Dragonshade (The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  He almost swiped the cup from her, then he took a gulp. “Thank you,” he said. “But my instructions were to stand guard. I should be out there on the terrace.”

  “You can guard just as well here. Better in fact. Out there something may draw your attention and allow interlopers to sneak past you into my suite. But here, by my side, you will be at hand to protect me should the need arise.” She brought the cup to her lips and took a sip. “My servants have left me, and I need assistance with this dress.”

  “Assistance?” his voice croaked.

  “There are ties at the sides. I am unable to reach them. Could you?” she turned and lifted an arm to show him.

  He cleared his throat. “Princess, I don’t think your father would—”

  “My father wouldn’t like to hear that you displeased me.” She looked at him, and raised her arm again.

  For a moment she thought he was going to turn and leave her, but then he stepped forward and placed his cup down on the little table, and his big hands began fumbling with the knots.

  “Tsk, these are intricate.”

  Heduanna smiled. “Perhaps if you knelt you would gain a better vantage, it’s hard for you to see with your height.” She looked up at him. His eyes were hungrier than before, she flushed with renewed warmth and tingling and the goddess drew closer still.

  Slowly he knelt and he managed to untie one knot, he began work on the second, but Heduanna turned and grabbed his hand in her own. She forced his hand open and kissed his warm palm.

  “Princess!” he said, alarm in his voice.

  “I know you want me, Danael of Drakia.”

  His mouth opened and Heduanna bent forward to kiss him. She melted instantly when his full lips kissed her back, hard, promising her so much sweetness to come.

  Then his warmth and his lips were torn from her, and she almost fell forward as he stood and turned away. “I’m not supposed to be doing this,” he said, rubbing his hands through his braids and circling the room in long strides.

  “Of course you are. The goddess demands it.”

  He stopped his pacing and looked at her. “The goddess?”

  Heduanna nodded.

  “But your father, he made it clear that—”

  “That was before, before the goddess made it clear to me. This is what she demands of me. Of us. Come, Danael.”

  The barbarian’s broad chest rose and fell with quick breaths, he began pacing again, looking at her and looking away as though trying to make up his mind.

  But Heduanna could see the bulge beneath his skirt, she had won. She raised her arms up to the sky. “Lift it off me would you? And help me to my bed?”

  That was all it took. The hunger in his eyes was replaced with determination and in three steps he had her dress in his big hands and swooped it above her arms and off. His eyes widened at her nakedness, then his arms were around her, lifting her up, kissing her neck as he took her to her room and laid her on the bed. She sat and tore at his sword belt.

  “Pray to your goddess, woman. It’s going to be a long night for you.”

  Heduanna smiled as she spied her cup of rue on the dresser. “I hope so,” she whispered in his ear before biting it gently and lifting his skirt to feel the pulsing heat of him ready for her.

  Part XVII

  Estr Varg

  Summer

  First year of Khanax Krasto’s reign

  5,846 years ago…

  Yana

  “Don’t look at me like that. Forage for your food. There’ll be no scraps till later,” Yana snapped at Patch, and immediately felt guilty for it when her pet duck gave a blunt quack before diving into the stream, tail feathers wagging.

  Yana threw a rock with force into the deep shadows of the water, making a loud splash. She’d been looking forward to the afternoon. Spending time with the ducks usually calmed her when she felt this way. But not today. She’d snapped at Sargan three times that morning when he kept asking her questions about the old tunnels in the mountains while writing scribbles on those ridiculous clay tablets. He steered clear of her then, and didn’t accompany her to watch the ducks. Her bottom lip curled. She regretted being so abrupt with him. It wasn’t Sargan’s fault she was in such a foul mood. Sargan was always gentle, and respectful, and more and more she enjoyed his company. She’d miss him when he left them.

  Her mother had tried to make her feel better, but Yana had even spat brusque words at her, and told her she could collect the herbs by herself. “I hate the forest!” Yana had yelled in perfect Drakian. It was a lie of course, but it felt good to say it, if only for a moment.

