He descended the stairs only to meet Jenowan on the way up. The young captain awarded him with a narrow-eyed glare as he bowed. “My prince.”
“You were not at the war council,” Ronan said. “I would have liked to see you there.”
“Your Highness, I have regular duties to attend to.”
“As does everyone else, yet they still came.”
It was the verbal game of thrust and counter-thrust, polite but still cutting. Ronan held back, preferring to win by persuasion.
Jenowan inclined his head. “A thousand pardons, but my orders are from His Majesty, from before the time he took up his vigil.”
“I am His Majesty’s general and his son.”
“Very good, my prince.” Another bow. “I will deliver my report now, to His Majesty.”
Ronan barely restrained the impulse to snarl. “My father is in the air. You’re making the climb for nothing.”
After a perfect and correct bow, Jenowan retreated the way he had come.
Taking a moment to cool his temper, Ronan started to follow. “Jenowan.”
The captain turned.
Ronan regarded him from a few steps above. “Give me a chance to prove myself, and we will succeed. If we quarrel, we will fall to the enemy.”
Jenowan’s mouth thinned. “I’ve been here fighting all this time, Your Highness. I have been doing the necessary work.”
Ronan bowed his head at the reproof. “You are required to obey orders. Do you understand?”
Jenowan gave a tight nod. “Very good, sir.” Turning, he disappeared into the castle.
Ronan continued more slowly, his thoughts still turning over the captain’s resistance. Punishment was the wrong answer this early in the game—a whipped horse never ran with all its heart. Sadly, coaxing him would be hard work, especially when the previous leadership had given up. Still, hard or not, it was the right thing to do.
Ronan sighed. Maps and tactics were always the smallest part of command. People took all the time and energy.
He saw signs of Fliss’s handiwork well before he reached the ballroom. All the old decorations he remembered had been put up—festoons of ribbon, extra candles, and fragrant green boughs from the mountainside. As he passed the room where a buffet was set up, the scent of savory meats and warm bread tempted him to peek in. If there was less food overall because of the war, what they had was presented with style. As hostess of the ball, Fliss had done herself proud.
He’d no sooner thought of his sister than she bounced into view. “There you are,” she cried, slipping her arm through his and steering him toward the main ballroom. “You need to show up on time. You’re the guest of honor, the hero of the hour, and the great hope we’ve come to celebrate.”
“I haven’t done anything yet,” he protested, but he understood why Fliss had organized the event despite the short notice. It was a symbol of the good old days. People needed evidence that Bright Wing’s royal family was in charge again. More than that, they needed relief from the endless dark times.
They entered the enormous ball room with its polished parquet floor. Once, it had been filled with mirrors on every wall, but they had been taken down and replaced with potted trees hung with thousands of conjured points of light. “This is beautiful,” he said to Fliss. “You’ve done an amazing job.”
“You haven’t seen the half of it,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t believe who I convinced to come.”
That certainly piqued his curiosity. He let Fliss lead him through the crowd—again, not as many as he remembered from his youth—and stopped when they reached a knot of the older officers. A few stepped back, and he stared into the face of Laren of the Outward Isles.
“Well met, old friend.” Holding a fist to his heart, Laren bowed.
“Too long.” Ronan abandoned formality, thumping him on the shoulder. “We ran barefoot over rocks and streams as boys. No need for fine manners now.”
“Well said.” Laren laughed, his sea-green eyes lighting up with pleasure. He was a water fae from the nobility, with long fair hair and gently pointed ears. His cousin, Harin, had looked much the same before he had become Blacktongue, corrupted by the Shades inside and out.
The water fae lifted his glass. “Tonight is for celebration. Tomorrow, we will discuss business.”
“What business?” Ronan asked.
“Word reached us of your coming,” Laren cast a glance at Fliss, who no doubt had sent that message. “I’ve been sailing night and day with a mutual defense treaty from our council.”
