Shadowy Illusions #38
Chapter 1
1369 AD
Sentinel Compound
Gerard sat on his bed and glumly pondered life. Eighteen years ago, his memory had begun, and he was tied to the soul of a necromancer. Each sentinel was bound to a necromancer’s soul, and the two did not meet until the necromancer was an adult. So, Gerard had thrown himself into training with his daggers and read every book available in the endlessly gray compound he called home.
It was possible Gerard was actually older than eighteen and he’d been assigned to another necromancer in the past, but the magick that created him allowed him no memories of it. His lone friend was the leader of the sentinels, Alaric. The ruler had no title Gerard knew, and Alaric barely stayed more than a few minutes at a time.
But Alaric’s glowing green gaze studied Gerard carefully each day, and he asked about his welfare. There was an intensity in Alaric’s stare that discomfited Gerard, and his ruler kept his black hair ruthlessly combed away from his face. Given how often sentinels trained, Alaric surely had to tend to his tresses often, which Gerard found useless.
Gerard’s brown locks hung over his forehead and were usually tangled. Like Gerard, Alaric wore a simple uniform of gray. A special spell kept their weapons floating near their hips, and the chartreuse poison dancing around them was a perfect match for Alaric’s eyes.
As leader of the sentinels, Alaric’s daggers were uniquely two-toned in green and black. The black toxin was a secret one with the power to harm undead people. Gerard had access to the dark venom but hadn’t bothered switching to it. Consigned to a cell, Gerard hadn’t met another living soul beyond Alaric until his necromancer had summoned him at eighteen.
Simon de Traylly was a kind enough sorcerer, but after the traditional greeting, he sent Gerard back to his lonely room at the compound. No visitors were allowed in the small realm sentinels were expected to reside in, for how long Gerard could not say. His days were unconditionally routine, boredom and loneliness his constant enemies.
Magick brought his meals three times a day and allowed Gerard to leave his small sleeping space to venture into a larger gray training room. Like everything at the compound, sorcery was responsible for how sparring was possible. Gerard summoned a nearly transparent version of himself to test and strengthen his abilities against. Then Gerard returned to his cell and was left on his own.
A powerful necromancer could live forever, and death was impossible for Gerard. Sentinels could only die by being beheaded, and they were incapable of dishonor. It would take a disreputable sentinel using the black poison to sever Gerard’s head from his neck. Gerard had no fear of the brethren he had never met.
Lost in the endless loop of his thoughts, Gerard nearly jumped as the room around him grew dimmer. His necromancer needed him. Gerard used the little sorcery at his disposal and summoned his cloak, which he quickly donned. After closing his eyes, Gerard stood. The ground beneath his feet disappeared, and a second later there was earth beneath his dark gray boots.
“Good day, Gerard,” Simon said in the Norman French he preferred. His mother was of Norman blood, and Simon had spoken fondly to the woman as he’d introduced Gerard to her and Simon’s stern father months ago.
“Good day. How may I assist you?” Gerard replied in the same language. Gerard assumed it was magick that allowed him to know both Norman French and English since his soul was tied to Simon. It was difficult to view the world around him with his cloak on, but Gerard could not miss the stunning stone castle up ahead, and he wondered who called the enormous structure home.
Unlike the realm he’d left, the skies were a lovely shade of azure, and his gray boots were crushing vibrant green blades of grass. Gerard wanted to gawk and catalog every difference between Simon’s world and his own, but he had to stay focused on protecting his necromancer.
“The Council of Sorcery wishes speech with the dragons. The Arch Wizard suggested we send someone unassuming and expendable in case that person is attacked, so they chose me.” Simon’s mouth twisted, and his gray eyes were annoyed. “That man is awful. It was Arch Lich Daray who suggested you accompany me. Chander wants you at my side for the whole of it to ensure my safety.”
Although Gerard did not know anyone Simon mentioned, it was not his place to ask questions. His necromancer was requesting his aid, and Gerard could not refute orders. “I am most honored to escort you.”
“Invisible, perhaps?”
Gerard bobbed his head. “As you wish.”
“Thank you, Gerard, I am in your debt.”
“Simon, it is my duty.”
Simon chuckled as Gerard disappeared into the shadows. “I am unaccustomed to sentinels. Let us be off. We are meeting with Their Majesties, Emperors Drystan and Conley Draconis.”
The pair trudged up to the wide iron castle gate, and Gerard gained respect for Simon’s bravery as he insisted to the dragons disguised as men that he must speak to their leaders. It was Gerard’s first time near a shifter, and he was filled with pride that his quick senses recognized the race of the men so swiftly.
To Gerard’s surprise, he and Simon stalked through the gate and were brought into a lavish throne room dominated by two large, ornately carved wooden seats by an unpleasant man calling himself Imperial Duke Bernal. There was something about the Imperial Duke’s manner that raised Gerard’s hackles, and he moved marginally closer to his necromancer.
Near a table cluttered with papers, a tall man with dark hair and equally black, scaly eyes which bore a gilt circle around the irises stared unblinkingly at Simon. At the stranger’s side was another man with a brilliant gold gaze. The pair were connected at the soul, and Gerard recognized it as a matebond from his brief meeting with Simon’s parents. Gerard could not say he fully understood what a matebond was, but he could not impose upon his necromancer to ask him to explain it. As soon as his duty was done, Gerard would return home and wait for another opportunity to aid Simon.
“Your Majesties, may I present the messenger who refuses to give his name,” Imperial Duke Bernal stated after informing them that the taller of the dragons was Emperor Drystan and the golden one was his mate, Emperor Conley.
“Thank you, Your Grace, you may go,” Emperor Drystan ordered.
The Imperial Duke lifted his chin in disapproval. “Your Majesty, I could not possibly leave you with this person alone.”
