by Tessa Dawn
And then he worshipped at the only temple that had ever mattered…
The shrine of the glorious goddess before him.
Chapter Nine
The ship docked in Lycania.
The barrels were carted away.
And Leah Noel, the stowaway who would save a nation, waited at least an hour until the coast was clear to shimmy out from beneath the canvas and swiftly lay topside: The march to the infamous Castle Lycania was a long, harrowing climb up the ladder, out of the cargo hold, and the castle itself was the ship’s humble captain’s quarters, while the infamous King Thaon became Leah’s own father, Captain Adlard Noel.
“Papa! Papa!” Leah cried, tugging on her father’s arm as he rolled to his side on his narrow bunk. “Papa, wake up! There were pirates aboard your ship!”
Captain Adlard came awake with a start.
He sat up abruptly, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and grasped Leah by her narrow, trembling shoulders, his eyes as wide as saucers. “Child! What are you doing here?” He looked nervously around the cabin as his breath came in ragged heaves—he was struggling to reorient to his surroundings.
“Papa!” she cried again, her voice rising in angst. “Papa, it’s me, Leah, and I stowed away in the cargo hold for a grand adventure. But my plans were interrupted by wicked pirates!”
Captain Adlard sighed, his breaths finally calming. His blue-gray eyes grew murky with concern, and a lock of mussed gray-black hair fell into his eyes. “Leah…” His voice sounded raspy and tired. “What am I going to do with you, child? Your mother must be worried sick.” He pulled her onto his lap. “How long have you been aboard the ship? How did you slip out of the cottage? Did you not think about your poor, frantic mother when you left?”
Leah licked her lips in two nervous swipes. “Papa, you aren’t listening!”
Captain Adlard’s voice grew stern. “Enough! I have half a mind to turn you over my knee and paddle you, girl. These antics will not do.” He grasped her by the jaw and angled her chin to force her focused attention. “Now then, there will be no more of your whimsical stories. This is very serious, Leah. A merchant ship is no place for a little girl.”
Leah gulped, and she felt her eyes glaze over with tears. “But, Papa, you must hear me out. The pirates were terrible. They had the heads of serpents, the bodies of men, and tails like scorpions. They murdered your crew, emptied the wine from two large barrels, and climbed inside to do treachery. I think they’re on their way to King Thaon’s castle, and it’s up to me to save the kingdom.”
Captain Adlard frowned. He tightened his grasp on her chin until it ached, and then he narrowed his gaze into two angry slits. “You force my hand, Leah. One of these days, if you don’t learn obedience, if you don’t stop telling these infantile stories, you’re going to come to serious harm—or cause it. Neither one will do.” Without further hesitation, he flipped her over, grasped both of her wrists in one hand, and raised her dirty tunic.
And then he began to paddle her bare, quivering rump.
Titan, son of Thunder, punched the lid off the barrel and squirmed out of the tight, confining enclosure, stretching his back and testing his muscles. Great lords of Thieves, it was a good thing he was limber and could contort his massive body. He thought he might die inside that blasted container. He glanced around the dark, dank cellar, searching for the second clandestine barrel of wine—the vat containing his comrade Vrega, son of Wind.
They were alone now.
And they were inside Castle Lycania.
All that was left to do was hide away in the shadows, wait until nightfall, and make their way through the maze of castle halls to King Thaon’s private apartments. They could squash any servants they came across as easily as one might squash a bug, but they needed to take care to avoid the castle’s garrison.
They had come this far.
And a legionnaire of Thieves would not be denied his quarry.
“Vrega,” he snarled, snaking between the rows of barrels. “Say something, soldier, knock on the lid.”
The fool had consumed at least two pints of wine before crawling into his wooden prison—he was probably passed out in his puke and his urine.
