Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

Page 41



“Found you, Spider,” squawks the bird. “Found you.”

Fuck…

With an enormous effort, I lift my head. “What did you say?”

“Found you, Spider. Found you. Your escape was too easy. You should have known I was watching. Lie still. Help is on the way.”

13

“Announcing his Royal Highness, Prince Gildas, seventh son of Garjun, King of Zairos, brother to Crown Prince Bessian, Duke of Lantikesh, and Bravelyn, second son…”

Meridian drones on and on in a grandly pompous tone, both arms extended as if to encompass every courtier and guard standing in the throne room of the Elekstan palace. He’s the only one of our group to have stepped over the threshold—Hinarax and I are waiting in the hallway with the other three, until Meridian finishes presenting us to the court and receives the King’s nod to approach.

I keep my face expressionless, though inwardly I’m seething at the ridiculous length of human introductions. Dragons use few honorifics. If I were introduced in my dragon form, a herald might say, “Prince Kyreagan, son of the Bone-King Arzhaling, lord of Ouroskelle,” and that would be more than sufficient. But this introduction seems interminable, and it’s all I can do to maintain the mask of haughty indifference that Meridian instructed me to wear during all our interactions at the palace.

We got through the city gates easily enough. Apparently the documents Meridian presented were so perfectly forged no one thought to question them. The Southern prince was expected, after all, and highly anticipated as the first dignitary to visit Elekstan since its conquest. No one seems to have heard of the real prince’s demise at the hands of the pirates; but Meri warned us news of that event could arrive at any time. We’re supposed to confess to having some trouble with pirates, so that any further news will seem like a partially accurate report at best.

At this distance, standing just outside the doors of the throne room, I can barely see Rahzien on his throne, thanks to the large plumed hat Meridian is wearing. He claims it’s the height of fashion for heralds in the Southern Kingdoms. I was spared from wearing such a monstrosity. Instead I’m clad in skin-tight pants, boots with curved toes, and a tunic made of something called essensilk, which I’m told is unique to Zairos. The essensilk feels unsettlingly fragile, but its slippery glide against my skin is pleasant. Almost as lovely as the sensation of Serylla’s bare body against mine.

I’m haunted by a thread of awareness in my soul—the tug of proximity. She’s somewhere nearby, but I can’t be sure where, or how close. I want to run to her, scoop her up, and smash our way out through the palace walls before leaping into the bright air and flying away.

But I must not let myself yield to the impulse. I need to find out if there is some foul magic linking her to Rahzien. I won’t risk her safety to soothe my own impatience.

As Meridian’s introductory speech drags on, my stomach churns with nervous bile. I swear my very bones are itching so badly that I want to flay myself wide open with my claws, carve right down to my skeleton if it will assuage that crawling, creeping sensation. My heart rate climbs higher with every phrase from the rogue’s mouth. If he doesn’t stop talking, if I can’t move soon, I will lose my fucking mind. My ribcage seems to have shrunk, compressing my lungs, squeezing my heart.

This feels like the fit I suffered right before I told Mordessa’s fathers about her death. But I can’t panic here, can’t lose control. By the Bone-Builder, I wish I had Varex with me. He has a way of calming me by his very presence.

Meridian turns and waves me forward with a flourish of his gilded walking stick.

I stalk slowly into the throne room, trying to breathe steadily, to keep my face haughtily calm, to wash all traces of hate and vengeance from my gaze and replace them with faint, cool interest.

There he is. Rahzien, upon his throne. His thick ringed fingers tap the sides of a silver cup as he watches my progress down the scarlet strip of carpet toward the steps of the dais.

Each time I’ve met him, I’ve been a dragon. I’ve towered over him, more glorious and powerful than he will ever be. It’s unutterably strange to approach him in my human form, to feel so naked, vulnerable, and exposed, even though I know he can’t recognize me. I dispelled my horns and claws, my tongue isn’t cloven, and I’m striding easily, as if I’ve walked on two legs all my life. In this form, my voice isn’t as deep, nor do I pronounce words quite the same way through my human teeth, so he won’t recognize my voice. There is no way Rahzien can know I’m the dragon prince who helped him win this palace.

As Thelise said, my face and form are the most effective disguise I could hope for.

Close behind me, on either side, I hear the steady footfalls of Hinarax and the slightly off-kilter steps of Meridian. Behind them, the booted feet of our three false guards.

I risk darting my eyes aside twice, once to the left and once to the right. I’ve never set foot in such a magnificent space as this, and I can’t help marveling at the tall columns and elaborately decorated arches. The marble floors are so highly polished they shine like glassy water, mirroring the columns and making the hall appear twice as immense.

In addition to many helmeted Vohrainian guards, several other people stand here and there among the pillars. Even though Norril tried to instruct me on the different classes of society and the various ranks at court, I can’t be sure whether those people are palace attendants or nobles.

My heart sinks as I realize Serylla is not in the room.

Meridian clears his throat lightly, the signal for me to take one more step and then halt. Coming to a stop, I bow in the manner of the Southern Kingdoms—one hand on my right hip, my left arm stretched out to the side. I repeat the words Meridian had me memorize.

“Health and glory be upon your house, great King. I come with greetings and congratulations from my father Garjun, King of Zairos and from my esteemed brothers, Bessian, Bravelyn, Victoran, Larrence, Trysteon, and Davrith.”

“God’s balls,” chuckles Rahzien. “Quite a mouthful, those names. Welcome, Your Highness, and please carry my gratitude and respect to your honored father the King upon your return. His friendship means a great deal to me. I regret that I cannot offer you the same quality of food and entertainment that I usually have at my disposal in Vohrain.”

“Any hospitality you can offer will be greatly appreciated,” I reply. “Our journey has been harrowing. We encountered pirates during the voyage, and barely escaped being seized and scuttled. We placed our valuables in a skiff and sent it toward their ship, and they allowed us to leave with our lives while they collected the tribute. As such, we have brought few possessions, and I regret that I have no gift to offer Your Majesty at present. Rest assured, my father will make it right as soon as possible.”

“Begging your Majesty’s pardon,” Meridian interjects with a bow. “His Highness would never mention it, out of deference to Your Majesty, but my lord prince endured a severe injury during our encounter with the pirates. They fired at us a few times before we yielded the treasure, and His Highness was struck in the head by—”

“By a cannonball,” puts in Hinarax helpfully.

“Ha ha! No,” says Meridian with a peal of forced laughter. “The Prince’s esquire does enjoy a little joke from time to time. No, the Prince was struck by a piece of flying debris, a spindle from the broken railing of the ship. In fact both he and his esquire were hit by the same spindle—they were standing side by side, you see. Inseparable, these two. They’ve both suffered some pain, and a few lapses in memory, but they seem to be recovering. Though the Prince may need to take more rest than usual during our visit to your illustrious court.”


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