Chapter 8 #2
Instead, he moves back to the table, returning his attention to the papers there while shaking his head. “Why fight such a gift?”
“Dragons are not gifts where I come from.”
“Most anything can be a gift, if you’re strong and smart enough to harness it properly.”
“How lucky you are,” I seethe, taking a step toward him before I can help myself, “to believe that strength and smarts are the only things that determine a person’s destiny.”
His brow is furrowed when he glances over his shoulder at me. “Of course I don’t believe that. There are choices to be made, too.”
“Well, not all of us are presented with the same choices, either.”
He actually seems to consider this for a beat before slowly turning around to face me once more. “Nevertheless, an important choice lies in front of you now.”
I force myself not to shift under his scrutinizing gaze, no matter how uncomfortable it might make me.
“Come with me to my city,” he says.
I scoff, lifting my hand and twisting my wrist in the lantern light to show off the bright red marks the ropes left behind. “I was already on my way, wasn’t I?”
His eyes seem to focus, not on the rope marks, but on the star burned and carved into my skin—the symbol of Malachi’s family, of our unfinished vow. He stares at it for an uncomfortably long time before forcing his gaze back up to mine. “Not as my prisoner. Come as my guest.”
I can’t stop the bitter laugh that rises out of me. “You don’t want me as your guest.”
“Are you truly so certain of what I want? We’ve only just met.”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“I could say the same about you, given your chosen profession.” His eyes dart toward my Ashwalker mark on my other arm. “Your kind have a reputation for spreading lies and inciting insurrection against my kingdom wherever you go.”
“I like to think of it as spreading truth and hope.”
“Well, we all want to see ourselves as the hero, don’t we?”
My scalp prickles with irritation. “There’s nothing heroic about what your family has done to this empire. Your father alone was responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands.”
He shrugs. “I am not my father.”
“And I should just take your word on this, I suppose? Believe that you’re a better man than that tyrant was?”
“That isn’t what I said.”
I glare at him.
He flashes a small, sharp smile, and I swear I catch a glimpse of several teeth that look more dragon-like than human. “In many ways, I’m actually much worse than my father.”
“You admit you’re dangerous to me, then.”
“Profoundly dangerous.”
“So why would I agree to go anywhere with you?”
“Because you know there are no limits to what I could give you in return.”
“I want nothing from you.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” I repeat, but the word shakes slightly, and he pounces on the show of weakness like a wolf who’s picked a dying animal out of the herd.
His voice drops low once more, almost seductive this time. “Maybe not for you, then, but for others you care about?”
Images of the Burn flash through my mind before I can guard against them. Marta and her crooked hands. The Corvaine girl and her terrible cough. The marketplace with its shuttered stalls and stale goods and shivering, tired people just trying to get by.
Still here.
But tired.
We’re all so tired—me and Briar and everyone else living in the ashes of Emberfall.
And after sifting through those dull ashes for so long, it’s hard not to be drawn in by shiny things.
If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.
The familiar adage pounds through my thoughts. Nevertheless, I hear myself quietly ask, “…And what would you give them?”
“Whatever you like.” He shrugs. “Better food. Shelter. Protection.” He throws the words out so casually, as if these things, these riches, mean nothing at all to him. Like he’s merely tossing out whatever entertaining wager comes to mind, betting on a card game rather than people’s lives.
It makes me hate him even more than I already did—a feat I didn’t think was possible.
“Your friend outside will remain safe, too. For whatever that’s worth to you.”
I inhale slowly, trying to bring steadiness to my pounding heart. “And if I say no?”
He doesn’t reply, but the dark look that crosses his face tells me that denying him would likely be the last thing I ever do.
This is not really a choice.
I’m not foolish enough to think otherwise.
So the only question that remains is whether or not I can truly squeeze something valuable out of my predicament.
Noise is building outside—the dragon hatchling still making a racket, along with what sounds like more and more soldiers crowding around the tent, blathering about what’s happened on this strange night.
King Reave darts a look toward the exit, then picks up his gloves and starts to pull them on. “Give me your answer, Ashwalker. I’m a busy man.”
But not too busy to race out here in the middle of the night and deal with me personally.
The whole situation seems stranger and stranger, now that I’ve had a moment to catch my breath, to truly examine what’s unfolding. Why is he here? Who were those people who attacked the camp? What is really happening between me and that dragon?
My curiosity drives my next question almost as much as my desperation. “If I go to your palace, what happens to me then?”
He arches a brow.
“I never accept any proposal without knowing all the terms upfront.” I’ve taken on the same cold tone I use when negotiating Ashwalker jobs. “Crucial to surviving in my line of work, you understand.”
He considers, pulling his second glove on and adjusting it with deliberation. “You will train. We will test you and make sure that the bond we suspect is, in fact, real, and then we’ll work to forge it into something deeper. Something that can be of use to the Mouren crown.”
