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A Matter of Dragons
Meredith Hart
Published by Vestal Valley Press, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events
are entirely coincidental.
A MATTER OF DRAGONS
First edition. November 16, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Meredith Hart.
Written by Meredith Hart.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
FAIR WARNING
CHAPTER ONE | Doshir
CHAPTER TWO | Rayne
CHAPTER THREE | Doshir
CHAPTER FOUR | Rayne
CHAPTER FIVE | Doshir
CHAPTER SIX | Rayne
CHAPTER SEVEN | Doshir
CHAPTER EIGHT | Rayne
CHAPTER NINE | Doshir
CHAPTER TEN | Rayne
CHAPTER ELEVEN | Rayne
CHAPTER TWELVE | Doshir
CHAPTER THIRTEEN | Rayne

CHAPTER FOURTEEN | Doshir
CHAPTER FIFTEEN | Rayne
CHAPTER SIXTEEN | Rayne
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | Doshir
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | Rayne
CHAPTER NINETEEN | Doshir
CHAPTER TWENTY | Rayne
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | Doshir
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | Rayne
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | Doshir
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | Rayne
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | Rayne
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | Rayne
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | Doshir
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | Rayne
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | Doshir
CHAPTER THIRTY | Doshir
SNEAK PEEK AT A MATTER OF DECEPTIONS
WHAT’S THIS ABOUT LEMON COOKIES?

