Page 5 of Courting the Dragon Prince (A Royal Arrangement #1)

Chapter Five

L uther flew on and on, large green wings beating, his gaze fixed ahead on the glowing crescent moon. Wispy clouds drifted by as he swooped and soared through the sky, the wind caressing his scaly body.

He’d flown away from the Island of the Way of the Dove, over the channel, and now over Draconia, his homeland.

He had no idea how long he’d been flying. His limbs ached. His eyes stung. The exhaustion tugged at his bones.

But it wouldn’t be enough. It was never enough.

No matter how hard and far he flew, when he slept, the nightmares always came. He’d once hoped that if he could just exhaust himself enough, he might fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

But it didn’t work. It never worked. Nothing ever worked.

However, if he kept moving, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion, at least he could stop the memories from invading his waking moments.

Now Luther had another thing to try to not think of: his upcoming engagement to an earth elemental who looked at Luther like he was nothing better than dirt. Like he knew exactly what Luther had done.

As a prince of Draconia, Luther had always assumed his marriage would be arranged. His father would find him someone to marry. But maybe he’d always hoped he’d marry someone he could at least get along with.

Instead, he was marrying Warden Onyx.

Circling back, Luther flew over the trees, mountains, rivers, fields, towns, and farmland of Draconia. Soon, the rocky coast came into view. A salty wind blew. He swooped low over the water. As he flapped his wings, they skimmed the surface. The Island of the Way of the Dove grew larger as he approached. Then the White Monastery rose in the distance.

He flew over the defensive walls, over the city within the outer monastery, where thousands of people lived. He soared above the lower and middle sections of the monastery. He approached the upper monastery, where all the noble guests were staying. Then he tucked in his wings and landed in the courtyard that was designated for such a purpose. A sleepy-eyed servant stood beneath a lit torch.

Luther let out a breath. He closed his eyes and reached inside him for his human form. He let the shift take him. Muscles rippled. Bones shrank and reshaped. His tail retracted. His limbs and torso contracted as the change moved through his body.

Within moments, his dragon form left him and he returned to his human one.

The servant strode forward, presenting Luther with the clothing Luther had removed before shifting.

“Your Highness.” The servant bowed low.

“Thank you.” Luther took his clothes.

He tugged on his hose, tunic, and boots before turning and striding towards the monastery door. He walked towards the section of the monastery provided for the Draconian royal family. No others roamed the corridors in the middle of the night.

His booted feet echoed along the halls, and with every step, dread grew inside his belly. Luther’s footsteps slowed.

Because when Luther’s head hit the pillow, there was a good chance sleep would still evade him. And even if he did manage to sleep, the nightmares would surely come. He stopped walking.

After a moment’s indecision, he turned and strode back the way he’d come. Then he turned a corner and headed towards a passageway that led out of the upper monastery.

Not long after, he found himself in the city within the outer monastery. The monks governed the White Monastery and the island on which it stood. But there were quite a few farming villages and a rather large port town on the island inhabited by those who’d not taken the monastic vows, shaved their heads, and donned the beige robes.

However, most of the individuals who lived on the island and were not monks resided in the outer monastery city. They worked as servants, bakers, tanners, saddlers, blacksmiths, silversmiths, basket weavers, brewers, innkeepers, and whatever it was a city needed. Still, they all lived beneath the monks’ protection and governance. Luther had a vague notion that many who lived on the island had been war refugees or descendants of refugees.

Luther strode through the weaving cobblestone alleys and streets. The sounds of string instruments greeted him as he approached a tavern, a place he’d visited several times since the assembly had begun.

He pushed the door open. The heat of the room, alongside the smell of sweaty bodies, smoke, and booze, hit him. Squinting in the darkened room, Luther made his way to the bar.

“Brandy,” he called out and placed a few coins on the stained wood.

The barkeep approached. A cigar dangled from between her lips. She placed a chipped, dirty earthenware cup in front of Luther and poured. Luther downed the drink and signalled for another. Then another. And another.

In the final cup, Luther sprinkled some shimex mushroom dust he’d bought from a herbalist at the White Monastery. He drank it down.

He’d asked for something to help calm his nerves, and this was what the herbalist had given him.

Turning, Luther moved towards the group dancing, comprised of city folk from all walks of life. A man gazed his way, smiling seductively. But whilst Luther gave him a brief smile, he otherwise ignored the man’s lingering gaze.

He hadn’t come here to fuck. Not tonight.

