Page 40 of Dragons' Mate
“It’s a good legend, but where is the truth?” I ask. “The elixir doesn’t make dragons mortal.”
“No, but it only works on mortals. As with any legend, there is some truth and some embellishment. What we do know is that the priests are linked to the citadel, and they're the only ones who can tap into its magic. In return, they’re tethered to the place like a dog to a post. They never leave these grounds except for the pledge ceremony. On the practical side, this arrangement ensures the priests can’t angle for the throne and the elixir isn’t a constant battleground. So, the trials, as vicious as they are, are the lesser of two evils."
“That’s… well, that’s sad all around.” I shift my blanket and wince, drawing Quinton’s attention like an arrow. “How long do we have until the next trial, you think?” I ask before he can make some comment I don’t want.
Quinton’s gaze hardens. “Could you not hear the priest?”
“I chose not to listen to the priest,” I tell him.
“There will be a celebration of the first trial victors in a week,” Cyril says, cutting off whatever Quinton is about to say. “The second trial will be a week following that. You’ve some time to heal.”
“Speaking of healing.” Tavias draws the medical satchel toward himself. The sharp glint of the needle sends my stomach roiling. He pushes on my shoulder gently. “Lie down and we’ll get this over with.”
The bile in my stomach threatens to crawl up my throat. I don’t think—I know—I’m not going to take this part with any grace and really don’t want an audience for the spectacle. "Why don't you all go hunt a rabbit or something?" I tell the other males.
Hauck's brows knit together, and I can see the protest forming on his lips. Before he can voice it though, Tavias takes one glance at me and actually backs me up.
“Out,” he orders the other males. “Now. Even you.” The last is pointed toward Quinton who is dark with fury.
They leave reluctantly, Cyril and Hauck dragging Quinton with them and I let out a sigh of short lived relief. I will embarrass myself, but at least it will be in relative private.
“You are wrong, you know,” Tavias says quietly once the others are gone. “To have made them leave.”
I blink. “Then why did you help?”
He snorts, and moves closer to me. His hands are competent as he lowers me onto the palate, positioning my body to give him the best access to the wound. “Because I’m a general who spent most of my life on a field of battle. You think you are the first young warrior I’ve met whose fear of a needle is matched only by their terror of looking weak?”
I let out a shaky breath. “Am I that transparent?”
“No, I’m just that experienced.” Tavias strokes my hair gently. “But they are your pack. Their thoughts—their only thoughts—are of giving you comfort. I’ll do my best with giving you the same, but next time you might find it easier to be cradled in their arms. And you deserve no less.”
I swallow. It’s not as easy as he makes it seem. “When I crawled onto that platform, when I stood up and the crowd cheered, it felt good,” I whisper. “I liked it. Feeling strong. Having all those peopleseeme as strong.”
“All those people only saw the truth that our pack already knows, wildcat,” Tavias says without hesitation. “Hell, I think you showed the priests up, beating them at their game of making all of us into nothing but playthings.”
Tavias’s thumb brushes my cheek and his voice drops to a whisper. “I know appearances are important. Vitally so… It’s… It’s one of the reasons I want to be Massa’eve’s general, not its king. That’s not something anyone outside our pack knows. But now you do. I trust you, wildcat. You can trust us too.”
CHAPTER18
Kit
The celestial hall is an echo of the grand ballroom at the Massa’eve palace, with one notable exception. If the latter is built to celebrate the monarchy and the throne, the former elevates priests without even the pretense of subtlety. Magic infused glowing orbs hover beneath the vaulted ceilings and raised statues of hooded followers of Orion look down at the proceedings below. Long tables laden with spiced meats, aged cheeses and fresh fruit stretch along the perimeter, their midnight blue tablecloths flowing down to the marble floor.
We’ve all been provided with gowns and formal wear for the gathering and my purple chiffon dress flows airily around my thighs, covering what remains of my bruises.
My stomach growls loudly enough to make Hauck grin. With the males’ hunting we’ve not gone hungry, but this is a feast. A feast with guests. My attention swims through the sea of people who I presume to be Massa’eve officials and friends and family of the surviving competitors. Ettienne is here, his chillingly handsome form towering over most others. So is Salazar.
“We are down to twelve packs,” Cyril remarks. I wince. Some of those who’d finished the first trial must have succumbed to their injuries after all.
Or else been hunted down by the stronger packs. I search for ginger hair in the crowd and am relieved to find Lee and her males off in the corner.
“Prince Tavias. Lady Kitterny.”
I jump, not having seen Autumn gliding over. She gives Tavias a respectful curtsy and inclines her head to the rest of us. Quinton ignores the courtesy until Cyril knocks him on the shoulder. Only then does he condescend to give Autumn the briefest of irritated acknowledgements.
She manages to look down her nose at him despite her tiny height.
“My apologies for my brother,” Tavias says. “It has been a trying few weeks.”
