Dragons Reign

  A savage, unholy pop!

  Agony assailing his skull.

  And two bony horns emerged from his forehead, causing his eyes to roll back in his head.

  Yet and still, Prince Dante endured it all.

  As the serpent inside him struggled to get out, he undulated on the floor, luxuriated in the agony of annihilation, and embraced the primordial metamorphosis.

  In fact, he even smiled…

  The sapphire dragon was strong.

  He had come this far in a matter of hours, not days, though the exact number was indeterminable.

  Based on this transformation, there could be no doubt: Dante Dragona could protect the Realm. From this day forward, at least for a week, he could transmute into his dragon at will, and as the sapphire beast, he would be unstoppable.

  Despite the fact that King Demitri’s dragon was older, more seasoned, and likely more vicious, Dante would be stronger than his formidable father.

  “Rise, my beloved dragon…rise.”

  King Demitri placed his purple-and-gold brocade robe aside, lest it get dirty, and shook his head in regret.

  Well, not exactly regret, but something more like pity…

  However vile, it had to be done.

  Male and female alike, he had called his servants into the throne room: two cooks, three maids, and the head laundress; a seamstress, four spinsters, and the weaver; the chaplain, several gardeners, and a half-dozen stable-hands.

  It was a bit late for the annual spring cleaning, but better late than never.

  Every year, around April, May, or June, King Demitri had the habit of firing half his staff and replacing them with fresh, new faces. The practice controlled the gossips; kept those who remained loyal and on their toes; and assuaged his ever-present paranoia: If anyone was plotting to do him in, well, they and their plots were dismissed.

  While this motley crew of servants had been chosen at random, and by the looks on their stricken faces, they were feigning remorse, they shouldn’t be surprised. He did this every spring.

  Well, not exactly this…

  These particular servants would continue to serve the Realm in a far greater, more important capacity.

  The nightmare would not let the king go.

  Night after incessant night, he dreamed of Prince Damian and Prince Dario, and the ill-fated dragons’ kiss. He dreamed about the warlocks and shades destroying his middle son. He dreamed of Prince Damian’s heart, hanging from an octagonal turret.

  He continued to dream of treachery.

  And as if that weren’t enough, Willow, the witch, was no help.

  Every time he questioned the seer about the troubling dreams—about his elusive misgivings—she made up some paltry, occultist nonsense. The late Wavani’s raven-haired niece was lying, but King Demitri could not place his finger on it.

  And that blasted dragon’s moon, it had gone from casting two eerie shadows to illuminating three on a starless night, then shrouding the Realm in mystical darkness. Furthermore, nearly thirty-years earlier, King Demitri had commissioned the construction of several small armed garrisons in Forest Dragon, posts that would double as tollways between one province and the next, in order to address the illegal slave trade. He had sought to provide protection for the women and children being sought by the soul-hungry shades. And just this evening, a rider from one of the garrisons, about twenty miles north of the Warlochian Trail where it met the road through Forest Dragon, arrived at the castle to report a strange event: plumes of black smoke rising in the air; flashes of red-hot fire glowing in the distance; and what sounded like the snarls and growls of beasts, echoing in the forest.

  What the hell!

  Between the Lycanian shifters, the wicked warlocks, and the devious shades, anything could have explained the savage commotion. Just the same, King Demitri was on edge.

  There were one too many omens for his liking.

  And considering that Asher’s birthday gala was only three days away, King Demitri had made a decision: He would call his primordial dragon to the fore, allow the beast to overtake him, and bank the fire for seven days…just in case. And thus, without the time to gather the required prisoners for the necessary sacrificial slaughter, he had called upon his servants instead. Flesh, blood, and bone—innocent or guilty—it was all the same to his dragon.

  A scullery maid with vivid green eyes batted her lashes and curtsied in one last, pitiful attempt to save her employment.

  Poor, unsuspecting lass…

  If she only knew.

  She was about to lose far more than some hard-earned wages.

  The wench would never know what hit her.

