by Jasmine Walt
“She won’t wake up,” he said, looking up at Lucyan. The desperation in his eyes twisted at Lucyan’s heart. “Why won’t she wake up?”
“It might be some sort of sleeping spell,” Lucyan said grimly. He pressed a finger against Basilla’s neck, feeling for her pulse. It was there, a bit faint, but steady. “We’ll have to find the counterspell, but for now, let’s get her out of here before someone comes to investigate. For all we know, some hidden magical alarm has been sounded and Mordan’s men are on their way right now.”
“Right.” Grunting, Ryolas hauled his sister over his shoulder. Lucyan respectfully averted his gaze—she wore only a thin nightgown that did nothing to hide her shapely derriere. Looking around, he found a blanket in one of the drawers, and helped Ryolas wrap her up before they carried her outside.
The driver was long gone, but that was just as well, as they did not need witnesses. Luckily, the villa had a stable with several decent horses, likely used by the guards. In no time, they were saddled up and on the road.
“I’ve taken the liberty of hiring a safe house already,” Draxton said as they rode. “It is only a twenty-minute ride from here—I made sure the location was outside the city so no one would see the princess as we brought her in.”
“Excellent,” Lucyan said. He was very happy Shadley had sent these men along—they were resourceful and had good heads on their shoulders.
They reached the safe house—a small cottage on the edge of town—without incident and brought Basilla inside. There was only one bedroom and a large, open area that housed both kitchen and living areas, but there was plenty of space to keep the princess until they could figure out what to do with her. Ryolas gently laid his sister on the bed, and Lucyan and the others waited outside while he performed a healing on her.
Ten minutes later, he came out, looking grim. “My magic had no effect on waking her up,” he said, sounding dejected. “I searched her for amulets as well, and found nothing.”
“As I thought, we will likely need to find the right counterspell,” Lucyan said. He frowned, tapping his chin in thought. “Unfortunately, none of us are warlocks, so even if we do find the spell, there is no guarantee we will be able to wake her.”
“I might know someone who can help,” Corbin said.
Ryolas shook his head vehemently. “We cannot alert any warlocks to her presence,” he said. “I can’t risk it.”
“Let me work on finding the counterspell first,” Lucyan said soothingly. “With any luck, it might be something that can be applied using a device rather than raw magic. In the meantime, you should stay here with Basilla. For all we know, the spell could wear off naturally now that she is no longer in that accursed villa.”
“Very well,” Ryolas said, though he did not sound happy. “I will stay here and watch over her.” He glanced toward the agents. “Perhaps the two of you can do some research into this spell as well.”
Draxton nodded. “Corbin should stay here with you, in case this place is found and you need backup. But I will go back into the city and see what I can find. My prince, the three of us should meet up at the Green Mermaid in two days’ time, if you can get away.”
“Agreed.” Lucyan would have to find a way to sneak out of the grounds without being caught, but he would do it. Now that they had found Basilla, there was no time to waste. They needed to find a way to wake her up, fast, before Mordan discovered where she was taken and rained hell upon all of them.
17
On his way back to the Keep, Drystan stopped in a small village to break his fast. He felt elated by his first visit with the dragon god, but also very hungry and a bit faint as he had not eaten anything all day. Sitting down in a small, cozy tavern, he ordered a frothy tankard of ale and a large meal, both of which he contentedly enjoyed amid the buzz of conversation around him.
He could hardly believe he’d actually had an audience with the dragon god. Of course, he’d always known in the back of his mind that the dragon god had spoken to his progeny in the past—the oracle couldn’t be the only one who had a direct line. But his father had never spoken of it, so he assumed the method had been lost. Once he returned home, he would send out a proclamation to all the towns to search for a woman with a dragon birthmark and send her directly to the Keep in exchange for a reward. He hoped doing so wouldn’t cause the new oracle undue stress or hardship, but they could not afford to use slower methods to locate her. They needed her at the Keep as soon as possible.
As Drystan finished his meal, a man in dusty traveling clothes entered the tavern, looking both desperate and determined. “Are there any men for hire?” he asked the barkeep, leaning in between two scantily clad women who giggled and pawed at him. Drystan raised his eyebrows—the man scarcely seemed to notice the female attention. “I need good, strong fighters.”
“What for?” the barkeep asked, his eyes narrowed. “We have mercenaries pass through these parts sometimes, but none right now.”
“I would be willing to fight, for the right coin,” a burly man said, rising from a nearby table. “What is it that needs killing?”
“Bandits,” the man said. “A group of them hit our town last night, and they are terrorizing my neighbors.” His jaw clenched with anger. “Most of us are simple folk, not fighters. I’ll gladly accept your help, but there are ten of them, and they are strong.” He glanced around. “Will anyone else come and help?”
“I will,” Drystan said, standing up. He let his hair fall into his eyes as he looked at the man so he would not see his dragon irises. Placing his hand on the pommel of his sword, he added, “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good bit of exercise.”
Laughter rolled through the room at that. “With that kind of confidence, I feel I’d be a coward to stand by while you three go off fighting ruffians,” a third man said. He was wiry, with a patch over one of his eyes, but looked strong enough to Drystan.