“What do you suppose I could do to them? You are all giants,” Simon remarked. The Imperial Duke glared at Gerard’s necromancer, but he offered no comment.
Emperor Conley smiled faintly. “You see, Imperial Duke Bernal, we have nothing to fear from our guest.”
“Very well,” Imperial Duke Bernal replied and stormed out of the room.
“He is very unpleasant,” Simon said.
“By what name do you go?” Emperor Conley asked.
Simon offered them a courtly bow. “Your Majesties, I am Simon de Traylly.”
“Simon de Traylly, you are either very brave or very stupid for walking into a castle full of dragons,” Emperor Drystan stated.
“It is bravery, I assure you, for I am not alone on this journey.”
“Unless you have a man concealed beneath your cloak, you appear to be very much by yourself,” Emperor Conley drawled.
“He would not fit under my cloak. You may show yourself, Gerard,” Simon said. At Simon’s behest, Gerard shimmered into view, and he did not miss the fear on the faces of the dragons. It was something he’d expected, and it was his duty to use anything he could to prevent harm from coming to Simon, so he took pride in the anxiety of the fierce dragons. If it took nothing more than Gerard’s presence to preserve Simon’s safety, he would consider it a day well spent.
“Who is your companion?” Emperor Conley asked, his golden eyes widening.
“Your Majesties, this is my sentinel. He is called Gerard. Should anyone attempt to harm me, he will most eagerly kill them dead.”
In the traditional sentinel way, Gerard nodded in greeting. If he were not such a disciplined protector of his necromancer, he would have asked about the battle scenes in the large tapestries behind Their Majesties. They displayed a plethora of black dragons soaring through cloudless skies, blowing their fire breath over the remnants of some structure.
“What is a sentinel?” Emperor Drystan asked, sitting on one of the two thrones in the room. Instead of electing to take the seat next to him, Emperor Conley chose to rest on the arm of Emperor Drystan’s chair. Why they would sit that way was unclear to Gerard, but the duties and responsibilities of a matebond remained a mystery to him.
“A sentinel is an assassin, Your Majesties,” Simon replied. “Every necromancer has one available to them.”
“A necromancer?” Emperor Conley asked, confusion replacing much of his panic.
“Aye, I stand before you, a humble necromancer. I am a sorcerer capable of, among other things, raising the dead. My sentinel here is a fine example of what a necromancer can do, for he is quite dead himself.”
“He appears well enough to me,” Emperor Drystan remarked.
“The spell that was cast to allow him to slay throats for me sprung him from death,” Simon responded. “He is much like me and you today. Perhaps more like me as he cannot transform into a dragon.”
“I see,” Emperor Drystan said, though his tone suggested otherwise.
“You said you are a sorcerer?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Indeed, I am.”
“We had not believed sorcerers to be anything other than fantasy,” Emperor Drystan said.
“We thought dragons to be much the same until some years past,” Simon revealed.
“You have known of dragons for many years?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Aye, the warlocks told us of your kind. They used to watch you from afar. They had an ability to scry to see the past, present, and future.”
“They have lost this ability?” Emperor Drystan asked.
“Aye, for they are quite dead.”
“Dead like your friend Gerard here, or dead as in no longer walking around as the living dead?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Dead and already roasted in funeral pyres, I am afraid.”
“How does an entire race die? Or were there only a few of these warlocks to start?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Oh no, there were many of them,” Simon said. “They fair dwarfed the number of necromancers. Alas, how else could an entire race perish but through war.”
“Were these warlocks not keen warriors?” Emperor Drystan asked.
“One need not be a warrior if one has magick. They were fair skilled at that, but an evil tribe of elves calling themselves the Cwylld happened to possess a kind of stone which could absorb their power.”
“Elves?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Aye, surely you have heard of them?” Simon made a motion with his hands near his head. “Pointy ears. Tall. Most of them are peaceful. Not the damnable Cwylld though.”
“So, it was the warlocks, who are now dead because of evil men with pointed ears, who told you of dragons?” Emperor Drystan asked.
“You have the right of it, Your Majesty. I did not believe the stories when I heard them, but then in the sky, I saw a great beast I had only read about in books. You are a fearsome lot.”
“What exactly is your purpose here, Simon?” Emperor Conley asked.
“I am here because of the dead warlocks.”
“If you wish to raise them from the beyond using your magick, I fail to see how we could be of aid to you,” Emperor Drystan said.
“Should we do that, they would be little more than warriors like Gerard here. No, I am here on behalf of the Council of Sorcery. The leaders of our Council wish an audience with you to confer about methods of defense. None of us wish to wind up as the dead warlocks.”
“Council of Sorcery? There are more than just necromancers then?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Aye, the Council of Sorcery was created by Grand Warlock T’Eirick and his mate, Grand Summoner Saura, before their deaths.”
“So, sorcerers have mates?” Emperor Conley asked. As Gerard listened, he idly wondered if he too had a mate or if sentinels were destined to spend eternity in their compound cages. As lonely as Gerard was, he welcomed the idea of sharing his soul, but he failed to see how he could ever find someone given how many hours he spent locked up.
“Of course, Fate has given us the gift of them as, it appears, she has gifted them to you,” Simon remarked.
“I am most gratified to hear you follow the dictates of Fate. We feared if sorcerers were genuine, you would live as humans,” Emperor Drystan said.
“Hmmph, humans. They are an unenlightened lot. They consider us all evil. We steer clear of them. I suggest you do the same.”
“Thank you, Simon; we have already learned to give them space,” Emperor Drystan stated dryly.
“Most wise, Your Majesty. Most wise indeed.”
“Who else belongs to your Council of Sorcery?” Emperor Conley asked.
