Twenty-Two
D ragons.
Bran checked his reflection once more and decided to add another ring. The Dragons respected wealth and beauty. He smoothed his dark hair behind his ears and brushed rock dust from the shoulders of his tunic.
He had assembled six of the King’s guards. More would have seemed a threat, less would have implied that the King had no support. Six would be the perfect number, he hoped.
They had a guide who would lead them. A Troll, the same hulking, gray mass that had lumbered into the Dragon territory and set up the meeting for them. He tromped up the tunnel, and Bran took his place ahead of the guards to follow him.
The King had not risen to see them off.
The tunnels in the Troll Quarter might have once been the varying shapes of the Human structures left over in the Faery Court, but years of Troll appetite had rounded them, huge bite marks carving the walls away far more effectively than any drill. The cavernous space dwarfed them, though it was a tight fit for their guide who stooped down and occasionally swiped bits of hanging rock from the ceiling.
Bran did not duck the falling debris. Fear was undignified.
The walk seemed never ending. At the border to the Dragon Quarter, the Troll carved a niche for himself from the wall to turn around in. “I go no farther.”
He wouldn’t have been able to fit. The tunnel that led into the Dragons’ territory was substantially smaller. They left their guide behind, where he waited, crushing cement between his huge, yellow teeth, and proceeded into the Dragon Quarter.
Bran spotted the Dragon envoy awaiting them at the first fork in the tunnels. He did not raise his head or show his face beneath his hood. “Follow,” he commanded, crooking his finger.
The Human wore the same deep red cloak as all of the other Humans in Dragon service. The protective symbol, embroidered in gold on the back of their cloaks, kept them safe in the Lightworld where other Humans would not be. It disgusted Bran. No matter how loyal the animals might be, to keep a mortal in your dwelling…
He forced a neutral expression and held his breath as he walked behind the mortal. Humans stank of sweat and grime, no matter how clean they appeared.
In their home, the Dragons displayed their wealth on every surface. Tapestries covered bits of the walls that were not embedded with glittering gems, and coins of gold and silver littered the floor. They flaunted a wealth of another kind in small holes hollowed from the cavern walls: skulls of every race in the Underground, displayed for their visitors as a warning.
Bran smoothed his hair down and adjusted the cuffs of his robe.
Their guide took them silently through twists and turns so numerous and seemingly random that soon Bran had no idea which way would lead him out of the Dragon Quarter. This was, no doubt, the intention.
All he needed to do was keep his cool, remember his purpose, and soon he would be away from this despicable place. Once the Dragons were allied with the King’s cause, the ridiculous exile would be over, and they would all be safely back in their own Quarter with their own race.
The next turn brought them abruptly to a stop. In the dim light of the fires burning on the ground, larger piles of coins gleamed. They bled from a huge pile of coins, jewels and other assorted valuables, atop of which perched a coiled, yellow-green mass of scales.
“An ambassador from the Faery Court,” the guide said in a low voice, and two orange, slit orbs flickered in the darkness as the Dragon woke.
The Human envoy seated himself beside the Dragon and said, “It has been a long time since the Faery Court has contacted us.”
Bran stared at the Human, unable to believe that he would so freely join a conversation between two of his superiors. Then, the slit pupil in the glowing orange eye narrowed, and Bran understood. The creature spoke through his Human.
Bran bowed. “Too long, by my master’s account.”
“And who is your master? We had heard that the Queene of Thieves had met an unfortunate end.” A great cloud of sulfurous smoke emitted from the Dragon on a sound that would have seemed a laugh from any other creature.
“Yes, my master, King Garret, mourns the loss of his sister.” Bran motioned to the guard who bore the casket of jewelry Garret had sent. “However, he looks forward to creating a lasting alliance with you.”