For my daughter,
the dragon
FAIR WARNING
W
elcome, reader!
I’m so glad you’ve chosen to join Rayne and Doshir as
they begin their adventures. Before we begin, however, a word of
warning. This book contains explicit language, sexual content,
alcohol consumption, and violence. If this kind of material offends
you, please choose another book to enjoy.
Finally, this is the first book in a series. Although the story wraps
up at the end of this novel, A Matter of Dragons is not the end of
Rayne and Doshir’s adventures. Their second book, A Matter of
Deceptions, is available for preorder now. You can also click here to
join my newsletter and I’ll keep you updated on the latest
developments with the series.
Still interested?
Excellent. Please, pull up a chair and we’ll begin.
CHAPTER ONE
Doshir
“I
see you haven’t done much with the place,” my mother
sniffed.
She stepped gingerly over the threshold while lifting her dress as
if she were afraid the hem might dirty itself if it came into contact
with my floor.
“Mother,” I replied as pleasantly as I could manage. “It’s an
antiquities shop.”
She glanced around the piles of old books, delicate, dust-covered
instruments, and haphazardly stacked maps, and raised one perfect
eyebrow. “Isn’t ‘decluttering’ the latest human fashion?” she asked.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t know,” I replied, “keeping your snout out
of the human world, as you do.”
My mother gave me her first authentic smile of the evening. I
took her hand, led her through the maze of tiny little end tables and
piles of books, and let her choose which overstuffed armchair she
wished to settle into while I busied myself arranging cookies on a
platter and pouring the tea.
“Still no servant?” she asked from her perch in the rose-patterned
chair.
“Just me, I’m afraid,” I replied.
I handed her a solid gold teacup with a little frill on the handle
and felt immensely rewarded when she lifted it for closer inspection.
“Made by the dwarves,” I explained. “A limited run. I believe it
was intended for the elves of the Kingdom of the Fall.”
She snorted. “You’re going to turn out just like your father.”
“Why thank you,” I replied, turning away before she could see
me smile.
I set the platter of cookies on the carved ebony table between
us, picked up my own teacup, a delicate piece of white ceramic, and
sat down across from her. She watched me with a raised eyebrow.
“I didn’t mean that as a compliment,” she said.
“Of course you didn’t.”
She raised the cup to her lips, sipped, and then pursed her lips
contemplatively. “It’s not... terrible,” she finally said.
I grinned. “I knew you’d like it. It’s a hibiscus blend from the
place down the street.”
She took another sip and frowned. “I don’t know. Flavors are so
odd in this form.”
“Better, you mean.”
I picked up the tray of cookies and held it out to her. They were
lemon shortbread, a perfect combination of the sweet and tart
flavors we can’t taste in our dragon forms. And they were also her
favorite. Not that she’d admit it.
“There’s nothing better—” she began.
“About the human form,” I said, finishing her sentence for her. “I
know. Just have a cookie and stop moralizing.”
“Fine.”
She took a cookie. We chewed in contemplative silence as dusk
brushed against the windows of my shop. A scattering of voices rose
and fell outside, carried through the open windows by a soft breeze
off the ocean.
“What is your father up to these days?” she asked as if the
thought had just occurred to her and wasn’t always the very first
thing she asked when she came to visit.
“He’s... sailing,” I answered.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, by the Mothers. Tell me he’s not
wearing a red scarf around his head and calling himself a pirate.”
“Of course not.” I allowed myself another sip of the hibiscus tea.
“He’s wearing a black scarf. It’s much more dignified.”
She stared at me just long enough to assess that I was not
joking.
“Stars save us,” she muttered. “His hatching prophecy must have
been to drive the women in his family mad.”
“I’ve heard worse,” I replied. “Much worse.”
Her gaze snapped back to me, her eyes burning. “Your hatching
prophecy is perfectly honorable.”
I rolled my eyes. I was not about to have another argument over
my thrice-cursed idiotic hatching prophecy.
“Is that why you’re here?” I asked.
Mother shook her head briskly and dusted non-existent crumbs
off her lap. “No, actually. I’ve finally admitted to myself that I’ll never
convince my only hatchling to flap his wings outside this sad little
town. You’re like a clam stuck fast in his shell.”
I made a noncommittal grunt. After waiting nearly a hundred
years for my mother to stop playing matchmaker for me and my
terrible prophecy, this sudden victory felt strangely hollow. I’d
thought I’d be having this battle with her for the rest of my life.
Honestly, I wasn’t too sure how I’d manage our awkward and
infrequent social visits without that constant struggle over my
disappointing prophecy. And my disappointing life.
Mother leaned forward and lowered her voice. Then, oddly, she
switched to Draconic, as if she weren’t completely certain one of my
human or dwarven neighbors didn’t have their greasy ear pressed to
the doors.
“I’m worried about Lord Donovan,” she said.
“What?” I said.
“Donovan of Valgros.”
“I know who Donovan is.” I set my teacup down on the table
beside me. “He doesn’t go by Lord anymore. He declared himself
king two decades ago.”
Mother waved her hands as if the change of title were
meaningless. And to us, it was. Valgros was a tiny, nowhere kingdom
on a set of miserable rocky islands in the northern seas; Donovan
had basically declared himself king of nothing mountain.
“Why in the blessed Mothers’ names are you worried about
Valgros?” I asked.
She glanced over her shoulder. Odd. I’d rarely seen my mother
this disquieted about anything. She was a black dragon, after all,
and there are not many things beneath these blue skies that can
threaten a black dragon.
“You heard what he did to the elves?” she whispered.
I nodded; the three cookies I’d eaten before she’d arrived leaped
over themselves in my gut. I’d made a hobby of chronicling the
history of the human world for the past century. Even after writing
about so much bloodshed and betrayal, the reports that came out of
Valgros were still notably gruesome. Even the children had been
slaughtered. I shivered.
“It’s spreading,” she continued. “The dwarves are gone now too.
And Valgros is twice the size it was a generation ago.”
I frowned. That was probably all true. I’d spent a night a few
months back drinking with a dwarf whose family had left those parts
in the hold of a smuggler’s ship; if half of what he’d told me was
true, Valgros really was the most miserable fiefdom on the continent.
Apparently, Valgros had now spread that misery to all the
neighboring islands, and even a few luckless stretches of the
northern coast.
“But Donovan’s an idiot,” I said, repeating the assessment I’d
been told by at least a dozen sources.
“Exactly.”
Mother took a cookie and settled back in her chair, waiting for me
to put the pieces together. And, eventually, I did.
“If Donovan’s an idiot,” I said, “how is his kingdom still
expanding?”
She nodded, giving me a tight-lipped smile. I picked up my
teacup and drained the last of my now-cool hibiscus tea.
“But, that still doesn’t explain why you’re interested. Valgros is
nowhere. Unless you’ve suddenly become fascinated by fishing and
wool exports, why do you care what happens up there?”
Mother looked down at her teacup, strangely still and silent. I
had the odd sense that she was deliberating whether or not to share
something with me. Finally, she shook her head, sending her long,
auburn hair cascading over her narrow shoulders.
“Call me crazy,” she said, “but Rensivar’s body was never found.”
I choked, spraying tea down the front of my shirt. Mother glared
at me.
“Sorry,” I coughed, wiping tea off my chin. “Sorry, but, really?
Rensivar?”
“Fine,” she replied, giving me the kind of expression that
reminded me she could shift form right here and burn every part of
this shop to the ground. Hell, she could burn this whole town to the
ground. “Mock me. Hide in the human world like a rat. Let me carry
on alone, searching the skies for threats to both our worlds.”
She came to her feet in a flurry of hissing silk. I jumped up.
“Mom,” I said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
She arched her perfectly shaped eyebrow at me. Flames burned
in her irises.
“And you’re not alone,” I said, pressing on. “You have the Council
of the Iron Mountains behind you.”
She huffed. I took her hand.
“You have me behind you, too. I promise. Just tell me what you
want and why.”
Her shoulders relaxed. She let go of my fingers, sighed
dramatically, and sank back down into the armchair. With one hand
fluttering in the air, she grabbed another shortbread cookie and
snapped into it as if she were biting the head off an enemy.
“I just want information,” she announced, following her cookie
with another sip of tea.
I stood, refilled our teacups, and sat back down. “Information on
Donovan?”
“Exactly. I want someone in Valgros. Someone in his court.”
“Oh,” I said, interested now in spite of myself. Inside information
on the most secretive fiefdom on the continent? How could I resist
that offer? There had to be someone I knew who could connect to
the court, give the right bribes to the right people.
“Someone the Council wouldn’t know about,” Mother said,
pointedly.
“Of course,” I replied.
The Dragons’ Council of the Iron Mountains was a fractious,
inefficient bunch of hotheads at the best of times. And now was
hardly the best of times.
“Forgive me, but,” I took a sip of tea, considering my wording
carefully. “Did you mention this to the Council? About Rensivar?”
Mother stared at me as though I’d just announced rocks could
fly. “Did I remind the Council of a story they all believe is a myth?
Did I give them cause to doubt my sanity by talking openly about
the mad dragon their foremothers banned together to defeat?”
