Page 2 of Queen of Legends and Lies (Dragons of Tirene #4)

Chapter Two

As I approach the Royal Council Chamber, a palace guard pushes open the heavy door. Bright light shines from inside.

This is my first time here, and the space is nothing like I imagined. I’d expected something like the king’s chambers or even the public sitting room in the crown prince’s apartments.

This has less grandeur, more urgency. Unembellished walls.

Efficient rather than decorative chandeliers with their explosions of candles and crystals.

With the large windows closed, the air is stale with the smell of old parchment and a hint of smoke from the twin hearths.

The ceiling reaches the pointed roof, forming a cone above us.

A scattered ring of low-backed chairs surrounds a round table in the center of the area, along with a nearby array of benches.

A couple of the royal councilors take up two of the chairs. Lord Serle Hamilton, a mid-level earl, and the not-at-all-pious Vicar Moise Lent. They halt their hushed argument when I enter.

I don’t even have a moment of privacy to collapse or catch my breath…or bawl my eyes out or scream curses into a pillow. No, I step straight out of the fire and launch into the frying pan.

With his dark hair and pale blue eyes that dart around above his simpering smile, Serle has the appearance and mannerisms of a bullied squire.

His tucked arms and stiff back convey unease.

The vicar, on the other hand, has a classic manly sort of beauty going for him, with high cheekbones and dimples.

They both, however, seem startled to see me.

Did they miss the unprecedented gathering of dragons that just landed?

Maps sprawl across the table between them, smothering the surface in miniature mountain ranges and rivers of ink. Platters of drinks and nibbles sit nearby, indicating they’ve been up for a while. Moise’s calculating green eyes flick past my shoulder as if hoping I’m not alone.

Oh. I get it. They’re shocked that it’s me and not Sterling.

My gut twists.

Explaining my failure won’t be easy. Hopefully, though, doing so will convince them to rally the military for another rescue attempt. Sobbing while laying out the shitty situation isn’t an option, so I’ll need to remember to breathe slow and swallow my emotions.

Like a mouthful of broken glass and whiskey.

“Your Highness!” Serle rushes forward with enough eagerness to churn my stomach. “You look dreadful. We must call for Healer Luci immediately. Will Crown Prince Knox be joining us?”

I shake my head.

“Well then.” Vicar Moise isn’t far behind, though his concern seems as forced as his smile.

He’s a follower of the gods and always acts as if the foibles of man are beneath him.

I have no idea why someone like him would even want to be on the council.

“We should summon the Lady of the Bedchamber to tend to you and see to your comfort, Your Highness.”

I flinch at the address. These men have taken one look at the situation and have already shifted to embrace the change that my solo return has set in place.

Sterling—better known in Tirene as Crown Prince Knox Barda—is the last of the late king’s children. The law decrees that, without a direct royal heir who’s of sound mind, the throne defers to a dragoncaller, if one exists.

Sterling’s corruption disqualifies him from contention, and I happen to be the only dragoncaller.

“Stop.” I hold up a mud-caked hand, dried blood wedged beneath every nail. Curling both hands into tight fists, I tuck them behind my back to halt the trembling. “Healers and ladies can wait. We have a lot to discuss.”

They share a glance. And I don’t miss the flicker of doubt or the uncertain shuffle of feet. They might not say so out loud, but they’re questioning my abilities, wondering if I’m truly capable of leading Tirene through the trials ahead.

I can’t even blame them.

Straightening my spine, I shake off the exhaustion clinging to my limbs like cobwebs. I won’t let them see me stagger. Not now. Not when so many lives depend on me.

If they’re savvy enough to already be calling me by my new station, maybe they won’t pick a fight.

“Please, sit down, Your Highness.” Serle gestures to one of the cushioned chairs like a sycophant eager to please. “I’ll summon the rest of the council.” After writing a few quick notes, he hands them to the nearby servants.

I drink in the pristine room, the high ceiling, the intimidating expanse of that circular table, already burdened by the weight of the crown that’ll soon rest upon my head. It’s heavy, laden with the expectations of a kingdom on the brink of war.

The messengers practically trip over their own feet to scurry out the door, but Serle’s voice cuts through the hustle like a sword through silk. “Your Highness, shall we wake Queen Alannah?”

I pause, thinking of the frail dowager queen. We could wake her, yes. But what would I say? That I’ve returned without her son? “Let her rest.”

