Dragon's Blood: a Reverse Harem Fantasy Romance (The Dragon's Gift Trilogy Book 2)

by Jasmine Walt

  “Father!” Princess Basilla said, sounding scandalized. She turned to the king, who had an almost detached look on his face, as a spectator to a sport rather than a participant. “Are you really just going to sit by and do nothing while Arolas soils our good name?”

  “Don’t talk about me as if I weren’t in the room, sister,” Arolas snapped. “I am not the one behaving dishonorably. The dragons have yet to come through on their end—if they had paid the ransom by now, your little dragon friends would be free. It seems the negotiations will be protracted, though of course I could be persuaded to speed them up.” His gaze lingered on Dareena’s bosom, making her stomach twist.

  “It is very likely the dragons are stalling in a bid for time,” the count said, his deep voice smooth as the surface of a dark lake. He stroked his beard as he considered Dareena. “Rumor has it that the entire fortune of the dragon kingdom was stolen away by Dragomir, and that his sons are searching for it as we speak. But it is unlikely they will recover it—the former king may be mad, but he is still the stronger dragon. I doubt they will be able to pay even a fraction of the ransom.”

  “I don’t know anything about that—”

  Arolas pounded his fist on the table before she could finish her sentence, sloshing their wine glasses.

  “How dare these pathetic beasts toy with us, as if we are not to be taken seriously!” His face turned red as he bared his teeth, and Dareena flinched as his angry gaze clashed with hers. “If your ‘mates’ insist on playing games,” he hissed, “then perhaps I need to give them an incentive to take us more seriously. Guards!” He snapped his fingers. “Bring the dragon prince here.”

  “Arolas,” the king said, stirring from his stupor for what seemed like the first time. “Is this really the right time?”

  “Yes, really?” Basilla interjected, her face pinched with anger. “Can we not enjoy a meal every once in a while without you making a spectacle of some sort?” She looked like she wanted to rake her nails across Arolas’s face, and Dareena couldn’t blame her. Similar thoughts were going through her head, even as part of her was excited to see Alistair’s face again. She hoped he hadn’t fared too badly in the oubliette.

  The servants brought out the next course—poached salmon—as if nothing were amiss. Dareena couldn’t even bring herself to pick at the food—she watched the door anxiously, waiting for the guards to come back. To be fair, she wasn’t the only one not in the mood to eat. Basilla looked downright mutinous, and the duchess looked a bit uncomfortable, taking small bites of her food as she observed everyone at the table.

  “So,” Count Kianor said, breaking the tension-filled silence, “Princess Basilla, have you considered Prince Mordan’s marriage proposal?”

  Basilla, incredulous, opened her mouth, no doubt intending to deliver a scathing retort. But before she could, the door opened. Dareena and the princess gasped as Alistair was dragged in—his wrists and ankles were shackled, his clothes torn and dirty, and his matted hair hung over his face as he was hauled inside, barely able to stand upright.

  “What have you done!” Dareena cried, shooting to her feet. She tried to rush over to Alistair, but Arolas waved a hand, and a gust of air pushed her back against the wall.

  “I’d advise you to stay back,” Arolas said as he rose from his seat. Alistair finally lifted his head, and Dareena let out a breath of relief as she saw his eyes blazing—they were filled with hatred, but at least they had life in them. “You wouldn’t want to get blood all over your skirt.”

  “Wha—” Dareena began as Arolas yanked a sword from one of the guard’s sheaths. The sword gleamed in the candlelight as he swung it high, and Dareena’s heart leapt into her throat.

  “No!” she screamed in horror as he chopped off Alistair’s right arm at the elbow with a single swing. Dareena followed the arc of spraying blood with mingled shock and disbelief, and the duchess shrieked as some of it spattered her face. Alistair roared with pain as he dropped to his knees, his other arm still firmly in the second guard’s grip—the first guard was holding the severed arm, a stunned look on his face.

  This can’t be real, she thought numbly as she stared at Alistair’s bloody stump. I’ll wake up in just a moment, and all of this will be gone.

