Curse of the Dragons Page 2

  “Luca,” Ophelia said, nearly hanging out the window of the cart. “Do you see this?”

  Luca nodded, her hands folded in her lap as they bumped along the rocky road.

  “It’s more like Harrow than any place I’ve ever been,” Ophelia said. “Almost like home.”

  Luca’Rosi didn’t speak, and Ophelia knew why.

  She was afraid.

  Seeing her companion show fear in her eyes almost made Ophelia feel the same. But, she refused. She’d serve her time as a prisoner as long as it took—until she could escape again.

  She took Luca’s hands into her own, and looked her in the eyes.

  “Do not worry,” she said. “I got us into this mess, and I will do whatever it takes to get us out of it.”

  Luca gave her a pained smile, placed her hand above hers, and lowered her voice. “That’s what I am afraid of. You act without thought, and it is dangerous. Sometimes its best to roll with the tide, instead of fighting against it.”

  With that, she withdrew her hands and turned away, leaving Ophelia to mull over her words.

  She could just let life happened around her, and to her. But, Ophelia would much rather be in control of her own life.

  For once.

  After several hours, they reached the palace, Ophelia and Luca were left in the mud, outside of the stables while the men who’d brought them along tended to their horses and ignored them.

  She stood there with her hands on her hips, and frowned down at her lovely shoes as she searched for a spot to stand in that wasn’t either foul-smelling excrement or squelchy mud.

  It took another hour for King Kelton to make his appearance, and when he did, Ophelia hated the sight of him.

  His smug grin made her skin crawl, as he sauntered out of the doors and stood on the raised stone edge that led to the stairs, and looked her over.

  “Welcome,” he said. “To Sangusaria. How are you liking your new home?”

  Ophelia looked up to him, and licked her lips. “Its a bit below my station.”

  He chuckled, and clasped his hands.

  “What station?” Kelton asked. “This is not Draconia. This is the human realm—where you are no one.”

  That made her cheeks heat, and her hands fall at her sides in tight fists.

  He took a step backward, and called out to one of the stable hands.

  “Make use of these two,” he said, motioning toward Ophelia and Luca’Rosi.

  His grin widened at her look of disbelief.

  He began back toward the palace, and Ophelia frantically searched for the words to make him stop.

  When they didn’t come, he glanced over his shoulder and spoke once more.

  “I’m sure they’d be more than happy to be kept busy,” he said. “Looks like we’ll be at war with the dragons for a long time.”

  5

  The rough mountain winds seemed to fight him—determined to keep him from his goal—but Rickard would not be deterred.

  He was the king of Withrae, and hadn’t gotten that title by letting anyone but himself decide his fate.

  He’d flown for days—away from the fight, and toward the battle for Rowen’s life. He’d been unable to stop for little more than a few quick moments of rest and nourishment. Sleep would not come—not when Rowen needed him.

  As Rickard soared above the clouds, with the sun beating down on the black scales of his dragon form, he vowed that nothing would keep him from the woman he loved.

  Not the humans.

  Nothing.

  War had been declared between the dragons and the humans, and Rickard planned to return and finish what they’d begun once he was certain Rowen was well, and Withrae was protected. The many other dragon kingdoms that stretched across Draconia were just waiting for a show of weakness.

  From the reports he’d been given, a certain sorcerer and his sister had completely taken over Withrae Palace. That was more than a show of weakness.

  It was downright embarrassing.

  If only his sister hadn’t been so naive—so downright stupid to allow them inside his home.

  He swooped down to the base of the mountain range that glowed like silver capped diamonds. Once he stood on the ground, he outstretched his massive wings, and shifted into his human form.

  Standing tall, he stretched his arms above his head, and fought the sheer exhaustion that threatened to send him into darkness. Bending down on the slick rocks of a creek, he splashed the cool water onto his face and head, and rubbed it across the back of his neck.

  While the water dripped from his hair, he turned his gaze to the guarded tomb before him, and clenched his jaw. The valley was too quiet—too still. An ominous tension filled the arid air. It was so thick that he could taste it along with the salt and dust.

  Vultures circled the air from high above, sensing death somewhere along the mountain range. Their caw was like a warning, but he’d come a long way for this. There was no turning back.

  If they wanted to set Draconia right once again, there needed to be a few sacrifices made.

  No one would ever know the true depths of his sacrifice, and all he’d devised and put into place to become king. It would not be taken away from him so easily.

  Rickard climbed the walls of stone and made his way to the mouth of the dark cavern with shining bronze walls. He walked inside, and let his hand glide across the engravings along the walls.

  The guards who stood outside the cavern bowed their heads at the sight of him, and let him pass through the outer chamber.

  “My king,” they said in unison as he walked by.

  With barely a nod toward them, he stepped through, and down the series of wide stairs that led to the tomb in the center of the drafty room.

  “Did you need something, King Rickard,” the keeper of the tomb, Sir Trenton Blake asked, emerging from a small, dimly-lit room off the main room. He was almost as tall as Rickard, and at least twenty years older, with a long graying beard and sharp, brown eyes. Scars covered his face, neck, and hands from a life of battle. He gave Rickard a bow, and faced him. “I hadn’t heard to expect you.”