The Human assistant rose and came for the box the guard offered. He brought them before those impossibly large eyes, and the bulk of the scales shifted. A tail uncoiled and brushed a wave of coins from the pile beneath it. It was long, studded with sharp, boney spines. A claw, larger than the Human’s head, but still small in comparison to the rest of the creature, emerged, one gleaming black talon sifting through the box with surprising delicacy.
The Human returned to his place beside the Dragon and spoke. “This is a paltry offering, compared to what was taken from us.”
“King Garret recognizes that our race owes you much, much more. However, at the moment he is unable to return to you the objects you desire.” Bran cleared his throat, pretended to be ashamed of what he would say next. “He is, unfortunately, in exile.”
“Exile?” Another smoke-accented laugh. “How can a King be forced from his own Court? How can a male be the leader of your kind?”
The creature was taking things far too lightly. He did not show the respect owed to an ambassador of the King. Bran swallowed his irritation before speaking. “Treachery. His mate, a devious Faery with no royal blood nor claim to the throne, forced him out by gaining the fickle attentions of a few key persons in the Court.”
The Dragon’s eyes slid closed and open a few times, slowly as the Human voiced its thoughts. “You bore us. Your politics are no concern of ours.”
“If I might be so bold,” Bran began, trying harder to keep his irritation from his voice, “it does concern you. The usurper has your treasures. She flaunts them before the Court, mocking you.”
With a roar that shook the cavern and sent the coins at Bran’s feet vibrating, the Dragon straightened. It was an awesome sight, all of the towering, green-tinged creature unfurled in space much too small for it. Its head and neck, though stooped, still touched the ceiling, and its wings curled around the back of the cavern.
Over the noise, the Human shouted, “Do you believe that we can be mocked? We, who are older than any Fae to ever walk the Earth, any Troll to tunnel beneath it? Do you believe we are threatened by the foolish actions of one insignificant Faery?”
“We believe that you deserve more respect than that!” Bran shouted back. This was where he would prove himself. Surely a creature like a Dragon, always feared, often venerated, would appreciate being spoken to so honestly, as if he were an equal.
The Dragon paused in its wrath and settled into its earlier pose. “We listen,” the Human said.
“My master, the King, wishes to restore what his sister stole, but he cannot unless he himself is restored. If you were to join in his cause, the Queene would have no choice but to back down, and he could reclaim his throne. At that point, he would be in a position to restore your lost treasures.” Bran nodded to the casket of jewels lying on its side, contents spilling to the concrete floor. “And more.”
The Dragon puffed out a breath so hot that Bran had to will himself from covering his face. “You will hold our property ransom, then? Until we give you what you desire?”
That was a take that Bran had not foreseen, but it seemed that the Dragon was now appropriately broken down to negotiate with. “I would not call it ransom. Merely a gesture of friendship.”
“We give our friendship to those who earn our respect, and we repay those who hold a debt against us.” The large eyes slid closed. “Not to those who seek to bargain for it with trinkets.”
With a deep breath, Bran called out, “You do owe us something!”
The eyes snapped open, wide.
Bran stepped forward. “The Faery Quarter is closest to the border with the Strip. Your Human envoys cross through our territory every day
. Recently an enemy from the Darkworld infiltrated our Quarter disguised as one of your Humans. Perhaps, to repay us for the irresponsible actions of your Human servant who supplied the Darkling with his Dragon cloak, you could pledge your support to my King.”
The Dragon’s lids closed, leaving slits of orange in the darkness of the cavern.
The envoy who returned Bran’s head left Garret with little hope of support from the Dragons.
“We do not respond to threats,” the man had intoned from behind his hood, before disappearing into the inky darkness of the Troll tunnels.
So, the Dragons would not side with him.
With an inarticulate roar, he pushed the box of returned jewels—and Bran’s head—from the table they rested on.
“Am I interrupting?”
He turned at the sound, his skin prickling with irritation before he even saw the intruder. “What do you want?”
Flidais, his sister’s traitorous handmaiden, stood at the opening of the cavern. She lifted her robes to step delicately over the discarded head. “I am not sorry to see him go. He smelled of lavender water. Too much lavender water.”
