Kingdom of Shadows and Wings (Dragons of Tirene #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The night before fate sets fire to my life begins with more chaos than usual.

Skulking in a corner, I nibble a flaky pastry stuffed with seasoned meat and wonder if it’s too soon to make my escape. A small crowd of female guests mills about Castle Axton’s great hall, chatting and laughing in gowns that sparkle like gemstones beneath the crystal chandeliers. Wine and mead perfume the air with fruity sweetness, and a string quartet strums a lively tune.

I press my back against the stone wall, relishing the chill that cools my overheated skin. Despite the vaulted ceilings, it’s hotter than hells in here. Louder too. Mother’s either losing her hearing or she’s a closet masochist, because the nobles she invites to these things always seem dead set on testing the upper limits of their vocal capacities.

With Leesa off at Flighthaven learning to fly alicorns—and eventually dragons—to protect Aclaris, I’m more starved for companionship than ever. I swear, though, some of these people make my hermit’s life sound appealing.

Cramming the last bite of pastry into my mouth, I drop my empty plate on a table and slip past colorful tapestries of dragons, paintings of the four elemental gods and goddesses—Ziva, Gallora, Terro, and Rivlan—and portraits of stuffy ancestors who don’t look a thing like me.

A few more steps to the staircase and then I can make a break for it.

“Lark, dear! Please come over here.”

Well, fuck. There goes that idea.

I swallow a sigh and switch directions. I dodge the tipsy woman who’s brandishing a full cup of mead like a sword, reaching my mother and her friends unscathed. In her emerald silk gown with her golden curls piled atop her head, Lady Lynnea Axton creates a striking picture. Familiar concern shadows her brown eyes as she subjects me to a head-to-toe inspection.

I try to smother the burn of resentment in my chest.

I love my mother. I just wish her love wasn’t so godsdamned suffocating.

On the one hand, I get it. Losing a husband and almost losing a child in a Tirenese attack would be enough to destroy anyone’s world. But Ziva save us, that happened fifteen years ago, when I was four. I’m nineteen now. Surely, enough time has lapsed span for her fear to subside.

Although, I have to admit, certain aspects of my current life add to her stress too.

I’m not proud of what I’m about to do next, but I have somewhere to be, and the party will only keep her attention diverted for so long. Mother would lose her ever-loving mind if she learned about my unsanctioned rides to the village.

Pinning a grimace on my face, I clutch my head, adding a little moan for good measure.

As predicted, my mother’s brow creases. “Lark, darling, are you dizzy again?”

“Afraid so.” I ignore the guilt gnawing at my gut and massage my temples. “May I be excused? I thought I might feel better, but the noise?—”

“Of course. Have Hilda prepare you a bath.”

“Maybe later. I just need to rest.”

She engulfs me in a rose-scented hug. “You do that.”

I duck my head and flee the great hall, doing my best to avoid the pitying looks that follow. My mother’s friends must wonder how two sisters could be so different. Leesa is strong, healthy, and plans to use her affinity for fire to defend Aclaris and become a dragonrider. Basically, she’s a badass. Meanwhile, I’m the weakling sister who suffers from frequent dizzy spells and possesses the magical ability of a potato.

At least, that’s what everyone believes. Only Mother and I know about the daily remedy I take to suppress my magic. The concoction worked like a charm too…up until last week, when the king’s representative arrived at our gate to administer an unscheduled retest. The amount of fire I summoned was pitiful, barely enough to fill a thimble. Still, that one tiny spark was enough to send my worrywart mother into meltdown mode.

Upstairs, I dart into my bedchamber and sag against the door. I know my mother has good intentions, but that means fuck all during those times when my existence behind the castle walls feels like a slow death in a luxury prison.

