The Dragon and the Queen (The Raven and the Dove Book 3) Page 7

  "Yes, my liege."

  The dream dissolved.

  Malek rolled to his feet. The fog outside was just beginning to lighten with the sun. The hour was early, but not too early to begin the day. As he stepped before his mirror, he hardly recognized the image staring back. Dark circles stained the undersides of his eyes, and his hair stood on end as though he'd spent the night gripping it between his fingers.

  This wouldn’t do.

  A bath first, ice cold to shock his system back into place, and with his composure restored, he'd find his mages. They needed to hear this update, and they needed to know the castle was no longer a safe place to speak. No one would mention the boy outside his presence. No one would speak of dockside rumors unless he was there to hear. These walls now had ears, and only he could sense when Kasiandra might be listening. She hadn't come to his dreams, which could only mean one thing. His dormi'kine had shifted her loyalties to the queen.

  Lyana could never know what Malek had seen that night. The rumors would come, he was sure, now that Rafe's new body had been seen. But gossip was one thing.

  By magic and by prophecy, he was her king.

  One way or another, she'd return to him.

  10

  Brighty

  "What'll it be?" the dealer asked, his impatience obvious.

  Brighty stared at the three kings in her hand, trying to remember tonight was not about making money. She'd snuck away from the rest of the crew for a far more nefarious purpose. Still, a winning hand was a winning hand.

  Magic alive, this is painful.

  "Fold," she muttered, letting the frustration ooze from her pores. The more she reeked of desperation, the more other players would want to cash in on one more sucker in the streets of Karthe trying to turn her luck around.

  "You're out."

  "Here's another twenty silver medallions. I've got to win eventually, right?"

  The dealer offered her a sad smile but let her place the new stack of gleaming coins on the table. "Right."

  As though drawn by the sight, four more patrons sat at the table, turning it half-full. Not quite enough for the fun to begin. Brighty kept her hood on and hunched over her cards, exchanging her usual mode of casual indifference for one of obvious discomfort. The more eyes she drew, the better. Despite the smoky haze infiltrating the gambling den, its regulars could spot an easy mark a mile away. A few more bad hands and another twenty silvers later, the table was full. Now she could start playing.

  Brighty kept her ears perked, listening to the conversation taking place around her and biding her time. They spoke of the usual—trade, dragon hunting, the bloody fog, and those damned mages living in the wealthiest quarter of the city. A recent string of unexplained murders took up a decent part of the rumor mill, but eventually talk shifted to the topic she'd been anticipating.

  "I heard he had dragon wings."

  "I heard he breathed fire."

  "I heard he scared the beast away with a single look."

  As expected, Rafe's reputation preceded him. Actually, he's bloody clumsy at times and a downright grump, but he's all we've got.

  Captain had expressly forbidden Brighty from revealing her suspicions to anyone—that Rafe, and not Malek, was somehow the King Born in Fire. Magic strike her if she knew how that was possible, but she knew what she'd seen on the outskirts of Da'Kin—Queen Lyana and Rafe standing face-to-face, framed by ashy snowfall and burning flame, like a portrait painted by fate’s own hands. If she was the Queen Bred of Snow, then he was the King Born in Fire. Brighty would bet her life on it, and despite the evidence presented this evening, she almost always won.

  "Did he come from the rift?"

  "They say he just appeared through the mist."

  "An old friend of mine is on the crew, and he said the man spoke to the beast. He said the dragon bowed to him, like one of us would to a king."

  There.

  She bit back her grin. It was the perfect in.

  "Well," Brighty drawled, as she tossed a handful of coins into the pot, drawing their gazes. Money spoke, and it was time to start winning. Maybe then, they'd believe her. "It does make you wonder."

  Two more gamblers folded, leaving only Brighty and one man in the hand. He met her eyes across the table and matched her bid. "Wonder?"

  She placed another stack of coins into the heap. So did he.

  "The man has dragon wings. He can breathe fire. He can talk to them. They're afraid of him. We've been told again and again the time of prophecy is upon us, and, well, it makes you wonder…" She trailed off, letting the crumbs lead where they might, and raised the bid.