  Her mother’s eyes had widened in surprise. “What’s wrong, Yana?”

  Yana had stopped to take a breath then she tried to think of what was wrong. Her dreams were so full of danger that she’d hardly slept, and the worry she held for her father was as strong and heavy as a chain around her neck. It made breathing difficult. That vision of Da with knife wounds in his back, and a bloodied neck, refused to leave.

  Her mother waited for a response but if Yana had spoken the words, “I think father is dead,” it would make it real. And her mother would worry too. Yana was concerned enough for the both of them. Da had been gone since the start of summer. The summer was flying by. The warriors should be back by now.

  In the village, few spoke of the warriors’ lengthy absence, but it was foremost in their thoughts. Yana saw it in their eyes, and the way everyone glanced at the bay, and the ramparts, wondering when the horn would be blown. But who would they see first? Drakian warriors, or Zraemian?

  A splash of water made Yana come to her senses and focus on her ducks. Patch was busy flapping and bathing close by, and Yana smiled despite her troubles. “Patchy.”

  Just then a long loud blast from the horn echoed up the mountain path. The ducks stopped their activities and turned their heads to the sky as though awaiting the arrival of a bird of prey.

  “It’s the warriors,” Yana whispered. She tentatively reached for her father, the way she always did when he returned, with that secret inner part of herself. Usually, she could feel him. But this time, when she reached out with her shade-self, nothing responded. She remained where she was, her heart cold, watching the ducks as one by one they returned to their bathing.

  “Yana!” Sargan came up behind her. “It’s them, the warriors have returned! Would you like me to watch the flock? You want to greet your father?”

  Yana couldn’t help the twin tears that now fell over her cheeks. “There’s no need,” she whispered. “He’s not with them.”

  Yana stood behind her mother in their rondhus. The khanax hovered by the entrance, looking at his feet. A nervous knowledge buzzed throughout Yana’s whole body and she raised her small hand to her mother’s shoulder, in preparation for the khanax’s news.

  “I’m sorry, Ana,” he said. His mouth slanted downwards even more so than usual. “Petar is dead.”

  Her mother trembled and Yana held her firmly.

  “No,” Ma said.

  “It happened in battle. You can be proud that Petar died in glory. He will be feasting with the ancestors tonight, a hero.”

  Yana took a shuddering breath, hot tears fell from her eyes and moisture dribbled from her nose. A sickness clutched her stomach. Her dreams. They’d all come true. She’d known her father had been in grave danger, and she’d been powerless to stop it.

  Her mother placed a hand on Yana’s shoulders that now shook violently up and down as she cried.

  The khanax approached and put a beefy hand on her mother’s side, and a fleeting vision of darkness interrupted Yana’s view of him. The shadow he cast on the wall of their hus was black and imposing, and a screaming sense of foreboding told her he was danger.

  Yana gripped her mother’s hands. “Hold me, Ma." And her mother turned away from the khanax to put two comforting arms around her.

  When Krasto finally left them to their grief, Yana could breathe easily once again.

 
Danael

  “How does it feel to be so close, Danael?” Lu asked, his usually narrow mouth broadened in a smile. “Argan tells me we are but three days’ sail from your homeland.”

  Danael looked over the sea. They were well past the mountainous waves and deadly storms ever-present in the Sea of Death, and the colours had changed over the last handful of days. The blues grew lighter and more varied, the fish more familiar. A myriad of memories came to him. He’d fished here, in these very waters. “The captain is wrong, my friend.”

  “How so?”

  Danael looked at Lu. “We’ve barely a day left of sailing. This time tomorrow we shall be there.”

  His slim friend’s eyes widened. “You’d best tell the admiral, and the king will want to know.”

  Danael nodded and moved toward the bow, his gut squeamish but not with seasickness like most of the men. “How does it feel?” Lu had asked him. Danael clenched his jaw. He was split in two. The last few nights in Azzuri had awakened a passion he never thought possible. It had been the worst moment of his life when he had to tear himself away from Heduanna’s arms.

