder she had roused so late, and still felt so drained.

  She'd only discovered the bruise when left alone in someone's private quarters, changing into the same someone's day gown stored in a cedar chest. Lord Chasen had suggested it, and this time Mari had accepted. It seemed prudent to continue her day in something more than just a layer of brocade over her uncovered skin.

  She chose the simplest gown; she'd already refused an offer to send for maids. With panniers instead of a polonaise it was slightly demode, but it fit her very well, ivory muslin embroidered with sprigs of lavender, a scalloped petticoat of translucent plum gauze. It reminded her greatly of that sad, empty chateau in France.

  Still, it was better than Lord Chasen's coat. If the men of this place still stared at her now, at least she knew it wasn't at her legs.

  Silk stockings, satin slippers. Hoops. A corset that squeezed her breath. A white ribbon for her hair. It felt odd to garb herself as a real woman again. She'd spent so much time in scales, or beneath her blanket. Mari lifted a wrist and took note of the lace that fell from her forearm to almost the overskirt; the English did naught by halves.

  There were no listening holes in the walls here. She'd tapped her knuckles against the rose-colored plaster and heard nothing hollow. The windows were tall and offered a panorama of china-blue sky and sloping green hills. The door had a brass polished key lodged in its socket.

  There were people speaking; there were footsteps, and wood creaking in the joints of the floors. She heard her name whispered over and over, like ripples on the surface of the ocean, surging and fading, doomed to repeat.

  Mari stood a long while before the window and gazed out at the hot, empty sky. Slowly her arms rose to press her palms over her ears.

  That was how the earl found her.

  This time she felt his approach. He was near, the door opened. When she didn't turn around he walked closer, the minute vibrations of his stride traveling up her legs, settling in her center. He came to stand beside her, avoiding her elbow, his hands clasped behind his back. His coral-and-pearl coat lay where she'd tossed it on the bed. He wore a waistcoat of matching brocade, a shirt with lace much shorter than her own.

  Kimber sent her a sidelong look. His eyes were very green.

  "Does that work?" he inquired.

  She lowered her arms. "No."

  "Pity. One might imagine the joy of absolute silence."

  "I don't believe there's such a thing."

  "Perhaps not. Not for us."

  Then he was quiet, apparently examining the view. He smelled now of coriander and freshly baked bread; she willed her stomach not to growl. She wasn't going to ask again for food.

  "You have a bird out there," she said, "due east. It's singing."

  He frowned slightly at the woods. Now that she was more attuned to him she could sense his concentration shifting, beyond the forest of heavy trees, to space and distance and those pure, perfect notes that broke the air. Between this moment and the last time she'd seen him he'd removed his wig, tied back his hair; the light from the window revealed layers of tawny brown beneath the burnished gold.

  "It's a thrush."

  She repeated the English word, liking the feel of it on her tongue. "A thrush. It's very far away." "Yes." His tone grew drier. "They don't come near." "It's the same at my home."

  Mountain or woods, valley or windswept canyon: Every animal that could stayed away from Zaharen Yce and all its surroundings. Until she'd reached her fourteenth year, she'd never even glimpsed a living deer. How much worse it would be here, with all these shining, human-faced dragons milling about.

  "She sings a beautiful song," Mari said.

  "Yes," the earl said again. And then: "This chamber was—is my sister's. Amalia."

  "Oh."

  "Clearly she's not using it. It's yours if you like. I don't think she'd mind." "Thank you, but no."

  "There's room for your men, as well. It's a deuced big place."

  "I see that. But we'll do better apart."

  "Maricara—"

  "No," she said, firmer than before. "I will not lodge here with you, Lord Chasen."

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked away from her with an air of complete tranquility. She didn't imagine he was accustomed to refusal; he didn't seem a man who would take resistance lightly under any circumstance, Alpha or no. But he only subsided back into himself, as if he had nothing more pressing to do than appreciate the perfectly framed vista before them.

  She felt the contradiction in him, though. She felt the raw power boiling beneath his elegant restraint.

  "Dinner," announced a voice behind them, "is well served."

  They turned together. The man leaning his shoulder casually against the doorjamb was not a footman or servant but clearly another nobleman. His cravat was bleached and fine; there was a large rounded emerald strung from a wire hoop in one ear, just a few hues darker than the color of his eyes.

  "Your Grace," murmured Kimber. "My brother, Lord Rhys Langford."

  She lifted a hand, and the brother pushed off the door. He bowed low over her fingers but did not kiss her; she felt the faintest prickling across her skin where his mouth would have brushed her knuckles.

  She remembered him from the meeting of all those red-cheeked men. She remembered the particular touch of his stare.

  The earl shifted a fraction on his feet. Lord Rhys dropped her hand at once.

  "I hope you like trout," he said cheerfully, and looked at Kimber. "Mac and his boys went to the lake this morning and caught a cartful. We'll be lucky if we finish it tonight. I don't fancy fish for breakfast."

  Mari loathed fish. She loathed it almost as much as she loathed cabbage.

  "That will be lovely," she said, and accepted the earl's arm as escort from the room.

  Kimber smelled of bread because he'd been near the kitchens, he must have been. Not only was there bread and herbed butter, there was potato custard, and baked apples with Cheddar, and a salad of tossed greens and oil. The dining hall was even more elaborate than any of the rooms she'd seen yet, entire walls composed of sheets of malachite and amber, a ceiling adorned in painted animals and sunset clouds, bleeding down into the stone yellow and green. It was cooler in here than the rest of the mansion. Great black iron braziers in the corners held dozens of candles, unlit, teardrops of honey-scented wax falling frozen in twists and turns.

  White wine had been poured; the china was edged in a chorus of bright silver. Mari took the seat offered her, to the earl's left. The brother sat opposite her. There were footmen and livery boys lined along the far wall. N
one of the council were present.

  The wine held the aroma of pears and crisp autumn. She missed her castle suddenly, the mountains and the vineyards cut like stair steps into the vertical hills; missed it all with a ferocity that clenched like a band around her chest.

  "Pray forgive the informality," the earl was saying in his flawless French. His accent wasn't quite Parisian. Marseille, she thought, or Monaco-Ville. Somewhere south. "With such short notice for a meal, I thought you'd like it better if we kept the company small."

  "There are more of us," agreed Rhys, flicking open his napkin. "Two more, our sisters. Well, there's three of them, actually. But there—you knew that."

  Mari took her eyes off the platter of boned fish softly steaming atop the sideboard. "Yes. Lady Amalia spoke well of you all."

  "Did she indeed?" Lord Rhys glanced at his brother. "That's a goddamned shock."

  Kimber's mouth thinned, just slightly. "Rhys."

  "Oh, sorry." Rhys picked up his wine. "How was she, the last you saw her?" "In good health. Pensive. Happy. At least with her husband, she was happy." "Oh, yes. Her husband Zane." "You don't approve of him," Mari said, unsurprised.

  In the shadows of the room, Rhys gave a shrug. "What's to approve or not? He's a thief. He's human. She's made her choice clear, wherever she is."

  "She's in Brussels," said Mari. Both men stared at her; she looked from one to the other. "At least, she was about a fortnight ago. Didn't you realize?"

  "No," said the earl at last. "We've not heard from her, not for years. Not since that initial letter she sent with yours."

  "Ah." Mari lowered her gaze to her hands on her lap.

  "What's she doing in Brussels?" demanded Rhys.

  "I don't know. I didn't see her. I only felt her as I went by."

  "You felt her." The corners of Kimber's lips now took on a peculiar slant, the barest hint of doubt. "In a city that large?"