Dragons Realm

by Tessa Dawn

  She stared beyond the heavy regal canopy out at the bustling encampment—with all its scurrying soldiers, nervous horses, and crudely erected tents—and endeavored to fix her gaze on the dark blue waters of the northern sea. Indeed, it was as restless as the camp. She dug her toes into the sand, reveling in the feel of the soft, warm granules as they tickled the heel of her foot, and she sighed.

  She couldn’t believe she was here.

  Standing at the back of an enormous, magisterial tent, beneath the flag of Castle Umbras.

  As a child, her dreams had been so simple, her desires so easy to define: She had loved to plant tulips in the fall and await their colorful blooms in early spring; she had envisioned getting married one day, perhaps to Matthias Gentry, and filling the chapel with the same lovely flowers that grew in the garden. She had imagined a family and a simple life, and she had cherished her life in Arns with her family. It all seemed like a lifetime ago—just a fanciful childhood story in the pages of an ephemeral book—a fleeting castle built in the sand, washed away by a tide of indifference, by all the cold, lonely years lived at the Keep.

  She absently smoothed her skirts as she brought her attention back to the present, swallowed the bitter pill of her new reality, and surveyed the upheaval before her.

  Here she was…

  Surrounded by shadow-walkers and Umbrasian soldiers, supernatural servants of the Realm, who averted their eyes when she passed by, genuflected when they spoke, and pretended as if her role was something sacred. If she didn’t know better, she would almost feel like royalty, someone of great importance and stature.

  Oh, but she knew better.

  Damian had made her true position crystal clear.

  In truth, each and every fighter on the beach was loyal to Prince Damian—and Prince Damian, alone. Their only job was to serve their master, and if their master included his new Sklavos Ahavi in that obligation, then so be it. But make no mistake; they would slay her where she stood if the prince commanded it.

  Dismissing the morbid thought, Mina spun around to nod at a maidservant who had been hovering behind her for the last ten minutes, gawking at Mina like she held the secrets of the universe in her eyes, Mina forced a congenial smile. “Daughter, would you mind giving me a little space?” The familial term meant daughter of the Realm.

  The servant girl curtsied, causing her light brown ringlets to bounce, and took two insignificant steps back, bowing her head in supplication.

  Mina bit her tongue—that wasn’t exactly what she meant. Shaking her head in frustration, she tried to ignore the servant girl’s presence as she bustled around the room, unpacked several items from her trunk, and placed them in a heavy armoire. It was mindless work and a stupid necessity—the fact that so many accessories had been brought to the beach and stored in the tent, just a mile away from a bloody battle.

  Just the same, she could use the distraction.

  She needed a moment to think.

  Mina was trying desperately to hold it all together. She wanted to take each and every horrific event, all the madness from the last twelve hours, and lock it away somewhere safe in her mind. She could always retrieve the details later, when she was better equipped to look at it…to think about it…to feel it.

  Her stomach clenched as her mind failed to obey her directive, as thoughts of Matthias and his hideous death stole into her consciousness like a thief in the night: the fact that he had been sacrificed to such an evil, barbaric king, the fact that he had expired in such a brutal, gruesome way, the fact that he had been captured while trying to bring news of Raylea…to Mina.

  Bitter tears stung Mina’s eyes as she folded several useless sections of linen, slips to adorn Damian’s pillows, into neat little squares and struggled not to imagine what the king had done to Matthias. It was too gruesome to contemplate, too terrible to envision. Yet and still, the pain of it gnawed at her gut, and she knew she could not live with the outcome. Somehow—someway—she had to rescue Raylea. Matthias could not die in vain.

  Mina shivered and quickly donned a cloak to stave off the chill. She had no idea how to find Raylea, let alone how to stage a rescue and bring her back home, especially with Damian Dragona standing watch as her new gatekeeper.

  Heck, she didn’t even know if she would live to see the sunrise.

