Snickers emanated from below. I glanced down at the table. Rufus sat in the seat opposite Gobi’s, shaking his head with disapproval. Next to him were his brothers, Virens and Brunus, and around them were a few of the drogott players who had accompanied us to the palace that time locusts swarmed the capital.
Up ahead, Father wrapped his hand around Mother’s forearm, as though forcing her to remain seated. Her face twisted with annoyance, and she ranted at him. Based on their interactions, she was probably scolding him for not letting her rush to my defense. Ignoring her, Father stared ahead, drinking from a horned goblet.
Gobi’s cheeks reddened. “H-how dare you speak to me like that? I could crush you!”
“Is that right?” Niger snarled. “There are enough witches here to clear a space for a duel. We should settle things now before witnesses.”
Gobi stepped back, face paling. “What?”
Rufus stood. “Bluford, he is only—”
“Silence,” snapped Niger. “Unless you are volunteering to fight in his stead!”
Rufus’ mouth clicked shut, and one of his brothers yanked him down to his seat.
“How about it, Bluebeard?” Niger’s hand lingered over the hilt of his sword. “Will you duel, or will you shake my hand and be friends?”
The only sounds were the cracking of the barbacoa on the other side of the tavern, the occasional slurp from a goblet, and Gobi’s gulping breaths. “I will shake hands.”
“You refuse to duel?” asked Niger.
Gobi’s face turned the color of a cockscomb, and his gaze darted from left to right. He gnashed his teeth, flared his nostrils, and said, “Yes, I refuse to duel.”
Someone tried to start a boo, but his companion slapped him across the chest and muttered some harsh words. They were most probably about Gobi’s age.
Niger held out his slender hand. “Shake.”
Malice caught Gobi’s eyes, making them glint like cut sapphires. He snatched Niger’s hand and squeezed. I glanced at the other table to find Father still restraining Mother but leaning forward with a frown. There was no way a female quarter-ogre could best even a young half-ogre in a handshake of dominance.
“That is a good handshake for a small boy.” Niger’s glamoured face split into a bloodthirsty grin, and he squeezed back.
Gobi’s gaze dropped down to their joined hands. Color drained out of his cheeks, and tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
“Albert?” I said.
“One moment, Stafford,” replied Niger. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“Stop,” whispered Gobi.
“What?”
“Please.” His voice broke. “Stop.”
I was about to give Niger a kick in the ankle when he released Gobi’s hand and stepped aside. Gobi clutched the wrist of his sore hand and winced.
My heart twisted. That display had been so cruel, so… ogreish. I glanced up to find Father grinning at the scene, giving Mother an I-told-you-so look.
“Friends?” asked Niger.
Gobi gulped. “Friends.”
Chatter resumed across the tavern, and I followed Niger to Father’s table. Mother beamed and patted the seat next to her. Niger smiled back and walked around the table and lowered himself into the only available seat. Butterflies walked across the lining of my stomach, I shuffled my feet, not knowing where to look or where to sit. Maybe I should have stayed with the drogott team. It wasn’t as though this disguise was attached to a Noble House.
“Boy!” shouted Father. “Bring a chair and some drinks.”
My stomach dropped. Surely Father wouldn’t speak to one of my friends with such disrespect? I glanced around, looking for a spare seat, only to come face to face with King Magnar. Words tumbled out of my lips. “What are you doing here?”
King Magnar wore a portable pillory around his neck and a sour grimace. “They’ve been making me serve drinks every evening after the trial.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He sniffed and plonked the chair next to where Niger sat with Mother. With eyes duller and more lifeless than I’d seen on a dead fish, he said, “I seriously doubt that. Cadet Bluford likes mead, doesn’t he?”
“Umm… yes.”
“I’ll get some.” He sloped off toward the bar, keeping his head high, despite the number of warriors shoving him and trying to trip him over.
I stared after him, my mind blank.
“Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for that wretch,” asked Fyrian.
