Warrior (12 page)

“Creator of All,” he whispered, “thank you for rescuing us from the raging waters and the fierce storm. Watch over us and show us the way. Keep your protective hand over Father and Mother as they wait for us in …”

As his words faded, images of Mesolantrum drifted into his mind. He and Adrian marched away from home—Adrian beginning his search for the Underground Gateway and he making ready to take Adrian’s place as the governor’s bodyguard. Their father called out, his wood-chopping axe poised on his shoulder. After all three said their good-byes, Jason’s view followed his father back to his pile of wood. As soon as he and Adrian were out of sight, Father hurried into their communal home, limping on his war-wounded leg. He changed into hunting trousers and tunic, strapped on a sword and scabbard, and kissed Mother tenderly.

“I will return to you,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “You have my word.”

“With Frederick?” she prompted.

“Either alive or with news regarding his demise. I can promise no more.” He touched his nose. “I still remember his scent. Perhaps I will find traces of it yet remaining. Trust me to use every available clue to find him.”

She nodded and laid a hand on his broad chest. “In
your
heart I trust, but I don’t trust the men who have sent Adrian on this quest. Be wary of Drexel. I see evil in his eyes.”

“I have no doubt that Drexel seeks Drexel’s glory and nothing else. Yet, if we can use his self-promotion to our advantage—”

“No!” Mother covered her mouth, surprised at her own sharpness. “I apologize, my dear. I merely beg that you heed my advice. You know that my judgment of character is rarely wrong.”

“I know.” With an arch of his eyebrows, Father pointed at himself. “You married me, didn’t you?”

She gave him a playful push. “Go on with you now. If you’re not out of my sight before I can say ‘Mesolantrum’ three times, I’ll go after our sons myself.”

He bowed, then backed out of the room, his gaze still on her. “May the Creator of every world watch over us until I return. No matter what happens, you will be my first and best thought.”

With the closing of the door, Jason’s dream ended. Drifting toward wakefulness, he half opened one eye and peered at Koren sitting next to him. With her brow low and her stare fixed on her folded hands, she seemed pensive, concerned.

Jason closed his eyes again. Sleep. He needed sleep. He would ask Koren to share her worries when he awakened. For now, it would be better for all if he regained his strength. Who could tell what dangers lay ahead? They needed him to be ready.

Soon the images of Koren’s amazing lifelike tale swirled in his mind. As the same hypnotic daze flooded his thoughts, Jason drifted off to sleep.

W
ith his wrists bound by a rope, Randall shuffled behind the guard, dragging the chains that shackled his ankles and attached him to Tibalt, his fellow prisoner. The poor old man had sacrificed so much. After decades in the dungeon, he risked his life to help free the Lost Ones from the dragon planet, and now he faced prison again.

“I’m sorry,” Randall whispered.

“For what?”

“For making you go with me to the palace.”

“I’m not one to say ‘I told you so,’ but …”

Randall sighed. “You deserve it. Go ahead.”

“Nope,” Tibalt said, shaking his head. “I’m going to set my noggin’ on what we did that was good. Nothing else. Just seeing the happy faces on those little ones is worth another fifty years in the dungeon.”

“If you say so.” Randall recalled an image of the Lost Ones they had rescued from slavery and how he and Tibalt had hidden them in various communes. Smiles reflected the joy of freedom the Lost Ones had never known before, and hugs from the children, who would no longer have to worry about dragon whips, once again filled him with warmth.

After settling the former slaves, Tibalt argued that they should go straight back to the dragon planet to help Elyssa, but Randall ached to bring his father’s murderers to justice. Not only that, he had searched for his mother without any success. Had she gone into hiding? Been imprisoned? Some clues indicated the latter, so he begged for just a few minutes to search the palace. If they could figure out what Drexel, Governor Prescott’s head sentry, knew and why he had conspired to kill the governor, maybe the entire conspiracy could be exposed, and his mother would be safe.