  III

  PART THREE

  DRAGONS RISE

  “Pale Death beats equally at the poor man’s gate and at the palaces of kings.” ~ Horace

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Castle Dragon ~ Sunday

  Mina Louvet pressed close to Prince Damian’s side—to Matthias Gentry’s side—as they exited the lavish horse-drawn carriage, followed by Ari, Azor, and Asher, and entered the gardens of Castle Dragon. The golden sun was high in the sky; there was a soft, gentle breeze blowing through the outdoor plaza; and the bright pink-and-violet peony bushes that littered the greens were in full, magnificent bloom. At a glance, she could see the opulent banquet table, set up in the distance afore a bubbling fountain: the place where the princes, the Sklavos Ahavi, and the king would gather to celebrate Prince Asher’s birthday. And she couldn’t help but remember that day, so long ago, when Matthias Gentry had entered these same pristine gardens carrying a missive about Raylea’s unfortunate capture. She blinked several times to dismiss the thought—she didn’t care to remember such terror, and she needed to stay present and focused.

  Much farther to the north, approximately thirteen nautical miles beyond Dracos Cove, was a large Lycanian vessel waiting to sail home along its typical, routine trade-route; only, there was nothing typical about the ship or routine about its course. Not this time. The craft was filled with heavy caches of copper, Prince Dante’s payment to Lycania for decades of mutual alliance, for twenty seaworthy vessels that had already been delivered. Beyond that, the ship was waiting exactly seven days to turn home, waiting for two potential passengers: Prince Damian Dragona and Mina Louvet. Should the entire gala erupt into deadly chaos; should Prince Dante Dragona’s best-laid plans fail, and fail miserably; should the king capture, kill, or best the sapphire dragon, then Prince Damian was to take his father’s side in the struggle, pretend to be shocked and appalled by Prince Dante’s betrayal, and declare his undying loyalty to King Demitri…only to later slip away with Mina.

  Flee to the safety and sanctuary of Lycania.

  Of course, the ship’s captain didn’t know about the secret contents of the crates concealed in his dry, dark cargo hold, nor did he know the identities of the potential passengers. Such a thing would be too dangerous at this juncture. He only knew that he was to take any and all existing cargo back to Lycania and grant safe passage to two cloaked strangers, should they board the vessel before seven days’ time. The way Prince Dante saw it, if he prevailed in his coup, his dragon could stop by the vessel on his way to save King Thaon and pick up the eighty pounds of coppers, along with a news-bearing missive. If he died at the hands of King Demitri, then Prince Damian could take word to Lycania and explain why the dragon wasn’t coming.

  Mina shivered all the way down to her toes, her emerald-green gown of silk, lace, and embroidered pearls feeling more like a confining cloak of shackles.

  If Prince Dante failed…

  Giver of Life, he could not fail!

  It would mean the death of her sons. It would mean the death of Prince Dario, as the fearless male was prepared to fight at Prince Dante’s side if he had to. It would mean the death of life as Mina knew it…sequestered in a foreign land…living on the run. Hoping that Raylea, her parents, Prince Drake, Tatiana, and their five guiltless sons, who were only obeying their father, su
rvived long enough for Prince Damian—for Matthias—to come of age and avenge the slain ones.

  “Mother, guard your thoughts,” Prince Ari whispered in her ear, stepping forward to place a tender hand on her shoulder.

  Mina nodded. Of course, she would have to be more careful.

  “Nothing but thoughts of food and liquor; decorations and gifts, and veneration for your beloved king,” Ari reminded her.

  Mina tapped his hand to let him know she got it. She eyed Tatiana Ward and Cassidy Bondeville, chatting behind the glorious fountain, and drew back her shoulders, raised her chin, and strolled leisurely to the fount to join them. “Greetings,” she said formally, stepping forward to give Tatiana a hug. “How long have you been here?”

  The gorgeous, auburn-haired Ahavi had her ringlet curls pinned in numerous crests to the crown of her head, with one long, flowing ringlet dangling from her temple. Her burnt-sienna gown was layered in chiffon, with golden citrines sewn into the bodice. She looked positively ravishing. “At least a couple of hours,” Tatiana mused. “Our coach arrived early, almost at the same time as the coach bearing Prince Dante, Cassidy, Princess Gaia, and Prince Dario.” She gestured gracefully with her hand at the stately blonde beside her and smiled. “You look lovely as always,” she continued, still speaking to Mina. “How are princes Ari, Azor, and Asher?”

