Dragonborn (The Jade Lee Romantic Fantasies, Book 1) (5 page)

"I am envious of her."

But she has nothing you envy. Wealth and physical form are unimportant, power is important. Power will get you everything you desire.

Natiya shook her head. "You do not understand," she said. Then she finished her thought silently, knowing the voice would hear what she dared not say out loud: I envy her the man.

Why?

Because the man has power, and she has him.

Could not he have her? Must it be she who has possession?

Natiya shrugged. To be honest, she could not believe that the man was the woman's puppet. Most likely, it was he who toyed with her. Still, she thought in response, sometimes access to power is enough. If she were this woman, she would not squander the opportunity. She would study and learn and use the man until she had gained all she could from him. Until she understood him.

Mercifully, the voice remained silent, no doubt studying her thoughts as Natiya wished to study the man. But both were denied the opportunity because, at that moment, the musicians began to play.

Time to dance. She didn't need to speak the words; the timing was obvious. Yet it was a ritual with her, something she always said before the first step, before even her first dancing breath. And the sound of the words reminded her that this was a task now before her, a persona she donned for the benefit of others.

At least, that's what she told herself.

She began haltingly, sliding slowly out of the curtained alcove, moving awkwardly because she truly was tired, and she hated being forced to dance. Merely for emphasis, she shot both her uncle and Talned a scathing look, one filled with anger and resentment.

Rened responded with a self-satisfied smirk. He knew she was angry, and he mistakenly believed that this enforced activity would bring her one step closer to marrying his son. Talned simply jerked his head toward the governor, telling Natiya to dance for the dignitary and no other. As long as Dag Racho was Emperor, insulting any branch of the government—even a governor bent on reform—could make one dragon-bait.

The music began in earnest.

She intended to dance badly: It was the only way to prove to Talned that he could not command her, that when he forced her to dance against her will, the result was ugly, stilted and ungainly.
Eyes open. Body stiff.
These were the orders she gave her limbs. These were the thoughts that she chanted over and over in her mind.

The music turned, the melody began, but she heard only the beat of the drum. The low
tum
was steady, merging with her thoughts, adding tempo and cadence to her chant.

She turned, and the coins and beads of her costume shifted as well, adding another sound. The steady ting was a necessity, demanded of all dancers. But for her, the adornments were tactile, the heavy tap of jewelry against her skin an echo of the drum.

Eyes open. Body stiff.

Tum. Tum. Tum. Tum.

Her hips shifted. Her back arched.

Eyes open. Body stiff.

Tum. Tum. Tum. Tum.

Her head fell back as her shoulders swayed. Her arms curled with the melody, lifting and moving, adding form and depth to sound.

Eyes open. Body stiff.

Tum. Tum. Tum. Tum.

The words of her chant had no meaning now. She heard only sound, felt only the beat while she explored the true expression of muscle and bone.

Stretch, pull, arch, breathe.

All was one. The sound, the movement, the breathing, even her vision melded color and light into a kaleidoscope of harmonies. Dance steps disappeared from conscious thought. Her training faded. The hours of repetition and study meant nothing to her here; all was life and movement and joy.

Joy.

The music swelled. Did she lead it now? Did her feelings pull the harmonies with her? It didn't matter who led and who followed; they had joined, and the beat pulsed on. As Natiya gave form and expression to sound.

Tum. Tum. Tum. Tum
.

Joy!

Chapter 3

Kiril set down his tankard untouched. Great Unity, the girl could dance!

She had started out stiffly, obviously angry with the innkeeper. Her fury had radiated like the sun, and Kiril had been surprised by it. The dancers of his acquaintance welcomed the opportunity to show off their skills and, more to the point, their assets to a wealthy customer. The other wench, Monik was her name, had proclaimed her interest by all but stripping before his very eyes. So when the innkeeper had mentioned his best dancer, Kiril had considered feigning an illness just to escape what would no doubt be an oppressively grotesque display of feminine harlotry.

But disappearing early would not only have been rude, it would also have defeated his primary purpose in coming here: to meet the local population and show himself as a friendly peer who happened to govern them. He wanted to say as loudly as possible that he was nothing like their last money-hungry, power-drunk brute of a governor. And so he had stayed, barely noticing the mediocre music or the girl's obvious hatred.

To make matters worse, she was blond. Who had ever heard of a blond dancer? Truthfully, there were probably many, but those so cursed dyed their hair. Failing that, they at least wore a wig. But this dancer obviously scorned such convention, deliberately flaunting her pale tresses as openly as she displayed her fury.

Then, d'greth, she began to dance in earnest.

She had begun slowly, as if unwilling to surrender to the lure of the music. But who would deny such a gift? Even the drunks about the room had ceased imbibing long enough to watch.

For a bare moment Kiril tried to analyze what made her movements so compelling. There was skill, surely, but he had seen dancers with greater practice, greater training. It wasn't in the way she twisted or shifted before his eyes, her movements almost serpentine in fluidity. No, though mesmerizing to watch, the attraction did not lie in her sheer physical performance.

Then his mind began to falter, conscious thought slipping away as he gave himself up to the pure joy of watching. The music, the dance, the girl herself; all combined to express an emotion he had rarely seen, much less felt.

