Lucien licks his dry lips. Wind-burn or dehydration? “How long was I out?”
Marek doesn’t answer that either. Fine. It’s been long enough for Marek to take a post-capture shower, not long enough for Lucien to die of thirst. That narrows it down.
Lucien shifts in the stone chair. His spine feels okay. His torso is one enormous bruise, but the Draskorans must have blood-healed anything drastic while he was out. They want him alive, or he wouldn’t have woken up.
Scratching sounds from Sei’s side of the room. He’s writing something down. Taking notes for the interrogation.
“Why did you cross the border?” Marek asks.
The young dragon. The voice tickling Lucien’s mind. “Accident. Still working out the steering.”
“Uh huh.” Marek gestures to the robed woman. “You’re going to cooperate for the rest of my questions.”
Despite all his training and pride, Lucien flinches when the woman—the blood mage—touches his forehead. Her fingers are cool, her freckled brow furrowed in concentration.
A horrible thought twists Lucien’s mind. What if his own spell doesn’t work? What if he’s about to spill every single detail of Silaisan strategy to a fucking Dire prince?
But after a long, fearful moment, the blood mage’s eyes widen. She steps away and bows low. “I apologize, Stormrider. Another blood-spell is blocking me.”
Across the room, Sei’s pen scratches down every event. Marek glares. “What spell are you carrying?”
Relief sags Lucien in his bindings. He manages a sunny grin. “Apparently, I don’t have to answer that.”
Marek glowers. “Fucking Rakos.”
Smart man.
Rakos Tem brought more than just dragonriding expertise to Silaise. Plenty of his strategic intel is obsolete—Draskora has had enough time to restructure key systems since Rakos’s desertion. But Rakos knew enough details about Draskoran truth spells that Silaisan enchanters were able to counter them.
The protective spells are experimental. Lucien’s one of only a handful of people carrying them. He’ll have to tell Ismay, Rakos, and the rest that it worked.
Lucien’s thoughts grind to a halt. Right. Assuming he makes it out of here alive. Because sure, Draskora won’t be able to magic any secrets out of him.
They can still break Lucien the old-fashioned way.
Marek’s watchful contemplation is a bad sign. He doesn’t rush to react, which is probably the reason Marek is wing-marshal instead of Rakos. Marek knows how to wait.
“You can talk to me now,” Marek says. “Or you’ll talk to His Majesty’s drasgard later. Guess which will be more fun?”
“Dishonor myself now, or later.” Lucien takes a breath so deep his ribs hurt. “Tough choice.”
He meets the prince’s dark Draskoran eyes and imagines he finds some glimmer of understanding. It shutters away as Marek gestures.
Lucien doesn’t struggle when the blood mage fastens the sleep-collar around his throat. There’s a moment of darkness. Supreme, empty loneliness. An abyssal silence in his soul. A single tenuous thought, wondering if he’ll ever wake again.
A faint, young voice asking,Are you there?
Then nothing.
?
CHAPTER THREE
Kazia
Pedestals fill the sculpture room, but only half the pedestals hold statues. The carved marble pays tribute to kings, queens, and faceless muses. Wyrms, wolves, and miniature dragons. The largest statue looms over the center of everything, as if holding court over the mismatched menagerie—Buthel the Unhinged with his beatific smile.
The sculpture room is only technically part of the royal wing, closed off from regular traffic but scarcely used by Their Majesties. A nice place for when Kazia is too restless to stay in his chambers, but can’t stand seeing anyone else.
