Page 15 of Palaces and other Prisons
Ifer said something in a very low tone that sounded something close to reverent. Ul gave Ifer a ferocious look, turnedon his heel, and strode along the corridor, his embroidered cloak floating after him.
The soldier gave Dawson a gentle nudge and an order, which seemed to be ‘follow’. So he did.
CHAPTER 11
Now?
His body decided that now was an appropriate time to find a compatible mate? And that his mate was one of the strangers who looked human except for their hair and eye color.
He shouldn’t have touched him. That was the problem.
“Sire, you can’t ignore—” Ifer whispered.
“I can and I will. We know nothing about these people.” Dawson had stopped talking again. “Make him talk. Had he never learned a language? Did he not understand why this is so important?”
At least he understood why he found himself drawn to Dawson. It was simply biology. It had been three years since his husband had died, but his markings had never glowed that deeply for him.
Ifer glanced over his shoulder and motioned for Dawson to talk. It didn’t matter what he said. Ul wasn’t listening to the words; he was feeling for the intent. The way Dawson asked questions and was frustrated that they wouldn’t get answered. The way he’d talked about the food on the table.
Now his words were filled with frustration, because he didn’t understand. He had planned to allow Dawson to stand behind him while he dealt with his subjects’ concerns, so he might listen to the language and learn, but perhaps that was not how he learned languages. He also wasn’t ready to share Dawson with everyone else.
While he needed to go to the great hall, at the last moment, he decided to take Dawson to the library, where there were a great many books and scrolls from the various people they traded with. Some of them were several centuries old; perhaps Dawson could find his language in there.
Ifer opened the double doors and stepped aside. For a moment, Ul was unable to move forward. This is where everyone had waited until the ground stopped shaking and the sea calmed. It’s where he’d been brought, still bleeding. He grabbed the stump as his nonexistent branches curled. The ache in his cartilage extended into the part of him that no longer existed.
This had been a favorite room, and now he avoided it.
Ifer glanced at him as if sensing his hesitation.
Ul lifted his chin and crossed the threshold into the library. There was no blood or water staining the rugs or stone. There were no signs of damage at all. “This is my library. Please go through the books and find your language.”
Dawson’s dark eyebrows pulled together. He wanted to smooth the crease away and reassure him that this lack of understanding was temporary and that, in a few days, this would be sorted out. Except if he touched Dawson again, his markings would glow pink. When word got around that one of the strangers was his mate, he would be expected to marry in the hope that he might finally provide an heir. His cousin had children, so it wasn’t as though there was no one to take over the throne. Though his cousin was unpopular, which is why he’d been diplomatically sent to the southern port.
Dawson asked a question, then he mimed writing.
Ul led him to a desk that sat in front of the stained-glass window that ran from floor to ceiling and depicted the birth of the krakke from the mating of a god and a now extinct octopus—if the story was to be believed.
Perhaps the octopus had never existed.
Even if it hadn’t, the window was a beautiful piece of art that his grandfather had commissioned. Dawson stared up at the window, his gaze drawn to the lovers tangled together. That wasn’t why Ul had brought him to this room. Ul tapped the desk, drawing Dawson’s attention to the writing implements. Perhaps the librarian would recognize Dawson’s letters.
“Ifer, fetch the librarian so he may assist.” The librarian knew the most about the written works. Once again, silence descended. “I need you to keep talking if I am to have a chance of learning your language.”
If it wasn’t the same for Dawson, he wasn’t sure where to begin.
Dawson’s frown deepened, as if he knew he was supposed to be doing something but hadn’t worked out what. He shook his head and said something that made no sense. It would take longer than a morning for Ul to untangle Dawson’s words.
And once he’d untangled them and could say them himself, he didn’t know what to say. How was he supposed to tell a stranger they were mates?
How was he supposed to tell his subjects and trading partners that the princes and nobles who had been offered were unsuitable and that this dark-haired stranger, who’d arrived unannounced and didn’t speak a single shared language, was his mate?
Some would be offended.
It was another problem he didn’t need.
The librarian shuffled over; his blue skin dulled with age, and his back had curved as his cartilage failed. He bowed. “How can I assist you, sire?”
“This is one of the strangers from the boxes. We are trying to figure out what language he speaks. I’m hoping you recognize his letters and can match them to one of the many books.”
