Page 54 of Fated Flames: Volume Two
“Is he alone?” I ask Boyd.
“He is, my queen.”
“Don’t leaders usually travel with their wingmates?”
The guard shifts on his feet. “They do.”
I glance up at Soren. “What harm is there in hearing what he has to say?”
The slitted eyes narrow on me. “You heard Seltzen.”
“I did.” The wyvern all but said he wanted to win me for his leader.
“Then why should I allow him in your presence?” Soren growls.
“I suppose you shouldn’t, but…” I release his hand, thinking back to the thinly-veiled desperation clouding the wyverns’ faces when I offered to draw for them. “I sense the wyverns are in greater need than even your own people.”
“The wyverns aren’t my concern.”
It’s my turn to give him a narrowed look. “If they are thirsty, then they are my concern.”
Soren heaves a breath out of his nostrils, the force of it enough to whip my hair back from my face. Such a thing doesn’t make any sense, and yet neither does the great, winged shadow his human form throws upon the walls.
“Perhaps you could stay here and let me handle Tallin as I see fit,” he says.
My mouth firms. Are we ever to be done with this nonsense? “Perhaps I could, but a queen is equal to her king, is she not?”
It’s a gamble, and I know it. Tilly said Marta was equal to her husband; I have no idea if that principle extends to the monarchy in dragon culture. Besides, according to human law, I’m not even queen yet. But the jewel resting against my throat says otherwise in Tirenth, doesn’t it?
I hope so.
After a moment, Soren releases a long-suffering rumble.
“If he touches you, I’ll kill him,” the Dragon King says. “I will not be stopped this time.”
I suppose that’s the best compromise I can hope for. “I understand.”
Though obviously still dissatisfied, Soren turns to Boyd. “Call your flight,” he says, and the term puzzles me until Boyd leaves and returns with Fuller and Yarl, all their faces as severe as their king’s. Even with Soren so near, I feel surprising comfort from both their presence and their clear displeasure at Lord Tallin’s ill-timed visit. I may be curious about why he’s come, but I don’t forget that the last time I saw the wyvern leader, he referred to me as a pet.
Ty and Rally slip inside soon after with a robed, hooded figure between them, one who is left to stand alone as the king’s wingmates back out of the tent. The instant they’re gone, the figure falls to his knees.
“Your Majesties,” he whispers.
I sit in stunned silence. The face is still concealed, but the voice, without a doubt, belongs to Lord Tallin.
And he’s kneeling like a conquered king.
Soren, still standing a little in front of me, rolls his neck to the side, and the shadows on the wall quiver, like an animal’s hackles rising in warning.
“Tell me, Lord Tallin,” he drawls, “what crisis is worth your life?” The lanterns’ flames hiss and snap at his words.
Lord Tallin lifts his hand, and my guards lunge forward as if he suddenly unsheathed a sword. But the wyvern ruler is only pushing the hood back from his face, revealing downcast eyes.
“We are in a drought,” he says.
Snorts of derision answer him from all around as my guards sink back into their positions.
“Quiet,” Soren says, and they sober. Lord Tallin he fixes with an inscrutable look. “Perhaps you are unaware that we are all in a drought.”