Randall strained against the rope. It loosened but not enough for him to pull free. With a sigh, he glared at the soldier leading them through the palace’s marble- laden corridor as they headed toward the courtroom. This Drexel loyalist, a friend of Bristol—the palace’s interior guard and murder conspirator—had spotted them sneaking into Drexel’s quarters. No amount of persuading could turn him aside from dragging them to Viktor Orion, who, by law, had assumed the governorship after the death of Randall’s father.

A sentry opened the courtroom’s tall door and led them inside. They passed between two sets of benches, which were often filled with people when an interesting trial commenced, but this hearing had been arranged quickly and quietly. Only the arresting guard and two skinny, young clerks sitting in the front row would witness the proceedings.

On a platform at the front, Governor Orion sat behind a desk and peered at them overtop a pair of narrow eyeglasses. His piercing eyes, sharp chin, and pointed nose accentuated his stare, as if every facial feature took aim directly at them.

Randall tried to hide a shiver. If only he weren’t so close. During higher-profile cases, the governor usually stood behind a podium at the side while lawyers battled verbally in front of the platform. It seemed that no one bothered with formalities today.

Orion gave the solider a shooing motion with his hand. “You may go. And take the clerks with you.”

The solider attached the prisoners’ leg chain to a ring on the floor, bowed, and marched back toward the door, motioning for the clerks to follow.

When the door closed with a clacking echo, Randall trained his gaze on the new governor. Was this man involved with the murder conspiracy? How could the one who benefited the most from his father’s death be innocent?

Orion rose from his seat and walked to the front of the desk. Still elevated by about three feet, he stared down at Randall, his long body making him look like a perching vulture. “My guess is that your intrusion comes from a desire to uncover the conspiracy that led to your father’s death. This consuming passion has caused you to throw caution to the wind and walk straight into the jaws of that conspiracy. Am I correct?”

Randall shot a warning glance at Tibalt. They had agreed earlier that he would stay quiet.

“As heir to my father’s estate,” Randall said, “I am also heir to his office when I come of age. Therefore I have rightful access to every room in this building. I have done nothing illegal.”

“And I have not accused you of a crime, but as the legal steward of this office, I have to protect myself from the rash behavior of the former governor’s son, who likely thinks I was somehow involved in his father’s death. How could my guard know that you weren’t here to seek revenge?”

Randall gritted his teeth. This pompous cornstalk of a man was blowing smoke, a verbose disguise. “I was going after Drexel, not you. I was trying to figure out his motivation.”

“Ah, yes,” Orion said, pressing his fingers together. “The passion to learn the truth has driven many men toward acts of folly.” He walked to the side of the platform, strode down the three steps, and approached them, his fingers now intertwined. “I once had a similar passion, an obsession really, that pushed me to the brink of insanity at times. Now that I am governor, the responsibility of judging the acts of others has allowed me to view things from a new perspective. I was cold, unyielding, swift to condemn, and I fear that my harsh behavior has been the cause of many ills of late, including the departure of Jason and Elyssa—acquaintances of yours, I believe.”

Randall nodded. There was no use hiding that information. It was common knowledge.

“So I am willing to negotiate,” Orion continued. “I sent the usual witnesses away, because I wish to make a secret pact with you. I can tell you what I know about Drexel if you will go on a journey for me. I have learned that Jason and Elyssa have likely passed through the gateway to the dragon world, putting them in grave danger. I know the secrets behind the obstacles that prevent access to the portal, so you will have an easier time than they did. I want you to go there and retrieve them. Tell Elyssa that she has nothing to fear. I have given up my pursuit of witches and Diviners, and she is welcome to live a life of peace without fear of persecution.”

Randall looked into Orion’s eyes. This guy had to be the greatest actor in Mesolantrum. Not a hint of a lie shadowed his razor-sharp face. Still, if he knew Elyssa was gone, what could it hurt to listen? Getting back to the dragon world without new cuts and bruises would be a lot better than trying to get their raft down that wild river again.