“There is my leader, Arch Lich Chander Daray of the Order of Necromancia. The Circle of Druids is represented by Killian the Dwyer; the wizards are governed by Arch Wizard Egidius and the mages by Magus Superus Jurdann. The Arch Lich wishes to see more races join.”
Gerard had never met Simon’s leader, and he briefly wondered if Alaric had met the man. The ruler of the sentinels hadn’t mentioned it, but perhaps the men had agreed not to disclose their discussions.
“And these men wish to discuss defense with us? Why?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Your Majesty, have I not mentioned all the warlocks are dead? The Cwylld elves can steal our magick. Who knows what other group is capable of the same? The Council of Sorcery wishes to enlist the dragons to protect us.”
“If they were concerned with gaining the help of dragons, why did they not appear at the gates themselves?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Your Majesty, they could not predict the type of reception they would find at your castle. They wished to send someone like myself to test the waters.”
“They were astute enough to consider it was unlikely we would harm a youth like yourself,” Emperor Drystan remarked.
“Just so, and the Arch Wizard said if you were, then they would know not to trust you.”
“Was he not concerned for your well-being?” Emperor Conley asked.
Simon shifted his weight from foot to foot. “We are on friendly terms, are we not? Then I shall confess I find the Arch Wizard rather unpleasant. The others are good men.”
“Did your Arch Lich not wish to protect you?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Aye, that is why he suggested I call upon Gerard to see to my safety.”
“He has much faith in Gerard,” Emperor Drystan said. Beneath his hood, Gerard grinned with pride. Of course Simon and the Arch Lich would trust Gerard; sentinels had no equal.
“Gerard spends much of his days training with his weapons. They are coated with magick of a deadly poison. It is that green glow you see emanating from his cloak.”
Gerard wondered if Simon understood how he spent the hours when he wasn’t training and how he longed for more from his existence. But it was hardly the time or the place to confess his isolation and desire for more. And given his short acquaintance with Simon, Gerard could not know if the necromancer would even care. At least Gerard had a trove of memories, thanks to this unusual day to reflect upon until he was needed again.
“I see. Well, what say you, Drystan? Have you a desire to meet with the men of the Council of Sorcery and discuss the possibility of military alliance?” Emperor Conley asked.
“Simon, you may tell your Council of Sorcery the dragon Emperors would be most pleased to meet with them. However, we offer no guarantee we will be able to come to an amenable treaty,” Emperor Drystan said.
“Wonderful, Your Majesties. I thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“It was most instructive meeting you. You may tell your Council of Sorcery we shall host an audience with them three days hence here at Castle Draconis,” Emperor Conley replied.
“I shall be happy to extend your invitation,” Simon responded.
With Simon at his side, Gerard left Castle Draconis, and the necromancer bid him farewell. Gerard returned to his cell and wondered how much time would pass before he saw anything beyond a gray, unwelcoming sky.
Blaze of Eternity #39
Part 1
Fires of Destiny
Chapter 1
1010 AD
Kingdom of Sweden
Hunched over, Masse scurried through his small tent and dressed swiftly. For weeks, the men of the Pallidus Anima had trudged across vast lands. It was nothing new to Masse, who’d spent his young life going wherever his leaders took him. Often Masse dreamed of a home where his feet did not feel icy, with a river nearby to wash his heavy clothing, but the Pallidus Anima had chosen him for his gift.
While he’d been born an earth mage, Masse’s destiny was not to keep his hands in the dirt. Although Masse loved the magick connecting him to the land, he had to embrace his talents. Special men were born randomly to different races with the power of nullification. It was the Pallidus Anima who traveled to find them and aid them in harnessing their abilities.
There were strict rules, but it was to be expected of the chosen men. The principes, or rulers of their group, were allowed to speak to outsiders, but average men like Masse could not. In the hours they weren’t journeying or preparing meals, they were purifying their souls. Masse could not reach any mastery until he scrubbed his well of sorcery clean. It was a slow process, and Masse cheated himself by using earth magick.
But Masse hated having an empty belly, and if he found a little to eat while foraging, he enriched the dirt and encouraged things to grow. Masse was punished each time, though no one in the small group refused to partake in the root vegetables. Meat was rare for them, which was fine with Masse since he refused to kill any living being.
With his hose on, Masse tugged a thick robe over his head and layered a thinner one over it. He secured a cord around his waist, then sat to pull on his boots. There was a chill in the air, so Masse stood and slipped on a cloak. He lifted the flap of the tent and breathed easy. No one was around. There was a group of magickind not far away, and some principes were investigating the encampment to discover if any nullifiers were among them.
Since Masse was the youngest person in the Pallidus Anima, they didn’t trust him to be involved. Masse was curious how new sorcerers were convinced to give up their families and lands to join the Pallidus Anima, but perhaps they’d find a boy like him. Orphaned at three years of age, Masse had been found by the Pallidus Anima. The tiny camp of earth mages had barely cared for Masse, and he was grateful to have been rescued.
Masse remembered none of those days, but the knowledge helped ease his frustration with long walks and the arduous process of achieving the full extent of his gifts. Setting aside his desire to achieve his dream and take his place as a princeps, he ran out of the tent and breathed deeply. The fresh air was welcome, and Masse wanted to discover everything about this corner of the world.
It was the first time Masse could recall traveling to the Kingdom of Sweden, and he wanted to explore to find out how it differed from the other places he’d visited. Winter had not yet wrapped everything in her blanket, but the chilly breeze warned him it was but weeks away. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the lush green ground stretched on forever. A copse of trees beckoned to Masse from just beyond the small pond that had lured his people to choose their campsite.
As Masse moved closer to it, strange sensations swept through him. The first was a distinct scent of smoke and fire. Worried that something horrible was afoot, Masse hastened his steps but halted when his member came to attention. Although Masse had, in the past, broken the rules and snuck off to bring himself to a quick release, that was a secret he’d keep until the last breath left his lungs. Why would his body choose now to get an erection?
