Authors: G. A. Aiken
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Romance, #dragons
She continued to talk while they walked along, and Ragnar couldn’t help but watch her human body move. Her dress was loose around her—and new. He had no idea where she’d gotten it from, considering the last gown he’d seen her in had been the dirty one she was wearing when he’d rescued her. He decided not to ask, since he didn’t want to know, and instead focused on the fact that although she made sure to get a new dress, she was still barefoot. He simply didn’t know why. Nor did he know why he was so fascinated by her feet…and those legs…and whatever else she had under that dress.
Yet before Ragnar could really bring himself to worry about his obsession with the royal’s lack of footwear, he stopped and replayed in his head what she’d just told him moments before until he was forced to ask for clarification. “You tore out your cousin’s eye?”
“I didn’t
tear
it out.” She licked the juice from her turkey leg off the fingers of her free hand. “I yanked it out with the tip of my tail.”
When his mouth dropped open, she quickly explained, “It was self-defense.”
“Isn’t that the same excuse you used about the guard dog you ate?”
“Perhaps. But with Elestren, it really was self-defense. She hit me with a warhammer. In the head and arm. And let me tell you, she put some force behind it.”
“Why? What did you do?”
Now her mouth dropped open. “
I
didn’t do anything.”
“Keita—”
“I didn’t! For once. Unless she’s still holding that time I called her a fat-ass against me. But that was years ago.”
They began walking again. “Anyway, she came at me again with that bloody hammer after she’d already broken my forearm and bashed my head in, and I panicked and used my tail…which apparently one is not supposed to do during training.”
“Training for what?”
“To fight. So the next time the likes of you and your father try to kidnap me—”
Ragnar again stopped walking, his hands curling into fists. “Don’t ever put me in the same category with my father,” he told her plain.
Eyes wide, she said, “I didn’t mean—”
“And I rescued you. And when you were safe in your territory, I let you go. With both your wings still in place. I can assure you that Olgeir the Wastrel would have done none of that.”
“All right.”
Ragnar knew he’d snapped at her, but he couldn’t help himself. Yet he felt like a right bastard when all she did in return was hold up what was left of the turkey leg and ask, “Do you want the rest?”
He should apologize to her, but he wouldn’t. Not when she dared compare him to his father. “Well…since I paid for it.” He took the leg out of her hand and tore off what remained of the meat before sucking out the marrow. When he was done, he handed her what was left—about three inches of hollow bone.
She held it up, her gaze moving from it to him. Several times.
When she said nothing, he did. “Let’s get back. We’ve got many miles to go before we can stop for the night.”
They began walking again, and Keita, after tossing aside that piece of bone, asked, “Tell me, Lord Ragnar—do you want me?”
“Like the air I breathe.”
They both stopped walking again, the royal’s eyes wide as she looked up at him.
“But that’s why I have to stay away from you, isn’t it?” he asked.
Her shocked expression faded, and that smile—the one he was certain no one else but him saw—slid into place. “Only if you’re one of the clingy ones,” she admitted. “I do so hate clingy.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip, her gaze examining him from his head to his feet and back. She giggled. “And gods, I do so hope you’re not one of the clingy ones.”
Her smile now wide, she headed back to their traveling party. “Come along, warlord, we’ve got many miles to go before we can stop for the night.”
And for the first time in nearly a century, Ragnar felt completely out of his depth.
They made good time to where they’d rest for the night despite their brief break at the fair, and were up and moving before the two suns rose the next day. By mid-afternoon, they finally landed a league outside the Southland border city of Fenella at the request of the Eastland dragon. It was supposed to be a short break, one for food and water, but then Her Majesty was walking off with her Eastland companion—as human. In another new gown.
Where is she getting these clothes from?
“Where’s your sister going?” Ragnar asked the Blue.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you think to ask?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you concerned?”
“No.”
Ragnar’s claws itched to wrap around the royal’s throat, but that would be a waste of a perfectly good tree-clearer. “Get us food.”
“All right!” the Blue said happily, and headed off to raid the herd of sheep they’d passed on their way here.
“Could he annoy you more?” Vigholf asked with a chuckle.
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“You’re too hard on him. He’s a pup. We were like that once. Well…maybe not you, but I was. So was Meinhard. He’ll grow out of it.”
Meinhard cracked his neck, the sound echoing around the glen. “You going after her then?”
“She has her little foreign lap dog with her—what does she need me for?”
“Someone sounds bitter. And you’ve been a bitter bastard ever since you’ve returned with her from the fair. Why? What happened?”
“Nothing.” And that was the absolute truth of it. Nothing had happened when they returned. Instead, the royal had spent the rest of the previous eve talking to her foreign ally, which was fine with Ragnar. He didn’t have time for the royal and her games. “And I’m not bitter. I’m wary. As you both should be. Don’t let that beautiful smile and swishing tail fool you.”
“You are such a tail dragon,” Vigholf said.
“I’m trying to give you some advice, brother.”
“And don’t forget her beautiful smile, Vigholf. I don’t remember either of us mentioning a
beautiful
smile,” Meinhard chimed in.
Frustrated, Ragnar demanded, “What are you two talking about?”