“Not really, but this is a bit much, isn’t it?”
“He’s serving drinks and getting roughed up a bit,” she said. “It’s nothing compared to what he tried to do to us.”
Unease quivered through my stomach, and I wrapped an arm around my middle. I disliked King Magnar, but I didn’t want to see anyone so publicly humiliated. He passed by a pair of dragon tamers. One of them kicked him up the backside, making him stagger into a group of riders, who shoved him against the wall.
I braced myself, waiting for the damsel denial to hurt, but it lay dormant. Perhaps it knew that King Magnar’s punishment was for something other than our bond. “I… I’m not sure this is the right way to go about things,” I said.
“Stafford, is it?” asked Father from behind.
I turned around and gave him an awkward bow. “Yes, Your Highness.”
He beamed. “You have grown since your days at the orphanage, boy! Sit down.”
My insides warmed, and I moved my seat opposite Father’s. Stafford hadn’t mentioned Father visiting the Perrault Orphanage with Aunt Cendrilla, but he seemed to have known about the Sword of Lightning, so they had obviously met on a few occasions.
Master Fosco gave Father a nudge in the ribs, making his face split into a grin. “You and young Albert are inseparable, I have heard.”
I shrugged. “He’s my best friend.”
Father held my gaze for several heartbeats as though scrutinizing my intentions. Had I said the wrong thing?
I tilted my head to the side. “Sir?”
He smiled. “Just friends?”
“Best friends, sir,” I replied.
A server dropped a cast iron platter of sizzling barbacoa meat on the table with a plate for Niger and me. Another server brought a pile of flatbreads, grilled vegetables, and sauces. My mouth watered, and my tongue darted out to lick my lips.
Father snorted. “You look hungry. Eat.”
“Thank you, sir!” I lowered my gaze to the food and picked up a pair of metal serving tongs. If I pretended to be ravenous, maybe Father would stop trying to play matchmaker with Stafford.
Chapter 15
It was hard to eat with two leering, drunken males watching my every move and hinting at a possible romance between Stafford and me. By now, the real Stafford would have turned crimson with all the attention, but I just wanted to throw my tankard of mead over Father’s head to cool his enthusiasm.
I placed a flatbread on my plate and added a generous serving of shredded meat, sliced capsicums, quartered tomatoes, and onions.
Father nudged Master Fosco. “They even have the same tastes in food.”
“A perfect match,” the other male replied.
Heat spread across my cheeks, and I glanced at Niger, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d either heard Father and Master Fosco’s machinations, or Mother had shared something embarrassing with him.
Some warriors in the table behind us broke out into one of those drinking songs with catchy lyrics about a shepherdess who had lost her sheep. At each verse, warriors burst into bawdy laughter at the double meaning behind the words. I rolled up my flatbread and took a bite. It just seemed like a children’s song to me.
Mother reached across the table and prepared a flatbread stuffed with vegetables for Niger, who ate it with a grimace. If he was anything like Rufus, he preferred large quantities of meat.
Father raised his hand and gestured at someone on the left side of the room. “Boy! Another
flagon of dragon’s tears.”
I turned around. King Magnar, who rested his wooden pillory against the mantlepiece, stood to attention. His eyes burned with rage, his nostrils widened, and his lips were pressed so tightly, they formed a thin, white line.
“Go!” roared Master Fosco.
With a jolt, he slunk toward the bar, flinching each time a warrior tripped or kicked him. I set down my stuffed flatbread and stared down at my plate. A foul taste lingered in my mouth. I doubted it came from the damsel denial, as that usually manifested itself as pain. The whole situation of turning King Magnar into a servant didn’t sit right with me. He was clearly humiliated, and the constant attacks smacked of bullying.
“Do not tell me you are full up.” Father’s blue eyes twinkled.
“I’ve lost my appetite.” I pushed my plate away.
“The sight of him is likely off-putting,” said Master Fosco. “King Magnar threatened young Stafford with torture if Evolene didn’t perform certain enchantments.”
