The masked woman arched in pain.
Rosalia snatched the edge of the assassin’s mask then yanked. Tearing it off also pulled away the tight black cowl beneath it. Familiar silver-white braids tumbled free around an oval face with high cheekbones. After staggering back into a spin, the assassin resumed a guard position with both blades raised.
As Rosalia’s world dropped from beneath her, crumbling into dust, a chisel wedged into her chest to crack it open and rend the heart beneath. Lacherra’s dark eyes appraised her in return.
“I…I don’t understand. This can’t be right.”
Had to be a phony—a lookalike potion or some other magical trick—wearing the face of someone she loved, because the Lacherra she knew had never been a coldblooded murderer.
“I’ll kill you for stealing her face, imposter.”
“Imposter?” The thing pretending to be Lacherra laughed, chuckle throaty and amused. “Honey, there’s no imposter good enough to pretend to be me. I’m the real thing.”
“No…I mean…no. I refuse to believe it.”
“Doesn’t matter much if you believe it or not. I still have a job to do, and you’re in my way.”
As flexible as a cat, Lacherra launched a roundhouse kick into Rosalia’s face. Her head snapped to the side and she stumbled back, a fist striking dead center of her chest with enough force it felt like her heart stopped. Before she could gasp out in pain, her opponent thrust a knife blade into her stomach.
The leather armor deflected the weapon, though its sharp edge left a shallow gouge in the matte black material—better than spilling her guts in the Cathedral of Light’s garden. Before she could marvel over her fortune, a ragged sound between a snarl and a growl raised the hairs on the back of Rosalia’s neck, preceding the cone of dragon’s fire that came next.
What licked against Rosalia’s skin didn’t hurt. In fact, it was like a warm caress instead of a blistering inferno. But her attacker shrieked and stumbled back. For a split second before the rising wall of flames hid all from view, Rosalia saw familiar eyes wild with fear, and then a golden flash brighter than the sun glinting off a coin’s polished face.
When the fire died, the assassin masquerading as her adoptive mother had escaped. Only a scorched cape and cracked Nairubian mask remained as proof she’d been there at all.
Xavier hurried forward in his enormous dragon body, leaving a flattened section of garden behind him. One flick of his powerful tail snapped a nearby tree. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
“Forget me. We need the stone.”
Frantic, she searched the grass nearby for the prismatic glow cast by the Light of Arcadian, but she found nothing. Somehow, the assassin had survived incineration by dragon and made off with the very thing Rosalia had met Bishop Roma to retrieve.
It had taken every ounce of Xavier’s willpower to rouse from the suffocating gases permeating the garden’s perimeter, and he thanked the gods he’d managed to drag himself into the clean, open air in time. The queasiness lingered until they reached the lair, and all he wanted was to collapse somewhere and wait for his world to cease spinning.
If it weren’t for the travesty perpetrated against the bishop, he’d have thought the gods were smiling down on them, because it could be only by divine grace that they escaped before the arrival of the guard. Someone from within the cathedral had sounded an alarm, and he had no doubt it was the assassin.
Head throbbing like someone had tried to split his skull apart with a mallet and chisel, Xavier settled on his stomach for Rosalia to slide off his back. After she slipped down, he unsealed the path into the hoard and shifted to his elven form.
After she entered, Xavier staggered through the open entrance and restored the wall behind them. Then he leaned against it and collected his senses again, stark fucking naked with his back pressed to the cold stone.
The cold felt good, a contrasting sensation to the heat surging over him. Warmth rarely, if ever troubled dragons; even in their human forms the forge had always felt more comforting despite the slick sweat trickling down his spine and beading against his chest, so he’d never loathed it.
This sensation of dragonsbane was different, something he’d never experienced in all of his life but recognized from countless warnings, because dragonsbane had killed his father many years ago. Or rather, it hadn’t been the cause of his death, but the instrument of his unmaking, allowing the great wyrm’s enemies to slay him.
