Page 5 of Power of Draken (Fated to the Draken Riders #1)

Chapter 5

Rowan

“ T o not getting caught!” Ellie whisper shouts, clapping Trish on the back.

“To not getting caught!” I echo and we drink up, even Trish. The liquid is strong and fiery, with an initial sweetness that lures the senses before turning sharp as it hits the back of the throat, making my eyes water. Honeyed whiskey. The kind that’s aged in oak barrels and reserved for special occasions. I can feel its heat spreading down to my chest, warming me from the inside out. I don’t want to know how Ellie got her hands on it, but gods is it good.

Trish closes her eyes and moans in bliss.

“I’ve got—” Ellie starts.

“No. Nope. No way,” says Trish. “Do not tell me. If we are caught, that’s one less thing for me to know.”

“I was going to say that I’ve got a good feeling about today,” Ellie says innocently. “And absolutely not imply that I have another bit stashed somewhere.”

Trish winces. She is the meekest, nicest person I know and I feel a bit guilty for dragging her into danger. But of everything I’ve done at the Spire, Lifeline is the most important. And Trish is the right person to pass the torch to when Ellie and I can’t do it anymore .

I pull away the tapestry and door leading to the underground tunnels and hurry through it. We have until dawn before we’ll be missed, which is never enough time. And if we are caught… We’ll be answering to Kai Grayson as well as the commandant now, and I’m not sure which makes me more terrified.

I immediately regret thinking in that direction, because Kai’s dangerously beautiful face takes up residence in my mind at once and makes my core heat. His and Kyrian’s. Great. The damn blue-eyed warriors are so noticeable all the time, that I’ve nicknamed them the azure twins in my head. Not that they really look anything alike. But they do move alike. Like preternatural predators. Them and Logan. The third triad member who I’ve fortunately not had a need to speak with yet.

One day I’m going to do a study on the correlation between physical beauty and ruthlessness. It’s there for sure, and it’s not limited to men. My mother and aunt are proof of that.

“So,” Ellie says too casually as we make our way through the passages. “I heard Collin Chambers got his own squad. Since when do enchanters get a squad leader billet? Especially ones who pull the shit he did in the mess hall. I still can’t believe it.” Translation, I still can’t believe you talked to your mother after he was an ass. Or that she listened.

I cross my arms defensively. “I just mentioned that I thought Grayson wasn’t giving Collin fair consideration. Which he really wasn’t. I dislike unfairness.”

“Oh. Well, that certainly explains why you aren’t furious with Collin,” Ellie says with a snap of her fingers. “He was, after all, totally fair in everything he said.”

I groan, trying to think of a way out of the conversation, but she is as tenacious as a terrier when she wants something. And she knows she has me trapped right now. That’s why we are having this conversation in the tunnel. If I didn’t love Ellie so much, I’d strangle her.

“Collin said a stupid thing,” I say with a patience I don’t quite feel. “He’d just been told that all his hard work and effort were irrelevant and he got upset. So yes, he got caught up in the moment and said one stupid t hing—for which he apologized profusely. In public and in private. Given how much Collin has put up with for me, I can forgive him a frustrated outburst.”

“I think -”

“No. Stop.” I put up my palm. Ellie is everything I’m not. She is gorgeous and brave and outgoing and she has every man at the Spire drooling over her, and many of the women too. I don’t know when she’d last even slept in her own bed. In her world, discarding one man for another is a Tuesday.

I’m her opposite in every way. I like steadiness. I like commitment. And I know what a rarity it is to have someone willing to look past my awkwardness, and my often pigeon-toed gait, and constant mishaps and give me a chance to be loved. Collin was the first boy who ever wanted to kiss me. The only boy. “You asked me why, and I explained. That’s as far as this conversation goes. I didn’t ask for advice and I’ve no intention of defending my feelings.”

“Alright, point made,” Ellie raises her hands quickly. “You do you.”

“You are really letting this go?”

“Oh, hell no.” Ellie gives me a friendly shove and I can’t help but laugh. But at least she drops the interrogation line for now.

Three quarters of an hour later we are in Doverly, the city that hosts Spire East. The buildings becoming lower and thinner the farther we get from the Spire complex. Wide streets designed for troop movement and parades give way to narrowed paths that wind through the poorer residential sections, where the only well kept structures are the statues of our war heroes and the royal family. The smells get progressively more oppressive with each step, escalating from the stinks of old trash to ones of piss to ones I’d rather not try and distinguish.

A group of drunk men singing an off-key bawdy tune lumber past us down the street in search of a new watering hole.

“Doesn’t anyone sleep around here?” Trish asks as we give them a wide berth .

“Not at all,” says Ellie. “Doverly excels at producing two things: soldiers and breweries. You’ll get used to it.”

“If you say so,” says Trish. “I mean I know it’s worth it. The risk from both sides. It just takes a bit of getting used to.”

I nod encouragingly at the younger girl, but I can’t shake off my wariness. The streets do feel more crowded today. More uneasy. Choosing the slightly longer but better lit passage, I lead us the rest of the way to the Wishing Well Inn.

Nestled behind the barren market stalls, the inn is a modest, three-story building with a weathered sign, plenty of street life and a large room off the common area where the clinic Operation Lifeline supports is already being set up for the night. Seeing mothers already carrying bundled children inside gives me a new jolt of energy. This is why we are here. Why we are risking the commandant’s wrath and more.

I can feel the same energy fueling Ellie and Trish as the three of us hurry past the last stretch of road to the door. The clinic room is already a flurry of activity—volunteers rushing about to set up treatment stations, even when the only supplies to be had are clean water and ripped linens.

The medicinals the three of us carry on our backs are more valuable here than gold.