  He should have left before the dawn, but he’d lingered in her bed that morning. They’d made gentle love, both knowing it would be their last night together. He’d kissed her on the terrace for the whole city to see. They had fallen under a spell, as though they were the only two people in the world. She filled his thoughts every moment of every day, and knowing he’d never see her again grew impossible to bear.

  The only thing that gave him some glimmer of satisfaction was the thought of seeing his mother, and discussing with her the possibilities King Amar-Sin would offer the Drakian people. For one thing, Danael could advise her how to rid their isles of the Halkan threat once and for all. Petar would like that. Danael glanced to the northern horizon. Yes it would be good to see Petar again too.

  Danael approached the king’s cabin beneath the upper deck at the bow of the ship, and he wondered what exactly Amar-Sin had in mind for Danael’s people.

  During their journey, Danael met often with the king to tell him everything he wanted to know about Drakia. He’d spoken of his mother’s battle-knowledge, and explained in great detail every battle he could remember, keenly describing all successes and failures. And there’d been many to tell. His mother had taken him a-warring since he could walk.

  But Amar-Sin had revealed next to nothing of his own intentions regarding Danael’s people. Admiral Dannu and the captains seemed to be none the wiser either.

  “We will learn in good time,” was all Dannu would admit when Lu had pressed him.

  The whispers hadn’t stopped since they left Praeta. Perhaps the king would dominate Drakia, and enslave them all, the way Urul had enslaved Tarzyshta. It was possible. But that would be a bloody fight, and seemed unlikely. The king was too wise to waste life in such a way. Ibbi had set wagers, and he was favouring a peaceful re-exchange between Sargan and Danael in which not one drop of blood would be spilled. Danael hoped it was true.

  Whatever the king planned, it had become abundantly apparent to Danael that like a master player of Cenat, the king could predict his opponents’ moves several steps ahead. Danael had little doubt Amar-Sin would get exactly what he wanted. He opened the door to the king’s cabin and stepped inside.

  The following morning, just as Danael had predicted, the twenty ships, newly built by the Praetan boat builders, carrying King Amar-Sin’s eight contingents entered the calm waters of Estr Varg’s bay, Danael’s home.

  He looked with fresh eyes at the Finger. The wall of rock on the eastern side of the inlet rose up in a jutting cliff. Early morning mist clung to the tall canopy of forest – a palette of green. It was good to see proper trees again. The scene was familiar, yet strange at the same time.

  Danael’s heart raced with the knowledge that he would soon see his parents. He had left them as a newly-blooded warrior, but now he was returning an adept fighter, a trusted advisor to the king of Azzuri, and lover to her princess. Danael swallowed a hard lump with the knowledge that his people would view the twenty ships as an enemy, as he once did. But things had changed, and it was his role to keep his people calm and assure them peace would follow if they gave the king what he wanted.

  The ramparts came into view above the escarpment and Danael spotted movement along them. In another heartbeat the horn sounded, echoing over the bay. The king looked at him and Danael gave him a nod. He’d already told the king and captains what to expect.

  They drew closer, and the haze of smoke mingled with the aroma of roasting venison. His mouth watered. Aye, it would be wonderful to eat venison again. To sip mead and talk to his mother of his adventures. His heart lurched at the thought. He’d missed his mother. She would expect him to stay, to more fully prepare for his role as the future khanax of the clan. The thought tore at him like two wolves with a carcass. He’d grown surprisingly accustomed to his new way of life, and he wasn’t sure he was willing to give it up. Nor the princess. Not just yet.

  The king spoke, “Your city, Danael.”

  Danael looked at Amar-Sin whose eyes were fixed on the view. Beyond the escarpment sat the haphazard alleys and muddy lanes of his homeland. Danael considered how it must appear to the king. A little village with rough-looking circular houses made from the rock that sat in abundance around them. No golden walls, or giant panels made from lapis lazuli. No tall obelisk, or grand palace. The largest building, Danael’s home, the longhus, would fit in the Azzurian palace more than one hundred times. It was a poor comparison to even the smallest of Zraemian cities.