Silent relief spreads across the middle-aged earl’s features. “Very wise.” He guides me toward a chair that seems too soft and welcoming for someone covered in grime and failure.

My legs beg for mercy, and I collapse into the seat with an embarrassing lack of grace.

He fusses at a side table, pouring drinks and offering food. It’s a strange sort of dance, him with his solicitous hovering, me trying not to react like a coddled child.

Vicar Moise watches from his spot by the window, the moonlight casting shadows that highlight his cheekbones, his thin lower lip, and his growing disapproval. I can’t quite meet his green-eyed gaze, so I focus on the goblet in my hands instead, the cool liquid grounding me to the here and now.

One by one, council members file in, their faces etched with expectation and weariness.

Duchess Breann Farlow—a grandmotherly woman who once kindly offered to help me adjust to my wings—gives me a sweet smile before sitting.

Nira Vipert shoots me a questioning glance before easing into a chair, her shiny brown hair cascading over her royal blue gown.

Bron Dolf and Fenton Wick are a stark contrast to each other as they saunter in together, with the young duke being fair and blond and Fenton being grandfatherly and gray.

Next, Dalya Ungar enters while calmly scanning the space. Roughly ten years my senior, the magenta-haired woman looks like she’d be more at home on the training fields than in the Royal Council Tower.

The merchant guild master, Rafe Bennett, is the last to join us. His well-shaped brows draw together before he sinks into the closest empty chair. Unlike the others, his wings—dark brown like his hair—are out. The rest of the Tirenese have their wings tucked away out of sight.

They’re all settled around the table, a ring of power and privilege. The room fills with the rustling of clothing and the creaking of leather, and then…silence.

All eyes focus on me as if I hold the answers. No pressure.

Breann waves. “Let’s begin. Judging by the looks of things, you’ve had a rough night and need some rest.”

The words hold no criticism, only a simple observation.

I rise from my seat because sitting suddenly feels too much like surrender.

“We didn’t retrieve Prince Knox, though we saw him.

He’s still corrupted.” I struggle to keep my voice steady even as my heart twists in pain.

“Xenon controls the drachen, and in turn, the corrupted people. There were hundreds of them marching mindlessly around Flighthaven. Some that I knew.”

Gasps of disbelief ripple through the room like a cold tide, and I brace against it. They don’t have to say what they’re thinking. She wasn’t up to the task. We placed our hopes in the wrong person.

And honestly? Part of me agrees. I’ve doubted myself every step of this harrowing journey. So why wouldn’t they? But I’m still standing. Still fighting. And I won’t give up on Sterling. That has to count for something.

“What do you mean, he controls the drachen? How so?” Fenton leans forward. Despite my failure, I detect no judgment in his voice.

I take a deep breath, the weight of their stares pressing against me like a physical force.

“They obey him. I’m not exactly sure how it works, but I witnessed it.

Xenon even drew power from them.” I shudder at the memory of the Aclarian king channeling their very essence, becoming stronger as he fought me. “And Prince Knox obeys him too.”

They’re waiting for more explanation, and I owe them that much. “So, Narc, the God of Nightmares?—”

Dayla interrupts. “Excuse me, but did you just say Narc…God of Nightmares?”

I nod. “Yes.”

She glances at the other council members. “Am I the only one who’s never heard of that god before?”

Fenton’s forehead furrows. “No. I haven’t either.”

Disgruntled murmurs follow. Maybe it’s the stress talking, but I’m pretty sure Serle and Vicar Moise are eyeing me with flat-out suspicion.

Great. They probably think I’m either hallucinating or making it up.

As if I have nothing better to do with my time than create wild fantasies about fictitious deities.

“I have.” Every face turns to Breann, who leans back in her chair and raises a brow. “What? I was friendly with a Nyc acolyte some twenty years ago. They filled me in on Narc.”

I aim an appreciative smile her way.

“Interesting.” Dayla folds her hands together on the table. “Though, I don’t know why I’m surprised. Lately when I walk through town, I hear people praying to other gods I barely recall. The devout are out in force lately.”

Vicar Moise gives a sanctimonious dip of his chin. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. There’s nothing wrong with people reaching out to our creators in these trying times.”

Fenton shakes his head. “You’re right, but trying times also tend to create fanatics, so I think we should keep an eye out.”

I hide a grimace. One more thing to stay on top of…just what I need.

Dayla turns to me. “Sorry for the interruption. Please continue.”