I spot Rinity, who runs the clinic, across the room and wave, but the normally unflappable innkeeper barely meets my eyes before turning away, her movements tight and hurried. A new trickle of unease winds its way down my spine but I push it aside and set my pack down on one of the tables.

In a few moments, the air will be thick with the scents of medicinal herbs and humanity pressed close together, but also thrumming with an undercurrent of hope and relief. I know it will because it always does. It is the one night a month when I see Eryndor’s mission to protect our people play out in its full potent glory—though ironically, the three of us are technically commiting treason to be here.

"You may not wish to stay here today,” Rinity says, rushing over to us after hav ing settled something in the waiting area. "If we don't have three fights break out before morning, I'll be surprised. You don’t want to be caught up in that.” She eyes our supply packs, her desperation for them palpable as a myriad of childrens’ chesty coughs sound from the other room. “Maybe you could just… leave that for us?”

I lean over to survey the waiting crowd, many of the benches already filled with children and worried parents. If we leave now, they’ll get little help. The supplies are important, but Trish is a true healer who can mend a body, and my alchemy gives me a way with potions that no one can replicate. Ellie does a bit of everything, but she is a life saver using her aeromancy to push breathing medicine into lungs. I look at my friends, and they nod their confirmation.

“We didn’t come here just to turn away,” I assure Rinity, who looks less than relieved. Giving her what I hope are reassuring smiles, the three of us split up and take our usual posts.

“Anyone with trauma come sit here,” Ellie calls, motioning to a set of chairs on the side of the room where Trish will be holding court. “That’s broken bones, cuts, anything from an accident. Like you, little man,” she beckons a boy no more than seven who cradles an arm sitting at an unnatural angle, while his mother hovers close by, her cheeks wet with tears. “Anyone feeling sick, go to the other side with Rowan.”

She motions to where I’m setting out the potions, already shifting some of my raw materials into extra cough mixtures. From the sound of it, we are going to need it today.

We work nonstop for the next few hours, the minutes ticking by in a blur of activity. I tune out everything but the patients around me, focusing on mixing potions and dispensing remedies.

Child after child, parent after parent, they come to me with hacking coughs, wheezing breaths, and fevers that sap their strength. I mix potions with practiced efficiency, adding a dash of elderberry here, a sprinkle of thyme there, tailoring each one to the specific ailments .

My back is aching the next time I straighten to hand tea to a child with a nasty cough. The tea is thick with honey and a viscous syrup to coat a sore throat, the anxious mother watching each gulp as it goes down. I wish I had more of the mixture to send home with them, and I bottle out what I can spare given the amount of similarly coughing patients still waiting. The mother takes the offer and hurries away with her boy, as if afraid I’ll change my mind and take it back.

No matter how much we bring from the Spire’s stores, there is never enough. Wiping beads of sweat from my brow, I become vaguely aware that the common room beyond is louder than usual tonight and wonder how Rinity is faring with keeping order in light of her earlier unease.

As if my pause were some kind of signal, the innkeeper appears at my side.

“How is—” I start to ask, but Rinity interrupts me.

"I can’t thank you enough. You’ve already done so much more than we could ask for,” Rinity's voice is low and urgent, her eyes darting nervously towards the common room. “You really should go now though. Please.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “We still have time. And patients.”

More voices beyond the wall rise in argument and Rinity flinches.

“What has everyone worked up today?” Ellie asks, joining the conversation as she finishes wrapping a little girl’s leg.

“Don’t you know?” The girl’s mother looks from Ellie to Rinity then turns away, her jaw tight. “Figures.”

Ellie coaxes the girl into drinking a mixture that helps fight off infection, then lifts the child down from the treatment table. The girl relaxes and grins, twirling around now that her ordeal is over. The mother, who’d usually be plying Ellie with gratitude, shoos her daughter away quickly.

I frown. Some people are always like that, but today that attitude has been more a pattern than exception. The patients take our magic and supplies, but few of the adults will look us in the eye. The mother of the boy I’d just helped hadn’t said thank you either. Now that I think about it, most of the parents I’ve seen today seemed uncomfortable.

I rub the back of my neck, trying to figure out what exactly is the matter. With the defense effort requiring a great deal of supplies, I know that simmering discontent runs through residential districts, especially ones inland and far from the battlelines, like Doverly. They see none of the fae and draken attacks we protect them from, just everything the military gets that they go without.

But us, this clinic, it does the opposite. We bring supplies and magic.We charge nothing. We help children breathe and heal. While it’s true that the queen diverts most resources to the military, what we do here in the clinic is exactly the opposite.

Not that you’d know it from the way everyone is glaring at us today.

“What is going on?” I demand, calling out to the room. “Why is everyone looking at us like we’re here to kidnap children?”

“Because that’s what you are doing.” Someone, I don’t know who, says beneath a sea of answering mutters.

I blink. “Your pardon?”

“You took my brother,” a little boy waiting to be seen says toward his shoes.

“And both my sisters,” says another child.

“You took my Jamie. My only child. How am I to work the field without him?” says a woman with a scarf wrapped about her head. More voices are joining in now, the noise rising, the accusations feeding off each other like a growing avalanche.

I turn to Rinity, whose jaw is set to stone. “Conscription day was yesterday,” she hisses at me. “Half the broken bones you see today are from the guards’ batons as they beat parents and siblings out of the way.”

Shit. My eyes widen. Of course. A new training year was starting. Press gangs would have been deployed to collect anyone who failed to report on their own.

Before I can think of a response to all this, the door connecting us to the commo n room bursts open and a burly man barges through. His face is flushed with anger and drink, meaty fists clenched at his sides.

"Well, well, well,” he slurs, each syllable pregnant with fury. He points an accusing finger at me. "You're one of them hoarding Spire butchers, ain't ya? Come to steal more of our children away!"