A tall blond man emerged from the woods. His hair brushed his shoulders, but part of it was tied back, presumably to keep it from settling in his stunning face. The stranger had a strong jaw and broad shoulders, and as he moved closer, Masse noted his eyes rivaled the sky with their azure beauty. His mouth beckoned to Masse.
“Hello there,” the man said as he stalked toward Masse with a grin that weakened the former sorcerer’s knees.
“I must go,” Masse whispered, the hardness of his prick lessening. The comfort he found near this unknown man frightened him. Already Masse had broken the rule against communicating with outsiders, and he wondered why he so abhorred obeying the men he respected.
The blond lifted his chin, and his smile dimmed, but he didn’t stop walking until he was less than a foot from Masse. “I should like to introduce myself to my mate first.”
“Mate? But Fate is a delusion for fools,” Masse said. Since Masse had already spoken, it couldn’t hurt to correct the stranger’s misguided thoughts. “Man must discover his purpose on his own and not fall prey to fantasies.”
“I beg your pardon, but my people embrace Fate fully. The goddess chose me to rule them, and I assure you I am rooted fully in reality. I would argue that only a fool would dismiss such a powerful goddess.”
“Have you any proof of her existence?” Masse asked weakly as he wondered why he felt such comfort near the stranger.
“Aye, for I have the blood of a beast in my veins, and she slapped a phoenix on my arm to assure everyone she wishes for me to lead.”
“A beast?” Curiosity was constantly a downfall for Masse, and his brain demanded he learn everything he could about the phoenix-man. It was not the first he’d heard of the shapeshifters, but he had never spoken to one or anyone who wasn’t part of the Pallidus Anima.
“You are no human,” the man said. “I have met a human or two. You are not a shifter like me, but what is in your soul?” His eyes narrowed. “I detect something fair strange too. My beast does not like it. It is most odd. I fear it may weaken him.”
“I was a mage. One of earth. But I have a gift. Someday I will become a true Pallidus Anima, and my presence will allow no sorcerer to gain more power than is intended,” Masse boasted, proud of his people.
“Ah, but who decides what is intended if not Fate?”
“I do not know why I am speaking to you.”
“Likely because you feel the pull of our matebond despite how teachings have warped your perception of Fate.”
Masse gasped. “You are far too assured of yourself.”
“As Fate intended. Tell me your name, mage of earth.”
“I do not think that is wise.” It was assuredly not, but Masse yearned to gain knowledge of the blond beast-man.
“I am Kolsten. Jarl of the Eldrvalkyria. We are phoenixes with the blood of the Valkyrie.”
“Masse. Mass-ie less you struggle with the pronunciation.”
“Is Masse short for anything?”
Masse shook his head. “It is the only name I have known. I was an orphan until my gift was discovered, so if I have another, longer name, it was lost when I left the earth mages.”
“I should like to learn more about this gift.”
“It is forbidden for me to tell you anything of the Pallidus Anima,” Masse said, belatedly recalling that he’d already told the stranger things about his people that weren’t allowed. As if a lowly apprentice talking to Kolsten wasn’t awful enough, Masse had alerted an entire population where to find the Pallidus Anima. Was Masse’s runaway tongue destined to be the downfall of his people?
The feeling of wanting to be closer to the shapeshifter hadn’t lessened, and Masse was confused. With no reason to believe in Fate, Masse had dismissed the idea of a matebond. But Masse had been taught to trust his soul, and it was telling him there was a connection to Kolsten.
“I understand, we tell no one of our people either. But our relationship differs from meeting a stranger on a brisk walk. I am intended to share my immortal life with you.”
“Immortality is a lie…like Fate.”
Kolsten laughed. “You have unusual beliefs, but I am curious what else you might say. Or perhaps I’m so enamored of your beauty I wish to stand here the entire day, staring at your fair visage.”
If his cheeks were pinkened, Masse couldn’t help it. No one had ever commented on his face. It was a pleasing-enough one, Masse supposed. There were few opportunities to view it, and Masse usually spent no more than a few seconds staring at his reflection before a bath. His hair was best kept short since it was a riot of barely tamable curls.
That was something Masse wished he could change. Kolsten’s straight locks shone in the sunlight, and Masse envied him. Or appreciated such a fine feature on him? His thoughts, and the desire to stay in Kolsten’s company, bewildered Masse. The principes would tell him to run far from the delusional beast-man mired in the idea of Fate, and they would punish him for his foolishness, but Masse’s feet refused to budge.
Belatedly, Masse noticed the axe resting under Kolsten’s cloak, and a fresh wave of fear for his people—and belatedly for himself—swept through him.
“Do you mean me harm?” Masse asked.
Kolsten dropped to a knee and bent his head.
“Masse, I would sooner perish myself than allow any harm to come to my mate. You have my solemn oath that I will protect you for eternity. My people are skilled warriors, and once we are bound, you will not need to fear anyone.”
Overwhelmed by the sentiment and the powerful rumble of Kolsten’s vow, Masse stumbled back a step.
“This is not allowed,” Masse whispered. “I shouldn’t be speaking to you.”
Although Kolsten lifted his chin so their eyes met, he made no move to stand. “A century has passed since my birth, and I have anxiously awaited you for decades. My parents are mates, and I’ve envied their bond…wanted the same for myself. My belief in Fate is absolute, and I’m more grateful to the goddess each day because bounty surrounds me. We are not the same, you and me. But I hope you will trust the feelings inside you. The scent of peat surrounds you. It makes sense, given that you are a mage of earth. Tell me, is there a strong smell lingering about me?”
Masse bit his lip and curled his fists as he tried to think rationally. But his heart was racing, and the oddness of his feelings frightened him.