Another look between Laren and his sister, which brought a flush of pink rising up Fliss’s cheeks. There was something going on there, and Ronan’s big-brother instincts went on alert.
Still, he tried to focus on the task at hand. “Is this a new proposal? I thought there would have been a pact in place before now.”
Embarrassment crossed Laren’s face, but he quickly hid it. “It lapsed some years ago. Your arrival gave our side confidence to start anew.”
Ronan said something neutral, but his thoughts swirled. Their treaty had lapsed, but now it was under negotiation again. His presence made a difference. He had to make his situation work. “Excellent news, then, and all the more reason to be merry tonight.”
A fierce smile curled Laren’s lips. “From ash returns the fire.” He drained his glass.
Those were the words the fae resistance used, a clear signal Laren was thinking ahead. The phrase sent a hot tingle down Ronan’s backbone, as if strengthening his resolve. “From ash returns the fire.” If the water fae joined the dragons, half the fae would be united against the Shades. Who would be next to join?
Fliss snapped him out of his reverie by thrusting a glass of wine into his hand. “Mingle,” she ordered. “You two boys can play politics later.”
Ronan obeyed, moving from group to group—and then he saw Alana. She was like the personification of summer, all golden hair and a simple blue gown that showed off her lithe form. It was every prince’s dream, he supposed, to find that one woman at a ball, the one who would make everything right. She would make sense of all the burdens that came as heir to a crown—the wars, the politicking, all that endless protocol. Alana was the one who would walk with him through fire and flame for the good of their people.
He wanted that dream. He wanted Alana.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“Your officers are incredibly attentive,” she said with a faint smile. “You wouldn’t believe some of the kind offers I’ve had in the last half hour.”
Unfortunately, Ronan could. They were full-blooded dragons, after all. “Become used to having me as your constant chaperone.”
“But what if I want to amuse myself?”
She was teasing him, but the pictures floating through his head made him want to incinerate something. He narrowed his eyes. “I need my soldiers fighting fit. You’re not allowed to damage them. You’re not allowed to make me want to crisp them, either.”
Her lips quirked up in a mischievous half-smile that made her look like a naughty child. Heat flashed through him, bringing to mind the bedrooms just a few minutes away.
As if on cue, servants brought out a vast silver basin packed with ice and filled with bottles of the castle’s best sparkling wine. Like every other reflective surface, the sides of the basin were draped in cloth to protect it from the Shimmer. They set it on its own pedestal, giving it a place of honor. At once, the servants began serving the pale, bubbling vintage.
“Three cheers for the Prince of Bright Wing!” cried Laren.
“Huzzah!” echoed the crowd with one voice. “Huzzah! Huzzah!”
Then the group of wood sprites on the balcony, with their fiddles and drums, started the music again. It was impossible not to move to the beat.
“Shall we dance?” Ronan asked Alana.
“I don’t dance.”
“Of course you do.”
He guided her onto the floor, using the slightest
touch of his power to relax her into the song. She had an athlete’s awareness of her body and the natural grace of the fae. All she had to do was believe in her own sense of the music.
Eventually she did, and she was amazingly beautiful as she danced. Ronan’s heart did a strange tumble as he turned her in his arms, feeling the pressure of her swaying body against his. By the time they slowed to a stop, he could barely remember his name.
They returned to the clumps of chatting guests as the next round of dancers took the floor. Evidently, Fliss had drunk a fair amount of the sparkling wine, given the tiny burst of flame she released whenever she hiccupped.
“How fortunate that I’m a water fae,” Laren said, dutifully dousing an errant ember. Then he kissed her cheek as he removed the wineglass from her hand.
Ronan changed direction, steering Alana toward the food and out of Fliss’s range. His sister deserved her fun, but this was Alana’s first introduction to the court. It wouldn’t do to scare her.
Ronan had almost reached the door when a newcomer arrived. He stopped dead in his tracks, gripping Alana’s hand. The figure was neatly dressed, upright and strong, though his face was lined with care.
“Father,” Ronan exclaimed, and the room grew still.