A few years ago, one of the gardener’s little boys caught a pretty yellow bird. He caged the bird and carried it everywhere, singing to it, providing a steady supply of worms and beetles dug fresh from the garden, and keeping the cage by his bed when he slept. But despite his tender care, the bird started bashing her head against the bars. The gardener’s boy sobbed, asking why his treasured pet hurt herself.

To me, the answer was obvious. All the love and pampering in the world couldn’t compensate for the thing the bird desired most.

Freedom.

Sometimes, I relate to the bird a little too much. Only, in my story, the cage is partly of my own making. For good reason.

I never want to hurt anyone again.

Shying away from the troubling direction of my thoughts, I strip off the blue gown and stuff the garment in the armoire, where it’s swallowed by a rainbow of other dresses. In the last drawer, buried at the bottom, I find my sole pair of trousers. Next, I fish out a roomy, hand-me-down tunic and tug it over my head.

After finger-combing my dark brown waves in front of the mirror, I weave the locks into a braid.

My reflection shows a heart-shaped face. Big hazel eyes. A slightly upturned nose.

My mother and sister, on the other hand, with their dark golden curls, long noses, and stubborn chins, are dead ringers for the parade of unsmiling ancestors on the downstairs wall. Mother tells me I favor my paternal grandmother, but I have to take her word for it. An accident with a candle during my younger years destroyed that portrait.

Outside my window, darkness devours the last bit of daylight. I hurry as I rummage under the bed to unearth my bow, slinging it and a quiver full of arrows over my shoulder. A dagger gets tucked into my boot.

I’m sheltered, not stupid.

A hooded, forest green cloak completes the ensemble. I grab a pouch full of coins from my desk drawer before easing my chamber’s heavy door open a few inches.

The corridor is empty. No one intercepts me as I race down the servants’ stairway and burst into the kitchen. “Is the extra food all packed?”

Cook—a rosy-cheeked, sweet-natured woman named Betsy who prefers to go by Cook and has lived with us since before I was born—nods. She always smells delicious, like cinnamon and sage. “Yes. And the horse and wagon are waiting in your usual spot.”

“And you and the rest of the staff already ate your fill?”

She pats my cheek with her calloused hand. “Sweet girl, don’t you fret over us. You just hurry up and get back safety.”

Worry pinches her expression, same as always. I flash my most reassuring grin. “I’ll be in and out before Mother finishes her next two goblets of wine.”

My mother requests massive amounts of food for her soirees, over half of which always remains untouched. After the initial grazing period, the guests ignore the delicacies in favor of mead and ale. The waste always bothered me, so I started telling the staff to remove most of the uneaten dishes early. They pack the food into a wagon and cart it just outside the castle grounds. Two of the guards help me slip out undetected. I pretend to turn in for the night, drive the food out to a man in the village who ensures it reaches the neediest, and return home without my mother ever suspecting. Simple as brambleberry pie.

Well, except for that one time. But how could I possibly know one of my guards would fall ill? That evening ended with me scaling the wall up to my bedchamber window. Not an ideal experience, but I survived.

Quiet as a ghost, I slink through the courtyard. Too much free time has allowed me to perfect a bunch of random skills, like climbing. Sneaking around. Picking locks and cursing. Reading any books I can get my hands on, including the inappropriate ones. Basically, the types of hobbies guaranteed to send Mother into an early grave if she found out.

In moments like this, my hodgepodge of disreputable talents comes in handy.

With a nod to Otis, a brawny, crooked-nosed guard with a kind heart, I slip past the gates, moonlight casting eerie shadows in the darkness as I hurry toward the tree where Barney is tethered. After patting the gelding on the neck, I check the cart for the food, as well as the riding tack I’ll use for the return trip from Beckkrun, before climbing onto the front ledge and snapping the reins.

The clip-clop of Barney’s hooves harmonizes with the low hum of insects and hiccupping nightbird calls as we journey along the familiar dirt trail. Like always, the bumpy route bounces me up and down and takes a toll on my ass. I only learned to ride and drive a wagon a few years ago, and opportunities to practice my form rarely present themselves.

