Page 53 of Water Dragon
Iona didn’t want to put all her hope in the golden queen, but Maize held power of her own. Great power. She would wait for the opportune time, and she would intervene.
Iona released the breath she’d been holding, telling herself it would all work itself out in the end, no matter the displeased expression worn by their captor.
She and Malcolm were brought to fill out the half-circle created by the other ruling heads, facing Leon, who for some reason had resisted claiming the throne and was standing in front of it.
A moment after Malcolm and Iona were brought into the room, Ewan was dragged in as well. He was resisting, and it seemed he had been doing so from the moment his cell door was opened. He was shoved forward into a stumble that had him land on the floor at Leon’s feet.
Leon crouched down and said something to him that Iona couldn’t hear.
She frowned, for a moment wondering if it was all an act and her suspicions about the youngest prince had been right. But at the look of devastated fury that Ewan glared up at Leon, she had to admit that she must have been wrong. The prince had been deceived and had nothing to do with this defiant reach for power.
Where was Maize?
Furthermore, where was king Morton?
He wasn’t present and Iona could only assume it was because Leon seemed addicted to the drama he had displayed at the tiltyard, breaking things and upturning things. He was sticking to that theme and was sure to bring out the center piece at the most opportune moment. He wanted gasps and cries of woe. He wanted them all on their knees begging him to stop. And she was certain that he wanted them all in awe of him, this dragon who had infiltrated and plotted and who was now about to stand triumphant through what was promising to be an awesome display of magic.
Iona fisted her hands in frustration.
There was nothing she could do.
Then she noticed something at her feet. The stones were slick with wet. Her brows furrowed, eyes trailing from where she was standing and to the flagstone under Malcolm’s boots. There were pearls of moisture forming themselves into droplets that would run as though they were falling rain across a glass out from his position and across the nearest stones.
The river, she thought.It’s flowing right beneath our feet.
And though it wasn’t entirely true, since there was half a castle worth of bedrock between their feet and the flowing waters of the river, the implications were evident. There was not a single doubt in her mind that this room, where Malcolm’s ancestors had gone through the moment of transference, was acting as a conduit and aiding him in reconnecting with the watermagic.
Her hearts thrilled at the thought. She raised her gaze, hoping no one had noticed where her focus had been, and glanced at Malcolm. He was keeping his attention focused on Leon.
She wanted to help somehow, but how? What could she possibly do?
Except…
She reached for Malcolm’s hand as surreptitiously as possible, sliding her fingers against his palm before gripping tightly.
He didn’t look at her but gave the slightest nod that he understood.
What they needed now was a distraction of their own.
Then the door behind the throne opened, and her hearts sank at the sight of King Morton, chains wound around his wrists and a dour look on his face. He looked at Malcolm, but the expression on the older dragon was difficult to interpret. There was fury mingling with soft defeat. Something she had never seen on him before.
She didn’t dare look at the floor again but worried what his father’s appearance might do to Malcolm’s resolve.
If there was one thing that was sure to give Malcolm the strength that he needed it would be encouragement from his father, a show of shared purpose, a sign that the king was far from giving up.
There was no such sign.
In fact, king Morton only looked at his son for a handful of seconds before he turned his gaze away from him, as if to tell him not to fight it. That whatever was about to befall the king was out of Malcolm’s hands. It was a declaration of Malcolm’s innocence in the events about to transpire and the king telling him there was no blame that could be placed on Malcolm’s shoulders. It was the king telling his son to accept their fate rather than fight it.
No.
The king was brought to the middle of the room and made to kneel before the half-circle of gathered crowned heads. Creating an outer half-circle, keeping them put, was a line of heavily armed guards. Leon’s loyals. Plum-colored uniforms for each and all. Did they belong to a family of some rank? She wished she could place the color, attach it to a name, throw it in Leon’s face that she’d figured out who was behind it all.
Of course, it couldn’t possibly be that simple, and the mastermind couldn’t possibly be so careless.
Iona stared as King Morton sank to his knees heavily. The moment was pregnant with the significance of the gesture, and she squeezed Malcolm’s hand. She needed him to tell her that he was remaining focused on a solution to the problem, but he neither squeezed back nor made any kind of move to indicate that he wasn’t losing his nerve.
She trusted that he wouldn’t. She wanted to trust it. She couldn’t push him to act if he felt no incentive. But then his thumb lightly slipped over hers and she tensed, not with concern, but with expectation.