He gave Orion a nod. “Go on.”

“Drexel had Uriel Blackstone’s diary, which revealed the secrets behind the obstacles. I read this diary and jotted down the procedures. If Tibalt is the real son of Uriel, you will have no trouble opening the portal.”

Tibalt blurted out, “I don’t believe you! My pappy was too smart to write everything down. If he lost it, then scoundrels like you might —”

“Tibber!” Randall barked. “Quiet!”

Tibalt frowned, his jaw tight, but he quieted.

Orion pulled a key from one pocket and a small knife from the other. “If you bring Jason and Elyssa back, I will grant your freedom along with information regarding Drexel’s participation in the conspiracy.”

Randall resisted a growing scowl. He had to display a calm negotiating stance. “I haven’t been able to find my mother. A note in Drexel’s room said something about her being in the dungeon, but the guard said she wasn’t there.”

“Ah! No wonder you are so persistent. A young man will stop at nothing to rescue his mother.” Orion slid his eyeglasses lower. “I will investigate this matter and find out where she is. Perhaps my efforts will be enhanced by your cooperation.”

Randall maintained his stoic stare. Orion held the ultimate leverage, and he knew it. Giving Orion a shallow nod, Randall said, “It’s a deal.”

Tibalt let out a
humph
and looked away.

“Very well.” Orion crouched and unlocked their leg manacles, then straightened and sliced through their ropes with the knife. “I have notes in my desk, which I will allow you to read and memorize. When you return with your friends, please bring Elyssa to me so that I can offer my apologies in person.”

Koren looked at Jason. His head leaned against her shoulder. Damp from rain and sweat, his sandy brown hair trickled over his ears, down his neck, and over his forehead, just long enough to reach his eyebrows. A single droplet dangled from his nose, making him wrinkle his narrow, angular face. As he twitched, his long eyelashes fluttered, and the droplet fell to his broad chest.

A gentle buzz in his rhythmic breathing rose into her ears. Finally he was getting the rest he so desperately needed … and deserved.

She let a smile emerge on her lips. Having a warrior at her side felt … well … comforting. She had grown accustomed to fending for herself while enduring her slave labors—chopping and hauling wood, slaughtering and butchering animals, harvesting honey while dodging bees—as well as looking after others less fortunate, especially Wallace, during their dreadful weeks at the cattle camp. And, of course, trying to find the truth about Promotions for Natalla began this dangerous journey in the first place. Being the strong one felt normal. Independence had long been her way of life.

And now? After being rescued from the precipice of a terrible plunge to a watery death and pulled helplessly through a raging river clutched tightly in the arms of a brave warrior, she felt …

This time the right words escaped her grasp. How did she feel? Warm? Protected? Loved? A combination of all three? Although it always felt good to be strong and independent, knowing that someone else cared enough to sacrifice for her benefit felt even better. The sensation erupted earlier when Arxad stole her and Natalla away from the trial at the Basilica, risking his own life in the process.

She reached over and slid her hand into Jason’s. The skin of her palm warmed next to his. It had been exhilarating when Arxad carried her—with his claws and scales—but this was an entirely different sensation. It felt much better—warm, tender, alive. Jason was a man, not a beast; a rescuer, not a slaver. He was an equal, a friend, someone she could stand beside and battle the cruel dragons with until they both either died or walked away in victory, hand in hand forever.

She drew their hands to her lips and kissed his fingers. Such a friend had been a shadow in her dreams for several months now. Madam Orley sometimes told stories about romantic love between men and women and how so few of humankind ever experienced it. With dragons arranging most marriages, and with the masters of the breeding rooms forcing women to accept the company of whichever men the dragons chose, only a few husbands and wives enjoyed the bliss of self-chosen coupling and the lasting joy of fulfilling vows of love, sacrifice, and faithfulness.