Xaden #2
“Yeah. Fuck. I’m sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck with his left hand, keeping his sword in his right. “But maybe one day you’ll develop feelings for Cat—”
“Not going to happen. That’s business. Not love.” Every encounter I’ve ever had with the spoiled aristocrat has only reinforced my belief that we are going to be miserable. “But that contract gives us a fighting chance, and that’s all that matters.”
“Right.” He blows out a long sigh, and guilt taps my shoulder.
He’s been my best friend since I can remember, and the last thing I want is him feeling shitty about me fulfilling the agreement my father made, so I flip the subject to him. “Besides, not all of us fall in love with the first girl we see and then do nothing about it—”
“She was not the first girl I ever saw,” he argues, switching his sword to his left hand so he can swing a finger in my direction. “And you don’t get a say in who you fall for.”
“We’ll see how that goes for you next year when she gets here. You’ll have to stop fucking around, you know.” A smile tugs at my mouth as color flushes his cheeks.
“You’re one to talk, considering you hauled yourself out of a third-year’s room this morning.
” He scoffs. “Besides, that woman will never own up to wanting me, and therefore we will never happen. I will be free to fuck around for the rest of my life, while you, my sweet little honey bear, will not. One of us will be in a loveless marriage, and the other in love with no hope of marriage. Not sure who I pity more.”
“We make quite the pair.” I nod, noting that the snow has stopped.
“Misery loves company, and you and I will sail those melancholic waters like we do everything else—together.” He locks his elbow around my neck. “We’ll just have to make the best of this year, I suppose.”
A shrill scream erupts in the distance, and his arm falls away as our steps slow.
“The good news is, there’s one less person out there trying to kill us.” I shrug.
“Praise Malek!” He falters. “Unless you think that was one of us.”
I shake my head. “Too far away.”
Sun cuts through the clouds as we take the western path around a redwood tree that’s thicker than the turrets in Basgiath, and Garrick puts his hand to his chest.
“You all right?” My brow furrows.
“Something…” He looks off into the distance as we come around the tree, and I follow his line of sight toward what looks to be a clearing to the west. “Something in my chest…hurts. Like a hook is lodged between my ribs and is tug—” Garrick stops walking.
“Could be your dragon.” I glance back at Garrick and stop dead in my tracks. My stomach clenches as I spot the bejeweled dagger held to my best friend’s pale throat.
One of the only people in the world I can’t get away with killing stands behind Garrick, just tall enough that his blond hair and royally green eyes peek out above Garrick’s shoulder.
“You’d attack me from behind? That’s low, even for you.” Garrick arches his neck to get away from the blade, and I immediately lift my sword. “But at least I’m awake this time.”
That asshole came after Garrick in his sleep last week, more than comfortable breaking the Codex, knowing no one would say shit because he’s a prince of Navarre. I hadn’t woken up until Garrick had been beaten pretty badly, and I’ll be damned if he gets away with it again.
“Drop it, Alic,” I order.
He smiles maniacally and tilts his head.
Fuck it. If it’s just the three of us, I’ll gut him and no one will be the wiser. King Tauri has three sons. He won’t miss one, and it’s not like Alic’s first in line for the throne. That one went into the Infantry Quadrant like a good little firstborn aristocrat.
Like my father wanted me to do.
Except only two of us here have rebellion relics, which means if I provoke a fight, Melgren’s signet will allow him to see the outcome. And then Garrick and I will be executed for killing this asshole, which would be detrimental to the goal of what we’re doing at Basgiath.
“Your Royal Highness, Alic Tauri Baran. Where are your manners?” Alic clicks his tongue. “One move out of you, Riorson, and Tavis will bleed the ground red.” He scrapes the dagger down Garrick’s skin.
Godsdamn it. The metallic tang of fear coats my tongue, but I keep my blade level and my eyes locked on the knife. The tip of my sword is only about two feet from doing damage, but he’s using Garrick as a shield. No matter how fast I move, he can slit Garrick’s throat before I get there.
“Look what we have here, boys,” Alic calls out. “The son of the rebellion’s leader and his aide.”
Two of his little sycophants from Second Wing—Eian and Lorne—race out from behind the giant redwood, swords raised. They are only a couple of inches shorter than I am, and Lorne is built like a bull.
We’re outnumbered, and I haven’t quite solved the blade-at-Garrick’s-neck issue, which Alic reminds me by pressing the dagger just hard enough to draw a single bead of blood.
“Lower your sword, Riorson,” Alic orders in a snotty tone that holds only the authority he was born with.