“Right,” I said. “Well. Just checking.”
She took the last cookie. I blew on my tea, sending tiny pink
ripples lapping against the white porcelain.
“But,” I said, watching her over the rim of my teacup, “you do
believe it.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at the
corners of her mouth.
“Yes,” she finally replied. “I do believe it. I believe Rensivar
wanted the world to forget him. And I believe those who doubt the
story are delusional fools.”
I grinned. She was never one to mince words, my mother.
“If I am wrong,” she continued, “we’ll still have a check on the
powers of a dangerous, violent human kingdom. And, if I am right,
we’ll prevent the utter destruction of dragonkind.”
“Well, that sounds lovely.” I set down my teacup and stood,
offering my mother my hand. “I’ll reach out to my connections and
see what I can do.”
“Yes, please. Tug on the strands of all those webs you sit here
and weave,” she said, with a laugh. It was a beautiful sound, high
and light, like the ringing of tiny, silver bells.
I smiled and tried to ignore the fact that my mother had now
compared me to a clam, a rat, and a spider in the span of time it
had taken to drink two cups of tea and share a plate of lemon
cookies.
“Who’s sitting on the Throne of Claws these days anyway?” I
asked, trying to steer the conversation away from any further
unflattering similes. The Council of the Iron Mountains handed off
the crown every dozen years or so, but it had been ages since I’d
paid any attention to which dragon was currently holding the most
coveted title in the realm: Queen.
My mother gave me a strange, tight little smile as she ignored
my outstretched hand. “Come to the Iron Mountains,” she answered,
“and find out.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” I replied. “I’m sure I can find
plenty of people here in Cairncliff who would be delighted to call me
a coward and a failed dragon without the hassle of traveling all the
way to the Iron Mountains.”
Mother’s smile tightened. “Doshir, if this is about what happened
between you and the Council—”
“Forget it,” I replied, waving my hand in the air between us as if I
were dismissing a fly. “It’s so long ago. I hardly even remember it.”
Mother’s forehead wrinkled. “One more thing,” she said.
“Anything,” I replied.
She finally took my hand and rose out of her seat. “Mad Scarlett
has just settled in the Knife’s Edge.”
I groaned. Mad Scarlett - or B’shelath Ygtishla, as she was known
in Draconic - was reportedly selfish, cruel, and maniacal; the very
worst kind of dragon. And that was before some foul wizard had
stolen her daughter, driving her insane.
“The Knife’s Edge is here,” I muttered.
“Less than a day’s flight,” Mother agreed. “And that’s a rather
important trade route for this dingy little town you so enjoy.”
She slipped her arm in mine and let me lead her through the
darkened shop. The bell above the front door sang merrily as I
pushed it open.
“Someone’s going to have to go and reason with her,” Mother
said, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek. “Or this little town will
have quite a hard time as the news spreads of an insane dragon
nesting by their road.”
I returned her kiss, embraced her, and then waved as she
vanished down the street, swallowed up by the darkness.
“Shit” I hissed under my breath as the door swung closed,
leaving me alone in the antiquities shop my father had opened four
hundred years earlier.
CHAPTER TWO
Rayne
B
y all the blessed kings of Valgros, that was an elf.
I froze in place as panic sent shock waves through my body.
My fingertips brushed the hilt of the dagger tucked into my belt, one
of three daggers I’d hidden amongst the lace and ruffles of this
stupidly feminine disguise.
An elf. I’d never seen one before, but the man coming toward me
through the gathering darkness could not possibly be anything else.
His tall, thin figure with long, light hair and demonically tapering
pointed ears was utterly unmistakable.
I swallowed hard, trying to focus despite the thudding in my
heart. I was an idiot to have come alone, here of all places. What
furious stupidity drove me to investigate the Spirit Woods at all, let
alone at dusk? Why hadn’t I stuck to the safer, human parts of this
damned town?
The elf rounded a corner on the crushed gravel path between
lush grass and the thick, knotted trunks of ancient oaks. Now he
really was coming toward me. My fingers wrapped around my
dagger’s hilt. Not that a dagger would do much good if he tried to
magic me by sending forth strangling vines from the trees or sucking
the air from my lungs. Damn me, why in the king’s blessed name
had I come here at all? Why hadn’t I done exactly what Eadberh had
suggested and gone straight to the healers and herbalists?
Balancing on the balls of my feet, I clenched my teeth together,
ready for anything. The elf walked toward me with a light, even gait,
his hands behind his back, his eyes on the intertwined branches of
the trees far overhead. The robe he wore was so white it seemed to
glow with a strange, unearthly radiance. Gravel crunched beneath
his feet.
He lowered his gaze as he approached me. This elf’s face was all
angles and hard lines, as though it had been carved from marble.
His eyes glowed with the same strange radiance as his robe. Without
breaking his gait, he raised his hands, pressed his palms together,
and touched his fingertips to his strange, thin lips.
“Peace of the evening, sister,” he said.
He spoke with a strange accent, as though his first language had
been the wind and his second birdsong. His robes rustled as he
passed me. For a moment, the air filled with something sharp and
sweet, like the flower of a spicy, bitter fruit.
Then he was gone, and I was left blinking into the darkness of
the path he’d just vacated. I exhaled slowly; my entire body
trembled as I sank back toward the ground, abandoning my fighting
pose.
“That was an elf,” I whispered as if my words would somehow
make the experience more real. A slow tremor crept through my
body.
That was an elf, and I’d survived the encounter.
With another long sigh, I loosened my fingers from the hilt of my
dagger and dragged them through my hair. I’d left it long and
annoyingly loose for the past two weeks in an attempt to blend in
with the other ladies of Cairncliff. I tried to imagine how Eadberh
would react when I told him about tonight. Would he be impressed?
I swallowed my own rueful laugh. No, of course he wouldn’t be
impressed. Eadberh had survived a dozen missions outside of
Valgros. He’d probably have dozens of stories about elf encounters
that would beat the piss out of having one walk past me in the Spirit
Wood.
Besides, then I’d have to explain what I was doing in Cairncliff’s
Spirit Wood. I shook myself, pulled in a deep breath, and kept
walking the paths. I’d never been inside a Spirit Wood, of course,
but I’d heard the stories about how these things worked.
Somewhere in the heart of every Spirit Wood was a spring. And
sometimes, for the right person, that spring would heal.
Stupid, I knew. It was a fairy tale meant to lure the foolish and
the gullible into the elves’ territory, the lands they had the audacity
to claim even in the middle of fine human cities. And my very
presence here meant that I was one of the foolish and gullible, even
if I’d managed to resist the temptation to explore the Spirit Wood
until tonight.
But I wasn’t an easy mark. I had twenty years of training as a
member of His Majesty’s Royal Army, even if His Royal Highness King
Donovan had not yet seen fit to allow me to become an official
member of that vaulted organization. Besides, I’d just seen an elf.
An elf who hadn’t even tried to harm me. So, no, I wasn’t one of the
foolish and gullible. Not yet.
The stone path curved and branched before me with seemingly
no rhyme or reason. I stopped at one ambiguous intersection,
listening. Running water sang to me from somewhere up ahead,
lilting through the flowers and tree branches. I followed the sound
up a small hill, through a series of tall, flowering bushes whose
branches interlaced above the path to form a tunnel, and into a
circle of birch trees whose paper-white trunks seemed almost
luminescent in the fading light.
There, on a mossy bank between the birch trees’ roots, was a
curved piece of wood. Water poured over the wood and tumbled into
a small basin lined with smooth stones. It was only when I bent
down before the spring that I noticed the wood wasn’t wood at all; it
was a piece of silver carved to resemble driftwood.
“Damn,” I whispered. “That’s beautiful.”
Heat rose in my cheeks, and I glanced over my shoulder to be
sure no one had just heard me curse in a sacred place. Even if it
wasn’t a real sacred place.
I was alone. I turned back to the spring and tried to remember
everything I’d ever heard about the healing powers of a Spirit Wood.
There was a tiny metal dipper resting on the moss beside the pool. I
picked it up and balanced it between my fingers. It was oddly heavy,
although I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it was made of real
silver. Who would leave a piece of real silver lying on the forest
floor? In this entire town, there had to be someone desperate
enough to steal, even if it was from the Spirit Wood.
I let the dipper fall through my fingers. It hit the moss with a soft
thud. I glanced over my shoulder again, searching the waiting birch
trees for any figures, human or otherwise. Only once I had
reassured myself yet again that I was indeed alone did I let my hand
move to my left arm. My maimed and disfigured arm.
My dress had long sleeves, of course; all my clothes had long
sleeves. This dress also had narrow cuffs with a series of delicate
buttons and a silken V that nearly extended to my fingers. It was
almost as good as my black leather gloves. It was almost enough to
hide the pale white lines that streaked the back of my hand.
Biting my lip, I unbuttoned the cuff and tugged back my sleeve.
The angry red waves of my own scarred flesh looked no less
