Page 49 of I Dream of Dragons
RAE
Elegant in a black suit with gold trimmings, along with the obligatory gold mantle and towering crown, the fae king gazes at me with an undecipherable expression on his handsome face.
I stand frozen, a deer caught in the brambles, all arrows pointing at me.
What will he do? I inadvertently insulted him. Shoved at him, for all the Gods’ sakes. He’s the fae king, the king of this entire world, and I’m nothing to him, only…
“You’ve always been mine, Aethre…”
“Lady Rae,” the king says, and belatedly I drop into a clumsy curtsy—clumsy because my legs ache and my torn, drenched dress clings to them. My scraped palms stick to the fabric, and my bare feet slip a little on the shiny marble floor.
“Majesty,” I whisper.
“One might think you’re running away from something. Or someone.”
My mouth twists at what I take to be teasing. “Majesty, I apologize, I?—”
“Come with me.”
“But I?—”
The mark on my hand stings suddenly, making me gasp, and I find myself stepping closer to the king. He gestures for me to walk beside him and I rush to his side, feeling another sting, this time in my mind, a touch of disappointment and annoyance at the contrast between my dismal state and the king’s expectations of me.
It doesn’t feel like the annoyance is mine. But…
“This way,” he says and we make our way down another passage. I fall into step with him, the sound of my bare feet on the floor drowned out by the tapping of the king’s heels and the guards’ boots.
We walk and walk, and my legs burn, but I utter no complaint. I keep stealing glances at the king’s face, that hard profile, the gray eyes, the pale gold hair pulled back from the high forehead.
“Mars?” I whisper. “Jackal?”
His gaze flicks to me but then we turn into another corridor and the guards bustle ahead to open a heavy, double door.
Did he hear me calling him that? Does he remember that nickname? Does he care?
Of course he cares. Of course he knows. He put his mark on me and the throb in my wrist feels like a caress, lulling me. He came to find me and take me to his room. He’s the boy I once loved.
The boy that was and the boy that is. My other half.
The king of my heart.
The room we enter is colorful and opulent. It appears to be a tea room with low furniture done in somber hues. There areshelves and glass cases set against the walls to showcase delicate porcelain from Porthain, the main production center of the fae, located near the capital, Siris. Heavy velvet drapes hang at the tall windows and a roaring fire burns in a fireplace. In front of it stand two ornate red sofas, two armchairs, and a low round table.
The king stops beside me, two guards entering after us, closing the double doors and flanking them.
Quiet falls, broken only by the crackling of the logs and the flames consuming them, then by the swish of the king’s golden mantle dragging on the floor as he approaches the fire.
The dancing flames gild his pensive face, the elegant lines and planes of it. The tall crown on his head sparkles.
A log explodes into sparks and he takes a step back.
“The fire is not my element,” he says. “It doesn’t like me. Unlike water.”
I don’t quite understand what that means or implies. I walk around a plush armchair draped in yellow velvet, stitched with birds and branches, and sink into it, biting back a sigh as I take the weight off my legs. My bare bloody feet and filthy shins look completely out of place against the rich, dark rug.
Refreshments sit on the low table. A teapot lets out an aroma of traditional rose andkrathbark infusion, favored by the fae. Small round cakes baked with honey and topped with crushed nuts sit in an elongated dish. Crystal decanters of various spirits and goblets complete the picture.
So cozy and elegant. It reminds me of home…
