Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

The King gave Parma a few cosmetics and necessities for the dressing table. They took everything else.

Gutted, I stand in the center of that room, my hands limp and empty. My heart is too ravaged for tears. Parma lingers by the dressing table, anxiously plucking strands of my hair out of the brush she used on me earlier.

One of the Vohrainians steps forward. The morning light from the three windows shines on his helmet’s skeletal jaws. “Come. Now.”

I step toward him, hollow and unsteady. When he grips my arms and brackets my wrists with manacles, I don’t fight him. My wrists must also have been treated by the healer while I slept. They’re no longer sore, and my skin is flawless. But if I’m forced to wear these cuffs too long, I have no doubt the pain and bleeding will return.

The guards escort me through familiar halls, while the bare shelves and empty drawers haunt my mind.

They’re just things, Serylla. Objects, not people. You shouldn’t be this deeply affected.

But I can’t shake my devastation. My possessions had meaning to me, beyond their intrinsic value. In a kingdom where I was uncertain of my place and had little control over my future, my belongings represented the small zone of my influence, my choices. And those leather-bound notebooks represented years of my private musical compositions, my lyrics, my thoughts, and my emotions. They are treasures I can never recreate. I feel like I’ve suffered a violation of my soul.

The guards hurry me along, past faces I know—precious faces. Some of them turn away, flushed and tearful, overcome by the sight of me. Others meet my gaze with their heads held high. From somewhere behind us, a woman shouts, “The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen!”

One of the Vohrainians whirls around immediately and stalks back down the hall, hunting for the woman who shouted. I’m shoved forward, hustled down the steps into the great marble foyer.

When I’m brought out into the courtyard into the mild warmth of the spring morning, the stable-master is standing there, near the heads of four horses harnessed to a royal carriage. Two of the stable-master’s hired boys stand with him—both of them gangly fellows, scarcely into their teen years. One boy’s face is red, his eyes wet and despairing. The other’s features are stiff with anger, and his gaze burns vengefully as he takes in my appearance. The stable-master puts one hand on the second boy’s arm, a warning not to react, not to do anything foolish.

This entire kingdom was abused by my mother, sacrificed to her pride. They are as wounded and weary as I am. And yet they love me. I felt the love in Parma’s touch while she braided my hair. I heard it in the defiant shout of the woman in the hall. I see it in the tears, the anger, and the sympathy of the stable-master and his boys.

My heart swells, and so does the music in my mind—a golden burst of notes.

I haven’t heard music in my head since I was taken from Kyreagan’s nest.

I suck in a swift breath of surprise, charmed by the miracle of the melody unfurling through my consciousness. In spite of poison and exhaustion, grief and terror, the music is still mine. Whatever they steal from me, they cannot take this.

The works I lost were pieces of me, but not the whole me. Strip everything away, and still I remain. I composed music on Ouroskelle, despite being a captive there. And I will keep making music here, if only in my heart.

“Up you go,” barks one of the guards. I mount the carriage step, and the next second I’m shut inside, blinking in the gloom as I settle onto the seat.

The curtains over the windows are drawn nearly closed, admitting only a little sunlight. On the padded seat across from me, where my mother would usually sit, is the King of Vohrain, his knees and thighs spread wide, his flat, emotionless eyes fixed on me.

“You don’t sit there,” he says. “You sit on the floor. Between my feet.”

Tightening my lips, I slide slowly off the bench onto the floor, debating whether I should try to catch him off guard and throttle him or something. But his neck is so thick, and he’s so huge and strong—I dare not try any aggression without some kind of weapon.

I sit between his spread legs, silently thanking the Maker that he’s not asking me to suck his dick.

“It’s a short ride,” he says. “We may as well put that pretty mouth to good use.”

Fuck. I glance up, my face hot.

He chuckles. “Not like that, Spider. What a foul mind you have. I only meant that we would practice your lessons along the way. Repeat after me… You are worthless. You are foolish. You are alone.”

Grasping my fragile hope, clutching my vengeance, clinging to the love of my people, I recite the lies.

And I fight against the part of me that wants to believe them.

9

Midway through trying to eat a meal with a fork, I transform, smashing the stool beneath me and part of the table. I rush for the exit, blasting out through the waterfall in a burst of fire and steam and savage wings.

It’s been two days since we arrived at the rebels’ cave and I’m still unable to perform convincingly as a natural-born human.

I land above the pool, tear a sapling out of the ground with my jaws, and fling it from the grassy edge of the bank. As it falls, I light it on fire and watch it burn on the way down.

“Impressive.” It’s Meridian, picking his way down the path toward me. The early morning sunlight glints on the gold embroidery of his eye-patch, and the rays turn his dark red hair to bloody fire.