Crimson dawn had broken the blue of the sky by the time Meya rose from her mattress to retch out the window. Despite Dad’s protests, she’d spent the good part of second sleep massaging his bad hip with her heated hands, while Mum brewed herb tea to soothe his pain and ease him to slumber.
Mum was there when Coris talked to Dad. She advised Meya to sleep on her fears for a night, and her wisdom proved true. Now that the shock had subsided, and her pregnant humors had settled again, Meya realized she may have let her imagination run too wild.
Sir Bayne, now the new Lord Crosset, would definitely not let the Hilds starve. And even if Dad’s honor wouldn’t accept riches and titles in return for Meya’s services, Coris’s silk, satin, gold and jewels alone should be more than enough to sustain Meya and her babe for months.
The chances of King Alden hunting her and her family down, though not naught, were also slim, considering Meya hadn’t even married Coris, and was unknown to him.
For Coris would let them believe he had The Axel, hunt him to the edges of Latakia. He’d offer himself as bait to protect Zier. And that was her true fear.
She remembered the night she almost lost him. She couldn’t imagine then, and still couldn’t now, how life would continue if he’d died. This time round, she wouldn’t even have his corpse to mourn. He’d simply disappear from sight and sense. A kiss that faded, an embrace that turned cold, the tempest melting into thin air. Until she birthed a son with his eyes, then his memory would haunt her for the rest of her days.
Would it be worse to have his body delivered to her doorstep, his belly split open and his guts removed, or to never hear his name in a sighting again, knowing yet never seeing proof that he’d drowned at sea? She’d seen Philema, Sir Bayne, Jason, a dozen other widowers, but she couldn’t fathom how to live so long after losing one’s love so young.
Why must he do this? Was it truly worth the risk? What were tens of thousands of nameless, faceless Greeneyes, compared to her Lexi, if she were honest? This was the trap the Hadrians fell to for two centuries. This was why it had taken Baron Kellis two decades. And she was falling for it as well.
Having emptied her gullet, Meya looked up from the chamberpot, then nearly toppled headfirst towards the sight below. Black-cloaked figures swept across the inn’s courtyard. A gust of wind unhooded one as he knocked on the door. Lamplight fell on his pale, gaunt face.
Meya hurtled through her door and down the hallway. She reached the head of the stairs just as the innkeeper heaved the door back and they trooped in, Coris in the lead, followed by Baron Kellis, Baroness Sylvia and Lady Arinel, the latter two sniffling and wiping tears.
Coris froze and blinked as Meya scampered down the carpeted steps, chamberpot swinging.
“Where have you been?” she gasped. Coris merely caught her free arm and steered her back up the stairs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Meya, not here,” he replied curtly.
“Where’s Zier? Why are they crying?” She shook him off, straining to see those behind.
“Meya, wait,” he commanded. Meya gritted her teeth as he led her into his family’s room. While his parents and Arinel drifted towards the fireplace to warm themselves, Coris took Meya to the alcove, drew the curtain across, then finally answered her glare.
“He left. For Easthaven,” he said somberly.
Easthaven?
Her head slowed and her senses dulled as if weighed by Lattis. Zier left, just like that? Last night he was there, and now he was gone?
Arinel’s quiet sobs filtered through the brocade. Meya peered through the gap. The pot fell from her unfeeling fingers to the carpet with a flump. The lady had become a crumpled heap on the bed, weeping like a widow under the Baron and Baroness’s arms.
Soft fabric touched her cheek, dabbing at the remains of sick around her lips. Meya wheeled around. Coris reared back, lowering the handkerchief.
“You’re going through with this?” she breathed. Tears choked her voice as she clung to his front, “I haven’t even agreed! You can’t just do this!”
Coris lowered his eyes in silence. A sudden suspicion gripped Meya.
“Is it me? ’Cause I’ll go talk to Graye? That’s why you snuck him away without me knowing? In case I send Graye after him?”
“Meya!” Coris cried, his handsome face twisted in heartbreak, and Meya caught herself. In the dim nook, his eyes shone overbright, and his hands trembled on her arms.
“This was decided before Graye’s letter came,” he said thickly, then swallowed his grief. “I’m his decoy. I’ve been for six years. He leaves first, I stay and stall for time.”
“Then you’ll leave, too?” whispered Meya. Coris’s eyes widened, then flitted away, even as Meya rattled and beg. “What about me? What about our babe?”