  Flashing back to ten o’clock that morning, she tried to recall every single detail of Matthias’s news, to put all the jumbled pieces together in her mind. She envisioned the diagram he had sketched in the dirt and rehashed the various particulars: So Margareta and Raylea had been attacked in Forest Dragon, near Devil’s Bend, more than likely by a band of roving slave-traders. The slavers were led by Rafael Bishop, the Warlochian high mage, and they would have taken Raylea to some sort of holding station, perhaps for a couple of days, before traveling west to the shadow lands—to Umbras—to sell her to a shade. That meant Raylea was being held in Damian’s division of the Realm. She was being held in Mina’s new territory.

  The Sklavos Ahavi clenched and unclenched her fists as her determination grew. A snow-white owl, perched on a nearby post, hooted three times and turned its head in her direction—a significant omen to be sure—but what did it mean? Were the hoots indicative of three major events: Raylea’s capture, Matthias’s imprisonment, and Mina’s ensuing misfortune, being given to Damian as his slave? Or did it refer to the future: three days, three months…three years?

  She sighed, having no way of discerning the meaning.

  She did not possess the gift of sight.

  “Mistress Ahavi.” The voice of the maidservant, meek and uncertain, drew Mina away from her contemplation. The girl cleared her throat, wrung her hands together nervously, and clutched at her skirts until her knuckles turned white.

  “Dear lords,” Mina observed. “What is it?”

  The maid licked her lips. “Um, I…forgive me for interrupting your space, but I was wondering…well, I was hoping…” Her voice trailed off.

  Mina relaxed her shoulders, trying to appear less intimidating. “Yes?”

  The girl tugged at her skirts again.

  “You’re going to worry the thread right out of that fabric if you’re not careful,” Mina said, trying to relax her. “Please, just take a breath and say what you have to say. I don’t bite.” Considering the current situation, the fact that they were both standing in the bedchamber of an immortal dragon prince, it was probably the wrong thing to say.

  Nonetheless, the maid curtsied with appreciation.

  Great Nuri, Mina thought, she’s so nervous.

  “Mistress Mina?”

  Mina smiled. At least she was using her name this time. “Yes,” she repeated—once again—with inordinate patience.

  “May I”—the servant looked away, her nervousness getting the best of her—“May I ask you for a favor?”

  Mina frowned. She was hardly in a position to grant well-wishes, let alone favors, to anyone, and she didn’t even know this girl. “What kind of favor, child?” She crooked her finger, bidding the girl to come closer, out of the shadows.

  The maid reclaimed the two meager steps she had surrendered when Mina had asked her for some space. “Just something…um…I know it isn’t proper, but I was just hoping—”

  “Out with it,” Mina said, hoping her voice did not reflect her growing suspicion.

  The girl nodded briskly. “My older sister, Anna; she traveled with the caravan from the commonlands to the encampment, and she’s staying with other members of our clan. Would you…could you possibly…would you be kind enough to hold her hand? Just for a moment or two.” She rushed the last words.

  Mina frowned in confusion: Would she be kind enough to hold the woman’s hand? She shook her head, dismissing the thought—first things first: “The caravan? What do you mean? What caravan? Why would commoners travel to this volatile, hazardous cove and place themselves in such grave danger? For what purpose?”

  The girl seemed to relax as if she were finally faced
with a series of questions she could clearly answer, a subject that didn’t make her squirm. “The caravan of merchants and laborers, those who have traveled to the beach to support the soldiers, to feed them, attend to their wounds, build weapons and repair apparatus, those who are here to support the armies and serve the king.”

  Mina nodded. Of course. War was more than a clash of two opposing forces on a particular battlefield. It was a multi-spiked wheel, a burgeoning enterprise, and it required the efforts of many to keep the wheel turning, not just the heroes and warriors who fought on the front lines. “Are there caravans from all the provinces?”

  “Yes, mistress,” she answered quickly. “All have something to contribute.”

  Mina bit her bottom lip, deep in thought. “I see. And so your sister—Anna—she is part of the convoy from the commonlands? What does that have to do with me? And why would she wish to hold my hand?”

  The girl shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot before twirling a lock of her light brown hair into what was surely to turn into a knot.