The man glanced around, anxiety in the lines of his face. Drystan went up to the man and clapped him on the shoulder. “The three of us will be enough,” he promised.
“I hope so,” the man said, sounding doubtful. “Do you all have horses? I brought spares.”
The four of them saddled up and rode to Glenburry, a village only five miles away. The man who had hired them was called Darion, and he was the town magistrate. It was a little out of the way, and not at all what Drystan had been planning to do with his time, but he couldn’t very well sit back and do nothing while bandits terrorized his people. If the citizens of Dragonfell could not count on his help as their liege, he didn’t deserve to be their king. And since he could not command his soldiers to go in his stead while away from the Keep, he would take care of the problem himself.
They reached the town in good time and stabled their horses outside the local inn. Tension hung in the air—absolutely no one was out on the street, and the windows and curtains in the buildings and homes were drawn and shuttered. Music and laughter drifted down from a large home on a hill in the center of the town, lights blazing from the windows. Darion gritted his teeth.
“They’ve trussed up the mayor and put him in the wine cellar while they enjoy his food and drink,” he growled, clenching the hilt of his sword. “And they’ve rounded up the fairest of our womenfolk and forced them to wear gaudy clothes and serve these pigs.”
Rage washed over Drystan. “Let’s call these cowards out,” he said, stalking toward the noise. “They’ll see what happens when they mess with one of mine.”
The other men exchanged bewildered glances as they hurried after Drystan. Fire built in his chest as he heard the screams and sobs of the women, who were undoubtedly being raped and molested. If not for the innocents inside, he would have torched the house right then and there and killed everyone within.
Two of the bandits—thugs dressed in dirty leather—stood guard outside the house. They uncrossed their arms and stepped forward, ugly smiles on their faces. “I thought I told you not to come back here,” the o
ne on the left growled, baring rotting teeth. “I guess you must want a sword in your belly pretty badly, huh?”
“I just want you to leave our town,” Darion said tersely, “and return what you’ve stolen. Surrender peacefully, and no one needs to get hurt.”
The bandits laughed. “Surrender to you and your three-man army?” the other one chortled. “Why would we do that?”
The bandit reached for his sword, but before he could pull it from its scabbard, Drystan drew his and decapitated him in one swift motion. Blood arced through the air as his head flew, and the other bandit cried out in fear and outrage. He charged at Drystan, but one of the other mercenaries drove a sword through his belly before he took more than two steps.
“Nice swordsmanship,” the mercenary said admiringly, yanking his blade from the bandit’s belly.
“Here comes the cavalry,” Darion muttered as more bandits ran out of the house, yelling. Drystan counted six total, though he didn’t think any of them was the leader. Over their yells, he could still hear the women sobbing from inside the house, which only fueled his rage.
“Stand back,” he ordered the men right before he shifted. The others yelled in fear and amazement as his form expanded, and the bandits skidded to a halt, their faces transforming into looks of such extreme horror it was almost comical. Snarling, Drystan lowered his head and spewed them with fire, careful not to hit the house itself. Their screams were music to his ears, and the scent of roasting man flesh filled the air as they died in agony.
There were several beats of stunned silence as the men beheld Drystan in all his terrifying glory, before Darion finally sprang into action. “Lothar!” he cried triumphantly, brandishing his sword toward the house. “Surrender yourself now, or you and the rest of your men will be incinerated!”
The house was utterly silent now. Even the women had stopped sobbing, though Drystan didn’t know if that was because they were relieved, or if they were just too frightened to make even the smallest sounds. A few minutes later, three more men slowly stepped outside. Their hands were up, save the one in the center, who held a woman against his body. A knife was pressed against the slim column of her throat, and blood was trickling down the front of her skimpy dress.
“You’ll allow us to leave unharmed,” the bandit said in a clear, steady voice, “or I will slit her throat.”
Drystan merely met the bandit’s gaze. The man began to shake under the weight of the dragon’s stare, his legs wobbling, but he did not remove the knife. “Back off!” he cried in a high voice.
Drystan thought about it for a moment, then snatched up the bandit on the left and tossed him into his mouth. The man screamed as he bit down, bones crunching beneath his teeth, and the other two bandits sank to their knees, the smell of urine lacing the air. The woman sprinted into Darion’s arms, sobbing loudly as Drystan chewed and swallowed his impromptu meal.
He’d thought he’d find the taste of human repulsive, but in truth, it was rather pleasant. He supposed he’d feel differently if he were in human form.
Speaking of humans…the others warily came out of their homes. They wore varying expressions on their faces ranging from shock to fear to pure delight, and though all looked upon him with some measure of fear, they did not back away. Drystan inclined his head to them as they dropped to their knees, bowing before their dragon king.
“Thank you, my prince,” a man said, and Drystan turned to see the mayor—or so he presumed—stumble out of the house. He had rope burns on his wrists and bruises on his face, but seemed otherwise unharmed. He stood before the remaining bandits, who were being restrained by the mercenaries. “We are honored by your presence, and unspeakably grateful for what you have done.”