When he opened his eyes, Rosalia had taken a seat on one of the divans in the receiving room, features twisted into a mask of grief as tears streamed down her cheeks.
He had to shake it off. Had to shake off the lingering effects of the toxin for her.
Given what had happened between them in the shower and that they were long past the need for modesty, he approached and knelt in front of her to survey the damage.
“You’re injured.” When she didn’t respond, he took her right arm. Dark blood had pooled above and within the leather guard. The wound itself continued to ooze, albeit slowly.
A Bloodletting enchantment. Cutthroats and assassins used the awful magic to make the smallest nicks gush like crimson fonts. Her injury could have been much, much worse if she hadn’t been protected.
“One moment.”
She nodded.
Moments later when he returned bearing a healer’s field kit—and wearing trousers—she’d removed the other guard and tossed her cloak aside. He resumed kneeling in front of her and bathed the shallow cut in clean water before applying ointment.
“This should clot soon now. Nasty magic.”
Her gaze rose from her arm to his face. “What happened? Why did it take you so long to help me?”
“Poison.” He worked his jaw a few times, tongue thick in his mouth. The smoke had thrown everything off kilter.
“You and Nemuria told me a dragon can’t be poisoned.”
“We said highly resistant to poisons and toxins. What struck me is perhaps the only substance in this world capable of causing me profound harm. I was paralyzed in the bushes, able to hear and see you but unable to take action.”
“What was it?”
Xavier smeared pain-dulling paste over the cut followed by a thick healing ointment. He blew over it to dry the patch. “Dragonsbane. It is a plant from Linradesh, a distant kingdom across the great ocean, far west of Nairubia where there are no dragons, because they’ve used their foul weed to kill everyone. They would burn great fields of it and billow the smoke over the lands to weaken my western kin. And then destroy them.”
Rosalia’s eyes grew large. “Are you dying?”
“No. What little I breathed will pass from my system soon. Had I been larger, that small amount may not have harmed me at all. A bit of a headache perhaps, but…”
She tucked her chin, eyes aimed toward her lap. “I thought you’d abandoned me.”
“I would never abandon you.”
“Did you see her face?”
“I did.”
“It was Lacherra.”
He caressed the back of her knuckles with his thumb. “I’m sorry.” He’d not known the Nairubian woman by name, but he’d recognized her as the bartender slinging mugs of ale when he’d visited Hadrian to barter for the mirror.
“I saw her corpse. The night of the fires, I went to the Salted Pearl and watched them haul away Hadrian’s belongings. I watched them confiscate kegs of ale and cart off all his wine. They took everything. When I walked inside what remained of the tavern, I saw her corpse behind the bar. They killed Hadrian by the door.”
“It could be a doppelganger of some sort. A shapeshifter.”
“No. It wasn’t.” She clenched one fist across her lap and stared across the room. “I saw her lucky coin, and I’ve seen that mask in the office at the Salted Pearl. Lacherra carved it herself. I just don’t understand why she would do this.”
“There has to be a logical explanation for what we saw.” Because the alternative idea, t
hat the woman who raised Rosalia—her surrogate mother—could participate in her family’s slaughter, was far too grisly a concept to conceive.
“There is. She sold us out to King Gregarus, and she’s the reason the Thieves Guild of Enimura is in shambles.”
15
Dragonsbane
Essence of dragonsbane must have remained on Xavier’s skin, because a hot shower cured all of his problems and cleared his head. He exchanged places with his automaton a quarter after the seventh chime, despite an inner debate related to Rosalia traveling through the translocation panes to Ilyria on her own. He should have been by her side.
But what could he do?
She didn’t want his company, and he couldn’t blame her.
Helpless to do anything to lighten the mood, he worked on a commission until a commotion drew him outside around half past eight, when most shopkeepers trickled into the Twilight Gardens to open. If news occurred after the printing presses finished the previous night, a crier took to the streets to deliver vital reports instead, providing a little gossip to whet the public’s appetite until articles were printed for the evening.
