Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

As I speak, several birds fly up out of a tree not far away. I peer at them, hunting for any telltale glint of scarlet in their eyes, but I see none.

Hinarax tosses his head and chuffs out a few tongues of yellow flame. “Do you think Fortunix told Rahzien that we’re able to transform into humans?”

“I doubt it. Fortunix is a clever old dragon, and greedier than any of us suspected, judging by the private hoard I found in his secret cave. I’m sure he was paid when he turned over Serylla. I think he’ll hold the information about our shifter abilities and wait to see if he can benefit from it somehow. His greed, coupled with his shame over becoming the thing he hates, should keep him quiet.”

“And like Thelise said—even if Rahzien knows, he has never seen our faces,” Hinarax adds. “So he won’t recognize us. There will be no reason for him to suspect we are anything but a moody Southern prince and his retinue.”

I huff superheated air at him. “Moody?”

“If the boot fits.” Hinarax chuckles.

“I can be charming.”

“Be yourself. Meridian and I will be charming on your behalf.” Hinarax readies his wings for the flight through the waterfall. “Though you could try being more optimistic. Kyteia says the best way to ensure the outcome you want is to envision it, over and over. Picture yourself succeeding, and you will.”

I stare down at the pool below, at its rippling waters thrown into shadow by the setting sun, and for a moment I let myself picture it—the ideal outcome of all this, the ending I crave.

I imagine leading Serylla out of the palace, along the shadowed streets of the city, and through the gate. We’ll run into the woods together, and once we’re clear of the guards and the watchtowers, I’ll switch to dragon form and we’ll soar east, leaving Elekstan behind forever. But before we return to Ouroskelle and our eggs, I’ll take her to some tiny coastal village, to a tavern or an inn. We’ll sit together at a table, like two normal humans, and I’ll order the one thing she has asked for, over and over, since the day I ruined her life.

A cup of hot tea.

12

I’m healed by a short, plump, motherly-looking woman I’ve never seen before. She speaks only a few words to me, but they have a lilt that tells me she’s Vohrainian. Everyone on this continent speaks the Eventongue, but people from different regions tend to have their own accents and turns of phrase. Hers is a northern manner of speech, with the voice rising at the ends of phrases and a slight nasal quality to the “o” sound.

Besides her accent, she wears a tiny silver ring through her septum, possibly indicative of Vohrainian nobility, or at the very least, royal favor.

“All done,” she says cheerfully, patting my face as if her king didn’t just have my back flayed in the public market. “You can sit up now.”

I’ve been lying on my stomach, and at her words I gingerly push myself up. Not a twinge of pain. She did her work well.

I’m no longer in my own room. Perhaps that’s a privilege I’ve lost, or perhaps the King doesn’t want to keep me in the same place too long. Even though he claims not to be concerned about Kyreagan or any of the other dragons, he’s still cautious. Perhaps he fears that the rebels he mentioned might try to liberate me. God, I wish they would.

The motherly little woman smiles at me. She has round, rosy cheeks and fat fingers stained with something like paint. Perhaps she’s an artist in her spare time. For a strange, fleeting moment I consider asking her for a hug. She looks like the type of person who would give excellent hugs.

But she is Vohrainian, and we are enemies. She’s already turning away, leaving the small bedroom.

The instant her comforting form vanishes from the doorway, it’s replaced by Rahzien’s broad figure. I tense, conscious that I’m naked, and I drag a blanket from the bed across the front of my body.

Which Rahzien must I endure now? The bluff warrior with the boorish laugh? The indomitable king who announced my new status as “whipping girl” for the entire nation? Or the quiet, ruthless Rahzien who slices into my thoughts with all the incisive skill of an expert torturer?

He has changed his clothes. He’s wearing loose, cream-colored pants and a satin-black tunic that falls to mid-thigh. Since he trimmed his red beard close to the jawline, I can see his mouth better—full lips with a cruel tilt. The royal ring glints between his nostrils as he pulls a chair close to the bed and sits down.

“I don’t enjoy displays of that kind,” he says. “Public executions, beatings, and the like. Sometimes I pretend to enjoy them, because it suits my goals. If people think you relish physical violence, they are less likely to provoke you.”

I give him the coldest stare I can muster.

“I do enjoy violence, of a kind,” he admits. “Broad strokes of merciless death, like the mowing down of lines upon lines of soldiers on a battlefield. There’s something uniquely satisfying about watching the bodies fall. And watching the dragons slaughter your people—that was beautiful. The way the fire just—” he makes a sweeping motion, with a faraway look in his eyes. “Pure destruction. Brilliant. It’s a shame I had to destroy the dragons. I tried to think of a way to keep them under my control, but they are wild, brutal creatures. I could never have been sure they wouldn’t turn on me. Best to let them go out at the height of their glory, just after winning a great war.”

I was determined not to speak to him, but I can’t help releasing a huff of disgust at his words.

A jealous awareness flickers in his gaze—the understanding that he still hasn’t broken me.

“I thought I had you, back there, in the Harlowes’ dungeon.” He leans forward, eyes narrowed. “And then again, in the market. But you’re a slippery one. You’re still fighting me, aren’t you, Spider? Because you don’t really believe it yet. You’re starting to, though.”

“Believe what?”

“That this is what you deserve.”