repulsive in the gently filtered dusk of the Spirit Grove. Not that I
had expected anything to have changed. I rolled the sleeve up to my
elbow, trying to touch my own skin as little as possible. Then I
turned to face the spring.
What should I do here? Did I have to pray? Did I utter some
magical words? Should I submerge my arm, or drink the water, or
what?
What the hell, I decided. I’d do it all.
“Oh, spring of the Spirit Wood,” I whispered, speaking quickly, “I
come to seek your healing powers.”
I reached for the silver dipper and plunged it into the pool.
“Please,” I added, for good measure.
My hand trembled as I pulled the dipper from the pool. The
smooth stones lining the bottom shimmered as ripples broke the
surface of the water. Quickly, I turned the dipper over and poured
the water on my arm. It was bracingly cold; a shiver ran through my
body as my scarred skin tightened.
But it didn’t change. Blinking back a sting behind my eyelids, I
dropped the silver dipper into the spring a second time. This time I
brought it to my lips. The water was as cold as the bottom of a well.
It tasted faintly of stones and moss and the dark, secret places of
the forest. I drank quickly, the cold burning its way down my throat
to pool in my gut. Then I turned back to my arm. My twisted,
burned flesh winked up at me, the angry red scars branching and
twining like flames.
A dull, helpless rage twisted my chest. What exactly had I
expected? Was I really desperate enough to believe fairy tales?
Biting my lip, I shoved my anger aside and thrust my entire arm
into the pool. A strange prickling shiver danced across my skin,
moving up my arm and radiating through my entire body. I closed
my eyes.
“Please,” I whispered.
Somewhere in the trees above me, a hidden bird began to call in
a soft, lilting trill. I imagined I could feel the water of the spring
washing over my skin, carrying away the damage from the fire that
had made me an orphan, that permanent reminder of the flames I
couldn’t even remember. I took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled
slowly. Another bird called from over my shoulder, answering the
first in their soft, secret language. I pulled my arm from the water
and opened my eyes.
My vision swam for a moment as my brain tried to make sense of
the twilight forest before me. The pool glowed with the last of the
sky’s reflected light as though it were suffused with its own
illumination. Shadows gathered beneath the trees and licked up
through the branches, grasping at the burnished silver sky. I let my
gaze slide down the pale birch trunks, glide across the surface of the
spring, and settle on my arm.
My soaking wet, horribly scarred, ugly, ugly, ugly arm. Tears
stung my eyes as anger rose hot and bitter in the back of my throat.
Stupid fucking spring of the Spirit Wood. Stupid fucking me.
I stood, shaking the water droplets off my arm. I’d accomplished
absolutely nothing by completing this ridiculous task, aside from
proving that Blessed King Donovan of Valgros was right. The fairy
tales were all lies, and I was a damned fool.
I shoved my sleeve down over my hideous arm. The rich velvet
fabric was wet and cold against my scars. I came to my feet and
brushed the moss off my skirts, silently cursing myself for treating
such a fine dress so disrespectfully. This was the nicest outfit I’d
ever worn; it was important that Eadberh and I looked affluent, rich
enough to travel at a slow, leisurely pace. Able to easily afford
access to the information we were seeking. And the information we
claimed to be seeking.
I shook my hair out over my shoulders and stomped down the
annoyingly picturesque little path through the Spirit Wood. I had to
focus, damn it. I had to get back to my mission to turn Cairncliff
upside down and shake out all the possible healers. That was, after
all, what I’d told Eadberh I was going to do tonight while he hit up
the dirty, dangerous pubs and taverns that wouldn’t look so kindly
on ladies in order to sample the local gossip. And he’d probably
sample a few of the local gentlemen too, I thought, rolling my eyes.
Either way, I’d return to our inn with an improved mental map of
Cairncliff, the locations of a few plausible healers, and no mention of
the Spirit Wood.
And I wouldn’t go back until my sleeve was dry.
CHAPTER THREE
Doshir
I
stepped back, crossed my arms over my chest, tilted my head to
the side, and examined my re-organized shelves critically. Yes,
the historical records from the last four decades really had been a
disaster. Yes, those scrolls, sheaves of parchment, and leather-bound
journals really had been crying out for some attention. Still, as I bent
to light the first candle against the growing darkness enveloping the
windows, the knowledge that it had been nearly two weeks since
Mother blew into town with her strange request gnawed at the
inside of my ribcage. I’d had almost two weeks, and I had not yet
made any effort to approach Mad Scarlett, let alone any inquiries
into how I might find a spy in King Donovan’s court.
But it’s not like I’d done absolutely nothing. I’d sent a message to
the Office of the Historian of the Iron Mountains asking very politely
for any information he may be willing to share about Mad Scarlett,
and I’d also sent along enough gold to ensure he’d actually be
interested in answering my request. Once I knew more about the
dragon who’d settled in the Knife’s Edge mountains, I reasoned, I’d
come up with a strategy to approach her.
Plus, I had to admit, those shelves looked worlds better now that
they were re-organized. If I had any questions about what had
happened during the latest peasant revolt in North Fallows, I’d know
exactly where to find my records.
My stomach rumbled, interrupting my admiration of my own
organizational prowess. Yes. Dinner. The problems with Mad Scarlett
and finding some sort of a mole in Donovan’s court that I could offer
up for my mother’s exploitation would have to wait until another day.
If I were being honest, that didn’t exactly break my heart.
I settled a hurricane glass over the candle, just in case, and
stepped carefully through the front room of our store. I could weave
my way through these bookcases, shelves, and piles of boxes
blindfolded, but I still took my time, admiring the scent of old leather
and dusty parchment as I watched dusk fall outside the windows. My
father had built this particular shop on the second-tallest of
Cairncliff’s nine hills, just down the road from Noble’s Hill, which of
course was not home to anything so lowbrow as a common store.
From the shop’s broad front windows, the city of Cairncliff slipped
away toward the harbor and the dark sea. I paused before the
largest window, inhaling deeply. The streetlight sparkled on the
corner opposite the shop, echoing the tiny pricks of light that had
begun to wink into life above the city. Far across the sea, the horizon
glowed dull scarlet with the last flickers of the dying sun.
By all the Mothers who had come before, I would never tire of
this view. It was well worth the dozens of bribes and threats it had
taken over the years to ensure that no one ever dared to erect a
taller building between our shop’s front window and the ocean.
A spark of light caught my eye in the narrow alleyway across the
street. As I watched, a squat figure brought a flaming match to a
pipe. The pipe winked with golden embers, illuminating the thick,
curly beard of a dwarf. The dwarf’s dark eyes met mine in the weak
light. He winked.
Oh, good. Graystone was back. I always enjoyed the dwarven
smuggler’s visits. I pivoted toward the door and pushed it open,
setting the silver bell above the lintel dancing.
And I almost walked directly into the arms of the woman
standing on the front steps.
“Oh!” she cried, stepping backward.
I grabbed her elbow without thinking before she could go
crashing off the stone steps. A sudden jolt of magic as hot and fierce
as summer lightning raced through my body, searing my skin from
my fingertips to the base of my spine. It retreated as quickly as it
had appeared, leaving me gasping stupidly at the stranger.
She was a stranger, I was sure of it. Like all dragons, I never
forgot a face. Not that I would have wanted to forget this one. The
woman standing before me had striking blue eyes and the kind of
delicate, perfectly harmonized features usually only found in
paintings. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in dusky ember-
colored waves, and her sapphire blue dress was cut just low enough
to be enticing.
Ah. And I should not be staring at the neckline of that dress.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, pulling her arm delicately out of my
grasp.
“Oh,” I stammered.
I hadn’t realized I was still holding her elbow. The strange
magical fire that had burned through me when I’d touched her had
dissipated, leaving me wondering what in the name of the Mothers
had just happened.
“This is Geredan’s Antiquities, is it not?” she asked, tilting her
head critically at the enormous wooden sign hanging directly
overhead. She had an odd, delicate accent I could not immediately
place.
“Yes, please,” I replied. “I mean, yes, this is Geredan’s
Antiquities. Geredan’s my father. I’m Doshir.”
The woman frowned at me, then glanced down at the arm I’d
grabbed. In the misty halo of light from the streetlamp, I could see
that the exposed skin on the back of her left hand was puckered and
rippled. She followed my gaze, then pushed her sleeve down until
the sapphire fabric engulfed her entire hand.
“And you are a healer?” she asked.
She glanced up at the sign again, where over the years my father
and I had added a dozen shingles specifying what exactly an
antiquities shop did. Translator and Cartographer had been my only
additions. My father had written Healer ages ago, but I suspected it
was only in order to have young women undress for him. No one in
Cairncliff would be foolish enough to seek me out as a healer.
This woman clearly wasn’t from Cairncliff.
“Uh, yes?” I answered. My voice rose as I spoke, making my