Xavier eased into the crowd on the street corner only a few businesses down the lane from his property. Years ago, when he’d first decided to create a secondary entrance to the lair, he’d bought the land and the three surrounding buildings for additional privacy, wary of neighbors noticing—or hearing—something unusual.
“Murderer Strikes Again!” a young boy shouted. “Our beloved Bishop Roma has passed on to the Radiant Halls! Is no one safe? Read about it at five!”
Fuck.
Lingering to listen to the speculation and hearsay didn’t help.
“My little brother is on the city watch. Says an assassin killed the bishop, and not a single church service is to be held in any of the temples until the good man’s memorial this evening,” an older woman said.
A jeweler who worked in the shop across from the Clockwork Emporium shook his head. “I heard it was a woman. Like the one who killed that old playwright.”
“Nonsense. It couldn’t be her. She burned in the dragon attack,” another shopkeeper said.
“I said like the one who killed him. Didn’t say it was her. Maybe the watch missed a few of the gangs when they scoured the streets.”
A few voices agreed, murmuring their own ideas.
A blacksmith grunted. “My sis lives with me and the wife. She’s engaged to a royal guard. He rushed to our home not even an hour ago, told us to all remain indoors today—”
“You’re failing at that,” the jeweler said.
“Shut your mouth. Anyway, he rushed to our home and told everyone to remain indoors. Said it’s not safe to be on the streets until they find and slay it. Witnesses saw the blighted dragon again this morning flying over Temple Way and are positive it had something to do with Roma’s death.”
Xavier’s belly plummeted to his feet like a lead weight.
The smith glanced at Xavier. “You hear anything, Bane?”
He shook his head. “I’m barely awake, mate. Slept in for once.”
“You elves are educated about dragons and such. What do you have to say about it?”
“Me? Ah…” A half dozen attentive gazes fixed on him. “Depends on the type of dragon. Is it a juvenile? An adult? A great wyrm? What color? Color tends to determine aggression level. Nothing’s meaner than a black dragon, and I’d pity the squadron of royal guards sent to defeat it. The crown would be wiser to hire professionals.”
Heads nodded.
“Heard it was black. Black as pitch.”
Xavier whistled. “Then I hope the king doesn’t send our city watchmen and royal guard against it. It’d be suicide. I’m told Linradesh exterminated all of their black dragons for a reason.” Because his grandfather had been the asshole to set the reputation.
After participating in a few minutes more of speculation, he excused himself and returned to the shop with the morning paper. After that, business picked up and kept him busy through his lunch hour, denying Xavier the chance to visit Rosalia in the lair. He dealt with a flood of clients concerned their clockwork locks and protections wouldn’t hold up against the enigmatic assassin prowling the streets, and twice the usual number of house call requests filled his schedule until he was booked solid for a month.
At five, he rushed from the shop and purchased a paper, tossing a silver bit to the young man peddling them on the corner.
Cathedral of Light Dimmed by Murderer, the headline read, detailing a morning investigation by the city watch into the death of the beloved Bishop Roma.
After reading a page of speculation that had nothing to do with Rosalia, Xavier’s shoulders loosened, and he returned to his shop to find more customers waiting. Two young ladies stood with an older gentleman who checked his pocket watch and ignored the sign displaying store hours.
“Sorry, sir. I’m closed.”
“It’s an emergency.”
Xavier managed not to clench his jaw. “I believe it, but I require a twenty-five percent surcharge for emergency work after hours, on top of an additional twenty-five percent if it’s a house call.”
“We’ll pay it. You came highly recommended.” The three lines deepened across the man’s craggy brow. “Ah, but first you must excuse my abominable manners, young man. Forgive us. It’s been a trying day, what with this murderer about. All of the Velvet Coast is in an uproar, you know. I am Justice Giuseppe Vinosera.”
Blast. Minor nobility and a judge. Rich and just powerful enough that Xavier felt compelled to kiss the guy’s ass just enough to have a pal on the side of the law.
