Second Son - A Prequel to The Shattered Throne

by Cate Dean

  Second Son

  A Prequel to The Shattered Throne Series

  Cate Dean

  Copyright, 2014

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.

  Cover design by Rebecca Frank.

  Realm of Farren map drawn by Katie at Magic Owl Design.

  Sign up for Cate’s list: http://catedeanwrites.com/join-my-list to learn about new releases.

  As the second son, Micah Brachon is happy to leave the responsibilities of running their small coastal kingdom to his brother. It allows more time for his inventions and experiments.

  When one of those experiments is sabotaged, his ordinary life is turned upside down - and he finally learns about the deadly faction that seeks to rip apart the foundations of their government.

  As the stakes escalate, it will take all of Micah's skills to defend against a faceless, desperate enemy. An enemy bent on destroying his brother, and anyone who stands in their path.

  One

  “Micah Aron Brachon!”

  Micah flinched as his mother’s voice echoed through the family wing of the castle, nearly dropping the glass ball it took him a week to fashion. He ran through the last few days in his mind, trying to pinpoint something he might have done to ignite her temper.

  “I don’t think I—”

  “She found your new pet.” Liam Brachon, his older brother and soon-to-be Duke of Palamar, strode into his workshop. “You didn’t actually think you could keep that creature in your room?”

  “It’s just a small fire drake.” But, of course, he completely forgot to mention the acquisition. He meant to, at the family supper last night. But Mother started arguing with the court advisor, Joseph Kerrow, and Micah snuck out. “They don’t spit fire; that’s a myth. The small ones make fine pets. They are intelligent, friendly—”

  “Territorial, and ugly when provoked. You can’t really blame Mother for her concern.” Liam smiled, leaning against the pillar next to Micah’s long worktable. “I think he’ll make an excellent pet. Maybe give you something to focus on besides this—tinkering.”

  He might as well have said “waste of time” out loud. Micah knew what he thought—what they all thought of his tinkering. But he swallowed the argument, again, and carefully cradled the glass ball in a fabric-lined basket.

  Movement caught his eye, but he didn’t have time to do more than glance over at the window as he pushed off the stool—just as his mother, Elena Brachon, Duchess of Palamar, stormed in.

  “Where in the name of the throne did you find that creature?”

  “He found me, Mother.” Micah refused to be cowed by her temper. He would be sixteen next month, just a year away from the responsibilities he would take on as the younger brother to Palamar’s Duke. “The drake flew in my bedroom window, hungry and injured. I couldn’t just throw him back out.”

  “Of course not.” She moved forward and brushed her hand over the back of Micah’s head, not subtle as she removed the leather tie that kept the shoulder length hair out of his way. Micah held back a sigh. “I would have liked to learn about it from you, instead of walking in and being hissed at.”

  “Mother.” He gripped her hand. “I’m so sorry. He didn’t—”

  “I threw the books in my hand at it before it could do anything else. It flew out your window, so there is a good chance we will not see the creature again.” Micah fought a smile at the hopeful tone in her voice. “You may be replacing several of the books, I’m afraid.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, surprise flashing in her dark blue eyes. “You’ve grown, Micah. When did you sprout up to my eye level?”

  “Call out the pages!” Liam said. “The tiny lordling has finally begun to—”

  He ducked, laughing, as Micah snatched up a water soaked rag and threw it at him. The rag caught Liam’s shoulder, water dripping down the sleeve of his blue velvet tunic.

  “Oops,” Micah said.

  Liam pulled the rag off his shoulder. “Nice shot, baby brother.”

  “Liam, go change. The advisors will be expecting you free of water stains.” Mother turned to him as Liam ran out the door. With a sigh, she scanned him, shaking her head. “Please find some clothes that don’t have burn marks or ink on them, and join us for luncheon.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Micah watched her leave, then strode over and closed the tall wood door before he moved back to the table.

  He had time to finish this, before he needed to change. He sat on the stool and dug another piece of leather out of his pocket, tying his hair back.

  “It’s safe to come out now.” A snort answered him, and he smiled as the red and green fire drake crawled out from under the worktable, shaking himself. “ You’re lucky Liam didn’t see you sneak in through the window. Too busy teasing me,” he muttered, and shook it off. Liam would always tease, because he didn’t understand Micah’s need to know, to learn. “Thank you for your discretion. Mother would have—well, I don’t like to think about what she might have done if she found you here. You shouldn’t have scared her like that.”

  The drake sat next to him, tilted his head up. Micah swore he saw amusement in the dark eyes.

  “I have to finish this, but you can stay, if you like.” Micah reached down, carefully rubbed the spot just above his eyes. The creature hummed, his eyelids drooping. “Like that, do you? I read up on you, once you appeared in my window. I would like to name you, if that’s all right.”

  The drake’s eyes opened, focused intently on him. Micah knew from his hurried research that offering to name a drake meant taking it in. Permanently.

  “Yes, I understand. Do you want to stay, with me?” The spined head lifted, then rested on his thigh. “All right. I’ll take that to mean you approve. How does Kres strike you?”