He finally succumbed. Meya fell against his chest as he hugged her, as his fingers fell through her hair.
“This is no longer about us, Meya,” he breathed. “Latakia, humankind, dragonkind, those in between. Their fates come before ours.”
He drew her back, holding her eyes in his solemn gray.
“Noblesse Oblige,” he whispered as he trailed a knuckle down the curve of her cheek, shaking his head. “You can be Meya Hild, or Lady Hadrian. You cannot be both. This is what it takes to be a leader—the choice.”
His words echoed as if from afar, flowing by her ears, as tears rolled down her cheeks. He wiped them away, impatient, uncaring.
“Mother and Arinel’s protection is the best I can promise you. And I trust it to be more than enough.” He leaned his forehead against hers, sighing. “All eyes will be on me. They’ll hunt me. I’ll lead them on a wild goose chase to the ends of the world, and you’ll be safe at home—”
“A widow? With an orphan?”
She breathed onto his lips, freezing them. His hands shifted nervously on her arms, sweaty and clammy. Meya shook her head, pleading,
“I need you, Lexi. Don’t leave me.”
“I must,” he murmured.
“Then take me with you.”
“Aine…” he scolded, his voice weary. Meya hung her head. He pushed her up with a gentle finger on her chin.
“Isn’t this what you want? A better life for Greeneyes? Freeing the dragons?” he leaned close, eyebrows knotted. I want you more, her heart sobbed, but it was clear he’d never understand.
“There must be another way,” she gave one last try. Coris smiled sadly at what he must have taken to be her signature undying hope.
“Perhaps, but it is beyond any of us for now.” He tidied a stray lock of hair from her face, pressed his lips upon hers, then parted a moment too soon, leaving her hanging.
“I’ll join Gillian at the palace. We’ll survey my escape route.” He glanced behind him, probably gauging his father’s whereabouts, then pinned her eyes, shaking her by the shoulders.
“Keep your father near, and you’ll be safe from Graye. Remember, say nothing unless necessary. He may try to have you on your own, so be on guard and insist your father is present. Hear what he has to say, but do not listen. Return straight away and report to Father.”
Meya blinked at the abrupt change of subject, then nodded listlessly, too numb to argue. Coris’s hands trembled as he pored into her eyes.
“We trust you, Meya,” he rasped, then bowed. “Please. He’s my only brother.”
Meya shook her head, pained by his fear.
“As if I’d ever hurt him,” she protested. At that, Coris relaxed. He nodded, then cocked his head at the room behind.
“Go make amends with Arinel. You’ll only have each other once…”
He trailed off, his voice cracking. As if he feared his resolve would crumble, he swept through the curtain. Meya bolted after only to watch him join Baron Kellis at the door, then disappear without a backward glance.
The door closed with a snap, and strength left her knees. Meya turned to the women who remained, fellow widows of Hadrian. Baroness Sylvia held Arinel, who sobbed onto her chest. Swallowing her own cry, she reached out an arm, and Meya toddled into her embrace, letting her tears mingle on her bosom.
Arinel snatched her hand, and the hard, icy touch of metal jolted Meya. A ruby glinted on her ring finger. Faint pink sores and teeth marks swelled along her neck and collarbone. A sheaf of her hair hung shorter than the rest. Truth fell like an anvil of lead down her bowels, blasted by her flames of fury.
How could you do this, Zier?
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Morning was ending when four horses bore a carriage in charcoal gray onto the courtyard of the Dragon’s Crossing. Jason had picked for Dad a walking stick carved of finest maple from his merchandise, still Mum must help Meya ease his groaning, grumpy self up the steps onto the black cushions. She then waved them on their way, looking as if it were on a voyage to far shores.
Meya had insisted she’d be fine on her own, of course, to which Dad growled he would go with, or no-one would go. Coris had probably convinced Dad of Graye’s danger, affirmed his belief that Meya couldn’t handle herself with such men. And Meya couldn’t help but hate him as she watched Dad gritting his teeth, swallowing screams with every jolt of the wheels on cobblestones, for how unneeded his agony was.
Stolen story; please report.
A half-hour later, they arrived at Graye’s residence—three sprawling stories of wattle and daub, sat on a foundation of stone, topped with a dozen red-roofed windows and turrets. Gray-clad servants cast a silver-trimmed gray carpet on their path across the courtyard towards Baron Graye. He stood waiting in his family’s colors, his silky hair blazing white as fountain foam against stone in the sun.
