Chapter 1 #2
“The Council was certain.” Keeva cleared her throat and resettled her stance, shuffling her boots in the dirt like a chicken scratching for bugs. “You heard them yourself.”
That reminder failed to lessen Mairwen’s misgivings, but there was naught left to do but do it. She offered the warriors a polite nod. “Thank ye for the escort, lads. With the vastness of this fine keep, it is most appreciated.”
One of the burly men grunted. She wasn’t sure which one.
“Follow,” said the one on the right before turning to march back through the gates.
After a pointed glance at Keeva, who stood frozen and quaking with worry, Mairwen jutted her chin to a fearless angle and marched after them. She was a Divine Weaver. A direct descendant of the goddesses. She refused to cower. “Come along, Keeva. Chief MacRaith needs to learn of his fated mate.”
One of their escorts snorted and mumbled something under his breath that Mairwen knew was the man’s less-than-flattering opinion. She resisted the urge to defend their past failures. It would do no good. In the harsh reality of the Thirteenth Realm, only success and survival mattered—not excuses.
The guards led the way to the Great Hall, the cavernous, domed meeting area where the chief and his dragon brother entertained guests, listened to clan grievances, and strengthened the bonds of the brethren and their families.
In Mairwen’s opinion, the kindred, or the human dragon brethren, were much like shifters; the only difference being that the entities did not share the same physical body, which changed depending on which entity was in control.
Here, dragons were dragons, and humans were humans.
The kindred’s connection existed in their souls.
Their spirits were tethered, bound with a mystical like-mindedness that enabled them to share thoughts and beliefs without speaking them aloud.
Soul kindred were powerful beings—almost as powerful as fated soulmates.
As Mairwen and Keeva entered, silence fell across the crowded room.
Only the soft shushing of their footsteps across the rush-covered floor filled the air.
The central aisle that led to the raised dais at the head of the cavernous hall seemed much longer this time.
Mairwen mentally shook herself. There was no need to be ridiculous.
Of course, the path to the rulers’ seats was not longer; it was simply more difficult to walk due to past failures.
Surely her tarot cards had not lied to her a third time.
She still couldn’t believe they had lied to her twice before.
Something about that simply wasn’t right.
A disturbance existed. An evil disturbance that had discovered a way to muddy a Weaver’s foresight.
She would discover its source before laying the matters of the Thirteenth Realm to rest.
Chief MacRaith didn’t stand to greet them.
That was a less-than-encouraging sign in and of itself.
The man remained seated on his throne, scowling as though ready to order them to leave and never return.
The formidable Talon Darkmist, an enormous Scandinavian blue dragon, the kindred brother and co-ruler with the chief, sat to his right, glowering as well.
Lord Darkmist, as he preferred to be addressed, had lost his patience with the Weavers long ago.
His blue-black scales shimmered an even darker iridescence, an unmistakable sign that the fires in his gullet burned hotter than usual.
The dragon lord was already enraged, and they hadn’t even spoken.
The MacRaith, a fearsomely handsome, hulking man with long, silvery-white hair pulled back from his face in a warrior’s braid, slowly stroked his closely cropped beard that matched his gleaming mane.
His fearsome armor of black leather shone in the torchlight, the coppery brads connecting its joints sending out fiery sparks with every move he made.
Mairwen had always thought the MacRaith would have made a fine dragon himself.
Few men could share a dais with a massive dragon and not appear small.
Chief MacRaith in no way appeared small.
She offered him a curtsy that fit in well with this alternate reality that somewhat paralleled the thirteenth-century Scotland of Ms. Lyla Ibrams’s twenty-first-century earth plane.
Yet another challenge. Not only would Ms. Ibrams have to embrace the concept of magic and mythical creatures, but also the element of time travel.
“Greetings, mighty chief. Thank you for honoring us with yet another audience.” She bowed her head for good measure, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Keeva had knelt behind her—an impressive and wise move on her apprentice’s part.
“If not for the prophecy,” MacRaith said, his voice rumbling with a deep growl, “ye would not be here.”
All she could do was nod. “I understand, m’lord, and once again, offer another useless apology.” Her previous apologies had fallen on deaf ears. She had no hope for this one either.