Ronan fell to one knee. Alana curtsied low beside him.
King Vass took a long step forward, then raised them both up. “I apologize for my late arrival to your welcome-home celebration.”
Then he embraced Ronan hard. For an instant, Ronan allowed himself to be lost in the comfort of his father’s arms. Tears stung the backs of his eyes, but he forced them down. Now was the time to be steady, and the strong heir his father wanted to see.
“You’re back,” Ronan said softly.
“As are you,” his father said. “Your return has given me much-needed courage.”
The king turned to Alana then, taking her hands. “Thank you for being here, my dear. You’ve brought a fresh spark to this place.”
Fliss gave an ear-splitting whistle, then shrugged when all eyes turned her way. “Music, play on! Let there be dancing! The celebration has truly begun!”
15
Alana swirled into another dance, and once again her feet knew what to do. She wasn’t sure how or why—she hated dancing. And yet, she didn’t. Not now. Not with Ronan. She was as light as down and dazed with happiness.
To her eyes, so was he. She wasn’t certain what had taken place between Ronan and his father, but it had healed a serious breach. As if a curtain had been drawn back, lightness filled the air and everyone breathed easier.
So it seemed perfectly natural when her lips met Ronan’s in a kiss, even though it took place on the dance floor and in full view of the entire company. They belonged to each other, and neither cared who saw it.
His lips were warm and soft and tasted of wine. Her fingers stroked the velvet of his fitted jacket, feeling the strength of his body beneath the fabric as he moved. She recalled the same warmth, the same sensation of living flesh, but skin to skin beneath the sheets. If she had her way, this celebration would return to the bedroom… and go on and on until the dawn broke over the mountaintops.
“I love you,” he said, and everything fell away but the emotion in his eyes.
She went numb, as if disembodied from her physical self. No one had ever said that to her before, and her voice vanished as if she had never learned to speak. She kissed him again, trying to put everything she couldn’t say into her touch.
The dancing grew frenzied, with stamping and spinning and wild leaps into the air. Everyone who could was dancing now, filling the ballroom floor. Alana was bumped and jostled, but she didn’t care. Laughter rang throughout the castle.
Inevitably, someone knocked over the stand with the basin of ice. The wine had been drunk, so there were no bottles to smash, but chunks of ice skittered across the floor and made the dancers slip. Feet skating and arms waving, three people fell. But that was not the real disaster.
The basin rolled away with a hollow rumble until it clanged against the wall. By the time it stopped, it had lost the linen that covered its sides. The silver beneath gleamed, the high polish making a perfect mirror.
By the time Ronan grabbed a cloth to throw over it, it was too late. The air seemed to solidify before them, turning dark and glassy and shuddering like a pond when the earth trembled around it.
The Shimmer.
Ronan grabbed Alana’s hand, pulling her away. Everyone else fell back as well, and the room whispered with the slide of drawn blades. Someone was shouting for more weapons—bows, arrows, spears, and whatever implements of magic that could be found.
All the fears of the dragons came to pass. Figures stepped through the Shimmer. At first, Alana couldn’t tell who or what they were. The Shimmer’s darkness clung to them like smoke that melted slowly away. A number of the invaders bolted from the ballroom and down the corridors. Several dragons gave chase, but most stayed where they could protect their king and his family.
Warriors ranged themselves around the Shimmer, weapons drawn and ready to pounce on any additional invaders—and there was more and worse to come. As the dark smoke peeled away, Alana’s eyes fixed on the limp form of Captain Jenowan cradled in Hugo Martigen’s arms.
“Martigen?” Alana said aloud. She’d suspected him of collusion with the investor—presumably a Shade—but this was far beyond writing checks to the dark side.
The older male dumped the officer onto the floor. By the boneless way Jenowan fell, Alana could tell he was dead. Someone cried out, and sick rage rose up the back of Alana’s throat.