My stomach twists at that last sentence, but I somehow keep the disgust from contorting my face.
“For every successful week of training, and every service you provide, I’ll see to it that you—or others of your choosing—are rewarded.”
The offer hangs between us like a gilded noose. The danger is obvious, but I can’t help imagining scenarios where I somehow avoid being hung by it, where I find a way to slip free and wrap it around his throat instead.
Something that can be of use to the Mouren crown…
A crown that has ruined my life and the lives of so many others.
What a fool this man is, to think I’ll forget what he and his family have done just because he’s dangling such pretty promises in front of me. And what a fool I would be to not take this opportunity to steal from his crooked palace, to do everything I can to burn it all down from within.
My entire body tingles with dark possibility and fresh, savage purpose.
He has no idea who he’s just invited into his court.
“Well?” he prompts.
“Fine,” I grind out. “I accept.”
A smug smile is already spreading across his face before I get the words out, as if he knew he was going to get his way even before the negotiations started. Obnoxious man-child.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.
But I don’t have to like him to play this game.
In fact, it’s better if I don’t; blades slide far more smoothly into the backs of colossal assholes, in my experience.
“It’s settled, then,” he says, slipping his mask back on and beckoning me to follow him as he heads outside.
The chatter immediately falls to a hush, then total silence, as the king emerges.
The only sound is the dragon hatchling, and it quiets when I step into its line of sight.
The masked riders who arrived with the king remain in almost the exact spots he left them, except now they’ve mounted their horses.
Commander Gareth steps to meet us.
“We’re moving out,” King Reave informs him.
“Already? The men are tired, sire. The horses—”
“You know as well as I do what we have in our possession. You’re inviting disaster, lingering here. The men and the horses can recover as long as they need to once we’re inside our walls.”
Gareth doesn’t look as though he wants to agree, but he seems to understand he isn’t really being given a choice—much like I wasn’t. I watch his fist clench and unclench.
For a split second, it feels like we share a common enemy.
He gives a single, tight nod. “The bonded woman?” he inquires, as if I’m not standing two feet away from him.
“She rides with me.”
Every part of me recoils at the idea.
I still keep my composure.
That is until King Reave looks at Briar and adds, “Keep that one tightly under control, and transport her directly to the dungeons when you arrive in Lucindris. If she somehow escapes, may the gods have mercy on your soul—because I won’t.”
Gareth bows his head. “Understood.”
I grab the king’s arm as he turns toward his horse. “You said she would be safe!”
He stares at my fingers. “And she will be. I don’t intend to harm her, so long as you cooperate.”
“I am cooperating. You don’t need to imprison her to ensure that!”
“I’m afraid I do.”
I’m so furious I can’t form words.
“Leverage.” His voice is like ice. “Crucial to surviving in my line of work, you understand.” He pries my fingers off him, turning his attention back to his horse, summoning it with a soft click of his tongue.
Everything seems to be moving too quickly, all of a sudden. And even though I’ve agreed to go with him—even though I know now isn’t the time to push my luck—I can’t keep my temper from flaring out of control.
I’m swinging my stolen knife before I realize I’m doing it.
The king spins, catching me by the wrist mid-strike. His other hand shoots out and grabs my other wrist, his grip mercilessly tight as he pushes me back, holding me at arm’s length. His magic whips around us like a winter wind, cutting straight through my clothes, freezing the breath in my lungs.
The dragon hatchling lets out a screech that echoes my own growing panic. The increasingly familiar heat pounds through my chest, and this time, I let it flood through me without resistance, hoping it might insulate me from the cold.
King Reave’s eyes seem to shift, darkening almost to black. His lips part, and I catch another flash of sharp teeth—I’m certain of it this time. His jaw works with violent motions, as if he’s fighting the urge to sink those sharp teeth into my throat.
It’s…terrifying.
He abruptly lets me go.
I’m so stunned, I take a step back, not even thinking of trying to stab him again.
We stare at one another for several ragged breaths.
He swallows hard, composing himself. His voice is devoid of any emotion, cold or otherwise, as he says, “Get on the horse.”
Fury still simmers under the surface of my skin. But now there’s fear, too, if I’m being honest—and my father always told me to be honest about that. Fear can’t always be trusted, but ignoring it is rarely a good idea.
And right now, that fear is begging me not to do anything foolish.
With one last wary look at the king, I walk to his horse and hoist myself onto its back, struggling somewhat with the unfamiliar saddle and the gigantic size of the animal; neither is easy to navigate with one eye.
Once I finally manage to balance myself, the king swings up behind me without a word, circling an arm around my waist and pulling me more firmly against him. His heart pounds against my back like the persistent beating of a war drum calling us to battle.
“Now, keep still,” he mumbles, leaning closer, so that only I can hear him. “My magic can only do so much to shield us, and there are far fouler things than dragons between here and my city.”