“Before I saw you, I smelled smoke and fire,” Masse confided softly. “I thought danger lurked ahead, but I think it’s you. It is passing strange that a man would have such a potent scent clinging to him.”
“I am a phoenix, Masse. A fiery bird with feathers of flame. Someday I will show you the beauty of my beast. I long to do so now, but I fear it will terrify you further.”
“What makes you think I am afraid?” Masse said, wondering where his temerity of challenging the axe-toting man had come from.
“Your face hides nothing. What age are you?”
“I have twenty years.”
“Thank Fate,” Kolsten muttered, rising and brushing the dirt from his knee. “With the innocence in your eyes and your stature, I feared you were still a boy. Though my instincts were shouting at me that you are indeed a man.”
“My stature?” Masse sputtered. “It is hardly my fault you are so tall.”
“You sound like my mother. A proud Valkyrie with wings of near gold, she is most annoyed I beat her and my sire by several inches.”
“I must go.”
“Meet me here again tomorrow. You need not fear any harm will come to you; this is the land of my people. It stretches far to allow us to spread our wings. We didn’t grant permission for strangers to camp here, but I cannot find any anger for your people in their choice to do so. I assume your camp is not far.”
“Do not follow me,” Masse ordered, surprising himself and Kolsten.
“I will not. Will you meet me again?”
The lessons Masse had been taught since he was a child screamed at him to tell the beast-man no, but his soul was demanding something far different. Masse wanted to trust it.
But it was the same soul that still cheated with the occasional earth spell keeping him from embracing his destiny. How trustworthy were Masse’s instincts? With a shake of his head, Masse decided he would worry about that later. And speak to no one about his encounter with Kolsten.
“Please,” Kolsten said.
Masse lifted his cloak and heavy robes and ran. A few feet away, Masse halted and turned back. Rules be damned. Masse had to learn more about what was prompting such strong feelings and educate himself on Kolsten’s people. And Kolsten too.
“I will meet you tomorrow morn,” Masse promised.
Kolsten’s grin flashed, and Masse’s stomach flopped alarmingly, so he raced away as fast as he could. It would take some serious lying, but Masse refused to miss the opportunity to see Kolsten again. Why the thought of breaking rules for someone he’d just met didn’t bother Masse, he wasn’t sure. Nothing made sense, but Masse was grateful he’d ventured out past his tent.
Scales and Stone #40
Chapter 1
Approximately twenty-eight years ago
Draconis Court of Ethelin
Two days after Lex Ethelindraconis first shifted into a beautiful brown dragon, he followed his father, Duke Drogo, into the office of their king. As usual, King Boian Ethelin wore no smile. Lex refused to be discouraged about their upcoming conversation, but a single glance at his parent had him concerned. His father was an ancient dragon and had served their king for many centuries. Few likely knew Boian better than Drogo, and there was no excitement on his father’s face.
Considering they were about to have a meeting regarding Lex’s future now that he’d put his drakeling years behind him, that was worrisome. Lex refused to give in to his anxiety and kept his chin lifted high as Boian and Drogo greeted each another. With barely a glance in Lex’s direction, Boian sat behind his massive desk. Since Boian’s first duke also grabbed a chair, Lex mirrored his father’s actions.
Like every piece of furniture in the house, Lex’s seat was crafted in an overly formal and stuffy style. Nothing about the place was inviting, but Boian preferred the décor. It had hardly changed in the first hundred years of Lex’s life. Thanks to his friendship with Boian’s only son, Lex was a frequent visitor, but he’d never grown comfortable in his king’s abode.
“Everything is decided, Drogo. I hardly think it is important enough to warrant another meeting,” Boian stated.
Drogo’s mouth firmed. “I understand, Your Highness, but Lex may have questions, and we normally meet with new dragons to aid them in their transition from the carefree years of being a drakeling.”
“Thank you for meeting with me, Your Highness,” Lex said. “In the past few years, I’ve eagerly awaited the day I’d be a dragon, and I’m ready to embrace my purpose.”
“Good, I believe you’ll find the job we’ve chosen for you to be of the utmost importance,” Boian replied, his expression impossible to read. “Since I’m not one to waste time, let’s get to the point. As you know, my son is still a few years from his first shift. I want Somerly to continue to be afforded an unfettered lifestyle, as is his right as a prince. The day he becomes a dragon, I will begin entertaining offers for his hand in marriage, but for now, he needs someone to look out for him. That is where you come in. I want you to continue your friendship with Somerly and ensure he comes to no mischief or harm. The rules I have laid out for him are important, and he doesn’t have a mother. I have far too many duties to keep an eye on him all day.”
For as long as Lex could remember, Somerly had been a part of his life. They were best friends, and Lex loved Somerly. Although his friend was only a few years younger than him, Boian had always treated the drakeling as if he were a small child. Somerly had strict rules and, in secret, broke them consistently. If Boian had his way, Somerly would do nothing fun, like play video games or even watch movies his father hadn’t already seen.
Although Lex was happy enough to lie for his friend, he was constantly encouraging Somerly to stand up to his father and demand more freedom. But Somerly preferred to avoid confrontation and liked to please Boian. Unlike Lex, who had a kind and wonderful mom, Somerly was being raised by Boian alone. Somerly believed it had created a tight bond between father and son, but Lex had yet to witness any genuine affection from Boian.
“I don’t understand, Your Highness,” Lex said as he struggled to comprehend what Boian expected of him. “Somerly and I are best friends, and that’s a relationship I’m proud to have. I love your son as if he were my brother. Nothing about that will change. I’m not sure what that has to do with my purpose as a dragon.”
“Explain it, Drogo,” Boian ordered curtly.
Lex looked at his father, and a pit formed in his belly at the regret in Drogo’s dark eyes.