  “It is, Exalted.” Danael said. “Though we call it a village.”

  They drew closer still and the horn blew again.

  “They know we are here, then. Just as you said they would,” the king said.

  Danael nodded. Everything now pivoted on his mother. Would she talk? Or would she fight?

  Closer still and the escarpment loomed above, a sheer rock wall with twin steps forming a diamond shape. Danael recognized individual rondhuses now, and the trading market with the statue of Prijna standing tall in the centre, clutching a spear, and the large oak in the middle of the circle.

  “Anchor!” Admiral Dannu shouted. The men busied themselves folding the remaining sail and dropping the anchors into the bay. The small boats were prepared. Danael followed the king onto the first of them. He grabbed one of the oars and watched the ramparts for signs of movement. The sea mist had not entirely lifted, but Danael knew no one was up there. It did not bode well. If his mother intended to parley, she would have a line of warriors waiting atop the escarpment, but still the ramparts remained empty.

  They reached the jetty in silence. Danael jumped out and helped the others to do the same. Two men remained in the boats and returned to the ship to bring more to shore.

  The king tilted his head to follow the line of the steps that would take them up to the village. “A natural defence.”

  “Yes,” Danael replied.

  The king gave him a lopsided smile. “We must be thankful your people are not raining arrows upon us.”

  Danael licked his lips. In truth, he was also thankful, but still, where was his mother?

  “Take me to your people, Prince Danael.”

  Danael nodded and the tug of war in his heart flared once more. “Follow me.”

  As he led the king’s soldiers along the jetty, and up the narrow steps, he grew more aware of his surroundings. The lapping water clashed with the ring of swords against the soldiers’ belts and he prayed to Prijna they wouldn’t be drawn. Not today, at least.

  The familiar smell of seaweed, salt and rotting fish brought a rush of memories. There was no denying the restrained joy that now bubbled deep within him that he was home. But beneath it all, he knew he’d give it up in a heartbeat if it meant returning to Heduanna.

  Danael and the soldiers he led were all puffing with exertion from climbing the steep narrow steps, and at Prijna’s statue Danael paused t
o allow them to catch their breath. He glanced back toward the sea. The mist gave it an eerie feel, and Danael shivered despite the warmth of the day. Then he turned to look up the hill, along the path, and up the top where the longhus stood. Danael’s mouth opened.

  “Your people?” Dannu asked.

  Danael slowly nodded. In front of the longhus stood a line of Drakians. All warriors. From this distance Danael recognised the tall, broad figure of his father. Where was his mother? “That’s them,” Danael replied.

  “I hope they’re not readying to battle,” the king said quietly.

  Danael glanced back. A never ending line of the king’s soldiers continued climbing the escarpment steps. “No,” he replied. “My mother isn’t stupid. She won’t battle. She will talk.” As long as Petar hasn’t talked her into it. But where is she?

  Danael bent his head and led them up the path toward the longhus.

  “More climbing,” the king said, puffing.

  “Yes, Drakians are used to it,” Danael responded.

  At the end of the path, the line of Drakian warriors came into clear focus. Seasoned warriors, every one of them, but his mother was not present. Danael took one final step and stood face to face with his father. The king and his soldiers came to a halt in Zraemian battle formation behind Danael.

  Danael’s father wore his usual grim expression his mouth lopsided, making Danael remember the khanax’s stubborn streak. He’d aged. More silver now flecked through his hair.

  “Well met, son,” his father’s voice cracked. “Are you well?”

  Danael swallowed back tears. He stepped forward and embraced his father. “I am well.” The Drakian sounded harsh to his ear, but it slid along his tongue like the sweetest honey.

  His father hugged him, slapping his shoulder as he spoke. “By Prijna, it’s good to see you.”