Kindle the Flame (Heart of a Dragon Book 1) (5 page)

Cedric's broken-hearted sobs echoed off the walls of the den, and he buried his head in his mother's neck, his arms circling her torso, aching to feel the warm strength of her again.

But she was cold. So cold. The chill of death had iced her veins when the spark of life fled.

By morning, Cedric could no longer pull tears from his eyes. He stood, grim and determined. He would seek his people, find his destiny, entreat the King as his mother had asked. If he were indeed Dragondimn, as his mark implied, he could perhaps gain some help from Sebastian, a Dragondimn himself.

He gathered some skins of water and strung his sling about his shoulders. Around his waist he tied a belt with a pouch full of likely looking stones and pulled himself up through the hole where he had entered.

When he emerged into the morning light, massive piles of new boulders lay strewn across the valley floor.

The giants had destroyed one another. He wondered dully if any at all had survived the fight, and then he remembered that it didn't matter to him.

They could decimate their entire tribe, even throw themselves into the sea for all he cared. They had killed his mother; without thought and knowledge in their rock-headed stupidity, they had killed the only creature he had ever known or loved.

He lifted his gaze to the horizon and turned his steps toward it. He needed to find his purpose, and his purpose lay many, many steps to the south-east, where the King lived.

His mother had always said that his destiny lay in the hands of the King, perhaps even with the Dragons. He'd often dreamed of the searing heat of Dragonfire.

S
ebastian's robe
itched where it clasped his neck. The gold bar that brought the two corners together chafed his Adam's apple. He'd see a red mark there this evening when he leaned over the water bowl for his daily ritual cleansing.

“An emissary from the Elven Clan arrived this morning, my lord.” Sebastian's steward, Pomley, entered the council chamber unfurling a parchment scroll.

“And what do the Elves want now?” Sebastian fingered the gold clasp, pulling it away from his throat, growing more irritated with it as time passed. He considered opening the clasp and letting the cloak fall to the ground; he imagined the gasps of the council members and then the gossip rippling through the rabble outside the council chambers.

The sheep needed a leader with a robe. The robe was a symbol of royalty. He lowered his hand and placed it in his lap.

“Goblins from the Greys are moving through the Ridges of Rue. Their hunting parties are picking fights in outlying Elven villages, and the Elvendimn are growing impatient.”

Sebastian sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Tell them to take care of it themselves. It's a relatively small issue; why are they asking for help from the King's sentries?”

Pomley glanced back at the scroll. “They say, my lord, that the Goblins are using the dark arts—they're spreading their magic across the Elven villages, putting the Elves to sleep before destroying them.”

“Ah.” Sebastian repressed a smile. His council would find it most unseemly, though he did little to hide his dislike for the Elves, snooty creatures. “Have they chosen their champions for the Tournament this year?”

“Not yet, Your Grace, and one of their most promising prospects lived in a village in the foothills of the Ridges of Rue. He's now dead, Your Grace, a pincushion to the points of many Goblin spears.”

“Pity.”

Sebastian flexed his fingers and stood, treading the marble floor, tucking his hands behind his back under his robe. He paced with his head bowed, creating a deliberate picture of introspection and deep thought before the twelve council members. He shot a glance at the open doors at the end of the hall where the rabble waited outside, watching his session, clamoring to speak to the great King.

Should he reach out his hand to tame the Goblin Greys? In all his thirty-five years, he had yet to see a single Goblin use an ounce of rational thought before blindly attacking his enemy. Perhaps royal force was necessary.

But that was the whole point, wasn't it? The Goblindimn were responsible for taming their own Goblins, and if they were failing, then it was on their own heads. A few dead Elves here or there would not make a monstrous difference in the census of his armies. Goblins were far fiercer than Elves anyway when it came to battle. Even the best Elves, though keen archers, rarely excelled in hand-to-hand combat.

His main interest was in the Dragons. Now
there
was a military advantage. Winged creatures who breathed fire, armor plated in the finest scales. Unfortunately, they were the most difficult to tame, too. Thirty-three Dragons now rested in the military barracks he housed in The Crossings. At least eighty more were in the throes of training with the Dragon Clan to the northwest. Two hundred Dragons and their Dimn already trained daily at the army bases on the Three Maids islands and the Forgotten Plains. But he needed more—many more—if he was to take on the Lismarian pig, Nicholas Erlane, who had stolen Sebastian’s rightful place on the Lismarian throne.

Sebastian stopped his pacing, tugging at his gold clasp for the hundredth time that morning. “Send a squadron to the Greys; be sure the Goblins behave themselves. It would not do to irritate the finest archers in our kingdom.”