He blinked at the sight of Dad stumbling down into Meya’s receiving hands, but recovered his smile swiftly and strode up with open arms.
“Madam Hild, what an honor.” He smiled at Meya, then turned to Dad, “and you must be her father.”
“Mirram Hild, milord.” Dad bowed, adding, “we are humble farmers of Crosset.”
Dad bowed again, prompting Meya to curtsy in tandem. Graye nodded, his blue eyes like glass pierced by daylight, clear and empty.
“So I’ve heard.” He motioned at his battalion of servants, two of which obligingly scurried to take Dad’s cane and his arms from Meya, then extended an arm before him. “The sun is hot, let’s hurry inside.”
Meya allowed Dad and the servants to overtake her, taking the stone stairs one at a time as the two men heaved Dad up the steps. Dad was trembling, not out of pain but shame.
Baron Graye led them through the door and down a long gallery. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windowpanes onto the wall of silver-gray wood. In every charcoal-gray frame hung a painting—of unmelting ice walls in Icemeet, of winter fountains and winter forests, all peppered with silver dust.
Curious instruments lined the wall as she walked down the gray carpet—a giant hourglass, a music box, a cylinder with curved glass at one end Coris told her was used by seamen, a globe surrounded by a swinging cage of smaller balls, a clock with multiple faces populated by suns, moons and stars, a metal doll with gears and cogs for innards, an impressive pair of deer antlers, even a pillar of stone tall as Meya, hollowed out and lined with glittering white crystal—all plated in silver and shiny new, untouched. Calming yet extravagant.
They told her everything, yet nothing about their owner, except perhaps his love for his clan’s color and his wealth. Coris’s room was filled with books of runes, paintings of handsome hounds and bustling towns, reflecting who he was as a country boy who loves languages, dogs and travel. Who was Baron Graye, if she were to judge from his gallery? Musician? Seafarer? Hunter? Stargazer? Inventor? Alchemist? Explorer? All of them? Or none?
Grimthel Graye may appear to anyone as anything, because he isn’t anything, whispered Coris in her head.
Once they reached the end of the room, Baron Graye flourished his hand at a set of black-cushioned silver chairs around a glass tea-table framed in silver curlicues, sitting in a pool of sunshine. A maid in gray stood nearby, toting a silver tray of silver-trimmed porcelain teapot and cups.
As she poured red tea into Dad’s cup, the door behind them opened. A gray-clad manservant led in a woman draped head to toe in an oily violet veil. For a beat of her heart, Meya thought she was back in Jaise. In her hands, she held a solid black hexagon box with a slit or two in each face.
Graye seemed just as surprised by this interruption as Meya. Yet, he silently read the scroll she offered, then reached into his sleeve. In his palm lay two wooden plaques, one red and one black. As he fed the black plaque to the box, he unwittingly revealed its underside emblazoned with a silvery peacock. The woman retreated from the room without a word.
Realization dawned on Meya, then.
“Is that a vote, milord?”
Graye surfaced, eyebrows raised, paused in the act of straightening his sleeves.
“It is, indeed.” He lowered his hands and turned to face her full, smiling tenderly. “Although I’m afraid I cannot elaborate further. Council business, you see.”
His carriage, cadence and speech was unnervingly familiar. Between him and Coris, Meya couldn’t discern who was the learner, who was the mentor. And what was the vote for? Couldn’t have been the vote to remove Baron Hadrian from the council, could it? For he would’ve been called to gather in person for such an important decision.
As curiosity and a touch of foreboding beckoned, and she dithered whether to pry further, Dad cleared his throat and leaned forward.
“Milord, forgive mine being rude.” The furrow between his eyebrows deepened as his eyes narrowed and the nerve pulsed in his temple, not meaning a word he said. “I dunno Graye’s customs, but in Crosset, ’tis improper for a young maiden to enter a man’s abode alone. And for a man to pursue business with her without her father knowing. Folks like to whisper of what goes behind closed doors and shuttered windows. I beg you forgive mine being here.”
A wave of cold chilled Meya’s cheeks as blood drained from them. She desperately tugged the back of Dad’s shirt, but Baron Graye wasn’t offended. He raised both hands, waving vigorously.