Vigholf patted Ragnar’s shoulder. “We understand, brother. Really we do. All of us get to a point where we start thinking about settling down.”
“Settling down? With
her
?” That wouldn’t happen. And not simply because she saw becoming someone’s mate as some form of excruciating bondage either. As Ragnar had tossed and turned last night, unable to sleep with the dragoness that close to him, he’d realized what a mistake any involvement with her would be. Why? Because she was up to something. He knew it. Her brother knew it. That Eastlander definitely knew it. The only ones who seemed oblivious were his own damn kin.
“But you said yourself, brother, that she has that swishing tail.”
“And that beautiful smile with those perfectly aligned fangs.”
“I said nothing about her fangs.”
“But they are perfectly aligned, and I’m sure that’s important to you.”
Fed up, Ragnar grabbed his bag and headed toward the city, shifting as he went.
“You’re not leaving us, are you, cousin?”
“If you’re going into the city, you may want to have a healer look at that chest of yours, brother. All that scratching you’ve been doing lately can’t be good,” Vigholf said.
“It might be scale-fungus,” Meinhard added.
“And your pretty princess with the beautiful smile and alluring tail won’t like that much.”
“’Cause it spreads, it does!”
“Aww, now, Ragnar! That’s rather a rude gesture!”
Ren parted from Keita as soon as they were in the center of the small city of Fenella, which boasted some of the top universities, mage schools, and witch’s guilds in all the Southlands. It was here that the paths of both Ren and Keita had shifted dramatically more than a century ago. And where they always returned when they needed answers.
And the gods knew, they needed answers and quickly.
Ren handed the necklace the Northlander had found in Esyld’s house over to the jeweler. An old human who knew his craft very well. And while the human did his work, Ren sat back and let his mind drift, letting his energy reach out around the city to make sure all was well. He smiled a little when he saw that Keita had found their old trainer. An elf named Gorlas. Ren himself had never been a fan of the elves. Yes, they had a way with the trees and land, much as Ren’s people did, but gods, they could be superior-acting bastards. To most of them, dragons were nothing more than giant lizards that needed to be brought to heel. How Keita managed to find one of the few elves who respected almost all creatures equally amazed Ren. Although if there was one being who could find the exception to any rule, it was his Keita.
Knowing she was safe, Ren explored more, only to ram right into a protective barrier. From his spot inside the jeweler’s store, he felt around that barrier. It was a relatively small one and was moving, meaning that it protected an individual rather than a building or one of the many secret guilds that existed here. Still, he hadn’t met many who could keep
him
out. Keita’s mother and sister were two, but they were both white Dragonwitches. Their kind’s power legendary, even in his home country.
Using more of his power, he caused a rip in the barrier and pulled it open enough for his essence to look in. A monk? A monk managed to keep Ren of the Chosen out?
But then that monk slowly turned his head and looked right at what he shouldn’t be able to see. He looked at Ren with blue eyes as cold as the mountains this dragon came from.
It seemed Ren wasn’t the only one using Magick to hide the true level of his power, and he’d only managed to think,
The Northlander
, before the Lightning raised his hand and, with a flick of his fingers, sent Ren’s essence slamming back into his body.
Ren jerked forward, his chest bending over his knees while he gasped for breath, the jeweler watching him but not making a move to help.
“Keita,” Ren gasped out, “is not going to be happy when she finds out that prick followed us.”
Then he laughed, because it had been a long time since anyone, much less a barbarian, had managed to surprise him.
Keita had been searching Fenella’s largest bookstore for nearly twenty minutes for her old friend and mentor Gorlas, and was moments from giving up. Perhaps he’d gone out for a bit.
Remembering her one year at the university here, Keita smiled. She came as human, her mother sending her off in the hope that her youngest daughter might have some skill other than seducing a few of the Elders’ sons and grandsons. Although Keita had a wonderful time that year, she didn’t attend many classes—except for the one with that very attractive professor. Of course, when she was caught bent over that professor’s desk, her robes tossed over her head…well, that had been the end of that, hadn’t it?
But that had been, what? Seventy-five years ago? Give or take a few years. And that very attractive professor had died nearly twenty years back from old age.
It was Keita’s little secret, but that’s what she adored about the humans. In short time, they left this world for the next, and new ones came along quickly to replace them—unlike the dragons that Keita had bedded, who, half a century later were still writing her long missives of their undying love and what great fathers they’d make for her offspring, blah, blah, blah. She wasn’t ashamed to admit, when her past dragon lovers became a little too insistent, she had no problems unleashing her brothers or father on them. At least then they only lost a wing or a foot. She herself couldn’t promise to be so kind. Keita never liked being pushed.
Deciding to try the first floor again, Keita returned to the stairs to head back down until she heard a bang followed by a “Gods-dammit!”
Keita walked over to the front desk and went behind it but found no one there. Then she studied the round tables that were usually filled each night with local students, and that’s when she heard a sneeze. She crouched down on the floor, looking under the tables.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
The elf under the table, surrounded by books and wiping his nose with a handkerchief, looked up. “Keita?”
“Are you comfortable under there, my lord?”