What was it? He couldn't even give it a name.

Sufficiency, perhaps. He doubted the girl even remembered she had an audience. And happiness. Her expression was rapturous.

Joy. That was it. Simple, pure, unadulterated joy. D'greth, when was the last time he'd felt that happy?

She took a leap into the air. He was so caught up in the dance that he fully expected her to sprout wings, taking the explosion of power and movement into the air. But she didn't have wings, and so she fell, plummeting to the floor in a dazed heap, as though she too were surprised by her lack of wings.

The tavern was silent, the musicians done, and as one, dancer and audience took a breath, all simultaneously returning to reality.

Then came another explosion: a roar of deafening applause, whistles and cheers. For a moment Kiril envied these men, knowing that for them, the dancer's performance was routine. The innkeeper said she had danced here most of her life. What would it be like to know, at the end of the day, that such awesome beauty awaited? One need only step down the corner to the local tavern. No wonder this inn was thriving.

Kiril took a deep breath, startled to realize it was his first in many moments. In fact, his dizziness came as much from lack of air as from the woman still on the floor by his feet. Without thought, he left his seat to crouch beside her, gently lifted her up in his arms.

Tiny was his first thought. She weighed next to nothing. But through the thin barrier of her costume he felt the hardened muscles, the strength and the power of a body that could perform such miracles.

"I can stand on my own, thank you very much."

Her cold words jolted him into awareness. Sweet Amia, he had been standing with her in his arms for who knew how long. He felt his face flood with heat, and the shock of that sensation made him drop his arms as if she were no more than a sack of meal. Fortunately, she was lithe and found her feet as easily as any wild animal. And like any wild animal, she turned to flee.

Fortunately, he was regaining control of his thoughts. Quicker than she could run, he extended his hand, catching her arm. And though he tried to be gentle, his urgency to keep her near him made his grip tighter than he'd intended.

"Don't go," he urged.

She stood still, her expression wary, her gaze locked not on his hand where he gripped her wrist but directly at him. On his eyes.

She had the most marvelous eyes. Pale. Changeable. They matched perfectly with her blond hair and fair complexion. And once again, they were angry, blazing challenge at him for daring to touch her. He felt their impact as a physical blow. No doubt this was how she kept the local populace in line. Otherwise, she would likely be mauled at the conclusion of her first dance.

But he had not become a dragon-killer without obtaining some skill. No human could match a dragon for power in their mesmerizing gaze, and as potent as this girl was, she was nothing compared to the creatures he had already defeated.

Instead of releasing her, he drew her forward, urging her to sit with him, talk with him, anything that would keep her by his side a little longer. His attraction was not physical, he told himself, it was intellectual. What type of creature, what type of woman could dance like that? She had to be extraordinary.

"I'm sorry, my lord."

Kiril blinked. That comment came from the innkeeper as the man rushed forward, stupidly trying to interpose his body between the governor and the dancer. Kiril ignored him, his entire being focused on the woman.

"My lord!"

Kiril blinked, frowning as he turned to the irritating man. "Talned?" His voice fairly dripped with rancor, completely at odds with his plan to befriend this influential businessman.

"My pardon, Your Lordship, my greatest apologies. You must understand how awkward this is for me. She... we... I have a rule. No man may touch the dancers. Not when they are dressed as such. Else all the girls, their very lives are at risk. Please, my lord." The balding man reached out with thick hands and gently tried to ease apart Kiril's fingers where he gripped the dancer.

Kiril stiffened, angry beyond measure that this man sought to interfere. "I am the governor," he said stiffly, then marveled at the idiocy of his words. Had he not spent years fighting those who believed their mere titles gave them power over others?

"Yes, yes," said the innkeeper, bowing his sweating head twice before speaking more. "And as such, I must beg of you to set a good example. Otherwise, I fear for Natiya's safety." The man glanced sideways at the girl, his expression clearly nervous.

At that moment, Kiril's mind registered two very distinct facts. First was that the woman's name was Natiya—a beautiful name that should be sung by birds. In fact, he remembered abruptly, he was here searching for a girl named Natiya.

The second fact was much more compelling, coming to him in a flash of insight that made him smile. The innkeeper was afraid, not of him, but of Natiya. The look he gave her was positively pleading. But what hold did she have that would reduce her employer to such desperate straits? Did he fear she would quit, taking away what was undoubtedly a key source of income for him? Or was it something else?

Kiril did not speculate for long. Much to the innkeeper's obvious dismay, the girl chose that moment to speak. "Governor or not," she said, her voice caustic, "you are all men bent on rutting, and I'll not be touched by a one of you." Then she twisted out of his grip and stalked away, her head held high, her body rigid with disdain.

"Oh my lord, oh Your Lordship, great sir, my apologies. She has such a temper. Especially after she dances. Monik, more ale for the governor. My lord, please accept..." The man droned on and on, nearly apoplectic in his mortification. Now, as he bowed and scraped before him, Kiril understood the man's terror: that the girl would open her mouth and dispel the magical moment her dance had created, insulting the new governor in the process.

Kiril turned his furious gaze on the man, his hands curling into fists. Talned had been right to fear.