Suddenly too aware of his own scent, Garret sniffed the air. Damn Flidais. She had a way about her, with her shrewd, piercing eyes and her quiet nature, that could cause even a confident Faery to question himself in her presence. Some Fae could do such a trick with their beauty. Flidais was not beautiful. It was merely her way of staring, unblinking, as though she had nothing to hide, when he must hide everything.
No, she must have something to hide. Something to bargain with.
“My mate sent you, no doubt.” He motioned to a guard to clean up after Bran, and extended his hand to Flidais. “Come in. My household is greatly reduced, but you are welcome in it all the same.”
“Even after I did not follow you to your self-imposed exile.” She did not take his hand. “I come to you as a wartime messenger under the code put forth during the war of the Tuatha. No harm can come to me while I am in your enemy camp. Do you accept these terms?”
“Flidais, please.” He smiled and went to find some of the Human wine they had unearthed in the walls. “I would not harm you, even if you came with the intent to assassinate me.”
She made a small laugh, a snorting, unfeminine sound. “I could not assassinate you. Your guards would have taken my weapons.”
“Ah, so she has considered it?” He poured out some of the wine into one of his fine wooden cups and offered it to her. “It hurts my heart to hear of such treason from my mate whom I once loved dearly.”
“Treason?” She waved the wine away. “I will not stay that long. But tell me, how could it be treason, when she is Queene? You are merely her consort.”
“She has no royal blood!” He slammed the cup down on the table, spilling the remains of the bottle in his anger. “Am I the only Fae left with a care for our bloodline?”
Flidais squinted her eyes. “Did you not realize that by making her your mate, you would give her royal blood? That by mating yourself to her, you gave up any hope of your throne?”
He took a swallow of the bitter Human wine and looked away.
“You knew. Just as you knew that your sister had powerful enemies.” She snorted again at this. “You would have killed Queene Ayla. You’ve already proven with your challenge that you would be willing now. But why her? Because she was no one? Because she was something you might keep, if you found her easily manipulated?”
Garret whirled to face her. “You said you came with a message. Give it to me and get out!”
With a nod and an acquiescing smile, she reached into her robe and withdrew a folded parchment. Garret recognized his own seal, broken, at once.
“It seems you will have your chance to kill the Queene after all.” She tossed the parchment to the ground, where Bran’s blood stained the dirt. “I am sure you have had plenty of practice.”
He tossed the bottle after her, but it landed short of her calm, measured retreat.
It had been a long time since Ayla had held a weapon, and yet it felt like no time at all. She moved through her forms with care, the broadsword swinging arcs overhead, swooping at her side, slicing the air effortlessly and felling whole fields of imaginary enemies.
But it was only one enemy she feared.
Garret would fight with an ax. He’d always fought with one, brought one to the front lines of the wars against the Humans and the wars among their own race. It was the first weapon he’d trained her on.
The only one she’d never been able to defend herself against when he wielded it.
The door to the Assassins’ training room scraped open, and she quickly sheathed her weapon, out of habit. It was Cedric who entered, and his eyes, so troubled lately, flashed amusement beneath their fair brows. “It is refreshing to see a Queene remember where she came from.”
In no mood for levity, she hoisted the sword once more. “You have seen him fight.”
“Yes.” Cedric slowly walked the circle on the floor. “He is very skilled.”
“If you remember those skills, take up an ax and assist me.” She wiped a sweat-damp lock of hair from her forehead.
Cedric bowed and shrugged off his robes, standing before her clad only in his brown leather pants. For a moment, she saw him as a Faery, and not as her superior who had become her friend. He was handsome, with the long, lean musculature of a well-trained warrior. If she had not lived so long presuming herself unworthy, she might have thought of him as a possible mate one day.
But now, she cared only for her Darkling.
She pushed her thoughts of Malachi from her mind. They twisted in her chest, where her tree of life spread its branches. If she went to this fight with Malachi in her mind and heart, she would fail. Her sorrow would cripple her.