Drystan changed back into human form. “You are welcome,” he said gravely, ignoring the way the people averted their eyes from his naked form. He wasn’t the type who liked to walk amongst others nude, but he refused to show fear or discomfort by shrinking away.
The woman who Drystan saved earlier came forward, a cloak in her hands. “Thank you for not giving in to him,” she said fiercely as she wrapped the cloak around him. “I value my life, of course, but I did not want to see that man get away, not after all he’d done.” She turned and spat on the leader’s face, and he bared his teeth at her. As she did, her hair slipped to one side, and Drystan caught a glimpse of a tattoo.
“Hang on,” he said, taking the woman by the shoulder. She froze as Drystan brushed her hair aside properly to reveal a dragon emblazoned on her flesh. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Get what?” she asked, sounding genuinely confused.
Drystan sighed in frustration. “There is a dragon mark on the back of your neck,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Rofana,” the woman said, clasping at her neck worriedly. “I…I had no idea there was any such mark. No one has ever said anything about it before.”
“A dragon mark?” one of the townsfolk, a matron with steel gray hair, asked. Her dark eyes narrowed as she approached. “More evidence of your witchcraft then, Rofana?”
“Witchcraft?” Drystan echoed.
“It is not witchcraft,” the woman said stubbornly, raising her chin. She was around thirty, with copper hair and a smattering of freckles on her cheekbones, and her lush figure was barely covered by the tasteless dress the bandits had forced her to wear. “I am a healer, my prince—I mix potions and poultices to help the sick and injured, though there are some around here who do not appreciate what I do.” She glared at the matron.
“Lies,” the woman hissed, jabbing a finger at Rofana. “I’ve heard the rumors of your strange dreams and premonitions. Demons have infested your head. They need to be burned out, my prince,” she said earnestly.
Drystan ignored the woman and smiled at Rofana. “You are no mere healer,” he said, taking her by the hand. “The gods have blessed you with foresight. You are the one I have been searching for.”
“I am? Searching for what?”
“The new oracle.”
The woman laughed, running a hand through her wavy hair. “Well, that certainly does explain a lot,” she said. “Mrs. Bantar is right—I have had strange dreams and premonitions for the past six years. In fact, I had a dream that the bandits were coming, and came to warn the mayor myself. But no one would listen to me, and I was still arguing when we were overrun. That is how I was trapped in that house,” she said, raking the building with a loathing stare.
“Well, it is lucky I found you before the bandits killed you,” Drystan said. “Although I suspect the dragon god was protecting you. I have just come from speaking with him, and he told me I would find you soon. Will you come with me then, and take your rightful place?”
Rofana grinned. “I would be a fool to say no,” she said. “Let me pack my belongings.”
She went off to collect her things, and Drystan spoke briefly with the mercenaries, the mayor, and Darion. He secured a promise from the mayor to ensure the mercenaries were paid, and offered them future work at Dragon’s Keep should they be interested. He also got Darion to agree to stable his horse for him until he could send someone to retrieve it later.
“Have you made your goodbyes?” Drystan asked as Rofana approached. She was wearing a simple, modest dress now, her copper hair tied back from her face in a bun. She held a simple traveling sack in her hand.
“Nearly.” She approached the mayor and Darion, the man who’d led the rescue. “Thank you for getting help,” she said to him, “and for always being kind to me.” She hugged Darion, who looked a bit flustered. “And thank you for allowing me to stay and not giving in to those who would have had me driven from here,” she said to the mayor.
“It has been a pleasure,” the mayor said, “and an honor to have a woman chosen by the gods here in our humble town. I do hope you will come and visit again.”
Drystan let her finish her goodbyes as he transformed back into the dragon. The townsfolk gath
ered to watch as Rofana climbed onto his back, and Drystan was impressed at how confidently she settled herself there. He flapped his wings, sending up a cloud of dust, then launched himself into the sky with a powerful leap. Rofana whooped in delight as they soared above the clouds, and Drystan was pleased to see there was not a hint of fear in her voice. But then again, she was the oracle. It only made sense that she would be a natural rider.
Unlike Dareena, Rofana was perfectly capable of understanding Drystan while he was in dragon form, and they spoke for a bit as they flew to Targon Temple. It turned out that Rofana had been previously married to a carpenter, but sickness had taken her husband only a few years into their marriage, and she had never quite gotten over him. Drystan pitied her, but he supposed it was a good thing that she was unattached, romantically speaking. It would have been much harder to leave her life behind if she’d had a family and children. Were oracles even allowed to marry and start a family? He would have to dig into the library records to find out.
It did not take them long to reach the top of the mountain, and soon enough, Drystan alighted outside the temple. He was pleased to see the torches outside the building were still lit—that meant it hadn’t been deserted. As Rofana disembarked, several low-ranking acolytes ran out of the small house nearby, where the temple staff slept and ate. They all seemed surprised and delighted to see him, though they were a bit confused as to who Rofana was.
“Where are the priests?” Drystan demanded after he’d changed back into human form.
“They deserted shortly after the imposter went missing,” Rofana said, her eyes clouding over briefly as she spoke. They cleared as she smiled at the acolytes. “Isn’t that right?”