Father stroked his beard. “We could persuade a friendly witch to perform those enchantments on him.”
The two males snickered, and I bowed my head. They were incorrigible brutes who delighted in the degradation of others. I glanced at Mother, who wasn’t saying a word in King Magnar’s defense. Aunt Cendrilla would never approve of such persecution.
I took a long drag of my mead and stood. “Albert and I were planning on an evening ride.”
Niger stood and cupped a hand behind his ear. “Yes. I hear Fyrian calling me.”
She snorted into the bond. “It doesn’t even work that way.”
“No one else knows that,” I replied.
We bade Mother and Father goodbye, walked through the bar, and pushed our way through the crowds of warriors gathered around the entrance. The moon shone behind a thin covering of clouds, casting the path leading from the Warrior Queen in semi-darkness.
We took a different route to the terraces, avoiding the bees that inhabited the dragonberry trees. All throughout the journey, I kept picturing the despondent faces of Gobi and King Magnar. Both males were unhappy: an insecure and young Gobi grieved the death of Lady Bluebeard, and King Magnar lived under the storm cloud of spriggans usurping his throne and abducting his sisters.
I passed under a row of lemon trees growing at the edge of the terrace and sighed. Bad circumstances didn’t excuse bad behavior, but did Niger and Father need to humiliate both males to get their points across?
“You have something on your mind,” said Niger.
“You embarrassed Gobi.”
“Because he tried to dominate you in full view of every warrior in the tavern, including the Prince Regent and General Sialia. I had to act.”
“But did you have to hurt him?”
Niger stopped walking and tilted his head to the side. “I did no such thing.”
“The handshake. He was nearly crying when you squeezed the life out of his fingers.”
“But he challenged you. An ogre either backs down and accepts his lesser place or meets the challenge, as I did. You saw how the others treated King Magnar. It was in my right to do the same to Gobi, but I decided to be his friend.”
I let out a breath of frustration and continued walking under the lemon trees, each step cracking dried leaves underfoot. Niger strolled by my side, a smaller and less comforting presence.
By now, the clouds had shifted, and pale moonlight streamed in through the gaps in the canopy. He was right. And wrong. It wasn’t in my nature to be cruel to those in a weaker position than me. It was always best to brush aside their attempts at confrontation.
“Princess? Did I offend you?”
“I don’t know.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets and stomped on fallen twigs, enjoying the way they broke apart under the soles of my boots. “I just wish we could do things differently.”
“But it is the way of men.”
“It’s the way of the brute, more like.”
“Maybe you are not suited to this lifestyle.”
I stopped dead and whirled on him. “I’m just as good a dragon mage as anyone else in my class.”
“I would never question your skills as a warrior. You have proven yourself exceptional.”
“Then what are you saying?” I glowered down into his enchanted, blue eyes.
“It may be time to lose the disguise and be yourself.”
“He’s right, you know,” said Fyrian. “When Magnar announced you as his Sky Commander, everybody cheered.”
“That’s because of the loyalty elixir.”
She paused. “Maybe, but look at who heads both of Steppe’s armies. Nobody cares that Auntie Rilla is female.”
The corner of Niger’s lip curled. “You are the most fascinating and unique creature I have ever encountered. It would be a shame to hide yourself under a glamor.”
I placed a hand on his narrow shoulder. “Thanks.” Addressing the comment to both Niger and Fyrian, I said, “Let me think about it, all right?”
We continued the walk down the stairs and across terraces of silvery lunarberries that filled the air with a sweet, floral scent and glowed bright in the moonlight. The next few terraces contained a clumping species of dragon mint, whose scent reminded me vaguely of Fyrian’s venom.
“You said it smelled of eucalyptus,” she said.
I raised a shoulder. “And mint.”
By the time we reached the terrace, Fyrian lay on her belly, already wearing a saddle. She explained that a yellow dragon named Master Aurelius, who supervised the grooms, arranged a saddle at short notice.
