Dragonborn (The Jade Lee Romantic Fantasies, Book 1) (29 page)

She bit her lip and turned away, knowing the image of her having any power to do good was simply that—an image, an illusion he spun for her sake. She sincerely doubted this man would ever release control to anyone. Looking about, for the first time she saw the clutter of his bedroom. It wasn't just the papers that lay about the floor, but the gems and artifacts scattered haphazardly on every surface. An ancient sword, rusted with disuse, hung next to a necklace of seashells such as a crippled boy might make. A diamond tiara was shoved into a corner, half buried by a badly folded tapestry of the finest silk, now moth-eaten and smelling of decay.

Mementos, every one of them. How she knew, she wasn't sure. Probably because the information was shared from the Copper to her Queen and then to her, usually in scattered bits of barely remembered dreams. But no matter how she gained the knowledge, she understood its significance.

What companions existed for a man who had lived over a hundred cycles? His contemporaries were all dead. All that was left to him were these moldy bits of fabric and strange artifacts—all disorganized, none truly cherished but none discarded. He kept them as he kept everything, because he needed to have them. Not to use them, just to have them.

As Dag Racho's Queen, she would be equally useless, equally owned. Indeed, her mind flashed on the heavy chains that bound Racho's Copper. Her own chains might be prettier, certainly less obvious, but they would lock her down as surely.

No, she thought sadly, there was no place for her here. And so she would have to search for an escape. If only Kiril were here. He would know what to do.

She thought briefly of killing the Emperor here and now. The rusty sword was at hand, and any number of other weapons, for that matter. But even if she managed to chop off Dag Racho's head right now, the Copper would go insane. The human mind that restrained it would be gone, and in its place would be an unreasoning deluge of pain. And an insane dragon was not what Ragona needed.

She would have to wait until after her Queen had hatched. Until they were both ready to fight Dag Racho and the Copper. But first she needed to escape, and so she tiptoed to the secret passageway, sliding through the bathroom until she came into her own chamber.

She saw him immediately. Not the warrior she wished for, but a friend nonetheless. Tall, broad shoulders and dark hair like his father, though the skin was pale as befitted a man more used to libraries than outdoor markets. And when he turned, she saw the same smile, the same glorious love that she remembered from so many years ago. Pentold.

She leaned forward, about to rush into his arms then froze. A guard was inside the room, one she hadn't met before. He watched everything with flat, assessing eyes. So she tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as if searching for a memory.

The Pentold she remembered was smart when he applied himself, but more often he was caught dreaming, his hand on a book and his eyes focused vaguely on something leagues distant. Had he seen the flash of recognition in her eyes? Would he understand that she had to pretend to barely remember him for his own safety? Dag Racho would never allow him to visit if he believed Natiya held Pentold in more than just casual friendship.

Natiya frowned, moving slowly as she looked her childhood companion over from head to toe. His fingers were ink-stained, just as she remembered. And his clothing always had that slightly disheveled look, no matter how fine the cut or fabric. It was his face that had changed. It was no longer round in youth, and the bones had lengthened, drawing his face downward in sharp angles, his forehead higher as his hair was obviously thinning.

But what she noticed most was the way his eyes had changed. They had always been warm and open when they looked at her. At one time, she could read his every expression, almost his every thought as if it were her own. But not now. Now his eyes seemed hooded as they took in her swollen belly, her awkward gait. And then his gaze returned to her face, clearly searching her expression as carefully and thoroughly as she studied his.

She swallowed, hating to lie to her once best friend, but it was for his own safety. "Do I know you?"

He bowed deeply before her. "Pentold Marsters—poet, dreamer... and your one-time neighbor. How may I serve you, Lady Natiya?"

"Pentold?" she said softly, her eyes widening as if she had just placed him. "D'greth, how you have changed! I haven't seen you in"—she shook her head—"ten cycles at least."

"Eleven, my lady. And as for changes..." He glanced significantly at her large belly. "I am not the only one to have... grown."

She grinned at his understated humor. "Well, large is what I am. And unwieldy as a fat gommet. But the hatching time approaches, and I need your help."

Not by even a flicker of his eyes did he betray a sudden wariness, but she felt it nonetheless. The egg was growing better at that, she realized—knowing people's moods and emotions by changes in their scent. It was a useful skill to have, Natiya thought as she ducked behind a screen to change her attire. She wanted to be out of both Pentold's and the guard's sight when she said her next line. After last night's revelations, she doubted she could keep her expression appropriately ardent.

"I want to give the Emperor a gift. For our wedding night."

"My lady, I am sure that your presence shall be gift enough for any man, including our leader."

"Spoken like a true poet," she said with a childish giggle, though, d'greth, she was tired of sounding like an idiot. As if in defiance of the very persona she was adopting, Natiya donned a flowing gown of deepest sapphire. Given her current size, it made her look rather like a large plumma fruit, but the color matched her eyes and the gown gave her room to move. "I wish to write a poem all about the glories our Emperor has bestowed upon Ragona. It must, of course, be an epic poem, with dragon meter and rhyme." She stepped out from behind the screen. "That is your specialty, isn't it?"

"Just so, my lady," he said. She caught a flash of pride in his expression, and she knew that he had indeed become a master poet, just as he had sworn long ago.

"I have made a start," she said, grabbing the parchment she'd scribbled on the night before. "But I'm afraid it is not very good."

"But one does not judge a gift from the heart."

She smiled. Pentold certainly had not lost his glib tongue. For all his daydreaming, he'd had the fastest excuses and the most amazingly twisted arguments whenever they were caught in mischief. She could have thought of no better ally.