“All right. What’s the problem, Justice?”
The man’s shoulders relaxed. “Our spider rover short-circuited during the night. Given the recent news, it isn’t safe to be without protection.”
One of the girls aimed a shy smile at Xavier. “Mama purchased it from the Mecha Bandit last year.”
“That’s your main problem,” Xavier muttered. “The idiot at the Mecha Bandit orders parts from Linradesh. I have nothing against imports, but when they’re inferior quality, the product and the client suffer.”
They led him to a carriage parked nearby and the coachman lifted a mechanical spider from within, placing it in Xavier’s arms. The odor of smoldering wires remained on the metal and scorch marks blackened the rear of it.
“Moisture got inside it. Fried the circuits and the electro-core. I can fix it, but it won’t be cheap.”
The older man scowled. “That bastard said it was waterproof!”
“He often does make outrageous claims. Had you purchased it from me, it would be true.”
“How much to replace it?”
“Even more, but it’ll be built to last. This…” He flexed the rusted joints of a foreleg and shook his head. “You’ll be back in a month to repair another part. There’s stress in the ball joint from wear and tear. Now, I’ve recently perfected a new model of scorpion you may find very interesting, also capable of climbing walls. The tail fires darts laced with a powerful sedative, immobilizing trespassers for ease of capture prior to sounding an alarm.”
“That sounds wonderful!” one of the girl’s cried, squeezing her father’s arm. “Doesn’t it, Papa?”
“Indeed, it does. Let’s see it.”
Ten minutes later, the trio left with a rover worthy of their money, and Xavier didn’t even charge them the additional fee. The gods could never say he put greed and wealth before compassion. After all, he was a better dragon than his grandfather.
Rosalia slammed her fist against the training dummy. The methodic thud of her hands against leather-padded wood didn’t distract her from Xavier’s arrival. Didn’t distract her from his silent observation, or the fact that the dragon lurked in the doorway of the training room.
For hours after reporting their findings to Queen Morwen—Xavier hadn’t asked her to do it, but Rosalia had voluntarily crossed the teleportation pane and trekke
d to the palace alone—she’d wandered Valanya, lost and inconsolable. The elf queen suggested the possibility that they had encountered a doppelganger, but Rosalia knew better.
An imposter could mimic appearance and voice, but they could never imitate the sort of martial prowess she’d seen as a child while watching Lacherra train young thieves alongside Hadrian. Everything she’d ever learned had come from those two.
An imposter definitely couldn’t mimic the mannerisms, the cool half-smile, or the delicate cock of one silver brow.
And if Lacherra was the villain who had orchestrated the guild’s downfall, how could Rosalia hope to compete against her? The woman owned a djinn-blessed golden coin.
She wondered if that made them equals when it came to fortune and luck.
Eventually, melancholy bled into fury, and she visited the Ilyrian hoard’s training room to practice the magical art Xavier and Queen Morwen claimed she could wield. She meditated on the ley line at first, little good it did, and when that failed, she punished inanimate objects. And her own hands. Her knuckles sang in protest, each dull thwock reverberating through her bones.
On the next punch, a curl of dark smoke arose from the linen wrapped around her hands. She tried to envision the little spark inside of her growing wild and free, an inferno spreading through her soul. She imagined it as a raging brush fire.
Another wisp of smoke rose from the pale linen.
She didn’t want to punch wood. In place of the wounds-man’s leather-encased chest, she imagined a black mask meticulously carved from bone. Her physical pain disintegrated, dulled by the best anesthetic of all—rage.
She pounded the training dummy with all her fury, letting it burn inside her like a desert tempest. Plumes of flame sizzled over the leather padding, and floating embers drifted toward the rough floor.
“That’s it.” Xavier’s voice pierced the silence. “You can do better than that. There’s a ley here, a limitless font of power at your control. Reach into it. Feed from it. Draw what you need.”
Fool's Gold: a Fantasy Romance (Daughter of Fortune Book 2) Page 13
