Drago Illuminare
Here be dragons...and passion. Welcome to the world of the illuminated dragon—where a prince of earth and air seeks reconciliation with his human mistress, and a wyvern reclaims the fiddler who loved him, lost him and never forgot him.
Previously available only in electronic format, these two novellas have now been combined for a paperback edition. Included are...
Draconus — She had known all along it would only be a matter of time before they came after her. That she had evaded capture so long seemed nothing short of a miracle. Leida sat quietly on the stone bench and stared down at her hands, the pale fingers laced tightly together, the iron cuffs snapped around her wrists leaving red marks on her skin.
The cavern in which she waited glowed with a golden light from an unseen source. Dragon magic, the simplest kind, illuminated the chamber, chasing away the shadows dancing along the curved walls and high ceiling. Leida had visited these caves once before, years earlier, during the great fire festivals when the earth dragons met before the Dragon King. It had been an exciting time, one that held both fear and anticipation of seeing things few humans ever would.
She had returned, not of her own accord this time, still fearful of what awaited her. A hard shudder shook her from head to toe, and her throat closed against the threat of retching. There was no one here to speak in her defense, and by all accounts, including her own, she was guilty of the crime for which she now stood trial. Leida knew the nature of dragons, their cunning and wit, fearlessness and pride; she did not know of their mercy, or if it even existed. But if it did exist, she intended to beg for it, walk on her knees if necessary. They could strip her of her magic, flog her and march her naked through the streets. She would submit gladly, if only they let her live and live freely. Someone else depended upon her, waited for her, and she would bargain anything she had to return.
"Please," she whispered, the soft sound echoing in melancholy repetition throughout the empty room. "Don't let me die."
Whatever deity heard her plea, he or she chose not to respond, and Leida felt fear settle heavily on her shoulders.
The sound of footsteps from the single corridor leading to the chamber made her straighten. Her mouth felt parched; whatever moisture remained on her tongue dried to dust as she watched eight men march into the room. Leida rose, bowing low in respect as they came to stand before her. They were her judges, dragon lords, who meted out judgment and punishment to dragonkind and all those associated with them.
Of different ages, from white haired and lined to young and vibrant, they all watched her with varying degrees of contempt and dislike. She felt the blood drain from her face. There would be little mercy here. That she had not been killed outright upon discovery was compassion in itself, an acknowledgement of her past status as a dragon lord's favorite and deserving of some small leniency because of it.
Her fingers knotted tighter as the eldest of the judges spoke, the fine hairs on her arms rising in reaction to the silvery, bewitching tones of his voice. She'd forgotten the beauty of a dragon lord's voice.
"Leida of the Glimmer South."
She licked her dry lips. "I am, my lord."
"You were once the favorite of Magnus Silverclaw."
The truth of his statement and her response made her chest tighten. "I was, my lord."
The judge's words were chilly with disdain. "You stand accused of thievery, Leida. Thievery and the illicit use of dragon magic to conceal your crime."
He held up one hand, displaying a small ring, a creation of delicate spun gold mounted with a sapphire so deep a blue as to appear black in the cavern's muted light. "I will ask you formally, Leida, did you steal this ring from Magnus Silverclaw?"
She had already admitted to the crime, but the urge to lie was great, her sense of self-preservation screaming out an inner warning that to admit it again would be to sign her own death warrant. Too late, she thought. Too late.
There was barely a quaver in her voice when she answered. "Aye, my lord. When I left the service of Magnus Silverclaw four years ago, I took that ring."
Low rumbles of disapproval, sounding more like growls than murmurs, echoed in the chamber. Leida shivered, her fear slowly transforming into terror. They wore the trappings of men finely garbed, but like the light in the room, it was magic of their making. Their true forms were of great wings and scales, curving claws and huge heads sporting mouths filled with teeth sharper than sword blades. Any one of them could change, snatch her up and swallow her whole.
One of the younger judges spoke up. "Because of your previous bonding with dragonkind, we will allow you the chance to explain yourself before sentencing. You do understanding that stealing from a dragon lord's hoard is punishable by death?"