He glared at her for a long moment, whether because he was deep in thought or simply trying to make her squirm, she couldn’t decide. Then he turned his head and locked eyes with the glowering Lord Darkmist. Together, they gave a single, slow nod to one another.
Mairwen swallowed hard. A decision had been made between the kindred souls.
Keeva edged closer, and Mairwen wished she could console the young apprentice, but she couldn’t until she knew the outcome of the discussion between the dragon and the chief.
MacRaith slowly pushed himself up from his throne, rising to his full, impressive height.
“We will continue this meeting in the privacy of my solar.” Without waiting for her acknowledgement, he stormed down the steps and exited through the archway behind the dais.
The formidable Lord Darkmist snorted a quick volley of flames, then disappeared as though he’d never been there.
The warrior escorts from earlier stepped forward. “Follow,” the one on the right growled, then turned and strode toward an archway on the left.
With Keeva hugging her arm, Mairwen followed.
If not for the feckin’ sickness attacking those of dragonkind, Magnus MacRaith would have ordered those damn Weavers forever banished from the Thirteenth Realm and threatened them with eternal prison in the pits beneath the fortress if they ever returned.
He charged down the hallway, stormed into his private solar, and went to the wall of windows overlooking the east courtyard garden below.
The vibrant green of the land had faded with autumn’s frosty kisses, but the trees and lush flowerbeds still teemed with delicate feydragons preparing them for their winter sleep.
The diminutive dragons, often underestimated because they weren’t much larger than the cats that safeguarded the keep from vermin, were still a force to be reckoned with when it came to nurturing and protecting the land.
And so far, the smaller dragons had also been overlooked by the sickness. Thank the mighty Draig for that.
“Ye honestly wish to endure what must surely be yet another failure?” Talon materialized beside him, taking care to mind the placement of his long, spiked tail.
As one of the mightiest Scandinavian blues to have ever hatched in the Thirteenth Realm, his massiveness often took a toll on the keep’s furnishings, even though attempts were always made to accommodate not only those of humankind but those of dragonkind as well.
“They have failed ye twice before. Ye would be better served searching for yer heartmate yerself.”
“Time is running out for those stricken with the sickness.” Magnus resettled his footing and clasped his hands to the small of his back.
“I must at least hear them out in case they have it right this time.” He rolled his shoulders.
The weight of his armor felt particularly heavy of late.
Or perhaps it was the weight of his failure to his people, to his kindred, that threatened to crush him.
“Our efforts have done no better. Not one of the prospects who came forward possessed the magic of the connection.”
Resettling the leathery folds of his inky, blue-black wings, Talon idly tapped a claw against his scaly chest. “All were comely enough—as far as humankind females go—and yet, ye felt nothing? Ye are certain?”
“I am certain.” Magnus had begun to wonder if he was capable of feeling anything. “Ye said yerself that my aura did not change for either of them.”
“Aye.” Talon snorted out twin curlicues of smoke. “Not even a flicker.”
“The Weavers await permission to enter.” Inuk, a grand cloud dragon, flightless but still formidable and covered in long, flowing silver-gray fur, had been the fortress steward since before Magnus had ascended to the throne. “What say ye, my chief? Lord Darkmist?”
After a last glance at Talon, Magnus nodded. “Bring them in.”
Inuk stepped aside and looked back out into the hallway. “Ye may enter,” he said, sounding as though he thoroughly disagreed with the decision.
Mairwen, the old witch herself, and her fumbling lackey hurried into the room and stood on the great golden star inlaid in the pattern of the floor’s intricate tile mosaic.
Strategically placed in the center of the room beneath the section of the sloped ceiling of glass, some nights, it aligned perfectly with the brightest star in the skies above.
Not in the least interested in putting them at ease, Magnus glared at them, clenching his teeth so hard that his jaws ached. “Speak yer piece, witch. I have no interest in wasting my time with watching ye cower.”
“I do not cower.” The Divine Weaver tossed her head, making her white mane glow with an even eerier light. “We have found yer fated mate. We are certain of it this time.”
“That is what ye said the last time.”