  “Please,” Mina encouraged, “speak freely. You don’t have to be afraid. I would never harm you in any way.”

  The girl let out an anxious sigh, and then she raised her chin. “My sister Anna has been wed for seven years now to a wonderful man, a shoemaker named Jarett, and he treats her so very well. But…” Her eyes clouded with tears. “She has suffered five horrible miscarriages, and the last one almost took her life. According to the midwives, there is no help for it, nothing they can do. The only cure for her malady is to hold the hand of a sacred, of a Sklavos Ahavi.” She genuflected with her hands. “I know it’s improper—and I really shouldn’t ask—but we just can’t bear to see Anna suffer again, and we certainly can’t bear to lose her. You see; she’s pregnant again.”

  Mina’s heart went out to the poor girl and her family. She knew all too well what it felt like to nearly lose a sister—wasn’t that why she was willing to risk her own life and well-being in order to search for Raylea? Although she had no personal belief in the ancient superstition, she understood the power of belief. She smiled softly. “What is your name?”

  “Jacine.”

  “Even if I was willing, Jacine, you do understand that it is forbidden for me to interact with any of my lord’s subjects, unless he is present, don’t you? Outside of our private guards and my personal servants—” She cleared her throat and crossed her hands neatly over her skirts to disguise her fear. “—the prince would be displeased.” She didn’t say what she really thought: And when Prince Damian is displeased, bones get crushed, virtue gets taken, and lives no longer have any value. He’s a monster.

  The look of instant disappointment and heartfelt desperation that swept over the girl’s face made Mina want to cringe. Jacine nodded slowly and swiped at a tear. “I understand,” she murmured sadly. “It was a lot for me to ask.”

  No, Mina thought, it was brave and kind…and compassionate.

  She was just about to follow up, perhaps offer some words of encouragement, offer to say a prayer on Anna’s behalf, when three Umbrasian guards sauntered by, about five yards from the rear of the tent.

  “Sir Robert Cross is here at the encampment.” One of them spoke to the others in guttural, informal Umbrasian. “He brought the latest…catch.”

  “One of Rafael Bishop’s girls? A slave or a prostitute?”

  The crude, stocky guard, the one who had spoken first, cupped his groin and cackled, casting a sidelong glance at Mina and her maidservant. “A fifteen-year-old slave, not as fancy as that one, but fresh from the market.”

  They all laughed in unison, feeling utterly confident that their words were unintelligible, that neither Mina nor her lowly maidservant could understand a single word they were saying. They couldn’t have been more wrong. Mina spoke perfect Umbrasian in all of its bastard forms.

  “How much for a virgin?” the third sentry, who was missing half his front teeth, asked.

  Mina’s ears perked up: So Rafael hired his mercenaries to catch them, various Warlochians probably hid them, and Sir Robert Cross sold them—that was important information. And Rafael was here, close to the Dracos Cove camp.

  “Depends on whether you want to use or to buy,” the first guard answered.

  “I heard he sold a ten-year-old virgin from a commonlands’ farm to Syrileus Cain, just a few weeks back, for a full fifteen coppers. If the untouched babes garner fifteen, she’ll probably go for ten.” The thickset guard raised his eyebrows in appreciation, and Mina bit back a reflexive gag, keeping her eyes fixed ahead: She pretended to stare at the ocean. She pretended to be utterly oblivious to the vile conversation.

  The third soldier snickered and cocked his head in Mina’s direction, as if she couldn’t read his roguish body language. “Screw the ten-year-old: What would you pay for a turn with that one?”

  They all turned in unison toward Mina and looked her up and down, careful to avoid meeting her eyes, and then the first guard shivered as if he had suddenly caught a chill. “Watch your tongue, shadow,” he said to the third guard, “before the prince cuts it out. That one is off limits.”

  The toothless idiot picked at his nose and then quickly changed the subject. “So where can we find Sir Robert and Rafael’s…girls?”

  “They’re camped on the far western end of the cove, about a mile and a half inland from the beach, on the other side of a dry ravine. All the traveling merchants and laborers are there.”