  “Box that up and send it off to his brothers, would you?” Arolas asked with a lazy wave of his hand. He smirked at Dareena as he spoke. “Make sure it is delivered promptly, and with my compliments. I wouldn’t want it to be a rotted mess when it arrives.”

  Dareena doubled over and heaved the contents of her stomach all over the carpet. Bile stung at her throat as she wretched on her hands and knees, her body shaking with grief and rage. How could Arolas do such a horrid thing? And how could she have stood by and watched it happen, without lifting a finger to stop it?

  As Dareena vomited, she was vaguely aware of the activity in the room around her. Princess Basilla rushed over to Alistair to heal the wound, the duchess was calling for aid, and the king, it seemed, had been roused from his stupor.

  “What has gotten into your head, boy?” he demanded, sounding appalled. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’m the only one who still has my mind,” Arolas retorted. “I’m doing what’s best for the kingdom, Father.”

  “You have gone too far!” the king shouted. “Our office made a promise that neither of these prisoners would be harmed, and you have broken it!”

  A servant helped Dareena to her feet. She took the glass of water he offered and drained it, then clutched it in her hand, wondering if she could use it as a weapon against Arolas. If she broke it, perhaps she could stab the shards into his neck.

  Shaking, Dareena forced herself to look at Alistair. He lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood, unconscious, but thankfully Basilla seemed to have healed the wound itself. Shame flooded over Dareena—she should have been the one helping him, and instead she’d let Basilla take care of it while she fell apart. What kind of mate was she?

  “Thank you,” Dareena croaked as Basilla rose, the skirt of her off-white dress covered in blood. Dareena moved toward her, then stopped, a warning tingle running down her spine. The princess’s eyes had turned milky white, and there was a slack look on her face as she turned to Arolas.

  “Prince Arolas of Erethar, son of the House of Aelosham,” Basilla boomed in a voice that was most definitely not her own, “you have brought great shame and dishonor upon your family, and upon the office whose power you wield.”

  “G-goddess,” Arolas stammered, sinking to his knees. Everyone else in the room followed suit, even Dareena and the count—Shalia might not have been their god, but it was never wise to be anything less than deferential to a deity. “It was not my intention to commit any harm against our people.”

  “And yet you have,” the goddess said coldly. “By breaking your word, you have forsworn yourselves—I cannot protect you from the dragon god’s retaliation. King Andur,” she said, and the king jerked as she pinned him with her white gaze, “your eldest son is not fit to be your successor. I suggest you name either Ryolas or Basilla as your heir and remove your youngest son from the dungeons. It is clear you have put the wrong one there.”

  Basilla’s eyes flickered back to green as the goddess left her. She stared down at Arolas in shock. “By the gods,” she said, her voice faint with shock. “That was the last thing I suspected.”

  “You bitch!” Arolas shot to his feet. “Playing horrid tricks like that! I’ll have you beaten for daring to speak such blasphemy!”

  He lunged for her, but the guards grabbed him, wrestling him away from Basilla. “That’s quite enough,” King Andur said firmly. “Guards, take him away.”

  “What?” Arolas’s eyes bugged out of his head as the guards clapped restraints on him. “You can’t do this to me, Father! I am your son!”

  “Bring back Ryolas while you’re at it,” Basilla ordered, ignoring her brother. “After all, our goddess commanded it, did she not?”

  The guar
ds nodded, wide-eyed. They dragged the protesting Arolas away, careful not to step on Alistair, who was still passed out on the floor. Dareena rushed over to him and sank to the ground beside him, taking his left hand in hers. Oh gods…his poor arm…

  “Don’t worry.” Basilla put a soothing hand on Dareena’s shoulder. “We’ll get him back to your rooms and resting up nicely in no time.” She turned to face the king. “Father, in light of the goddess’s commands about choosing either Ryolas or me as a successor, I refuse the match with the warlock prince. I do not believe such a union would be pleasing to our goddess.”

  “You can’t do that,” Count Kianor protested, looking alarmed for the first time. He barely batted an eye when Alistair’s arm was severed, which speaks volumes about him, Dareena thought as she fumed. “This alliance was already promised!”

