AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I—” I stammer, blinking with the sudden weight of this revelation. “I don’t want to destroy the throne.”
Doshir shakes his head, that same soft, sad smile on his lips, and then he lifts his hand to brush my chin. When he kisses me, it’s soft and delicate, just the whisper of his lips against mine.
“I know,” he says. He rocks back, and his smile widens. “Trust me, the only queen I want to service sexually is you.”
I can’t help myself. It’s such a stupid thing to say, and at the same time so desperately, absurdly beautiful, that my laugh forces its way out of my chest and through my lips. I shake my head as tears run down my cheeks, crying and laughing at the same time, blurring the soft arc of Doshir’s smile.
Time passes. It feels slow and delicate, like silk stretched over bare skin. The only sound in the tight little tunnel is the harsh rasp of my breath, gasping inhalations that might be sobs or might be swallowed, strangled laughter. The tears keep coming, flowing out of some hidden well I didn’t even know existed, and every time I glance at Doshir I expect him to scowl, to remind me that we need to get moving.
But he sits on the stones like a statue as the candle creates a pool of honey-scented wax beside his boots. He looks like he would be willing to sit beside me, in the darkness, until the world crumbles around us.
My vision slowly clears, and eventually I let my legs unravel. My eyes sting, like there’s sand stuck beneath my lids, and I don’t remember ever feeling so exhausted. But I also feel lighter, like I’ve finally set down something heavy I’d been carrying for so long I’d forgotten it was strapped to my back.
I press my palms against my eyes, sigh, and then smile at Doshir. The candle shimmers from within its golden pool of wax.
“Okay,” I announce, glancing down at my dirty hands, at the travel-stained clothes I’ve been wearing for almost three days now, and at the tangled strands of my hair that have fallen down around my shoulders.
“I guess I’m ready to meet your ex,” I say.
Chapter25
Doshir
This tunnel is a mystery I’m not sure I want to unravel. It’s small, for one thing; any dragon passing through it would need to wear their human form, which is almost considered an insult for some of the denizens of the Iron Mountains. And it slopes downward at a smooth, even angle that’s clearly not natural.
There’s an old debate in the Iron Mountains regarding what I consider the many clear indications of dwarven craftsmanship in the architecture. Some dragons are happy to admit the dwarves must have helped create our , while others argue tooth and claw that only the dragons have ever lived in the Iron Mountains.
I snort, making the candle in my hand dance wildly. This tunnel is yet another piece of evidence in favor of the dwarves, but it’s not one I could ever bring up in conversation. It’s not like I could admit I know about the secret tunnel to Wendolyn’s chambers.
Actually, it might be worse to admit that I didn’t know about the secret tunnel, considering we lived together in Wendolyn’s cave for several years. With that lovely thought rattling around my skull, I turn and find yet another branch in the passageway. The scent of sulfur is stronger here, which must mean we’re getting closer to the hot springs that gurgle through the lower levels of the Iron Mountains.
I close my eyes, try to ignore the rush of memories that sulfur-tinged air brings, and think about my father’s map. There were three turns in the passageway he’d sketched; right, right, and left.
This is turn number three. I open my eyes and move to the left. The motion jars the candle, sending another stream of hot wax down my fingers. I grit my teeth as I glance down at the nub of wax that remains. This light isn’t going to last much longer.
Dragons have excellent night vision, of course. In the days before the Council and the treaties, we were mostly nocturnal hunters, ripping our prey apart by starlight instead of purchasing it from merchants and farmers. But even night vision requires some light. Here, in the darkness beneath the Iron Mountains, dragons would be as blind as any other creature.
I exhale slowly and try not to think about it. Behind me, Rayne’s feet scuffle along the tunnel. It’s larger now, and warmer. The sound of our boots echoes off the ceiling, which is lost in shadows somewhere high above us. At this point, I’m guessing the tunnel would even accommodate a dragon, although I don’t want to suggest shifting. I want to go for non-threatening when we approach Wendolyn, and a human Doshir is probably the least threatening thing the Iron Mountains have ever seen.
The tunnel flows into a sharp downward curve, one that sends me stumbling for my footing as the candle sputters. I glance back over my shoulder to make sure Rayne realizes the slope is changing.
And I can see her. Not just the pale oval of her face in the candlelight, but her shoulders, the curve of her chest, and the bright dagger in her hand. I blink, then glance down. I can see my own feet resting on a subtle herringbone pattern engraved in the stone. Clearly dwarven craftsmanship.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge that distraction, and then narrow my eyes at the gloom ahead of us. It’s lighter up there, at the far end of the tunnel, and the scent of sulfur and smoke hangs heavy in the air. I take a few sliding steps forward, trying to understand what’s in front of us. It looks almost golden, like candlelight filtered through an elven lampshade.
The candle in my hand gurgles out with a final rush of hot wax over my knuckles. I wince, then let it fall to the ground, shaking the thick, warm wax off my fingers. The sound of trickling water fills the cavernous tunnel, and the air is thick with sulfurous steam. The end of the tunnel shines before us like a gauzy golden curtain, and—
Oh. I freeze as understanding crackles through my skull like a fork of lightning. The steam. The trickle of water. The golden tapestry.
I drag my feet forward slowly as the tunnel evens out, then transforms into a wide, smooth set of stairs that might even be marble. The stairs end at the foot of an enormous piece of cloth, which appears to be a jumbled tangle of loose threads.
But from the front, I know it’s a tapestry. It’s the tapestry that hangs in Wendolyn’s private bath, a somewhat garish display of dragons frolicking in a spring with the carcasses of their kills spread out before them. She always claimed that tapestry was elvish, but I thought the clumsy craftsmanship suggested human hands. I’d even asked her to get rid of it, once or twice, when I’d first moved in with her and labored under the illusion that my preferences would matter in our shared life.
I try to swallow my bitter laugh as I creep down the stairs. How many times had I stared at that tapestry and resented its crude subject matter and off-putting color scheme? How many times had I complained that Wendolyn’s bath had a draft, and perhaps we could bring someone in to correct that? Mothers above, how could I have missed this?
I shake my head as I reach the final step, then brush my wax-covered fingers against the backside of the tapestry. I know it well enough to recognize the tangles of thread and yarn as pools of crimson blood, or the body of the green dragon maiden in the pool, or the vermillion flames pouring from the jaws of the bronze dragon atop the waterfall.
“What the hell is this?” Rayne whispers from beside me.
