by Jasmine Walt
“Damn.” Alistair felt a pang of sympathy for the elven prince. “And your father has no issue with this?”
Ryolas snorted. “He won’t even allow me to explain myself,” he said sadly. “I don’t know if you know the particulars—”
“Tariana explained it to me,” Alistair said. “The two of you were staging the battles to avoid casualties.”
There was silence for a long moment. “I’m not sure I’ll ever see her again,” Ryolas said in a hollow voice. “I would have liked to tell her I love her one last time.”
“As would I,” Alistair said morosely. He would have liked to kiss Dareena one more time too, but at least he’d held her in his arms and made love to her before he’d been dragged off. And she would have his brothers to comfort her if he didn’t make it out of here. But Tariana—he’d seen the fierce love in her eyes when she’d talked of Ryolas. She would be devastated if she lost him.
“You’re certain you’ll be executed?” Alistair asked. “Without even a trial?”
“I would have one if my father were in his right mind,” Ryolas said.
“What do you mean?”
Ryolas hesitated. “My father isn’t mad the way yours is,” he said, “but he isn’t himself as of late. The High King of Elvenhame has never been one to sit back and let others take charge, and yet he has let Arolas take the reins. It is almost as if my dear brother has already become the new king. He’s got me in the dungeons awaiting the gallows, he’s marrying Basilla off to that nasty warlock prince…. Soon, there will be no family left to challenge his decisions.”
“Yes, the king seemed remarkably passive,” Alistair said. “Do you think the warlocks could be involved somehow?”
“If they are, there is nothing we can do about it from here,” Ryolas said grimly. “I knew it was a bad idea for us to ally with the warlocks, but Father insisted—he was a child during the War of the Three Kingdoms and remembers the dragons’ treachery all too well. Back then, the dragons really were the enemy. But now, I am not certain our sights are fixed on the right enemy.”
“Neither am I,” Alistair said. He wondered if Lucyan was tugging on this particular thread, which Dareena had uncovered the day she’d found that dragon scroll in the library. Their middle brother knew more about the warlocks than anyone else; if anybody could find the true culprit behind this mess, it was him.
Whether or not Alistair lived to see such a day remained to be seen.
21
After Lucyan and Tariana went their separate ways, he managed to convince the tinkerer to hasten their pace toward the capital. They arrived at Enethar just as the sun was setting over the beautiful city, setting the elegant, spiraling buildings aflame with gold and red. Relief washed over Lucyan as they entered the town—tonight, he would finally be able to do some reconnaissance, and find out how his mate and brother fared behind the walls of Castle Whitestone.
Lucyan and the tinkerer made their way to an inn a few blocks from the castle. The city hummed with life and activity, an air of peace and harmony that Paxhall lacked. Lucyan spied no pickpockets or thugs skulking in dark alleys, no homeless people panhandling in the streets—everything was clean and shiny, everyone was courteous, smiling and nodding as they passed, many of them coming up to the wagon and buying items.
If Lucyan didn’t know better, he wouldn’t have thought this was a country at war.
“Ahh, here we are,” the tinkerer said as they stopped in front of a green and white two-story building. Warm, inviting light spilled out of the windows, and the heavenly smell of freshly baked meat pies lured them closer. “The Whistling Willow. My favorite place to stay in Enethar.”
They booked two rooms and ate some of those delicious meat pies, washed down with honey mead. The tinkerer retired to his room afterward, and while Lucyan, full and sleepy, was tempted to do the same, he instead pulled his cloak around his shoulders and walked out into the rapidly darkening night.
Castle Whitestone was perched atop a hill overlooking the entire city. It towered above Lucyan as he traversed the winding streets, approaching the castle from the west, studying the exterior with his keen eyes for any weaknesses. He counted twenty guards manning the battlements, and that was only what he could see from his angle. The walls were thick and high, and as he drew closer, he saw an additional four men stationed at the front gate.
