Page 3 of Queen of Legends and Lies
Bastian nods his agreement before pointing toward the palace. “You see that lit window? That’s the council chamber.” He then points to the second tallest tower, where firelight dances behind narrow windows. “They’re waiting for news about the prince.”
My heart thumps a bit harder with the realization that someone’s burning the midnight oil. I swallow the knot in my throat and nod, tucking away the fear that threatens to unravel me. If the council’s awake in the early hours of the morning, they’re eager for answers I’m not sure I have. But I’ve got to try.
For Sterling.
For Tirene.
For whatever threads of hope we’ve left dangling in the wind.
“I’d better not keep them waiting then.” I set my jaw and step toward the fate that awaits in the Council Tower.
Ready or not, your future queen has arrived.
I stop and spin back around to face the dragons. Their scales glimmer faintly in the moonlight. I focus on the connection I have with these incredible creatures, and as best I know how, pour out my gratitude. For coming to the rescue at Flighthaven. For having faith in me. For everything.
Emotions bombard me in response. A knot lodges in my throat. I’m thankful for this dragoncaller bond we share.
Chirean stretches his neck, showing off his white underside against the darker orange along his back. With a grace that belies their size, the dragons, both Aclarian and Tirenese, lumber toward the rows of doorless enclosures along the back ofthe paddock, where the scent of crushed stone and sand speaks of home.
Vainly, I try to brush the ash and dirt from my clothes.
Turning to Agnar, I catch his grumpy scowl, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the nobles gathered. “Hey. You look like death warmed over. Why don’t you get some sleep? We’ll regroup after we all get some rest.”
His scowl pivots to me, but it softens into a smile that brings out those faint freckles on his battle-scarred face. If anything, the scars render him more attractive. “Says the person covered in soot. And you’re favoring that leg.” He gestures toward my right leg. “Wouldn’t hurt for you to see a healer.”
I shrug. “Maybe later. Right now, I need to check in with the queen and the council. And I wasn’t almost frozen to death like the rest of you. I’m fine.”
He shudders, agony flitting across his features. “Sterling wasn’t himself. He would never?—”
“I know.” I reach for his hand and give it a squeeze, taking comfort in the human connection. “Xenon forced him. Or the drachen did. Hells, I don’t know. But we’re going to get him back, and I’ll heal his corruption. Then, we’ll figure out what to do about Xenon and the drachen.”
“We will.” He pulls me into a brief hug before stepping back and resting his hands on my shoulders, resolve in his piercing blue eyes. “We absolutely will. Good luck with the council. You know how to find me if you need anything.”
“Good night, Agnar.”
While murmuring something unintelligible, he disappears into the shadows cast by the palace spires.
Deep breaths, Lark. Time to face the music.
Alone, I stride across the courtyard, battered boots clicking against the stone. The Council Tower looms ahead, its firelit windows both a beacon and a warning. The towers of the palacego as high as seven stories, the sloped roofs stretching for the skies.
Thankfully, this one is only five stories. I square my shoulders. Once inside, I find the guarded steps and start the climb to the top floor.
If I’m going to save Sterling and cure him of his corruption, I’ll need help. And I hope to find it here.
Chapter Two
As I approach the Royal Council Chamber, a palace guard pushes open the heavy door. Bright light shines from inside.
This is my first time here, and the space is nothing like I imagined. I’d expected something like the king’s chambers or even the public sitting room in the crown prince’s apartments.
This has less grandeur, more urgency. Unembellished walls. Efficient rather than decorative chandeliers with their explosions of candles and crystals. With the large windows closed, the air is stale with the smell of old parchment and a hint of smoke from the twin hearths. The ceiling reaches the pointed roof, forming a cone above us.
A scattered ring of low-backed chairs surrounds a round table in the center of the area, along with a nearby array of benches.
A couple of the royal councilors take up two of the chairs. Lord Serle Hamilton, a mid-level earl, and the not-at-all-pious Vicar Moise Lent. They halt their hushed argument when I enter.
I don’t even have a moment of privacy to collapse or catch my breath…or bawl my eyes out or scream curses into a pillow. No, I step straight out of the fire and launch into the frying pan.
