by Jasmine Walt
Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the huntress and her entourage returned to the stage. The three women bowed their heads, whispering together. A minute passed, and then the entire world seemed to go silent as Tariana stepped forward, pulling a small scroll from her sleeve.
“They must have made their decision beforehand,” Tildy whispered, and Dareena gave the barest of nods. Of course they had—that’s why they’d spent the day watching the women.
“After some deliberation,” Tariana said, her voice echoing loud and clear, “we have made our decision. Will the following women please come forth.”
The crowd held their breath as Tariana slowly opened the scroll. “Cyra Lannen, come forth.”
The crowd erupted into cheers as Cyra stepped from the ranks, a smile beaming from her lovely face. She moved confidently to the podium, then dipped into a deep curtsy.
“Mira Fallen, come forth,” Tariana called next, and Dareena blinked in surprise. Dareena had expected Lyria to be called first, but since Cyra was so popular, it hadn’t been strange that the huntress had chosen to call her first instead. But to have Mira called next…she was a beauty, with strawberry-blonde hair and pretty, almost elfin features, but she was lowborn. The brief flash of annoyance on Lyria’s face confirmed she had not missed the slight, and Dareena wondered if Tariana had something against her. She had not seemed surprised at Dareena’s not-so-subtle hint that Lyria was rotten.
Mira practically sprang out of line before she remembered herself, her whole body vibrating with excitement as the townsfolk clapped and cheered. Dareena hid a smile as Mira visibly forced herself to approach at a sedate pace, then curtsied awkwardly to the huntress before taking her place next to Cyra.
“And now, for our final selection…” Tariana paused, her gaze going to Lyria. Dareena’s heart sank. She had just begun to hope that the huntress might have passed over Lyria for someone worthier, but it was not to be. The crowd went silent, waiting for the inevitable.
But then Tariana’s lips curved into a wicked smile, and those amber eyes snapped to Dareena’s. “Dareena Sellis,” the general said, and Dareena’s world seemed to slide out from beneath her feet. “Come forth.”
4
After Lucyan’s brothers left, he spent the day quite leisurely, or so it appeared. He lounged around in his quarters for another hour, then saddled his horse and informed the captain of the guard that he was going into town for a bit.
Paxhall was the capital of Dragonfell and home of Dragon’s Keep. It housed several hundred thousand inhabitants and was easily one of the largest cities in Terragaard. Only Inkwall, Shadowhaven’s capital, was larger—the city was home to all sort of black magic and trickery, or so Lucyan had been brought up to believe. In reality, it was a bustling city, as Lucyan had discovered the one time he’d managed to slip in and visit the place. Inkwall was filled with as much good and evil as anywhere else.
In fact, aside from its burgeoning population of magic users, Inkwall wasn’t very different from Paxhall. Both towns were filled with merchants and bookshops and brothels and wineries, and both had their share of nobles and vagrants. The man Lucyan sought today was somewhere in the middle—a trader who kept a booth down at merchants’ square and dealt in exotic collectibles from all over the world.
“How do you do, Sidren?” Lucyan asked as he stopped in front of the trader’s stall.
Sidren was a tall, rotund man with a shiny bald head and a thick mustache. He wore a broad smile as he finished a transaction with a hooded young man, but that smile faded as he turned to Lucyan.
“My prince!” Sidren’s nut-brown skin blanched at the sight of Lucyan. “I…I did not realize you would call again so soon.”
Lucyan hid a smile. “Relax, Sidren. I’m not here to give you any grief.” He honestly didn’t know why the trader continued to get jittery whenever Lucyan dropped by—he’d already made it clear that he’d forgiven him for his offense. Selling to elves—particularly magical objects that could be used to fight against them during the war—was treason, and therefore punishable by death. Someone more shortsighted, like Drystan, or perhaps even Alistair, would have sent Sidren to meet his fate, but not Lucyan.