  Rickard shook his head, looking past Trenton. “I’ve come for the wizard.”

  Those words left Trenton speechless, but he didn’t speak against his king. Instead, he stepped aside, and activated the golden orb that would mute Elian’s powers once he awakened.

  He stood at Rickard’s side and held the orb in his palm. The air crackled around it, tightening, and heating with energy. Rickard had it made by the Gatekeepers before he left for war. He just hoped it wouldn’t let him down.

  Trenton nodded. “This’ll help keep him in line,” he said.

  “For a time,” Rickard added. No one knew exactly how long its magical effects would work against someone as powerful and experienced as the great Captain Elian Westin.

  As water dripped from the craggy, cavern ceiling, Rickard stood before the enchanted tomb, fists clenched and mind set on doing the one thing he wished he never had to do.

  It was time to release Elian from his slumber—time to awaken who had once been an enemy to the woman he’d given his heart and soul to.

  Nonetheless, it was worth it. Rowen needed magic to free her from the sorcerers inhabiting his palace.

  Elian had that magic.

  He lifted the lid and released a long sigh.

  “Hope you’re ready for this, old man,” he whispered to the body that awaited inside the metal box enchanted with ancient spells that made the outer and inner walls glow and ripple with light.

  Time to awaken an evil worse than what already plagued them.

  6

  Being dead—well…half dead—was an odd thing.

  One lost track of all space and time, and got lost in the pitch darkness that stretched all around. Like a prison, freedom was unattainable, a world away.

  It was similar to being asleep, but then, there were times when light would appear and great truths and epiphanies would be revealed. Elian h
ad been stripped bare, and shown his life, mishaps, loves, and victories, and had been forced to observe.

  Elian Westin never expected it to be as such, but as his daughter had decided to nearly end his life, it was the lot he was forced to accept. Still, when his eyes opened to see the despicable prince who ruined his entire plan, he was less than pleased.

  A cough arose in his throat, itching like a million hornets stuck in his chest. He hacked and shot upward, as if desperate for air.

  The air was indeed a blessing, although a bit humid, stale, and with the taste of dust. His arms and legs tingled, and a stiffness in his neck left him wincing in pain.

  For a moment, Elian was unsure if this was real, or another one of those surreal dreams.

  There were times when he was absolutely certain he was with Rowen, standing by her side, watching as she suffered. He could have sworn that in those odd dreams he’d given her advice—sound advice.

  Like a mentor.

  Like a father.

  Those times did something to him. They didn’t give him nearly the amount of satisfaction he’d expected.

  No—something else was stirred within him. He just wasn’t quite sure what that was yet.

  “Water,” he said, and quickly realized his voice was hoarse and barely audible. He cleared his throat and cast a weary glare toward the young man who stood before him.

  Rickard frowned, but motioned for the big, burly bastard at his side. “Get him some water.”

  Elian kept his gaze fixed on the Dragon before him, not trusting him an inch, and prepared to test whether that dark power still surged through his veins. It didn’t go unnoticed that the other man in the tomb had a glowing orb in his hand, and that he could smell the magic, and taste its power. No, he’d deal with that, in time.

  Once the soldier returned and gave him a skin of water, he drank it down, not even close to soothing the dull ache that tightened at his throat. But, it was a start.

  Lowering the empty water skin, he tested his voice once more. “I see you missed my pretty face, didn’t you, Prince Rickard?”

  Rickard grimaced, and took a step back, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “That’ll be King Rickard, to you, wizard. And, no, I couldn’t care less whether you breathed another breath or rotted in that box.”

  “Ah,” Elian said, nodding.

  He detected the disdain for wizard’s in Rickard’s voice, and it was something he was used to. The new king of Withrae knew nothing of what that title meant to him—how being a wizard had both gifted and cursed him.

  “I see you’ve won your crown. How much blood and conniving did it take to get it? I swear you look at me like the villain, but you put my efforts to shame.”

  “None of that is any of your concern,” Rickard said. “I didn’t awaken you for a rousing chat. Withrae needs you.”

  Elian nearly burst out laughing. “I could give a shite for Withrae, and what it needs. What do I look like? The savior of Dragons? Hardly.”

  “Well, I could send you back to your death. Maybe make it permanent this time.”

  His jaw clenched at the threat, but he knew better than to dance with words with the dragon king. He had centuries of practice and experience over him. Perhaps it was time to school him on a few things.

  Instead of a retort, he stretched his arms and neck and carefully climbed out of the metallic box.

  Standing before Rickard, he tilted his chin upward and met his green eyes with a crooked smile.

  “Aye,” he said. “But, I’d much rather have a bit of fun.”

  He feigned a deep bow, and winced at the pain in his lower back and legs. Being alive again would take some getting used to.

  “I’m at your service, your majesty.”

  7

  “Rowen,” Rickard’s voice called. “I’m home.,”

  For a moment, Rowen was certain she was dreaming, and for the first time in ages, she enjoyed that dream. But, as her eyes opened, and she beheld the hazel-green eyes of her husband, a smile took over her face.

