by Jasmine Walt
The caravan’s horses were spooked, so he took off with another flap of his wings. Bloody bandits, he grumbled to himself. The fact they roamed freely was only more evidence that Dragonfell was slipping—he must do something about these outlaws as soon as he had a spare moment.
As the Black Mountains loomed closer, Drystan banked left, heading where the scouts had reported sighting a large dragon several times. He spotted several scouts with his keen eyes as he passed, and wished that he could communicate with them—hopefully the sight of him would warn them to stay back. The last thing he wanted was any of them getting in the way in a confrontation with his father.
He landed on the side of one of the mountaintops to give his wings a rest. As he sat there, breathing in the fresh, chilly air, the wind shifted, and he caught the metallic tang of a familiar scent.
Gold.
Excitement rushed through Drystan’s veins, and he craned his neck, nostrils flaring wide. The scent seemed to be coming from the east, so he took off again, gliding on the currents as he followed it. The scent grew stronger with each mountain peak he passed, and just when he felt like he was right on top of it, he spied a cave several hundred feet below.
Tucking his wings into his sides, Drystan dove, his snout pointed straight toward the valley below. The wind whistled shrilly in his ears as he plummeted, his heart galloping, and a few seconds later, he snapped his wings out. Muscles and tendons burned with strain as they caught the updraft, and he coasted toward the ledge just outside the cave. From this distance, he could smell his father quite clearly, though he wasn’t certain if he was in the cave or had left recently.
Drystan landed on the ledge as softly as he could manage. Nevertheless, his claws dislodged some of the rocks, and he stiffened as they went clattering down the mountainside. Tense, he approached the mouth of the cave, his senses on high alert. But Dragomir did not seem to be about—if he was, he would have attacked already.
By the gods, Drystan thought as he crept farther into the cave. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dimmer light, allowing him to see the mountains of gold and jewels piled inside, arranged around a small clearing scattered with animal bones where Dragomir likely slept. Chests and trunks peeked out between the piles, no doubt filled with valuables, and Drystan wondered if he could manage to smuggle one or two out. It wouldn’t be enough to pay off the elves, but perhaps he could offer them to the council to mollify them. Maybe if they had something shiny to fill their coffers, they would be less miffed about the tax break he’d given to the soldiers and more inclined to back his next proposal.
Drystan was just deciding which trunk to pick when the whoosh of flapping wings gripped him in fear. He whirled about as his father approached, a dead sheep clutched in his claws. He grabbed one of the trunks and rushed for the entrance, hoping to clear it before Dragomir landed, but his father roared, filling the entire cavern with flames. Drystan’s hide was fireproof, but the blast stunned and blinded him before he could make the jump. The ground thudded as Dragomir landed, and he roared again, the sound filled with rage. Drystan’s heart sank as their eyes met—there was absolutely no recognition in them, no hint of the man who had raised him.
Father? he tried, pushing the thought toward him. He’d learned from a young age that dragons could speak to each other telepathically when in dragon form if they were in close proximity—Tariana and his sisters did so often, and the skill was invaluable during battle. Father, please! It’s Drystan.
Dragomir merely thrashed his tail, a warning for Drystan to drop the trunk. Drystan only clutched it tighter—he refused to leave empty-handed. He gathered his legs beneath him, preparing to jump over his father’s left shoulder and make a break for the exit, but Dragomir tossed the sheep aside and sprang at him, his maw wide open. Drystan dodged to the side, but his father’s claws raked his underbelly, sending fiery trails of pain through him. Blood spewed through the air as Drystan twisted away, but maneuverability was hard in the small space that was barely large enough to hold one dragon, let alone two.