“You sought a purpose as a dragon for years before your first shift,” Drogo stated. “King Boian believes the role you are best suited for is to be available to Somerly whenever he requires a companion. It will be your duty to ensure Somerly does not grow bored or break any of the household rules. You can come to me with any concerns you have about Somerly, and together, we can solve the problem.”
“I thought I was getting a job like the other dragons, Your Highness,” Lex sputtered. Everyone at Court Ethelin had a role, and Lex was apparently going to do nothing more than be Somerly’s friend—something he would be regardless of the job he was handed.
“This is your job,” Boian said. “You should consider yourself fortunate that you have such an enviable task. Now, I have other concerns this afternoon, so I suggest you get right to work and go find my son.”
It was a dismissal Lex couldn’t ignore, so with one last look at his father, he stood and stalked out of the fussy office. Lex had wanted to serve Court Ethelin in a capacity that would give him fulfillment. Being friends with Somerly was wonderful, but it was not a job. There was no way to better himself or improve the lives of the dragons around him if Lex’s sole purpose was to hang out with Somerly. All he would be doing was ensuring Somerly didn’t watch a movie Boian wouldn’t approve of or sneak off to a small party.
Lex stormed up the stairs and knocked on his best friend’s door. Prince Somerly Ethelindraconis opened it with a bright smile, and Lex glanced down at him with a glower. For reasons no one understood, Somerly was barely a handful of inches above five feet. Dragons tended to be tall, and Lex towered above his friend.
“What’s wrong?” Somerly asked, stepping out of the way so Lex could lumber into a bedroom nearly as ugly as the rest of the house.
“Guess what my new job is as a dragon?”
Somerly dragged a hand through his thick hair, hopped onto the bed, and sat with his legs folded under him. His blue eyes were bright with anticipation. “My guess is that you were assigned to work for your dad. He has so many duties, he could probably use the help.”
“Nope,” Lex said, throwing himself into a high-backed chair that creaked as his weight hit it. “Apparently, the only thing I’m skilled enough to do is to be your friend. That’s my job. I have to be here whenever you need me, then I’m supposed to run and tell my dad about whatever we do so King Boian knows you aren’t breaking any rules.”
“My dad wants to make sure I have a great life.”
“And he treats you like you’re three,” Lex groused. “And I guess he doesn’t think shit about me either. Maybe he shouldn’t. I guess I haven’t shown any promise in the past century.”
“That’s not true; you’re the best. I’m glad you’re my friend.”
“Look, I love being your best friend. I don’t consider that a job. We’re basically brothers. I want a purpose…a goal for the future. Maybe we should consider learning more about this Council of Sorcery and Shifters. If I can’t be anything here, they might offer more opportunities.”
Somerly shook his head. “We belong to the Consilium Veneficus. My dad says the Council is evil. I don’t want to know anything about them. We can’t trust them.”
Lex’s life had always revolved around Court Ethelin, and like Somerly, he’d learned little of the world beyond their king’s lands. But perhaps that needed to change. There had to be a greater future for him. No one was closer to Lex than Somerly, and he was proud of that. However, Lex needed a role in life. He wanted something to propel him out of bed in the morning and goals to push himself as a person. Was it possible any longer to find that in the Consilium Veneficus?
Wizards ran the Consilium. Although Court Ethelin called themselves part of the government, they had yet to sign a treaty with the Arch Wizard. Lex didn’t even know what the man looked like or anything else about him. For a century, Lex had kept to the land owned by his king. Politics hadn’t interested Lex, so he’d ignored the world beyond their dragon court.
It was time for Lex to pull his head out of his ass and learn about everything past Ethelin’s borders. If his king would not offer him a purpose, it was up to Lex to search within himself to find out what Fate intended for him to do with his future. Lex had yet to meet his mate, and though he long yearned for the other half of his soul, he was reasonably sure he’d met every man in Court Ethelin.
Not that Lex spoke of potential matebonds aloud within earshot of King Boian. Their king wasn’t tolerant of same-sex relationships, and without his mate, Lex had paid that rule no mind. But now that he was an adult, Lex needed to evaluate things fully. Did Lex want to serve a king who wouldn’t approve of his future relationship? Lex’s parents took no issue with his sexuality, which was a relief.
His parents were mates, and although the Consilium Veneficus put little stock in the relationships created by Fate, Lex had a different view. It was impossible for him to dismiss the idea of mates—as King Boian insisted their people do—when Lex shared a home with two people who were perfectly matched. His mother, Emmeline, and his father had spent centuries together before Lex was born, and their love was undeniable.
It wasn’t something Lex spoke of with Somerly often. Raised by Boian, Somerly understood about matebonds but was already resigned to allowing his father to arrange a marriage for him as soon as he came of age. Somerly yearned to please Boian and would do anything to further that goal. Lex respected his parents too, but they allowed him to be himself. It was often their house Somerly escaped to if he wanted to bend or break one of Boian’s rules.
Neither Drogo nor Emmeline ever tried to stop Lex or Somerly from doing things they knew Boian wouldn’t approve of. Lex had always assumed it was because the rules were foolish. What Lex could not understand was why his father was perfectly content to insist that his job revolve around his friendship with Somerly. How could Lex ever make his father proud of his success if he didn’t gain any?
“Lex, you’re muttering to yourself,” Somerly said.
He’d been unaware that any of his troubled thoughts were going farther than his own brain. Lex shook his head at his foolishness. “I’ve wasted too much time believing whatever I’ve been told. I need to learn more about the world.”
“You’re a dragon now. You don’t have to attend any classes.”
“Our classes didn’t teach us shit about anything besides Court Ethelin,” Lex retorted. “I can’t tell you much about the Consilium, even though we supposedly belong.”
Somerly’s brows furrowed above his exasperated navy gaze. “We aren’t dukes or kings, so we don’t need to know anything else. If we did, my dad would’ve ensured we were taught it already.”