affirmation sound like a question.
She glanced at her hand, which was now nearly hidden beneath
the soft velvet of her sleeve.
“But, I’m afraid I can’t do much for curses,” I finished. “That’s
very complicated, specific magic. Usually, a curse can only be
undone by the caster—”
“What?” Her eyes widened and a horrified expression fluttered
across her delicate features.
“Oh. Uh. Oh,” I stammered, like an idiot. I’d just assumed the
wrinkled skin on the back of her left hand was evidence of a curse; it
looked like a curse, and curse magic would explain the jolt of fire I’d
gotten when I’d touched her.
“I mean, what exactly are you looking for?” I asked.
She cleared her throat and dipped her head. Her chest rose as
she took a deep breath. It suddenly occurred to me that it had been
a long time since I’d been intimate with a woman. A very long time.
“A healer,” she answered. “For my scar.”
She said the word scar very slowly and deliberately, as though
she were speaking to a young child, or perhaps a dog. Then she
raised the arm I’d touched. She hesitated and, for a heartbeat, she
looked like she’d been forced to swallow something bitter. Then,
haltingly, she peeled back her sleeve. The skin on her left wrist and
forearm was a storm of thick red bands and raised white lines that
danced down her wrist and stretched toward her elbow.
“Oh,” I murmured. I raised my hand, then met her eyes. “May I?”
She nodded. I braced myself for another violent shock of
unfamiliar magic, then brushed my fingers softly across the rippled
skin of her forearm. Nothing. All I felt was the warmth of a woman’s
skin. Odd. Had I imagined it somehow, the flash of magic that had
snaked across my skin like a spark of dragonfire?
“It’s a burn,” she said. Her voice sounded deeper now, in the
closeness between our bodies. “An old burn. From when I was a
child.”
I looked up, my attention moving from her arm to her eyes. In
the unsteady remains of the fading light, they flashed a deep violet.
I suddenly wanted to know more about this scar, this burn, and
about the child who had survived them. My father would know how
to play this; he’d invite the lady in, offer her tea, and have her out of
that elegant blue dress before the bells tolled the next hour. The
mental image of this woman spread across the table I’d just cleared
suddenly surged through my mind with ferocious insistence,
drowning all my other thoughts. Her thick, ember hair would tumble
over the stacks of books; her skin would gleam in the lamplight,
bright against the dark wood.
Heat rose in my cheeks. I pulled my hand away from her arm,
rocked back on my heels, and cleared my throat.
“I— I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t do burns. I— I’m afraid I
wouldn’t know where to begin.”
The woman’s full lips pressed together, curving into a frown.
“My father’s the healer,” I said, lamely shoveling another lie onto
the steaming heap of bullshit I’d already told this poor woman.
“And is he available?” She tilted her head as she asked as if she
were trying to peer into the darkness of the shop behind me, and
her ember-colored hair shifted around her bare neck.
“No,” I said, somewhat more vehemently than necessary. “No.
He’s traveling. For a long time. A very long time.”
“Ah.” Her forehead furrowed. “I’m sorry to have bothered you
then, Sir Doshir.”
A nervous laugh slipped out of my lips. “Oh, no, I’m not a Sir.
Please. Just Doshir.”
She was still staring at me as though I were a sign in a language
she had never quite mastered. Damn it all, I was being awkward
again, wasn’t I?
And this was exactly why it had been such a long time since I’d
been intimate with a woman.
“I’ve heard the best healer in town is near the greengrocer’s
market,” I said, making an effort to pull myself together and sound
like an ordinary human. “She’s a woman. Ailen... something. Her
sign has an enormous crutch on it.”
Ailen was also the only human healer in town I’d trust. All the
others would charge a stack of gold for a potion of ash and bone
meal and then blame demons if that didn’t work.
“Ailen,” the woman repeated. “Thank you, Doshir.”
The sound of my name on her lips did strange things to my
insides. Perhaps I had been spending too much time alone, shut
inside the shop, trying not to think about my mother’s last visit.
The flame-haired woman nodded politely, then turned and
descended the staircase. Stars began to dance above her as she
walked through the pool of light cast by the streetlamp and vanished
around a corner.
“Fine woman,” a deep voice grunted from the shadows. “She
yours?”
I shook my head and only just managed to keep my mouth shut
my head as Graystone the dwarf crossed the street, his pipe casting
a golden light over his rough features. This was not the time or the
place for yet another argument about how a romantic relationship
among humans or dragons does not translate into ownership. The
dwarf grunted as he clambered up stairs built for someone twice his
size.
“Shame,” Graystone said. “You could use a woman, you know.”
“Lovely to see you too,” I scowled. “Care to accompany me to
dinner, or would you prefer to insult me on my own doorstep?”
Graystone laughed, one of those deep, rollicking dwarven laughs
that seems to come from the bowels of the earth itself. “Ah, Doshir!
If I’d wanted to insult you, I would have said that you couldn’t keep
a two-bit torch lit inside a—”
“That’s just fine,” I said, holding up my hands to stop him.
“Dinner?”
He shook his head. “Love to. Can’t. I’ve got a shipment leaving in
less than an hour.”
Shipment. I knew better than to ask any questions.
“I’ll be meeting up with your father in a few days,” Graystone
said. His bushy eyebrows wiggled in a way that made me think he
found this fact amusing. “Got anything to pass on to your old man?”
“Oh! Yes, thank you,” I said.
I pushed the shop’s door open and hurried to my desk. I always
kept a box of updates and various bric-a-brac my father would want
to see because I never knew exactly when his associates would stop
by. Or how long they’d have to chit-chat before their various
pursuers caught up to them.
“One other thing,” I said as I handed the box, along with several
gold pieces, to Graystone. “Tell him my mother stopped by. She
asked about him first, as always.”
Both of Graystone’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah! And how is the Lady
Dragon?”
The dwarves had held my mother in exceedingly high regard for
centuries. Apparently, she’d cleared up some unpleasantness for
them in the years before I was born. And, just like the saying goes,
a dwarf might forgive, but he never forgets.
“She’s fine,” I said, with a shrug.
Graystone’s eyes sparkled. “She’s off foiling some evil plan,
then?”
I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “More or less.”
Graystone tucked the little box for my father into some hidden
pocket, then reached out and slapped me on the arm. “You know, it
must be exhausting for you, being the only proper dragon in your
family.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your father’s a pirate. Your mother’s off manipulating diplomats
and forging alliances. And here you are,” Graystone said, waving his
lit pipe around the interior of my dusty shop in a way that made me
nervous. “Snug in your cave with your treasure!”
He laughed again. This time I found it significantly less
entertaining.
“Oh, come on now,” I said. “I’ve helped you plenty of times.”
“And all from the comforts of your little cave,” Graystone snorted
as he walked back to the door and began to haul himself down the
stairs.
“Well, someone’s got to watch after things.” I locked the door
behind me and followed him down the steps. “Besides, I found those
fragments of the map of Morrow Glen, didn’t I?”
Graystone reached the street, turned, and fixed me with a
serious expression. “Aye. That you did, and I’m forever in my debt.
There’s nothing wrong with being a dragon, now. It’s just—”
His gaze drifted upward, as though the sparkling summer
constellations had pulled his attention away from our conversation.
“Your father thinks you should have a little more fun,” he said.
“Live a little. And, Doshir, I don’t think he’s wrong.”
“I am having fun!” I declared.
I turned to face the darkened windows of Geredan’s Antiquities
as though I expected the store to back me up here. In response,
Graystone pulled a stained leather pouch from one of his many
pockets, took a pinch of whatever dark stuff it was he smoked, and
re-filled the bowl of his pipe. His match flared in the shadows
between us before Graystone held it to his pipe and then dropped it
to the cobblestones at our feet.
“Well, I’m off,” the dwarf said between pale puffs of piquant
smoke. “May the ground be solid beneath your feet, Doshir.”
“And may the wind stay at your back, Graystone,” I answered.
My stomach growled again as I watched the dwarf turn down an
alley toward the harbor. I began to follow him, heading north toward
the row of elegant restaurants nestled along the cliffs. The Duck and
Goose would have a cozy booth ready for me; I wouldn’t even need
to order. Philmont the maître d' knew I’d be having ale and
vegetable stew, just like every night.
My step faltered. Graystone’s words echoed through my head.
But I was having fun. I was having fun, and I could give a damn
what Graystone and my father thought about it. I was living.
Managing the antiquities store was living, damn it.
But perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to have dinner somewhere else. Just
for tonight.
With that thought in mind, I spun on my heels and headed in the
opposite direction, toward the city gates. Down the same street the
woman in the blue dress had taken.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rayne
I
tried to keep my gait ladylike as I dragged myself back to the
respectable inn where Eadberh and I were staying. The evening
hadn’t been a complete waste, but it hadn’t exactly been an
unmitigated victory either. I rubbed my left sleeve, tugging it as far
down over my wrist as the fabric would stretch. The sleeve had