Sebastian nodded at Jerrus, his head of military council. The man stood from his seat against the wall, straightened his tunic, bowed, and exited the room.

“Let's be done with this, Pomley. I feel the need to retire to my chambers for some refreshment.”

“As you please, my lord.” Pomley bowed. “I have one other small matter of import.”

“And what is that?” The clasp was coming loose in five minutes whether the council session was finished or not.

“An emissary for Lismaria is present, my lord. He wishes a word with you.”

Sebastian froze as he glared at his steward. Why had he not been made aware of this earlier? “You thought to tell me of Goblin skirmishes before bringing this to my attention?”

His voice held censure, and Pomley quailed before it. “I apologize, my lord, but the emissary arrived only moments ago. I have only just received word that he is waiting in the outer chambers.”

Sebastian briefly considered issuing a dictate for the emissary's instant death. His pulse throbbed with satisfaction at the shock wave it would send through Lismaria and the anger that would submerge Nicholas Erlane as soon as he received word of it.

Of course, it would also bring the full force of the Lismarian army against West Ashwynd, and Sebastian was not yet prepared for a full show of military force. The Tournament needed to happen first; he needed to conscript more Dimn and their creatures before he felt fully equipped to handle Lismaria's mighty army. This year promised to be the Tournament that would bring enough creatures to complete his military might. He had spent the last thirteen years building his army, basking in the vision of returning to Lismaria and spreading a swath of destruction all the way to the Lismarian capital of ClarenVale and that usurper Erlane.

He sighed and returned to his seat, fanning his robe out across the chair before settling into the luxurious furs. He twisted his signet seal around his finger, drawing a deep breath and calming himself for the confrontation.

“Send him in.”

Pomley bowed and hurried out of the council chambers toward the rabble, who still strained behind the line of guards, begging for Sebastian to hear their pleas. They eternally wanted him, these peasants. It was a pity that royalty also involved feeding the masses. However, Sebastian was shrewd enough to realize that without his people, there would be no kingdom.

He could be a good King, pleasant, giving, and generous when it so pleased him. But he also knew where his interest lay, and it was not often with the people under his own thumb.

Before his mind could take a trip across the Channel of Lise and back nearly thirteen years, the Lismarian emissary entered the room, flanked by West Ashwynd guards. He reached Sebastian's throne and bowed low. “Your Grace.”

“Rise, sir. Tell me what news you bring from Lismaria.”

“His Grace, Nicholas Erlane, sends his greetings.”

“His Grace, Nicholas Erlane, could have saved himself the breath. He has no hope of dissolving the tensions between our countries.” Sebastian's words rolled through the courtroom.

The emissary flinched. “Yes, Your Grace. However, he does ask that you reconsider the peace treaty he issued not two months ago—”

A loud burst of laughter spewed from Sebastian's lips, and the rest of his council followed suit in nervous titters. Sebastian continued to laugh as he studied the emissary. He leaned forward. The clasp on his neck dug into the sore spot.

“Let me tell you something, emissary. Do you have a name?”

“Amean, Your Grace.”

“Amean, as Nicholas Erlane's emissary, you should be fully aware of the terms of that peace agreement.”

“I am quite aware, Your Grace, the terms set forth—”

“And
as
his emissary, you should also be fully aware of just how ridiculous those terms are.”

“Your Grace, Nicholas Erlane desires peace with West Ashwynd, and he is willing to—”

“Nicholas Erlane is an impostor sitting on a stolen throne! When my brother died,
I
was his heir.”

Sebastian's voice cut through the room like a knife, and the emissary was not the only one in the chamber who flinched. The man studied the woven mat beneath his feet. “Your Grace, King Liam was a great friend to King Nicholas...”

“And Nicholas Erlane believes I killed my brother. Nay.” Sebastian raised his hand as the emissary attempted to interrupt. “Erlane believes I killed my brother, Liam, so he waged battle against me and my people and gained the upper hand. I was forced to flee the country, maintain myself and my people as best as I could, and rule a country that is less than half the size of my rightful inheritance. Tell me, Amean, how can the rightful King not be bitter about such tactics?”

Amean spoke, the nervous tremor in his voice serving only to further irritate Sebastian's nerves. “Nicholas Erlane would like to add a final proposition to the peace treaty.”

“Oh?” Sebastian's brows winged upward.

“That is, he offers his niece in marriage to the King of West Ashwynd, in hopes that this unpleasant tension may be reduced to nothing.”

Sebastian stared at the man, his mind whirling. “And what would I want with an extra wench about the place?”