  Mina couldn’t help but notice two conspicuous things: Tatiana was completely at ease, which meant Prince Drake had told her nothing, and Cassidy could hardly look Mina in the eyes. Perhaps it was the reminder of Mina and Tatiana’s eternal youth, contrasted against Cassidy’s natural aging, or perhaps it was far more intimate: Prince Dante had told Mina everything—she knew what had transpired between the prince and his apparent Sklavos Ahavi at Castle Warlochia. Perhaps Cassidy Bondeville was embarrassed or ashamed.

  “The boys are doing well,” Mina replied, remembering her manners. “And how about your wild band of five?” She brought her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun and scanned the enormous gardens. “Ah, I see Tabor and Tristan by the large, leaning oak—great lords, could they be any more handsome? But where is Teague?”

  Tatiana planted her hands on her hips, glanced about the gardens, and smiled. “Over there.” She pointed toward a tall trellis of climbing roses on the eastern side of the orchard. “Looks like he’s speaking with Prince Azor, which means they’ll be comparing swords in no time. Teague just had a new one forged by a blacksmith in Merci. It’s supposed to be perfectly weighted; thin as a reed of willow, but stiff as a slab of granite; and capable of slicing through a dragon’s scales like a red-hot blade through freshly churned butter. Blah, blah, blah,” she added. “Teague has been known to exaggerate.”

  Mina laughed, pretending not to already know about the Mercian blade. “And Thane and Troy—where is Prince Drake?”

  Tatiana shook her head. “They’re inside the castle, discussing something or other with King Demitri before the festivities begin.”

  Mina swallowed her trepidation. She didn’t want anything to show on her face. “Well, if it has anything to do with commerce or taxes, the annual growth in the commonlands, I’m surprised you weren’t summoned with them.”

  Tatiana rolled her amber eyes, ducked down, and whispered, “I hid behind the grapevines. I would just as soon have Teague try out his new sword by chopping off my arm than set foot in that blasted castle…ever again.”

  Mina nodded knowingly, and Cassidy started to wander away as if her presence wasn’t desired. “Cassidy, forgive my rudeness. You look lovely.” Mina reached out to touch her arm, and the Ahavi drew it back like Mina had burned her.

  “Spare me the compliments, Mistress Mina,” Cassidy snipped.

  Mina eyed Cassidy’s pale-blue gown, layered in exquisite Tuvalian fabric, with a graceful bustle gathered at the back. But you do look lovely, she almost said; nevertheless, she kept it to herself.

  Ever the astute and compassionate peacemaker, Tatiana cleared her throat. “If you will both excuse me,” she said graciously, “I would like to catch Prince Asher before the day gets away. I’d like to wish him a blessed birthday, and I still need to meet Princess Gaia—she’s cavorting about the gardens somewhere. I’ll be back in a moment.” Without further ado, she strolled away, allowing the two Ahavi some privacy.

  Mina lowered her voice. “How are you?”

  Cassidy snickered. “How do you think?” She brushed a lock of thick blond hair away from her face and stepped closer to create more insulation. “I assume you know everything—am I correct?”

  Mina held her gaze, but she didn’t answer. Sometimes silence spoke volumes.

  “Ah,” Cassidy snorted, “but of course. You’ve always known, haven’t you? About Prince Dario’s paternity?”

  Mina felt anything but smug. The entire history was tragic. “I know that surviving the Realm has never been easy, and that we have all been faced with difficult choices. We have all been drawn into necessary deceptions. I know that your life has been hard.”

  Cassidy looked off into the distance and nodded solemnly. “Harder than some. Easier than most. At least I never wanted for anything.”

  Mina thumbed a pearl on her bodice and sighed. “For whatever it’s worth, I was always jealous of you, even when I tried not to be.”