  Mother would be supremely unhappy, but the name, and the reputation behind the name, suited him. With a softer snort, the drake nuzzled his leg. Micah laughed, and leaned down to meet the dark eyes.

  “Kres it is, then. Welcome to your new home, my friend.” He ran his fingers over the velvet soft scales, surprised again by the warmth radiating from the drake. “Now, I need to finish this. Mother is going to be angry enough without me being late for luncheon on top of everything else.”

  He straightened, and watched Kres pad across the workshop. The drake stretched out in front of the small woodstove, the end of his long tail flicking. Micah made a mental note to add some kind of bed for him, then turned his attention back to his experiment.

  Carefully, he used tongs to lift the glass ball, and held it in the flame of a small but hot burner he created out of a confiscated oil lamp. He just needed to heat the glass ball for a few seconds, but it had to be heated as evenly as possible. Once he plunged it into the cold water, he would know if his theory had any merit.

  If he could toughen the glass, like the blacksmiths toughened steel for swords, the uses for it could be—

  He carefully turned the ball, and froze when he saw the crack. Liquid glistened on the clear surface, heat sending its scent up to him. Micah recognized it, and knew he had only a few seconds. He used one of those precious seconds to lower the ball to the table. Then he pushed off the table as hard as he could. He had barely enough time to cover his face with his hand before the ball exploded.

  Two

  “Micah—open your eyes, little brother.”

  Liam’s voi
ce filtered through the haze of pain. It hurt to swallow, but once he pushed aside the flare of panic, he realized that was from the residue of the fire oil. He pried his lids open, stared up into Liam’s face.

  “What—” He coughed, his body rejecting the smoke he must have inhaled when he was unconscious.

  “Hold still. The physician’s assistant is still pulling glass shards out of your hand.”

  “Glass…” Micah tried to sit. It only took Liam’s hand on his shoulder to keep him down. “The glass ball,” he whispered. “Exploded.”

  “I figured out that much. Your fire drake found me, all but gave me heart failure when it flew at me, screeching like it was crazed. I wouldn’t have known what happened if it didn’t—” He cut himself off, took a deep breath. “That creature may have saved your life.” Liam glanced over at the stove, where Kres sat, his dark gaze on Micah. “I guess we’re duty bound to keep it now.”

  The drake snorted, as if in agreement, and Micah started to smile; he closed his eyes when pain shot through his head.

  “Liam.” He used his right hand to pull Liam closer. Thank the heavens his left hand had been injured, and not this one. “Someone—rigged it. Explosion wasn’t—an accident.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Micah started to nod, stopping as pain flared through his right temple. More pain had him flinching when fingers touched his raw palm.

  “I am sorry, milord.” The low, quiet voice had Micah turning his head. He stared up at the girl bent over his hand. “Some of this glass is quite deep, and I’m afraid it will hurt to remove it.”

  “All right… you’re Shira.”

  She smiled. “What gave it away?”

  That had to be a rhetorical question. Her dark red hair and pale skin would make it simple to pick her out of a crowd of dark haired and tanned Westerners. She had the same blue eyes of his people, instead of the deep brown that singled out a Shira faster than their hair color. That made her—

  “Half-blood,” he whispered.

  Her smile faded. “Will that be a problem? I was called to the castle by your advisor, as you are without a physician at the moment. I can turn this over to another physician if—”

  “No problem.” Micah tried for a smile, just as his hand decided to twitch again. “Ouch—”

  “Please hold still, milord. I will get these last bits out, then we can do something about the pain.” She eased out another long, narrow sliver of glass. “You were fortunate that you managed to cover your face. There is only the one cut, near your hairline.”

  No wonder his head ached. He lifted his right hand to his cheek, and his fingers came away bloody.

  “How bad?” he whispered.

  She paused to meet his eyes, and smiled at him. “Head wounds are notorious for bleeding, even minor head wounds. A few stitches, milord, and you will be good as new.”

  He clenched his jaw as she bent over his hand again, extracted the last piece, and eased his lacerated hand into a bowl of warm water.

  “Liam,” Micah whispered. “Can you help me sit?”

  “Take it slowly, Micah.” Liam slid one arm under his shoulders and lifted him. Micah clutched the front of his tunic, lightheaded and nauseated from the movement. “All right, little brother?”

  “Getting there.” Now he could see his hand. Part of him wished he had not looked. His palm was covered with cuts, some of them deep enough to need stitches. “Where is Mother?”

  “She went to the market with Cook. They left just before the explosion. Don’t worry—I have Joseph waiting on her. Hopefully we’ll have you cleaned up and looking less deathly by the time she returns.”

  He glanced over at the Shira. She raised one eyebrow. “Was that directed at me?”

  Liam smiled, and Micah knew she’d see only him from this point on. Liam’s smile drew any female in viewing distance, then his height and lean, muscular physique pulled them all the way in. At least, that was how he heard one of the maids explaining his attraction. Micah just knew his brother overshadowed him, in every possible way.

