Chapter 46
Drystan fixed his dragon mask over his face and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head before venturing out into the streets—his task fulfilled. The few flurries of snow that stuck to the ground that morning were long melted, as was often the case, the capital being situated near the southern end of the country, not far from the Cerulean Sea.
The meeting he left could have gone one of two ways, and he whispered thanks to the Goddess and all her Eidolons as he climbed into the waiting carriage that it had gone in his favor.
The king hadn’t been joking about his fury that some of the nobles refused his invitation to the midwinter party. In light of their refusals, the king had dispatched some of his most loyal dragons—Drystan included—to help the nobles see things the king’s way and promise their support and attendance.
A bloody, terrible task.
Or it could have been.
But when Drystan arrived at the home of Lord Stellan and was let inside, he didn’t find the malleable elder he expected. Instead, Lord Stellan, proud man that he was, spouted praise for the former monarchs and railed about all the ways the king disappointed him and was leading the country to damnation.
Reckless, foolish talk. The kind that could have ended with him imprisoned or worse, had Drystan been any other dragon.
But during the minutes that he silently endured the tirade, Drystan spied an opportunity. He needed allies, members of the nobility who might believe his story and support him should be successful in overthrowing the king. So he took a chance on Lord Stellan, recalling memories of his youth when the lord used to play cards with his father, or how the late Lady Stellan had been fond of his mother and the two used to have regular walks through the castle gardens to chat about their little dogs.
The older man wept by the end of it, but not in the way the king had hoped. Drystan had the lord’s vow of loyalty and the promise to gather others to the cause. He and those loyal to his father’s memory would attend the midwinter party, where Drystan would reveal the king’s ills for all. How exactly he would do that was a puzzle still taking shape in his mind, but the pieces were forming, moving into place. Lord Stellan was just the latest of the few lords and ladies he’d appealed to over the past days while on errand for the king, but each pledged to his cause.
It was a risk, one not taken lightly. Some other nobles had seemed less zealous, so Drystan did not venture his luck on them, but he knew one thing for certain: Without some risks, he could never win, and he’d come too far to stop now.
The carriage rocked to a stop. When the halt lasted more than a handful of moments, the driver informed Drystan of a spilled cart ahead, blocking the way. With other carriages crammed into the busy street behind them, there was little room to move. They would have to wait it out.
Eager to see more of the city, Drystan excused himself to continue on foot. It was short blocks back to castle—not a risk with his hood up and the spilled cart drawing everyone’s attention.
He was halfway when he spied something that rooted his feet to the cobblestones. Drystan stared at the newly nailed poster, certain he must be seeing things. But there was no mistaking the name scrawled across the bottom of it. He traced the letters with his fingertips. “Ceridwen.”
His blood ran hot and cold at once. The woman he loved was here, impossibly fulfilling the dream she’d once told him of. But there was only one reason she would venture to this city she loathed, the one that had taken her mother. He’d wager it had nothing to do with her brother, whose unit was likely here somewhere, and instead everything to do with him.
Did you hope to get my attention, dearest Ceridwen?
She certainly had it now, and that of many others by putting on such a show at the Grand Opera. His chest swelled with pride at the thought of her on the stage. She should be safe there, far from what he planned.
But what if she wasn’t? Or worse, what if she tried something even more reckless?
He snapped his hand back from the poster and clenched it tight into a fist. He had to see her, make sure she was safe, and find some way to keep her that way.
Without another thought, Drystan turned on his heel and ventured toward the opera house.
Patrons swarmed the main entrance when he arrived, already making their way in for the early performance—Ceridwen’s. A sold-out sign had been hung over the ticket window, and he’d never make it in the main entrance anyway. They’d demand he remove his hood. The mask would draw too much gossip, and without it? Well, he might be able to see the show if he could procure a ticket, but he doubted they’d let the average attendee see the star.
“Three nights in a row now. Can you believe it?” someone whined to their companion as they trudged away from the opera house.
“And tomorrow, too,” the other said. “How will we ever get tickets?”
Bravo, Ceridwen.
Drystan smiled in spite of himself as he watched the strangers leave. The city loved her, as it should.
Around the back of the building, a few stagehands sat on stacks of crates and smoked pipes a short way from a narrow door. That was his way in. Easy enough—he’d done a good bit of sneaking into places on behalf of the king, but finding Ceridwen once he got in before someone spotted him and threw him out would be another matter.