  Cassidy’s crystal-blue eyes shot to Mina’s, and she winced. “Of me? Whatever for? If my pride were not too great to allow it, I would ask you, Mistress Mina: Does he kiss with passion? Does he hold you afterward? Does he whisper tender endearments in your ear? What is it like to remain so young, to have a dragon’s love?” She waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Don’t you dare answer any of that. It’s rhetorical.”

  Mina met honesty with honesty. “And I would ask you many questions as well: What does he do at home, when he isn’t visiting for a day or dealing with matters of state? Does he retreat to the library, or his study? Does he read, or relax with a drink? What was it like to raise Prince Dario together—first words…first steps…first sword? Does he leave his boots at the foot of the stairs, or does he tuck them inside his wardrobe? Does he ever skip breakfast, or wear casual clothes when he has nowhere to go and no one to meet with?” She sighed, feeling the weariness of all the lost memories. “I had glimpses of light behind an ever-present cloud. You had the sun in all its glory, every day.”

  Cassidy crossed her arms over her stomach and drew visibly inward. “I had nothing, Mina. Rest assured.”

  A moment of awkward silence permeated between them before Mina spoke in a whisper: “You raised a fine prince, Mistress Ahavi. Prince Dario is as gallant as they come. It is almost as if his fearsome dragon is tempered by a celestial spirit.”

  Cassidy softened her tone. “I love my son.” Another stretch of silence, then Cassidy raised her chin. “My…dalliance…with the king was impersonal and short-lived.” She swallowed a hint of embarrassment. “But I had a few occasions to watch how he handled the deception, to see him nervous and off guard, to observe when he was being duplicitous and calculating.” She chuckled softly, but the sound was vacant of mirth. “His left eye twitches. A lot.” She narrowed her gaze on Mina as if she were staring straight through her. “His eye was twitching this morning when we arrived, and it hasn’t stopped twitching since. Beware, Mistress Mina. He knows something is amiss.”

  Mina’s stomach turned over in roiling waves, and fear banked hard in her gut.

  She glanced toward the long, rectangular banquet table and shivered, watching as two familiar Malo Clan guards patrolled in front of the balustrade: one, a massive mountain of muscle, bone, and rigidity, with an angular black goatee, the guard, who had dragged Mina out of a closet, decades ago, on her way to a brutal whipping. He hadn’t aged a day. And the second one, Goatee’s ever-present companion, a clean-shaven brute with a harelip. Like all Malo Clan giants, they were fierce in battle and eager to welcome death.

  She scanned the table instead, keen to dismiss the thought.

&nb
sp; King Demitri would sit in the center, facing the crowd of emissaries, honored guests, and courtiers elevated above the simpler tables, while Prince Asher would sit to the king’s right, in the position of honor as the diamond king’s guest. In this patriarchal land of kings and dragons, Prince Dante would be seated to King Demitri’s immediate left—he was the eldest living son, after all—and Prince Dario, then Prince Drake, would be to Dante’s left, followed by Drake’s five royal offspring.

  Prince Damian would sit on the other side of Asher, and Ari and Azor would be placed to Damian’s right, seated in bands by family ties—or at least what the king believed to be the court’s familial origins. Mina grimaced. She, Cassidy, Tatiana, and Princess Gaia would be seated on the end, on the other side of Prince Azor. Willow, the witch, along with King Demitri’s most-trusted regent, would take the western head of the table, while Aguilon, the high mage, and Thomas the squire would sit in the east like bookends. The table would be segregated by more than its raised, conspicuous platform; there would be a painted stone balustrade separating the royal family from the doting emissaries in the garden gallery. And somewhere along the way, once King Demitri had consumed a generous amount of ale—when his dragon was sated, his guard was down, and he was feeling more sleepy than testy—Prince Dante would raise his goblet and make a toast. And the crowds beyond the tables, those throngs of citizens separated into three provincial partitions—Warlochians to King Demitri’s front and left; Umbrasians to the king’s front and center; and commoners to His Majesty’s front and right—would be suddenly flanked by armies, now concealed on the edges of Forest Dragon.

  Prince Dante’s army.

  Prince Damian’s army.

  And Prince Drake’s army…

  All there to defend the princes against the Castle Guard at the command of their sovereign lords.