Chapter Ten
Prince Dante Dragona paced nervously in the throne room of Castle Warlochia, waiting for Prince Dario to join him. His head was pounding, his heart racing, and his stomach turning over in relentless waves of nausea. Telling Ari, Azor, and Asher about the Great Deception had been difficult, but this? Telling Prince Dario the truth—the entire truth—it was akin to having a limb sawed off without the benefit of a steep tincture of Valerian or a tankard of whiskey. He clenched his hands into fists, gazed at the two standards, one of Castle Dragon and one of Castle Warlochia, hanging on either side of the two-tiered wooden dais, and took a seat on the velvet-lined throne.
Pacing was beneath his dignity as a dragon.
When the heavy, ornately carved doors to the throne room swung open and Prince Dario strolled inside, as focused and confident as ever, Prince Dante said a silent prayer to his beloved, deceased brother, Desmond: Prince, please grant me wisdom. Please see Dario through this.
“Father,” Dario called in a congenial voice, making his way to the base of the throne. “You wished to see me.” He stopped just shy of the bottom step on the dais, crossed his arms, and bowed his head in deference. “My prince.”
Dante nodded. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I need to discuss something with you.” He sighed. “No, I need to tell you a story.”
Dario’s dark sculpted brows rose in curiosity. “A story?”
Dante swept his hand in a wide arc, indicating the top step of the dais. “Yes. Have a seat.”
A trace of nervousness—or was that wariness?—flashed through Dario’s eyes, and Dante felt the muscles in his stomach clench. “This sounds ominous,” Dario said.
“It is.” Dante wanted to lead with “you know that I will always love you” or “rest assured, your position in the Realm will never change,” but he knew better than to say any such thing: Both segues would set Prince Dario on edge, and the dragon could not be defensive when he heard the story. His mind needed to be open to receive it. “A long time ago,” Dante began, “in the one hundred and seventy-fifth year of the Dragonas’ Reign, the season of the diamond king, I entered Castle Dragon on a warm Maytide afternoon to meet the three new Sklavos Ahavi, supervised by their governess, who at that time was Pralina Darcy.”
He went on to describe the scene he walked in on and the iron grit of Mina Louvet. He told his son things he had never shared with anyone, things of a personal nature, like how he had observed right away that Mina’s hair was like Dante’s, as dark as the midnight sky; how her eyes were the color of emeralds, as rare as they were exquisite; and how he had studied her from head to toe, without apology, taking note of the fact that she was sinfully beautiful, and their sons would one day be strong.
How he had chosen her as his consort in an instant.
Dario listened with rapt fascination, although his expression remained inscrutable as Dante continued to share the entirety of the tale: Prince Damian’s brutality toward Tatiana Ward, and how Damian had acquired Mina; King Demitri Dragona’s preparation for the battle of Dracos Cove, and how the king had slaughtered numerous prisoners, including a lad named Matthias Gentry, in order to summon and release his dragon; and Dante’s own treachery on the sands beneath the tent of Umbras, how he had murdered—and exchanged the soul of—his wicked, duplicitous brother with the soul of King Demitri’s bastard son. He told Dario about Damian’s treason, plotting with Thaon Percy, and all that had truly transpired between himself and the new king of Lycania since that season. He told him about the prophecy, the omens of the three white owls, and the paternity of Ari, Azor, and Asher. And then he waited for the dragon he had raised for thirty years to digest the tale thus far.
Dario could no longer hide his shock, his revulsion, or his resulting discomfiture as each of
his emotions surged and recoiled in visible, expressive waves. But true to his reasonable, analytical nature, he processed each element one at a time. Finally, after what felt like an epoch of thunderstorms had come and gone, he cleared his masculine throat and tested his voice. “Ahem, I—” He tried again. “I cannot say that I am not stunned by this confession, that some of it—nay, all of it—does not stir some rancor in my soul. But bits of it make sense, even to my troubled mind.” He straightened his dark damask tunic, fashioned with subtle silver flames, as if to smooth out the wrinkles in his thoughts. “The rumors, the childhood stories told about Prince Damian—they never matched the uncle I’ve come to know and love.” He glanced askance as his reverie deepened. “And Ari, Azor, and Asher—they are my brothers, not my cousins. Their green eyes…” His voice trailed off. “Yes, a lot makes sense. Father? Did they know all along?”
