Dragonhart (Dragonhart #1)

Chapter 1

Beneath Castle Grey, there are dragons in a slumber so deep, not even the gods can wake them.

This is what Arla had been told when she was a little girl. But now, at eighteen, she was vicious, and angry, and did not believe in the dragons that had once served the gods.

Did she even believe in the gods anymore? If they were real, they hadn’t deemed her worthy of saving.

‘The king wishes to see you,’ a familiar, tired voice echoed from the stone arch of the doorway, barely audible over the sound of swords clashing.

Arla bit her lip against the noise, grateful that she had managed to bully a soldier into practising with her.

Not that she could call this practice. If she wanted a challenge, she should have asked one of the King’s Guard to engage in her deadly routine rather than a soldier used to guarding doorways.

‘Tell the king I’m busy,’ Arla ground out between her teeth, frustrated with the lack of skill her partner offered.

Or was it lack of food that had put her in this dreadful mood?

The smell of roasted pheasant had been teasing her from the kitchens already, and her stomach gnawed at her with the ferocity of a mountain cat.

‘Now, Arla.’

‘For the gods’ sake!’ she snapped, flexing her fingers as her blade struck the wooden plinth no less than a hair’s width from the advisor’s face.

As Arla stalked towards him to retrieve her blade, he drawled, ‘You don’t scare me, Lady Reinhart.’

‘I am no lady, Perry,’ she said, rolling her shoulders against the stiffness that often came with wielding a blade.

‘Quite. I don’t know many ladies who would run a man through with a sword just because he threatened to steal her horse.’

Perry’s eyes glittered with unreleased laughter and Arla had to hide her smirk as she crossed the room towards him.

‘He was a thief and a pig. He deserved it.’ She scowled, brushing against the king’s advisor, and beginning the long walk from the training hall to the throne room.

She hated the long corridors and their sinister whispers; hated that no one save her ever seemed to think there was something odd about Castle Grey, and why she always felt watched within its walls.

The palace was quiet today. Arla was used to seeing a hundred maids scurrying in the shadows and disappearing into alcoves concealing hidden doors and servants’ corridors.

This morning, however, there was only silence and deserted passageways.

Not even the soldiers, usually standing so solidly at regular intervals, were at their posts.

Something was afoot, and the thought sent a ripple of anticipation through Arla.

She curled her palm around the pommel of the blade sheathed at her hip.

She had wanted to practise today because for the last fortnight the king had had her running all sorts of errands – from disposing of common thieves to delivering a letter across town that could have been sent by messenger rather than bothering her with the task.

But her irritation eased as she took in the silver-framed windows and the thick, red yarn of the carpet on which her boots were certainly too dirty to be walking.

Castle Grey did not have to work hard to live up to its name.

The whole place was just that – grey. Even the silver adorning everything in sight went unpolished, only adding to the miserable dullness of it all.

But its occasional beauty was not lost on Arla, especially now it was so quiet.

Sunlight bled through the windows and, unlike the silver, glass was polished until it sparkled so that the hallways were cast in a soft light that brought out the red of the carpet – the one vein of colour that ran through the palace – and even softened the sharp blonde of Arla’s curls into delicate golden waves.

It needs cutting, she thought as her feet arrived in front of the huge oak doors concealing the throne room from the rest of the palace.

It was true, she had not been to see Halos in months, her schedule not allowing a free afternoon.

Her friend would laugh at her and the hours it would take to neaten Arla’s appearance, but the young woman would still refuse the extra coin Arla offered her.

Arla didn’t know why Halos didn’t take the money; the girl was only in her twenties, and she had twins that crawled about in her skirts as she tended to the patrons of her ragged shop on the main street.

Perhaps it paid to be kind to those who had nothing but still tried their best?

Perhaps there was something that united the two women who had lost families in the battle of Grey Hill all those years ago?

The sharp rap of Perry’s knuckles on the wooden doors drew Arla’s mind from war-ravaged families and the memory of mourning bells.

‘Enter.’

Arla rolled her eyes. She had grown accustomed to the king’s thunderous voice in the last nine years and it did not scare her anymore. She was the King’s Assassin, there wasn’t much at all that scared her.

