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

“This is not good,” Dareena said, huddling closer to Alistair. He let her lean against him, suddenly feeling guilty for letting her console him rather than the other way around. Blast these confounded ropes—he couldn’t even put an arm around her with his hands tied like this. “Unless we turn matters around in a dramatic fashion, this civil unrest will only continue to spread. It’s going to be very hard for Drystan and Lucyan to bring the people to heel if they believe we are the cause of their problems.”

“My brothers are strong and resourceful,” Alistair assured her, burying his own worries. “If anyone can figure a way out of this, it’s Lucyan. And Drystan will hold the fort down and make sure everything runs smoothly in our absence. We’ll be back in Dragonfell before you know it.”

“I hope so,” Dareena said with a sigh. Silently, they watched as Dragon’s Keep gradually dwindled away into the distance and wondered exactly what kind of reception they would get once they arrived in Elvenhame.





5





When Lucyan next woke, it was as if someone had placed anvils over his eyelids and stuffed his mouth with cotton. Groaning, he pushed himself upright in bed and squinted around, hoping someone had the foresight to leave a glass of water. Thankfully, someone had, and as he downed it greedily, some of the lethargy left his limbs.

What in Terragaard had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was the battle in the throne room. His father had smashed him into the wall with his great, spiky tail…

Oh. The rest of the memories rushed in, his heart aching. The elves had come. They’d killed thousands of their soldiers and taken Dareena away in exchange for returning the thousands more they’d taken prisoner. Lucyan’s hands fisted in his sheets as he remembered the guilt and horror written all over Dareena’s face—she’d felt personally responsible, even though this was in no way her fault.

No, it was Lucyan’s fault. And Drystan’s, and Alistair’s, for not figuring out a way to stop their father sooner. For allowing things to get so bad that their kingdom was only a breath away from annihilation. Dareena was not to blame, and yet she was the one suffering. They’d been too stupid to do anything about it until it was too late.

Frustrated, Lucyan pushed back the covers and rang for his valet to come and dress him. His ribs still smarted some, but a quick glance in the mirror showed no bruises on his face.

“Your Highness,” Baromar, his valet said, alarm on his square face as he entered the room. “You really should be abed—”

“I have no time to lay about like an invalid,” Lucyan growled. “Not when we are at war. Now fetch my razor.”

Baromar did as Lucyan asked. Twenty minutes later, Lucyan walked down the hall, albeit slower than normal, to his brother’s office. He might still be in pain, but at least he looked good, clean-shaven and in fresh clothes. He’d pay a visit to the healers later today and take another draught of that foul-tasting but highly effective potion. With any luck, he’d be right as rain tomorrow.

Speaking of the healers, they seemed to be out in full force today, rushing from room to room along with most of the servants, carrying bedding and supplies back and forth. He imagined they were readying all available rooms for the influx of wounded soldiers that would be arriving in the next few days.

“You there.” He snagged a servant by the elbow as she was rushing past. “Tell the healers to use my suite.”

“Huh?” The servant blinked up at him in confusion.

“My suite,” Lucyan said impatiently. “I have a large bed, and several couches and settees. The wounded will have far more use for them than I. Tell the healers they are welcome to them.”

“I will. Thank you, Your Highness.” The servant bowed, then rushed off to finish her task and do Lucyan’s bidding. Some of the tightness eased from Lucyan’s chest—it was a small thing, giving up his quarters, but if it could help ease some of the soldiers’ suffering, he was glad to do it.

“Lucyan.” Drystan shot to his feet as Lucyan entered his office. “You ought to be—”

“In bed, I know,” Lucyan groused. He gingerly made his way over to the small cabinet behind Drystan’s desk, where his eldest brother kept a stash of liquor.

Sighing, Drystan took the bottle of brandy from him, then fished out two glasses and poured a healthy dose for both of them. He didn’t look like he’d slept well. There were circles beneath his eyes, and his skin had a wan look to it.

“I can’t believe she’s been gone a full day already,” Drystan muttered as he lifted his glass. His amber eyes were dull, as if some vital spark had been stolen from them.

In a way, it had.

“I should have been there to see her off,” Lucyan said as he flopped into one of the visitors’ chairs. Drystan downed his glass in one go, and Lucyan followed suit. The liquid scorched his throat, warming his stomach and taking some of the edge off his pain. “Instead I was passed out in my bed like a useless fool.”

“Dareena didn’t want to wake you,” Drystan said. “She was worried that if she came to see you it would rile you up again, and you needed your rest.”

“Yes, well, as much as I appreciate everyone’s concern for my well-being, I don’t need you fussing over me anymore. A few cracked ribs are the least of our problems. We need to access the treasury and find out how much gold we have before the elves come demanding their ransom.”

“Do you know how to get the door open?” Drystan asked. “I tried to get into the treasury yesterday, but I couldn’t find the key.”

“Of course,” Lucyan said with a wave of his hand. “I figured out where father kept his keys years ago. How do you think I always had enough gold on hand to bribe the guards when we were children?”

Drystan snorted. “I should have known.” He pushed himself up from his chair. They made their way to their father’s suite, which was located in a tower at the end of the west wing. A strange sense of longing overcame Lucyan as they stepped into their father’s rooms—there was a time when he’d sit on his father’s knee in the winged armchair by the fireplace, where the king often liked to sit and think in the evenings, or perhaps read a book. Or where he would have barged into the bedchamber in the middle of the night, plagued with nightmares, and his mother would lift up the covers and let him climb into bed with them.

“I miss them too,” Drystan said quietly as a fierce longing ripped through Lucyan. They stood together in silence for a long time, letting their childhood memories wash over them—memories from a time when they had been a happy family instead of the fractured, embittered mess they had become.

“There’s a false wall behind this painting,” Lucyan said, crossing the room. Drystan gently took down the heavy, framed canvas, which depicted a wild, stormy sea, revealing a large hole in the stacked stone wall. Lucyan reached in and grabbed a cedar box, then opened it and fished out the key to the treasury.