“The maid is fair to look upon, Your Grace. Nicholas Erlane has turned away many a lesser man seeking her hand. And surely Your Grace has thought of the—erm—advantages of producing an heir.”

Sebastian's mouth tightened. He'd had an heir, once. Pain washed through him as he considered the man. At last, he gathered his robes about himself and rose to his feet. He towered above the emissary by a good span from his vantage point on the dais. “I will consider this final offer, but I will make no promises.”

The man's mouth opened to prepare another argument, another plea for Lismaria, but Sebastian was out of patience. The gold clasp had rubbed his last nerve raw.

“Return this man to the Channel of Lise, and do not let him into my palace again.”

The guards on either side of the emissary grasped the man by his arms, pulling him backward. He stumbled and sputtered, “Your Grace ... Lismaria will hear of this—this ... Nicholas Erlane will never—”

The emissary was out the door, and the people outside shrieked and shouted as he was dragged across the cobblestones to the alleys leading to the Channel.

“Close the doors.” Sebastian had had enough.

When the thick oaken doors thudded shut, Sebastian at last unclasped his cloak, sighing in relief as the metal fell onto the heap of expensive furs.

T
he Tournament fields
spread across the acreage beyond the palace grounds, and Sebastian had a good view of them from the windows of his private chambers. He imagined the fields as they would be in the spring, covered with all manner of beast: Valkyries, Oracles, Mammoths, Phoenixes, and Dragons. The men he'd sent north to the Dragon Clan a week ago had brought back reports of a Mirage. Excitement sparked in him. A Mirage, a rare and precious Dragon, in the ranks of his army! The possibilities were delicious.

However, the beast had thus far proven untameable. He'd killed the first Dimn who'd entered the arena with him and severely burned the second, though it looked like the Dimn would make a decent recovery.

Sebastian wasn't too concerned; sometimes it took three or four tries to match Dimn and beast, and he wasn't going to obsess over it. But he wanted that Mirage, and if it took roasting every Dragondimn in the Clan to find the right match, then he would do it.

“What are you thinking of, Your Grace?” The low, flowing tones of feminine charm wove across his ears as Selena's fingers lightly feathered the collar of his tunic.

A smile crested Sebastian's lips. He faced his mistress, sliding his arms around her waist. “You, love.”

That pleased her. He could see the ambition gleaming in her brown eyes. She practically purred as she toyed with the hair at his nape, the gold circlet on his head; her fingers wound their way through his thick, dark curls.

“How can I please you, Your Grace?”

Sebastian dipped his head, his lips sliding across her jawline, the neatly-trimmed bristles of his beard chafing her skin. “Call me Sebastian.”

“Sebastian.” She breathed his name, and her soft hands wove his fingers through hers, leading him to the enormous bed that was the centerpiece of the room. Selena pulled the bed curtains, cloaking them in the privacy of their tryst.

As Selena's breaths at last lengthened into the rhythm of slumber, Sebastian sat in brooding silence, watching the dreams flit across her face. He knew she desired the throne, had aimed her wiles in his direction for months now, seeking to penetrate the scales that armored his heart.

A wry smile lifted the corner of his mouth. How well he knew her game. He allowed her the playful attempts to pierce his defenses, even played along with her—tempting her with rich gifts, drawing pleasure from her certainty that she would prevail in her intrigues.

But she could never come close to Olivia.

Sebastian's memory darkened as it traveled into the past to the first woman who had ever pierced his heart.

Olivia. The wife of his brother, Liam.

Liam. Always first, in line to the throne, in line to Olivia's heart.

He remembered the crooked corner of his sister-in-law's lip where it once twisted when she’d smiled at him, the way it pointed down when the rest of her smile lifted up. He remembered the first time he had kissed her, the way it had felt when he'd brushed his lips over her soft skin.

She'd pulled away, frightened, angry. When she'd lifted her hand to strike him, he'd caught her wrist and held it away from him in fury.

He’d known what the palace guards would hear from their place outside the chamber, the talk that would whirl through the castle.
She didn't want him
, they'd say.

Anger and hurt had driven him onward until she was his in every way. He'd accomplished the act, but at what price?

Olivia had shut down, losing her easy smile, the light in her eyes. The vibrancy that had once filled her steps succumbed to a dull shuffle of slippered feet.

How she had wrenched the dagger in his chest when she'd whispered the words after the deed:
“I hope you're happy.”
Her flinty gaze could have cut diamonds.

He'd told himself he wouldn't forgive her. She'd wounded him beyond repair, and there was no returning from it. But his fascination for her would not be quashed. He could not rid himself of the powerful draw of her presence. He'd sought her out, found her alone one evening, and he'd cornered her, merely to talk this time, he had promised himself.