“Keita!” The elf tried to stand, slammed his head, and sat back down.
“Oh, Gorlas! My heart of hearts. Are you all right?” Laughing, she crawled under several tables to get to him. He pouted, and she pulled his head to her breast and petted the spot where he’d slammed it. Rumor was Gorlas was nearly a thousand years old, but he looked only to be thirty-five or so. “Your poor head. I don’t know how it handles the abuse.”
“It’s not only dragons with hard heads, my dear Keita. We elves are known for them.” He pulled back and studied her. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for information.”
“About?”
“My aunt. Esyld.”
“Oh. Of course.” Gorlas rubbed his sore head. “Found out about her lover then, did you?” And when Keita only stared at him, his smile faded, and he said, “Or…perhaps not.”
“Brother Ragnar!”
“Brother Simon.” Ragnar allowed the human monk to hug him. “It’s been a long time, brother.”
“It has. It has.” Simon pulled back and frowned. “Good gods, man, you haven’t changed in forty years.”
“A blessing from our patron gods, brother. They’ve been kind to me.”
“I see that.” Simon shook his head and offered Ragnar a seat in his den.
Ragnar, worried the weak wood chair wouldn’t be able to hold his human frame, sat down gingerly. He currently wore the robes of the Order of the Knowledge. A well-known and powerful Northland order whose members rarely left their precious Spikenhammer Library. And since Brother Simon’s Order of the Shining Suns rarely traveled farther than Fenella’s city borders, Ragnar always felt safe presenting himself as a Knowledge member. He’d found throughout his more than two centuries that traveling as a monk was often the safest way to get around. Thieves and brigands rarely challenged him or those who traveled with him, because monks were notoriously poor and all about their gods and being pious.
“So what brings you here, brother?” Simon asked, lifting a decanter of wine.
“No thank you, brother. And I’m actually only passing through. But I did have a question and I knew you were the one who could answer it. If that’s all right with you, of course.”
“Of course indeed, brother!”
Forty years and, except for physically, Simon had not changed. He enjoyed being the source of all knowledge so much that he never thought too much about whom he told things to. He just liked that he’d been asked.
“I’m wondering about a bookstore.”
Simon picked up his chalice of wine and chuckled. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, brother. Fenella has many bookstores.”
“An extremely large one. Over on Saxton Street.”
“Ah, yes. Owned by an elf, I believe.”
“An elf?” Ragnar tried to emulate the sense of surprise he’d felt earlier when he’d seen an elf with his arm around Keita’s shoulders, the pair of them heading to the back of the store. First Ragnar at the fair, now this elf. Honestly, was there any male that She-dragon
didn’t
make it her business to seduce? “In the city?”
“There are no problems with elves here in Fenella. Gorlas is his name, and he’s a nice enough chap. One of the few bookstore owners who allows our young brothers to spend hours browsing without making them buy anything.”
“And is there anything else?”
Simon frowned a bit. “Anything else?”
“Well, when I went in there, I had a”—Ragnar looked up at the ceiling as if trying to get the answer from one of his gods, always nice for dramatic effect when dealing with monks—“
sense
of something. Something beneath the surface.”
Simon pursed his lips. “Well…there are always rumors.”
“Oh? What kind of rumors?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“I’m sure.”
“And you know I don’t like to spread rumor or gossip.”
“Of course not, brother. And I only ask because I sense the gods are trying to tell me something. I’m just not sure what. But I knew if there was one person who could help…it was Brother Simon.”
“Oh. Well.” It was sad, really. How the monk couldn’t resist the compliment. Which was why Ragnar used the man for information, but never returned the favor. At least not with any information that could do any real damage.
Simon leaned forward, and Ragnar did the same. “There have been rumors.”
“Yes?”
“That
that
particular bookstore is a cover for—”
“An orgy den? A prostitution ring? A sex-slave commune?”
Simon blinked. “Uh…no.”
Feeling foolish, Ragnar explained, “Sorry. Again, it was that
sense
I got.”
“I understand, but it’s nothing that interesting, I’m afraid, brother. Actually, the rumors I’ve heard are almost silly, but…I have heard it said that the bookstore is a cover, or a front, you might say…for a guild.”
“A thief’s guild?” Ragnar asked bluntly, thinking of Keita’s constantly growing wardrobe.
“No, no. A spy guild.”
Ragnar sat up straight, his chair making noises that suggested it wouldn’t last much longer, but Ragnar didn’t care. He was too blindsided by Brother Simon’s words. “A spy guild?”
“Aye. But as I said, it’s just a rumor.”
Just a rumor indeed. Yet a rumor that Princess Keita would easily believe. And he knew why, too. Because she probably liked the idea of bedding spies. Spies who could use her to find out information about the courts of the two queens. He wanted to ask, “Could she be so stupid not to see that?” But then he already had the answer to that question, didn’t he? She
was
too stupid to see that.
Ragnar did, however, wonder how far Keita would go to keep her bed filled with “spies.” Would she simply provide information to her lovers or actually search information out? What had she already told? Was Esyld suffering now because her niece had become bed acquaintances with those who would harm her? Ragnar really didn’t know.