The sight and smell of blood only seemed to egg Dragomir on—he roared again as he tackled Drystan, and this time he clamped his jaw around Drystan’s throat. Drystan roared in agony as Dragomir’s fangs dug deep—this part of his hide was well protected, but if he let his father hold on any longer, he would puncture a hole in Drystan’s throat. Desperate, Drystan kicked forward with both hind legs, planting them in Dragomir’s mid-section. It wasn’t enough to propel the larger dragon back, but it did get him to open his mouth, and Drystan quickly took advantage of the moment and shoved the trunk down his throat.
Dragomir reared back, choking. More fire spewed from his throat as he attempted to incinerate the blockage, and Drystan scrambled from the mouth of the cave, then launched himself into the air. He didn’t dare make a grab for any more of the gold—he might have delayed his father for a few moments, but he would come after Drystan with fury if he took even a single gold coin.
Bloody dragon sickness, Drystan fumed as he flew away. It was a disease of the mind, and made dragons greedy, unable to part with a single piece of their hoard. If Drystan wanted to wrest the treasure back from his father, he was going to need a much better plan.
Hurry back, Lucyan, he said as he headed back to the castle. Perhaps if his brothers returned and all three of them could shift, they stood a chance of bringing down their father together. That had been the original plan, and though Drystan did not want to harm their father, he was beginning to worry that patricide might be the only option if they were to regain control over their kingdom.
27
“Come on,” Dareena muttered under her breath as she summoned more energy to her fingertips. “You can do it!”
Sparks snapped and popped around her hand as she willed the magic to take the shape in her mind’s eye. The glowing white energy unfurled, and her heart jumped in excitement as it elongated into a whip. Flicking her wrist, she made it snake through the air before coiling back to wrap around her wrist. Though the energy didn’t hurt her, she knew from the scorch marks in her bedroom that they could burn, which was why she’d found an empty storage room to practice.
Dareena flicked the whip back and forth a dozen times before it flickered, the power failing. She extinguished the magic, then wiped the sweat from her brow, feeling satisfied. Each time she summoned the whip, she could wield it for longer and longer periods. No, she might not be able to kill a guard with it, especially not an armored one, but she could certainly hurt and stun them if needed. After Lucyan had left, Dareena had gone to the library to find a book on offensive magic. She had discovered a wide variety of techniques one could use to hurt, maim, or kill enemies. Most of them were beyond Dareena’s skill level, but there was one called “exploding eardrums” that she longed to try. The theory seemed simple enough, though of course she wouldn’t know how easy it was without an enemy to try it out on, and she didn’t dare practice on the guards.
Worn out, Dareena returned to her room to freshen up before lunch. She had planned on eating with Alistair today, but a messenger arrived as she was about to go look in on him, informing her that Princess Basilla had invited her to have lunch in her private sitting room. Dareena wasn’t entirely certain she was up for it, but she could not refuse after Basilla had given her so much help and support. She followed the messenger to the princess’s suite.
“How is Alistair doing?” Basilla asked as they repasted on fish soup with thick brown bread and butter. “I imagine you’ve been snuggling with him to keep his strength up?” she added with a saucy smile.
Dareena laughed a little. “You’ve got us all figured out,” she said. “He is doing much better after that healing.”
“Good.” Basilla swallowed a spoonful of soup. “Count Kianor has departed for Shadowhaven, thank the goddess. I expected him to be in a sour mood, but I’m told he left in great haste, almost as if he was excited about something. I can’t imagine why he would be in any great hurry to tell his kin
g that I’ve refused the match with his son.”
“It may have nothing to do with your rejection,” Dareena said. If the warlocks were truly behind this war, anything that made them happy could not be good for either Dragonfell or Elvenhame. “My mates and I suspect the warlocks were responsible for killing their mother, my predecessor. We found a warlock spell that induces death in an eerily similar manner to the way she passed.”
“Really?” Basilla’s eyes widened. “Does anyone else know about this?”
“My mates brought it to the council, but even though King Dragomir did not dismiss the possibility, he also refused to give up on his assault against your country.” Dareena sighed. “From the way it looks, both the scroll and the fact that the warlocks have been arming your country against ours, it seems that they have a stake in seeing us at each other’s throats.”