  To his surprise, the Shira didn’t seem impressed. Instead, she ignored Liam, and touched Micah’s shoulder.

  “I want to clean and stitch your hand, but I also want you off this cold floor. Is there a more comfortable place nearby?”

  “My—sitting room.” Micah swallowed, his stomach clenching at the thought of actually standing up. Every injury throbbed, including the bruises he could feel all the way down his right side. “I don’t think I can—stand on my own.”

  “Fortunately, you have a strong big brother handy.” She smiled down at Micah. “My name is Raine, milord. Raine Ashmead. Just so you know who to throw your curses at once I begin stitching your hand.”

  “It will be—that painful?”

  “We have the most nerve endings in our feet, but hands can feel just as sensitive. So yes, I’m afraid it’s going to be quite painful.” She carefully brushed hair off his forehead. “This cut will need stitches as well. I do have a powder in my medical kit that will help you relax.”

  “Opiate?”

  She studied him as she nodded. “It will take the edge off your pain, make this easier for both of us. I will need your permission, milord.”

  “You have it,” Micah whispered. And braced himself when Liam crouched beside him.

  Movement jolted through him, and he swallowed, fighting the need to throw up. By the time he managed to force it back down, Liam had settled him on the worn sofa in his sitting room, in front of the fireplace.

  Kres crouched on the stone hearth, those dark eyes watching every move. They followed Raine as she sat on Micah’s left, and lifted his arm into her lap. His hand throbbed, burning where the air touched his open wounds.

  “Relax, little brother, let the pretty girl take care of you.” Liam winked at Raine, but Micah saw the worry in his eyes. “I am going to make certain Mother doesn’t come barging in.”

  He watched Liam stride out of the room, leaving him alone with Raine, and one edgy, protective fire drake.

  “Milord.” Her voice was gentle. “I have the opiate ready for you.”

  “Micah. Please,” he whispered when she froze. “I keep looking for my—brother every time you call me milord.” Heaven above, it hurt to talk.

  “All right.” She cradled the back of his head, helped him drink the bitter mixture. “We’ll give it a few minutes to work. I can bandage the least damaged part of your hand while we wait. I won’t need to worry about the fire drake attacking me if you, say, curse in pain, will I?”

  He smiled, appreciating her effort to ease the tension. “Kres, she is here to help me, so stop glaring at her.”

  The drake sniffed, but he relaxed, his gaze less intense.

  “Thank you, milord.” She took in a deep breath, and finally said his name. “Micah. I need you to hold still for me. I know this will hurt you, but the less you move, the less painful it will be, for both of us.”

  Raine’s hands were as gentle as her voice. She wrapped Micah’s fingers and the top of his hand, where the cuts had been shallow. The ugly lacerations were across his lower palm.

  “Raine?” She lifted her head at his raw whisper. “Will there be—permanent damage?”

  “I don’t believe so. Some of the cuts are deep, but not as bad as they look. If the glass had been thicker, it would have done considerably more damage. You will be stiff for some time, but you should have full use of your hand once it heals completely.” She studied him for a long moment before she spoke again. “Someone did this to you deliberately, didn’t they?”

  He jerked at her words. She was too perceptive. Micah had overheard Liam say something to her about an accident, that Micah had broken the glass ball. His injuries obviously told her a different story.

  “My glass ball was sabotaged.”

  “Is this the first time someone has tried to hurt you?”

  “No one has…” His voice faded as memories poked at him. The horse with a
saddle that had not been cinched tightly enough. The night at the library, when all the oil lamps on his floor went out, and he swore someone stalked him in the dark.

  “Your secret is safe, Micah. I will tell no one my suspicions, if that’s your wish.” She flipped her waist length braid over her shoulder, and cradled his hand. “Now let’s take care of these cuts.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The young Lord Micah was asleep by the time Raine finished stitching the long cut near his hairline. She used a cloth dampened with warm water to gently clean the blood off his face, and as much as she could get out of his hair without waking him.

  He looked so vulnerable, stretched out on the worn sofa. He also looked older than she expected, his face already wearing the shadow of a beard. She knew he would be sixteen come next month; word of his birthday celebration had been spread across Palamar, by way of fliers, and pages shouting out the planned festivities.

  Not that Raine would be allowed to attend any of them. As a barely tolerated foreigner, she would be unwelcome. As a bonded servant, her time belonged to her mistress until she turned twenty. Two long years, but she had lasted six already, and she was fortunate to have a mistress who gave her more—latitude than her last bond holder.

  She stood, slowly, not wanting to wake him, or startle the fire drake that was now stretched out next to the sofa, at Lord Micah’s feet.

  He needed the sleep, and not only to heal. He looked worn thin, and she had a good idea she knew why. She got more than one glimpse at his workshop, at the bits of equipment, the half-finished experiments spread across the long table. The fatigue in his eyes told her he spent late nights regularly hunched over that table, losing track of the hours. Those experiments also explained the cuts and scars scattered across his forearms.

  When she stepped out into the hall, Lord Liam was waiting for her.

  “How is he?”