Leida nodded, nearly lightheaded with relief at the temporary reprieve. The judge scowled at her actions until she remembered protocol.
"I understand, my lord, and thank all of you for your consideration."
The first judge addressed her again. "You are allowed to state your reasons, but you will do so before us and one other."
A high, thin ringing started in her ears as heat suffused her body and face. She turned, peering into the shadows of the corridor from which the judges had entered earlier. The judge's voice, once vibrant with allure and power, sounded dull and far away.
"Face your accuser, Leida of the Glimmer South, and explain yourself."
The breath died in her nostrils as Magnus Silverclaw, once her master, once her lover, walked into the chambers. Still reserved and prideful, as most of his kind, he wore the illusion of a tall, slender man with long, dark hair threaded with silver. Leida gazed at him, struck by the familiarity of his features. Their austere beauty haunted her dreams each night.
He stared back at her, the slanting green eyes narrowing to mere slits. "Thief," he said in a deep, seductive voice filled with loathing.
Wyvern — Elsbeth calmly nocked an arrow into her grandfather's crossbow and wondered which of the villagers she'd have to shoot tonight.
"Come out, Angus Weaver! 'Tis your doing that the beast is attacking!'
Her door shivered beneath hard blows as the mob outside beat their fists against it and shouted their anger.
"Aye, Angus, come out! You're not welcome here no more!'
She waited until there was a pause in abusing the door before jerking it open to face her adversaries. A line of surprised villagers met her gaze. As one, the crowd took a step back at the sight of the crossbow pointed at them. Elsbeth was no marksman, but at close range she could hit what she aimed for. At the moment, her sights were leveled on the mob's ringleader, Malcolm Miller. Big, muscled, with a shaggy head of dark hair and an equally shaggy beard, he reminded her of a bear—brutish and quick to use sheer force to get his way.
Torchlight bathed the crowd in dancing shadow, lending it an eerie, swaying quality, as if it were a single creature, darker and far more malevolent than the beast that terrorized their village these days. Malcolm's features looked especially cruel in the flickering light, a Fool's Day mask to scare small children. Elsbeth suspected the light revealed much about Malcolm—the beast lurking behind the human facade.
"Move aside, Elsbeth.' He stepped closer, but hesitated when she raised the crossbow a little higher.
"Or what, Malcolm?' Her finger tightened against the crossbow's trigger at the crowd's restless movements. Rivulets of sweat tickled her ribcage. The lump of fear wedged in her throat made it difficult to breathe, but she wouldn't move from the doorway. "Why have you brought these good people out into the night to beat my door down and disturb my grandfather's rest?'
Malcolm sneered, his small eyes glittering with malice and an avarice that sent shivers down Elsbeth's arms. "You know why, woman. We want Angus. He's the reason the dragon is destroying this village and wiping out our livestock.' He turned from her to face the crowd. "Is it not so, friends? We had no trouble with dragon-kind until Weaver came here telling his tales of slaughtering such a beast and showing his dragon armor to all and sundry.'
A chorus of "Ayes!' answered him, and the crowd surged forward again, driven by Malcolm's words to punish the one they considered the harbinger of their misery. Once more they hesitated at the sight of Elsbeth's ready crossbow.
The ringleader jeered at his companions. "It's just one woman with a single bolt! She can't stop us!'
Elsbeth raised her voice to match his. "Aye, just one bolt to kill one man. Which of you lads is willing to take that bolt in the gut so your brave friends can drag a crippled old man out into the cold and hang him?' Her lip curled in derision when Malcolm himself made no move to rush her. "You, Malcolm? Give me an excuse. You've been nothing but a thorn in my ass since we came to live in Byderside.'
Her grip tightened on the bow as Malcolm growled and took a threatening step. So be it. The miller's son would go down first. Elsbeth had never killed a man before, and her stomach churned at the prospect, but she didn't hesitate to take aim.
$12.50 — Available as trade paperback here.