Sidren’s stall was known for one very valuable thing: it often had magical scrolls, potions, and amulets hidden beneath the fancy furs and trinkets brought back from his regular dealings with the warlocks. Much of what he sold were watered down versions of real magic, which was why Lucyan didn’t pay him much mind. But every once in a while, Sidren brought home the real thing.
“Oh. All right then.” Sidren visibly relaxed. “What can I do for you, my friend?”
My friend. Lucyan often used the term himself when negotiating—not because the person in question was really his friend, but it was always a good idea to make the people you used feel important.
Lucyan leaned in and lowered his voice. “I’m hoping you might have an object that can help me get in and out of the palace without being seen.”
Sidren pursed his lips. “That is powerful magic, my prince. Not very many have the power to turn invisible.”
Lucyan cocked his head. “Is that a no?”
“I would never refuse you, my prince, if I was able to…” He trailed off, his eyes widening as inspiration struck. “Hang on,” he muttered, ducking beneath the table to rummage through one of his many trunks. “I may have just the thing.”
He emerged a few moments later with a ratty old cloak that smelled strongly of damp.
“What is this?” Lucyan asked as he gingerly took it from the trader.
“You’ll excuse its state, my prince,” Sidren said, a little anxiously. “It isn’t for sale, and I’ve had no use for it in years. This is an invisibility cloak. Normally I wouldn’t think to part with it, but the magic is beginning to fail. It can only be used for an hour a day.”
“An hour a day?” Lucyan frowned. “If it’s failing, how do I know the spell will truly last an hour? What if it dies after a few minutes and leaves me exposed?”
Sidren shrugged. “That’s the risk you’ll have to take if you want to use it, my prince. It also won’t muffle noises or prevent someone from detecting you with magic.”
“Lovely,” Lucyan muttered, holding the cloak up to the light for inspection. Thankfully, the fabric had no holes in it—the last thing he needed was for one of his body parts to be floating, disembodied, while he was trying to be stealthy. “Would cleaning it affect the magic?”
“I’m not sure,” Sidren admitted. “I’ve never risked it.”
Lucyan rolled his eyes. That was obvious. “If the smell alerts the guards, this won’t be much help.” But it wasn’t the guards Lucyan was wary of, so he relented. “Fine, I’ll take it. How much do I owe you?”
“For you, my prince? Nothing.”
Ah. Lucyan smiled—the man was smarter than he thought. “Until next time, then,” he said, and took his leave. Sidren had just earned a favor, and everyone knew that a favor from Lucyan was worth far more than a piece of gold.
LUCYAN NEEDED TO ACT PROMPTLY, and more importantly, without being hindered by his well-meaning, yet terribly incompetent, brothers. They suspected he was up to something, of course. He always was. No matter, though; if they couldn’t see him leave, they wouldn’t be able to interfere, and that was all he needed.
The stakes were too high this time. It wasn't simply about rescuing their friend; Lucyan wasn’t that shortsighted. If it had just been for Taldren’s benefit, he wouldn’t have seen the need to cut his brothers off.
Lucyan took the letter out of his back pocket and looked at its seal again. There it was, that clear signature under the shape of an elven tree: Andur, the High King.
If there was even a small chance that the king of elves was really behind this, it meant he would send high elves, noble borns of Elvenhame. Elves who would know which one of them had murdered his mother.
Lucyan would extract the truth from their dying breaths.
Ado
rned by his newly obtained invisibility cloak, Lucyan had no issues leaving the Keep. He followed a dozen guards out, their metallic armor making enough racket to tune out the sound of his agile steps. He had to travel light, but it didn’t matter. He might not be able to shift yet, but he could still breathe fire and move with superhuman speed. A short sword and two knives stuck in his boots were more than enough to suit his purpose.
The guards turned left at the gate, heading toward their western borders, and Lucyan made his way to the forest. He shed the cloak once he’d reached the dark, uninviting woods and continued on, his steps slow and careful now that he was right where his enemy wanted him. That he had to exercise such caution in his own woods was infuriating—somehow these elves had managed to slip past the border undetected.
