Page 7 of Red Dragon
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Syla walkedbeside Fel through the private back of the keep to the more public rooms up front, including dining, meeting, and gathering halls, as well as quarters for the island lords and ladies and their entourages when they visited. She decided she wouldn’t offer rooms to the stormers, though that was the traditional way to treat diplomats. Most likely, they would be more comfortable sleeping on their ship or leaving entirely after this meeting. General Dolok woulddefinitelybe more comfortable with them sleeping on their ship.
He and Colonel Mosworth were in the throne room when Syla arrived, along with two dozen blue-uniformed Royal Protectors with crossbows strapped across their backs and swords belted at their hips. They stood formally along the walls, backs straight and hands on the hilts of those swords as they watched the grand front entrance with hard eyes. After what the castle and city had endured at the hands of the stormers, the troops had to be seething inside.
After whatSylahad endured, she should have been seething too, but she was too wrung out for that. For the last two weeks, she’d been living in a state of being overwhelmed, daunted,and worried. Other than a few private moments when she’d let herself weep, shout, and throw things, she’d barely had time to mourn, not when there was so much to do to secure the Kingdom and protect her people.
Judging by the cool squint that Dolok turned on her, he would prefer that shenottake on that responsibility. Leave it to the military, he’d suggested more than once. Maybe with himself as the ruler over the Kingdom? He hadn’t voiced that ambition, but he kept making it clear that he didn’t believeshewas qualified.
As Syla and Fel walked in, male and female servers approached with trays, offering snacks and drinks. She lifted a hand, not wanting to have her mouth full of anything when the tribal leaders walked in. They, too, would be judging her. Perhaps seeking to take advantage of her inexperience and naivety.
“They’re in the keep,” a castle page whispered from the entrance.
Syla ignored the empty throne but started toward the long blue rug that led to it from the doorway, intending to face the visitors as they entered. Her step faltered when she spotted her cousin, Relvin.
Dressed in black hose and a thigh-length green tunic with silver lace—doubtless the latest fashion—he was speaking with Colonel Mosworth while waving a slender-fingered hand with four bejeweled rings glinting in the sunlight that flowed through the windows. Just visible through his shoulder-length blond hair, a pencil perched behind one of his ears. It and a small notepad protruding from a tunic pocket reminded everyone of his job as the editor for theKingdom Journal. In addition to monitoring which stories were printed, he wrote a column that covered political situations and economic concerns on the various islands.
Even though she’d sent messengers around Castle Island to gather her cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts, and uncles, Syla was surprised to see Relvin in the throne room. How had he learned so quickly about the diplomatic party? An hour ago,shehadn’t even known the stormers would come.
“Good afternoon, Relvin,” Syla said when he left the colonel and approached her. “I’m glad the messengers found you. Did Teyla come with you?” That was his sister and the cousin she liked much more than he. “Aunt Tibby is looking for her.”
“She did. We came down from the estate at Lake Ferringtar together early this morning. But we stopped to have breakfast before coming to the castle, and she disappeared in the historical district near the harbor. I can’t imaginewhatdrew her eye, as everything is in shambles, and it’s terribly dangerous in that area.Especiallynow.” Relvin pulled his pencil from behind his ear and stabbed it toward the open double doors, moving shadows in the hallway promising the stormers and their escort would walk in at any moment. “But you know Teyla. Any vaguely intriguing historical find or old map of an ancient civilization in an obscure corner of the world will send her veering off to investigate.”
Yes, and that waswhyshe liked Teyla most among her cousins. Syla could relate, even if her interests skewed more medical than anthropological.
“Was there any trouble up at the lake?” Syla asked instead of commenting on the rest.
Relvin and Teyla had apartments in the capital but had departed, along with many others, especially those wealthy enough to have homes elsewhere, the night of the invasion. Despite Teyla’s occasional fencing lessons, the two siblings weren’t combatants, and Syla didn’t blame them. Still, so many people had been injured and needed help in the aftermath that it would have been better if more people had stayed to assist.
“Thank the sun god, the lake estate was left alone, but it’s terribly boring up there, so I was relieved to return once the sky shield was back in place. Though if I’d knownstormerswould be invited here, and so soon after theymurderedthe royal family, I might not have come so promptly to your summons.”
