The three of them finished their drinks and went their separate ways, promising to meet back there in two days, when the reinforcements were scheduled to arrive. Lucyan went up to his room, then pulled off his trousers and sat on the edge of the bed. There was only one way he could think of to hide the ring, and though it wasn’t pleasant, it was better than the alternative.
“You can do this,” Lucyan said, pulling the ring off his left hand. He placed it on the mattress, then unsheathed the knife that had been strapped to his belt and sliced a two-inch slit in his inner thigh. Blood dripped down his thigh and onto the wooden floor, and he hissed as he forced the ring in through the opening, wedging it beneath the skin.
“Come on,” he grunted as he placed his palm over the wound, applying pressure. Pain radiated through his leg as he pushed the ring in deeper, and he gritted his teeth. Eventually, the bleeding slowed, and when the pain finally faded, he lifted his hand.
Perfect. The wound had healed over. It was a bit disconcerting to see the outline of the ring pressing through his skin, but unless the warlocks decided to get very up close and personal with him, they would not detect the ring. He stood and took a few experimental steps. Moving resulted in a dull ache, and he could feel the ring sitting there, but it wasn’t unbearable, and he should still be able to fight.
Hopefully this won’t be necessary for long, he thought as he put his trousers back on. The sooner he and Ryolas got what they wanted, the sooner he could dig this infernal ring out of his skin and get back to his beloved.
8
Alistair and Drystan spent the next day in the throne room, taking petitions from nobles and commoners alike. They’d agreed to do this at least once per month, and though Drystan had been reluctant today when there was so much else that needed to be done, Alistair had dragged him off anyway. It was important they show the common people that they were not the tyrants their father was, and that they were willing to listen and show compassion for their troubles.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Drystan said as their latest petitioner left the throne room—the thirtieth one of the day, Alistair believed. The farmer had lost half his lands to a fire that his lord’s son had started and was having trouble getting recompense. Alistair had promised the man he would have words with the vassal in question—Lord Breigart was a stingy man, and was likely being even more close-fisted than usual due to the tax breaks. “Although it feels odd to sit up here without Lucyan.”
Alistair nodded, glancing to the empty throne on Drystan’s left side. It had been days since their brother had left the castle, and though it was too soon to expect any word from him, Alistair felt antsy. What if the warlocks discovered Lucyan’s true identity? In Elvenhame, he’d been relatively safe, but the warlocks were much wiser to magic tricks. They probably dealt with imposters on a regular basis.
“Your Highnesses,” the herald said as the doors swung open, “Lords Renflaw, Brimlow, and Delvin are here to see you.”
Alistair frowned as his brother’s jaw clenched, then he remembered. These three were the ones who had given Drystan such a hard time about the tax breaks in the first place. “Send them in,” he told the herald, steeling himself. He had a feeling the lords weren’t there about some petty grievance, nor to have tea and cookies and ask after their health.
The lords entered the room, coming to stand before the dais. “Your Highnesses,” Lord Renflaw said, the three bowing as one. “I hope you are well.”
“We are, thank you,” Alistair said as they rose. “To what do we owe this visit?”
Lord Delvin’s lips twitched. “Always straight and to the point,” he said, inclining his head. “We have come to ask your brother when the wedding and coronation will take place, now that you have the Dragon’s Gift in your possession once more.”
“As soon as possible,” Drystan said, “but we can’t very well go forward with either ceremony until Lucyan returns.” He gestured to the empty seat next to him.
Lord Brimlow frowned. “So you are still intent on going through with this outlandish notion? All three of you marrying the Dragon’s Gift and ruling together?”
“I am not one to dictate how any man or woman behaves in the bedroom,” Lord Renflaw added, “but surely you can see how unorthodox this is. Why would you not simply have one of you crowned king? Is it really necessary for you to upset the public merely for the sake of satisfying this whim?”
“Whim?” Drystan growled, his eyes flashing. His grip tightened on the throne’s arms, and Alistair sent him a warning look. “This is no whim. It is the will of our god.”
“The will of our god?” Lord Brimlow asked, sounding incredulous. “How can we be sure of that, now that we know the oracle was an imposter? For that matter, how do we know that Dareena is truly the Dragon’s Gift?”
“My lords,” Alistair cut in before Drystan said something he would regret, “I would remind you that we were all present when Dareena’s status was confirmed. The oracle may have lied about many things, but we all saw Dareena drink from the goblet. She is the gift.”
“Fair enough,” Lord Renflaw said. “But both ceremonies have traditionally been presided over by the oracle. How are we to move forward without one?”
“We will find a way,” Drystan said, in control of his temper once more. “I plan on paying a visit to the dragon god very soon so I may consult with him.”
“You can contact the dragon god?” Lord Renflaw asked, surprised. “Every time I asked King Dragomir to petition him, he refused, so I always assumed it was impossible.”
“Lucyan has done it before,” Drystan confirmed. “That is how we know that Dareena truly is the gift, and also that the three of us are meant to marry her and rule jointly. This is the dragon god’s will, and to deny it is only courting disaster. Besides, this way, if one of us dies, there will still be two to carry on, and we will not have to waste any time quarreling about succession.”
The lords grumbled a bit at this but eventually admitted it was for the best. “You’ll ask the dragon god about a new oracle, then?” Lord Delvin asked. “Surely he will have chosen a successor.”
“That is what we hope,” Drystan said. “If he hasn’t already chosen one, he will soon.”
“Speaking of Dragomir,” Lord Renflaw said, “how does your father fare? Is he still holed up in that countryside estate?”
“He is,” Alistair said. “Tariana and I stopped to visit him on our way back from Glastar. He is recovering physically but has no memory at all of his former life. I believe he hit his head very hard when he fell and has damaged his brain. The housekeeper tells me he does not breathe fire, and as far as she can tell, does not even remember that he is a dragon. We are sending the best healers in the country to look at him, but I have a feeling he may be beyond their help.”