“Excuse me,” he said, flagging down a passing woman. “I grew up in Idlegrove, and this is my first trip to the capital. Are tourists allowed inside the castle?”
“Sometimes, if you can get an official to vouch for you,” the woman said. Her gaze darted to the castle towers, and Lucyan wondered at the troubled look on her lined face. “But these days it is nigh impossible. No one who is not an elf is allowed past the gates. Even the human servants who work in the castle are no longer allowed to come and go freely—they are forced to stay in the servants’ quarters and are only permitted to visit with their families at the gate.”
“That’s too bad.” Lucyan frowned up at the castle. He should have thought to ask Shadley for an elven disguise—as a human, there was no way for him to sneak through the gate, and in his natural form, the elves would put an arrow through his heart the second they spotted him.
If only I could shift, Lucyan thought morosely. But then again, would that really do any good? He remembered how Tariana had been gravely injured when she’d tried to rescue Ryolas from that fort—the magic that had forced her back into human form was very likely in effect at the castle, too.
Still, being able to shift might be handy when they made their escape. Alistair would likely be very weak from being exposed to all that anti-dragon magic. Lucyan would have to carry him and Dareena too. The fevers preceding the change had already come and gone. Did Lucyan have the power to change into a dragon as Drystan had done back in the throne room?
Turning away from the castle, which he could do nothing about, he gazed out at the rolling hills, which were almost completely invisible to his eye now that the sun had set. They would be a good place to practice, Lucyan thought as he trotted down the hillside. He hailed a small wooden carriage, big enough to fit no more than two, and paid the young elf driver to take him to the outskirts of the capital. From there, he hiked a good two miles away, until he was well into the hills, certain no one could see or hear him.
“All right, Lucyan,” he muttered to himself as he sat atop the hill. He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together, mentally preparing himself. “You can do this. Change into a dragon.”
Closing his eyes, Lucyan did what he had often done as a child—he clenched his hands tight at his sides and willed himself to change as hard as he could. Every muscle in his body strained as he mentally grasped for whatever that something was that would help him morph from his puny—if handsome and well-muscled—human form into the glorious, fire-breathing, winged beast that his people worshipped and feared.
Unfortunately, all Lucyan got for his valiant efforts was a tension headache. “Blast it,” he growled, opening his eyes. He yanked a fistful of grass from the hill and tossed it, only for the wind to blow it straight back at him. “It would have been nice to get some instructions!” he yelled to the dragon god as he wiped dirt and grass from his face.
Does a baby bird receive instructions the first time it tries to fly?
Lucyan frowned. That had sounded like his voice…and yet, the words weren’t his. Had the dragon god spoken to him? Or had that bit of snark come from his subconscious?
In any case, he didn’t see how that was relevant—birds relied on instinct, which was why they needed little instruction to get airborne. And yet…was that what Lucyan was missing? Was he not listening to his instincts? Or was the problem that there was nothing for his instincts to respond to?
How was Drystan able to change in the first place? Lucyan thought back to that time. Their father had slammed him into the wall with his tail. Lucyan’s ribs twinged with phantom pain at the memory. Just before he
’d lost consciousness, he’d seen Drystan’s eyes flare red with shock and anger, and then…
He hadn’t actually seen his brother change. The darkness had taken him before it had happened. But Drystan had been angry, filled with hate and fear because Lucyan had been injured. Necessity had spurred him to change, to face their father in battle before he destroyed them all.
Closing his eyes, Lucyan focused his attention not inward, not on his desire to change, but on his desire to have Dareena back, safe and sound in his arms. He pictured her sweet, smiling face in his mind, then imagined it morphing, changing to grief and fear. She screamed his name as a pair of elven hands wrapped around her upper arms, dragging her away—
Lucyan snarled as fire flared in his chest, burning hot and bright as rage consumed him. He channeled that energy into his all-consuming need to save Dareena, to rescue her from the cruel bastards who had taken her away and burn their enemies to cinders. Something inside him snapped, and pain rippled through flesh and bone as his body stretched and changed, becoming something far bigger and stronger. Wings sprouted from his shoulder blades, scales popped up from beneath his skin, and his jaw elongated and filled with far more teeth than he could ever remember having.