“Don’t do it—” Garrick starts, and Alic draws another bead of blood.
Instead of lowering my sword, I sheathe it behind my back. It’s more useful to have both hands free. After all, there are at least a dozen daggers strapped to my body underneath this cloak.
Eian and Lorne rush forward, stopping only when they both hold the tips of their swords within inches of my chest. I’ve already crushed Eian’s little soul on the mat this year, but Lorne might prove a healthy challenge.
Bet he’s still pissed I killed his closest friend during the third round of challenges after he broke Soleil’s finger. Oops.
“Shhh, now, Tavis.” Alic draws the blade upward, giving Garrick an impossibly close shave that ties my stomach into knots. “The aristocrats are speaking.” His green eyes flare. “Oh, I almost forgot. You’re the Duke of Nothing now, aren’t you, Riorson? Guess only one of us is still a noble.”
I’m not rising to the bait. No, I keep the monster within me leashed, knowing the wrong move, the wrong words will get Garrick killed. Control is the one thing I pride myself on. Everything else is genetics or training.
Take care of each other. That’s what Dad ordered when he left for the Battle of Aretia.
I try not to remember the vitriol I spewed at him in response when he wouldn’t let us go with him.
“Nothing to say?” Alic taunts. “Fine then. Let’s chat about all the things you used to own that now belong to me and see if Tavis here actually has a dragon in that field.
” He nudges Garrick forward, the blade still at his throat, and motions for me to walk with him.
“I bet it takes one look at the position I have you in and incinerates you on the spot. Walk.”
I turn my back on Lorne and Eian to move a couple of feet from Garrick’s side, keeping my focus split between the whites of Garrick’s eyes and the movement of our attackers’ shadows in the patchy sunlight as we head toward the clearing.
Lorne presses his sword against my back.
Guess I’ll have to kill him first. With us heading west at this trajectory, if the others keep theirs, we’ll intercept, hopefully sooner rather than later.
“Does he have any other weapons on you?” I use my hands to sign close to my body, avoiding the three behind us but catching Garrick’s attention. “Blink once for no. Twice for yes.”
He blinks once.
That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.
“Don’t trip,” I sign back.
He subtly gifts me with the middle finger.
“Let’s see,” Alic drones on as we cross the forest floor. “I own your city—well, the charred remains of it, at least. Dragons don’t really leave much when they fire a town, do they?”
“We need to keep him confident,” I sign to Garrick. If I’ve learned anything about Alic Baran in the last seventy-eight days, it’s that he won’t kill Garrick until he’s had his fun humiliating him now that he thinks he has the power. “Need him to make a mistake.”
He blinks twice.
A dragon roars to the south, followed by a painful scream. The pressure at my back disappears, and we keep walking.
“And there’s the land around your city,” Alic continues. “Oh, and that fabulous fortress you call a house. That’s mine, too.”
“I’m going to need your sword,” I sign to Garrick.
He blinks once.
“I’m going to need your sword,” I sign again. Stubborn prick.
He rolls his eyes, then blinks them twice.
“Not much for taxes, since all your people are dead.” Alic sighs. “Which, of course, is why no other noble has stepped up for your title. Well, your father’s title. It was never quite yours, was it?”
“Aldwin maneuver,” I sign to Garrick, keeping my hands tight against my chest.
He blinks once.
“Fine. Gerwin?” I sign another option. Benefits of training nearly our entire lives together? We have the same combat vocabulary.
He blinks twice.
“It’s a wonder we never met before Parapet, really,” Alic prattles on. “Your father no doubt kept you from gatherings to keep his rebellion planning a secret.”
“My father kept me away from aristocrats because he knows you’re a bunch of entitled pricks who rule in your own best interest,” I counter, because fuck him.
We walk into the clearing, and the sun blesses me with a clear view of our attackers’ shadows. There’s a gap between the swords and my back, which gives me some room to move, but Alic’s shadow is merged with Garrick’s.
A wave of steam washes over us, and we all still.
My lungs spasm. Standing near a lone tree midway across the field is a giant sapphire-blue dragon with a scar across its snout and swinging a clubtail behind it.
“Hello there,” Alic says quietly.
“Is that yours?” I sign to Garrick, hope lighting up my chest.
He blinks once. No.
Shit. That hope dies a swift death. Blues are the most ruthless dragons in the Empyrean.
They’re death machines with pretty scales and a thirst for blood.
And if that one wasn’t calling Garrick, it’s either here to bond one of the assholes behind us or kill us.
Neither of which is conducive to our survival.