Once we round the last corner, the faint lights of Beckkrun beckon. Laughter and raucous music pour from the Happy Dragon Tavern as we enter the village. I cast a longing glance at the tavern window and wish I could join them, but the risk is too high. If someone recognized me and reported back to my mother, she’d freak out. I cringe to think of the extreme steps that might follow. A lock on the outside of my door? An around-the-clock guard stationed inside my room? No more nighttime excursions for sure.

Suppressing a shudder, I dismount, tie the reins of Barney’s bridle to a post, and scan the perimeter for Royce. The tavern door swings open, and a boy who can’t be older than fourteen strides out. Though I’ve never seen him before, his mop of curly brown hair and his expressive brown eyes strike me as familiar.

“Lady Lark?” I slip into the shadows when he approaches. “Is that you?”

Alarm ripples through me. ‘How do you know my name?”

He moves toward me with slow, deliberate steps, like I’m a wild animal on the verge of getting spooked. “I’m Luke, Royce’s son. My father couldn’t come tonight, so he sent me.”

I almost laugh out loud at my paranoia. “Oh, hello. Yes, I’m Lark.” Luke shakes my extended hand with a grin. Now that I’m soaking in his smile, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize the resemblance. Luke’s almost a carbon copy of his father, albeit with more hair, fewer wrinkles, and a smaller nose. “Is he all right?”

Luke releases my hand. “Just a stomach bug. He’ll be fine in a day or two. Mother’s fussing over him.”

“Well, please tell your father I hope he feels better soon.”

He nods, brushing a lock of curly hair out of his eyes. “Thank you. I will, milady.”

“Please, call me Lark. All my friends do.” By friends, I mean the handful of guards I’ve befriended over the years.

Luke’s grin returns. His easygoing nature is contagious. “All right then. Lark it is.”

“I can’t stay long but let me give you this.” I fish the coin-filled leather pouch from my pocket and hand him the bundle. “For the food pantry. Royce mentioned more families in need, so there’s extra. I hope it’s enough.”

As he hefts the bag in his palm, his face lights up. “More than enough. Thank you.”

Mother stores our valuables in a locked room near her bedchamber that I periodically break into to liberate coins and help struggling families.

The villagers need food. I need a hobby. It’s a win-win if you ask me.

The tavern door flies open again. Pulling my hood down to obscure my face, I scoot back into the shadows. A couple stumbles outside, giggling and trading kisses, completely oblivious to anyone but each other.

Another burst of longing pinches my chest. I can only imagine the freedom they must feel to behave so carefree in public like that. What must that be like? I doubt they’re lonely either. Not when they have each other.

Luke pockets the coins and heads for the wagon to peer inside. He licks his lips. “Did you bring any of those lemon tarts?”

I chuckle. “There are plenty of lemon tarts, so help yourself.”

“Yes!”

Together, we unhitch the wagon and remove Barney’s harness, and I saddle him in preparation for my trip home. Royce will take the food where it needs to go. Once they’re finished, someone will drop the cart off in the same spot I found it tonight. After a little trial and error, we have our system down.

Luke straightens. “I’m all set. Let me walk you to the trail.”

Along the way, he sobers, a serious expression aging his face to the point where he could pass for an adult. “You mean a lot to Father. What you’re doing…it’s helping so many people.”

Not enough. I know that. I want to do more, but for now, this will have to suffice. “It’s a joint effort. Your father’s a good man, and I happen to think very highly?—”

The snap of a twig echoes from the trees behind us. My body goes rigid. As I spin in the direction of the noise, Barney sidesteps and jerks at the reins with a sharp whinny. “What was that?”

Luke’s eyes widen. “I don’t know, but it sounded big.”

The ground shakes, and roots explode from the dirt right in front of us. They grab for our legs and feet like an army of spindly hands.

I leap back and yell. “Earth elemental! Run!”