Still, the elves didn’t know the land like Lucyan did. He’d been hunting in these woods with his brothers since they were old enough to hold a bow and arrow. He knew this place like the back of his hand—that knowledge, plus his superior senses, made it impossible for the elves to ambush him.
Lucyan approached the clearing with confidence, but that vanished when he caught the elves’ scent. Dammit. They’d demanded to set the meeting at midnight, so by leaving two hours early, he had expected to arrive before his enemies so he could scout the area. But they were already here. He couldn't see them, or even hear them, but his nose never lied. He could feel their watchful presence in his bones.
He thought briefly of the cloak, but if the scent repelled him, donning it would be the equivalent of waving a red flag at the elves. So, he hid behind a tall bush and waited.
Eventually, the elves arrived in a small, triangular formation—just three of them. They had come unarmed, as promised—or at least it appeared so. Hands bound, blindfolded, Taldren walked among them, a rope around his neck; the elf leading their party used it to herd him, to Lucyan’s outrage. He calmed himself with the knowledge that, at least to his eyes, Taldren was unharmed. But then again, that meant little—the elves could have tortured him, then healed him afterward.
The group stopped in the middle of the clearing, and the head elf looked straight toward Lucyan’s hiding place. “Come forth, son of Dragonfell. We come in peace.”
Well, then.
He stepped into the light.
“You’re the one they call Lucyan,” the elf said.
Lucyan only nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He’d been wrong. The elven king hadn’t just sent some noble.
He’d sent his own son.
Prince Ryolas, commander of Elvenhame’s armies, was the elf that stood before him, not some lackey. He hadn’t even attempted to hide his identity—he wore no hood to hide his features, and his shining gold and green helm had the stag’s antlers jutting from both sides: the commander’s sigil. His matching armor was highly polished, but Lucyan could pick out the small dents with his keen eyes. This was a man of action, not one who hid behind his armies.
“So, you’ve come in your coward father’s stead,” Lucyan said. “Shall I send your head back to him as a present?”
Ryolas sighed. “You couldn’t if you tried,” he said. “But I have not come to fight, in any case. I have come to talk.”
“There is nothing to talk about,” Lucyan said between gritted teeth. “Your father killed my mother. He needs to pay for his crimes.”
“This blind hatred of yours is exactly why I’ve called you here,” Ryolas said. “Although I would have preferred all three of you to come and hear me out.”
“Tough luck,” Lucyan growled. Hot smoke puffed from his mouth with each word, clouding the air in front of him as if it were mist.
The elven prince raised an eyebrow at Lucyan’s barely leashed temper. “From what I hear, while appealing to your compassion may be a waste of my valuable time, I may yet manage to make you see the truth with logic.”
Lucyan waited. Logic, he’d said. So, he meant to manipulate him. He wouldn’t be the first to try.
“First things first.” The prince waved his hand, and Taldren’s bindings slithered away. The dragon born seemed confused for a moment; he looked at the elven king, who nodded his consent.
What were they up to?
Taldren walked toward Lucyan, looking almost as suspicious as Lucyan felt.
“Tell me you have backup,” he whispered.
Lucyan didn’t bother replying, knowing just how acute elf hearing could be.
“He does, I’m sure. He won’t need any,” the prince assured them. “You believed we intended you harm. You believed this was a trap.”
“It is. You just intend to fuck with my mind rather than my body. Smarter,” Lucyan admitted.
Ryolas smiled. “Hardly. I have summoned you here, and given you your kin back in good faith, so that you may hear me when I tell you this: my family did not organize your mother’s demise.”
For a moment, Lucyan went entirely still, astonished. Then, he laughed out loud.
“Really? That’s your play?”
It was so damn pathetic, he hadn’t even thought the king would bother. His mother had been killed under dubious circumstances: stricken by some mysterious illness, though they couldn’t figure out how, as dragons didn’t suffer human ailments. Their father had done a thorough investigation, and all evidence had pointed to the elves.