The doubt and hurt in Dario’s expression, the sudden emergence of a hollow, midnight cavern within those stark blue eyes made Dante wince. “No, Dario. I told them yesterday. They were as surprised…and unsettled…as you.”
Dario nodded, his upper lip stiff. “So what does this mean for the line of succession? What does this mean for the Realm, if you manage to conquer and succeed King Demitri on Castle Dragon’s throne?” His keen blue eyes darkened. “And Mother…Great Spirit Keepers, what…how… Does Mother know that you also lie with Mina?” The condemnation in his voice was thick.
Dante sighed. He would rather have his left eye plucked out than have to tell Dario this particular truth, but there was just no getting around it. He took a deep breath for courage and dove in. “Son, in the early months of our territorial assignments, after King Demitri gave each of us a kingdom and a Sklavos Ahavi, your mother became restless, and she was unfaithful. She slept with King Demitri.”
Dario shot to his feet and backed away from the dais, throwing up his hand as if to halt Dante’s words. “Do not imply what you’re about to say!” he snarled, his dragon rising to the surface as evidenced by the scales that instantly sheathed his hands.
“Dario—”
“No,” he insisted. “I’m warning you, Father—”
“King Demitri is your sire.”
Dario staggered backward, and his crystal-blue wings shot out of his back, tearing his silken shirt. “You don’t know that. I could still be your—”
“I’ve never lain with your mother.” Dante wished by all the gods that he had…just once.
Dario’s fangs punched out of his gums, and his forehead twisted into deep lines of menace. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. I’ve seen her go to your chamber at night.” His voice was laced with venom.
Dante shook his head. “On rare occasions, I have invited your mother to my apartment, but only so that I might give her the impression…plant memories…use magic to keep the peace.”
Dario chuckled, long and loud, and the sound was as sinister as it was eerie. “You used your magic to make my mother believe you fucked her?” he barked, without apology.
Prince Dante frowned. “Dario, please…do not.”
“Do not what?” he snarled. “Do not accuse you of being a monster? Do not indict you for crimes against my mom? Oh, wait, she’s not a person, is she? She’s your property. Your Ahavi. Your broodmare to do with as you please. They all are.” He glanced up toward the throne room’s vaulted, beamed ceilings. “Perhaps I should follow in my father’s footsteps and go use Princess Gaia as I desire—what the hell was I thinking about courtesy, restraint, and honor?”
Prince Dante stood from his throne and took two cautious steps toward the angry dragon. “You are not your uncle Damian, Dario. It would be beneath you to do such a thing.”
Dario cackled again. “Ah, yes, but it wouldn’t be beneath you, would it, Father?” He spat the last word with derision. “But then, you aren’t my father, and Uncle Damian doesn’t exist!”
“I will always be your father, Dario. I love you as a son. I always have.”
“And yet, Ari is your firstborn, is he not?” The dragon’s nostrils flared, emitting a gossamer waft of smoke, and for a tenuous moment, Dante thought Dario was going to lunge at him. His beloved son rocked from his heels to the balls of his toes; his claws extended from the tips of his fingers; and then he gazed absently at his hands and shook. “Oh, Great Nuri, Lord of Fire,” Dario uttered, sounding moderately unhinged. “Am I even an immortal dragon? Can I shift when I come of age? Did King Demitri tender the dragons’ kiss at my birth?”
Dante looked away.
He wanted to fall to his knees and plead for Dario’s forgiveness—the layers of deception were just so great…so numerous—but he could not change the past, nor would he. He nodded emphatically. “Yes. I moved heaven and earth to make it happen—Aguilon, the high mage and my advisor, accompanied me to Castle Dragon shortly after your birth, and he stirred the king to tender the kiss during what felt like a fitful dream. Your mother knew nothing about it.”
