18. Drake
EIGHTEEN
DRAKE
T he king allowed his mate to stomp out of the room. He was unfazed by her intense emotion, at least on the surface level. He trusted that once she saw the error of her ways, she would come running back, gracious that he placed her well-being above the brevity of shock.
He ruminated as he flitted through his various garments, pretending only to himself that his mate’s upset wasn’t a trifle tormenting to observe. Her scathing remark about finally seeing the true him had cut through, but only surface level. Drake assured himself as he dressed for the day, fitted in his traditional military wear and accompanying golden tassel-meshwork cloak.
The king anticipated that he was going to be imbued with some tricky and hostile attitudes that day. He swept out of the room, intending to be on his best royal behavior.
The second he departed from his private chambers, a swarm of guards rushed him. One held a scroll where someone had quickly scribbled upon it in thin black ink.
“My King, My King,” his head guard said, taking a bow before revealing his overwrought expression. “We have received word from Lucien.”
Drake darkened. He snatched the scroll from his guard and stepped into the faint beam of swirling dust by the nearest window. The day had begun so brightly but was withering into what would likely become a storm for the ages.
He knew it in his bones the way an old hag in the woods prophesied death.
He read the note quickly. It was short and succinct.
I demand you release my cousin from your custody! it read. War and famine will fall upon your people!
The king chuckled with a sinister satisfaction. The men surrounding him were dumbfounded.
“I will return his message promptly. Come now.”
They scrambled back to his study like ducklings trailing after their mother. Their energy felt frantic and perturbed, but Drake sensed the winds were finally blowing in his favor.
He dabbed his quill into the ink and rolled out a small patch of the Mountain Kingdom royal scroll. Embedded at the crest of the sheet was the coat of arms of his ancestors, a minuscule mountain diffused by the presence of three tall evergreens, held together by the strapping carvings of two ancient dragon shifters.
The king’s quill stroke was agile and concise.
You and your treasonous cousin will not be released if you, dear Lucien, do not bend the knee. I await your prompt submission.
He tore the note away savagely and handed it to his guard.
“Send this, posthaste,” Drake said.
The guards took a tense bow and then fled the study.
The king couldn’t have been more pleased with the development. He rose from his desk and ventured on to find Thalia.
Beyond the castle, a storm brewed.
Drake strolled the corridors, relishing in superiority. He arrived at Evanth’s room, and drummed on the door, humming a jubilant tune.
“Thalia, it is your king,” he said as if their argument that morning had been a figment of their shared imagination. “I would like to have a dialogue with you.”
But Thalia didn’t answer the door. Nerin did. Upon greeting him, the nebbish assistant twisted the portrait of his features into a repugnant gape. His opinions were written on him as subtly as ancient stone effigies.
“Yes, My King,” he said, taking a reluctant bow. “Thalia isn’t here right now. She was earlier this morning, briefly.”
Drake noticed that the bed where Evanth had been spending the majority of his time was empty. He moved Nerin aside gently with his hand and came upon a sight that was as miraculous as it was puzzling.
The man who required accompaniment to the toilet merely a few nightfalls before was standing by the tall cathedral window, watching the sky with the admiration of a child. Drake went to him and was struck by the youthful young man who stood before him.
“Evanth?” he said cautiously.
Evanth was taken by something he saw in the sky. Drake followed his stare and saw it. A large bird with wings spread in a swooping, mighty soar.
“Is that a heron?” Evanth asked, pressing his finger against the glass.
“Indeed,” Drake said, marveling. “A great blue heron. They usually signal a storm.”
“Pity,” Evanth replied, eyes bright. "I told Thalia I wanted to go for a stroll. The grounds are rather stunning, Drake. I am very curious to explore.”
The king could not take his eyes off Evanth. The grays of his hair were nearly vanquished, a light spray of steel left like stardust sprinkling his sideburns. The mournful droop of his eyes was gone, replaced by a natural, adolescent blush.