  Her opponent glanced briefly at his cards, a tell if she'd ever seen one. Despite the confident way he dropped the coins into the center, one by one in a smug cascade, he was nervous. So was she—her hand was a total flop. But no one else needed to know it. And her conservative bids earlier in the night suggested that if she was going all in, it was because she had something great.

  "What are you implying?" he asked, taking another second to look at his cards.

  Brighty kept her eyes on him and raised again. "What do you think I'm implying?"

  "You don’t really believe he might be the King Born in Fire?"

  Behind her, someone gasped.

  "You said it." She shrugged. "Not me."

  "He could be working for them."

  "What if he's working for us?" She sat back in her chair and laid her cards facedown on the table, then covered them protectively with her palms. "Your bid."

  "He's been spotted!" someone shouted across the gambling hall. "Someone just saw a man with flaming wings through a break in the fog!"

  Blasted idiot, Brighty cursed internally, careful not to move. What part of “stay on the ship and stay out of sight” did you not understand?

  Half the people who'd been watching her game turned toward the door, and a swarm of patrons ran outside. If her opponent wanted to fold, it was now or never, with the room distracted and no one paying attention to his defeat.

  Come on. Come on.

  "Well?" she said and arched her brow.

  The man sighed and tossed his cards onto the table. "I'm out."

  "Excellent," Brighty chirped. With a swish of her arm, she brushed the pot into her coin purse and jumped to her feet. "It's been a pleasure."

  One hand tipped her imaginary hat. The other deftly flipped her cards to reveal her bluff. The man shot to his feet.

  "You son of a—"

  His cry was lost in the din of the hall as she cut swiftly through the crowd. What she'd come to accomplish was done. By morning, Karthe would be alive with the question of who exactly this mysterious dragon man might be, and Karthe was only the beginning. Sailors were notorious gossips. Half the seas would be bubbling with the news within the week.

  Would Captain Rokaro be happy? No. But technically—technically—Brighty hadn’t broken any of her rules. So, really, how could she complain?

  She'll find a way.

  With a sigh, Brighty slipped into the shadows of the city and crept along the edges of the dock, all the while keeping her gaze on the sky. There was nothing she wanted more than hot food and her bed. Instead, she needed to track down a runaway dragon man before anyone else found him.

  All right, Rafe, she thought as she scaled the side of a building to crouch atop the nearest roof. Where the hell are you?

  11

  Rafe

  That might've been too low.

  Rafe cursed and angled his body higher into the skies. But how else was he supposed to see through this blasted fog if he didn’t dive beneath it? Yes, he'd promised the captain he wouldn't leave the ship. And yes, he'd promised to stay out of sight. But no, he hadn't listened. And now…he was pretty sure he'd been spotted.

  Great. Just great.

  When they arrived at port, he'd agreed to remain on the ship while the rest of the crew slipped into the dark streets to gather supplies. But that had been before he peeked through th
e porthole to find a familiar skyline staring back. He'd been to Karthe before, not in body, but in a dream the night before. The docks had been just as full, bustling with magic and mage light despite the late hour, the sort of place where it was easy to go unseen—at least for anyone without flaming wings. In the memory, he'd stuck to the shadows, moving through liquid pools of inky black and staying out of sight. Then he'd caught a scent in the air, too intoxicating to ignore. He'd followed it until he'd found the source—a young girl with silver magic glittering along her fingers. She oozed spirit and life. He’d wrapped a scaled claw around her throat and drained the power from her skin until he was dizzy with it. Someone had come. It didn't matter. All he remembered from then on were flashes of blood and gore and death.

  Rafe shook his head to clear the nightmare.

  Gods alive.

  It had been so real. Too real. When he'd glanced through the window to find the same city staring back, one he was certain he'd never stepped foot in before, he'd taken to the skies without a second thought. If the dreams were real, he needed proof. Was he doing these things? Had the dragon inside of him found a way to gain control? The possibilities were too terrifying to consider, but imagining the worst was making him crazy.