“Not at all, Farmer Hild. It is I who must apologize.” He leaned in, hand on his heart, bowing and smiling hastily. “You see, I only met Meya and her mother last night, and we barely had time to speak when Coris jealously chased me away. In what little time I have, I only managed to track down where the Hadrians are lodging. Had I learned you are here, I would have sent the invitation to you. Still, Meya would attest I have not instructed her to come alone, and I’m glad you accompanied her, as I would have done for my daughters. I mean no disrespect to either of you.”
His explanation seemed sound to Meya, but Dad merely narrowed his eyes tighter, leaned further.
“All that trouble to meet her in haste.” Although his words were airy, his voice was anything but, and his eyes never strayed from Graye. “What use could this bumbling daughter of mine possibly be, to the mighty steward of Galwerth Pass?”
As the men locked eyes, a shadow shifted behind Graye’s ocean-blue, probably realizing just as Coris did, this was not a man who could be swayed by honeyed words, impressed by luxury, nor cowed by power.
What he thought of the fact, she couldn’t fathom, for just as quickly he smiled, calm and relaxed as always, and cocked his head in that manner infuriatingly reminiscent of Lord Hadrian,
“She could be my bride, the new Baroness Graye.”
Meya hadn’t time to digest the offer when Dad bolted from his chair, dragging her after him. In his rage, pain caught up to him three strides down the hall, and he crumpled to his knees.
“DAD!” screaming, Meya dove to catch him. He crouched, panting heavily, his face twisted. He swallowed his lips so she wouldn’t see them trembling.
“Please, hear me speak, and you will find I mean no disrespect,” Graye’s calm voice called. Two shadows loomed over them, cast by his ever-ready servants. Dad had his head tilted back, drawing in deep gulps of air. He needed a while to muster strength, and Coris did tell her to hear Graye’s say.
Meya turned around, her hand smoothing the cloth over Dad’s shaking back. Graye rose from his seat, like a white peacock as he glided down the carpet path to kneel before her. He flourished a handkerchief to her, and Meya realized tears were streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t take it, her hands stubbornly holding Dad, so he took the liberty of dabbing them dry.
“I’ve heard much say about you, Meya Hild,” he began gently. “Masquerading as Lady Crosset, you protected Hadrian from a band of bandits, exposed greedy bloodsellers in Jaise, brought down the crooked church of Hyacinth.”
His eyes traveled to settle on her hand on Dad’s back, on the six-sided ruby Coris had given her months prior. Meya curled her fingers to hide it, but the damage was done. Graye’s eyelids drooped in sorrow.
“You wear Hadrian’s ruby, but the marriage is sealed under another’s name.” He shook his head, “and yet, he takes pleasure from your body, grows his heir inside your womb, grooms you to lead his battles, giving naught in return.”
No, a voice inside her argued, he doesn’t know our bond. I chose to lie with him. I chose to sign his contract. I chose to keep his babe. I chose to fight this battle. He’s always, always given me the choice.
Yet, even as she knew the truth, her heart swayed at his blunt observations.
“Why hasn’t he dissolved his marriage to Arinel and wed you proper? Why hasn’t he made you Lady Hadrian, so long after your First Night? Why hasn’t he given your family titles, lands and stipend befitting of a lady?” Graye cocked his head, his smile widening. “Simple—you’re not a lady. You’re not lawfully wedded.”
We were so busy surviving, we didn’t have time to!
The voice screamed in frustration, sounding laughably pathetic. The fact was Coris’s wasn’t a hand one should lightly take. What with his addiction, his melancholy, his family feuds and scars, his self-destroying tendencies…
“With me, you will be. The moment our union is sealed, Graye’s riches are at your disposal. You can have my men carry your father wherever he wishes on a golden palanquin, have my healers mend your mother’s throat and restore her Song.”
“You can cloak them in the finest silk and satin, have warm hands massage away their aches and pains of age as they behold the great sea. You can give permits to all your brothers and sisters and set them free, fund any pursuit they prefer. You will then be empowered to champion your cause without worry or fear for those you left behind.”
Under her palm, Dad trembled, not out of pain but fury, as if he saw the illusions conjured in Meya’s mind.
Yes, how easy it would’ve been. Why had it never occurred to her to demand so of Coris? Because Coris would never have allowed it? Because Mum and Dad would never take it? But why? She’d done so much for others. What was wrong with asking a reward in return?