dried, but the skin underneath still felt strange, raw and uneasy, as if
submerging it in the Spirit Wood spring had brought some ancient
pain to the surface.
Or had it happened when I’d touched that strange man at the
antiquities store? At first, I’d thought he’d used some sort of magical
weapon against me. But no, the painful jolt that had seared up my
arm when he’d caught me by the elbow must have been a shock of
static, the kind that dances blue through the dark if you shuffle
barefoot over a woolen rug.
I bit the inside of my lip and stomped harder across the
cobblestones. Damn it all, everything about that stupid antiquities
store had been a disappointment. It had seemed like the perfect
place to collect gossip and rumors while pretending to browse
useless curios and listen to unlikely remedies for treating my scar. I’d
expected the store to be run by a half-doddering old man bent over
stacks of paper, exactly the kind of person who’d be delighted to
gossip about any unnatural disturbances over the past fifty years.
Not so much. Even now, after I’d turned the encounter over and
over in my head, remembering the man who had opened that door
made my skin flush and my head swim as if I’d just had too much
wine. He was not at all a doddering old shopkeeper. With his tall,
athletic figure, broad shoulders, and tousled dark curls, the man
standing in the doorway of Geredan’s Antiquities would have been at
home in His Majesty’s Royal Army back in Valgros. But he’d had none
of a soldier’s confidence, or arrogance, despite his disturbingly
handsome face. Even Eadberh was loath to admit his ignorance, but
the man at the antiquities shop had cheerfully told me that he
wasn’t a healer and then, just as cheerfully, referred me to someone
else.
Strange. Just like the silver dipper in the Spirit Wood, the one
that wouldn’t last a heartbeat on any street corner in Valgros. Were
people here that different? Or was it just the man in the shop who
was different, the man with dark eyes and broad shoulders who’d
asked so gently if he could see the hideous arm that was supposed
to be my excuse to prod him for information.
I shook my head. None of that mattered, damn it. I was here for
a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with attractive men
running oddball stores. Now that I’d exhausted my one excuse for
exploring the antiquities shop, I’d just have to start accepting
useless cures from all the other healers in this strange town. While
politely asking harmless questions. About dragons.
Almost against my will, I turned and stared out over the dusky
red-tile rooftops of Cairncliff to the looming wall of mountains. The
Knife’s Edge, the locals called that range. It separated Cairncliff’s
farms and fields from the rest of the continent, an impenetrable
barrier save for a handful of narrow, dangerous passes. The jagged
peaks were black beneath the dusky sky, an ebony so intense they
seemed to have sucked the light from the world. I shivered,
although the night was warm. No wonder the locals here had taken
to sailing.
I touched my forehead and then my lips, the sign of the king’s
blessing, and turned my attention back to the streets. I knew
nothing about dragons, aside from the stories the king’s secretive
advisor Ensyvir had allowed me to read from his forbidden books,
but those mountains certainly looked like they held a dragon. A chill
danced down the back of my neck and settled over my shoulders.
They felt like they held a dragon.
A dragon we would kill.
I swallowed hard against the unwelcome knot of fear in my gut.
Of course, I wanted to spread the glory of Blessed King Donovan.
He’d taken me in, after all, when I’d been an abandoned orphan
covered with scars from the fire that had killed my family. He’d given
me a home, and a purpose. He’d made me into a warrior in order to
spread his glorious name, and he’d entrusted me with this secret,
impossible mission: Kill the dragon in Cairncliff. Show the rest of the
world a reason to fear the might of the islands of Valgros.
And the blessed king had taken me into his bed as well. The knot
of fear in my gut shifted, diffusing through my body like mist over
the mountains. I knew how fortunate I was to have been chosen as
the King’s companion, not only once but a dozen times. Chosen
despite my obvious deformities.
“You know,” the king had said, trailing his fingers across my scars
as my stomach curdled in disgust, “if it weren’t for this, you’d make
a fine whore.”
We'd been lying together on the red silk of his bed when he’d
made this declaration. He’d had a fair amount of wine that evening,
and the act itself had been rather short and disappointing.
“We all serve as best as we can, my Lord,” I’d answered.
He’d laughed in a slow, sardonic way and then rolled over onto
his side. A moment later, he was snoring, leaving me to stare at the
thick velvet curtains above the royal mattress as disappointment
wormed its way through my insides. I’d had more satisfying tumbles
standing up in the armory, stealing a few moments of pleasure with
a soldier or a footman, and the king’s final words had left me cold.
As if I weren’t the most capable fighter in his entire castle, even if
my damned gender rendered me unfit to serve in His Majesty’s Royal
Army. As if, for all my years of grueling training, I was just another
whore.
But he was the king, I’d reminded myself. I couldn’t apply my
lowly plebeian standards to His Highness.
Still. When I’d gotten his summons that morning, my imagination
had run wild. Just this once, I’d thought. Just one mission with the
Royal Army. One chance to prove that even a deformed, orphan
woman could serve alongside soldiers.
I spat on the cobblestones, cursing my former self for her
foolishness. I should be proud to have this secret mission with
Eadberh. Killing a dragon and spreading the glory of Valgros was a
noble quest. It was just a secret quest. Like my secret summons late
at night to the king’s bed-chamber.
I heaved a sigh as I turned the corner and spotted our inn. Light
poured from the windows of the Master and Mistress, reminding me
how dark the city had grown as I’d stomped my way home from the
antiquities shop. The shop owner’s disarmingly attractive smile
flashed through my mind again, bringing a surge of heat that
dispelled the chill I’d gotten from looking at the Knife’s Edge
mountains and remembering my last evening with His Royal
Highness. What was a man that disturbingly handsome doing
running a dusty antiquities shop? And why hadn’t it been mobbed by
eligible ladies?
Shaking my head, I pushed open the door of the inn. Laughter
and conversation flowed around me, enveloping me, and then
drifted past me into the cool night air. I cast a quick look around the
room, assessing threats as I searched for Eadberh. There was a
well-dressed older couple at a table near the back of the room,
heads bent in intimate conversation. Married, I’d guess, but not to
each other. A few heavy-set older men leaned against the bar,
embroiled in some conversation that would turn louder the more
they drank. Three women stood together at a tall table near the
fireplace, laughing about something. I’d seen groups of women like
that ever since we’d left Valgros, women out of their homes,
unaccompanied by men, or even women walking alone through the
city at night. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it.
What I did not see was Eadberh. He was a bear of a man, almost
a full head taller than me with shoulders as wide as a doorframe. He
couldn’t have hidden in this room if his life depended on it.
So, my partner and friend was probably still out drinking his way
across Cairncliff, picking up whatever dragon-related gossip he could
find. I could sit down at the bar and wait for him, maybe listen in on
the conversations fluttering around the elegant common room like so
many buzzing insects.
But I felt strangely unsettled. The memory of the man at the
antiquities shop - Doshir, he’d called himself - flittered uneasily
through my mind, and I had the feeling that memory would not sit
well with a glass or two of wine. No, better to go up to our room,
peel off this unfamiliar costume, and relax with my blade and a
polishing cloth.
I climbed the stairs delicately, like a lady, then turned down the
hallway to the room Eadberh and I shared. The door was locked, of
course; I rummaged in my silk purse for the small iron key, then
stuck it in the lock. The hinges squealed as I pushed the door open.
It smacked into something solid almost immediately.
My hand dropped to my waist, feeling for the hilt of the sword I’d
worn almost every day for the past twenty years. Was it a body?
Was this—
“Shit,” someone muttered softly.
“Rayne? That you?” a familiar voice called from inside the room.
I shoved the door again. It smacked into something heavy with a
resistant thud. I looked down and saw the rough-hewn edge of the
dresser. Eadberh had pushed the dresser in front of the door. The
muffled rustle of heavy fabric and hushed voices drifted through the
open door. I rolled my eyes.
A moment later, Eadberh’s flushed face appeared through the
open door. “Hey, Rayne,” he said, only somewhat apologetically.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I replied.
I slammed my hips into the door. The dresser squealed horribly
as it yielded a bit more space between the door and the frame.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Eadberh put his hands on either side of the
door. His bare chest gleamed in the light of the hallway’s oil lamps.
“Look, I’m sorry about this, but... you know...”
Another voice rose from inside the room. A deep voice. Eadberh
turned. I seized the moment to throw my full weight against the
door. The dresser slid across the polished wooden floor with a groan,
and I forced my way into the room that was supposed to belong to
both of us.
At least the naked man in Eadberh’s bed had the good sense to
look contrite, or at least as contrite as he could look with the sheets
