Chapter 6 #3
He mutters and mopes for a while longer, but finally he makes Zenevieve promise to meet him in the Great Hall for dinner, and then he goes away.
Keeping a firm hold of Zenevieve’s hand, I tuck a tress of her silky black hair behind her ear. “That spare room is still empty. Let’s buy some furniture and get you settled in properly.”
I speak to the castle steward about things for Zenevieve, and I furnish the second room for her. As well as a bed with plenty of pillows and blankets, there’s a nightstand, a chest for her clothes, and a shelf for her belongings.
When it’s all arranged, I stand back and admire my handiwork. I’m not known for making people feel comfortable, but I’m proud of what I’ve provided for my ward.
Zenevieve comes up beside me and casts an unenthusiastic look around the room.
My pride takes a critical hit. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d like it.”
“I like sleeping in your bed. It smells like you.”
I fold my arms and level a stern gaze at her. “And what’s the dragonmaster supposed to do? Get all stiff and creaky sleeping on the cold stone floor?”
“I don’t mind if you sleep in your bed too.”
I shake my head and turn away. “How generous.”
Zenevieve’s grief comes in waves. A lot of the time she’ll seem fine, if a little subdued.
Occasionally she’ll even seem happy. Then she’ll see something or a thought or a memory will rise up, and grief will slam into her, leaving her reeling and sobbing in its wake.
She has nightmares and trouble sleeping, and sometimes she cries in her sleep.
I go in and do my best to comfort her when I hear her, but I wonder about all the times I don’t.
A few days after we begin sleeping in our own beds, I wake up, stretch, and feel a warm weight on my chest. Looking down, I see Zenevieve, tucked under my arm with her body lying against mine.
“Zenevieve?”
“I had a nightmare,” she murmurs, not opening her eyes. She burrows deeper into my arms. “Your scent is so nice.”
I feel torn because I have no doubt that my scent is comforting to her.
The scent of a friendly Alpha is supposed to be very soothing.
It’s a good feeling to wake up being cuddled by Zenevieve.
I might not be the kind of person who’s openly affectionate with everyone, but the ones I care about, I want to be close with.
I’ve seen Zenevieve joyfully wrapping her arms around Minta, and I’ll admit to being a little envious.
But it feels inappropriate. Why does it feel inappropriate when she’s just here to sleep after probably having a nightmare?
Because as I told Queen Magritte, Zenevieve is lovely, and I can’t help but be conscious of her loveliness and want to draw my fingers through her silky hair in the darkness while she’s snoring on my chest. Even raise some strands of hair to my nose and enjoy her softly sweet scent.
“I got you a perfectly good bed,” I remind her.
Zenevieve rubs her cheek against my chest. “Shh, it’s sleepy time.”
I sigh and let my head fall back on the pillow.
I can’t begrudge the girl her rest, not when she’s been having such a hard time.
I lay in the dark, listening to her soft breathing.
Once she’s drifted off, I gather her into my arms and carry her to her own bed, along with one of my blankets.
She makes confused, sleepy noises until I push the crumpled blanket into her arms, and she buries her face in it.
I watch her settle back into sleep, a smile tugging the corner of my lips. Alphas are proud of their scents, and I’ve never known anyone who doesn’t have scales need mine for comfort before. I think I like it.
An Alpha can make his scent richer and more soothing, and so after that day, I start scenting a blanket for her once or twice a week, folding it, and putting it under her pillow. After that, I hear less crying through her bedroom door at night, and Zenevieve doesn’t sneak into my bed as often.
Over the months, we fall into a comfortable pattern together. Most of our time is spent with the dragons, either flying or caring for them. Sometimes we’ll eat in the Great Hall with the other dragonriders, but usually Zenevieve will collect food for us to eat at home.
She pesters me to eat breakfast, which I prefer to skip altogether. I don’t eat, but on the mornings I don’t have to be at the dragongrounds at dawn, I sit at the table in the sunlight and talk to her while she eats porridge with berries or slices of fruit.
For the first time since Destrin passed, I don’t feel lonely.
But it’s not all peace and sunshine. When my body burns with my rut, I leave Zenevieve and find a ruthouse where I can pace up and down, snarl, sweat, and fill up with frustration.
I have never visited ruthouses, but I have to now that I’m sharing my home with Zenevieve.