Despite standing still, Drake could also see that he was spry. Nothing weighed him down anymore. What Sorcha had taught Thalia had reverted her father back into the spring of his life.
“We will be sure to explore once this blows over,” Drake said, giving Evanth a friendly pat on the shoulder.
In the past, the gesture would have had Evanth crumbling like a scarecrow. Standing against the ebbing and filmy daylight, the king felt his triumphs as a man. It made his throat dry up with pity.
“Lovely,” Evanth replied dreamily.
Drake gave him one more burly strike to the shoulder, then turned to regard Nerin. He was sitting in the corner with a book opened on his lap, staring down.
The sky was a festering, swollen wound. The king took notice of the bruised yellow and inflamed pink hue as Evanth sighed, the heron disappearing out of sight.
“There he goes,” Evanth whispered.
As Evanth continued his composed contemplation, the king approached his loyal and abiding servant. Nerin remained with his head downcast, seemingly absorbed by whatever text he was reading.
“You do not stand for your king?” Drake grunted.
Nerin lifted his head and casually rose to his feet. He took another small bow, which wasn’t necessary, but expected nearly every time someone of a lesser status was being addressed by their monarchy.
“Apologies, My King,” he said, quietly. “Evanth has been quite restless, and with all of the commotion from this morning, I’m afraid he…”
Drake abruptly cut Nerin off with a swipe of his hand in front of him.
“I will not hear this nonsense. Let me hear your griping. I know you were in great favor of Sorcha. Come out with your thoughts.”
Nerin strained his lips hesitantly. Drake knew Nerin more than favored Sorcha. He was outright smitten with the woman. Though it was easy to fall under her spell of charm and plain physical appeal, Nerin desired more than that.
While others sneakily pined, he was respectful and kind. Nerin wasn’t of the ilk to manipulate a woman into bed. He had a raw, sentimental heart.
But none of that mattered to the king anymore. Sorcha was a traitor who wore her mask the most fluently. That was it. Even his dragon growled deep inside while thinking about it.
“Come now,” Drake snapped. “Your King demands your truth.”
Nerin piped up and squared his shoulders, shifting his face to a disturbed indifference.
“My King, you are correct in your assessment. I am rather fond of Sorcha, but many of the other staff within the castle are as well. I am compelled to tell you, with great respect, that arresting Sorcha was a mistake. I have the utmost faith that she would not commit any act of treachery against you or Thalia.”
The king was appalled but spoke with an intimidating placidity. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to keep Evanth from overhearing.
“I should very well throw you in the dungeon with your forsaken beloved for speaking such words to your king,” he sneered.
“My King,” Nerin said, bowing again, but continuing remorselessly, “it is you who implored me to share my truth. That is all that has occurred here today.”
Nerin was lean for a dragon shifter, and not nearly as tall as Drake. But he was steady on his feet and steadfast in his words. Drake couldn’t help but respect him.
But he also had to know his place.
“Nerin, I am thankful for your truth, but hear this, and hear me now,” the king murmured, placing a heavy hand on Nerin's shoulder, and inclining his head like a reptile.
“Your duty, as you have been assigned by your sovereign, is to Evanth. You are to care for Thalia’s father in between healing sessions. That is all your business pertains to. Do you understand?”
Nerin may have been brave, but he wasn’t a halfwit. He nodded wearily and took one final bow.
“Yes, My King. As you wish."
Drake finally left the room as rivets of red lightning threaded across the sky. He swooped out in his cape, a nagging feeling of doubt like a stone caught in his throat.
What if Sorcha was innocent? Before that day, the shifter-witch would have been the last person the king could have ever considered as a spy. She had always struck him as sincere in her intentions and organic optimism. It was strange to imagine being fooled so dreadfully over nearly a decade.
In addition to that terrible consideration, there was the rest of his staff to mull about. What if arresting Sorcha was the poison that dirtied the well? What if they were to turn on him and ignite a mutiny?
It was the last thing the king needed in lieu of an inevitable war.
The king growled to himself, the light of day nearly completely blackened.