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“Well, elves are notoriously snobby about such things, and they have their own legislations. But, yes, an elf and a dwarf would be welcome to get legally married within Cairncliff. In fact, I can’t think of a single that would forbid such a thing.”
My voice cuts off suddenly as I realize my mistake. Because there is, quite obviously, one that would forbid such things. The Dismal Isles of Valgros. Eadberh turns to stare at the fire as he rolls his empty glass between his two massive palms.
“So,” Eadberh says. His voice is low and somewhat pinched. “A man and another man, or a woman and another woman—”
I snort. “Oh, stars, of course. That wouldn’t even raise any eyebrows among elves, dwarves, or dragons. One of the Queens of the Iron Mountains was mated to another woman for her entire reign.”
Eadberh turns to me with wide eyes and a look on his face that suggests he doesn’t quite trust the words coming from my lips.
“Queen?” he says. “But, didn’t she have to produce an heir?”
My laugh surprises me. I’d thought this part of dragon history was common knowledge.
“Mothers, no,” I reply. “Queen isn’t an inherited position among dragons. It’s a rotating title given by the Council. And dragons’ mates are very rarely the ones who sire or brood their offspring.”
Both of Eadberh’s eyebrows creep slowly toward his hairline.
“You dragons don’t marry the women you, uh, knock up?” he asks.
I wave the hand holding my glass toward the fire.
“It’s complicated,” I answer. “Dragon pregnancies are rare. And so are dragon partnerships that last longer than a few years.”
I frown at the firelight flickering across the heavy rug as I think of my own parents, and the mere handful of times over the many, many years that I’ve seen the two of them in the same room. On those rare occasions when they are forced to share the same space, the air between them always feels like it’s about to burst into flame. I’m surprised they were able to tolerate each other long enough to finish the act of copulation that resulted in my existence.
“Dragons aren’t the marrying type?” Eadberh asks, tilting his head toward me.
I finish the last swallow of brandy in my glass. It burns all the way down.
“No,” I reply. “I suppose most of them aren’t.”
Wind gusts through the open windows, making the flames on the grate leap and dance.
“Most of them,” Eadberh says, his voice almost as soft as the wind pushing the curtains into the room. “But not you?”
I glance up and find he’s looking at me with those oddly comforting eyes and just enough of a smile to let me know that whatever I say will be acceptable. If I want to talk, he’s here.
Damn, he’s good. I can see why Ailen kept him around. The man has the bedside manner of a true healer.
I set my glass down on the ebony sideboard beside my chair and rub my hand across my red silk shirt. My shoulder feels better today, but the yawning emptiness inside my chest still screams whenever something reminds me of Rayne. And everything reminds me of Rayne.
Talking to Rayne’s friend and partner is not, of course, an ideal way to move on from the fact that she chose King Donovan over me. Talking to anyone has never been my preferred way to recover from heartbreak and disappointment. No, usually I like to stay right here, in this very house, in this very chair, drinking wine or brandy until the walls start to pulse and then waking up early to chug black tea and bury myself in my work. That’s how I got over Wendolyn.
Which is, I have to admit, a terrible plan. Because Wendolyn’s betrayal still burns every time I think about it. I’d thought she was my mate. I’d thought we would spend the rest of our lives together, and dragon tradition be damned. I’d thought we would be the exception to the draconic tendency to torch every intimate relationship. And every spring, the sight of those little purple flowers she’d so loved makes my chest go tight and my vision blur.
No, getting over pain is an illusion. You just carry it with you, deep inside, forever.
Or you talk about it, I suppose.
I take a deep breath and open my mouth.
A door swings open behind me. I jump, then wince as the sudden movement pulls the stitches in my shoulder tight. Ailen stands in the doorway, a mug clutched tightly in both her hands and a pinched expression on her face.
My heart seizes. For a moment, it feels like it’s going to try to escape through my throat. Ailen looks like a woman who’s about to deliver bad news and, Mothers help me, I’m not ready for it.
But it can’t be bad news, can it? Mother woke up today, after all. She drank some tea, and some broth, and she looked annoyed when I told her we were safe in Cairncliff. All of that has to be a good sign, right?
Ailen gives Eadberh a nod.