At first, lavishes knock on my door, Betas who tend to rutting Alphas.
They want to know if I’d like company and relief in exchange for coin.
I snap at them to leave me alone, because I have no desire for that kind of company.
They take a while to get it through their heads that I’m sincere, and not just picky, and then they finally leave me alone.
I hate the ruthouse. I’m used to spending my ruts within my own silent rooms at the castle that overlook the dragongrounds, but now the sound of Alphas and Betas lost in pleasure is all around me. Their enjoyment throws my misery into sharp relief.
When I come home, my bed is thick with Zenevieve’s scent.
In my absence, when her loneliness grows too great, she sleeps in my bed.
I don’t have the heart to tell her not to, and I have to admit her flowery sweetness is a balm to my exhausted body and soul when I fall into bed, exhausted from my rut.
I’m groggy and grumpy, but it’s always good to come home to Zenevieve.
One morning after she’s been living with me a year, she stands at my shoulder at the breakfast table and pours me cold water from a jug. “Poor Stesha. You look so tired after your rut. Shall I tell you what’s been happening with the dragons?”
I close my eyes and lean my head against her softness.
I haven’t tied my hair back, and she threads her fingers through it as she speaks quietly in her pretty, husky voice.
Just her presence and her touch are enough to soothe me, more than any lavish could.
I wonder if this is what it’s like to have a mate.
Someone who cares about me and offers comfort when I’m feeling low.
“Shall we go riding after you’ve eaten?”
I wrap my arms around her without opening my eyes. “I’d like that.”
Meanwhile, there is plenty of work to do.
My least favorite thing to do is meet with King Aylard and report to him about “his” dragons.
The flare belongs to the crown, and it’s the king who orders us into battle.
But King Aylard doesn’t ride, doesn’t interact with any of the dragons, and he barely understands them, let alone respects them.
Destrin once told me that the most painful thing about being dragonmaster is knowing in your heart that the flare trusts you and will follow anywhere you lead, but sometimes you must lead them into danger because those are the king’s orders.
One morning I’m standing before the king in one of the royal drawing rooms while Queen Magritte sits off to one side, her needle dipping in and out of her needlework.
King Aylard wants to know how the Alpha dragons and their riders fare, and how many new Alphas are among the fledglings, but I stubbornly report on the Betas and Omegas as well. They’re just as important.
Suddenly, Prince Zabriel bursts into the room, red eyes burning, black hair flying. He’s dragging Captain Harding of the wingrunners with him, and the man looks disgruntled by the indignity.
“Tell Father what you told me,” Zabriel urges the captain. “Tell him what your wingrunners have seen.”
Oh, please, interrupt my meeting and waste my time.
I slink away and lean against the wall with my arms folded, knowing that the king will give precedence to his eldest son.
As politely but as firmly as he’s able, the middle-aged captain disentangles himself from Zabriel’s grasp, straightens his uniform, and turns to the king. Unlike the prince, he must wait to be addressed before opening his mouth.
“You may speak, Harding,” King Aylard says with a lazy wave of his hand.
Captain Harding inclines his head and briefly places his fist over his heart.
“Ma’len, it appears that a dark sorcerer has fled Grendu and is hiding in the mountains.
Several villages have been raided for supplies and razed to the ground, and people and livestock are dead.
My scouts traced what the Hratha’len inform me is called a lich back to its lair. ”
“So kill it and throw the body back where it came from,” the king says with a bored sigh. “Grendu knows that we breach each other’s borders on pain of death.”
“I have been told that killing it is not a simple matter. The Temple Crone says that within the lich’s lair will be a vessel called a phylactery that contains a piece of the sorcerer’s soul.
Unless that vessel is destroyed, the sorcerer will keep returning from the grave. A wingrunner cannot kill him.”
“Can dragonfire destroy this vessel?” I ask, curious about this thing called a lich, despite my irritation.
The captain nods. “The Hratha’len believe so.”
Zabriel turns urgently to the king. “Send me please, Father. I’ll kill the lich.”
Has Zabriel not been listening to one word the captain has said? The phylactery must be destroyed as well.
King Aylard casts a skeptical gaze over his son before turning to me. “This seems more suited to a rider of your experience, dragonmaster.”
It’s taking all of Zabriel’s self-control not to argue with his father and insist that he be given the mission.