Dragonborn (The Jade Lee Romantic Fantasies, Book 1) (27 page)

And every person she met, including many she had not yet seen, came with a list of strengths and weaknesses, threats and exploitable assets. He would brief her on these things the night before she met anyone. To Dag Racho, no one was simply who they appeared. They were all harboring treasonous thoughts; they all looked for an opportunity to destroy what he had built. And why? Greed or stupidity ranked top amongst his explanations. They simply did not understand what he was doing, did not see the glory and prosperity he was bringing to the country. Or if they did, they did not care but would rather hog the glory, the wealth or the power to themselves. Time and time again the Emperor told her stories of how he had been betrayed by those closest to him. And so now he watched constantly, never at ease, always suspicious. But she'd never thought he would doubt his own dragon.

"You think they talk while we are asleep?" she asked to verify his earlier statement.

He nodded, his gaze darting to the side where the Copper reclined, tail tucked around him like a kitten, neck chain nearly hidden behind his left front leg. Then the Emperor turned back to her. "You must get up earlier," he ordered. "And I will go to bed later. If we do not sleep at the same time, they cannot talk." He stared at Natiya. "They do not tell us everything, you know. They are children hiding dirty secrets. It is up to us to keep them in line."

She nodded, as she knew he expected. "I understand."

"Good. Now go to bed. The guards will wake you early." Then, before she could turn away, he reached out, once again stroking and holding her egg. "A few more days, Natiya. Then I will take you to my mountain, and she will hatch and everything will be as I have planned."

She took a deep breath, using the motion to pull away from him even as she looked uneasily at the mountain. "How far inside?" She did not want to be inside the mountain during the hatching. She needed room. She needed air.

"The Queen needs a place to fly," he said, voicing her thought. "Have no fear. There is a chamber inside, very large. It will serve perfectly." Then he raised his hands, stroking her cheek. "It is necessary until you are stronger. Until you are ready." Then he grinned. "Our mating will be done in the open air."

With that final promise, he turned and walked back to his Copper, deftly avoiding the creature's outstretched head by walking to its side and petting it in much the same way as he often touched Natiya. He stroked its flank and murmured to it, but he never allowed the creature's head anywhere near his own.

Natiya watched until she could not stand it any longer. She was not ready for any of this: the hatching, the mating or any of the other things Dag Racho told her would soon arrive. Queenship. Children. A dragon army.

She bit her lip, trying to sort fact from fiction, future from fantasy. It was impossible, since her own source of information came from the Emperor himself. She had no way of knowing if his words were truth or clever lies. She had to find a way to escape, to choose her own path outside of his influence. But how? As the guards led her back to her bedchamber, she began to despair in earnest.

Then her gaze fell upon a book of poetry. The castle librarian had sent it to her, suggesting she might enjoy reading it. She did, as it nightly helped lull her mind to sleep: Poem after poem in awkward meter and even worse rhymes, all written in honor and praise of their glorious Emperor. She didn't know if the words had been ordered by Dag Racho or were simply the work of sycophants trying to buy favor. Either way, despite the poetry being utterly wretched, it gave her the most wonderful idea.

Turning to her guard—the smelly one from that first night—she demanded he call the librarian to her. Now, if only her memory was correct, for it had been years since she last saw her dearest childhood friend. And years as well since he had proclaimed his poetical passion to her. He could have changed his mind in that time. Any number of things could have changed, and that would make her entire plan a complete waste of time. Still, she had no other ideas, and so decided to see this through and pray it worked.

While she waited for the elderly gentleman to arrive, she opened all her poetry books while simultaneously cudgeling her poor brain into remembering everything she could about the ancient art forms. It wasn't much, but then, that was the whole point.

The librarian arrived with obvious haste. Sweat gleamed along his bald pate as he struggled with an armful of tomes. The guards, of course, did not help him at all, but merely stood watching his every move as he scuttled forward.

"My lady," he said, bowing deeply before her. "What may I do to help you?"

She smiled sweetly, doing her best to put him at ease. She needed him to be malleable. "I need your help, kind sir."

"Of course, my lady. Here, allow me to show you what I have brought." He bowed again, carefully spreading texts before her. She allowed him to describe them all in detail—ad nauseam—doing her best to nod where appropriate. But in the end, she pursed her lips in a moue of dissatisfaction.

"Those are excellent choices, of course. But what I need is something a little different."

The poor man looked up, his eyes growing wide as he began to sweat. She had seen the same panic on more than one servant in the castle; they were desperately anxious to please her, as if their very lives depended upon her mood. The thought gave her acute discomfort. Exactly what would happen to these people when she got what she wanted? What would be their fate when she finally escaped?

Her stomach twisted, but she didn't have the luxury of giving in to her compassion. Instead, she leaned forward, as if drawing the librarian into a conspiracy.

"I have a plan, but you must keep it secret."

Contrary to what she expected, the elderly gentleman widened his eyes in horror. Dag Racho had made her believe that secret plots lurked everywhere—even in men like this bookish old man. But the librarian's reaction was one of terror, not interest. Apparently, the wretch had no stomach for intrigue. Unless, of course, he was an excellent actor; in which case... She sighed. This paranoid conspiracy-seeking was beginning to give her a headache. Meanwhile, she patted the older man's hand to reassure him.

"I want to get the Emperor a present. For our... um..." What?

"A wedding present?" he offered.

"Exactly!" she exclaimed, though the very thought left a bad taste in her mouth. Pushing aside her fears, she settled onto the couch across from her guest. As she moved, she noted that the guard was listening with interest. No doubt Dag Racho would know of her "secret" within beats of her words. Which meant she had to be doubly careful with her performance. With that thought in mind, she picked up the book of poems that had so put her to sleep earlier.