  Oh, screw it.

  He couldn't see anything through the fog. He needed to be closer. And if the people saw him, so what? His magic made him unbreakable, and now he was half-dragon too. If anyone in the streets of Karthe wanted a fight, they could have one. It might be just the outlet his restless energy needed.

  Rafe dove.

  The fog dissipated as he neared the tops of the buildings, scattering just enough for him to see. Magic glittered along the busy streets, but the farther from the docks he flew, the quieter the city became. The scene from his dream had been a dead-end street, circled by buildings and edged by a deep canal, stuffed full of empty crates and boxes. When he reached the richly ornate buildings near the center of town, he knew he'd gone too far and circled back, scanning the passing sectors for any hint of familiarity.

  There.

  A façade painted in fading teals and yellows caught his eye. Rafe plummeted from the sky and landed easily on his feet to press his fingers against the chipped wood. He'd been in this spot before. He'd touched this siding. Just around the corner, a dark alley waited. He ran down it, the shadows just as thick as he remembered. Left, then right, then left again, he moved on instinct, until finally he stopped in the center of a small clearing at the edge of a canal.

  It was real.

  His chest tightened as he turned slowly, taking in the broken crates and the scattered glass, evidence of a fight. The girl had been playing just over there, beside that door. He kicked debris to the side with his foot—and froze. Dark stains marred the wood.

  No. No. No.

  Rafe knelt and pressed his fingers to the spot. The firelight from his wings caught the edge of the sticky liquid. It flashed with a crimson sheen.

  Blood.

  The alley was real. The girl had been real. The nightmare was real.

  He'd lived it.

  No!

  He stumbled back. Behind him, a tile crashed to the wood. Rafe gripped his swords and pulled them from their sheaths as he spun.

  "Whoa!" Brighty jumped out of reach. "Put those things away before you hurt yourself."

  The tips of his blades dropped with two thunks to the wood as all the breath left his lungs. "It's you."

  "Who'd you expect?"

  "I really don't know." He stared into the shadows, unable to fight the feeling of being watched. “How’d you find me?”

  "How do you think?" she growled, then punched him in the arm. "I followed you across the rooftops, and I’m not the only one. What part of stay on the ship don’t you understand? I mean, magic alive, Rafe! Half the city is out looking for you right now, and no offense, you aren't exactly incognito with those things."

  She pointedly eyed his fiery wings.

  Rafe tucked them casually behind his back. "I'm sorry. I know. It's just, something's been going on, something's happened, and—"

  "Tell me later," she cut him off and glanced over her shoulder. "We've got to go."

  "Why?"

  Before she could answer, a wave of pine-green sparks spilled through the alley and surrounded them in a neon glow.

  Brighty sighed and shook her head. "Too late."

  His swords chose that moment to jerk free of his hands. One swung for his neck. The other sliced toward Brighty's gut. She rolled to the side while he ducked, and their foreheads banged together.

  "Ow."

  "Watch out!"

  He shoved her aside and caught the blade in his hand before it struck. Blood spilled down his forearm. Rafe gritted his teeth and strengthened his grip as the sword lashed from side to side. Silver magic pooled beneath his skin. Beside him, Brighty brandished a broken slab of wood and whacked the other sword away.

  "I told you these things were a bloody hazard!"

  "Don’t give me a lecture."

  "I should've given you a leash!"

  The sword attacking Brighty lodged in the wood. For a moment, she grinned triumphantly. Then the blade started spinning, whipping the shard of wood around like a floating wheel of death. She bared her teeth as Rafe leapt in front of her, using his body as a shield. Reaching back, he tried to get a grip around her waist.

  "Let me carry you."

  "No."

  "We'll be safe—"

  "No."

  "Would you just—"

  "Look out!"

  A metal grate lifted from the scattered shards and flew toward them. Rafe took it in the chest, grunting as he felt a rib crack. Brighty steadied him from behind. Three mages walked into the alley, their leader clearly the ferro'kine wreaking havoc on Rafe's pride. The other two weren't using their magic, but he could smell it on their skin.

