The Dream Thief (2 page)

In a suitably tragic
ending, the princess at last freed herself by murdering the peasant in his
sleep, but then, alas, leapt into a watery grave in one of the many mine shafts
penetrating the mountains, taking the diamond with her. Thus neither the
princess nor
Draumr
was ever seen again, although there is some debate
regarding the few souls who claim they “hear” the diamond “singing” to them,
usually around twilight.

Apparently there is
no shame in declaring a hint of “dragon blood” in one’s family tree.

The central locality
of these tales, everyone agrees, revolves around an actual castle by the name
of
Zaharen Yce
[Tears of Ice], belonging to an actual noble family, the
Zaharen [princes and counts], none of whom condescended to an audience with the
Author of This Book.

But perhaps the most
intriguing notion of all the tales of the
drákon
is one very rarely
mentioned. It concerns the idea that once, long ago, a greater family of
dragon-people existed than do now, and that this initial group was somehow
forced to divide, leaving one family behind in these mountains whilst the other
was sent flying out into the wilds of the world, searching for a new home.

One is left only to
ponder over the agreeable comforts of tobacco and a tankard of the fine local
brew where such infamous creatures might have deigned to touch back to earth….

CHAPTER ONE

Darkfirth, Northern England

1768

I
n the dream, she was always
blind.

That’s
what would come first, the utter darkness, settling over her like a soft, soft
blanket. But it wasn ’t a hopeless or desperate kind of blindness. In fact, it
always seemed absolutely normal. Because the dream was never about what she
could see, but all about what she could hear.

“Lia.”

“Yes,”
she would answer. It was a man
speaking to her in the dream. A man’s voice, one she knew as well as she knew
the flow of water over the rocks of her favorite streambed, dark and familiar
and smooth.

“Lia,”
he would say, an imperative.

“I’m
here.”

“Come to me.”

And she
would, because in the dream there was nothing she wanted more than to obey that
voice. It was her only ambition.

“Tell me about today,”
the man invited, still so
smooth.

“The
peaches are ripening. The wheat is hip-high. The Dartmoor ruby has a buyer in
Brussels. He wants the emeralds as well.”

“Good.”

And, oh, how it pleased her, that
one single word. How it shimmered through her like warm, sunlit honey, filling
her with sweetness.

“Where is the marquess?”
the man asked.

“Kimber is in the drawing room,
awaiting you.”

That part was wrong. Even in the
dream Lia knew it was wrong, because Kimber wasn’t the Marquess of Langford
yet. Their father was. Kimber was just a boy. But the man never noticed.

“And tonight, my heart?”
the man asked, his voice
stroking.

“Tonight is the Havington dinner
party. The viscountess will wear sapphires and silk.”

She did not know anyone named
Havington. She did not know how she knew about the sapphires, or the silk. But
she knew that it was all true.

“Which sapphires?”

“A necklace of one hundred
thirty-two stones, set in gold, the center stone round, twenty-nine carats,
with a spray of opals all around. A bracelet of thirty-five stones: twenty
sapphires, fifteen opals. An anklet of eleven sapphires, twenty-one opals—”

“Very good. That’s enough.”

In the dream, she expanded with
that sweetness once more.

“What time will the viscountess
be removing her jewelry, Lia?”

“Twelve thirty-seven. Eleven
minutes after the last guest leaves. The necklace is heavy,”
she added.
“And you’re going
to have to kill the second footman. He sees you on the way out.”

The man
said nothing. His presence broke the darkness around her like a prism of pure,
humming joy. Like a song. Like a reverie.

“Lia.”

“Yes?”

“Twelve-thirty isn’t late. Wait
for me in bed.”

“Yes, Zane,”
she would always answer. And
then she’d wake.

She wasn’t ready.

Kim could see that she wasn’t
ready, even though they had waited the requisite fifteen days and sixteen
nights for that one perfect June dusk without sun or moon or even stars. The
sky above them was smoke and purple-blue, framed by the black cathedral of oaks
and willows that made a rough enclosure around their circle of five.

Her face was still visible, pale,
elfin-sharp, very clear to him even through the fading light. Lia didn’t share
the famous beauty of their sisters, Audrey’s regal walk or Joan’s silver-bell
laugh. Fourteen years old, both earnest and shy, the essence of Lady Amalia
Langford was all contradictions: elbows and a bumpy grace, wheat-gold hair and
almond dark eyes, and a face that appeared close to ordinary until she smiled.
Even then, she wasn’t beautiful. She was, he considered, trying to be
fair…arresting.

In fact, despite her powerful
bloodlines, Lia didn’t look like anyone else in the tribe. She was all corners
and angles, always too tall, too thin, even as a little girl.

He’d been back from Eton only a
few days. Kim would have thought that by now his youngest sister would have
grown into her heritage, but to him she still seemed like a changeling stuffed
into someone else’s shawl and lacy pink gown.