"I wish to write a poem for the Emperor, glorifying all that he has done for Ragona."

The librarian nodded, his relief obvious. "Do you need help with your rhymes, my lady? I am accounted quite a good poet myself..."

She groaned internally. Just what she did not need: a self-styled librarian poet when she needed a specific poet. "Well, it is not so much the rhymes that have snagged me as the form. I want the work to be grand, like the Emperor himself. Long and overflowing, like his reign." She paused, waiting for the librarian to divine what she wanted. "Overpowering. Tempestuous." She was running out of adjectives. "Regal. Majestic." If only she could remember the exact name of the form. "Maybe even sublime"

"Epic?" he offered timidly.

"Yes! That is it exactly. But there is a specific form of the epic poem. One that is perfectly suited to my intention. What was the name of that..." And this was where she trod on thin ice. She thought she'd remember the exact form if the man said it, but she couldn't be sure.

"Well, my lady, do you mean the Traveling form? With love couplets?"

"No, that's not it." She bit her lip. At least, she didn't think that was right.

"How about the Romantic Quintet form, with alternating submissive and dominant cadences?"

"No, no, no!" Why would he not get off of the romantic forms?

"Ah, then, perhaps you mean the Strompatic form—"

"No—"

"Sometimes referred to as the Mythic form with alternating dragon tooth and claw couplets."

"That's it'" She was sure. That was the form her childhood friend adored, because of the dragon name. Now, if only she could be sure he had continued with his plan to become the only master of that ancient form.

The older man clapped his hands. "An excellent form! An excellent choice!" But then his expression saddened. "But my lady, that is quite a challenging format. And, um, you do not have much time." He glanced significantly down at her swollen belly. The egg had been growing like a stuffed pompet. Every day she was larger. "Perhaps I might suggest a simpler—"

"No, no!" she snapped. "It must be this. And it must be perfect!" She began working herself into a first-class temper. "The Emperor deserves nothing less.
I
will be satisfied with nothing less!"

"But—"

"Nothing else matters to me!" She began to tear up in yet another of her embarrassingly ill-tempered moods. Who'd known she was this good at being a pain in the ass? "And I must do it now, now, now! And you must help me!"

"My lady—"

"I cannot abide another moment of this! I simply cannot!" She glanced at the man and didn't need her dragon senses to know that his heart was beating erratically in panic. Sweat patches already darkened his clothing. He was ready to promise her just about anything so long as he was not personally responsible for the plan's success.

"But I can't—"

"You must! I order it! Your Emperor demands it!" Sweet Amia, she was tired of screeching.

The man swallowed, his skin becoming so pasty she feared he might pass out. Instead, he released a frightened squeak. "Help? From me? In the Mythic form?" He shook his head. "My lady, it is an extremely challenging form. Perhaps you would prefer a shorter meter, one that doesn't even require rhymes. I am quite proficient at—"

"Then send me someone who can!" She hoped he would leap upon this idea, neatly escaping the need to perform a task he was clearly unsuited for. Unfortunately, he didn't. He released a pitiful moan that drew her up short.

"But he is not allowed in your presence!" he wailed.

Natiya had expected as much, but she was not deterred. Instead, she maintained her pregnant-woman temper, huffing and pacing angrily about the room. "Not on the list! Of all the ridiculous... It is for a gift! Surely I am not a prisoner here?" She rounded abruptly on the guard, nearly slamming him sideways with the size of her belly. D'greth, when did this egg get so huge? "Am I a prisoner here? Am I?"

"Er, no, my lady," he stammered in an obvious lie.

"Then let this poet come to me!" She spun around, glaring first at the librarian and then at the guard. "See that he arrives tomorrow morning, first thing! Or I shall hold you personally responsible!" Then, after their faces drained of all color, she abruptly smiled prettily—and stupidly—at them, dropping her voice to a loud whisper. "And don't tell the Emperor! It's a secret, you know, for our wedding."

Then, while they stared dumbly at her, she waved them away. "Go now. It is time for me to sleep." She dropped onto her bed and made as if to strip naked right there in front of them. She had to restrain her laughter when the two scrambled like bunnies to escape her presence.

She had no doubt of what was about to happen. Her "secret" would travel up the official lines until it reached Dag Racho himself. She prayed his ego would be flattered enough by her plan to approve her poet consultant. She counted it likely for two reasons, his ego being the first. The second—and likely more key—reason was that working so hard on a poem would occupy her time while the Emperor slept. He would think her safely employed while she was not directly under his supervision. Especially if she did manage to create lines in the execrable form. D'greth! She hated poetry!

The real risk, of course, was that her poet consultant would not be the man she wanted, the one man in all Ragona whom she had always trusted. Unfortunately, she had no way of finding out if her ploy worked. She simply had to wait and try to sleep. And pray she didn't dream.

* * *

It began as it always did: flying. Always flying. In the air above the clouds, through mist or brilliant sun or lightning storm. She didn't see herself flying; she felt it. The bitter cold, the clammy wet, even that stomach tickle that became a clench when a dip in the air became a dive and then a plummet.

She loved it all because she was insulated. A fire in her belly kept her warm and dry, and somehow she never vomited it up when the plummet took a last-beat shift, streaking her upward like an arrow shot from the Father's bow. She was a dragon in all its glory, and every breath, every movement, was pure joy. She was dancing with wings, and she laughed out loud, even though she knew she was sleeping.

But then the dream changed and evolved into something she'd never seen before. She was no longer flying, but sitting on a sandy floor in the corner of a shack. She shouldn't even call it a shack, for in truth it was simply driftwood stacked together, one piece atop another until it became a room: a fortress of driftwood, a place to hide in shadow despite the smell of dead fish and rancid seafung.