Cowardice. Marko felt a sting again at the old owl’s words. Poison is the tool of the weak. But he was not weak, and he would show everyone that once he had taken his father’s place. With Kal gone, wandering in the desert with no powers or memories, Marko was the only heir to the throne.
Besides, he couldn’t challenge his father to open combat. In ancient times, that was the way of things. Rulers were decided in open combat. The kings were the strongest of the clan. But those were also bloody, savage times. The owls and the council had brought civility to Xandakar. Peace and diplomacy had taken hold. There was far less conflict, far less blood, and everyone was happier and wealthier for it.
But he wasn’t happy, always in the shadow of his older brother and under the sneering eye of his father. He wanted power. He wanted respect. Most of all, he wanted Nevra. He could have none of those things the way the world was now. But with the demon’s help, he would make a new world.
The first order of business was killing his father and taking his place. Once he controlled the wealth and power of the red throne, the rest of the plan would fall into place. The dragonlords of each kingdom would topple in a neat row, and he and Nevra would be there to pick up the pieces, to unite them all under their rule. They would set the One Tree on fire and watch it burn. The owls could still serve, but they would no longer wield any real power.
He reached into the vest of his armor and took out the vial. Turning it back and forth the black liquid rolled heavily inside. Just looking at it made him queasy. He wondered if his father was going to suffer.
I hope so, he thought. He tucked the poison away and headed downstairs.
“Ah, there you are.” Hamryk was coming down the hall. Marko sighed, not wanting to talk to the fat owl, but there was no way to avoid it.
“You are attending the feast, are you not?” Hamryk asked. He seemed in a better mood than when Marko had left for Haramza.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Marko said.
“Good,” Hamryk said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Because your father has an exciting announcement to make.”
So there was a reason for the feast after all. That is, other than just another excuse for his father to jam piles of roasted boar and honeyed sweetroot down his gullet.
“Oh?” Marko said. “And what would be this exciting news?”
“You’ll have to attend to find out,” Hamryk said. “I just wanted to make certain you would be there, and not out on one of your mysterious flights.”
That was worrisome. Did he really leave the palace so much as to arouse the fat owl’s suspicions? Well, none of that would matter soon. By the morrow, his father would be dead, he would be the king, and Hamryk’s head would be at the end of a pike.
But his curiosity was now aroused. What could his father possibly have to announce? His eldest son was missing. His only daughter was banished to some place called Earth. There was hardly any reason for celebration.
Marko seriously considered grabbing the mage by his robes and hauling him into a dark hallway, then slamming his head against the wall until he stopped playing silly games and just told him what was going on.
Patience, he thought. You can do with him what you like soon enough. And whatever his father had to say, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing his father said or did would matter anymore.
“I’ll be there,” Marko said.
“Splendid,” Hamryk said. He gave Marko a wide-cheeked grin, the smug look of someone happy to know a secret, then continued down the hall.
Marko sighed. He continued in the other direction, towards the servant’s quarters. He had one last thing to do before the feast began.
Most of the workers were busy either outside or in the kitchen, so the hallway was empty. That was good. He didn’t want anyone seeing him come or go.
He found the simple wooden door and opened without knocking or calling out.
The young woman sat on the edge of her straw cot, tears standing out in her eyes.
Damn it, Marko thought. She’s having second thoughts. He closed the door quietly behind him.
“Greetings, my dear,” he whispered, thinking it better to play it gently rather than harsh.
Agna wasn’t a pretty girl, nor was she ugly. She lay in that space just between, what most would call plain. She wore the simple cotton smock of the serving class, her straw blond hair tied in two small, tight buns.
She looked up with a pained expression. “I don’t think I can do it, my lord.”
He gave her as gentle a smile as he could, sitting on the cot and putting his arm around her. He reached out with his other hand and put a finger along her jaw, turning her head towards him.
“Do you know why I chose you?” he asked.
“No, my lord,” she said in a shaky voice.
He leaned in and kissed her softly. “Truth be told,” he said. “I didn’t choose you at all. You chose me.”
Agna’s brow knit in confusion. “What?”
“I was drawn to you as a moth to a torch,” he said. “I simply could not help myself.” He slid his hand down to her breast, cupping it and giving it a light squeeze. “You are my flame,” he said. “I love you.”
She blushed, her eyelids fluttering, a nervous smile forming on her lips. That was good.
“Do you love me?” he asked. He knew her response before the words formed on her lips. Of course she loved him. He was a Wildfire prince. She was a plain-faced serving girl. He’d spent the past six weeks wooing her. He'd brought her small gifts, nothing lavish enough to draw attention, though. He’d lain with her, which had actually been quite nice. She was feistier under the sheets than she looked.
He gave her breast another squeeze, harder this time. She looked up at him and blinked her watery eyes. “You know I do, my lord,” she said.
That’s my girl, he thought. He gave her nipple a little pinch. She giggled. Then he took his hand from her and reached inside his vest, taking out the small vial of foul black poison. Her eyes widened when she saw it.
