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“I remember many of them stopping by this cave on the first day. What did they ask you, exactly?”
He clears his throat and leans awkwardly against the cave wall. “This and that.”
“You probably gave them dreadful advice. You should have asked me. But of course your pride wouldn’t let you, would it?”
“I think I did well enough on my own. Though I have been curious about one thing. Does your kind ever bleed from the—the genital area?”
“Of course. Many women bleed monthly as part of their fertility cycle.”
“So it’s nothing serious? Not a wound that needs to be staunched or treated?”
“Not in most cases.”
“Oh.” He gives a faint, embarrassed chuckle, and immediately afterward his stomach growls loudly.
“The stew should be ready soon,” I assure him. “It won’t be quite right, since I don’t have all the spices and ingredients I need to make it perfect. But it will be a decent meal.”
Kyreagan paces again, occasionally pausing to look out at the storm. The stew is simmering nicely, so I throw in the tubers, which, judging by their potato-like consistency, should take less than half an hour to cook. I add a handful of plump gray mushrooms as well.
The lightning keeps hitting a tall, thin mountain opposite us, across the valley, and the searing flashes and cracks of thunder make me jump every time. More than once a chunk of rock is struck clean off the cliffside and goes thundering down to the earth far below.
While the stew simmers, I rinse the tuber starch off my fingers. The rivulet of spring water in the cave has intensified to a stream, and I’m glad of Kyreagan’s foresight in widening and deepening its bed. He must have done the job hastily, without much care for appearance, because slash marks from his claws score the rocks on either side of the narrow stream. It’s a contrast to the methodical artistry of the cave’s engraved walls.
Wiping my fingers on my skirt, I join Kyreagan, who is staring out of the cave mouth at the violent storm.
“Did you decorate this place?” I wave a hand to the engravings.
“No.” His face holds a tender sadness. “Grimmaw’s life-mate did. His name was Lorgrin. This is Dragonish writing. Poetry, history. Records of my family’s bloodline.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I never met Lorgrin. The elders say he was no good as a warrior or a hunter, that he preferred long hours of quiet carving. Sometimes he would etch designs on the bowls and pots Grimmaw made, or he would decorate another dragon’s cave in exchange for game or foraged goods.”
“Was he also a king?”
“His brother was. But that Bone-King had no heir, and Lorgrin did not wish to rule, so the leadership passed to my father, by the will of the clan.”
“The will of the clan,” I murmur. “So everyone agrees upon the next ruler?”
“Yes. When my father died, the clan had already decided that I should rule next. But I did not feel able to do so alone. My siblings and I swore to rule together.”
“In Elekstan, the people have no choice in the matter. They are governed by the heir of the reigning bloodline.” I hold out my hand, letting the vicious rain beat against my fingertips. It stings so badly I have to draw them back.
With our backs to the glowing dyre-stones, the world seems darker, more dangerous. I can feel Kyreagan’s eyes on me in the gloom.
“You would have been a great queen,” he says. “Wise and kind, yet forceful.”
Never in my life have I been told I would make a good queen, much less a great one. “I think you’re full of shit.” I give him a half-smile. “But thank you.”
A raucous gust of wind whips through the cave mouth, tearing at our clothes and hair, nearly yanking me with it as it roars back out into the void of night. Kyreagan catches me and pulls me farther back into the cave. In that one instant, the wind-driven rain soaked us both to the skin.
“We should take off these wet clothes.” Kyreagan’s eyes glint as he notices how my white dress is sticking to my form.
“It’s fine. The clothes will dry quickly enough. We should eat.”
“If I recall correctly, you don’t like to be wet… at least not in this way.” His voice is a caress, low and coaxing. “As your captor, I must care for you properly, and that means making sure you are dry and warm.”
“I’m really fine—” My protest turns into a squeal as he picks me up—hoists me bodily and lays me across his shoulders. I’m not even sure how he conceived of the idea, or how he managed it so fluidly. His control of this body is certainly improving. Still, he can’t be allowed to tote me around like a sack of flour. “Put me down this instant, dragon!”