“I wish I could say I was surprised, but our alliance with the warlocks has long been suspicious,” Basilla said. “Father seems much more himself now that Count Kianor is gone, and in light of what you just said, I can’t help but wonder if the count was responsible for his change in behavior. It started not long after he arrived, and I must say I am quite glad to be rid of him.”
“As am I,” Dareena said. Privately, she wondered if Arolas knew about the count’s meddling—he certainly had no issue taking advantage of his father’s mental state. “What’s going to happen to Arolas?” she asked. “Is he going to be charged with a crime?”
Basilla sighed. “I’m not certain, and neither are Father or the council. They are split—some believe he should be punished, while others think that his time spent in the oubliette, and being stripped of his rank as general, is punishment enough. My brother may be a foul individual, but he is smart, and has made friends in high places.”
Dareena’s heart sank. “I really hope he doesn’t get out anytime soon,” she said. “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
Basilla nodded. “I fear what will happen to Ryolas once he is released,” she said. “I was going to pay him a visit after our meal. Would you like to come with me?”
“Yes, please.” She was anxious to meet the foreign prince who, in concert with Tariana, had done so much for her country.
The two women finished their meal quickly, then went to visit Ryolas. His rooms were just up the hall from Basilla’s, with two guards posted outside. Dareena was relieved when they let them pass without question—it saddened her that Ryolas was under house arrest when he had done nothing wrong, but at least he wasn’t barred from visitors.
“Good afternoon, sister,” Ryolas said with a smile, sitting up as they entered his bedroom. He was a striking elf, so similar in coloring and features to his sister that Dareena wondered if they were twins. He looked a bit ill, his skin and hair lackluster, his eyes shadowed with fatigue, but otherwise not bad for a man who had just recently been a prisoner. “Who is your friend?”
“This is Dareena, the Dragon’s Gift,” Basilla said as they stopped by his bedside. “I thought you might like to meet her in person.”
Ryolas’s eyes widened. “I would indeed!” He pushed back the covers and attempted to leave the bed. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” he began, then gripped the wall when he stumbled.
“Please, Prince Ryolas, there is no need to stand on my account,” Dareena said, holding up her hands. “I’m sure after spending all that time chained up, your body needs a bit more rest.” She eyed his wrists, which were an angry red color—from what she understood, he’d been shackled for quite some time, which was cruel for an elf.
“Very well,” Ryolas relented, allowing Basilla to help him back to bed. “How is Prince Alistair faring? Basilla told me all about that nasty business with his arm.” His eyes darkened with anger. “Throwing Arolas into the dungeon is far too paltry a punishment. He should have something chopped off in return.”
Dareena cocked her head. “Your brother seems quite different from the two of you,” she said. “Why is that?”
“He was the only child of our father’s first wife,” Basilla explained, “so he is really our half-brother. The king has been unlucky with his wives—Arolas’s mother died in childbirth, and ours died soon after she brought me into the world.”
“I’m sorry,” Dareena said, feeling a pang of pity as sadness crossed the princess’s face. “I too have lost my parents, and I was old enough to remember them when they were gone. So I know your pain.”
Basilla put an arm around her, a show of solidarity and sisterhood that warmed Dareena’s heart.
“Has Father come to see you yet?” Basilla asked her brother.
Ryolas shook his head. “I sent word to him asking for an audience, but he hasn’t responded yet,” he said. “I imagine he is not ready to face me yet, even knowing that the elven goddess still holds me in her favor.” His lips twitched. “I must say, Basilla, I am surprised to hear that. I would have thought she would be angry with me for consorting with a dragon princess.”
“Perhaps Shalia is just as eager for this terrible feud to be over as we are,” Basilla suggested. “She was very displeased with Arolas’s actions, and I sensed she was not very happy about Count Kianor’s presence either.” A troubled look crossed Basilla’s face. “Dareena thinks that the warlocks have been pitting us against the dragons, and vice versa, and I am inclined to believe it.”