Unless, of course, he was completely devoted to the Emperor. In which case, she was doomed. She had to be honest with him about her intentions. But first she had to get rid of the guard. So she gestured to a table, indicating that Pentold should sit. And as she moved to settle beside him, she banged into the guard, pushing him backward.

"Oh, please," she groused, "can you not move aside?" Then she wrinkled her nose, waving him outside into the hall. "Do you men never wash your uniforms? I swear I can smell horse dung and..." She hesitated. What was that smell? A bawdy house without the perfume? But that meant men alone or together... "Ugh! Go away! Outside!"

The guard had backed up as far as he could, but when she motioned for him to leave the room, he simply shook his head. "I cannot, my lady. For your own protection, I must remain here with you."

She groaned in true frustration. Dropping her fists on her now ample hips, she glared at him. "He is a poet, for Amia's sake!" As if Pentold were not large, strong and extremely dexterous with a knife. "And more than that, the Emperor is right on the other side of that wall." She pointed specifically for Pentold's benefit. "I assure you," she said with absolute truth, "that he can hear even the slightest noise from this chamber. I need only cry out and both he and you will come rushing to my aid."

The guard bowed most respectfully at her, and for a moment she hoped she had won the day. Then he shook his head. "The Emperor would also know that I had betrayed my charge to protect you with my life."

"But—"

"I shall not leave, my lady. Perhaps you should return to your gift."

Natiya bit her lip, seeing indeed that she would not hold sway with this guard. Damn, damn, damn! She had intended to be very careful in any event, but it made things much more awkward with a loyal guard in the room.

"Very well," she said, with little grace as she settled her bulk into the chair beside Pentold.

"You have done very well," her poet remarked as she gave him her attention. "But perhaps these adjustments would fit the meter better."

She glanced down at the parchment where he had written:

Are you truly well, Natiya? How can I help?

She looked up, grinning in thanks. "My, but that is just the thing! You are an excellent poet indeed." Then, before she could speak, she heard a noise from Dag Racho's chamber. Likely it was nothing more than the man snoring in his sleep, but she could not take that chance. Her time was quickly running out. So, looking directly at her once dearest friend, she decided to risk everything on the chance that he had not changed. That he would still brave anything and everything for her.

"I have just the idea!" she said, and she quickly wrote:

I cannot hatch here. I must escape. Soon.

"Oh," she moaned. "But then I need a rhyme for 'beneficence.'"

He nodded, his expression serious as he twisted the parchment to write on it. "That is a difficult task, my lady. But perhaps I could be of assistance."

She brightened. "Truly?" And then she looked down at what he had written.

Will you marry me?

Her heart sank to her toes. How had she forgotten her uncle's proposal so long ago in Talned's inn? He had wanted her to marry Pentold and had been quite eloquent on the matter, claiming that his son was still in love with her. She looked at her friend's expression and saw that Uncle Rened had not exaggerated; Pentold's eyes shone with a love that melted her heart.

She looked away, startled by the tears that blurred her vision. "No," she said softly, "that will not serve." Then she wrote:

It is much too dangerous.

"My lady..." Pentold began, and she could tell that he was about to waste time arguing. So she gave him the only argument that would hold sway for a man like him. And it was all the worse because it was true.

I do not love you.
Then honesty forced her to add,
And you do not know how much I have changed.

You love the Emperor?
he wrote.

"No!" She gasped aloud.

Another?

She flashed on an image of Kiril standing naked, surrounded by enemies, and yet looking at her with his heart in his eyes. A sob caught in her throat. Had she killed the man she loved?

Beside her, Pentold bowed his head, and she saw resignation in the movement. It hurt her to see him so defeated, and it grew even more painful when she realized he would not help her escape now. In fact, she had just made a huge blunder. In her experience, spurned lovers did everything they could to harm the one they loved.

With a sudden anger, she grabbed the parchment and hurled it into the fire, watching the evidence of her request turn to ashes. "No, no, no! It is all wrong!" she cried. Then she felt his hand upon her shoulder, his long fingers gentle as they urged her to face him. She went slowly, dreading to see anger in his eyes. She was startled to see love still burning in his expression, only mixed with melancholy.

"Pentold?"

"Perhaps I should pen a few lines today. Just to help you get started," he offered. "I can bring it to you tomorrow at the same time. Would that serve?"

She bit her lip, afraid to believe he would still help even after her rejection. "Are you sure?"

He smiled, and she saw her childhood friend fully this time, appearing just as he had always looked: filled with mischief, cunning and such a romantic bent as to make her laugh. "Trust me, my lady. Allow me to show you what my feeble efforts can accomplish by tomorrow."

She smiled, feeling her knees weaken with a surge of love so different from what he wanted, but so like what they had once shared. "All my hope rests in your hands, dear poet."

He bowed to her then, so deeply as to convey great respect. And then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left.

Natiya was not one to trust solely in someone else's abilities, especially when her life hung in the balance. And yet, try as she might, she could think of no other escape except for one that Pentold might arrange for her. Everywhere she turned, she was surrounded by guards, given "lessons" by the Emperor's most trusted staff, or watched by Dag Racho himself.

With no other option, Natiya found herself relaxing. She did not fight the restrictions of the guards and the locked door. Instead she read, and when she could, she rested, knowing that in the morning the situation could look vastly improved. And truthfully, she enjoyed the feeling of simply laying her burden on someone else's shoulders. The egg was more than cumbersome now. It felt like a great big luggen beast wrapped around her body, and it made her damned tired.

So she was dozing when Dag Racho sought her out that afternoon. Her big feet were propped on a pillow while she stared out the window at that mountain that constantly drew her gaze. Her eyelids had slipped down, though, and Dag Racho came on her unawares. His touch woke her, firm and angry as he gripped her arm, then gentle as his other hand slid down to caress the egg.