I climbed onto her back, leaving a space in front for Niger. “Stafford usually sits behind me while I ride Fyrian.”
Niger grinned, reminding me of the twins when they thought they’d fooled Uncle Armin of some wrongdoing. “I look forward to getting to know her with your help.”
He settled in front of me, and Fyrian crept to the edge of her terrace and leaped. The wind rushed through the strands of my magically shortened hair, cooling my scalp. I sucked in a deep breath. In this glamoured form, Niger smelled faintly of wildflowers, but it wasn’t the rich floral scent of Mother or Uncles Rouen and Orel.
Fyrian spread her wings and glided above the mountain. At this time of the night, it was a mass of dark green with black spots indicating the division between terraces. Those filled with water, such as the springs, fish ponds, and rice paddies, shone like quicksilver in the moonlight.
“How do you get Fyrian to speed up?” he asked. “She missed the signal.”
Fyrian’s wings sliced through the air, propelling her forward. “Tell him I’m sorry for not noticing.”
I passed on her message, and he chuckled. “Young dragons need a firmer hand. It is hard to remember her age when you and she fly so seamlessly.”
“Maybe that’s because I’ve never thought of her as a mount.” I spread my hands wide, enjoying the breeze blowing onto my palms and through my fingers. “She’s my soulmate.”
“I feel the same way,” Fyrian replied.
Niger went through several drills with Fyrian, practicing rein flicks, pulls, and putting pressure on her body with his legs. These were the basics Captain Caiman had taught us in the first few lessons, but I never practiced these for long with Fyrian. She always seemed to anticipate my moves before I’d gotten a chance to make the signals.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Our reaction times are faster than most riders.”
“I suppose, but I think we should make more of an effort.”
“You could be right. That time I chased the weathervane with Niger and Evolene could have gone better.”
We flew over the Drogott Arena, over a pond of giant lily pads, over a canyon containing great beasts with necks as long as oaks, until we reached an area consisting of rocks arranged in increasingly large concentric circles. I leaned to the side and squinted. Something smoked within its center.
“I want to show you something.” Niger stee
red Fyrian down to a circular landing point surrounded by glowing pieces of moonstone.
“Where are we going?”
“It is a hot spring heated by stored magic. I cannot get close, because males are not permitted entrance.”
“Witches only, then?”
He shrugged. “They say that soaking in the water restores a witch’s magical reserves. It will be a good place to take Evolene when you rescue her.”
“Does it really work?”
“The witches swear by it.”
Fyrian circled low, and I swung my legs to one side in anticipation of her landing. “Are you going to show me?”
He chuckled. “The witches have enchanted this zone to make strange things happen to males who dare to land.”
“Oh.” I swung my legs back. “It seems odd that they would create a nice landing pad for dragons. Witches use their cloaks to fly.”
“Not if they are magically depleted,” he replied.
“Right.”
Niger pulled on the reins, leaning back into my magically broadened chest. Fyrian lifted her head and soared toward the clouds. He turned around and flashed me a smile. “Now we will try evasive maneuvers.”
With a jerk to the left, he had Fyrian perform a tight roll. Blood rushed to my head, back to my stomach as she righted herself, and to my head as she turned upside-down again. I closed my eyes and stifled a groan. Flying on a dragon under someone else’s control was much like riding a rapier red: an uncomfortable but exhilarating experience.
By the time she completed a series of upward loops, downward loops, and several sharp turns, I was ready to curl up with my hands clutching my stomach.
“You’ll get used to being a passenger when someone else is riding,” said Fyrian.
Sucking in a deep breath of cool air, I replied, “I’d better. There might come a time when I have to escape on the back of someone else’s dragon.”
“Or glacier wolf.”
“That reminds me.” I tapped Niger’s shoulder.
He righted Fyrian and turned around. “Are you all right?”
“It’s getting late, and I have an early start.”
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