Ryolas nodded. “I have had my suspicions about that as well,” he said. “It was why I arranged to meet with the dragon brothers. I wanted to plant the idea in their minds and force them to dig deeper into the matter of their mother’s death. Since we did not kill her, and the dragons would not have done such a thing themselves, the warlocks are the logical suspect. I will speak to Father about this, once I manage to convince him I am not the enemy.”
Basilla checked the clock on the wall. “I cannot stay much longer,” she said, taking Ryolas’s hand, “but please, Ryo, be careful. Sleep with a knife under your pillow. Maybe even bring one of the dogs in to watch over you. Arolas may not be out of prison yet, but he is not powerless. He has supporters and friends who are more than happy to further his agenda.”
“Believe me, sister,” Ryolas said grimly, “now that I am free, the last thing I intend is to end up under Arolas’s thumb again. I will take the necessary precautions.”
“Good.”
They stayed a few minutes longer before bidding Ryolas goodbye. Ryolas told Dareena to let Alistair know he’d asked after him—apparently, the two of them had bonded a bit while stuck in the oubliette together. Dareena wondered if perhaps Lucyan had been premature in his decision that the younger elven prince was out of danger. She prayed to the gods, dragon and otherwise, that Ryolas would come out of this on top, and that Arolas would get what he deserved. But somehow, in her heart, she had a feeling that the gods had other plans she would not like once they came to pass.
28
Later that night, as Alistair curled his body around Dareena and inhaled her sweet scent, he wished he could leave the confines of his room. Try as he might, he could not sleep—his mind was too busy chewing on questions, and after spending so much time in bed, his body was not tired. Lucyan’s amulet had really done the trick—he’d felt good as new when he’d given it back, and as Dareena had spent most of her time cuddling with him, he barely felt the effects of the anti-dragon spell.
He should be doing something useful. Figuring out a way to escape, not lying about as if he were on holiday. For fuck’s sake, he was trapped in enemy territory, and his brother was holed up in an inn waiting for them so they could go home and fix their kingdom!
Alistair lifted his right arm to wrap it around Dareena’s waist, then cursed when he remembered it was no longer there. Gritting his teeth, he looked down at the remaining limb—he had to give it to Arolas, the elf had damn fine swordsmanship. The cut was clean, sliced off neatly at the elbow joint. He could almost admire it if it hadn’t been his arm.
He hoped Lucyan was right, that
he would be able to heal this fully once he shifted for the first time. Otherwise, Alistair would likely have to give up swordsmanship.
“Your thoughts are so loud I can hear them in my sleep,” Dareena murmured, turning in his embrace.
Her sleepy gaze searched his face, and Alistair couldn’t help smiling at her. Whatever his circumstances, he was damn lucky to have her by his side.
“I’m sorry,” Alistair murmured. He cupped the side of her face, stroking her soft cheek with his thumb. She was his to love, his to protect…but so far, he had not done a very good job on either account. “I wish I could relax, but I’ve been idle too long. If there is a way to escape this place, we should do it now while I still have my strength.”
“Agreed,” Dareena said. “But how?”
“I’ve been wondering if Princess Basilla might be willing to help us,” Alistair said. “She seems sympathetic, and quite fond of you. If she could at least get us some disguises, perhaps some servants’ clothing, we might be able to sneak out of here.”
Dareena shook her head. “I won’t put her in that position,” she said, “and we don’t have to. I took the liberty of filching some items from the laundry room.”
“Really?” Alistair grinned at the devilish sparkle in Dareena’s eyes. “And when were you going to tell me about that?”
“When the time came for us to make our great escape, of course.” She gave him a teasing smile. “With me as the brains and you as the brawn, we might just be able to make this work.”
“Do you think you can do something about the guard outside?” Alistair asked. “I could take care of him with my brawn, but that might draw attention to us.”