Drystan pulled free a small blade and quickly slid it across his palm, just enough for blood to well and pool in his cupped hand, ready for his use. He painted one quick spell on a crate in the shadows of the alleyway across from the theater. In a few moments, it would turn into flame, enough to catch attention but hopefully not to cause any real damage. Another spell he traced onto himself, one to coerce the shadows to cling to him. It wouldn’t hide him perfectly—that was beyond his skill—but it would help.
Once the flames ignited, the men took notice and rushed to put them out, just as he’d hoped. The distraction presented the perfect opportunity to slip inside. The halls were dim and cluttered, full of props and crates of supplies. He wound through the passages, ducking into shadows and holding his breath as people wandered by, praying for the Goddess to aid his magic in cloaking his presence.
The sound of a familiar voice around a corner made him go deathly still. All at once, he knew exactly how Ceridwen had gotten a show at the opera house, though whether he was grateful or furious, he couldn’t say. Perhaps both in equal measure.
He waited patiently as the conversation wrapped up and footsteps headed his way. A familiar figure rounded the corner, and Drystan stepped out from his hiding place. “Malik.”
His cousin jolted and stumbled back a step. “Goddess above!”
Drystan pulled back his hood, only belatedly realizing he still wore the mask when his cousin’s eyes widened. He jerked that free as well. “It’s me.”
Malik heaved a sigh. “If you wanted to kill me, there are easier ways.”
Drystan’s fist tightened at his side. Of all the times—
“But good, you’re here.” Malik patted him on the shoulder. “You saw the posters?”
Some of the tension slipped from his form. “Yes. She’s…” Words tripped over themselves. Here? All right? Safe?
“Just fine. Her sister too.”
Drystan’s brows rose. Bronwyn was there too?
“Come with me, quickly. She’s about to go on stage.”
Malik led him up a twisting staircase he was sure might break under their combined weight and into a place near the rooftop where various curtains and set pieces were secured.
“Here.” Malik stopped, kneeling near a low railing. “She’ll be on in moments.”
From this angle, he could see both behind the vast crimson curtains blocking off the stage and the audience finding the last of their seats.
“You can watch the show from here and then venture back down,” Malik whispered. “No one should bother you up here if you stick to the shadows.” He glanced at Drystan’s still-bloodied hand. “A spell wouldn’t hurt. Just to be sure.”
Drystan pulled the shadows to him once more, his previous spell still active, and Malik’s brows rose.
“One step ahead of me, I see.”
“I’ve had to be.” And ahead of just about everyone else’s scheming too if he wanted to keep his head.
“Ah, yes.” Malik’s gaze darted away before settling back on him again. “Well, once she’s done, meet us in Ceridwen’s dressing room. At the base of the stairs, take three lefts, then a right. There’s a storage room with a mirror. It’s double-sided with a short passage in between, and the other side goes into the dressing room she uses.”
“How do you know about this?” Drystan asked, suddenly suspicious.
Malik stared at him side-eyed with a little smirk. “I had a thing for dancers for a while.”
It figured his cousin would know the way into a woman’s dressing room. He nearly rolled his eyes. Of all the reasons he could give, that one absolutely fit.
“You’re not into them anymore?” Drystan prodded. If he dared say he preferred a certain musician, any good favor he’d earned would vanish right then and there.
Malik shrugged. “I may have found other interests.” At Drystan’s scowl, he added, “Of the brunette variety.”
A certain sister, he’d wager. Drystan relaxed his stance, finding an almost comfortable perch. “Bronwyn?”
Malik didn’t reply, but his grin widened.
“She hates you,” Drystan replied. Or it seemed that way.
“Oh, she wants to,” Malik said. “But she doesn’t. Not really.”
Right…
At that moment, a figure appeared behind the curtains, resplendent in a pink gown that sparkled even in the shadows. His heart leaped into his throat. Recognition surged through him before the announcer, who pranced onto the stage in front of the curtains, ever said her name.
“Ceridwen,” he whispered.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to enjoy,” Malik said, edging past him. “Besides, I might be missed if I’m gone long. Three lefts, and then a right. Find the storage room and the mirror.”
“I will,” he replied, never taking his eyes off the woman he loved.
The curtains parted. The audience cheered as she was revealed, a glimmering beauty like the Goddess herself at the center of the stage, her silver flute clutched in her hands.
When the cheers quieted, she raised the flute and began to play. Her music washed over him, seeping deep into his heart and soul and carrying all his troubles far away. Somehow, in front of all these people, her tune was even more powerful, lulling him into a sense of peace and calm he feared might be lost forever.
No matter what future awaited, he was blessed in that moment.
To see her, to hear her music one more time, and witness her dream finally realized.