Capture

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Suite 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Capture

© 2014 Annabelle Jacobs.

Cover Art

© 2014 by Paul Richmond.

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com.

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

Map Art

© 2014 by Margaret Warner

[email protected]

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-62798-311-2

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-310-5

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

January 2014

Thanks to Phil, for her endless words of encouragement,
and to Lisa, for helping create that wonderful map.

“A
RE
YOU
sure about this, Cerylea?” Ryneq handed the proposal back to his sister and watched her carefully tuck it into the pocket of her cloak. Her long blonde hair fell forward slightly, obscuring her face, but Ryneq still caught the resigned look.

Cerylea shivered against the chill and pulled the heavy fabric tighter around her shoulders. She stepped up to join him at the window and laid her hand on his arm. “A union with the Hervathian elves is the only way.”

“Father would never have wanted this.”

Cerylea snatched her hand back and glared at her brother. “Our parents are dead, Ryneq. Or have you forgotten?”

“No, I’ve not forgotten.” With a heavy sigh, he let his head rest against the thick glass and looked down at the lands below. The view was breathtaking. KalethTor sat high in the mountains. Built by the first king of Torsere, and named after his young wife. The thick walls had weathered over the years and blended easily with the surrounding mountains—so much so, that most people now referred to it as the Stone Palace.

From here one could see past the villages in the south of Torsere, all the way down to the Nalvaq Sea. The dark-blue water shimmered in the distance as the early-morning sun danced off its surface. “I’m sorry.” Ryneq reached out and took Cerylea’s hand to pull her against his side. “I just don’t want you to leave.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, and he realized with a sudden jolt just how much he was going to miss her. They’d ruled Torsere together for the last two years, ever since the king and queen had been brutally murdered during a Rodethian raid. Neither of them had been ready to rule a kingdom, but Ryneq had dutifully stepped up to take his father’s place as king, with Cerylea at his side.

“It’s not as bad as you seem to think,” Cerylea said eventually. She tilted her chin to look up at him; her deep-blue eyes were so like their mother’s that his breath caught in his chest. “I actually like Morkryn.” She smiled softly, and the tight feeling in Ryneq’s lungs eased just a little.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Is that so?”

“Yes. He’s intelligent, kind, and has a wicked sense of humor.” She nudged Ryneq in the ribs with her elbow. “Besides, you’ve seen him.” Her voice had a teasing edge to it, pulling them out of the somber mood. “He’s very easy on the eye.”

“Hmm….” Ryneq had to agree with her there—the elven heir was incredibly beautiful. He had thick dark hair—which was short by elven standards—large chocolate eyes, and high cheekbones. Morkryn was a little too feminine for Ryneq’s taste, but he couldn’t deny the prince was indeed very easy on the eye. “I suppose, if you like the pointy-eared look.”

“Ryneq!”

He grinned down at his sister, laughing at her shocked expression as she slapped him on the arm in retaliation.

Cerylea narrowed her eyes. “I hope you show him a bit more respect when he arrives in two days’ time.”

“Of course, Sister.” He offered her an exaggerated bow. “I will be on my best behavior.”

“Thank you.” She shook her head at his antics but then turned serious again. “I know you think Father would never have made an alliance with Hervath this way, but I believe he would have done the same thing to ensure the safety of Torsere.” She moved away from the window and headed toward the fireplace on the far side of the room. It used to be their father’s study, but had since become their war room—the sturdy old desk replaced by a long oval table and strong, upright chairs. Ryneq followed her, and they both took a seat in front of the roaring flames.

“You know they’ll never stop,” she whispered, and Ryneq knew exactly who she meant without her having to say the names.

He leaned forward and let his elbows rest on his knees. “I know.”

Since the death of their parents, the Rodethian army had made several attempts to break through Torsere’s borders again, but Ryneq had shored up their defenses and doubled the dragon rider patrols. Although they had good trade relations with the cluster of small lands west of Torsere, none of them were large enough to offer any assistance against the lowland armies.

Cerylea’s voice was still quiet when she spoke again, her gaze focused back out through the window. “So far, their attempts have failed, but with Rodeth’s new alliance with Athisi, it’s only a matter of time before they manage to find a way through.”

The leaders of the lowland provinces had joined forces six months ago, their mutual distrust for one another temporarily put aside in order to fight their common enemy—Torsere. Although Torsere had never attacked either Rodeth or Athisi, it had something both of them were prepared to kill for.

Dragons.

Cerylea pulled her knees up onto the chair, looking all at once like the little sister Ryneq used to tease before they were suddenly thrust into adulthood. “The treaty with the elves is the only way.”

N
YKIN
STRETCHED
over the back of his dragon and unstrapped the thick leather harness that held the saddle in place. He could just about reach when Fimor settled low on the ground—the top of Fimor’s back coming an inch or two above Nykin’s shoulder. “There. Is that better, Fimor?” They’d just come off border patrol, with a little detour out over the sea that hadn’t gone exactly as planned. He stroked his gloved hand over the rust-colored scales on the dragon’s flank, then jumped back, cursing when Fimor huffed a small jet of fire in Nykin’s direction. “Hey! You know it wasn’t my fault.”

Fimor swung his head around to regard Nykin with large obsidian-colored eyes, and Nykin immediately felt the pulse of the connection being made. The triangular-shaped fire mark on the inside of Nykin’s left wrist glowed brightly with magic. The intricate mark swirled with thick interwoven strands in the center, the burnt orange twisting outward to form three defined peaks. Nykin closed his eyes and focused on the dull throb under his skin as Fimor’s voice sounded in his head.

“You must be more careful, Nykin.”

Nykin sighed and leaned against the hard wall of Fimor’s cave. “I know. But—”

“It’s not just your life at stake! You know this. I would have survived the fall, but you would not. And while I might not die if
your
heart stops beating, it would certainly take me many years to recover. You cannot afford to be so reckless.”

“Okay, I admit that maybe I misjudged it slightly—”

Fimor’s long barbed tail snapped from side to side.
“Slightly? You almost crashed us into the rocks.”

Nykin sighed and stepped closer, smiling softly as Fimor obligingly lowered his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” He ran his fingers over the hard ridges along either side of Fimor’s jaw. “I thought I knew better, and I was wrong.”

“We are bonded, Nykin, and as such, I am bound to follow your commands. You must learn to trust in me and know that I would never put you in harm’s way. Ever.”

The mark flared briefly before settling back down, and the connection between them fell away. Nykin watched as Fimor shuffled back away and turned toward the mouth of the cave. He flexed his wings, the very tips brushing the walls on either side, before launching into the sky beyond. Nykin continued to follow his progress. The sight of a dragon in flight never failed to take his breath away. He was a dragon rider, marked from birth and born to ride in the sky, but a dragon flying on its own was a sight to behold.

Soon Fimor disappeared up into the mountains above and out of sight. The landing caves—huge areas in the rock that opened out into the sky—were built into the east side of Mount Tors. They were connected to the main rooms of the Eyrie by a series of winding tunnels. Nykin hauled the leather harness and saddle onto his shoulder and carried it down toward the main storeroom.

“I thought I heard you fly in.”

Nykin looked up to see Selene already stowing her harness on one of the waiting racks. Her long hair, the trademark of a rider, trailed down her back in a thick black braid. “Yes, just a moment ago.”