“Then you will do this one small thing for me,” he said. “Late into the feast, when everyone is drunk, full, and relaxed, just put this in a cup of wine and bring it to the king.” He tucked it in her apron. “That’s all you have to do."
Agna lowered her voice and looked around. “But my lord, won’t they know it was me?”
He moved his hand back up to her jaw and pulled her in for a kiss. “No one will know anything,” he said. “And if anyone suspects anything, what will they do? I will be the new king. I will protect you.”
That wasn’t true, of course. The nice thing about using poison was that, unlike fighting in open combat, you could place the blame squarely on another’s shoulders. The Nightshadows, for instance. The girl could easily be painted as a spy for the black dragons. He would put a gold piece in the pocket of two or three other servants to swear before an inquiry that they saw her behaving strangely, coming and going in the night, handling a suspicious vial.
A smile lit up the girl’s face. She actually looked quite pretty then. “Will you make me your queen, my lord?”
Marko had to stop himself from bursting out laughing at that. What a ridiculous idea. He felt the grin form on his lips, threatening to erupt into a full-blown laugh, but he was able to stifle it. At best, she could hope to escape all suspicion. In that case, he might keep her as a consort. She was fun in the bed. But the wisest thing to do, what the demon had whispered in his ear, was that she needed to be the scapegoat. She needed to die.
He cupped her face in both his hands, looking earnestly into her eyes.
“Of course you will be my queen,” he said.
She smiled wider and leaned in for another kiss.
The banquet was as boring as any Marko had attended. He sat near the front of the hall, but not at the main table, yet another small indignity from his father. The servants brought honey-roasted boar, steaming baskets of dark bread, trays of plump berries and tart cheeses, and round after round of
ale. A band played in the corner of the hall, the sound of the flutes grating on Marko’s nerves.
He drank little and merely picked at his food. He was nervous, feeling vulnerable now that he had placed his fate in the hands of a serving wench. When he had left her chamber, she had seemed all right. No, better than all right. He felt she would leap from the highest spire if he asked her. What he was actually asking her to do was much worse. Assassins never died pretty deaths.
But as his father had been fond of saying, a war was never won without sacrificing pawns. That had come from one of the many lessons on strategy his father had tried to bestow upon him. That was years ago, though, before Karth had given up on him entirely.
He watched as Agna walked towards his father’s table, a jug of wine in her hands.
There goes my little pawn, he thought. She looked nervous, but that was fine. As long as she went through with it. It was still early in the evening, though. Not quite time.
Agna went around the table, seated with his father’s favorite generals and whores, and filled their cups. His father hadn’t looked his way once this evening, just laughing like an oaf and stuffing his gut.
Live it up, father, Marko thought. This meal will be your last.
Agna moved away from the table, scuttling back into the shadows toward the kitchen. Marko watched as his father stood, cup in hand. The band stopped playing at once and the hall grew quiet.
Ah, here it is, Marko thought. The big announcement.
“First, I want to thank you all for coming,” Karth bellowed. That was ridiculous, since no one in attendance really had a choice. “I hope you are enjoying the food and wine.” He raised his cup and a cheer went up across the hall.
I doubt anyone is enjoying the food and wine as much as you, father, Marko thought. Just get on with it, you hot bag of gas.
The crowd died down and Karth’s face changed, looking almost somber. “As you all know, three years ago to this day my wife and your queen, Embra Wildfire, was taken from us all.”
Marko felt the pinch of pain in his gut as his mother’s name fell from his father’s lips. He had loved his mother, more than anything. And she had loved him. She had never played favorites between her sons. If anything, she had favored Marko a bit more, perhaps because he was not as big and strong as his brother. She had died from a disease, some black rot that the owls could neither identify nor cure. Perhaps it had been the work of the Nightshadows. Perhaps it was just happenstance. No one ever knew.
But Marko had resented his father for her death. Perhaps he even blamed him. He certainly resented the first time he heard the sounds of his father with a whore as he passed his chamber, not two months after his mother's death. Heat rose up in his neck and face as his father spoke her name. He found he didn’t want to hear this mysterious announcement after all. The end of this night could not come quickly enough.
“I loved her deeply,” Karth went on. “As did you all.” There were murmurs of assent from those gathered in the hall. “But life must go on. We must all move forward.”
Marko could feel the bile in the back of his throat. He guessed what was coming next and it took all the will in him to keep from grabbing a meat fork, leaping at his father, and burying the prongs in his fat neck.
“With that in mind,” Karth said, “I am pleased to announce my upcoming marriage to the princess of the white dragons, Myrian Moonglow.”
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Marko was even more surprised than he had imagined. Myrian? Was she even a woman grown? He had met her once at a festival. All he remembered was a wisp of a girl, with hair so white to look upon it made you forget color even existed. She seemed more a ghost than a living girl. But that had been years ago. Not that it mattered. His father wasn’t marrying anyone.
Marko took his time rising to his feet, but he refused to applaud, crossing his arms instead.
Karth raised his cup. “To our new alliance with the white dragons,” he said. Then he did glance at Marko, a smug glint in his eye. His smile wavered just a bit, then formed again on his face. He looked away and took a heavy gulp of wine.