At this, Dario took several generous paces back, edging toward the throne-room doors. “Then Aguilon knows as well the truth of my paternity. He has always known.” He palmed the tip of his scabbard, indicating his Tuvalian-steel sword. “You are not a god, Prince Dante, yet you have played divine games with my life since the day I was born. You have mocked me since my birth, made a fool of me before the Warlochian Court. And you are not my father—you’re my brother, and you have no say over my choices from this day forward.” He glanced out an arched, stone window and gestured his chin toward the north, in the direction of Castle Dragon. “King Demitri may still claim me as his own—it is not too late to return to my rightful sire.”
Dante gasped. “Do not even think of it, Prince Dario. King Demitri is not a moral being—he would just as likely slay you as claim you. Consider the fate of the Realm. Would you sentence your cousins, your aunts, and your uncles—this entire court—to death? If you betray our plans for Asher’s birthday; if you go to King Demitri now; the fate—nay, the suffering—of humans, Warlochians, and Umbrasians alike will be on your hands for generations. I raised you to be a fearsome dragon, and I raised you to be a lethal prince, unequalled in this land—but I did not raise you to be vindictive. I raised you to serve the Realm.”
Dario removed his hand from his scabbard and stretched his arms, out and to the sides, in a gesture of scornful submission, exposing his belly to an alpha predator, his breast to a superior dragon. “Then slay me where I stand, Prince Dante. Murder me as you murdered my uncle…to save the Realm.” He backed into a heavy wooden door and stared Prince Dante down from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, raising his chin in defiance. “Do it now, or forever hold your peace.” His midnight glare narrowed into two tiny vertical slits. “Don’t let me walk out these doors.”
Prince Dante Dragona’s beast began to snarl, both challenged and provoked by the underling’s threat. His eyes heated. Each breath left a trail of ash-tinged smoke in its wake, and his fangs abraded his lips. Yet he made no move toward Dario.
He would not.
He could not.
For Dario was truly his son.
And as a result of his enormous restraint, as he fought through the savage haze, his next words were so clipped and guttural, they hardly sounded human: “You are the son of this province, born in the one hundred and seventy-sixth year of the Dragonas’ Reign, and you, not Prince Ari, will sit on the throne of Castle Warlochia in my stead. You are my son, Dario Dragona. I have lived for you, and I would rather die than strike you down. Do not force my hand.” He placed his fist over his heart. “You were born in here, Prince Dario. I raised you because I loved you. And I love you still.”
Dario dropped his arms to his side, held up his hands, and shrugged. “Problem is, my prince, I can’t believe a single word that comes out of your lying mouth.”
With that, he pressed against the doors with his wings, kicked them fully open with the back of his foot, and stormed out of the throne room, his crystal-blue or
bs absent of mercy or light.
Cassidy Bondeville sauntered out of the anteroom closet just beyond Prince Dante’s throne and staggered toward the opulent red carpet that ran the full length of the throne room. She stared at Dante Dragona and smirked. “Well, that went well—you selfish, savage bastard.”
Prince Dante spun around, his beast fully feral, but Cassidy didn’t care: Her heart was lying on the ground before her, like so much garbage, ground into mush. So all these years he had known…
About her dalliance with King Demitri.
About Dario’s true paternity.
About the fact that Cassidy had betrayed him, thirty-one summers past.
And he had always planned to usurp the throne of Castle Dragon.
He had fathered three sons with Mina Louvet—not one, not two, but three!—and he had played with Cassidy’s mind like a cat toyed with a mouse, mocking her duty as his Sklavos Ahavi, cavorting with her emotions as a woman, and letting her age…and age…and age, while Mina remained young, vibrant, and healthy.
He had used her like the slave she was, and he hadn’t even batted an eye.
“I hope Prince Dario goes straight to King Demitri,” she spat, giving full vent to her hatred and rage. “And I hope King Demitri slays you for your treachery. I hope he kills Mina and all your bastard sons.”
Chapter Eleven
Dante’s beast was murderous, and his heart was torn.
His dragon was wild with the impulse to go after Dario, but his soul was afraid that the ferocious serpent might harm the impetuous prince out of instinct…and dominance…out of the feral, instinctual need to establish ultimate supremacy.
Dragons were not rational creatures.
They did not think or love or reason.