“Just because your father didn’t prioritize it as part of our education doesn’t mean we shouldn’t learn these things on our own.”
“I don’t see the point.”
“That’s fine. I’m your best friend. I should understand everything I can in case you have questions. What if you go through with this marriage thing and your wife knows more about the world than you do?”
“It’s my duty to marry, Lex. You know that. My dad wouldn’t do anything to make me unhappy, and as a prince, I have a commitment to this court to do what is expected of me,” Somerly said. “But I don’t want to learn anything about the Council. I don’t belong to it, and I never will.”
The last thing Lex wanted to do was pick a fight with Somerly, so he allowed the issue to drop. But Lex was determined to learn everything possible, and perhaps the information would come in handy someday. At the very least, it’d give him something to fill the hours when Somerly had classes or other duties assigned to him by his father. Lex had too much time on his hands, and King Boian had found no purpose for him.
Although he wasn’t the smartest or strongest dragon, Lex had assumed he’d learn new skills and stop being a burden on his court and family. Instead, the best anyone could do was assign him the job of centering his existence around his best friend. Disappointment settled deep into Lex’s bones, and he wished he had far more to offer the world.
Worthy Promises #41
Chapter 1
1883
New York, New York
Oliver Toivonen walked down the stairs of his parents’ opulent home, and his mouth twisted at the servants dashing through the halls. Despite the way the floors sparkled and the lack of dust on the freshly painted surfaces, his mother was running the staff ragged. After spending his youth in the country, Oliver was pleased to move to the rapidly expanding city. But he didn’t understand his parents’ desire to own such a large and ostentatious house.
Of course, that was because Oliver hated to socialize. His mother was the opposite. As he stalked into the dining room he heard her prattling to his father about her upcoming soiree to show off the completed house. Osmo had his head bowed as he studied his plate, which raised Oliver’s hackles.
While his parents couldn’t understand the son they called boring and staid, they were exceptionally devoted to each other. It was odd to find his father not listening with rapt attention to whatever his mother had on her mind. Oliver took a seat at the table and set his newspaper next to his plate. A servant rushed over to place a plate of food in front of him. Not one to waste time, Oliver grabbed his fork and dug in to his poached eggs.
“Are you both well?” Oliver asked the moment his mother took a breath and remembered her half-eaten breakfast.
“No, Oliver, I am gravely concerned that not enough people will attend my open house in a few weeks.”
“You are constantly invited to socialize and have an astonishing number of friendly relationships,” Oliver pointed out. “I have no doubt the bodies will be squeezed into the house until there is barely room to breathe.”
“Osmo, tell your son that I find his lack of concern for my worries unacceptable,” Felicie Toivonen replied with a pout.
“Oliver, be kind to your mother,” his father said, never lifting his eyes from his plate.
Since Oliver didn’t believe he’d used any harsh words, he frowned.
“Apologize,” his mother demanded.
“I have nothing to apologize for,” Oliver retorted.
A fat tear slid from her exceptionally bright yellow gaze, which he’d inherited from her.
“It’s not just your size that’s brutish,” his mother bemoaned as she used her napkin to pat the dampness from her cheek. “I don’t know how we went so wrong with you. I wanted so badly to have an affectionate child. Fate betrayed me and gave me a somber giant lacking kindness in his heart.”
His jaw flexing, Oliver refused to allow her words to hurt him. Unlike his slender father, Oliver was broad-shouldered and stood a couple of inches above six feet. He towered over his parents and the other owls they’d met. If it wasn’t for the icy blond hair and the exact shade of yellow irises he’d inherited from his mother, he’d easily accept that he had been switched at birth.
It was hardly his fault he’d grown to such massive proportions, and he’d tried his best as a child to please his mother. But her moods were mercurial, and she’d pushed him away more often than she’d cuddled him. The lack of affection had left him confused, and he’d grown more withdrawn as he aged. Although he was barely an adult, he no longer bothered to pretend to be the son she wanted. Nothing he did pleased her.
“Have you nothing to say?” his mother wailed.
“No,” Oliver said.
“Since the day you were born, I have been devoted to you, and yet you do nothing to show any kind of gratitude,” his mother accused, tossing her napkin onto the table and rising to her feet. She brushed her hands along the tiny row of buttons down the front of her ivory frock. “You hardly understand the heavy weight of entertaining. If even one thing goes awry, my reputation and that of this family will be in tatters. Think of that and how it will affect your little art hobby.”
In a flurry of pique, she turned on her heel and marched out of the dining room, weeping loudly.
Since it was hardly unusual for her to dramatically leave a room like a spoiled child at least once a day, Oliver barely paused in consuming the last of his meal. But he was curious why his father didn’t chase his mother as he usually did when she was cross or claiming to be devastated by some minor infraction—which was almost always made by Oliver.
His father cleared his throat. “How is your business?”
Eyebrows flying up in shock at his father’s query, Oliver gave him his full attention. There was curiosity in his mustard eyes, but they were also strangely hollow. While Oliver was inept at understanding the feelings of his parents, something was obviously bothering his father. Oliver had no ability to comfort, but he dearly wished for the talent.
“It’s going well, thank you for asking,” Oliver replied. “I sold all of my initial purchases and have recently acquired two sculptures.”
To his parents’ horror, he’d asked for a small loan from his father a year ago, after his first shift into a gorgeous snowy owl. Driven to stand on his own two feet, Oliver had invested the money in paintings, which he’d sold at an extraordinary profit. It was his dream to someday have galleries too, but he didn’t dare mention that to his parents.