By the gods. He opened his eyes, and suddenly he could see. He zoomed in on a coyote chasing after a rodent, both animals clear as day despite only a sliver of moon hanging in the sky to illuminate his surroundings. He could count the individual blades of grass through the night sky, see the currents drifting in the air around him—his wings flexed instinctively, wanting to catch the updraft, and without further thought he launched himself into the darkness.
He managed to jump about thirty feet in the air with a powerful bound and snapped his wings out. The wind buffered them, and he coasted for a bit, relying on his instincts to read the current. His heart pounded as he pushed himself higher, his blood singing with exhilaration as cloud mist brushed over his scales. He was really doing this! He was flying!
After only a few minutes, his wings burned from the strain. He coasted to the ground, landing only a few hundred yards from where he began. Panting, he tucked his wings against his sides, then craned his neck to get a good look at himself. The moonlight shimmered over his scales, a brilliant red-orange, as if each scale held a flame within itself. Stretching, he preened a bit—he’d look magnificent to anyone who could see him.
Magnificently useless, so long as you’re in Elvenhame.
Lucyan huffed. True, he couldn’t use his wings or dragon fire to break into Castle Whitestone. But he would eventually figure out a way to worm past the castle’s defenses. And in the meantime, there was no reason he shouldn’t hone his flying skills. With that thought, Lucyan flexed his wings and launched himself into the air again.
Drystan might have been the first to shift, but Lucyan intended to be the first one to master the sky so he could carry their beloved mate home.
22
Dareena spent the next few days studying the elven books she’d taken from the library and practicing magic every second she had. Which turned out to be quite a lot, as she had nowhere special to be. Princess Basilla liked to stop in at lunch to check in on her, the servants brought Dareena her meals, and Mari, the maid, came every morning and night to dress and undress her, but aside from that, she saw no one. She half-expected Arolas to come back to her room and accost her, but the prince was nowhere to be found.
Likely bossing around his soldiers, she thought, and not without bitterness. Oh, if only Ryolas were still in charge! Dareena had never met the younger prince, but if Tariana was smitten with him he had to be a noble man. He never would have separated her from Alistair.
“My lady?” Mari knocked on the door, startling Dareena. The clock on the wall told her it was barely four, far too early for the maid to come. Hastily, she shoved the books beneath her pillows, then smoothed the bedspread.
“Come in!” she called, and Mari opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
Mari bustled in. “The royal family wishes you to dine with them tonight.”
Dareena’s eyes latched onto the shimmering teal dress hung over her maid’s arm—it wasn’t one of hers. Who had sent it?
“I’m to get you ready.”
Dareena’s palms grew sweaty at the idea of sitting down to a meal with her captors. “Is Prince Arolas back?” she asked, rising from the bed so Mari could help her out of her day dress.
“He is.” Mari hesitated. “You should try not to provoke him this time if you can help it, my lady. He was quite furious after your last…encounter.”
Dareena bit her lip. She remembered quite well how angry Arolas was after she’d slapped him and called him an insolent pig—he looked ready to strike her himself, and might have done so if Princess Basilla hadn’t come storming into the room, in a towering rage herself. The royal siblings had argued fiercely about Arolas’s decision to jail Alistair, and had taken the conversation out of Dareena’s room, to her mingled disappointment and relief. Basilla had come to her the next day and apologized for not being able to stop it—she had no power to challenge Arolas’s decisions, and he would not listen to her no matter how insistent her arguments.
Gods, would she be able to sit across the table from him and keep a pleasant smile on her face while he leered at her? She knew he wanted to bed her—apparently his hatred of dragons did not extend to her body, or perhaps it was a gesture of dominance. After all, if he could successfully bed the dragon king’s mate, that meant he was more powerful, didn’t it?