A terrible expression crossed Ronan’s face—a mix of grief, guilt, and disappointment. A handful of uniformed men took steps forward, but Ronan held up a hand. “What is this, Martigen?”
“Your man was out patrolling alone,” Martigen replied coolly into the stunned silence. “Or he was about to. As you can see, he hadn’t changed to his dragon form.”
Despite herself, Alana cast her gaze to the dead soldier. Jenowan appeared fully human, and only his jacket was unbuttoned. From what little she knew, a dragon took ages to shift due to the complexity of the transformation, not to mention the size difference.
“One might ask,” Martigen continued, stepping over the corpse to approach Ronan, “why he was by himself. Friends never let friends shift alone. It’s a vulnerable moment—or hours, if one is a dragon.”
“Do you have a point?” Ronan demanded.
“Indeed I do. The spies who caught your man learned his fellow officers were celebrating the return of their prince. Everyone was to attend, leaving the mountain unguarded. He apparently disapproved of such frivolity, so he planned to mount a patrol on his own. After all, if something went wrong, it would be hours before a dragon could come and burn the villains to ash!”
Sounds of battle broke from the corridors, and in one sinking moment, Alana knew the ball had been a mistake. Corby—wearing his normal face now—appeared from behind Hugo.
“No one invited us,” the bookseller said, sarcasm thick in his tone. “Bad luck!”
Chaos broke loose in the ballroom. Alana reached beneath her skirts, drawing the blade she’d strapped to her thigh. Ronan smashed Corby in the jaw, knocking him down, but Fliss’s scream stopped everyone in the immediate area cold.
Martigen had her pinned, a blade at her throat. The position was awkward, with Martigen standing behind her, but it was effective enough that Laren had frozen a few feet away, sword in hand but afraid to risk the princess’s life.
“Get off me,” Fliss snarled, clawing at Hugo’s fingers, “or I will eat you!”
Martigen gave a harsh laugh. “I’d have your head off before you’d sprouted a single scale.”
“Endanger my sister and I’ll kill you myself,” Ronan bellowed.
Alana stood to one side, the knife hidden in her skirts. As Corby picked himself up, his gaze turned her way. An unpleasant smile curved his bleeding lips. “So this is where you got
to. You and I have a debt to settle. Or should I say you have an exit interview to complete?”
Despite herself, Alana gulped.
King Vass appeared at her side, a battle ax in one hand. “Leave Lady Alana in peace.” His voice was firm, but he strained like a dog on a leash, desperate to attack but afraid for his daughter.
“Lady Alana?” Corby laughed. “Seriously?”
“What do you want, crow?” the king roared—there was no other word for it. Alana felt the sound through her shoes.
“Stay where you are,” Corby shouted back.
“How dare you enter my castle?” Vass bellowed, a vein in his forehead ticking his rage.
Corby all but hopped from foot to foot, excitement bright in his eyes. “This should only take a moment, and we’ll be on our way.”
“What will?” Ronan started forward, but Hugo did something that made Fliss whimper. Ronan stopped, eyes blazing.
Alana’s stomach was a ball of ice. She inched slowly to the left, studying the position of each speaker in relation to her blade. Martigen was also watchful, taking care to keep Fliss between himself and the dragons. True, they were loud and had big swords, but it never paid to forget about the foot soldiers. Alana saw her chance, slipping up from behind and driving her blade into his ribs. He half-turned toward her, mouth opened in silent horror, the shock on his face absolute.
“Gotcha,” Alana murmured.
Fliss twisted free, making way for Laren to thrust his sword through her captor’s heart. The dragon princess was safe.
A moment later, more Shades oozed through the portal, this time attacking the ballroom directly. As if a switch had flipped, the room exploded into violent motion. King Vass, with Ronan at his side, were in the thick of it, shredding the invaders. Alana spun, ready to take out Corby next. Around her, the sounds of battle crashed and shrieked as dragons and Shades tore the castle apart. None of it touched her. Alana’s breathing was calm, her heart steady. Battle was where she was at her best.
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