Page 188 of Nine-Tenths

"Yes, my dear," a human says, stepping out from behind the throne. She's white, willowy, but short, and with wavy, brilliantly silver hair. At her throat shines an archaic necklace, heavy with gems and the king's signet. "Regrettably, the young Favorite only speaks English."

"Shame," the King says, the sound a cross between a thick Scots burr and the granite rumble of massive boulders grinding together. "Come closer, Dragon's Own. I am told you are descended of my hoard?"

There's a short silence, and then Dav elbows me.

Oh,I'mDragon's Own.

"Er, my auntie's in your hoard, Your Majesty," I splutter. I take a few steps up, because the King is squinting and I wonder how good his eyesight is anymore. I just sort of hover there, not sure what to do with my hands, arms akimbo. "And my mother was born in Scotland."

"And yet you now come before me as the Favorite of a Welsh dragon," the King harrumphs and turns his head to Dav. "Little poacher."

Alarm clangs under my skin, but Dav, the bastard, just chuckles.

"Guilty as charged, Your Majesty. Had you seen how kindly and selflessly he serves his neighbors, how passionately he argues for environmental welfare, and how gently he loves his friends and family, you could hardly have blamed me."

"Doesn't hurt that he's handsome," Raibeart Rìgh chuckles.

My face immediately goes nuclear-red.

"Not in the least, Your Majesty," Dav agrees.

A loud cracking sound echoes through the gallery. It's the sound of a stone column collapsing. I flinch, but nobody around me is diving for cover, or looking up at the ceiling.

The sound was not the building shattering. It was the king standing.

Raibeart Rìgh climbs to his feet, barrel-chested and majestic. Even the stone-dust that puffs into the air glitters like fairy-dust.

"Bob, should you be—?" His Favorite asks, in a low, urgent whisper.

"We will retire to our study to hear the Marquess," the king says, amiable but firm. He pauses, eyes immeasurably sad. "The future comes faster than we'd like it to,Mo Sheud. And I wish to see my people cared for. In the best method possible."

"Wise, Your Majesty," Dav says gently.

"You don't need to flatter quite so obviously, little poacher," the king says affably. I'm not so versed in reading dragon faces that I could tell you exactly what his expression is, but I'm pretty sure it's amused. "Come with me now, Alva-draig Tudor. Margaret Banrigh sends her regrets, as she is promised elsewhere, but my son David Beithir waits for us in my chambers. Let us talk."

Dav gives my shoulder a firm pat, and starts up the stairs.

I move to follow him, but the king's Favorite is already coming down towards me with a grin. "This way, Mr. Levesque. We'll leave the wyrms to their chatter."

"But it… it's my plan, too," I protest, as Dav reaches the king's side and looks over his shoulder for me.

"Do ye not trust your dragon?"

At least she didn't say "master."

"Of course I do, but—"

"It's fine, Colin," Dav says. He pats his pocket where the flash drive with copies of all of our documents sits. We’ve been carrying a backup with us at all times, just in case. Good thing.

Not wanting to cause a scene, I wave him on miserably.

Dav gives me his sunrise smile, and places a hand on the king's shoulder and lets the ancient dragon lead him to a door to the side of the throne.

"Welp." I turn to Auntie Pattie. "Now what?"

"Now we take our ease, my friend," the Favorite says, instead of letting my aunt answer.

I don't know if it's a hierarchy thing, or a Being Favorites thing, but it kind of rubs me the wrong way. I didn't askher.