She felt his stare. From her seat
on the forest floor her head turned. She met his look—her braids fraying loose
from their pins, her cheek smooth with the last glow of twilight, no cap—then
glanced quickly away. The corners of her lips pulled back into a faint, unhappy
line.

That was how Kim knew she wasn’t
going to finish the ritual. She returned to watching the pair of wrens in the
scrolled metal cage near her feet. They fluttered from bar to bar, breathing in
small, impassioned notes. It was the only noise that broke the forest silence.
There were no crickets sawing. There were no mice or badgers or moles rummaging
through the fallen leaves.

This was Darkfrith, after all.

One of the wrens slammed too hard
against the wires. Kim caught the flicker of emotion that crossed Lia’s face,
so fleet he doubted any of the others noticed.

But he was the eldest. He’d had
the most experience reading hearts. That flicker had been pain, and sympathy.
She’d always longed for a pet.

Hell. She’d be useless tonight
after all.

Something dark scored the sky
above their heads, something serpentine. None of them bothered to look up. The
highest fingers of the oaks shivered in its wake.

“Daughter
of the tribe,” Kim intoned, going on with it anyway. By God, the carriage ride
alone back home had taken over a week; he wasn’t going to let her off easily.
“What dare you offer us?”

But his
sister was distracted again. This time her head cocked, her chin lifted, as if
she could hear something the others could not.

“Lia,” muttered Rhys, the third
oldest, from across the circle. “Pay attention. This is your part.”

“I, daughter of the tribe,” said
Lia, her chin lowering obediently, “bring unto you…bring unto…”

The wrens flipped back and forth
and back in their prison.

“…this dire offering,” hissed
Joan, prompting.

“This dire offering.”

“What is the offering?” Kim asked
in his gravest voice, because it was ritual, and because he’d been practicing
that voice for some while.

Lia lifted her hand to the cage.
The birds pressed back against the far side.

“Heart and feathers,” she said,
but turned her head again—and then broke the circle by climbing to her feet.

“
Li
-a,” said Audrey,
exasperated.

“Doesn’t anyone hear that?”

“No,” answered Rhys. “And neither
do you. Sit down, so we can finish this. It took me a bloody fortnight to catch
those wrens.”

“Wait,” she said. “Listen. It’s a
carriage.”

“It’s not—” Kim began, but then
he stopped, because, actually, he heard it too. Not just a carriage, a post
chaise, rattling down the graveled drive from the distant manor house. He sent
his sister a new, keener glance. “You heard that from here? It’s at least a
mile away.”

Audrey had come to her feet as
well, brushing out her skirts. “Who’s expected?”

“No one.” Rhys shrugged. “Just
Zane, and he’s leaving.”

All three sisters swiveled to
face him, and in that instant they looked remarkably alike.

“What?” he said, scowling.

“Zane?” echoed Joan. “Zane’s
here?”

“Not any longer. Apparently.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I beg
your pardon. I didn’t realize I was employed as your majordomo.”

Lia dropped her shawl. It slipped
to the ground with hardly a whisper, a white curving ghost against the brown
leaves and dirt.

“Hold
up.” Kim caught her arm before her third step. “You can’t leave. We’ve only
just begun.”

She glanced up at him but it was
darker now, so he couldn’t quite read her face. But he was irritated to have
come so far for naught; he tightened his grip and gave her a shake.

“Oh, let her be,” said Joan.
“She’s too young for this anyway. We all knew it.”

“I did it younger than she,” Kim
countered.

“Yes, and you had something to
prove, didn’t you?” This from Audrey, his twin. “Eldest son, future Alpha of
the tribe. You wanted to impress us.” She lifted a shoulder, nonchalant. “Don’t
poker up. I would have done the same if I were you. It was clever to think up a
ritual.”

Rhys sighed. “Might as well let
her go, Kimber. The moment’s gone. They’re right, you know, she’s just too
young. She’s
always
too young. And she hasn’t shown any of the Gifts,
anyway.”

Beneath his hand, Lia twitched.
But Audrey had reminded him of who he was, and who he was someday going to be,
and so Kim said, “You know what this means, Amalia. You won’t be one of us,
truly one of us, until the ritual is complete. Your Gifts won’t come. Or if
they do, they won’t be as good.”

“Yes,”
she said flatly. “I know.”

She shook free of his grip,
turned to the birdcage, and snapped open the door. There came a flurry of peeps
and rustling; when she straightened again, there was a dark lump in her fist.

“To the
drákon,
” Amalia said, and broke the wren’s neck.

Her fingers opened. The little
bird landed beside her shawl, one wing arced in an angel fan across the
tassels.

“You
have to do both,” managed Rhys, into the sudden hush.