Please, a voice in her head sneered. Any one of my mates could crush him like the cockroach he is if not for this awful spell.
Dareena allowed her mind to drift as Mari dressed and coiffed her, curling her mass of dark hair and fixing it atop her head with sparkling pins. The dress fit her like a glove, and as Dareena finally looked at herself in the mirror, a shiver crawled down her spine. Had Arolas ordered it for her? Had he imagined peeling her out of it afterward? The very thought made her nearly lose her appetite, and she swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat.
“There.” Mari smoothed out a non-existent wrinkle in her gown. “You look ready to eat.”
“Do you mean I look like I am ready to go eat, or that I look like I am ready to be eaten?” Dareena asked wryly.
Mari laughed. “Can it be both?”
Shaking her head, Dareena pushed all thoughts of Arolas out of her mind, and as the guards escorted her to the dining room, she imagined she was going to have dinner with her mates instead of the elves. The brothers would love seeing her in this dress—it flattered her figure perfectly, the bodice lifting her ample bosom and highlighting her small waist before it flared out into voluminous skirts. Her heart warmed as she imagined the hungry looks in their eyes as they debated between devouring the food on their plates or devouring her. But then, was there really a reason they couldn’t do both? A smile curved her lips at the thought.
“My lady.” The guard’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. “We’re here.”
The warm tingles that had spread through Dareena’s blood vanished as the door to the dining room opened and she laid eyes on the royal family. King Andur sat at the head of the table, with Arolas and Basilla at his elbows. Relief flooded through her as she noticed the empty seat to Basilla’s left—Lady Valenhall was seated next to Arolas, and at the foot of the table sat a dark-haired man Dareena had never seen before.
“Lady Dareena,” the king said as they all rose from their seats. Dareena inclined her head, trying to be gracious even though all she wanted to do was rush out of the room. “It’s a pleasure for you to join us.”
“Indeed,” the duchess said as Dareena opened her mouth to respond. “You’re just in time—another few minutes and surely I would have fainted from hunger.”
“Perhaps if I had been given advance notice, you wouldn’t be made to suffer so, Lady Valenhall,” Dareena said coolly as she took her seat. The duchess’s eyes sparkled with a
nnoyance, and the man at the other end of the table raised his eyebrows. But Dareena didn’t care—let them think what they would. They already believed her to be a harlot. What more damage could she do?
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” she said to the man as servants set plates of salad in front of them.
“How rude of us,” Arolas drawled. Dareena forced herself to meet his gaze even though he made her skin crawl. “Lady Dareena, this is Count Silus Kianor, envoy from Shadowhaven’s court and a trusted friend. Count Kianor, this is Lady Dareena Sellis, the Dragon’s Gift. Or should it be All Dragons’ Gift?” His lips curled into a cruel smirk.
“Arolas!” Basilla snapped.
“No, that’s all right,” Dareena said coolly, picking up her utensil. She forked up a bite of salad and looked straight into Arolas’s eyes. “I do have quite an appetite,” she said before putting the fork in her mouth.
The atmosphere in the room turned awkward, even as Arolas’s smirk turned downright smug. “Whatever arrangement you have with the dragon brothers is none of our concern,” the duchess said in a clear attempt to wrangle the conversation back within the borders of propriety. “So long as your country agrees to our demands.”
Dareena swallowed a retort. “I have no reason to believe that my mates won’t cooperate,” she said, “unless they hear of how terribly you’ve treated Alistair. Do you know he rots in the dungeons below even now, like a common prisoner?” Dareena leaned forward, pinning the duchess with a fierce look. “You promised we would be treated like guests. Does the word of an elf mean so little?”
The duchess stiffened. “I had not heard of this mistreatment,” she said defensively, turning to Arolas. “Is this true?”
“It is,” Arolas said, “and I see no reason not to leave him there. Spending a few days in the dungeon is the least any of the dragons deserve after all they’ve put our country through. I care not what you promised them.”