“Maybe you’ll get a story for the newspaper at least,” Syla murmured, her tone distracted.
Her visitors were walking in, following an escort of Royal Protectors. The stormer entourage included a number of fit warriors in fur-trimmed Storm Guard chain mail as well as riders in black leathers with fingerless gloves that hid whether or not they had dragon tattoos on the backs of their hands. Such tattoos indicated a bond to a dragon and magical ability that included greater-than-normal strength, stamina, and agility.
Right away, Syla’s gaze locked on Vorik, who walked without any signs of the many injuries he’d received during their journey. He hadn’t let her use her magic to heal him, only stitching and bandaging his wounds, but it didn’t matter. He’d healed fully in the past two weeks.
Even before she’d seen the bare back of his hand—and the green-dragon tattoo there—she’d known he was bonded to Agrevlari. His emerald eyes emanated power.Allof him did, from his compact muscular frame to his angular face, his prominent cheekbones almost harsh. Most of the riders had faces like that, the leanness pronounced, a testament to the hard lives they led and the lack of abundance when it came to food. None of them looked gaunt or frail—not in the least—but they did not carry any extra fat that would have softened their visages.
Vorik also spotted Syla promptly, their gazes meeting across the long throne room. While the rest of the stormers were stone-faced, the corners of his mouth twitched, and his eyes glinted with warmth.
Even though they hadn’t exchanged words, relief filled her with the certainty that he didn’t hold that night against her. She started to smile at him but caught the glowers of the military men around her and also noticed the cold eyes of the rider walking beside Vorik. General Jhiton.
Syla had seen him during the sea battle where Wreylith, the red dragon, had come to her defense, but only from afar. Thanks to her old spectacles, he’d been a lean blur atop his black dragon. Now, as he approached, she could see his stone jaw, straight nose, flinty green eyes, and a scar that cut diagonally across his nose and cheek. Whether it had been delivered by sword or talon, she didn’t know, but it had come close to taking his eye.
Though Jhiton shared a similar if harder look to Vorik, it took her a moment to remember they were brothers. Their green eyes were so different, ice-cold versus warm, and she’d seen Vorik grinning in delight at eating blackberry cobbler. She couldn’t imagine Jhiton grinning under any circumstances.
“Chief Tenilor of the Moonhunt Tribe,” the herald announced. “And Chieftess Shi of the Wingborn Tribe.” He looked toward Dolok and Mosworth, then toward Syla. Shifting nervously, and probably not knowing who would speak with the tribal leaders, he didn’t announce any of them.
“I am General Dolok.” The officer brushed past Syla and strode forward with Mosworth at his side. Cousin Relvin had stepped back to observe from the protection of the marble throne. “Though you have established yourselves as our enemies, for this day, you are granted an abeyance and access to this room in the castle.”
Syla grimaced at the undiplomatic greeting—and the fact that she’d been so busy gaping at Jhiton and Vorik that she’d barely noticed the stormer leaders. Unlike the dark clothing of their military men and women, the chieftess and chief wore colorfully dyed garments made from fur, scale, and feathers, indicativeof the prey their people hunted. Bone bracelets clacked on the woman’s wrists, and her male counterpart wore decorative trinkets as well, including an ivory collar. They carried swords in scabbards on their backs, the blades likely made from magical gargoyle bone. From what Syla had read, only those who succeeded in slaying their own gargoyle, and acquiring bones for the crafting, bore such weapons. Since stormers only became tribe leaders by beating others in duels, she suspected Tenilor and Shi had defeated numerous gargoyles. Likely, every stormer in the room had.
Syla walked forward to stand beside Dolok. He hadn’t introduced her—or anyone else—so she would have to be assertive if she didn’t want to be ignored.
“We go where we wish,” Chieftess Shi said after exchanging looks with Tenilor. She focused on Dolok instead of looking at Syla. “We have come here because we received an invitation suggesting your kingdom is willing to give away some of your islands in exchange for the cessation of attacks from our people and our dragon allies.”
Dolok’s eyebrows flew up, and he swung a glare onto Syla. Well, at least someone was acknowledging her.