bunched around his waist and an empty wine bottle at his feet.
“I am so sorry,” the naked man gushed. “I didn’t realize he was
married.”
I stared at him, trying to place his long, blond hair and delicate
features. “Ah. You’re the musician,” I said.
I’d last seen him fully clothed and playing some complicated
stringed instrument in the inn’s common room when Eadberh and I
had split up that evening. Apparently, Eadberh hadn’t gotten very
far.
“I’m not married,” Eadberh said, almost at the same time.
The naked blond in the bed turned to me as if he didn’t trust it
coming from anyone other than the pissed-off woman who’d just
forced her way into the bedroom. Huffing in irritation, I turned to
the empty bed on the other side of the room where I’d laid my
sword. I had so wanted to spend the night shut up in here, avoiding
people.
“He’s not married,” I grudgingly admitted.
The man on the bed all but sighed in relief.
“He’s my idiot brother,” I continued, serving up the cover story
we’d agreed upon back in Valgros.
Eadberh gave me an apologetic half-smile and rubbed the back
of his neck. “So, uh... Do you think you could come back? In a
couple of hours?”
I wanted to punch him. And then I wanted to punch myself for
wanting to punch him. I knew how hard it was for Eadberh to find
men who shared his preferences, especially in Valgros. And he’d
been quite open about what he’d hoped to find in Cairncliff, aside
from the dragon.
Plus, the bastard had technically saved my life. More than once.
I heaved a sigh. “Fine,” I said.
Eadberh’s face broke into an enormous grin. He yanked open a
drawer on the abused dresser and pulled out a thick stack of coins.
“Go have fun,” he said as he pressed the coins into my palm. “Go
to a really nice place. Vil, what’s a good restaurant?”
“Oh, go to the Elven District,” the man on the bed said. His eyes
brightened.
Eadberh nodded so agreeably I doubted he’d even heard what
the man had said. “Yeah. Go there. Have fun.”
I dropped the coin into my purse. Whatever I ended up doing
tonight, I was keeping the money. Consider it payment for my lost
evening of not dealing with other people. I stepped out of the
doorway and pulled it shut behind me, but the door caught. I looked
up to see Eadberh’s hand on the frame.
“Rayne.” Our eyes met. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Yeah. Whatever,” I shrugged.
The door closed. I walked away before I could hear whatever
Eadberh was beginning to say to his one-night stand, trudged down
the stairs, and faced the inn’s common room with a sense of grim
determination. By all the blessed kings, I felt tired. I’d never traveled
so far outside of Valgros, and trying to pretend that the strange
customs of Cairncliff didn’t make my jaw drop was exhausting.
I’d also never had to wear a dress for such an irritatingly long
time. The elegant leather boots that I’d chosen to match this dress
pinched my toes, and the voluminous skirt was heavy and stupid.
This dress exposed too much skin on my chest while restricting any
actual movement; it was like window-dressing, created solely for
show.
One of the women by the window laughed, a high shriek of
pleasure that sounded almost like a bird’s call. Those three women
were wearing plain dresses with smaller skirts. They all looked much
more comfortable than I felt, here with their friends, in their own
city.
My left hand tightened into a fist. At first, I’d assumed I’d just
sink into a chair by the fireside and ask the barkeep to keep the
wine coming, but now I felt uneasy, as though that woman’s laugh
had awakened something restless just below my skin. I crossed the
room, pushed open the heavy front door, and stepped aimlessly into
the night. Toward the harbor, I decided. Away from the mountains
and the Spirit Wood. I walked past the warm light flickering through
the inn’s windows, rounded the corner—
And almost smacked into someone.
“Oh!” I cried, stepping back. “Excuse me.”
“Excuse me,” a man’s voice said in a strangely familiar rumble.
I looked up, meeting his dark eyes.
It was Doshir from the antiquities shop.
CHAPTER FIVE
Doshir
“E
xcuse me,” I stammered, staring into the brilliant blue eyes
of the woman I’d just met on the steps of my shop. My heart
thudded against my ribcage and I felt flushed, as though she’d just
accused me of something.
But of course that was ridiculous. I hadn’t tried to follow her.
The woman cleared her throat, bowed slightly, and stepped
backward. All at once, several things fell into place: her odd accent.
The strangely formal dress she wore. Her unfamiliarity with Cairncliff.
“Are you from Valgros?” I asked.
It was a crazy question. The xenophobic magic-hating subjects of
King Donovan’s Valgros absolutely did not travel. But her
mannerisms didn’t match anything else, and it was at least
conceivable that a wealthy woman could go traveling in search of a
cure to a disfiguring curse. Or, a scar.
The red-haired woman frowned, then bowed again, her features
composing themselves into a tentative smile. “I am. Doshir, was it?”
She extended her right hand. I took it, then bowed to kiss her
fingers, following what I knew of Valgros’ customs. Her skin was
warm, and a subtle floral scent danced in the air around her.
“My lady,” I replied, releasing her hand.
“Rayne,” she replied. She was staring at her fingers as though I’d
just placed an indecipherable riddle on them. “Are you... from
Valgros?”
I shook my head. “I’m from right here. More or less.”
“I haven’t been greeted like that since we left the kingdom,” she
said, her gaze still lingering on her fingertips.
“Well,” I said, “it’s my business to know a little about the customs
of other places.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I thought your business was an antiquities
shop?”
I waved my hand dismissively. “That’s a part of it. What I’m really
interested in is history. The stories of cities and kingdoms, you
know?”
By the Mothers, that sounded horribly boring.
“Or any stories, really,” I continued, in a desperate attempt to
make myself sound at least halfway interesting. “Not just people.
Elves, dwarves, dragons. I study them all.”
Her eyes widened, and my heart rose in my throat. Of course. If
she actually was from Valgros, what would she know about elves,
dwarves, and dragons? She was young; the business with the elves
would have happened before she was born, or when she’d been a
child. Elves would be a fairy tale for her, let alone dwarves and
dragons.
And yet here she was, in the land of fairy tales. I felt strangely
warm and unsteady on my feet, as though I’d had too much to
drink. My heart was beating too fast and some strange, rebellious
part of my mind whispered that the beautiful woman in front of me
might be interested in fairy tales. The vision of her body spread
across my table with her hair tumbling over the books rose once
again in my mind; I shoved it down and cleared my throat.
“Where are you heading tonight?” I asked.
“I’m going—” She hesitated, then sighed. Her shoulders dropped.
“I don’t know. My idiot brother is in our room with a— a friend.”
She drew out the word friend, leaving it heavy with unspoken
connotations that did nothing to stifle my vision of her amber hair
spread across my books.
“I guess I’m just looking for somewhere to kill a few hours,” she
finished with a shrug that seemed at odds with her elegant dress.
“I have a few hours,” I said, my lips and tongue forming the
words before my brain could rein them in.
She gave me a level, measured gaze. Once more I felt like her
expression did not exactly match the elegant dress she was wearing,
and I had the strange thought that she would be better suited by a
sword and chest plate than a dress with a flirtatiously low bodice.
“If you’d like,” I added. “I know a nice, quiet place. We could get
a few drinks. I could tell you some stories you probably haven’t
heard in Valgros.”
That look flashed across her features again, the wide eyes and
parted lips. Then she gave me a tight, sly grin that reminded me of
a cat.
“Stories about elves, dwarves, and dragons?” she asked.
“Unless you’d rather hear about history?” I offered.
Her smile widened. I stepped closer, closing the space between
us, and offered her my arm. She took it; her hand rested on mine,
warm and reassuringly solid. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman
who hesitated.
“That sounds lovely,” she said.
“So, what do you prefer,” I asked as I steered her toward the
Elven District, “the elves, the dwarves, or the dragons?”
“Dragons,” she answered immediately. “Tell me everything.”
My heart fluttered against my ribcage, and for a moment I felt as
though I’d swallowed the sun. Oh, yes. I’d take her to the elven inn
beside the Spirit Wood, order their frost wine, and then tell this
woman everything about dragons.
There is no clear indication that Cairncliff has transitioned from
the ramshackle human dwellings to the smaller, more elegant Elven
District that lines the Spirit Wood. It’s a subtle transition, easy to
overlook. The softening of hard edges on the buildings. The door
frames that grow larger and thinner. The buildings are spaced
further apart, with more trees between them. And the gardens
become wilder, more overgrown with flowers and thorns and small,
hidden creatures.
Rayne's hand on my arm tightened as we rounded a corner and
the dark bulk of the Spirit Wood loomed before us. Golden light and
intricate elven music poured through a circular open door in the
building ahead of us. I slowed my pace; of course, this poor woman
had never seen anything like this. She was probably entirely
overwhelmed.
“That’s Cairncliff’s Spirit Wood,” I said, pointing to the trees
beyond the row of buildings in front of us. “It runs through the
entire town, like a river. But there’s nothing in there that could harm
you.”
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And not till the silver bells in the castle tower tolled ten did anyone
above stairs stir from his silken couch.
CHAPTER 19
Another Wishing Pill
After a merry breakfast in the gardens, Cheeriobed conducted the

