Page 53 of A Matter of Dragons

“I was given a choice,” Eadberh continued in a voice so soft it was almost gentle. “Go on this mission, or be stripped of everything and discharged.”

“I— I—” I stammered. “King Donovan said he’d discharge you?”

Eadberh shook his head. His eyes closed again, then slowly reopened. “Not Donovan. Ensyvir. Gave me the choice.”

I pulled back as if that name had stung me. Ensyvir? What would the king’s creepy advisor care about Eadberh’s position in the Royal Army?

Eadberh sighed and sank back into the pillow. His eyes closed again. “You know what I saw the other night?” he asked, his voice fading.

“Eadberh?” I asked.

“Two men,” he whispered. “The tall one, he just... leaned over and... kissed the other one. Right there. In the middle of the pub. No one even... blinked.”

I closed my fingers around Eadberh’s hand. My eyes stung, and my chest felt like it had been packed with wet sand. Sure, I’d imagined not returning from a mission. That was part of serving the King of Valgros, the knowledge that you might die in the line of duty.

But somehow I’d never imagined going back to Valgros alone.

The door creaked open behind me. I turned to see Ailen watching me with a stern expression that was not exactly friendly. Slowly, I let go of Eadberh’s hand. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and even. He looked peaceful like this, asleep in a town where a man could kiss another man in the middle of a pub and no one would care. I bit my lip, then reached over and squeezed his fingers again. I felt like I should say something, offer him some blessing or promise, something to thank him for all the years when he’d seen me at my worst, my most irritable and bitchy, lashing out at the world because no matter what I did it was never good enough to gain what he had, that Royal Crest on his armor, the sign of the king who would take me into his bed but wouldn’t let me fight for him. And Eadberh had simply accepted it, accepted me in all my miserable, brooding anger, laughed with me, listened to me and, finally, accepted this mission with me. This mission he hadn’t expected us to survive.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

The word felt weak and pathetic, almost worse than nothing. I pulled my hand away. Ailen cleared her throat.

“He should rest,” she said, not unkindly.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and nodded. We left the room together, quietly. When we reached her front room, with its crystals calmly refracting the light into dozens of tiny rainbows dancing in slow patterns across the floor, I turned to face her.

“Thank you,” I said. “For caring for him.”

“Of course,” Ailen replied.

“H-How much do I owe you?” I asked, keeping my voice level. We were supposed to be wealthy tourists, after all, and the thought of shelling out more of King Donovan’s gold shouldn’t bother me.

“It’s taken care of,” Ailen said, shaking her head. She’d moved behind a black marble table now, and she was pulling open a series of small drawers on the wall beside her.

“Doshir,” I replied. It wasn’t a question.

Ailen nodded curtly. “Now, I’m going to give your brother something to help him sleep. He might be awake tonight, but better would be tomorrow morning. His energy needs to go to that leg, not to conversations.”

I took that as her subtle way of kicking me out of her shop.

“Thanks,” I stammered.

Ailen said nothing. She pulled out a small translucent vial and then tipped a leather bag onto her counter. A pile of dried white flowers fell onto the black marble.

“If there’s anything else you need—” she said, without looking up from the pile of white flowers spread across the black marble. Her voice faded, leaving the rest of her offer unspoken.

“Uh, just one thing,” I said. “Could you point me in the direction of the town hall?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Doshir

The bell above the door gave out its soft, silver cry, and I pushed back from my table, grateful for the distraction. Yesterday had been exhausting. Rayne had made her feelings perfectly clear, and I was going to respect them, damn it. Still, I’d walked past the Master and Mistress a good dozen times already; just in case, I’d told myself. In case of what, I still wasn’t sure. She was a damned dragon, for the Mothers’ sakes. A cursed dragon, a dragon trapped in a human body, but still a dragon. And she’d been trained to fight. Very well trained, from what I could tell. What did she need out of me?

Well, she needed exactly what she wanted. Nothing.

Someone gave a very delicate cough. An elf, I guessed. No one else could make a cough sound that diplomatic.