Breathing deeply – if only to settle the agitation that came from being summoned so unexpectedly – Arla rolled her shoulders back and tossed her hair over her shoulder since it had mostly unravelled from the braid into which she had woven it into this morning.

Then she strode through the doors with a swagger called up from deep within, something she had had to coax and nurture into life in order to make it through training and selection into the King’s Guard.

Whatever task Cyrus had for her today, she hoped it would include a sword.

‘I believe I signed a contract entitling me to one day a week to do with as I wish. I’m now owed two,’ Arla called across the hall to the man sitting upon a silver throne. The king arched a grey brow at his assassin, a smirk teasing the corner of his mouth.

‘I believe I signed a contract with a fifteen-year-old. You weren’t actually of legal age to enter into such an agreement,’ he replied, eyes tracking the blonde-haired whirlwind as she marched across the room before bowing carelessly in front of him.

‘Then it seems we were both stupid,’ Arla mused. ‘Your Majesty.’

King Cyrus of Hadalyn curled his lips in amusement.

Arla knew he had grown used to her behaviour – mainly her continual disregard of traditional modes of respect for those in authority.

The King’s Assassin had to be somebody who was quick on their feet as well as with their mind, and Arla had proven she was both before she turned sixteen.

‘Well, Reinhart, I see you’re ready to play,’ Cyrus said, rising from his seat and beginning the descent from the dais towards Arla.

He was a large man, with a round, ruddy face and hair that was greying and thin.

Arla often wondered how he held any influence at all, given his appearance, but he did, and he knew it.

When Kastonia had sent their best soldiers to storm Castle Grey, Cyrus had crushed that army, and the armies that came after.

None of the other kingdoms had dared to question his rule in the aftermath.

Not that any other kingdom than Kastonia could reach them.

Hadalyn was a sprawling kingdom and a shared border stretched between it and Kastonia. Beyond Kastonia was an expansive mountain range that no one had ever been successful in exploring, its harsh winters and deadly terrain too difficult to fathom conquering.

Vast ocean surrounded Kastonia and Hadalyn, cutting them off from the neighbouring continent of six kingdoms. Hadalyn was well-respected and held a level of power and influence that Arla had always struggled to understand.

Perhaps it was Cyrus’s willingness to cut down any who attempted to invade, or perhaps his ability to negotiate favourable treaties with the continental kingdoms, such as importing silk from Gravidum or exporting grain to Malarye.

Had they lived in the ancient times when it was rumoured there had only been one king to rule the world, Cyrus would have fit the role perfectly. And he knew it.

Consequently, Hadalyn’s relationship with the continent remained cordial. No one expected the continental kingdoms would come to Hadalyn’s aid should Kastonia ever invade again, but they were even less likely to help Kastonia, so the region maintained a stable détente.

‘I believe Perry referred to me as Lady Reinhart this morning,’ Arla chirped, spinning suddenly when another voice scoffed and immediately found its way under her skin.

‘Why is he here?’ she growled, her muscles tensing as she took in Hark Stappen, Ambassador for Kastonia and general pain in her ass.

Something was indeed happening if Cyrus had asked Hark to be present, too.

She curled her fingers tightly in her fists.

Hark and Arla had despised each other from the moment Hark had come to court two years before – in good faith from the King of Kastonia – and an immediate mutual dislike had formed, from the roots of blood that ran different colours, and kingdoms that did not see eye to eye.

Arla didn’t know who she liked least, Hark, or Hadalyn’s own ambassador, Orson, who they had sent to reside in Larkire Palace with the Kastonian royals.

Orson was cruel, and had a personal hatred for Arla after she had become King’s Assassin when he had been trained to just as high a standard. Hark was just an arrogant prick.

‘Always a pleasure, Lady Reinhart,’ Hark cooed, bowing exaggeratedly.

Arla could see it for the insult it was, disguised in courteous politeness though it may have been. She marched heavily across the carpeted floor, letting the thick fibres absorb her malice and anger for the dark-haired, pretty-faced diplomat.

‘I did not give you permission to speak to me,’ she snapped, ignoring the cloud of whisky and leather that attached itself to him.

‘I don’t need permission to speak to you. Despite what you might think, you are a solider, not a courtier, and you hold no influence at court.’