  “I’m afraid this matter must be reviewed,” the king said firmly, quashing further protest. “Count Kianor, I think it would be best if you returned to your own house for some time. It is clear that we have much to sort out before we can make any kind of decision about furthering our alliance.”

  “Very well,” the count said stiffly. He rose from his chair and left, his robes swirling about him as he stalked out the door. Dareena was glad to see the back of him—after all that had happened, she knew a warlock could be nothing but trouble, and besides, she was happy that Basilla had finally found a reason to escape that horrible betrothal. Even so, Dareena had a feeling they were not done with the warlocks yet. Even if they’d bought themselves a little reprieve, it was more imperative than ever that she find a way to get them out of here once and for all.

  23

  “That will be three silvers,” Lucyan said as he placed an entire set of cooking pans on the makeshift counter at the rear of the wagon. He held out a hand for the coins, all the while burying a sigh. Part of him wanted to be out in the hills, practicing his flying, but to do so during the day, when anyone could see him, was folly. Besides, he needed to keep an ear to the ground so he could catch any bit of news about the goings-on of the castle; there was always a chance that an opportunity to sneak in would present itself, and Lucyan damn well wasn’t going to miss it.

  Lucyan completed the transaction with the woman, then did a quick count of the till. “There’s a good lad,” the tinkerer said, ambling around the cart. He patted Lucyan heartily on the back. “My sales have doubled since I started traveling with you—you are quite a good salesman. Perhaps I shall keep you around permanently!”

  Lucyan chuckled. “I’m afraid the gods have different plans for me,” he said. The tinkerer was a good fellow—he’d even offered Lucyan a commission on his sales, which Lucyan had politely refused—but Lucyan far preferred the company of his brothers, not to mention their mate.

  “Mr. Haveshamer!” an elven girl called, running toward them. She looked about thirteen—though as an elf, she was probably twice that age—with long, braided black hair and a pretty face with skin the color of fresh milk. “Mother told me you were back in town!”

  “Naleena,” the tinkerer cried jovially, wrapping her in a quick embrace. “You’ve grown a bit since the last time I’ve seen you.” He held her out at arm’s length.

  “A whole inch,” she said proudly. “Last year I only grew half as much. It’s very exciting, though not nearly as exciting as the news this morning!”

  “News?” Lucyan interjected, his instincts humming. “What news?” It was still early in the morning, and they hadn’t heard much.

  “Oh, it’s just beginning to make the rounds—the castle folk have been trying to keep it quiet, but of course they can’t keep such a secret locked away forever.” The girl lowered her voice conspiratorially. “The word is that Prince Arolas lost his mind last night. He heard that Dragonfell has been stalling on the negotiations, and in a fury, he took a sword to the dragon prince they have as a hostage.”

  “A sword?” Lucyan demanded. “What are you saying? That the prince stabbed him?” Fire began to build in his chest, and he had to dampen his anger—the last thing he needed was for smoke to start billowing out of his nose. That would blow his cover for certain.

  “Well, it’s not clear what happened,” the girl said, a troubled look on her face. “Some say he was stabbed in the chest, others say his legs were chopped off, and one person even said that Prince Arolas used a knife to peel the skin off the dragon prince’s face.” She shuddered. “I know the dragons are the enemy, but I can’t help feeling pity for him. No one knows if he even survived the assault.”

  “Excuse me,” Lucyan said, barely able to choke out the words. He briskly strode away, ignoring the tinkerer as he called after him. The fire was burning hot and bright in his chest now; if Lucyan stayed to hear the rest of what the girl had to say, he would lose it completely.

  How is this possible? he fumed, storming up the hill toward the castle without being consciously aware of where his feet were taking him. The other pedestrians took one good look at his face and crossed to the opposite side of the street. The elves had promised that his brother and mate were to be treated like guests and that no harm would come to them. Rage boiled his blood, and his tendons stretched with the beginnings of the change. He wanted to shift right now and launch himself at the castle so he could burn those treacherous elves to a crisp with the fire blazing inside him.