  Sunlight spilled into the room from the balcony doors behind Rickard. She’d changed rooms after what happened with Priscilla, and now lay in a large bed with four posts, a canopy of sheer fabric, and soft, goose feather-filled blankets.

  The tears that filled her eyes poured, and she had no wish to stop them. Instead, she sat up, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  To smell him, and feel him again was everything could have hoped for. He smelled of the wild, and it stirred a desire to escape Withrae and never look back. To be free once again—it appealed to her far greater than ruling a nation of Dragons who barely accepted her as their own.

  He went to break their embrace, and she resisted, holding tighter.

  “No,” she said. “I won’t let you go. Never again.”

  He smoothed her hair and pulled away enough to catch her mouth in a kiss that sent shivers up her spine and heat to every inch of her body. Their lips pressed and they shared the same breaths as passion consumed them.

  His kiss was like a thunderbolt, awakening her in ways she had began to forget. All she knew, was that she wanted more, but the pain in her head thumped like a drum and a rush of dizziness washed over her.

  Wincing, she broke the kiss and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I want a good look at you,” he said. He took her by the chin, and tilted it upward to search her face with those sharp eyes of his. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, hiding the fact that every inch of her body still brought her pain. “I’ve missed you so much, Rickard,” she whispered, and he held her closer.

  “Not as much as I missed you, my love,” he said, and took her hands into his own. “When I got word of what was happening in Withrae, I left the battlefield immediately. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that you and Noemie killed the wizard and his sister on your own. Imagine how proud I was of you both.”

  She smiled, but didn’t feel any joy. She and Noemie had done what they had to—but Rowen’s strength came from something more.

  When she looked at him, her brows furrowed, and her bottom lip trembled. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  He searched her eyes, but nodded. “What is it?”

  Pulling away, she sat up on her knees before him. She then placed her hands on her lower belly and a weak smile came to her lips.

  “Our child grows within me,” she said, and her voice broke half-way through her statement.

  The widening of Rickard’s eyes and paling of his cheeks left her unsure of whether he was pleased or disappointed.

  Then, his smile melted all of her fears and gave her the validation she needed that he to shared her joy.

  “This is incredible,” he said, and whisked her off of the bed. He spun her around, and a giggle bubbled forth from her throat. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded, hugging him as he swirled around with her in his arms. “Certain,” she said. “And, there’s more. Its a boy. I’ve seen him in my dreams.”

  “What are you saying, Rowen?” Rickard set her down, and his brows lifted over his eyes as he raked both hands through his hair. “A son?”

  She beamed, and nodded once again.

  He laughed, and clasped his hands together. “I’m having a son. An heir. Bloody brilliant.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And, how beautiful he is, Rickard. I’ve seen him—his smile—his eyes. He is the very best of us both.”

  He stared at her, and blinked away what she was certain were tears of his own. He scooped her into his arms once more and held her tightly.

  Silence passed between them, and Rowen could detect a hint of turmoil within her husband. She pressed her cheek against his.

  “What’s wrong?” Rowen asked, in a whisper.

  He stiffened, and took a step away.

  “I did something,” he said. “Something that had to be done. I wouldn’t have dreamed of it if it wasn’t absolutely vital. Withrae needs an ally right now. With th
e Wizard’s of Myrity coming for us, and the humans mustering soldiers from across their realm, we are desperate.”

  Rowen shook her head, not understanding. “What have you done, Rickard?”

  His gaze slowly lowered to the floor, and he spoke the words that sent terror into her soul.

  “I woke him up,” he said, quietly. “Elian. Your father.”

  8

  The new king of Withrae hadn’t a clue who he’d awakened, and what he was capable of.

  Putting him in that state between life and death had done something to Elian—something not even he understood. The air around him, and his very existence felt different.

  He didn’t get the luxury of a proper bath. A prison cell in the dungeon, with a bucket of water and a meager meal of day-old porridge was his welcoming. At least the porridge didn’t taste entirely like rubbish.

  He splashed the stagnant water over his head and pressed his hands against the cold stone wall. The water dripped from his face and hair and onto the floor, leaving muddy little puddles in the accumulated dirt. A large brown rat skittered across his boots, just to remind him of what low-class living looked like.

  This was even lower than that. He certainly hoped the king had better plans for him than this, if he wanted Elian to save those poor Dragons from the big, bad humans and their staffs.

  Once he had the energy to dress himself, he put on the drab pants and shirt he’d been afforded, and waited before the bars for Rickard to announce his release.

  Rickard hadn’t let Elian out of his sight from the moment he’d awakened him, until he left him behind in the dungeons beneath Withrae Palace.

  He didn’t blame him for not being entirely trusting, but Elian had plans on being a good boy.

  For now.

  When the doors to the dungeon opened, he saw someone he hadn’t expected.

  At least, not yet.

  Rowen came walking down the stone steps, in a simple gown of sage, with her hair the color of honey draped over her shoulders.