Cedric lifted the ax and dropped into a stance that mirrored Garret’s fighting posture. Cedric did know Garret’s fighting skills well.
Without Ayla asking, Cedric said, “I have not remained alive as long as I have by ignoring the more ambitious Fae around me.”
He swung out in a wide sweep, keeping her far out of range. Just as Garret would do.
She leaped back and opened her wings, pushing off the ground with the sword high over her head, ready to strike a death blow. “You knew he might someday be a threat to you?”
Cedric easily rolled away from her strike. “Good, good. You are not fighting to prolong the fight, you are fighting to end it.”
“It is what Garret taught me,” she huffed, somersaulting over her wings and landing on her feet, ducking in time to dodge Cedric’s next swing. “You feared him?”
“I do not fear anyone, Ayla.” Cedric stepped back, creating another protective space between them. “Drop your elbow, you leave your left side unprotected.”
“If you saw it, and everyone at Court saw it—” Ayla dropped into a crouch and jabbed at Cedric’s legs “—why did I not see it?”
Now was where Garret would have taken his chance and wicked the arms from her body, but Cedric took a different path. He sprang over her head and caught her before she could face him, bringing the ax to a halt just before it buried in her spine.
Puffing and sweating, she turned and collapsed to the floor. “Why did I not see it? Why did I not see him for what he was?”
Throwing the ax aside, Cedric sat beside her. His arm was strong and comforting around her shoulders. Exactly the way a friend’s would have been. And it struck Ayla then that she had never had a friend. Garret had been the only Fae she could have truly considered a friend and now that she knew his true nature, she could not believe she’d been so foolish.
He leaned his head against hers. “You did not see it because you are better than most of us. If you had the capacity for treachery, you would see it coming at you from every angle.”
“I see it now.” She was suddenly much more tired than a simple training session should have made her. “Does that mean I am becoming like him?”
“
It means that you are being cautious.” Cedric rose and offered her his hand. When she got on her feet, he swept up her sword and tossed it to her. “Again.”
This time, she struck out before Cedric was ready. It was dishonorable, but Garret would not fight with honor. Her swing caught Cedric off guard, and he nodded his approval as he blocked it. “Now, you are thinking as you must to protect yourself.”
Thinking as I must. It was such a coldhearted way of living. “After Garret, there will be other enemies.” She grunted the last words as she lunged at him.
Cedric stepped aside and brought the ax down to prevent her raising her blade again. “There will always be enemies. You are the Queene.”
“So I must live in fear for the rest of my days?” She opened her wings and propelled herself forward to kick Cedric off his feet. With her blade free, she brought it down, aiming for his throat and stopping its ascent at the very last. “If that is what it means to be Queene, I do not want it.”
She pulled her blade back and Cedric rolled to his feet smoothly. “Then let Garret kill you. Or surrender the throne to him, and he will kill you then. But you will not live so long as you are not Queene.”
With a cry of frustration, Ayla hurled her sword into a nearby rack of weapons. When the clatter of the falling arms subsided, she had calmed some, at least outwardly. Inside, desperation swirled in her in torrents. “I could leave here. I could take Malachi and hide in the Darkworld.”
“Garret would find you.” Cedric did not allow her even the illusion of escape. “You would be hunted for the rest of your life, as long as you are his legitimate mate and you carry the heir to the throne.”
“How legitimate can our union be?” She heard the petulant note in her voice, like the creak of grapevines twisting the wind. “He wishes me dead.”
“And you left him the night of your mating to go to a Darkling. He has as much right to wish you dead as you to wish him dead.” Cedric went to his discarded tunic and picked it up. “Have you spoken to Malachi yet?”
She began to right the weapons she’d knocked down. She might be Queene, but that was no excuse to destroy Guild property. Also, it helped her avoid looking at Cedric as she answered. “I have not.”
Queene of Light Page 21