  "What do you want?"

  "The king sent us to retrieve you," the metal mage warned.

  I bet he did. The mere mention of the king made Rafe’s blood burn. Heat filled the air as the flames along his wings blazed, turning the mage's pupils orange with the reflection.

  "Come with us, and we won't hurt your friend."

  "Touch her, and I'll kill you."

  "No one's going to die tonight," Brighty drawled as she stepped out from behind him with a swagger to her hips. "Least of all me. I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement."

  She darted her milky eyes toward him, and Rafe slammed his shut just as magic exploded from her palms. The light was so piercing even he felt the sting as the darkness fled. He expected screams, or at least some heavy groaning. Instead, a moment later, it dimmed.

  "Oh, for magic's sake," Brighty grumbled under her breath.

  Rafe peeked to the side. A wave of shadow rolled from another mage's hands, meeting her power head-on, so the two clashed in a battle of penetrating white and fathomless black, neither gaining the upper hand.

  Well, damn.

  It had been worth a shot.

  His swords sprang from the floor again, both aimed toward Brighty's heart, and Rafe lunged to intervene. Yellow streaks of aero'kine magic flooded his sight as a windstorm swept through the alley, knocking him aside. He dug his heels into the wooden planks, his feet slipping with the moisture.

  "Brighty!"

  Locked in battle with the shadow mage, she didn't hear his cry. The sharp points flew closer to her chest as gusts whipped at him from all sides. Rafe tried to barrel his way through.

  "Brighty!"

  She glanced toward him, her eyes widening upon seeing the blades, and stumbled back. But it was too late. The metal was a foot away, then inches, then—

  The swords clanged to the ground at her feet as the ferro'kine gasped in pain. Rafe jerked his head toward the sound. The man clutched his shoulder, a wince digging into his brow as he hissed. Blood spilled over his fingers, pouring down his arm and soaking his clothes. The mage found Rafe's gaze, a mixture of fear and renewed d
etermination shining in his eyes.

  It wasn't me, he wanted to say. I didn't do it.

  But what did?

  A brilliant wave of green flooded the alley before Rafe had time to guess. Dozens of shards of metal rose into the air, light enough to be swept into the tunneling winds. A maelstrom of sharp edges and dust spun toward them. Rafe glanced at Brighty, then at the sky, then back at Brighty. She bit her lip, all her concentration on the shadow mage. Rafe would survive the onslaught, he was sure. It'd be painful, but not fatal. His friend, however, would be butchered alive.

  As if hearing his thoughts, the aero'kine sent another gust into his chest, and he stumbled back. Surrounded by green glitter, two metal bars rose before him like a moving cage, preventing him from crossing the distance. The spinning vortex of doom glided closer.

  "Surrender and we'll spare her," the metal mage ordered.

  Like hell.

  The fire in his chest stirred, but Rafe clamped down on that instinct. It would burn Brighty just as easily as it burned the rest of them. There had to be something else, something—

  His raven cry.

  Was he still…? Could he still…?

  He had to try.

  As wind and metal barreled down on him, Rafe thought of Brighty and of the raven he prayed still lived somewhere inside his battered soul, and he screamed.

  The piercing screech echoed down the alley, reverberating off the wooden walls like the sweetest music. Everyone stopped. Wind died and metal dropped to the ground like soft rain. Both light and shadow winked out. Brighty stood slack-jawed, prompting the corner of his lip to quirk as he raced toward her, ready to flee to the sky.

  A tickle at the back of his neck stopped him.

  Dread slipped down his spine.

  Drawn by something out of his control, Rafe slowly turned. The air was still. The metal mage and the wind mage both stood frozen, their eyes blank and unseeing. Behind them, though, the darkness rippled. A creature emerged from the ebony folds, its skin covered in scales. Shadows wafted off its onyx wings. The only bright spots on it were the pointed teeth visible between slightly parted lips.