  Mina stepped back into the shadows.

  So…

  Sir Robert Cross had sold a ten-year-old virgin about three weeks ago for fifteen coppers? Could it possibly be her Raylea? She wanted to confront the abhorrent, despicable guards, to demand that all three males drop to their knees, grovel in the dirt, and choke on their apologies; and as Prince Damian’s Sklavos Ahavi, she actually had the right to demand just that—though the prince would surely frown upon her slanted abuse of power. Just the same, she needed to be wise. These males, as revolting as they were, were speaking of the illegal slave trade, of Rafael Bishop’s chattel, and they had clearly named his dealer. If this Sir Robert Cross was the man to trade with, the one paid in exchange for selling Rafael’s illegal slaves, then one way or another, the bastard would know what became of Raylea, whose possession she ended up in.

  Waiting for the soldiers to pass, she spun on her heel and regarded her maidservant squarely. “Jacine, how badly do you want to help your sister?” It was a shameless and selfish tactic, especially in light of the fact that Mina didn’t even believe in the midwives’ superstition; however, it was clear that the servant girl and her sister, Anna, did. And if Mina was going to risk Damian’s wrath by disobeying a fundamental regulation, stepping farther and farther outside the lines of demarcation, chancing the forbidden, then there had better be a worthwhile exchange in the end: a valuable reward to offset the invaluable cost.

  A price she may very well pay in blood.

  “Excuse me, mistress?” Jacine answered, appearing all at once confused. “I don’t understand—”

  “You may bring your sister to my chambers, and I will take her hand in mine—but there’s a price.”

  The girl visibly wilted as if Mina had just asked her to slay an imperishable monster. She pressed the back of her thumb against her lower lip and bit down on her nail, appearing to absorb the statement. “But of course,” she finally mumbled, and then she forced her spine to straighten. “I swear by all the gods of the eternal realms; if we can pay it, we will.”

  “Not we,” Mina whispered. “You.” She gestured toward the maid’s shift and her skirt, and then nodded at her shoes. “I want you to switch clothes with me; give me your traveling papers; and then bring me your sister. I will hold her hand as you’ve asked, and then afterward, the two of you will remain in my bedchamber, sealed off from the rest of the tent. From that moment on, you will pretend to be me, whilst your sister will pretend to be your maid. My maid. Do you think you can do that?”r />
  Jacine’s face turned a ghastly shade of green, even as her slate-gray eyes grew cloudy. “My lord would have my head.”

  “Yes, he would,” Mina said truthfully. “That is, if he caught you. If he caught me. But I will only be gone for five or six hours, and he will be fighting long into the night, likely until the early hours of dawn.” She steadied her resolve and amplified her persistence. “I know it’s risky, and I’m asking a lot—but that is the price. That, your secrecy, and the secrecy of your sister. The three of us must take this deception, this temporary ruse, to our graves.”

  In this callous and shameful moment, Mina hated what she had become. Her palms were beginning to sweat, and her insides were turning to jelly. This was not her way; this was not her character. And yet, what choice did she have? What power did she wield? She was as much a servant and a pawn as Jacine or Anna, and her life was in just as much jeopardy, if not more.

  There were all kinds of dangers lurking in the dark between the tent of Umbras and Sir Robert’s camp, not the least of which were her master’s loyalists, Umbrasian rapists, and Warlochian thieves, the whole depraved lot of them. Suddenly, Prince Dante’s words made a whole lot of sense: We have all made many sacrifices for the Realm, Mina.

  Truer words had never been spoken…

  Yet she knew, deep down in her heart, that the sacrifice she was making—the one she was asking—was more for herself than the Realm.

  It was for Raylea.

  It was for Mina’s conscience.

  It was far more selfish than she cared to admit.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and stared impassively at the trembling girl, all the while feeling increasingly horrid with every second that passed. Just the same, she would not give in. The maid had asked Mina to disobey the prince on behalf of the child’s beloved sister, to take a calculated risk on Anna’s behalf…