A son in trade wasn’t acceptable in the society so integral to his parents. They pretended his interest in art was nothing more than a hobby. Oliver allowed them their delusions, but he put all his energy into growing his new business and building a reputation for himself among his parents’ illustrious peers. Thankfully, there was plenty of money to be earned among the elite, and Oliver intended to become a respectable source for fine paintings and sculptures.
While he lacked any ability to create masterpieces himself, Oliver was easily moved by a brilliantly painted canvas or an intricate sculpture. His passion for art was acceptable to his parents and their ilk, but not his interest in openly profiting from it. Mostly, Oliver ignored societal rules. However, he refused to embarrass his parents despite their distant relationship.
“Good. That is good to hear,” said his father.
“Are you well?”
“I’m in a bit of a pickle, but don’t tell your mother.”
It was the first time Oliver could recall being asked to keep anything from his mother. His parents had a deep, abiding belief in Fate and were proud to have been matched by the goddess as mates. Oliver didn’t know how old either of his parents was, but they’d been together long before the snowy owls had left what was today the Duchy of Finland to join the Council of Sorcery and Shifters. At that time, the Council had been migrating to North America. Although Oliver wasn’t privy to his parents’ finances, his father was notoriously generous, especially with his mother. As for Oliver, he no longer needed to ask for a cent.
“Is there anything I can do to aid you?” Oliver asked.
“Well…erm, this is not exactly easy to explain.”
“Did something happen between you and Mother?”
“Of course not,” his father exclaimed. “I adore your mother. What could possibly come between us? We are mates and fully devoted to each other.”
“You mentioned you didn’t want me to tell her you were in a pickle. That is the only reason I asked.”
“Oh, yes, I did, didn’t I? I don’t want to add to her stress. The first open house in this house is important and will set your mother up as a hostess to be reckoned with. It is something she has yearned for since we moved from the country and began attending the events hosted by our friends.”
Since Oliver’s only interest in attending anything was to further his connections so he could develop the business of his dreams, he didn’t share his mother’s passion for entertaining. But that hardly mattered. All Oliver had to do was stay out of the way until the doors were opened for guests.
“Of course,” Oliver said. “You should not have to shoulder a burden alone. Perhaps I can assist you somehow.”
“I fear we may come to the point where it will take efforts from everyone to solve this,” his father muttered.
“I don’t understand.”
“We have less money than I would like is all.”
Oliver scowled. “I paid back every cent of the loan you gave me last year.”
“Yes, it is a good thing you didn’t come to me in recent days for such a loan; I would not be able to accommodate your request.”
“Father, the sum I asked for was paltry compared to what had to be the expense for Mother’s party.”
“Yes, you see, we just finished construction of the house, and—of course—we must have the very best for your mother’s debut as a hostess, so our purse strings are considerably strained.”
The house had taken four years to build. His mother had followed the trend of filling every room with what Oliver considered excess furniture and far-too-ornate embellishments from floor to ceiling. While he adored fine art, they had a picture gallery with walls so covered in expensive frames that it was nearly impossible to appreciate the work of the talented artists who’d painted the pictures.
“You believe this is just a temporary setback then?”
“Perhaps.”
“Have your investments soured?”
His father swallowed thickly. “It was your grandfather who managed the family’s investments. I have no head for figures, and I find it dull to stare at ledgers.”
“Grandfather died before I was born,” Oliver said, his concern rising. “Have you made no investments since his death?”
“A gentleman doesn’t dabble in trade. You know this. We aren’t like those merchants flaunting their new wealth. It’s why your mother refuses to allow you to openly speak of your art business.”
Annoyed that his father was worried about empty coffers yet refused to actively aid himself, Oliver slapped his napkin on the table. “How much money do you have?”
“I hardly know the exact figures.”
“I don’t understand. How can you be worried about the family bank accounts if you’re unaware of how much is in them?”
“We may not have enough to pay the servants’ wages next month,” his father muttered to his plate.
Oliver was outraged. “Why would you allow Mother to spend lavish amounts of money for strangers if we lack the coin to pay the people who work hard to keep this house clean and running smoothly?”
“Because she deserves to have what she wants.”
“What use will it be if we are tossed into the street because we can no longer afford the roof above our heads?”
“I’m sure everything will work out.”
“Do you expect a grand pile of money to miraculously appear to aid you?”
“Oliver, there is no need to get upset. The Toivonens have had wealth for centuries.”
“Yes, by earning it and investing it.”
“I know nothing about those things,” his father whined petulantly. “I don’t like worrying about money.”
Irritated by the immaturity of both his parents, Oliver fixed a stern glare on his father. He was a nineteen-year-old owl who’d only shifted for the first time a year ago, but he was far more adult than either of his parents. “I doubt anyone wishes to worry about finances, Father. But if you do nothing, you will gain nothing.”
“Surely you could fix it?” his father asked. “You enjoy figures and aren’t embarrassed by being a man of business.”
Overwhelmed by the idea of trying to provide enough revenue to finance the extravagant lifestyle his parents preferred, Oliver clenched his fists and girded his loins for the task. He had no choice. They had to survive, and expenses had to be met. Hopefully, Oliver could use his knowledge of art to fix their financial woes.
“I will, of course, do what I can. But I’m hardly an expert in matters of money.”
“You enjoy boring things like that though. It’s a task well suited to you.”
“I can do nothing without understanding the accounts.”
His father smiled and rose. “I’m happy to give you whatever details you need. I’m relieved to no longer have to worry about it. Everything you need is in the study. I should go find your mother and soothe her.”
Without giving Oliver a chance to reply, his father sailed out of the dining room. From past the doorway, Oliver heard his merry whistle. He hoped that meant things weren’t dire and beyond repair. Oliver was a novice at business and far too young and green to be trusted by respected, wealthy men looking to pool investments. Resigned to his fate, Oliver headed for the study and ignored his rising panic and the heavy pounding of his heart.
Jordan L Hawk