Still, Coris’s teachings nagged her. Not every man was him. Graye would want something costly in return for his price, but what was it?
“You haven’t answered Dad’s question, milord,” she reminded him, her voice strangled. “Why would you go to such lengths for me?”
“I have,” Graye insisted with a slight frown of incredulity. He gestured both hands at her, shaking his head in awe. “You’ve performed such grand feats of courage and intelligence, and you are but a poor, young Greeneye peasant girl. Imagine the heights you could reach, with my power, my riches, my allies, my sway on the Council. Imagine how better Latakia could’ve become, with you as Baroness Graye.”
“Why couldn’t I have just served you like I serve Coris, if you cared so much?” Meya shook her head, as she scoured his proud form with her eyes. “Why do I gotta marry you? You’re me Dad’s age! Your daughters are—would’ve been me age had they lived!” She caught and righted her tongue just in time. Graye chuckled, undeterred.
“Alas, but what importance is age when one is so wise beyond her years?” He shook his head, his eyes twinkling in admiration at her, then nodded, “and yes, in order to realize your dream, we must marry. I would have loved to give it all to you just as you are, but Latakia would never accept it. They’ll whisper and scream how Grimthel Graye is blind for his new mistress. I must make it official, appease them so your path forward will be smooth.”
He turned to appraise Dad, who strove to hold his head high and his back straight, but pain chained him in place. He could only glower, to which Graye’s answer was pity.
“Coris must’ve seen how your family suffers, yet he lifts no finger to help, tied by his code of honor and duty as he is,” he sighed and hung his head, seeming to shrink, then raised his eyes to Meya once again.
“I know the strength of your love for him, I know you carry his child, and yet, I made my offer. That is just how much I desire you.”
He reached out to her, meaning to trail his finger down her cheek, but stopped and hastily withdrew, perhaps getting an eyeful of Dad’s glare. Yet, he continued without a hitch, a master of performing.
“Your beauty, your wit, your loyalty, your ambition. You have immense promise that would be all but wasted on his cowardly deal, and his impending doom.”
His last word snapped Meya out of her woes.
“Doom?” She sprang to her feet, a hand still on Dad. Graye sighed as he followed suit.
“I shouldn’t disclose council business, but I feel compelled to, for your sake. That vote earlier is to remove Baron Hadrian from the Council, replace him with Lord Amplevale. I don’t expect any surprises on the outcome.”
Feeling left Meya’s legs. Her knees buckled, and she scrabbled for purchase on Dad’s shoulder to remain standing. So, it was happening, just as Baron Hadrian foresaw. Lady Kyrel will rise to the seat and tell the king The Axel resided in her beloved. The scene may even be unfolding as she imagined it.
Her heart lurched up the gallery, up the streets, all the way to the palace, where the unsuspecting Coris was, but she couldn’t leave Dad here.
“He didn’t lift you to his heights, and now, with his fall, he may drag you to his depths,” lamented Graye, his cold, ocean-blue eyes poring into hers. “All the times you saved his life, and you may yet save him again if you join me. Has he ever saved yours?”
Meya trembled. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. She was the dragon, he was the sickly Lord Hadrian. He may not have saved her life, but he had saved her heart, shown her love, kindness, friendship, honor and bravery. All she wanted was to save him, to bear him his babe, to see Mum and Dad happy, rest easy in old age, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stand the thought of baring herself to any other man.
How could she be so selfish?
“I’m sorry, milord,” she sobbed, shaking her head, “I love him still.”
Graye smiled sadly as if he had predicted it.
“And that is a beautiful sentiment,” he dipped his head in respect, then shrugged. “Unfortunately, love doesn’t bring bread home, and although marriage can survive without love, the inverse is not the case.”
The cold truth in his bland statement chilled Meya to the core. Graye surfaced once more, his eyes locked with hers, beseeching, guiding.
“Victory demands pain. Change demands sacrifice,” he whispered. “Sacrifice your love, and Greeneyes across the three lands will remember you as their goddess of deliverance. Coris is logical, he will understand. If he truly loves you, he won’t tether you to his sinking ship. He’ll rest easy, knowing you’re safe in the arms of his mentor.”
“Meya, we’re leaving!” Dad’s patience finally ran dry. He climbed painstakingly to his feet, snatched his cane from the servant then limped his way back. Meya acted as his right leg, Graye’s tempting words lingering stubbornly in her ears.
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