royal party over the entire Sapphire City. High Boy carried Ozma,
Scraps, Trot, Betsy and Dorothy, and they all agreed that, next to the
capital, the Sapphire City was the fairest city in Oz. The sun shone
with dazzling brightness on the glittering spires, the jeweled sands
and rocks had never sparkled more beautifully. Even the waters of
Orizon seemed bluer since the Queen's return. Everywhere the
cheers and shouts of the delighted Islanders greeted the visitors and
lovely Orin.
"If we just had our sea horses," mused Cheeriobed, putting one arm
around the Queen and the other around Philador, "everything would
be as it was before." The old mer-man who stood close by the King
looked so unhappy at this remark that Ozma bade High Boy stop, and
jumping down hurried over to the Wizard. After a whispered
conference which nobody seemed to notice, Ozma and the little man
tip-toed off by themselves. And when next Cheeriobed looked out
over the lake, he gave a shout of delight and pleasure. In toward the
shore, with flying manes and flashing tails, raced the whole herd of
white sea horses, lively and lovely as they ever were.
"I wish Joe King could see this," whinnied High Boy, wading out to
meet them and neighing a greeting in the high horse tongue. Orpah
was already in the water, caressing first one and then another of his
former pets, while the little Prince jumped in with all his clothes, to
mount his own prancing sea charger.
"How did you do it?" begged Cheeriobed, turning back to Ozma, who
stood smiling at him from her perch on an opal rock.
"Ask the Wizard," replied the little fairy mysteriously, but when they all
crowded curiously around the Wizard he merely shook his head and
muttered that restoring a herd of sea horses from a pile of bones was
quite easy—if you just knew how. And with this answer they were
forced to be satisfied.
Next the Wizard, with another of his magic powders, moved the great
figure of Quiberon to the mouth of his cave, where it stands to this
day for all to see.
"The fire from his nostrils must have eaten away the sides of the
passageway and enabled him to squeeze out," explained the Wizard,
who had been puzzling over this particular problem ever since his
arrival. As this cleared up the last of the mysteries, Ozma and her
courtiers now made ready to depart. Philador was so loath to say
goodbye to Trot that Ozma persuaded the King, the Queen and the
little Prince to return with them to the Emerald City. So again a magic
ring was formed, with High Boy in the center, and again the Wizard's
wishing pills transported them over hills and valleys to the most
splendid castle in Oz.
CHAPTER 20
Rulers East and North
It was noon time when they dropped down lightly in the gardens of
Ozma's castle. "Let's dance!" proposed Benny, blinking across the
vistas of velvet lawns, flowering arches and sparkling fountains.
"Why, Benny!" exclaimed Trot, "do you really feel like dancing?"
"Don't you?" questioned the stone man, smiling down at the little girl
with whom he had come through so many exciting adventures. Trot
nodded delightedly and, as the royal band grouped on the castle
steps to welcome them home broke into a lively tune, the whole
company, still in the ring they had formed in Cheeriobed's garden,
danced 'round and 'round and 'round, High Boy cavorting hilariously
in the center.
Benny could have danced tirelessly on for hours, but Cheeriobed and
Sir Hokus were soon out of breath. So Ozma clapped her hands and,
bidding them form in a long line, placed herself at the head and
marched merrily into the palace. There, drawn up to meet them were
all the celebrities they had not already met. Jack Pumpkin Head,
stiffly extending his arms, Tik Tok, clicking off short sentences of
pleasure, The Soldier with the Green Whiskers, bowing almost to the
ground, the Cowardly Lion and Dorothy's small dog, Toto, not to
mention the famous Saw Horse and so many more I could not begin
to name them all. Philador kept close to Trot, for he wanted to hear
about each one and the Scarecrow, taking Benny and the medicine
man under his wing, saw that they were everywhere introduced.
Ozma herself, with the King of the Ozure Isles on one arm and the
Queen on the other, led the way to the grand banquet hall. The
Hungry Tiger, peering in from the castle kitchen, where he had been
anxiously awaiting their return, sprang out joyously as they entered.
"This party's been ready since last night," he roared accusingly.
"Where have you been?" While High Boy dropped down a few pegs
to explain, the great company seated itself at the long green banquet
table. Soon dishes and silver began to clink merrily, footmen to rush
to and fro with delicious trays of goodies, while the Oz orchestra
struck up that good old favorite, "Oz and Ozma, forever." Benny, to
his great satisfaction, sat next to the Wizard of Oz, and between
courses the little man explained that he was a native of Omaha and
had first come to Oz in a circus balloon. The inhabitants had
immediately taken him for a wizard, so he had decided to stay and be
a wizard. For many years he had ruled over Oz, practicing the trick
magic he had learned in the circus and superintending the building of
the Emerald City. Later he returned to America and Ozma, the rightful
ruler of the fairy kingdom was disenchanted by Glinda and placed
upon the throne. When the Wizard returned to Oz, the little fairy made
him Royal Wizard of the realm and by hard study and constant
practice he had become the most famous magician in any country out
of the world.
"So you think you can change me to a real man?" queried Benny,
looking admiringly at the famous wonder-worker.
"Certainly," replied the Wizard carelessly, tossing off a glass of
emeralade. "Whenever you wish!"
"Think it over carefully," cautioned the Scarecrow, who sat on the
other side. "Is it not better to be big and hard than small and weak,
like most natural beings? You're a very famous person as you are,"
he finished, flatteringly, "but as a meat man you will be quite like
everybody else. I was once a real person," he confided solemnly,
"and did not care for it at all. Take my advice and stay as you are, old
boulder!"
"Please do!" begged Trot from her place across the table. "You're so
strong and handsome and you can dance as well as anyone. You
didn't tread on my toe even once," declared the little girl stoutly.
Benny would have blushed at Trot's words, had such a thing been
possible. As it was, he smiled so happily that he did not look like a
public benefactor at all. The stone frown that was carved on Benny's
forehead had gradually melted away, and his expression was now so
pleasant and jolly, I am sure none of the worthy fathers of Boston
would have recognized their former citizen.
"It shall be as Trot wishes," said Benny, with a fond glance across the
table, and amid the cheers and claps of the celebrities, he agreed to
stay as he was.
"And live at our capital always," invited Ozma, from the head of the
table. "And Herby, too. He shall be our Court Physician," declared
Ozma, and coming 'round to where they sat, she touched them both
on the shoulder with her emerald scepter, to show they now belonged
to her court. Benny was too overcome to say a word, but Herby, with
a great jingling of pill boxes, arose and, with one hand on his
medicine chest, made a lengthy speech of thanks.
Herby Made a Lengthy Speech
"Every time he comes near, you can hear his pills rattle," observed
High Boy in a low voice to the Saw Horse. One end of the table had
been reserved for the palace pets and High Boy had the seat of
honor at the head. Next to him stood the Saw Horse, Ozma's little
wooden, gold-shod steed, taking in everything but the refreshments
and making short sharp answers to High Boy's remarks. High Boy
secretly thought him a poor looking creature, but as he wisely kept
this thought to himself they got along famously.
The Hungry Tiger's appetite amazed High Boy. After several bowls of
horse-radish, two bales of hay and a pail of yummy jummy, High Boy
himself could not eat another morsel. But the tiger kept sleepily and
competently on cleaning his plate. As soon as it was empty it was
hastily replenished with rare roasts and undone steak and mutton.
The Hungry Tiger, as many of you know, has lived in the Emerald City
for many years and is great company for the Cowardly Lion, who
came to the capital with Dorothy on her very first visit. This big beast,
with long sighs, and with tears in his voice, explained how dreadfully
cowardly he was and High Boy, to see if this really were so,
trumpeted suddenly in the Cowardly Lion's ear.
With a terrible squeal, the Cowardly Lion slid under the table and they
were just pulling him out, when the Tin Woodman arose and rapped
loudly for order. The Wizard had left the banquet hall a few minutes
before and, now returning, whispered a few words to Ozma. At once
the little fairy stood up and, facing the King and Queen of the Ozure
Isles, began to speak.
"Our Wizard," explained Ozma in her gentle voice, "has been trying to
discover the whereabouts of Cheeriobed's father. But all of his
questions have brought no change in the magic picture, showing that
Mombi has utterly destroyed the good King of the Munchkins. As
Mombi is no longer here to remedy what has been done and we
ourselves are powerless to remedy it either, I now pronounce you,
Cheeriobed, and you, Orin, King and Queen of the East, and rulers of
all of the Munchkins and the Sapphire City of Oz shall be your
capital."
The applause brought forth by this announcement was simply
deafening. When it had subsided somewhat, the Scarecrow, jumping
up, held out his hand to Orin and then the King.
"May I be the first to congratulate Your Majesties?" cried the straw
man, impulsively. "I, myself, am a Munchkin and hereafter please
consider me a loyal friend and subject."
The King and Queen both assured him that they would be pleased to
do so and in a short address Cheeriobed promised to rule to the best
of his ability the great Empire of the East. Trot and Philador, who sat
side by side, heard Ozma's proclamation with great pleasure and
satisfaction.
"I hope you'll visit us often," whispered Philador. "You can ride on my
sea horse and wear my crown, and I'm going to ask my father to
make you a Princess, Trot." At this, Cheeriobed, who had overheard
Philador's remark, jumped up and announced that his first act as King
of the East would be to create Trot a Princess of the Ozure Isles with
the privilege of living in the Sapphire City at any time and for as long
as she wanted.
"That makes Trot twice a Princess," chuckled the Scarecrow to
Benny, as the little girl slipped the sapphire ring Cheeriobed held out
to her in place of a crown (which he promised to give her later) on her
middle finger.
"Hi! Hi! Three cheers for Princess Trot!" whinnied High Boy above all
the noise and clapping. When Ozma could make herself heard, she
again called for silence. Wondering what surprising announcement
would come next the company turned eagerly to their little ruler.
"As Orin is no longer Good Witch of the North and the Gillikens are
without a sovereign, I have decided to make Joe and Hyacinth rulers
of the North!" declared Ozma imperiously—"And—"
"We accept with pleasure!" interrupted High Boy, not only rising to his
feet but stretching up till he towered over them all. "We accept this
high honor Your Majesty has conferred upon us, and if you will just
excuse me, I'll dash off and tell the good news to Joe." Holding his
head so high that he bumped it on the top of the door, High Boy
clattered from the banquet hall to the great astonishment and
amusement of all. That is all except Trot and Philador. Rushing after
the high horse, they called loudly for him to stop. And when he saw
the little girl and boy waving from the top steps of the castle he did
come and, stretching up, let each of them embrace him heartily.
"I'm coming again to visit you," promised High Boy with a slight
choke, for he hated to say goodbye to his little friends. "I'll see you
have high positions at our court, too." Then shaking his head and
stretching up a bit higher he cantered off, neighing tremendously as
he went.
"Hi! Hi! Everybody Hi! I am the highest horse in Oz! High horse to
Their Majesties, King and Queen of the North." Arm in arm Philador
and Trot returned to the banquet hall and, after the last speech had
been made and they had all drunk the health of the new sovereigns in
pale pink lemonade, the party broke up and they all went out into the
garden to play blind-man's buff.
As the royal family from the Ozure Isles did not return to their capital
for ten days, they had plenty of time to see all the wonderful sights in
the Emerald City and to grow as fond of dear little Ozma and her gay
court and courtiers as we are, ourselves!
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CHAPTER ONE | Doshir

CHAPTER TWO | Rayne

CHAPTER THREE | Doshir

CHAPTER FOUR | Rayne

CHAPTER FIVE | Doshir

CHAPTER SIX | Rayne

CHAPTER SEVEN | Doshir

CHAPTER EIGHT | Rayne

CHAPTER NINE | Doshir

CHAPTER TEN | Rayne

CHAPTER ELEVEN | Rayne

CHAPTER TWELVE | Doshir

CHAPTER THIRTEEN | Rayne

CHAPTER FIFTEEN | Rayne

CHAPTER SIXTEEN | Rayne

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | Doshir

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | Rayne

CHAPTER NINETEEN | Doshir

CHAPTER TWENTY | Rayne

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | Doshir

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | Rayne

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | Doshir

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | Rayne

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | Rayne

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | Rayne

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | Doshir

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | Rayne

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | Doshir

CHAPTER THIRTY | Doshir

SNEAK PEEK AT A MATTER OF DECEPTIONS

WHAT’S THIS ABOUT LEMON COOKIES?

After a merry breakfast in the gardens, Cheeriobed conducted the

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