Everyone assumed Luther was always fucking around. That had once been true of him. But since the incident during the war, he’d been less keen to lose himself in sex.

Tonight, he’d come to forget himself in the music and movement of bodies.

Musicians plucked strings. A lady struck a tabor, keeping the beat. A man sang.

Luther linked arms with a woman. They swung each other round and round to the lilting melody. Then they released and moved on to the next person. They danced in a line, in a circle, or in couples.

Luther only vaguely knew the dances. But everyone was too drunk and too lost in the dancing to care.

The music washed over Luther, drowning out his thoughts and feelings. This was what Luther needed. To fly, to dance, to drink, or do whatever he could to keep his mind so overwhelmed and full that there was no place for the memories of the past or the problems of the present.

A few lanterns illuminated the space. Luther clasped hands with a young man, and they clomped along.

Mirth bubbled up inside Luther.

Was this a gift from the shimex mushroom dust?

Shouts of delight mixed with drunken laughter, music, clapping, and the thudding of boots on the wooden floor. Luther smiled, a real smile, one like he hadn’t given in a lifetime.

There was nothing but this moment. No past filled with regret. No future bound to an arrogant prick. No family who didn’t respect him. Nothing but the oblivion of the here and now.

Luther needed to keep moving, keep dancing, keep filling his head with drink and shimex mushroom dust. He went to the bar. He ordered more brandy, pouring the rest of the dust into the cup before downing it all. Then he returned to the dance floor.

Fatigue seeped through his veins. But still he danced on as the euphoria lit him up from the inside. His legs and arms ached. But still he danced on. His eyelids grew heavy. Still he danced on. He felt happier than he had in years.

Luther chuckled. His blood warmed, and his head buzzed. The lantern-light flickered on the musicians’ faces as Luther laughed giddily.

And in the split second before Luther blinked, every single one of the musicians swivelled their heads towards him, their eyes widening and fixing on him.

Luther’s feet stumbled. A woman knocked into him.

“Sorry,” Luther stammered, gripping her shoulders.

She giggled.

And when Luther looked back at the musicians, they all continued to play their instruments, absorbed in the music.

They’re not looking at me. It’s just a trick of the light, of the drink … or of the shimex mushroom dust.

What had the herbalist said the side effects were? Luther hadn’t really been paying attention. He’d just been too desperate for something to help calm him.

Swallowing, he began to dance again. But the bliss that had swept through his blood had dissolved. As he danced, he watched the musicians, tense and on edge.

The woman Luther had knocked into turned and stared straight at him.

Luther looked at the woman.

But no. She wasn’t looking at him. She just smiled and danced, not paying him any mind.

It’s just my mind playing tricks.

Still … it was time to leave.

Shivers running through his body, Luther turned and made his way to the door. The warmth had left his blood replaced by a chill. He reached for the door handle.

“Buried and dead.” The whispered words brushed against his neck.

Luther spun. No one stood behind him. Everyone in the bar continued drinking, dancing, or playing instruments. No one noticed Luther leaving.

Shaking, he opened the door and dashed out into the night. His feet pounded on the cobblestones as he tried to find his way through the alleys and streets. A fog had descended on the city.

Shadows moved in the mist.

He heard laughter. A child’s laughter. A figure ran towards him. A boy.

Errol!

Crying out, Luther tripped, falling on his arse.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. Errol isn’t actually here! He can’t be.

Errol stopped right in front of him.

Luther stared up at the child, his cousin as a boy. His curly dark hair fell into his eyes. Errol tilted his head.

“I don’t think we are meant to use the tunnels anymore,” Errol said.

Luther choked.

Then Errol laughed and ran past Luther, disappearing into the swirling fog.

Luther breathed heavily, gaze staring after Errol until his shadow disappeared completely.

Whispers began, too low for Luther to hear the words. Luther needed to get up. Luther needed to run. He needed to get back to his room. But he couldn’t move.

The whispers increased in volume.

“Why do you get to dance?”

“Why do you get to be merry?”

“Why do you get to live?”

“Buried and dead,” a voice hissed.

“I’m sorry,” Luther stammered.

“It was your call.”

“Buried and dead.”

“Why do you get to be happy?”

“I’m not!” Luther yelled at the voices.

“Buried and dead.” The words repeated, overlapping, growing in volume.

He turned his head, eyes jerkily searching. But he could see no one.

“Buried and dead.”

Luther cried out. He scrambled to his feet. He fled.

Suddenly, the voices stopped.

But as Luther ran, he heard the beating of dragons’ wings and the cracking of rock above.