No answer.
Taron backtracked, evincing concern.
“More of my people have disappeared, and Lorik might be in my land working with my should-be-dead father’s should-be-dead wife and three members of my council.”
“That tracks. Lorik likes to make offers others can’t refuse.”
“Or my father is lying to me, hoping I’ll turn against the council. Maybe Lorik is sneaking in intruders.” Until learning of the rift cutter, I’d assumed there only existed one route in and out of a realm: the traveling stones. The very reason we kept them so heavily guarded. But Lorik, like Taron, could have found another means.
I texted the idea to Adelaide, along with orders.
Send out a small search party. Let the people know what’s going on. They are to report any shifter—or council member—sightings immediately. Activate every defense. I’ll be home first thing in the morning.
Playtime was over. Time to find that ingredient, break the bond, and deal with the kings attempting to topple my throne.
I stowed the phone and marched forward, taking the lead. A queen did not hesitate while her realm bled.
“You’re wearing your scary warrior face,” Taron said, catching up.
“This isn’t the time for compliments. My problems have multiplied during my absence, and most center on Nyla.” Her name escaped on a single, drawn-out, annoyed sigh.
“That name sounds familiar.” He snapped his fingers. “A former manticore-shifter who wed your father after he became the first dragon-shifter king. Long dead by now.”
His unsettling knowledge of the inner workings of dragonkind would have to be dealt in the future. “Maybe not so dead, as I said. According to my father, she’s like him. Deathless. And that means even if I root her out, I can’t killher. He also insists she hides among us. If true, Lorik has her help, and that’s another guarantee.”
“A deathless woman who is part lion, part scorpion.” He threaded his fingers through mine. “We will find a way to expose her.”
The offer of aid shocked me. Mostly? It filled me with all kinds of dangerous longing. “You’re leaving Ashmorra as soon as the bond breaks,” I reminded us both. His absence would be for the best. Necessary. Though ja, even the thought sparked a clench of regret. But that was okay. Regret faded.
“Right.” His voice sounded as hollow as mine, and our hands dropped.
The forest thinned, and ahead the trees broke to reveal the realm known as the City of Bones. A burial ground for dragons of old. Huge skeletal remains had shaped the hills, their open mouths forming toothy entrances. The dirt beneath our feet crunched with shards of bone with each step. Wind threaded through the ribcages, a solemn and mournful whistle. Sunlight slanted through the bleached skulls, the air smelling of chalk and old ash. Even dragons feared this place.
“If I were a shifter, this is where I would put a secret rift,” Taron muttered with a shudder.
Agreed. I slowed by reflex and he did the same, matching my pace without any words spoken.
On the lookout, weapons ready, we made our way through the hollows, where Lament Stones were found. Except, there were no stones.
None. Null. Zero.
Not even a hint of the wild voxhound that used to guard them. The doglike beasts possessed an abundance of porcupine quills and an ability to parrot the sounds they heard inthe creepiest, horror-movie worthy voices. I’d always wanted one for a pet.
Frustration battered me. “There’s a village a mile from here. Surely someone has a stone.” A sad place filled with dragons who hadn’t become wraithlings or shifters when they lost their firebrands, as so many chose to do. No, these had opted to live outside of polite society, taking care of the burial grounds and waiting until it was their time to go.
We set off, reaching Mourfall, the City of Cursed Bones, as the sun lowered beneath the horizon. “Just…let me do the talking.” If Taron were to enrage even one warrior, the others would break with rage as well. These were still my people, and I had no desire to fight them.
Taron inclined his head and slowed a half-step behind me. No argument. No negotiation. Close enough to intervene if needed, but far enough not to provoke. His trust caught me off guard. It mattered more than I cared to admit.
Mourfall lay nestled in a sweeping hollow of an even older dragon cemetery. The curved spines and bones surrounded their homes like solemn guards. They preferred living in simple dwellings, nothing shiny, no beautiful collections, just stone-built houses with timbered roofs. As if they lost their hoard-fire when their firebrand died. Only their gardens filled with the greenery of vegetables, herbs and berries softened the starkness. Beyond their farm plots stretched a wide, flat rock slab base, worn smooth by centuries of dragon claws–their launchpad into the open sky.
The warriors clocked our approach before we arrived, and waited in battle formation, claws bared and flared. As soon as they noted my identity, they stooddown.
Discordant cries of “Her Majesty” rang out. Heads bowed before the leader stepped closer.
“Welcome,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A berserker going through the motions of living life without his firebrand beside him. His body was a picture of despair: loose at the joints, with his arms hanging heavy at his sides. “How may I serve you, Queen Olyssa?” His gaze slipped to Taron, and he frowned. “And your guest. I am the Staffholder, Alaric Vogler.”
“We seek a lament stone.”
