Dragon's Blood (The Dragon's Gift Trilogy #2)

“Of course not,” Lucyan said silkily, rising from his chair. He set his cup of half-finished tea on the table and gave the oracle an exaggerated bow. “Thank you for your time and your counsel, Oracle. I will discuss this with my brother henceforth. In the meantime, I would appreciate your discretion on this matter, at least until the Dragon’s Gift has returned from Elvenhame.”

He turned and strode out the door, leaving the oracle sputtering behind him. Keeping an unhurried pace, he headed down the steps, then left another coin with the attendant at the door as he collected his shoes. There was no need to give the temple staff any reason to suspect that the meeting had gone badly. With any luck, the oracle would keep his mask on and pretend that he was a do-gooder instead of the lying sack of horse dung he really was.

But as soon as Lucyan mounted his horse, he gave rein to some of his anger, urging the beast into a gallop. Heart pounding, he leaned forward in the saddle and gave the horse free rein to run. The wind sang in his ears, ruffling his short, red hair as they raced along the path and cooling the rage that stung his cheeks and ears.

Finally, when the mountain trail grew steeper and more treacherous, Lucyan pulled his horse back to a trot. Even if the dragon god had commanded him to fight his brothers to the death, he would never do it. He’d lived in the womb with them—he couldn’t contemplate the idea of driving a sword through their hearts. And Dareena would never condone such barbaric behavior. She loved them equally—Lucyan was certain of that.

Mind made up, Lucyan stopped in Paxhall to send a quick message off to Drystan, then turned his horse around and made his way to the remote cave Shadley had told him about. Fuck the oracle, he thought with a grim smile. It was high time he spoke to the dragon god himself.





12





Four hours. It had only been four hours since Drystan had risen from his bed, and he already craved a stiff drink.

He sat at his desk, a ledger open in front of him, as he tried to make sense of their finances. The king had fired their treasurer years ago, insisting on taking over the accounting himself—an unusual practice for a king. Now that he’d made off with the treasure, Drystan knew why. The petty cash fund would cover their expenses until the taxes came in, but as Drystan pored through last year’s tax collections, he realized they would not have enough to cover the coming year’s bills if they also had to pay a hefty ransom.

Damn the elves. Those bastards had them by the balls, and they knew it. Drystan sincerely hoped those scouts had found his father’s lair—they had to get that treasure back or they were doomed.

The financial logistics weren’t the only thing making Drystan’s head pound. He’d woken up to find Lucyan and Tariana both gone. Bloody hell, can’t I sleep in for a few hours without the world going to shit? Lucyan had told him he was off to visit the oracle, and Tariana had decided to run off and rescue Ryolas after all despite his insistence that she stay at the Keep and make herself useful. He’d expected Lucyan back by now, but instead he’d received another note, this one saying that his brother wouldn’t be back until nightfall, and in the meantime, not to trust anything the oracle said.

Maybe I need to get out of this stuffy castle for a bit, he told himself. When was the last time he’d gotten some fresh air? Not since he’d battled with his father, he thought ruefully. He really ought to get some flying practice in, now that he knew how to shift. Under normal circumstances he would be doing it every day, but with the stress of the past week, he could barely think about shifting, let alone flying.

The idea was quite appealing just now, so he closed the ledger, then made his way back to his rooms to change into a robe. His father had usually worn one when he went flying, as it was easy enough to shuck off—normal clothing was torn to smithereens during the change. But Drystan was only halfway to the royal suite when the steward waylaid him.

“My prince,” he said, sounding slightly out of breath as he bowed. Drystan had half a mind to instruct the servants to call him and his brothers “king,” but he’d held off as he wasn’t certain that was accurate. They were a triumvirate now, were they not? Or would Dareena rule alongside them as well? What did you call a group of four rulers, anyway? Drystan didn’t see why she shouldn’t have a say in the goings-on of the kingdom—she might not have been brought up as royalty or bred to rule, but she had a far better understanding of the common people’s needs than either he or his brothers did.

“What is it?” Drystan said irritably. Surely not every damn thing in the castle needed his attention, did it?

“The delegation from Elvenhame has arrived,” the steward said. “I’ve shown them to a suite of rooms and told them I would send word as to when you are available to meet with them.”

Fuck. They were here already? Part of Drystan was relieved, but the rest of him felt sick at the thought of negotiating with the elves when he had barely two coppers to rub together.

“Tell them I will dine with them tonight,” he said wearily. “And send Taldren and Catriona to my chambers, please.”

The steward bowed and hurried off to do his bidding. Drystan dragged his heels as he continued toward the royal suite, his dream of taking a few hours for himself evaporating. As he closed the door to the suite behind him, he was overcome with the urge to burrow beneath the bed covers and shut out the world.

Really, how had he ever thought he was ready to take on the responsibility of ruling the kingdom? A surge of white hot anger rushed through him, and in that moment, he hated his father more than ever for giving into madness. He should have spent more time grooming them instead of trying to keep them away from the throne, and he damn well shouldn’t have run off with every blasted coin to their name.

But instead of hiding beneath the covers, Drystan grabbed a bottle of cognac and three glasses, then settled in to wait.

“By the gods, Drystan,” Catriona said as she and Taldren entered the room fifteen minutes after Drystan had called for them. “You look like hell.”

“Hello to you too,” Drystan said dryly, lifting his glass to her. Catriona was his fifth-born sister, and she looked much better than she had when she’d been brought back to the castle, her blonde curls shining and lustrous instead of matted and dirty, her creamy skin healed of all bruises and cuts and glowing with health. She wore the same tunic dresses all his sisters wore when they were at home, elegant enough to befit their stature but economical enough to throw on armor and rush into battle if necessary.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Taldren asked as he and Catriona joined Drystan by the fireplace. He still wore the guard uniform—Alistair had reassigned him to the Keep after they’d rescued him from the elves. “It can’t be easy, picking up the pieces after your father.”