  But he could not do that, for the same reason that he could not practice flying in broad daylight. If there was a chance the guards were wielding the stupid warlock magic that had brought down so many of his sisters, he couldn’t risk an assault on the castle. So Lucyan forced himself to take deep breaths until his heart slowed to a manageable level, his mind no longer quite so clouded by anger and grief.

  What if Alistair wasn’t dead? After all, these were just rumors, and dragons were notoriously difficult to kill. If Arolas had indeed stabbed him with a sword, Alistair was no doubt in bad shape—the anti-dragon spell would prevent him from healing. But he could still be alive, and if he was hanging on, even by a thread, Lucyan needed to help him.

  Mind made up, Lucyan asked for directions to the nearest apothecary and tailor. Armed with a handful of coins, he bought a dark coat, tinted spectacles, a hat, a large leather bag, and a number of potions, poultices, and bandages. On its own, the disguise would hardly be sufficient, but coupled with the illusion charm, Lucyan managed to pass it off.

  “Excuse me,” he said, approaching the castle gate. The guards turned to look at him, their gazes wary—Lucyan imagined the entire staff was a bit shook up after hearing their general had lost his marbles. He hoped Arolas had at least been taken to task by the High King, though with Lucyan’s luck lately, he wasn’t holding his breath.

  “I’m sorry, but no humans are allowed through the gates, by order of the king,” the guard said.

  “What about a dragon doctor?” Lucyan asked, straightening to his full height and doing his best to look self-important. “I’m Doctor Otho Harrigan. I’ve heard that you have an injured dragon within these walls, and I’ve come to offer my services. Unless your king doesn’t mind if a political hostage dies on his watch?”

  The guards exchanged glances. “What do you mean, you’re a dragon doctor?” the second guard asked suspiciously. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “I spent a good five years of my life serving at the pleasure of Dragonfell’s royal family before I packed up and moved here,” Lucyan said proudly. “You wouldn’t believe how many cases of scale rot I’ve had to treat, amongst other issues. If the prince is truly ailing, I may be able to help him.”

  “How do we know you’re not a Dragonfell spy sent here to break the dragons out?”

  Lucyan snorted. “Do I look like I’m capable of such antics?” he asked, holding his bag open for the guards to inspect. “There are no weapons in here—only healing potions and supplies. Check my pockets if you wish—I have nothing to hide.”

  The guards did, patting him down thoroughly, but all they found
was the amulet and the charm, which looked like simple jewelry. “Wait here,” the first guard said, leading Lucyan into the guardhouse just inside the gate. “We’ll speak to the steward and see if your services are needed.”

  Lucyan settled into a chair to wait. He did his best to look bored, though inside, he was filled with nervous excitement. The plan was working thus far—he hadn’t been turned away yet! With any luck, the elves would agree to let him see Alistair. If Lucyan could get the amulet around his neck, Alistair might just be able to heal himself if he was given enough time.

  Then again, Lucyan thought darkly, the elves might not want to help my brother. If they suspected that Dragonfell would not be able to pay the ransom, there was no reason to keep Alistair alive, or Dareena, for that matter. Fear coursed through him, turning his skin cold despite the warm weather. Gods, he hoped that scouting party would find his father’s lair soon so they could recover the treasure. Alistair would be a devastating loss, but Lucyan didn’t think he would be able to stand it if anything happened to Dareena. He and his brothers had a responsibility to protect the kingdom and clean up after their father, but Dareena was blameless in all of this. She did not deserve to be cooped up in a foreign castle and treated like a prisoner, and if she died, Lucyan didn’t think he would be able to live with himself.

  The door to the guardhouse opened, and Lucyan sat up straighter as the guard from earlier came in. “Come, Doctor Harrigan,” he said briskly. “The Princess Basilla would like to meet you.”

  “Of course.” Lucyan got to his feet and hid the triumphant smile threatening to curve his mouth. He followed the guard through a side entrance into the castle, up two flights of stairs, and into an elegant office appointed in shades of pale pink and gold.

  “Princess Basilla,” the guard said. “This is Doctor Otho Harrigan, the man I told you about.”