Don’t drink too much, father, Marko thought. Save a bit of thirst. But he knew is father's thirst was insatiable. He was planning on it.
Karth nodded at the band and the music started up again. Marko’s head was throbbing now, the beat of the drums just a half step behind the pulse of the vein in his forehead. He took his seat again, trying to remain calm. He watched as his father knocked back the rest of the cup of wine, belched, and let out a roaring laugh.
He looked impatiently around for Agna, but she was nowhere to be seen. For a moment he thought perhaps she had fled the hall, even the palace, and that his work and planning was all for naught.
Then Karth Wildfire clutched at his throat.
This is it, Marko thought. She did it. Earlier than I told her, but she must have slipped it into that last cup of wine.
The king’s face turned red, then a dark shade of purple. His eyes rolled up in their sockets. His tongue, now nearly black, stuck out between his lips as he gasped. A spidery black rash began to spread upwards from his neck across his cheeks.
The hall erupted in chaos. Men were yelling, women were screaming, and Marko sat in his chair and tried to keep from smiling.
8: Kal
He sat on the forest floor looking down at Thalia, who seemed so much smaller now.
He flexed his shoulders and felt a pair of wings unfold behind him. A hot fire swirled at the base of his long neck. He smelled sulfurous smoke in his own nostrils.
“It worked,” he said, not recognizing his own voice. It was deeper now, the sound of rock shifting within the earth.
She looked up at him, bright-eyed and smiling. He might have expected her to be afraid, but she looked amazed and delighted instead.
“Yes,” she said. “I can see that.”
He looked at the white feather, so tiny now, pinched between his two black claws. How had such a small thing had such a great effect? He had regained the physical part of who he was, an important piece of the puzzle. But he still had no solid memories of who he really was. The witch had told him, but knowing did him no good without the memories themselves.
Cordella had said he needed first to regain his dragon form and the power of flight. Then he could travel to the Emerald Isle. There he would find the Lost Lagoon, and within its waters he would find his memories. So far, so good.
He looked back down at Thalia. She had surprised him, more than once now. His first impulse was to take her with him. But he was afraid of what he was beginning to feel for her.
Her large, curious eyes looked up at him. Her round cheeks, her button nose. His notion of beauty was beginning to shift. What he felt now when he looked at her was a pull at his heart. Before he might have thought of her as a little sister, but that idea was now long gone.
When he had helped her up into the tree, her breast had brushed against his cheek. He had very nearly dropped her, the blood draining from his head and making him dizzy. No, he no longer thought of her as either a little girl or sister. She was a woman, as fine a one as he could imagine. But if he took her with him, if he continued to spend time with her, he knew those feelings would only deepen. And if he really was the Wildfire prince, the heir to the red throne, then he could never be with her.
“What now?” she said, a hint of hope in her voice.
Normally he would draw upon who he was to decide what he would do. But he didn’t know what his true self might have done. That was a loss, but it was also an opportunity. Perhaps his old self had been a terrible person. He didn’t feel like a terrible person, but that didn’t make it so.
No matter what kind of person he had been, he now had the opportunity to become whoever he wanted to be. But what if he swam in the waters of the lagoon and forgot everything that had happened since he met Thalia? He didn’t think that would happen, but how could he know?
He craned his neck down and sp
oke once more: “Have you ever ridden on the back of a dragon?”
Her eyes were wet with tears when she realized he was going to take her with him.
At least until he got the rest of himself back, he was going to be whoever he wanted to.
He wondered about the best way to carry her. He looked down at his long black claws. She might be cut to ribbons if he tried to hold in those. Besides, he still grasped the feather tight in his right claw. He was afraid to let it go.
So he slowly lowered himself to the ground, stretching out flat. The grass felt nice and cool on his belly and neck.
“Climb aboard,” he said.
“We’re leaving now?”
“No time like the present.” He could see the surprise on her face. She was happy to be going with him, but now that the idea was setting in, she seemed reluctant. He knew she’d lived her entire life in his forest. She’d told him as much.
But her hesitance didn’t last long. She took a deep breath, ran to him, and began to climb up his shoulder. He worried black ridges across his spine might poke or cut her. He flexed muscles he didn’t know he had and felt the ridges flatten.
There we go, he thought. That should make the ride more comfortable. Thalia wrapped her arms around his neck. She felt good on his back, as if she belonged there.
He slowly rose up and experimentally stretched his wings. He wasn’t sure he could actually fly, but they were both about to find out.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“As ready as I can be,” she said. He could hear the tinge of fear in her voice, but also the excitement. He just hoped he wasn’t going to drop her. He would have to generate a lot of power to lift this body.
“Hold tight,” he said. He flapped his wings once. The branches around them swayed in the artificial wind, the leaves on the forest floor swirling. Birds fluttered up from their branches and fled.
His wings felt strong. He could do this.
Kal flapped them again, not stopping this time. The trees shook with the force, limbs swaying. The air filled with the sound of the wind whooshing through the leaves. Dirt was swirling up beneath them as well.
Dragon Red: A Fire Unfed (The Dragonlords of Xandakar Book 2) Page 7