“So, you’ve chosen to insult my intelligence,” Lucyan finally said, his humor fading. “I recant my previous comment about your own.”
“On the contrary,” the prince said, unruffled, “I’ve chosen to count on your intelligence. I don’t expect you to believe my words today, but eventually, you will. This conversation will stay in your mind until you reread the reports and see every little thing that doesn’t add up. But first, you’ll ask yourself why a race as wise as ours would risk everything to murder an irrelevant human who’d already served her only purpose.”
“You know kings go mad without their mates!” Lucyan spat. “You wanted to destroy my father, his kingdom, and you’ve succeeded!”
Unable to bear it any longer, Lucyan finally opened his mouth, loosening his grip on the fire building inside him. It burst from his jaw in a torrent, scorching the air, screaming as it barreled straight toward his enemies. But the elven prince just waved his hand, and the fire disappeared, sucked into thin air.
“What the hell?” Lucyan yanked his sword from his sheath and charged. He didn’t even blink when Alistair and Drystan burst from the trees behind him, weapons drawn. He’d known his brothers would figure out his plan eventually—the invisibility cloak was not to evade them completely, but to delay them so they wouldn’t charge into an ambush. When he’d left the cloak on the ground, he’d also dropped a note.
Stay hidden until I call. You get to share the cloak. Don’t let the wind catch its stench.
The clash of swords rang in the clearing as Alistair attacked one of the elves. Drystan crossed swords with the other, while Lucyan made for the elven prince. If they didn’t want to tell him the truth, he’d make them.
“How predictable,” the prince drawled, dodging Lucyan’s first strike. He was fast, perhaps even faster than Lucyan, but it didn’t matter. The elves had brought no weapons—they were done for. “Think on what I said, dragonling, and send word when you wish to speak to me again.”
Lucyan snarled, swinging his sword down again, but it met air. The elven prince had vanished, and so had his entourage.
“What sorcery is this?” Drystan demanded, whirling about the clearing. Alistair sprinted for the trees, looking for the elves, but Lucyan didn’t bother. They’d used some spell to disappear—he could smell the magic in the air.
“The more important question,” Lucyan said through clenched teeth, “is what the hell did Prince Ryolas hope to accomplish?”
“He’s obviously trying to plant lies in our head,” Drystan said dismissively. He turned to Taldren. “Did they hurt you in any way?”
Taldren shook his head, his eyes narrowed. “They were remarkably ci
vil. They could have tortured me, or thrown me into a dungeon, but they brought me here and gave me back. Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know,” Lucyan said, his voice hollow. None of this added up. If the elves were telling the truth, if they hadn’t really killed their mother…
Lucyan shook his head firmly, dislodging the doubt. This was exactly what he’d thought. The elven prince was trying to fuck with his mind. And he damn well wasn’t going to let him succeed.
5
Come forth.
The words echoed in Dareena’s head as she gaped at Tariana, who still smirked at her with that wicked gleam in her eye. Shock rooted her to the ground, rendering her paralyzed. Her mind froze, trying to process what had happened.
“Dareena,” Tildy squeaked, nudging her in the ribs. “Get up there!”
The crowd broke out in whispers, all eyes turning her way.
“It’s not possible.”
“They chose her?”
“Surely this is a mistake.”
“Why is she just standing there?”
That last one galvanized Dareena into action. She took a step forward, and as she did, she met Lyria’s gaze. Her pale blue eyes blazed, her perfect teeth bared into a snarl, her face reddened with fury. She stepped toward Dareena, but her mother, standing behind her, snatched her back.
An unexpected smirk twitched at Dareena’s lips, and she had to hold it back. Even the high and mighty Lyria Hallowdale could do nothing. The huntress had chosen Dareena, not her. The thought bolstered her, and she lifted her chin and strode to the podium to curtsy and take her place by the other girls.
As she lifted her head, she noticed for the first time that while Tariana looked pleased, the other soldiers’ eyes were wide with shock. Was her name really on that list? They didn’t look particularly happy to see her standing there.
