Page 13 of Blood of Wolves

Reginald slapped a hand down on the table, and the resultant smack rang loud through the vast room, echoing off the gilt walls, and the painted ceiling.

“We expect you to quit being an annoying prig and listen,” he snapped, voice ringing with a new note, one she’d never heard from him before: that of a commander, and not merely a fop in white silk.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true: she’d heard that tone the night he’d come to their rescue; the night she’d met the drakes; the night Malcolm had…

She shoved the memory away, forcefully, and focused on the task at hand. Phineas stood gaping at Reginald, shocked.

Amelia glanced toward Connor, who nodded, and stood; walked down the long length of the room toward the doors that led out onto the terrace beyond, its wide view of the gardens. “Lord Phineas,” she said, flexing authority into her own voice, “whatever you think of me, or my family, or our true crest” – she nodded toward the banner that still lay on the table – “I can assure you that I’ve never been one for practical jokes, not even innocent ones. I’ve called you and the lords of the east here for a reason. Lord Connor” – he tossed an eye roll over his shoulder as he pushed the doors open, and left them that way – “and Lord Reginald were with me the night we halted the Sels’ progress through the Inglewood – but there’s no reason to think they won’t continue to make another attempt. We can’t simply hide in our manors and hope that the crown will overcome our enemy on its own. It’s time to go on the offensive.”

“We’ve been on the offensive,” Lord Edward said, frowning. “I sent my men to fight in the Crownlands – and there my son remains, a prisoner of war.”

“I know. And I’m sorry for that. But we won’t be fighting in the same way. We won’t send troops to their death on the border.”

“How could it be different?” he asked.

“For one, I wasn’t lying before: Tessa is betrothed and Oliver is firmly installed as the Aeretollean king’s consort. King Erik has promised to uphold the treaty he agreed to with my father during the last war. The Great Northern Phalanx will come to our aid.”

Gods, I hope they do, she prayed. Without anything definitive on paper, nothing about the North travelling South in Oliver and Tessa’s letters…and those letters now dried up…nothing could be certain.

“And,” she continued, though all three guests looked poised to interrupt, “we have another asset on our side. Something the enemy isn’t prepared for in the slightest.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled. One long, shrill, lifting note, like when she called for Shadow.

She heard the rush and clap of wings, first, before a shadow fell across the slate of the terrace. She smiled as Alpha touched down, lightly for so large an animal. He settled his wings, shook his head, and pressed his frill back against his neck.

Phineas started cursing, and didn’t stop, a low, constant stream ofshit, shit, shit.

“Gods,” Edward breathed.

“How – what – is that–” Isadora stuttered.

Amelia pushed back her chair, and stood, as Alpha inhaled deeply, and then stalked forward into the ballroom, claws clicking on the floor.

Isadora shrieked.

Amelia saw Alpha’s nostrils flare, red-gold eyes sliding toward the noise. “No need for alarm,” she said, rounding the table and striding down its length. “He won’t hurt anyone unless I tell him to.” She heard the murmurs and squeals behind her, but ignored them; it would take a miracle to shut Isadora Sutcliffe up, and, really, that was what Amelia was about to show her.

She’d never experienced anything like her mental connection to the drakes. They had settled as a constant presence in the back of her mind, a small weight that was comforting rather than heavy, like the weight of piled-up quilts on a cold night. It felt…red, somehow, that weight, a faint echo of the bright hue that had overtaken all of her senses that first night. When she spoke to the drakes, she had the sense they understood, and, somehow, she understood their intentions in return.

For instance, now, as she reached Alpha, and lifted her hand, she knew that he would press the warm skin of his muzzle into it, and breathe hot across her palm, a nuzzled greeting just like Shadow offered her. His eyes closed a moment, as she scratched under his jaw in the place she’d learned he liked, and purred like a great cat.

She rested a hand on his neck, and turned back to the table. Even Lord Edward looked properly dumbstruck.

“Our family crest was never supposed to be a duck,” she said, biting back the smile that threatened. “We are the Drakes of Drakewell, andthis” – she patted Alpha’s warm, smooth scales – “is our family crest. It’s also how we’re going to bring about an end to this war.”

Isadora’s mouth worked silently a moment – then she fainted.

4

Dreki Hörgr

Sunlight flashed like blue fire off the iced-over lake; glittered in the snowbanks – those few that didn’t bear the dark runes of the violence that had played out in what had once been a holy gathering place. Oliver had been watching the drakes’ passage overhead, all three flying high as they crested the last rise, and collided softly with Erik’s shoulder before he righted himself; belatedly, he realized they’d reached the head of the trail that led down into the valley…and found himself gasping against his will.

It had only been a few days since they slept in the King’s Hall, but it felt like it had been weeks. And the longhouse itself was a blackened, half-burned ruin of its former glory. Through the gaping, soot-streaked remains of the roof timbers, he could see piles of ash on the earth floor, a drift of fresh snow muddied by the destruction; overturned cooking kettles and no sign of the hides and furs and bedrolls where the lords of Aeretoll had spent their first night in the valley. The snow around the longhouse had been churned and muddied by hooves and feet alike. Beyond, the gaming fields smoked, faintly, the unmistakeable shapes of still-smoldering funeral pyres like open wounds.

The sight of it left Oliver feeling like he’d been kicked in the stomach. This wasn’t the home of his ancestors; this wasn’t a place that held any personal reverence for him…but the drawn look on Erik’s face as he surveyed the damage left him aching in sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, fingers curling around the crook of Erik’s elbow.

Erik took a deep, measured breath and let it out slowly, muscles jumping beneath Oliver’s hand, detectable even through layers of wool and leather. “Let’s keep moving.”

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